by JD Franx
“I wouldn’t be so sure, your Holiness.” Kyro laughed as Lavik tried to stand, and failed, falling to the dirt at Alec’s side. The thief struggled to rise, pulling a twelve inch blade attached to his shield from the champion’s side.
The emperor leapt to his feet. “What sorcery is this?” he barked. “Guards! Get my healers down there. Make sure Lavik survives and bring me that sorcerous thief!”
“Isn’t the Osok warded against magic? By the Ancients’ magic, Emperor?” Kyro asked.
Emperor Mero frowned, furious as Kyro added, “It was just a spring-loaded blade inside the shield. Terrible luck for your champion.”
Emperor Mero spit with uncontrolled rage. “Not as terrible as for that damned thief.” With a wave of the emperor’s hand, guards flooded the arena fight-floor. Unlike the ceremonial armoured men in the balcony, they were armed and protected by well-worn and battle-scarred equipment. Beating Alec into the dirt, they stripped his shield from his arm and dragged him to the Gods Balcony. The crowd went crazy, shouting, “Judgment! Judgement! Judgement!” Forced to his knees, Alec stared up into the balcony with blood-shot eyes and a broken nose.
Kyro joined the emperor on his feet, and whispered in his ear. “Emperor Mero. Let us talk before you pass sentence.”
“Why? He’s a thief. He avoided his punishment. It’ll be done now, by the guards.”
“Give me two minutes. It has to do with why I’m here.”
“You have thirty seconds, Yorcali-younger. Starting now.” Emperor Mero raised his hands to quiet the crowd. Knowing what was coming, it only succeeded in exciting the masses further. As the crowd slowly began to settle, Kyro spoke fast, desperately trying to save the thief’s life.
“Spare his life, Emperor. Please. I’ll consider it a personal favour in the negotiations to come.”
“We’ll be negotiating, will we?” Emperor Mero said, his interest clearly piqued. “Owing me a favour will put you at a distinct disadvantage, Yorcali-younger. Not a sound business tactic. Are you sure?”
“I am, Emperor. I agree.” As Kyro finished speaking, Emperor Mero, with his hand still raised, prompted the crowd with a thumbs down. Hundreds cheered, but a rousing echo of boos joined them, slowly drowning out those cheering for a man’s death. As Kyro stared at the emperor, a smile crept onto the old man’s lips. Turning his thumb back up, he raised his thumb on his opposite hand and the arena exploded with a chorus of screaming cheers. Emperor Mero’s smile widened as he turned to Kyro.
“Looks like the crowd agrees with you, Kyro Yorcali. Your thief lives, though I promise you, he’ll wish he had died the moment he steps into his first Ludus, the training homes will be ruthless to him, especially if Lavik dies.” Kyro nodded as the Emperor addressed the Osok.
“Lords, ladies, men and women, you have spoken. The thief, Alec Terraine, shall live. He is hereby remanded to the Bloodrooms below the Osok until chosen by a Ludus. Please enjoy your short break as the sun passes through its crest and the afternoon’s Champion Fights begin.” Sitting back down, he nodded to the guard standing to the left of the door. Opening the locked, solid gate, the guard nodded to someone outside. The man who escorted Kyro and Niko to the balcony entered.
“Your Holiness?” He bowed.
“Get me some information about Lavik. Now!” The man bowed a second time and exited. The guard closed the gates, locking them.
“Well, Yorcali-younger? We have some time. Why did you come all this way and call in your father’s favour with me?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard some of the rumours from up north?”
“If you refer to strange beings and their powers of influence, then yes. Personally, I think King Bale is losing his mind. It seems to be the rulers of Cethos suffer from that curse all too often, considering his father and grandfather died from the same.”
“Well, my father and I can’t count on the respected borders of an insane king or an influenced one, if he’s not insane. You know Yusat is just a puppet kingdom.”
Emperor Mero poured himself some more wine. Offering to fill Kyro’s cup, he said, “True. I cannot blame you. Living within reach of an insane monarch is a burden I know all too well. Had your ArchWizard and the rebels not dealt with DormaSai’s last insane king, we would have had to invade and put an end to that vile Azmerack bastard.” Kyro nodded, but snorted inside. The damned coward had been too afraid to march on DormaSai and fight the King of the Dead during the necromancer rebellions. Now that the current king and winner of those same rebellions wanted peace, Mero blustered and threatened him with war.
“You understand, then,” Kyro said, “how we cannot sit by and allow the Free Lands to remain unprotected, or protected by the grace of good neighbours.”
Swallowing another glass of wine, Emperor Mero sighed. “So, you come here looking for what? Yorcali-younger, you know my own borders are not safe at the moment. Even if they were, were I to support you and your father, officially, I’d break at least a dozen treaties by putting soldiers on Blood Kingdom soil. I cannot do that. I’m sorry.” Kyro nodded his agreement as Niko cleared her throat. It caught the emperor’s attention.
“Something you’d like to add, my lovely?” Emperor Mero asked, as his wine-heavy eyes drifted down to the waist-high kick-slit on her extravagant new dress.
Niko smiled, shifting in her seat to cover her legs. “We were thinking something a little less official, Your Holiness.”
Without taking his eyes from where they had relocated to settle on Niko’s chest, Emperor Mero asked, “Care to explain, Kyro? I really don’t want to insult the Bloods. Not with all the trouble up there. Missing princesses, DeathWizards, witch cults, and now I’m hearing stories about broken treaties with the Wildlands. I would just as soon as not talk about this any further.” He smiled at Niko. Lifting her hand, once again, he kissed it this time. Staring into her eyes as if trying to seduce her with nothing but his pungent charm, he added, “I would rather have much more satisfying conversations. Would you not agree, my lovely creature?” Kyro recognized the emperor’s desire for Niko the moment they were led into the balcony. Never one to ‘sell’ or ‘bargain’ his people in any situation, Kyro still couldn’t help but smirk at Niko as she swallowed hard, as if trying to stop her rebelling stomach. Her eyes pleaded for help. He decided to end her torture the only way he knew how.
“I want your gladiators, Emperor Mero. All of them.” The Elloryan emperor gently placed Niko Sattori’s hand on the armrest of her own chair and turned to Kyro.
“Well, Yorcali-younger, that is indeed unexpected. Perhaps we do have something to discuss.”
Chapter Twenty
“My father, the King of Cethos, always told me that the Bale family bloodline never had magic and likely never will. Why would a Goddess we so fervently worship not grant her gift to us? Inara’s University of Magic, The Eye, as everyone calls it, stands in the capital city of our country. As a nation, we offer free scholarships to our neighbouring country’s gifted and free education to all of our own who show any real affinity to mystical power. All graduates are employed wherever they will help the most or where they most desire, but still She doesn’t bless our family. My father says that the Bales have a strength that goes beyond magic, but it doesn’t quicken until we taste battle. If I continue to be coddled by my father, by my King, then how will I ever find my true strength? If finding it means I will be a better Queen, then I will find it on my own. I’m sorry, Father, but I must.”
Journal entry Written by Princess Corleya Bale
On the night of her disappearance
WILDLANDS MIDDLE FOREST
Princess Corleya Bale opened her eyes with a start, her heart pounding from suddenly being woken from the clutches of yet another frightening dream. A sharp pain, similar to a bug bite, stung her back. After only four hours sleep, she rubbed the uncomfortable blur from her eyes, stretching to feel what caused the agony to her back. As she turned, she saw the flashing white teeth from a smile and another
stab of pain lit up her ribcage.
“Bastard!” she growled, turning quietly. A sharpened stick slid through one of the many openings in the slave cage, poking her above her left breast. After piercing her flesh, the stick was quickly withdrawn. Corleya slid further from the side of the cage as the stick darted in again. Moving out of the deep shadows cast by total darkness, Alia Ryanez, Corleya’s lady-in-waiting snatched the stick from the young man and threw it into the heavy brush behind the slave pen. The young tribal warrior flashed another smile and disappeared into the dark.
“Are you all right, my... Lady?” Alia asked. The hesitation in trying to keep the princess’ identity a secret was a subtle slip, but still a slip.
“I’m fine,” Corleya mumbled, biting her lip. “Just stings.” Alia crawled closer, inspecting the shallow puncture wounds caused by the same man who’d been tormenting the slaves ever since they arrived—the tribal chief’s son.
For two weeks, she’d been a slave to the Kordanu tribe who lived deep in the Wildlands Forest. The memories of how she and her lady-in-waiting had first been captured by the Taktala tribe, further north, a month and a half ago, came flooding back on the tail of her nightmare. A month had passed after their capture before they were sold to their current owners. Compared to the Taktala, the Kordanu were a vicious and ruthless tribe of Wildlands natives. Any failure or misstep resulted in several lashes with a soaked leather whip. Nowhere near as lenient as the Taktala, Corleya and Alia worked from before the sun rose until late at night, at which time they were locked in a cage with almost a dozen other captive slaves.
Corleya’s heart calmed as the dream receded, and she realized that a loud argument outside the slave pen was becoming heated, the escalating voices what woke her seconds before the pain. Though unable to understand the tribe’s language, she crept across the enclosed slave pen for a closer look. The tribe’s leader, Chief Karlag Kordanu, was in a serious dispute with one of the high priestesses, but the princess was not sure which. Chewing her lip with frustration at not being able to understand what was being said, she never heard another slave approach.
“They’re fighting about where to go next,” a soft voice said, coming from her right. Corleya turned to see Damien Krass crouched in the deep shadows. The newest addition to the Kordanu slave pen had said nothing in the two days since he had been purchased from another of the gathering tribes.
“You understand their language?” she answered, whispering as well.
“Aye, been in this forest a long time. You’ll save yourself a lot of anguish by learning it,” he said, nodding towards the healing whip scars on her back that peeked out from under her stained and tattered shirt. Corleya pulled her shirt over the wounds as the argument grew louder.
“What are they saying?” Corleya asked.
“They’re going to war, and the tribes are coming together in preparation. The priestess wants the Kordanu to head into the mountains, to ask the... I don’t know the word. It’s not one they normally use, but to go and ask for their help.”
“She wants the chief to ask the Bruja to come to war with them,” another woman rasped. “That priestess has been pushing the chief since I arrived with the Asazai tribe.” The young blonde woman coughed. Though Corleya was well aware that age and youth meant little to those with magic, the woman appeared no older than twenty and was also a new addition to the Kordanu slave population. Washed out and weak, often struggling to breathe, Corleya could see the woman’s blood veins through her skin, especially in her neck and throughout her face. They had a silver tinge to them during the daytime sun and an ugly scar marked her neck under her chin. She could not help but wonder what the woman had been through.
“How do you know what they’re saying?” she asked, instead.
“How old are you, little girl?” the woman rasped, her voice as weak as her body.
“Sixteen, why?”
“Because I have several hundred years on you. I’ve been able to speak most Wildlands dialects for half my life, and those I don’t speak I will pick up fast. You do after a few centuries of living.” The woman sighed and lay back against the woven wooden cage that made up the slave pen.
“Why doesn’t the chief want to go to the... Bruja?”
“Bruja is just their word for evil magic users. The rest of the civilized world calls them witch doctors. The Wildlands tribal people don’t use magic like we do,” the woman said, still lying back. “Their priestesses access a power that Humans and the Elvehn don’t understand. It’s some kind of nature magic. They use it to hide their camps or cover their trails by making vines and the forest trees grow quickly or to find water in times of drought. It’s the same magic they used to create these slave cages. Overall, pretty mild magic compare to ours up north. But the Bruja? That’s a different story. They use some strange kind of spirit magic that doesn’t exist in the rest of Talohna. When these tribal children are born with this magic, it’s considered a curse and they’re ostracised. Removed from the camp and left to die.”
Damien turned from the argument and sat, his eyes on the knowledgeable woman. “They don’t die do they, though? I’ve heard stories in the time I’ve been here,” he said, shivering. Corleya wasn’t sure whether it was the cold night air or talk of the Bruja that made him shake.
The woman struggled to sit up, another slave helped steady her, receiving a nod of thanks. “I would imagine some do, but it seems like most find their way to the Sartaq tribe. Being born with these powers happens often enough that the outcasts formed their own tribe. It’s where the priestess wants to go, but the chief disagrees.”
“What does that mean for us?” Corleya asked.
“That will depend on how much the Sartaq demand as payment to fight a war they have no interest in,” the woman answered, as she groaned.
Damien shook his head at her words. “Well, it’s not like things can get any worse,” he complained. From outside the cage, Chief Karlag Kordanu roared with anger and barked at the priestess in their guttural language.
The woman chuckled and laid back once more. “This is Talohna. Things can always get worse. I told a friend that a long time ago, but he wasn’t born here. You were. You should know better,” she laughed, holding her sides in agony.
“How?” Damien blurted out. “How could it possibly get any worse?” He held his hands up and looked around, emphasizing the slave cage and their situation.
The woman stared at him for several seconds and then leaned forward. “Because,” she said, her eyes glaring at the priestess thirty feet away. With a nod towards her, she continued. “The chief just agreed with the priestess. We’re going to the Sartaq.”
“You look like you are only twenty years old. Are you a wizard then?” Corleya asked, and then slapped her hand to her mouth when she realized what she let slip, even looking back over her shoulder to see if any of their captors had heard. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she added, “You don’t have a Poghana collar. They don’t make mistakes like that...”
“I’m not a wizard, girl,” the woman replied. Confused, Corleya glanced over at Damien, not knowing what to say.
“She’s a vampyr,” he hissed, in a hushed tone. “One that has silver running through her veins by the look of it. Not quite enough to kill her would be my guess. Never seen that before, it normally doesn’t take much. You should be dead.” The woman snorted, but said nothing.
Corleya stepped back, instinct taking over. “Why would they let her live? They’re supposed to be eradicated when they’re captured.”
Laughing lightly, the woman scoffed, but it was Damien who answered her. “If they knew, they would have, even though these tribes follow no laws but their own. Talohna’s universal laws don’t exist here. Still, it’s a mistake we can use to get out of here.” Turning to address the woman, he smiled. “My name is Damien, this is Cora. What do you say? Care to work together to get out of here?” he asked, as he scooted forward with his arm out, in an offer to shake the vampyr’s a
rm.
A weak arm grasped his, but then unearthly power ripped him from his feet. In less than second, he was staring into silver-fevered eyes, his nose touching hers. “Why would I help a pirate who will stab us all in the back as he runs to freedom over our recaptured bodies? You think I don’t recognize a Sun of Blood when I see one?”
“Doesn’t really matter what any of us are right now, does it... vampyr? A slave is a slave, but together, perhaps we can escape. Right?” The woman pushed Damien hard enough to knock him over backwards.
“Don’t make me regret this, pirate,” she snapped, through clenched teeth.
“You won’t,” Corleya said, crawling forward, as Alia joined her from the shadows. It was clear she stepped forward to protect her friend should the vampyr attack. “You have my word and that of my friend. This is Alia. How about telling us your name?”
The woman stared at the odd group of slaves: a pirate, a Salzaran mercenary, and a Cesthosian noblewoman. She shook her head as she answered. “What do I keep getting myself into...? All right. My name is Lycori. Lycori Alatar.”
Corleya gasped. “Alatar? I knew a wizard from Corynth with the last name of Alatar, Gabriel. He sat with the ArchWizard when my... when the King held court. Are you related?” she asked.
“He was my grandfather,” Lycori offered, emotionless. “He’s dead.” She put her hands on her knees, placing her head on her hands to rest and said no more.
“I’m sorry, Lycori, for what it’s worth. He was well liked and respected in Corynth, I know that much.”
With such a dour mood hanging over the slave pen, Corleya sat down between Alia and Damien, her mind a whirl of thoughts. Escape would be their only real hope of freedom. She knew Giddeon would not try another rescue without going back to Corynth for more troops, maybe even for the whole army. That would only happen if he considered her more important than stopping the DeathWizard, which she doubted. The corrupted wizard would destroy all Talohna held dear, so he would be Giddeon’s primary concern now that her rescue attempt had failed. Her foolishness and childish behaviour had put her in this mess. She and Alia would have to fend for themselves, with a little help from a pirate and a vampyr.