The Red Citadel and the Sorcerer's Power

by Craig Halloran

  The scrapper saluted. He cast his eyes downward. Beneath him was a long pit. His face bunched up.

  Many in the audience rose up in their seats, straining their necks to see what was inside.

  “What lies below the slicing blades?” an onlooker said. “I cannot see a thing.”

  There was some murmuring coming from the puzzled crowd. One man suggested it was snakes while another’s thoughts were of hornets.

  “What do you think it is, Finster?” Dizon asked.

  “Wine, perhaps,” he said, draining his second bottle. He’d ordered two more since the first event. “Have you ever bathed in wine before, Dizon? It’s elating.”

  “No, but I’ve had my share of milk baths. I find them more refreshing.”

  The scrapper cupped his hands together and called out to the crowd. The people at the bottom level heard his words and quickly spread that what the man saw was a mirror.

  “Interesting,” Finster commented. “He’ll see himself fall to his death. I like it. If only there were a way to get a painting of it to share with his family.”

  The scrapper rubbed his hands together and started forward. There were five swinging axe blades in all with barely a body length between them. The plank was wider than the beam on obstacle one, but footing would be difficult, given the short distance between the swinging blades. The scrapper could only advance so far between them. As the first axe blade swished by the man’s toes, he shuffle-skipped forward. The blade came within inches of his hindquarters in the back and toes in the front. Standing between blades one and two, he watched number two. It slid by his toes. He moved forward. The crowd cheered the man on as sweat glistened on his body. The scrapper made a quick wave and slid between blades three, four, and five. He wiped the sweat from his face. Blade five swung left and right in perfect cadence. The scrapper jumped at the next opening. He landed safely on the end of the platform. The blades behind him came to a stop. The crowd broke out into applause as the scrapper went through an open door that led to the third and higher platform.

  “That seemed easy enough,” Finster remarked.

  The third platform was a thirty-foot-long walkway that made a bridge from platform three to number four. It was suspended by chains with wooden planks on the links. The scrapper couldn’t take the walkway from the top.[ICS5] It had to be taken from the bottom by using wooden finger- and footholds mounted on the bottom. If he fell, he’d land twenty feet down on a hot bed of coals.

  Watching the scrapper rub his hands together, Dizon said, “He’s going to have to cross that like some sort of spider.”

  “Yes, it’s a formidable expanse. He’ll climb like an insect and probably die like one too.”

  “The Archmenian is doing well, if you ask me.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t, did I, Dizon?” he said, patting her knee.

  The Archmenian scrapper secured his fingers underneath the walkway. He stretched out far enough to fasten the toes of his feet on the blocks. He turned and looked at the coals below him. Sweat dripped from his body and sizzled on the coals below. With the audience hanging with bated breath, he started to climb. He moved at a brisk pace, strong fingers locked tight on the hand- and footholds. His toes kept their purchase on the blocks. He hung and moved like a squirrel. He crossed the halfway point. The crowd shouted out words of encouragement.

  “He’s going to do it!” Dizon exclaimed.

  A few of the assistants made their way on the top side of the walkway. They jumped up and down on the planks. Up and down they went, jostling the entire bridge. The bridge swayed and buckled. The scrapper froze in place, his eyes wide as he cast looks from side to side.

  “He’s not going to make it,” Finster said.

  The scrapper advanced a few more feet on shaky arms and legs. The toes on his right foot slipped from the blocks. He couldn’t get his foot back up again. His sweaty feet slipped from the block. All at once, he plummeted into the hot coals. Landing feet first, he collapsed. The coals jumped up all around him. Ankle deep in the bed of fire, he screamed as he waded out. With blistered skin, he walked out of the arena, hunched over but waving his hand. The audience applauded.

  A man sitting behind Finster cursed. “There goes my coin. That Archmenian was supposed to be the prize of the lot, and he didn’t even make it to the pit at platform four. I would have made money if he’d made it that far.”

  The crowd started booing when the assistants left the bridge. They screamed, “Cheats!” and “Deceivers!”

  King Alrick talked with his council. It was clear they were laughing and joking over the entire thing.

  “Never bet against the king,” Finster said in Dizon’s ear. “The wealthy and powerful always have the advantage.”

  “Yes, and the engineers are well paid too. They don’t get paid if someone makes it through, that’s why it’s nearly impossible.”

  He shook his head. “There are at least fifty scrappers who still remain. Do they still call on them at random?”

  “Yes, but don’t worry. I’ve seen at least ten drop out. See, look.” She pointed at the men and women who broke from the contending scrappers. They took a seat on a bench with their heads down. “Seeing the Archmenian fail broke their spirits.”

  “If they were desperate enough to try the Gauntlet, I’d say their spirits were already broken.”

  “I think they like the challenge,” she replied.

  “If that were the case, they would go on.”

  She nodded.

  “Of course, I could help out a poor sap or two and make it truly entertaining,” he said with a wink.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, I would. Are you a betting woman, Dizon?”

  Again, she nodded.

  “Then let’s make you a lot more money.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Dizon went to post the bets while Finster observed. The games continued with one scrapper after the other traversing the Gauntlet to a devastating end. The plank at platform one turned more frequently. The square board would shift ninety degrees and stop. A man from Umpton with a long, lean build hopped up as the beam shifted beneath him. He made it across in three long, swift hops between the shifting of the beam. At platform two, the Slicer, he advanced. He crept forward too far, and the blades chopped off his front toes. Arms flailing, he clutched at the blades. He lost his fingers and fell. He crashed through the mirror into a massive bin full of broken glass. He was carried out, bleeding all over.

  One after another, contestant after contestant failed. They fell in the boiling oil and died on two more occasions. The slicing axes killed a Toozan man instantly on an ill-timed first step. A gal with a long ponytail, thin as a mop handle, dropped from the bottom of the bridge. Her back snapped when she hit the coals. She caught fire, let out an earsplitting scream, and burned to death.

  The crowd, lathered up in sweat and filled with profanities, egged the scrappers on and on. A cloud of smoke hung in the air. Wine and mead tankards slammed together. Fights broke out. A herd of wild pigs scurried through the stadium. Shepherds draped in sackcloth robes yelled as they ran by with their staffs raised.

  Finster worked on his fifth small bottle of wine. His cheeks warmed. One more won’t hurt. I feel outstanding. He’d tuned himself to every lever, handle, and pulley of the Gauntlet. He could feel them move right before they did. He controlled the Gauntlet.

  Dizon returned. “I made the wagers.”

  “Good.” He tapped his chest and burped. “Show me the scrappers.”

  She pointed to three men. They had wild hair, coarse brown beards, and branded chests. They were built like bears. They head-butted each other and snarled. “They’re brothers. Wild Goths. True savages from the Fringe. Only a fool would bet on them, and I don’t care if they die. I have two of them going to the third and one through the fourth.”

  “You didn’t see them through to the fifth?”

  “They don’t deserve the prize. I hear they eat their own children. Let
them die on the fourth, I say. I just want to see it.”

  Finster shrugged. “As you will.”

  The night went on. The deaths and injuries piled up. Less than ten scrappers were left, and only three more men made it to the bridge. The first Wild Goth scrapper was called to the plank platform. He stomped his feet and beat his chest like a drum. He let out a furious howl as if he were a roaring bear. The assistant signaled with a one-handed flick of his fingers.

  The Wild Goth pushed the assistant off the podium. The masses heaved with laughter.

  “Here we go,” Finster said. He held the plank in place. The assistant tried to turn the crank, but it wouldn’t budge. The scrapper ran across the plank, not stopping until he reached the other side. He hopped up and down, kicking his knees into his chest, and burst through the door to the Slicer. “Did I make it look too easy?”

  Dizon shrugged.

  Finster didn’t even slow the axe blades of the Slicer. The Wild Goth traversed the trap with ease. At the bridge, the Wild Goth fastened his fingers to the wood underneath the bridge. He started the climb from one side to the other at a steady pace. The crowd was on their feet, hollering at the top of their lungs. The assistants received a rowdy chorus of boos as they climbed onto the bridge. They jumped up and down.

  With a thought, Finster made the chain bridge’s links galvanize like beams of steel. It didn’t shake or tremble under the weight of the man. Seconds later, the scrapper crossed over to the other side.

  King Alrick sat on the edge of his chair. His fingers drummed on the armrests. He cursed at his counselors.

  “Hah,” Finster laughed. “It seems the king is a betting man too. It will be a delight to see him squirm.”

  The fourth obstacle was a series of large metal hoops that were suspended from above. The scrapper had to be able to jump from the platform to the first ring. From there he or she would use swinging momentum to go from ring to ring that descended toward the bottom of the fifth obstacle, the Wall. Finster counted ten rings. All of them would be needed to make the trip. Below the rings was a bed full of spikes. One might survive the fall, but the injuries would be catastrophic. There was a small platform at the base of the wall that rose fifty feet high. It sparkled with glass and spikes that were among the small hand- and footholds. Nearing the top, it bent over at an inverted angle, dangling the climber right over the spikes.

  Dizon gave Finster a hug. The smile on her face said it all. “He made it to the fourth. I made a lot of money. I thank you, Finster. You are a true man of your word. When we return, I’m going to prepare you something very delicious to eat.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  The crowd chanted slowly, “Goth! Goth! Goth! Goth!”

  On a signal from the assistant, the Goth backed up to the edge of the platform. He eyed the nearest ring, fist-thumped his chest, let out a wild cry, and sprinted across the platform. He leapt high, propelling himself perfectly toward the awaiting ring. His outstretched fingers were only a foot from the ring. The ring yanked up out of reach. The Wild Goth swam in the air for a long second. He splatted face-first in the spikes.

  The crowd let out a unified, “Ooooooh!”

  The assistants ripped the Goth’s body up from the spikes. Using a wheelbarrow, one of them carted him off.

  Finster started chuckling. It turned into a full outburst of laughter. The commotion he caused drew a lot of odd stares.

  “Lord Finster, compose yourself,” Dizon said, trying not to laugh herself. “Please.” She unleashed a quick chuckle. “It’s not right to laugh at death so. It’s a bad omen.”

  “I can’t help it.” He tossed his head back and cackled. He belly laughed so hard he almost couldn’t sit in his seat. “I’m sorry, but that was one of the funniest things I’ve seen in a long time.” He wiped the tears from his eyes. “Woo-who-who! Oh, my gut aches.”

  “Finster, you need to gather yourself. Moth stands on the platform. His turn has come!”

  CHAPTER 48

  Moth fixed his heavy stare on Finster. So much so, even at this distance the mage felt it.

  “He’s looking right at you,” Dizon said. “How did he even know you were here?”

  “The barbarian has a knack for sensing things, I suppose,” he said.

  “What does he want?”

  “It’s not what he wants. It’s what he doesn’t want. He’s a big stubborn fool.” Finster nodded at Moth and resumed his drinking. “I won’t aid him, regardless of the peril.”

  “He could die.”

  “Yes, well, I’d like to hope so.”

  “But you could win the gold, the chalice, all of it.” Dizon was on her toes, trying to see past the man who stood in front of her. “You should take it.”

  “No. Gold is of little necessity to me. I have power. That’s all I need.”

  Dizon pushed the man in front of her into his seat. “Sit down!” The drunken man turned toward her. He pulled back his fist. In a flash, she pushed a small dagger against his throat. His glazy eyes popped open. “Sit or death?”

  The man swallowed and sat down quietly.

  “You know they’ll all be on their feet again soon enough,” Finster said, shaking his bottle.

  She tucked her dagger back in her clothing. “Not this one.”

  Moth removed his robes. The scarred-up youth’s corded muscles flexed with his slightest movement. He towered over even the burly assistants, standing like a giant among them. The look of a savage predator from the wild lurked in his eyes as he turned his stare to the gold-tattooed assistant on the platform. The man stepped back. He pointed his fingers and gave a nod. The first obstacle, the plank, began to turn quickly.

  The course was made for smaller, lighter men and women with strapping builds. Bigger men often fell to their doom, unable to control the weight of their massive frames. But like a gorilla, Moth controlled his size with the same savage strength bred in the wild.

  “The beam turns too fast. No one can cross that. Stop it, Finster,” Dizon suggested.

  “Whatever will be will be,” he said as he scooted to the edge of his chair. “No offense.”

  Moth glowered at the turning plank. It went on and on without stopping. The delay drew the ire of the crowd. They shouted vulgar insults and profanities.

  “Go, stupid savage! Go!”

  “Jump, pig lover!”

  “Die, bald abomination! Die!”

  The diatribe went on.

  “I’m going to have to remember some of these,” Finster said. “I’m keen on the vomitus pisswiller. That’s an otherworldly insult.”

  Standing before the beam, Moth squatted down, knuckles on the platform, like a white ape. In a burst of motion, he jumped. His legs and arms fully extended, propelling him forward, sending him sailing across the twenty-foot expanse.

  The awed crowd gasped.

  Moth landed safely on the other side with the ease of a jungle cat.

  The king came to his feet. He applauded with hearty claps. The crowd rose to their feet, going wild. No man had ever seen a man so big jump so far before.

  Dizon’s ample chest heaved as her fingers toyed with the necklace of gems and pearls dangling from her neck. “I never would have imagined.”

  “Yes, well, don’t go anywhere,” Finster said, acting bored. “The barbarian is full of surprises. If you are into that sort of thing.”

  The assistant at the second obstacle, the Slicer, gave Moth the go-ahead. The assistants that worked the speed of the blades cranked their levers as fast as they could. Moth’s eyes followed the brisk movements of the blades. In ten quick steps, he weaved through the blades like a snake slithering through a maze. Not a single sharp edge nicked his skin. He stood waiting on the third platform.

  Down on the main floor, the engineers from Herclon argued with one another. One of them, with braids from the top of his head down to his chest, had a scroll crushed in his hand. He shouted at the assistants. The stout assistants scrambled to the top side of the
bridge.

  On the assistant’s signal, Moth slipped under the bridge. His fingers latched onto the blocks. With a grip of iron, he fastened himself onto the bridge. Arms and feet went to work, and he crossed the bridge at a steady pace. The assistants, a dozen in all, jumped up and down on the chain bridge with all of their might. Steady as a caterpillar, Moth moved on, being swayed, bumped, and jangled.

  The crowd howled in a titillating frenzy.

  The assistants stomped harder. The engineers shouted up at their men. The blistering-hot coals made a hungry glow, waiting to sear fresh meat.

  Moth passed the halfway point still going strong. The men above him jerked at the chains, swaying and buckling the bridge. It would have been easier to shake a tick. The brute moved on, crossing to the other side unfettered. Slowly, he slipped out from under the bridge and looked at the men on top, whose jaws were hanging. Moth bared his teeth at them, turned, and climbed up to the fourth platform.

  The people jumped up and down, shaking the stadium seats. Their sour chants from earlier turned complimentary. Someone with knowledge of otherworldly men beyond the kingdoms let out a fierce chant calling out for the Blue Toe barbarian. But it sounded like “Bluto! Bluto! Bluto! Bluto!”

  King Alrick engaged in a heated conversation with his counselors. The king’s own excitement from earlier seemed to have been quelled by the possibility that Moth might complete the Gauntlet.

  The fourth obstacle, the rings, was ready. The assistant on the platform gave Moth the signal. Moth eyed the first ring. The huge hoop of steel dangled too far from his grasp. It bounced up and down in the air, teasing him, but going higher than before.

  “The cheats! Finster, they raise the ring!” Dizon’s fingers dug into her palms. “Put a stop to it.”

  “No, he started it, he’ll have to finish it. He’s a big barbarian. He knows what he’s in for.”