Under the Crimson Sun (the abyssal plague)

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Last time they were in Urik, Gan had expressed confusion over why anyone would even bother to show up for the earlier fights. Fehrd had pointed out that you could attend the early fights for a cheaper admission price, and get good seats that were generally reserved for the wealthiest of the wealthy for the main event.

  Gan really missed Fehrd.

  Fighters were led at combat time up a spiral staircase to the holding area located under the scaffolding that served as seats. Armed guards stood at every exit, and-according to the grumblings of some of the other fighters-there was some kind of magical protection. The other fighters were sufficiently vague on the subject that Gan suspected there was no magic, just a rumor that Calbit and his partner started to scare the fighters into submission.

  Every time Gan tried to ask Rol what was wrong, Rol dismissed it. “Just a lesion. Nothing to worry about.”

  That had been the same thing that the healer-a gaunt, elderly elf who looked like he wanted to be anywhere other than at the arena-had said after examining all three of the so-called lesions that had appeared on Rol’s skin. In addition to the one on his left wrist, there was also one on his right leg, with a third on his neck.

  Rol added: “Probably a bad reaction to something in that fripping concrete cart. Wasn’t exactly clean in there, and who knows where those other people came from.”

  “I guess.” Gan sighed. “Still, you’ve been a bit-well, odd since we hooked up with that caravan.”

  Rol just glared at him.

  Gan held up his hands. “Right, right, Fehrd’s been killed, we got kidnapped by slavers, and we’re stuck in Urik as gladiators. I can see how that might make you a bit off your game, but we’ve got to start thinking about escaping.”

  “Only thing I’m thinking about right now is removing Calbit and Tirana’s heads from their necks with my bare hands.”

  Rol didn’t speak the words in his usual matter-of-fact tone.

  “Okay, now I’m really worried.”

  “Why?” Rol asked.

  “Because this isn’t like you. C’mon, Rol, we’ve been in worse situations than this.”

  “With Fehrd,” Rol added. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’ll get through this. For now, though, we fight.”

  “That’s what worries me-you know who that mul was, right? It was Gorbin. He’s been-”

  “I know who he is. I saw him fight last time we were in Urik. His fights never last longer than a few minutes.”

  “Which is why we need to get out of here before we have to fight him.”

  “I’ll beat him.”

  “You sure?”

  “Do I have a choice? Besides, we don’t know the lay of the land well enough to escape. We’ll need at least a week.”

  Sighing, Gan leaned back on the cubicle’s hard bunk. Rol was, as usual, right. They needed a plan, and in order to plan, they needed information.

  Gan wasn’t sure when it was, exactly, that the guards led them out of their cubicle and up the spiral staircase. Between being drugged-by Tirana’s draft meant to keep them “awake”-and kidnapped, and being stuck in either a stone carriage or an underground dungeon, he had lost all sense of time.

  But when they reached the holding area, he could see that the outdoor arena was lit solely by torchlight, so it had to be nighttime. There were dozens of torches all around the perimeter of the arena, and they barely kept the place visible against the stygian backdrop of the former obsidian mine.

  Six fighters joined Gan and Rol, but they mostly shied away from them. The only one who didn’t was a goliath who looked right at Gan and Rol and said, “You two? Dead. Neither one’a ya’s gonna last more’n three seconds in the arena with me. An’ yeah, I saw whatcha did ‘gainst the anakore, but anakores ain’t nothin’ away from their packs. You two? Goin’ down.”

  Ignoring the goliath, Gan walked over to the gate-which, to his surprise, was made from metal. It was old metal, rusted in spots, probably dating back to the earliest days of the king’s reign. No doubt, it was prohibitively expensive to replace, and Gan suspected that a sharp kick to the right spot would snap some of the metal spurs in twain.

  Filing that away for future reference, Gan looked out at the arena floor as Calbit’s partner came out and held up his hands, causing the crowd noise-which had been so constant in the background that Gan hadn’t really noticed it up until then-to die down.

  “Good evening. I’m Fal Jago, and on behalf of my partner Helsno Calbit, I welcome you all to the Pit … of Black Death.”

  Gan wondered what the dramatic pause and overemphasis of the arena’s name was supposed to accomplish. Did anybody not know the name of the place?

  However, several people cheered, if raggedly, at the mention of the name, so Gan supposed it served some sort of rile-up-the-crowd function.

  “Tonight is a very special night here at the Pit, as we present a new crop of fighters that we have brought here from arenas all across Athas. The finest warriors in the land, and all of them come here, because they know that this is where true battles are waged, where glory is gained, where victory is won.”

  More cheers, even though Gan mostly wanted to wretch. He’d heard better oratory from drunks in taverns.

  “The first battle of the evening will be between two of our finest newcomers. First, from the wastes to the west, fresh off of several dozen kills in the iron mines of Tyr-the grand goliath, Krackis.”

  With a grinding sound that Gan felt all up and down his spine, the metal gate rose slowly upward, providing easy access to the arena floor. The goliath who’d been trash-talking Gan a moment earlier ran forward. He jogged out into the arena with his arms raised in the air.

  Whatever response he was hoping to engender with that gesture failed, as the crowd sounded unimpressed. At best, he got a smattering of applause.

  “Facing him in the finest arena in the land will be a challenger from the far-off land of Nibenay, a man who singlehandedly defeated a team of bandits in the Alluvial Sand Wastes-the one-eyed wonder, Gan.”

  Gan shook his head in annoyance. “I’ve been to Nibenay all of once in my life.”

  One of the other fighters, a stocky dwarf, barked a laugh. “Seriously? You actually critiquing Jago’s nonsense? He’s a fripping barker, you moron, he’s tryin’ to rile up the crowd. Accordin’ to him, I wiped out an entire elf caravan with my teeth last year.”

  Gan regarded the dwarf, who was bald with a thick mustache. “I take it you used actual weapons to wipe out the elf caravan?”

  That resulted in another barked laugh. “Never even met an elf in my life, till I came to this benighted place. Nah, I was arrested for fightin’, an’ they put me here instead’a jail. I live, I’m out in a year-go to jail, it’s ten, and probably get killed inside within a year.”

  His eye widening, Gan asked, “Ten? For a fight?”

  The dwarf grinned. “Well, when the guy you beat up is the king’s nephew, they take a dimmer view of it. Kid wasn’t supposed to be in that tavern, so they didn’t put me to death or nothin’, since I didn’t know he was a nobleman. Course, I woulda beat the little twerp up anyway, he was a real fripping piece of-”

  One of the guards pushed the dwarf aside and then shoved Gan toward the gate. He sauntered out into the arena, seeing no reason to rush or to play to the crowd.

  To his amusement, he got precisely the same applause that Krackis received, with a fraction of the effort.

  “Let the fighting begin,” was the last thing Jago said before he left the floor, leaving Gan and Krackis to circle each other.

  Gan stood with his elbows in and angled slightly so that he presented his left bicep to his opponent. For his part, Krackis just stood facing Gan directly, holding his fists over his head. Gan sighed silently; Krackis’s pose probably looked impressive to the crowd, but holding his arms up like that was an unnecessary effort and left his middle exposed.

  Krackis, predictably, made the first move, throwing an overhand right toward Gan, which he ea
sily deflected with his left arm, though pain shot through his forearm with the parry. That told Gan a lot; his foe was very strong and had probably never been in a fight with anyone who knew what he was doing.

  The goliath peppered Gan with a few more punches, and one of them inevitably was strong enough that Gan couldn’t properly parry it-Krackis’s sheer strength was enough that Gan fell to the arena floor in a heap.

  Proud of himself, Krackis raised his arms and looked to the crowd, who obliged him with cheers that echoed off the obsidian walls.

  Seeing his opportunity, Gan thrust his right leg upward with a sharp kick to Krackis’s solar plexus.

  The cheers modulated almost instantly into gasps as the goliath doubled over, struggling to breathe. Gan followed it up with a punch to his oversized head, knocking Krackis to the floor.

  With the crowd goading him to get up, Krackis managed to struggle to his feet. Gan waited until he was standing, then kicked downward at his knee. The impact of his foot on bone broke it, the crack echoing throughout the arena, followed quickly by Krackis’s screams as he fell to the floor again.

  Suddenly the crowd was cheering more enthusiastically, chanting Gan’s name. However, Gan paid no attention, focusing entirely on Krackis.

  But the goliath was still screaming in pain, and did not get up.

  Jago stepped out then, holding up both arms. “The match is ended. The winner is Gan.”

  Two guards came out as the crowd celebrated Gan’s victory. They helped the now-hobbled Krackis out. Gan walked behind them under his own power.

  “You cheated,” Krackis said through clenched teeth.

  “I was under the impression there weren’t any rules.”

  “There aren’t,” one of the guards said before Krackis could respond. “The only rule is that one person wins, and the other loses.”

  Gan smiled. “Looks like rule number two applies to you, Krackis. Hope your leg heals soon.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  We’re getting closer,” Feena said without prompting, startling Komir next to her as he held the crodlu reins.

  They had been in the wastes for two days without incident, which was nothing short of miraculous. Komir just knew that meant something horrible would happen that day, so he was completely on edge. Just then, they were trudging slowly up a rise. Shira and Torthal were asleep in the back-they were taking more and more midday naps.

  From behind him in the front part of the carriage, Tricht’tha chittered something in Chachik, then: “We know we’re getting closer, that’s kind of the point of going through the wastes to Urik-to get closer.”

  Shaking her head, Feena said, “No, I mean we’re closer to where Gan is. I can feel him now.”

  “Good,” Komir said. “I’d hate to go all the way to Urik for no good reason. For all that I joked about it, Father’s right-King Hamanu is crazy.”

  Zabaj had been walking alongside the carriage-his long legs could easily keep stride with the pace the crodlus were making while pulling the carriage uphill-and he suddenly moved closer to the front where Komir and the others were. “We need to be alert.”

  Peering ahead, Komir saw what the mul was talking about. “That’s the top of the rise.”

  Nodding, Zabaj said, “Prime ambush spot.” Then he started moving faster, wanting to be ahead of the crodlus when they arrived at the top of the rise in case there was an ambush.

  Nervously, Komir flicked his wrists to whip the crodlus with the reins. It didn’t serve any useful function except to annoy the mounts, since they couldn’t really go any faster with the burden they had. But the last thing he wanted to deal with was an attack on the carriage, especially since they were traveling alone. Zabaj could handle most problems-few of the desert scavengers could stand up to a mul-and Tricht’tha could hold her own in a fight too.

  That was more for use against those who couldn’t be talked to. Opponents who could hold a conversation were not ones that they were too terribly worried about.

  Zabaj was standing at the top of the rise when the carriage arrived, hands on hips.

  “We’re clear,” the mul said, three seconds before four people leaped out from beneath the sand.

  Komir barely had time to acknowledge that they were there when one of them had grabbed Feena and yanked her down off the carriage. He smoothly wrapped an arm around her neck. They wore the trademark all-black of the Black Sands Raiders, though the outfits were a bit ragged and torn. Of their mounts, there was no sign-which was odd, as atop the rise, they could see everything for miles.

  “Oh great,” Komir said, as much for the benefit of the others in the emporium still inside the carriage as it was for their attackers, “more raiders. Is there any way this trip can get worse?”

  “Give us everything you have,” demanded the man with his arm on Feena’s neck, “or the girl dies.”

  Tricht’tha chittered. “Thought the Black Sands only traveled in groups of twelve.”

  “We did. The others’re dead, and our crodlus ran. We got nothin’ left, so we got nothin’ to lose. We want all your coin.”

  Komir pointed behind the carriage. “Go about ten miles that way, you may catch up with it. You’re the third set of thieves we’ve hit since we left Raam.”

  Another Raider spoke. “That’s a pretty well-laden carriage.” He was closest to Zabaj, and the mul was staring daggers at him, his fists clenching and opening. Zabaj wasn’t going to do anything until Feena was safe, but the fact that Feena was in danger didn’t speak well for the Raider’s continued survival if Zabaj had anything to say about it.

  Shrugging, Komir said, “That’s merchandise. You wanna take it, knock yourself out, but without crodlus, you’re gonna have a hard time of it.”

  The one holding Feena said, “We can take your mounts.”

  “You crazy, Voras? It’ll take us weeks to get back if we’re carrying all this crap.”

  Voras turned on the other one. “Shut up, Tralk.”

  Another one said, “He’s right, I ain’t takin’ no carriage.”

  The last one said, “Why not?”

  From behind Komir, he heard his sister say, “Oh, please, let them take the carriage.”

  Whirling around, Komir cried, “What?”

  Climbing to the front of the carriage and taking the seat next to Komir where Feena had been before being grabbed, Karalith said, “Just let them take it. We’re close enough that we can get there on foot within a few days.” Before Komir could say anything, she said, “Just take it. We’ll walk to the spot on the map.”

  Voras’s eyes widened. “What map?”

  Komir put his head in his hands. “Nice one, Sis-why’d you mention the map? Two other sets of thieves come by, they take all our coin, as well as half the merchandise, and you don’t mention the map. Now you mention the map?”

  “What map?” Voras asked again.

  “Who cares?” Karalith pointed at the raiders. “They obviously want the merchandise. Look at them, they’ve got no mounts, no coin-they go back to their bosses like this, they’ll get their hands cut off. They bring back a merchant carriage, and it’ll be fine.” She turned to Voras. “Just let us keep the map, and the rest of it’s yours.”

  Tightening his grip on Feena’s neck, Voras spoke very slowly. “If I have to ask again, the girl will be dead on the sand. What map?”

  Karalith waved her arms back and forth. “Don’t hurt her. Look, it’s a treasure map, but you don’t want that. There’s merchandise in here that’s worth hundreds of gold.”

  Komir didn’t react to that, but he was smiling inside, as the merchandise was actually worth thousands.

  With one arm, Voras tightened his grip on Feena’s neck; with the other, he pulled out a bone knife and put it at Feena’s jugular. Komir saw Zabaj tense and take a step forward in the sand.

  “Go ahead,” Voras said to Zabaj. “Move closer and kill her.” Then he turned to Karalith. “You will fetch this map.”

  “What?” Karalith sou
nded stunned. “No, you don’t want that. It’ll take months to dig up the treasure. You’ve got all this merchandise right here, and we-”

  “Fetch the map now or I will slit this woman’s throat.”

  Zabaj moved toward the carriage. “I’ll get the fripping map.”

  “No, Zabaj, please.” Karalith was starting to weep. “After all we went through to get that map-the merchandise is just stuff, they can have it, but the map is-”

  Voras interrupted. “The map is going to be mine in about seven seconds or your woman-”

  “Will die,” Komir finished, “we got it, already. Zabaj, get the map.”

  The mul was already climbing into the back of the carriage. Komir prayed to the bright red sun of Athas, although he knew it wouldn’t heed his prayer, that Zabaj’s thumping around wouldn’t wake Shira and Torthal. Not that he doubted that they’d be able to go along with the game, but Torthal especially tended to be a bit out of it when he first woke up, and that might have ruined the whole thing.

  But all he heard was Zabaj’s rooting around in the back of the carriage. So he kept an eye on Tralk and the other two, who also had gotten bone knives out.

  Tralk said, “We should take the crodlus too.”

  Another one shook his head. “No, these are carriage-trained. We’ll never get ‘em to ride through the sand unless they’re draggin’ something.”

  Komir breathed a sigh of relief. He was really worried that he was going to have to convince them that the crodlus would be of no use without the carriage, and Komir had always found it easier to convince people of things that were false than to do so with the truth. If they couldn’t convince them, the raiders would actually take the crodlus, then waste at least an hour while they tried and failed to make the crodlus move while untethered to the carriage.

  The carriage shook as Zabaj’s weight was removed from it. Slowly, the mul walked over toward Voras, a rolled-up parchment in hand.