Under the Crimson Sun (the abyssal plague)

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Drahar knew that Hamanu had had experience in that regard, including some campaigns that had been lost due to not recognizing that quantity was not the same as quality. Still, he had hopes that the king might see reason.

  “Magnificence, the mines are not going to suddenly improve their yields. In the long term, such gains are always temporary. The only way for us to remain as powerful as we are is to find another resource to exploit-which, sadly, does not exist anywhere in the region, if at all in Athas-or expand our territory.”

  “In fact,” the king said witheringly, “the mines have always fluctuated. Next year might see an uptick, and the orchards are certainly likely to bounce back as well. I appreciate the desire to expand my kingdom, but it must wait at least another year. That is all.”

  Drahar managed to control his reaction in public with the ease of long practice-he was always mindful, after all, of his predecessor’s fate.

  But internally, he was seething.

  He and Tharson walked out of the throne room together, Drahar saying, “We must discuss this.”

  Tharson nodded. “Tonight, at the arena.”

  For once, Drahar didn’t bother to control his reaction. “Must we?”

  “Oh, yes, we must.” The templar smiled. “Someone managed to kill Gorbin.”

  “So?”

  His eyes widening, Tharson said, “What do you mean ‘so?’ This is Gorbin.”

  “It’s just people punching people. There’s no art to it. Sooner or later, someone was bound to be able to punch better than Gorbin.”

  “Regardless, it’s past time I saw a good fight at the Pit.”

  Drahar was still waiting for the first time he would see one, but said nothing.

  And so, the pair of them were taken on palanquins to the Pit. Drahar was grateful for the silk curtains that kept him from having to look out onto the streets of Urik as he was carried through-bad enough they couldn’t contain the smell. It wasn’t so bad when they first left, but the Pit was located closer to Urik’s slums. The architecture changed from large, complex buildings with elegant stonework and molding that were sculpted into leonine themes-even the palanquin they rode had bas-relief lions carved into the sides-to ramshackle structures that barely protected their inhabitants from the harshness of the midday sun.

  Depressingly, Drahar could track their progress via his nose. He wasn’t sure whether it was due to the poor handling of local sewage or the fact that the populace never bathed. While Drahar knew that water was hard to come by, the very least they could do was try to clean themselves at least once a month, if not the weekly bath Drahar himself always took.

  After that, arriving at the royal box at the Pit was something of a relief. Drahar could smell soap and cleaning waxes-obviously the owners kept the place clean for Tharson, which Drahar appreciated in the abstract. Certainly, it made having to sit through such nonsense a great deal easier.

  Wine was brought for everyone, and Drahar gulped down most of a tankard in one sip, hoping the alcohol would dull the experience.

  It failed in that regard, leading Drahar to suspect that the wine was watered down as a cost-saving endeavor. Either that or the owners saw the value in their customers not being too drunk.

  Any hope that the experience might have improved in the years since the king lost interest in the arena were dashed when Drahar saw that Jago-or was it Calbit? he could never keep the arena’s owners’ names straight-was still doing the same tired barker routine at the top of each fight. Even more pathetic: the crowd was eating it up.

  The first few fights were of little interest even to Tharson, as they were lesser bouts between contestants whom Jago claimed were all “among the finest brawlers in Urik.” Drahar finished his third tankard by the end of the second fight, having endeavored to pay as little attention as possible to the events on the stage, endeavoring to engage Tharson in conversation about how they would go about convincing Hamanu that he was wrong to put off invading Tyr for a year.

  At first, Drahar was successful, but then Jago came out and announced that “the moment you all came here to see” had arrived.

  Only then did Drahar notice that the crowd had expanded considerably. Therefore the reception to Jago’s request to welcome the new champion, whose name was apparently Rol Mandred, was much, much louder than their previous reactions.

  Then the fighter came out, and Drahar nearly dropped his tankard.

  This Rol Mandred was a creature of magic. What’s more, he had a taint that was, quite simply, impossible.

  Tharson was staring at him. “What’s wrong, Drahar?”

  Drahar shook his head. “I’m sorry? What makes you think anything is wrong?”

  “You’re actually watching the arena,” Tharson said with a grin. “Usually you only pay that level of attention to something that relates to magic.”

  Quietly, Drahar said, “Very observant, Templar.”

  Now the grin fell. “There’s magic on the arena floor?”

  “The new fighter-Mandred, is it?”

  “He’s the reason we’re here.” Tharson gulped down whatever he was drinking from his tankard. “That’s the one who killed Gorbin.”

  “I doubt it took him much effort,” Drahar muttered. “He appears human, but he’s a creature of magic.”

  “He barely appears human,” Tharson said with a snort. “Look at those poxes all over him. And I’ve never seen a human that size.”

  Looking more closely, Drahar saw that the clothes Mandred was wearing were tight against his pockmarked skin. In particular, they were pulling on his shoulders. The clothes were also well-worn and had desert sand on them-which meant they were probably being worn by Mandred when he was brought in from whatever forsaken land Calbit found him in.

  “He’s human,” Drahar said, “but he’s growing. The magic is changing him slowly.”

  “Is that why he looks diseased?”

  “Possibly.” Drahar shook his head. “What I do not understand is that he has the taint of the Abyss.”

  “What’s that?”

  That prompted a rare smirk from Drahar. “A theory. The Abyss is the void in the chaotic realms beyond our world.” At Tharson’s blank expression-Drahar had to remind himself that, while Tharson was one of the finer military minds in Athas, he had no training in the Way-the sirdar added, “There are-theoretically-many realms beyond our own. The Abyss is like an open wound across them all.” He shuddered. “It’s a horrible place.”

  “How’s that? A wound in reality?”

  Drahar blinked. He thought that an odd question for Tharson to ask-but, again, he had little training. “And in theory-it’s a mad chasm of entropy. The Abyss is a void of sorts, yes, but it’s also a presence-a death urge capable of devouring the world if left unchecked. The triumph of chaos over order is what they tell us.” Another smirk, as he recalled several lecture-hall discussions that quickly degenerated into arguments. “Or the triumph of order over chaos, depending on who you ask.”

  “Really?” asked Tharson with a thoughtful sip from his tankard.

  “Yes.”

  “And you think that one bears its mark?” The templar pointed at Mandred, who was facing off against a half-giant.

  The roar of the crowd muted Drahar’s response, and he found himself, for the first time in his life, fascinated by what was going on in the arena.

  Having no clue as to what constituted good technique, Drahar simply watched what looked to him like incredibly graceless stumbling about. The half-giant had tufts of hair all over his body, which were only slightly more attractive than the pustules that ravaged Mandred’s flesh.

  They were circling each other at first, and then the half-giant lunged.

  He crashed right into Mandred, who barely even seemed to notice.

  Mandred just smiled and swung his fist downward onto the half-giant’s head like a hammer.

  The half-giant fell to the floor, either unconscious or dead. Drahar couldn’t really tell, and also didn’t
really care.

  What fascinated him was that the power of the magic he sensed increased when Mandred pounded his opponent, who was carried out on a wheelbarrow. Drahar could see the half-giant’s large stomach rise and fall, so the blow wasn’t fatal.

  Three others came out to fight Mandred-a bulky elf, who’d been one of the earlier fighters; a scrawny hejkin, one of the abominations of the desert covered in boils that made him an amusing visual match for Mandred; and a fat human-and none of them lasted much longer than the half-giant had.

  He sent the elf flying into the crowd, nearly crushing two children. The hejkin, Mandred picked up and twirled over his head. He then threw the creature into the obsidian wall, and its bones made wet, cracking sounds that echoed throughout the arena. Some of his boils burst with the impact, leaving pus to ooze out onto the arena floor. Somehow Drahar couldn’t bring himself to be surprised that nobody bothered to clean it up.

  With each victory, Drahar sensed the increase in Mandred’s power.

  It was the fight against the fat human-Jago identified him as Daj Douk-that was of particular note to Drahar. For starters, it lasted the longest of the battles, which meant it could be measured in minutes rather than seconds. That was mainly due to Mandred’s blows being struck at Douk’s voluminous belly. Mandred’s fists seemed to be absorbed by the rolls of fat, while Douk just stood there and laughed it off.

  Unfortunately, Douk had two things going against him: first, that his own blows to Mandred’s body were even less effective; and second, that Mandred had the presence of mind to change his strategy and strike at Douk’s head.

  Douk was not an entire fool, however. He managed to parry the first blow to his head.

  Unfortunately, it caused one of the lesions on Mandred’s skin to burst, sending a red liquid squirting out from the broken skin.

  Drahar winced and frowned, finding the sight more than a little revolting. The simultaneous gasp from the crowd indicated a similar reaction. What surprised him was Tharson-a hardened veteran of dozens of campaigns-also pursing his lips in disgust.

  The gasps got louder when Douk started screaming as the liquid sprayed onto his face.

  Thus distracted, Mandred was able to backhand Douk in the side of the head, knocking him to the floor.

  Douk lay on the ground, still screaming, his hand to his head where the red liquid had spread.

  Drahar sensed the Abyssal taint still-but it was on Douk, as well as Mandred.

  Then Douk’s scream grew louder, and pustules very similar to those of Mandred started to form on his skin. Douk was only wearing a loincloth, so Drahar could see his skin break out all over right before his eyes.

  The fat human also started to grow in size. His scream modulated from one of pain and anguish to one of rage and anger.

  But before he could get to his feet, Mandred pounded him on the top of the head in much the same manner as he did the half-giant at the start of the bout.

  Drahar closed his eyes, focusing the Way toward Mandred. With his mind, he was able to sense the Abyssal taint, the magic that coursed through Mandred’s entire body, changing him-and changing Douk as well.

  What was more impressive was that the strange magic had increased in power each time Mandred caused violence. When he killed his foe, the intensity was even greater.

  The transfer of the magic to Douk caused a slight dimming, but it was temporary-and brief.

  For the final battle, Jago brought out half-a-dozen opponents. Amazingly, that fight went fastest of all, as the six foes had simply no chance against Mandred. Their strikes would have had more effect on a stone wall, and Mandred’s own blows were instantly fatal. The increase in magical potency had led to a concomitant increase in Mandred’s strength.

  Drahar then turned to Tharson. “We may now have a solution to our issues with raising a proper army.”

  Tharson squinted. “You’re not thinking-”

  “Yes, I am. Mandred is a powerful creature of magic, and he can be ours. What’s more, he can possibly create more just like him.”

  “Perhaps.” Tharson took a long gulp, draining the last of his tankard. Then he summoned one of the errand boys that worked the arena. “Take a message to Calbit and Jago. Inform them that the Imperial Guard will be coming later this evening to remove Rol Mandred and Daj Douk from the arena. If they ask why, tell them that they are being …” Tharson smiled, “conscripted into service to the king.”

  The errand boy nodded and moved off.

  A slave poured Tharson and Drahar both fresh drinks. The templar held his up. “To Rol Mandred.”

  Holding up his own tankard and clanking it against Tharson’s, Drahar said, “To Urik’s future in our hands.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Helsno Calbit was about ready to kill someone.

  He was tempted to grab one of the mercenaries’ bone knives and slit the throat of whichever fighter had the most losses, just for the satisfaction.

  But no, then he’d have to pay to clean the blood off the stone floors of the cubicles. And all of a sudden, their ability to pay for that was in jeopardy. Bad enough that that hejkin’s green pus was all over the catacomb floors from his burst boils; one of the guards had expressed concern that someone might slip on it, but it was the least of Calbit’s problems.

  Of course, he had no choice in the matter. How could he? The king’s chamberlain and the commander of the Imperial Guard wanted Mandred, and that was the end of it. People who went against those who represented the king could measure their life expectancy in seconds.

  It had all been going so wonderfully. When he first saw those three goons beating up on the Black Sands Raiders, he immediately started talking to Tirana about ways to get them into the stone carriage. After all, anyone who could take down eight raiders and leave the remaining four scattered to the sands without mounts were people he could count on to give good value in the arena.

  Tirana inherited her looks and seductive capabilities from her mother. Thankfully, she didn’t inherit the bitch’s personality. That meant, though, that she could make any man do her bidding with just a few well-placed words.

  Calbit had done worse to get fighters for the arena.

  He’d only left Urik in the first place because Gorbin’s success was making it damn near impossible to find anyone willing to get in the ring with the bastard. He’d had to travel across the wastes for weeks, hoping that Jago didn’t make a mess of the place while he was gone. All their excess capital-which was damned little-was used to buy slaves, which was why he had to resort to kidnapping. That, and taking some prisoners from a town magistrate eager to clear space in his jail, a transaction that only required a modest bribe. Said bribe garnered him a dozen slaves, and it was the same amount that he paid per head for the merchandise he got from the other slavers.

  And then there were Mandred and Storvis, who were quite literally a steal.

  It was a pity that the third one died at the hands of the Black Sands Raiders, though Calbit got the impression that the other two didn’t care all that much. Perhaps the one who died was their original owner, and they’d been hoping that his death meant freedom. Or maybe they didn’t like him very much.

  Maybe they were in his debt.

  Not that it mattered anymore.

  For a few days, everything was perfect. Up until last year, even with declining attendance thanks to the sameness of the main event, they were still making a profit. Any and all attempts to change things up were even bigger failures. True, Gorbin wasn’t much of a draw, but no Gorbin nearly resulted in a riot every time. The few people who did show up did so because they wanted to watch the mul pound the hell out of his opponents.

  But it became a case of diminishing returns, and last year they were starting to lose profit.

  Hence Calbit’s taking his daughter on their extended trip.

  Sure enough, they found everything they wanted and more. Mandred was an even more amazing fighter than his singlehanded defeat of the anakore indicate
d. Within two days, they were back to breaking even, as the crowds poured in, eager to see who managed to defeat the mighty Gorbin.

  He was muttering as he walked down a corridor toward the office that he and Jago maintained. “Conscription, my right toe-what’s he trying to pull, anyway? Taking coin away from honest folk …”

  “Talking to yourself, Calbit?”

  Looking up, he saw that Jago was also approaching the office. The shorter man was rubbing his hands with glee.

  “Yes,” Calbit said sharply, “it’s my only guarantee of intelligent conversation.”

  Jago just shot him a look.

  “Things are finally looking up, and those idiots from the court have gone and-”

  “Made everything better. Are you mad, Calbit? I was ready to hand Mandred over to them right then instead of waiting until this morning when the guards came.”

  Calbit frowned as they both entered the office. The space had been a guard post when the catacombs were part of the mine. It had no windows, and so had to be lit by torches regularly, but Calbit actually preferred that. After weeks spent trudging through the wastes with the sun beating down on him, being surrounded by cold obsidian and firelight was oddly appealing.

  “What are you on about, Jago?” he asked his partner.

  “We had to put down the last thri-kreen today. Mandred must’ve bled on him or something. In fact, Douk is the first one he’s infected that hasn’t gone crazy-and that’s probably just because he hasn’t had a chance to yet.”

  Reluctantly, Calbit said, “You may be right.”

  Jago’s eyes widened. “May be? The guards have barely been able to contain him. It’s only a matter of time before he’s strong enough to break down the cubicle door. Honestly, if we didn’t have Storvis, I think he might’ve already broken out. Ironic, given that breaking out is all Storvis talks about.”

  “Well, there’s no chance of that-he’s our best fighter, now.”

  “In any event, we’re well to be rid of Mandred. Even with all the other issues, he wasn’t any better than Gorbin.”

  Calbit blinked, stared at Jago, then blinked again. “Are you mad?” he finally blurted out after being unable to make his mouth work for several seconds.