by Don Perrin
“Do you know what’s going on?” he whispered.
Thesik shook her head. “I can’t see,” she answered.
“I’m going to try to find out. Tell the others to stay where they are until I signal.”
Thesik nodded and slipped back outside the illusionary door.
Left alone, Kang looked carefully around the chamber, searching for General Maranta’s bodyguards, the Queen’s Own. He could not see any of them, only row upon row of silent, watching kapaks.
Gripping his axe, Kang padded softly forward. Although he tried to move as quietly as possible, he clanked and rattled, his tail scraped the hard-packed floor, his claws clicked. He grit his teeth, expecting any moment for the kapaks to turn and see him and raise the alarm or for one of the Queen’s Own to come bounding out from the crowd and confront him.
Nothing happened. Kang crept up so close to the kapaks that he could have breathed on their scales. Kang peered over the heads of the crowd in front of him.
General Maranta stood in the center of the chamber. He was alone, Kang was quick to note. No sign of the Queen’s Own anywhere. The “fiery light” emanated from an object the general held in his clawed hand. The object was a black crystal globe that glowed with a inner light that was red at the edges, black at its heart.
General Maranta ceased his chanting. The globe’s light dimmed.
“Bring the next,” he said calmly.
Two members of the Queen’s Own appeared, dragging between them a kapak draconian. The kapak was gagged, his hands and feet and even his wings tightly bound. He struggled in his bonds, to no avail. The Queen’s Own dumped the kapak down on the floor in front of General Maranta.
The kapak stared at the general with wild, frightened eyes, shaking his head and trying, pathetically, to crawl away by inching his bound body along the floor.
“The sacrifice you make is for your people,” General Maranta said in soothing tones. He held the black globe over the kapak. The red light shone on the draconian, who lurched violently, tried to wriggle out from beneath it.
The general removed his hand. The black globe hung in place over the kapak. General Maranta started to chant. The black globe began to spin, slowly at first, and then faster and faster. The fiery light shone down on the kapak. The strange thudding noise began and Kang realized that he was hearing the kapak’s frantically beating heart, amplified a hundred times or more.
A scream bubbled up from the kapak’s throat. He stiffened, then his body jerked in a spasm. Mist drifted up from the kapak’s body. The globe drank the mist greedily, sucking it up. The globe spun faster and the mist that had been sucked into the globe spewed out of it in long, thin tendrils. Whenever one of these tendrils touched the ground, it gained mass and form. It became a draconian.
That’s not mist! Kang understood, sick with horror and revulsion. What he had mistaken for mist was the kapak’s soul. The black globe had taken the draconian’s soul and split it up, giving birth to new draconians.
Draconians without a soul. Draconians with blurred features. Draconians whose bodies lacked the magical power to alter after death. Draconians who would obey orders without question, mindless, mechanical.
The kapak on the floor had quit screaming. The thudding sound grew slower and slower and finally ceased altogether. The kapak lay limp and lifeless. Standing around him were a hundred new kapaks. Their features resembled his, but they were less distinct. They gazed down at the poor wretch that had died to give them life with empty, lost expressions in their eyes.
Kang’s stomach wrenched. He was afraid for a moment he was going to vomit. He was shaking so he had all he could do to keep hold of his axe.
General Maranta seized hold of the floating globe. He stopped chanting.
“Go stand over there,” he told the new kapaks in irritable tones, as one might speak to children who are underfoot.
The general looked tired. His shoulder slumped. He paused to rub his eyes. The magic of the spell must be draining his energy.
The kapaks marched obediently to take their places with the rest of what Kang now realized were to be the fort’s “reinforcements.” The Queen’s Own came forward, lifted up the body of dead kapak. The corpse was drained of its magic. It could no longer turn to acid, as it was supposed to. The Queen’s Own hauled the corpse away.
Kang fought the horror and his revulsion, forced himself to think. First, he needed to know how many of the Queen’s Own were in this chamber and where they were located. He tried to see, but the kapaks were blocking his view. The Queen’s Own were coming from somewhere in the back of the chamber.
Kang was debating within himself whether he should try to sneak back to see how many of the Queen’s Own they would have to deal with or whether he should return to tell his troops what was going on when the decision was taken out of his hands.
“Bring the next one,” ordered General Maranta, straightening and shaking off his fatigue.
The Queen’s Own came forward, dragging Slith.
The sivak was bound and gagged, as had been the kapak. But Slith had not been taken captive easily. His face was covered with dried blood and he continued to fight his captors every step of the way, lashing out at them with his tail, trying to butt them with his head. Blood flew from the bindings that cut into his scaly flesh. Four of the Queen’s Own were required to haul him forward and they were scratched and bleeding. They appeared relieved to dump him at General Maranta’s feet.
“Good riddance!” one said.
“A fighter,” said General Maranta approvingly. “You will be my first sivak. The sacrifice you make is for your people.”
The general lifted the black globe and began to chant.
“Slith!” Kang roared and slammed into the kapaks standing in front of him. “Here! I’m here!”
Distracted, General Maranta ceased his chanting and turned his head.
Slith looked up, gave a howl of triumph and, with a lurch, began to roll across the floor, straight into General Maranta. Upended, the general fell heavily on his back.
Kang’s shout had been intended simply to distract General Maranta. Having once been a fairly adept magic-user himself, Kang knew that spellcasting requires intense concentration. His yell would break that concentration. What he had not intended was that his troops would take his yell for the signal to charge. He heard Fonrar shout an order, heard the females respond with a battle cry.
“The Queen’s Own!” Kang bellowed. “Stop the Queen’s Own!”
He could not take the time to look to see if Fonrar had understood. He had to reach Slith. Fortunately, the mindless kapaks were not putting up any resistance. They stared at him stupidly, not moving, not attacking, not doing anything. He was reminded of a herd of cows. He elbowed and kicked and punched his way through the mass of kapak bodies.
Slith thrashed about on the floor, struggling to free himself. Kang glanced quickly around. Several of the Queen’s Own were endeavoring to reach him, but they were being blocked by the kapaks. He looked for General Maranta. The last he’d seen, the general was lying sprawled on the floor. He was nowhere in sight.
“Where’s Maranta?” Kang demanded, bending over Slith and helping him to a sitting position.
Slith glared at him, making furious, incoherent sounds.
“Oh, yeah, right.” Kang tore loose the gag.
“About time!” Slith gasped. His eyes shifted to a point behind Kang. “Look out!”
Kang lunged sideways. The vicious sword slash whistled past him. Straightening, Kang struck the Queen’s Own in the gut with the butt of his axe, driving the wind from the sivak’s body. The sivak tumbled forward. Slith kicked with both feet, caught the sivak in the head.
“Untie me, damn it!” Slith shouted.
“Sorry, I can’t,” Kang grunted. He was fending off two of the Queen’s Own. “I’m a little busy right now!”
One of the sivaks he’d been battling suddenly disappeared. Kang caught a glimpse of the sivak flying o
ver the heads of the kapaks. His flight was not of his own volition. The large, stalwart figure of Granak came to stand beside Kang.
“Take over here!” Kang yelled. He had caught a glimpse of the general’s head. “I have to deal with Maranta!”
Granak nodded and with one punch of his fist flattened the sivak Kang had been battling.
“Granak! Good! Untie me!” Slith said, scooting over to where Granak stood and holding out his bound hands.
“Just a moment, sir,” said Granak calmly, grabbing yet another of the Queen’s Own and turning him upside down, while still another leapt on his back.
“Damn it, someone untie me!” Slith howled.
Fighting his way through the kapaks, who had begun to mill about aimlessly, Kang tried desperately to keep General Maranta in view. Kang found the general and then he lost him, only to find him yet again, moving rapidly toward the rear of the chamber. The Queen’s Own were back there, guarding a group of draconian prisoners. Fonrar and her troops were here ahead of him, having circled around the walls while he dealt with Slith.
The females were inexpert swordsmen, but they were fearless fighters and made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in skill. Fortunately, the Queen’s Own had split their forces, leaving only a few to guard the prisoners. Thus the females faced only five of the experienced sivaks. Kang winced to think what might have happened if the odds had been even. As it was his heart nearly stopped when he saw the sivak sisters covered in blood. He soon realized, by their grins and Shanra’s irrepressible giggle, that it probably wasn’t their own. Their grins vanished when they saw him.
“Oh, sir!” said Hanra, looking guilty. “I think we killed one.”
“It was an accident!” Shanra said. “We didn’t mean to—”
Kang waved them to silence. “Where’s the general? Did you see him?”
“Through that door,” cried Fonrar, pointing. “What are your orders, sir?”
Kang looked back.
“See if Granak needs any help. He’s in the middle of the confusion somewhere with Slith.”
“Slith!” the sivak sisters cried and before he could stop them, they had plunged into the crowd.
Kang shook his head. “Go back and guard the entrance,” he told Fonrar urgently. “See if you can figure out a way to block it off.” If those hundreds of armed draconians in the Audience Hall took it into their heads to join the battle—stupid or not—they would finish the fight for Kang and his small force.
Fonrar nodded to indicate she understood. She started to leave, then turned back, looked at Kang.
“Be careful,” she said.
“You, too.”
Fonrar smiled, saluted and dashed off, yelling at her troops to join her.
Kang waited until they were safely away, then he started for the small door in the back of the chamber.
The arched doorway opened out from the main chamber. Kang approached cautiously, but not quietly. He did not want to appear to be sneaking up on Maranta. Kang doubted if he could sneak up on the cagey aurak. And so he walked steadfastly through the arch, just as he would have walked had he been on his way to confer with his general about plans of attack.
Entering the chamber, Kang was immediately blinded. Darkness, “great darkness,” impenetrable darkness swallowed him up whole. Kang recognized a magic spell. He halted, keeping near the door. He dared not proceed farther. He listened intently for any jingle of armor that would betray one of the Queen’s Own waiting to ambush him. He listened for the sound of steel being drawn slowly from a sheath or for the sound of an arrow being nocked. He heard none of this. He heard only breathing, harsh, shallow.
“General Maranta,” Kang said, his tone respectful. “The goblins are attacking, sir. Your commanders have been searching for you. When they couldn’t find you, we feared something was amiss. We need you with us, sir. We need your leadership.”
“You lead them, Kang.” The general’s voice was soft, bitter. “You brought this doom upon us.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Kang. “But I don’t believe that. Yes, the goblins are out to kill us. But they needn’t have massed an army of forty thousand to do that. The Dark Knights have been planning this assault for a long time. An assault against this fort. If we hadn’t come along, the goblins would have attacked this fort just the same.”
“You are clever, Kang,” said General Maranta from the darkness. “But not as clever as you might think. I have known for some time that the Dark Knights plotted our destruction. I knew it when I sent you on that fool’s errand. You were not expected to return. I knew that, too, Kang.
“But the Dark Knights will not destroy us,” Maranta continued. “Not while I have Dracart’s Heart—one of the few artifacts to escape the destruction of Neraka. One of the few and one of the most valuable. I brought it out with me, knowing what its powers were, knowing that I would need it when our race began to die out. Dracart was a far-thinker, you see. He had created the females, in order to perpetuate our race, but he was disturbed as he watched us grow. He had not counted on the fact that we would develop into creatures of such intelligence. That we would develop self-will. For us to breed, to propagate, would create a race of powerful, dangerous beings. One that could not easily be controlled. And so he hid away the females. And instead, he made this globe. Thus he would perpetuate our race. Thus he would keep us under control.”
“Very interesting, General,” Kang said, hoping to keep him talking. The general’s voice sounded near, within reach. And it seemed he was alone. None of the Queen’s Own around, or they would have attacked him by now. Kang slightly shifted his body. “And so Dracart’s Heart will perpetuate our race but in so doing, reduce our mental powers, transform us into what the humans hoped we would become—slaves who will do what we are told mindlessly, with no thought of asking questions, no thought of rebellion. Slaves who will call every man ‘master.’ ”
“Not ‘every man,’ Kang,” General Maranta said. “Just one. Me.”
Kang was confident he knew where Maranta was standing. He tensed, readied himself for the desperate lunge that would, he prayed, take the general completely by surprise before he could cast any of the powerful magicks of which auraks are capable. “Do you really want to be the ruler of this race of slaves, General?”
“Yes,” said Maranta, “for it is the race that will continue.”
Kang shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. “I swear by our lost Queen, Maranta, I would rather see every single draconian dead than alive as you would make them. I would rather have said of us that we fought courageously and died nobly. I would have that be our epithet. I would not have history look upon the last remnants of our race with sneers of pity—”
Kang leapt forward, but in that instant, powerful arms encircled him from behind and a strong hand pressed against the back of his head in a deadly hold that Kang recognized. One wrong move and the hand would break his neck.
“I have him, sir,” said the Queen’s Own.
Kang cursed himself for being a bloody idiot. He had thought himself clever, keeping Maranta talking. Yet, all the while, it had been the general who had been keeping Kang talking. The Queen’s Own, devoid of their armor, had silently moved into position, captured Kang easily.
General Maranta lifted the darkness spell and now Kang could see. He was in an alcove off the main chamber—Maranta’s living quarters, hidden deep inside the Bastion. The room was small and plain. A bed, a table, a chair. A few books, spellbooks, a wooden chest painted black, trimmed with gold, probably the repository for the cursed globe. Guarded by the Queen’s Own, guarded by magic, guarded by the Bastion, a marvel of construction and design. And at its heart, fear.
Another of the Queen’s Own took Kang’s battle-axe and his knife. They bound him expertly, tying his hands and feet. Kang knew better than to fight them. The sivaks would have no compunction about knocking him unconscious and his wits were all he had left. That and the hope that his troops would soon secure the a
rea and come to find him.
That hope died when he heard shouted orders coming from outside the small room.
“The Queen’s Own are ordering the draconians you saw in the Audience Hall to attack,” Maranta told Kang. “They won’t harm the males. The males are useful to us. But the females are a danger. They will be killed, as they should have been killed long ago.”
Kang struggled against his bonds now, struggled futilely. His struggles grew more desperate, verging on panic, when he saw the general reach into the gilt box and bring out the black globe. The sivak guards retreated to a safe distance.
Fear such as Kang had never experienced shriveled his heart. He had faced death in battle and he’d known despair and anger, but never this weakening, numbing, debilitating terror. The sivaks had shoved a gag in his mouth, and he was pitifully grateful, for he felt a scream welling up inside him and he could not stop it. He would die a shrieking, pitiful wretch. But he would not die. That was the horror. He would live in a hundred bodies, each of their hundred minds left with some dim, vague memory of what he had been and, most awful, what he could never be.
General Maranta lifted the globe over Kang’s head. The general began to chant. Kang heard the frantic beating of his own heart fill the chamber.
A clang, as of a sword crashing down on a metal helm, rang out. One of the Queen’s Own pitched to the floor alongside Kang, unconscious. His partner fell on top of him. Kang twisted around to see Granak and Slith, weapons in the hand. Beside them stood Thesik.
She raised her hand, pointed at Maranta and began to chant. Words of a magic spell twined around the general, words spoken in a voice that was higher pitched, musical, sweeter, and nearly as powerful.
Maranta’s concentration broke. His chanting halted. He turned to see who had interrupted his spell and stared in wide-eyed astonishment. He recognized the spell Thesik was casting. He foresaw the danger. With no time for a counterspell, he flung at her the only weapon he possessed, the black globe.
His aim was wild. The crystal globe flew harmlessly past Thesik and fell to the floor. The globe rolled out into the chamber and was lost among the feet of the kapaks.