The Red Citadel and the Sorcerer's Power

by Craig Halloran

  Moth looked down over the edge of the platform. A bed of long spikes awaited him like a mouth of teeth. He backed up, took off in a sprint, and leapt. The moment his feet left the platform, the first ring was yanked up far. Moth’s fingers weren’t even close to the metal.

  CHAPTER 49

  Moth’s fingers missed the ring by over a foot. His tremendous body continued to sail through the air toward the second-nearest ring. The ring was lower in level than the first ring and another ten feet away. The barbarian’s trajectory arched up before bending down on a clear path to the second ring. His big paw of a hand stretched out to the fullest length. The fingers on his right hand latched onto the second ring. He held fast, dangling over the spikes like fish bait, defying death once again.

  “Impossible!” many in the audience shouted. They stomped their feet, jumped up and down, and screamed cheers at the death-defying barbarian.

  Finster’s own heart pounded in his chest. He was up on his feet absentmindedly clapping. Dizon’s golden locks bounced up and down as she hopped on her toes. “I can’t believe it!”

  “He’s a wily savage, that one,” he replied. Finster had no way of knowing if the rings of power aided the barbarian or not. Every move Moth made seemed natural, bordering on superhuman. It wouldn’t be the first time a savage pulled off an outstanding physical feat that defied reason. In battle, they were known to fight for days on end without food and water. They blotted out pain and shrugged off wounds like a dog sheds water. “Crossing wits with the kingdom’s finest. Amusing.”

  Moth swung his left hand up onto the ring. He pulled himself up, muscles bulging and knotting in his back like gnarled tree roots. He climbed up onto the top of the ring and began swinging as if from a vine. His wary eyes watched the eight rings that were left. The assistants tugged on ropes from the bottom, jerking the remaining rings up and down.

  The king stood up, looking onward with his hands on the railing.

  Engineers now manned the ropes and pulleys that operated the rings. The event was designed for the scrapper to descend to the platform at the bottom of the wall. Hence, the rings were lower the further on they went, shortening the fall. Now, they hoisted the rings up higher, leaving thirty feet below all of the rings.

  With a heave, Moth swung back and forth. He jumped from ring two to ring three. Ring four to ring six. Ring six to ring eight. He made the obstacle look easy. The crowd roared with approval. Standing on the ring, he swung back and forth and leapt. Still using the ropes, he swung outward and aimed for the dangling ring. His strong appendages coiled around the ring like snakes. His fingers slipped.

  The audience gasped.

  “Something’s amiss!” Finster uncharacteristically shouted. That’s when his keen eyes noticed a filmy hue on the last ring. It was greased with oil.

  Moth’s hands alternated on the ring like a cat clawing at the air. He kicked out, trying to propel himself toward the wall. His fingers slipped. He plummeted downward, twisting in the air, hurtling toward the bed of spikes beneath him. Somehow, he stretched his long arm out and caught the edge of the last platform with the tips of his fingers. He hung on, suspended for a long moment, gazing at the sharp daggers between his toes.

  “Hang on, Moth!” Dizon shouted. She latched onto Finster, half burying her face in his chest. “I can’t look.”

  “Don’t stop now. You don’t want to miss this.”

  Every muscle in the barbarian’s back and arms bulged as he pulled himself up by his fingers. He swung his other arm up to the platform edge and hauled himself up. As the crowd cheered on, he wiped his slippery fingers on the side of his trousers and approached the wall.

  Two assistants barred his path. He picked up one of the smaller muscle-bound men and pushed the man over his head, tossing him into the spikes.

  The crowd shouted, “Hooray!”

  The second assistant abandoned the last platform.

  The wall was ten feet wide, filled with handholds made from wooden pegs and coated with broken glass, as well as filled with metal spikes and razors. Halfway to the top, it inverted at a forty-five-degree angle. One had to climb all the way to the top and hoist themselves over the wall to the last stand, where the Chalice of Champions awaited. No one could climb it without bleeding… a lot.

  Moth latched on and started his ascent. His chest, forearms, and legs scraped against the metal shards and glass.

  “Oh my. He’s bleeding.” Dizon winced. “He still goes. Doesn’t that hurt?”

  “Of course it does,” Finster replied, “but he’s too stupid to know it. Either that or pain is like a salve to him. I hate to think it’s the latter.”

  The muscle-laden barbarian ascended halfway up to where the wall began to bend. There were only another twenty-five feet left to go. He began the inverted climb with blood dripping from his limbs.

  Finster was curious as to why. He’d seen the barbarian heal from mortal wounds. Now he bled. Are the rings with him or not?

  As Moth shimmied up the wall at a brisk pace, it inverted even farther. Like a drawbridge, the top half of the wall began lowering.

  The obstacle-altering move worked the crowd into a frenzy.

  The king smiled and applauded.

  Moth’s ascent came to a halt. The bloody finger- and toeholds he used were smaller than the ones under the bridge, not to mention designed to be painful. He reached for another handhold. The wall dropped a hard notch down. His grip failed. He plummeted toward the spikes with nothing to break his fall.

  Magus Supremeus. He’s doomed. Though, that could be a good thing.

  The barbarian fell over thirty feet, landing feet first on the spikes. The sharp rods of metal pierced him through the feet and legs. Anguish filled his face, but he did not scream. The crowd screamed for him. Suddenly, his fierce expression darkened, and his anguish turned to rage.

  CHAPTER 50

  With a gut-wrenching yank, Moth pulled his foot free of the spike. A second spike impaled clean through his calf. Brows knitted together, he lifted his leg.

  Dizon looked away, holding her stomach. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  The king leaned over the railing, gaping.

  Blood ran freely between the bed of spikes. There was enough room between them for Moth to pass on bloody footsteps. The silenced crowd’s eyes hung on the brawny wild man as he treaded back to the platform. He reached down and snapped two spikes out of the floor. He jumped on the platform, punched his spikes into the wall, and started to climb. His powerful arms did most of the work while his bleeding toes scraped against the glass and sharp metal. Once again, he ascended the wall. Up he went, ten feet, twenty feet. The wall inverted. Thirty feet. Forty feet.

  The stunned crowd’s energy resurged.

  “Bluto! Bluto! Bluto! Bluto! Bluto!”

  Hanging at a full forty-five-degree angle, the scraped-up savage stopped at the very top. He grabbed hold of the upper wall’s rim. There, he hung by two hands. He pulled himself up and stood at the very top. A ladder led to the champions’ platform where the chalice waited above all things on a white marble pedestal. As the crowd chanted and cheered, Moth made the final climb. He stood by the oversized golden chalice. Its outer rim was encrusted in rubies, diamonds, and emeralds. It was worth a fortune.

  Finster seized Dizon by the wrist. “Come on.”

  “What? Why?” she said, hurrying along.

  “Because, he’s going to do something stupid.”

  “Like what?”

  Pushing them through the crowd toward the king’s side of the stadium, Finster kept his eyes on Moth. The savage had scooped up the chalice in his blood-smeared hands. His head tilted side to side as he stared at it. His fingers brushed over the twinkling gems. With an arm that looked remarkably long for a man, he lifted it high over top of his head. The frenzied crowd called out to him. The cheers were deafening. No one had beaten the wall in over a hundred years.

  Looking at his comrade, Finster saw a glint in Moth’s eye
and said, “Oh no.”

  From the raised platform, Moth spiked the Chalice of Champions on the platform. The gold rim dented. A few precious gems popped off and fell to the floor. Many in the crowd swarmed out of the stands, trampling the assistants and one another. Many died on the spikes where the small gemstones lay.

  Outraged, King Alrick called out at the top of his voice, “What is he doing? Seize him!”

  Soldiers in ring mail and metal helmets marched up the platform, surrounding Moth. Their eyes were wide and their expressions nervous. There was nowhere for the barbarian to go.

  “Bring him before the king,” Alrick said.

  Moth took the catwalk that led to the lower level of the stadium, where he was led before the king. One of the counselors, wearing a set of golden robes with sky-blue trim, said, “Kneel before the king, savage!”

  Sullen-eyed, Moth stood like a statue looking down on the king.

  “Kneel or die,” the counselor said again. He gave a quick nod to the soldiers. The men advanced with their halberds. The tips dangled less than a foot from Moth’s skin.

  King Alrick studied Moth from head to toe. “Can you speak, barbarian?”

  Moth flipped over his palm. His fingers were caked with blood. Most of the skin was torn open.

  “Ghastly,” the king said with fascination. “You are like a wounded animal that does not know when to die. And you’re dripping all over my stadium. Put your hand away.”

  Moth did not comply.

  “Counselor Trenner,” the king said, as he twisted the pointed hairs on the tip of his beard. “I am of the impression that this savage wants to be paid.”

  “Sire,” Trenner, a long-faced older man, said, “this scrapper was ineligible the moment he fell from the fourth obstacle. Also, he demolished the chalice, creating a spectacle. There can only be prison time for him. A lifetime, I’d recommend.”

  King Alrick took his eyes from Moth and surveyed the crowd. Most of the crowd’s gaze still hung on the king. They’d begun chanting “Bluto” again. “I’d hate to disappoint my subjects. Who finalizes the rules on the Gauntlet, Trenner?”

  “You have the final word, sire, but I highly recommend an example is made of this one. It’s clear he cheated. No man could have survived that fall.”

  “Yes, he’s dangerous. A spy perhaps. Yet, intriguing. Barbarian, speak for yourself. Perhaps you can persuade me to not send you to the black mines of Hovel.”

  Moth did not speak. He didn’t pull back his hand either.

  The king waved him off. “Take him away then. Counselor Trenner, I’ll let you feed the people a sufficient explanation.”

  “King Alrick! King Alrick! It is I, Dizon! Your majesty, please, turn.”

  “Eh,” the king said, casting his eyes over his shoulder. A smile broke out over his face. “Dizon! Is that you?”

  Standing with Finster, she eagerly nodded. She pointed at Moth. “He is a mute. And this is his interpreter.” She pulled Finster forward. “Please let us clear up the confusion.”

  Trenner said to the king, “I don’t recommend this, sire. Dizon is of a notorious background, and I can only suspect the same of this man she cavorts with. Best we move on.”

  “No, I want to hear what she has to say,” the king said. “Guards, let them into my presence.”

  Dizon hustled to the king and dropped to her knees, kissing the rings on his fingers. Finster, behind her, took a knee and bowed.

  Lifting her to her feet, King Alrick said, “Tell me, Dizon, what do you know of this man who just conquered the Gauntlet and embarrassed the Herclons as well?”

  “I cannot speak for the blue toe, but this man, Finster, knows him quite well.”

  “This savage is your slave, then?” the king said to Finster. “And you entered him in the contest?”

  “The barbarian has his own free will, but we are linked by fate. I cannot control what he does, but I assure you, he means no harm to the crown.” Finster rose. “You see, this savage has the mind of a child, and I can only assume the Gauntlet tempted him. I apologize that he made such a spectacle of things, your majesty. But we are willing to forfeit half of our winnings, if it pleases the crown.”

  The king erupted in laughter. Composing himself, he said, “Oh, there will be no winnings, but I will render this savage one thing. Trenner, bring me the chalice or whatever is left of it.”

  The guards passed the Chalice of Champions up to Trenner. It had a huge dent in the rim, but many of the precious stones were still intact. Frowning, he handed it over to the king.

  “I was always fond of you, Dizon. You had discernment.” King Alrick took her by the hand and led her to Moth. He looked up at the barbarian. “This is all you’ll get. Don’t damage it again.” He handed it to Moth.

  Moth took the chalice. The king grasped him by the arm, and together they held it up.

  The audience’s cheering shook the stadium. As the king waved at them, he addressed Dizon and Finster. “All of you are coming with me.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Later that night, in the confines of a dark alley, the roughnecks who tried to rob Finster earlier lay dead in pools of their own blood. All three men’s throats had been cut open. Their eyes were frozen stares transfixed toward the moon. Their slayers cleaned the blood on their blades on the dead men’s clothing.

  A man entered the alley. He lowered a hood, which hid his face. “Alexandria,” the man said in a soft voice. “The targets have made much commotion. They have very brazen ways. They are in the king’s castle. We should have struck earlier, in the midst of the crowd. It would have been easier.”

  “Nothing will be easy about killing these two,” she said to the man. She wore a nondescript cloak similar to the other assassins in the alley. The members of the Circle were amazing at blending in. If one were to pass them, they wouldn’t think them any different than any other traveler in the city. Alexandria, slender-faced with hard, penetrating eyes, gave a nod. The small group of assassins closed in on the man who was speaking. Their daggers pierced his body. Gasping, he sank to the ground.

  “Don’t ever question my decision-making,” she said to the dying man. “There is a reason I am the guild master of the Circle. I’ve never failed. Sink them in the river.”

  Alexandria departed. She walked the streets, getting a feel for things. For two decades, she’d killed from one kingdom to another, never missing the mark. She was good, very good, and she took her time about things. Now, she spent time gathering information about Finster and Moth.

  She slid into a bar, took a seat, and ordered wine. The patrons couldn’t stop talking about what transpired in the Gauntlet. Though some of the stories were as bloated as their bellies, it became clear that the savage had powers beyond comprehension. Either that or the sorcerer was aiding him. As for Finster, she’d been sizing him up by pumping information out of the thugs he crossed earlier. She needed to understand as much about him and his powers as she could.

  “Master of the inanimate,” she said, sipping her wine. The heavyset barkeeper glanced her way. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “No,” he said, rubbing his rag inside of a mug. “I didn’t see you talking with anyone and thought you were talking to me, shipman.”

  “I assure you, I wasn’t,” she said in an amiable man’s voice. “Just recollecting my crossings.” She pushed the sleeves up over her arms and wiped her nose. The robes she wore disguised her as a sailor—average age, height, and build. The deception blended in with the rest of the patrons just fine.

  “Just let me know if you want me to keep them coming. I’ve got plenty of that Herclon wine I need to unload. The Herclons are mad that their Gauntlet lost. I wish I’d seen it.” The barkeeper chuckled. “Herclons pouting. Never thought I’d see the day.” He moved on, taking other patrons’ orders.

  In the comfort of her disguise, Alexandria tuned in to all she heard and recollected all that she knew. It angered her that she’d missed an opportunit
y to see Moth and Finster in action at the stadium. She’d taken it out on her own henchmen after the fact. If she’d just made her way into Rayland a few hours earlier, she could have caught the troublesome duo in the act. Now, she contemplated what she knew.

  Ingrid acquired eight rings of power from the magi of the Red Citadel. The now-dead Magus Supremeus allied herself with King Rolem. Together they were going to take control of the kingdoms with soldiers backed by magic. Ingrid went after Finster to find the Founder’s Stone. They battled, and Ingrid lost. She lay dead in a tomb. Finster, Alexandria and Rolem both agreed, was in possession of the Founder’s Stone. As for the rings, based off what had been witnessed, there weren’t any signs of them. The rings didn’t adorn Finster’s fingers or the savage’s, but she was confident one of the two had them.

  She drank a little more, letting the cheap wine burn on the way down, recalling that it was a tavern such as this where she made her first kill.

  Finster could animate objects. Whether or not it was silverware or ships, his power was awesome. He turned arrows aside and bent sword blades with his mind. His awareness, she was certain, was uncanny. But he had a flaw. He drank, reveled, and became unpredictable. That could be dangerous. He didn’t seem to have control over flesh and bone, or anything living for the matter. Perhaps it was the edge she needed.

  As for the barbarian, it seemed he could be stabbed, but his wounds would heal. Nothing broke him. That was the confusing part. Alexandria didn’t comprehend where the power came from, unless Finster was the one keeping the man together. Based off what she knew of the rings, the one made with black iron and rubies could regenerate, but there was no sign of it. She’d come to understand most all of their powers, so much so that she wanted them for herself. Yet they evaded her. And it was difficult to kill someone who could regenerate. She’d killed a man once, stabbing him clean through the heart, only to see him rise at nightfall. He was a lycan, part wolf and part man. She finally finished him off with blades made from silver. Her fingers ran over her belly. Thick scars puckered the skin where the wolfman had nearly disemboweled her.