Lion of Zarall

by E B Rose

  Saradra yelped, jumping back to see the source of the growl and the fire. She covered her mouth with both hands. Horror widened her eyes as a whisper escaped: “Merciful Alunwea.”

  Liquid fire dribbled down the hound’s teeth, singeing the carpet-covered floor. Flames didn’t seem to bother it. If anything, they seemed like an extension of its fur. It crouched on its muscular legs, ready to leap.

  Lion tensed.

  The sounds of the approaching men had stopped right outside the door. One of them was whispering instructions, no doubt preparing to break in. They must have heard Saradra’s surprised yelp.

  The two slaves were about to get caught between a burning monster and a group of potentially armed men. Lion knew which enemy he’d prefer facing.

  Just when he was about to bolt out of the door, taking his chances with whoever was outside, Lion noticed the man behind the hound. The monster dispelled enough light to let Lion recognize the man’s face at first glance. He’d seen him at King Leonis’s latest feast; the stranger who’d been sitting with Leonis’s head physician.

  Still dressed in his plain, black robe, he was slumped against the wall, near the bed. He seemed unfazed by the flame-dribbling monster ahead of him. His eyes were fixed on Lion.

  Grasping the bed for leverage, the man in black robe slowly pulled himself up on his feet. His gaze trailed down to Lion’s neck; his eyes narrowed. His face looked older, or simply tired, then Lion had remembered. The left side of his robe was soaked in blood.

  A small object attached to a leather string dangled in the man’s free hand.

  Multiple things happened in quick succession.

  First, the man in the black robe staggered to his knees. The burning hound hissed, then disappeared in a puff. Before the last sparks of its flame coat died, the door behind them broke open and a horde of Vogros soldiers filed in. Swords were raised.

  The black-robed man pointed a finger in their direction and yelled: “Dracistuecto!”

  Lion didn’t have the time to wonder how the man knew his Kill Word.

  A red mist attacked his mind, claiming control. A shudder soared through his muscles as he looked at the armed men from behind a red haze. A deep growl rose out of him. His last act was to push Saradra away from himself, hoping she would stay out of his sight until the frenzy passed.

  14

  LION

  Lion woke up with an itch on his face.

  He scrunched up his nose, but it didn’t help. His own hair and beard were brushing against his face. He raised a hand to push them away, but his sense of direction had gone awry. Up was down and down was up and he couldn’t move a finger. He couldn’t even open his eyes.

  He was floating in a red darkness. His clothes were soaked. He smelled blood. There was too much blood…

  Saradra!

  He shot his eyes open with some difficulty. Dried blood was stuck on his eyelashes, gluing his eyelids together.

  He was hanging in the air upside down, his arms dangling below his head. He tipped his chin to his chest, gazing at his feet. His body was coated in a thick layer of blood. Some of it belonged to him. Warm blood trickled down his shoulders, painting his blonde hair and beard red, before dripping to the floor beneath him.

  A pulsing, black rope, thicker than his wrist, was wrapped around his ankles, keeping him in the air. Lion’s eyes traced it to the ceiling, where the black rope disappeared in the shadows.

  A single eye blinked at him from those shadows.

  Lion groaned. When he flailed his arms weakly, a second rope reached out from the ceiling, snaking around his knees to steady him.

  It was alive!

  Pain jolted in his abdomen when Lion struggled, and more blood spilled from the wound that he’d just discovered. He panted, craning his neck to see the room beneath him.

  The man in the black robe was right underneath him. He didn’t look up. He’d drawn a large circle on the floor, using blood as ink. He was scribing fine details along the inner lines of the circle. Shapes that looked like letters, but none Lion could recognize.

  In the middle of the circle was the strangest necklace Lion had ever seen. It was a single, large animal tooth at the end of a black leather string. The tooth was larger than his hand. Lion couldn’t picture any animal that was humongous enough to accommodate a tooth that size in its mouth.

  Panic started clawing at Lion’s chest. He managed to bring one hand down - or up - to his stomach, pressing against his wound. Still groaning and breathing heavily, his gaze flickered between the blinking eye in the ceiling and the black-robed man. Was he even aware of the creature lurking over his head? He didn’t seem to care.

  Where was Saradra? How did Lion get here? Where was here?

  He could see tall windows and a round-shaped room. He glimpsed at an upside-down view of the castle walls outside. It was still dark. Was it the same night?

  The door burst open and another group of Vogros soldiers charged in. This time, they were mixed with a number of Zarall traitors.

  The man in the black robe hardly even glanced at them. He made a sharp gesture with his hand, pointing at the newcomers and speaking Lion’s Kill Word once again.

  The living ropes around Lion’s legs tensed, swung back slightly, and flung him towards the attackers. Lion hit the first two hard, knocking them down. He screamed in pain.

  He was almost glad the red mist took over this whole nightmare.

  *

  When he opened his eyes again, the nightmare kept going.

  Lion was laying on his back. The even older, more tired face of the man in the black robe was hovering over him. His eyes were closed, mouth moving, speaking an unfamiliar tongue. He had the necklace in one hand, and a knife in the other. His skin was pale and wrinkled as if he’d aged a hundred years.

  The man opened his dark eyes and plunged the knife in Lion’s chest.

  Lion gasped, more surprised than in pain. He tipped his head up, staring at the knife protruding from his chest. Right in his heart.

  The man had stabbed him right in his heart!

  When the man moved the knife, cutting his chest wide open, Lion’s heels kicked the floor weakly. His head felt heavy and a cold shiver took over. Blood filled his mouth, he coughed it out. His head fell to the side and he noticed the circle of blood around him. The letters and shapes the man had drawn were moving, crawling like squiggly worms. Towards him.

  The man raised his voice, chanting, almost yelling. He threw the knife away and dipped both hands into Lion’s chest, causing him to jolt upright, only to fall back again. All his strength was drawing out of his muscles.

  His vision was blackening.

  His ears were ringing. All he could hear was his own, slowing heartbeat.

  He was dying.

  The man’s hands cupped his heart, something sharp pressing against it.

  With a detached sense of amusement, he noticed dying was pretty similar to surrendering to his Kill Word. Except the mist which slowly obscured his sight was black and not red.

  *

  Lion woke up, clutching at his chest.

  He had to stop the bleeding. Too much blood… He’d lost so much blood. He had to find something to put pressure…

  He froze, gaping at his chest; his blood-stained, but completely intact chest.

  He scrubbed the dried blood off and fumbled his skin. He wasn’t imagining. No wound. No bleeding gashes. Not even a scratch. Nothing but his old tournament brands. Even the bleeding wound on his stomach was gone.

  What in Darkhome was happening?

  The man had stabbed his heart. He’d seen it. He’d felt it. He’d sensed the man’s fingers crawling inside of him.

  He’d died.

  He couldn’t have simply imagined it all.

  And the monster with snake-like arms…

  Lion flinched, snapping his head up to the ceiling above. No shadows. No blinking eyes. Just a grey stone ceiling with soot stains and mould.

  Sitting up too
fast turned out to be a mistake. Black spots flied in his sight, as he swayed, lightheaded. He steadied himself, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

  He ran his hand across the floor and looked at the dust on his fingers. There were no drawings on the stone floor anymore. No crawling letters. Not even blood. Just a layer of dust.

  Letters and shapes made of blood, crawling like worms…

  He shook his head to dismiss the imaginary memory. What had that man done to him? Where did he go? His black robe was bunched up in a messy pile, but the man himself was nowhere to be seen.

  Lion shuddered. He wanted to get out of this place, before the man returned and spoke his Kill Word again.

  Before he stabbed his heart again.

  His head was hurting. How did the man even know his Kill Word? That burning hound… The blinking eye and snake-like arms in the ceiling… The crawling letters… Fingers clenching around his heart…

  Lion cupped his face, trying to push back the unanswered questions - and the headache they caused. Instead, he tried to focus on the single, most important question he needed to explore.

  Where was Saradra?

  He crawled towards the door, where the bodies of a dozen soldiers lay. Supporting himself against the wall, he climbed up on his feet and carefully treaded between the corpses. Some of them were mutilated by his bare hands; their heads twisted, their arms and legs broken in places, posing in unnatural angles. Others were disarmed and killed by their own weapons.

  As always, Lion had no memory after his Kill Word was spoken…

  He paused, staring at the familiar face of one of the Zarall traitors. He’d seen this man many times around the castle. A cold doubt grasped his heart.

  What if he’d killed Saradra too?

  He swallowed. No, he would have remembered Saradra. He would’ve stopped himself. Even in his frenzy, Lion wouldn’t ever harm Saradra…

  A knot was forming on his throat. Who was he kidding? The red mist consumed everything when it came. Nothing could stop him when he was unleashed. Not even himself…

  He forced himself to breathe and move on, but the doubt didn’t release his heart. He had to get to the ladies’ quarters. Saradra was smart. She would have stayed hidden, out of Lion’s sight.

  Outside the round-shaped room, Lion found a set of stairs spiralling down. He had to be at the top of one of the castle towers.

  Small, square windows were lined along the right wall of the stairs. The sun had just started painting the sky in red. The fire was out and an eerie silence hung in the air outside.

  The castle would have been awakened at this time of the day; servants and slaves running about their businesses, getting ready for the day’s work. But it was all dead silence this morning. Lion wondered who won the conflict last night.

  He got his answer as soon as he’d reached to the bottom of the stairs.

  A group of Vogros soldiers were patrolling the corridor downstairs. When they spotted him, they pulled their swords out, charging.

  Lion fell on his knees without hesitation. Tilting his head back, he revealed his neck and rested his hands on his lap.

  As soon as he’d seen the men, he’d arrived at a quick conclusion; Saradra couldn’t have escaped without his help. She couldn’t even find her way around the castle. If she was alive - if Lion hadn’t killed her amidst his berserk - there was a high chance she was captured and taken to the slave holds. There was no reason to attempt an escape - or fight these men - without her.

  The Vogros men didn’t slow down. Lion’s eyebrows twitched, though he tried not to look or flinch. Why were they not…?

  Sweat ran down his spine when he remembered he was coated in blood. Was his tattoo even visible? They’d have to know he was surrendering.

  He clenched his fists. A survival instinct that wasn’t there before urged him to stand up and protect himself. He didn’t want to die without knowing what happened to Saradra. Yet, his slave training took over promptly and he sat still; once again, leaving his fate to the hands of free men.

  A gauntleted fist landed on the side of his face, sending him sprawling to the floor. Next, came the kicks of heavy boots. He curled into a ball, wrapping his arms around his head and enduring until they decided it was enough.

  He didn’t remember the last time he’d received such a beating; Badimar wasn’t a big fan of risking permanent damage to the King’s precious Lion of Zarall. He would predominantly use a whip or his Pain Word, and he would use them sparingly.

  Someone called to a halt and the men complied reluctantly. The same person ordered two of them to climb to the top of the tower and see what was up there.

  Lion remained motionless; still curled up and covering his head. He kept his eyes on the blood-soaked floor. The heavy boots remained at the peripheral of his sight, ready to strike again.

  Within a few minutes, the two men came back from the top of the tower. One of them started vomiting, while the other one reported the scene upstairs, his face grim and green.

  Lion could feel their eyes him, piercing his back with their hostility, blame, and promise of vengeance. His body tensed with the prospect of more kicks. But their leader’s decision almost made him smile.

  “Take him to the slave holds.”

  Saradra was there, Lion was sure of it. If he could hug her one more time, everything was going to be okay.

  However, his triumph melted like snow on a summer day at the man’s next words: “Stick him in the hole. No food or water until further notice.”

  Two men moved forward to yank him up on his feet. They paused when their leader added: “And gentlemen, be gentle with him. He’s the Lion of Zarall.”

  15

  LION

  His ears picked up footsteps approaching his cell again.

  His hearing had become much sharper than before, very quickly. His heart skipped a beat as he covered his head and drew his knees to his chest. No matter how much he’d braced, he could never prepare for this.

  The grill on his cell door slid to the side and a guard peeked in. The torchlights from the hallway outside spilt onto the floor of his cell, breaking the thick darkness.

  “Prihjtivaviula,” the guard muttered dully. He watched Lion’s quiet suffering for several seconds, his face a mask of boredom, then slid the grill closed and walked away.

  An eternity later, when the pain receded, Lion rolled on to his back. In the small, dark cell, he’d lost his sense of time. Each time his Pain Word was used, the seconds stretched longer, blurring his mind even more.

  His stomach wouldn’t stay quiet. He wasn’t given any food since he was put in the cell, however long that was. He was given water twice, but not much. He blinked at the darkness numbly.

  The torture, the starvation, none of these were more unbearable than the lack of knowledge of what had happened to Saradra.

  The other slaves were held in three larger cells together. Lion had searched for Saradra’s face amongst the vacant faces of the slaves, but he only had a split second to look. He was dragged past the slave holds quickly and was stuffed in his cell, never to see the sunlight again.

  He’d started having nightmares. Every time he’d closed his eyes, he saw the images of the massacred corpses at the top of the tower. He’d never had any nightmares about any of the slaves he’d killed in the arenas before. He’d never even thought of them.

  However, each of those nightmares ended with him discovering Saradra’s cold body amongst his victims. Her bones were broken, her skull bashed in with blunt force, her face was bitten off… The only recognizable part of her body was her flame-coloured hair.

  He’d wake up with a scream each time, his noise bringing the attention of the guards, who’d never missed an opportunity to torture him.

  He just had to know what had happened to Saradra. He just had to know he hadn’t killed her.

  Lion pressed his palms over his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to stay calm. If he’d hurt her, if he’d touched a hair on her head�
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  No, he didn’t want to go there. The thought made him sick, though he had nothing left to hurl out of his stomach.

  He almost wished the guard would return to speak his Pain Word again. Mind-numbing pain was better than confronting the possibility of hurting Saradra, even though he was under someone else’s control.

  He dropped his hands to his sides, a scowl creasing his forehead. He still didn’t know how that man knew his Kill Word. Lion thought the man was just a guest, not even castle staff. Even amongst the castle staff, only few knew Lion’s Words - until now.

  Now, he was certain half the Vogros men knew his Pain Word.

  They’d made a habit of speaking it every time they’d walked past his cell. They’d even take bets on how long he’d last before he passed out.

  Darlis was the one responsible from the discovery of his Pain Word; Lion was sure of it.

  Darlis was the captain of the small unit who’d raided Lion’s room on the night of the coup. He knew Lion had killed the two men he’d tasked to escort them. After the first time Darlis had visited him in his cell, beating him bloody and speaking his Pain Word repeatedly, Lion had expected to be on his way to White Tower the next day. They knew he’d killed free men by choice. Why were they still keeping him here?

  He'd grown more and more nervous as the time passed and they still hadn’t taken him to White Tower. His worries and confusion only doubled after having a visit from Karhad, the new Master of the Slaves. Master Raydon’s replacement had short brown hair, a young face, and a large earring dangling from his right ear. The heavy, leather bound book he’d carried contained Master Raydon’s slave records.

  After examining Lion against the records, Karhad had recited the change of ownership to Lion: “You are now the property of King Kastian Vogros, the first of his name, the ruler of Chinderia. At your Owner’s request, your name will remain Lion of Zarall.”

  Staggering to his feet, Lion had faltered, almost making the mistake of gawking at the new Master of the Slaves. He’d already heard King Leonis and Queen Arasanara had been killed on the night of the coup. The guards had also commented about how Prince Lygor Zarall, who had been on a diplomatic mission at Kaldoria the last five years, was simultaneously assassinated. Even the distant relatives who carried Zarall name were taken care of.