Darkness covered him almost absolutely. What little light he had came through a tiny, barred window in a heavy iron door some distance away. The pitiful illumination showed him that he was chained to the ceiling of a dry stone cell with no windows. His arms felt numb and his wrists were purple from lack of blood. His feet dangled a half-foot from the floor, so that he couldn’t touch it any more than he could climb the chains and touch the ceiling.
Slowly, the memory of his painful, sudden capture came back to him. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the pain in his arms as he remembered.
The Dunelord was like him- he knew that now. The man had the gift of sand, just like him, and was far better at using it. Though Gribly couldn’t think of a reason why the Dunelord had let him live, he thought he now knew why he was in this cell. No sand, he acknowledged, looking around the room in vain. No way out… easily, anyway. He realized that this room was probably built for the sole purpose of caging people like him- why else would it be here, when he’d never seen more than two stones together in the city?
And as he looked closer at the walls around him, another realization dawned that strengthened his assumption: there were no cracks or fissures in the walls. They weren’t stone and mortar- they were solid! The prison cell had been carved straight out of the rock!
I wonder if there really are more people out there like me, Gribly thought. They might all have been hunted down by Dunelord Ymorio, or maybe even other Dunelords before him! Maybe he has these powers like me- like us- and doesn’t want anyone else with them to challenge him!
The thought was frightening. He was still musing over it when the door to his cell screeched on protesting, rusted hinges and tediously inched open.
Four of the Dunelord’s silver-armored bodyguards marched through the portal, once it was open. Their strange, coal-black skin and red lips made Gribly more than a little nervous, but he was soon beyond caring. The loss of blood, the constant hanging, and his imprisonment of who-knows-how-long was finally taking a toll on him.
His thoughts became fuzzy and dispersed; he barely noticed the guards unchain him, drop him to the floor, hoist him up and chain him again. His mind only partially registered it when they dragged him out the door and carried him down a maze of hallways, careful not to let him touch the familiar sandstone. His dying, muddled mind was all that stood between his common sense and total, uncontrollable panic.
They were taking him to die, and he knew it.
~
At least, he thought he knew it. It came as a mild surprise when they carried him not to the Dunelord, but to the cleric who had been there at his capture. The thin, emaciated man sat on a simple, three-legged stool in a white-walled room with little furnishings, dressed in the same pale alb and yellow belt, hands folded on his lap and hood flung up over his head, flushing his gray-framed face in shadow.
The black-skinned guards tossed Gribly to the floor in front of the cleric, chains and all, then left, closed the door, and positioned themselves equally on either side of it. When they had done so, the cleric spoke.
“The Dunelord’s guards will assure that no one disturbs us. We may now speak as we please.”
The battered thief lay still, his face pressed into the gritty floor of the room, too afraid and too tired to respond. Many spoke of the cleric of Blast, but no one had ever seen him and almost no one even believed in him, much less in the powers he claimed to serve. What legends still circulated about his kind were scarce and terrifying. Gribly would never have been inclined to believe them, had he not met Traveller, seen the Highfast Shrine, and been tossed at the feet of the mysterious man himself.
The cleric spoke again when he saw that the boy was not moving. His voice was smooth and sweet, like aging honey.
“This room is hewn out of the desert, young one. Draw on its power as you have taught yourself to do, and it will give you strength.”
The meaning of his words only half-reached Gribly through the haze of his mind, but he understood enough to reach into the sand around him with his mind and draw from it what he needed. The power of the wide, wild desert filled him and sustained him like it never had before. He felt as if he was back in the Shrine, being lifted up on waves of energy that wasn’t his own. It was freshening, but exhausting at the same time.
Soon he rolled reluctantly onto his back and slowly tried to sit up, fighting the heavy weight of the chains around him. At last he did it, slouched over and supported by one arm, but upright nonetheless. He looked into the cleric’s eyes, deep and gray and full of hidden knowledge… and stared.
Gribly knew eyes and could read them better than anyone he knew. He could tell emotion and intentions easily enough: whether a man was angry or afraid, friendly or malicious. And looking into the cleric’s eyes, Gribly knew one thing for sure:
The cleric was not a man.
Oh, he was male, right enough. He certainly wasn’t a woman. But those eyes, those gray eyes that seemed to be open wide and staring even when half-lidded… those eyes weren’t human.
“Who… who are you?” He questioned.
“That,” the cleric replied smoothly, “Is not an easy question to answer. Few really can answer it in their lifetime. I certainly do not know the whole or even most of the answer.” Gribly tried to understand what that meant; this cleric talked like Traveller, riddles and all. Soon he continued. “If, however, you refer to my odd appearance, then your question would better be phrased: what are you? Not: Who. The answer to the what is twofold.
“One: I am a cleric of the Most High, one of the few still alive in this chaotic age.
“Two: I am a nymph of Greenwood Forest in the west, hence, I do not look to you as a fellow human would. I suspect this is the answer you are looking for, no?”
“Well…” Gribly stuttered. A nymph? A wood-child? Those are… ah, legends, naturally. And all the legends Gribly knew were starting to crop up alive and real, far too often for his liking. The nymph tipped back his hood for a moment, revealing long, pointed ears that were tied tightly to his skull to hide them. “Yes,” the thief finally said, “That about settles it.”
“And now, I assume,” said the nymph, “you will want to know why you have been brought here, instead of the arena where you belong. Am I correct?”
Gribly thought. “Yes,” he answered again, “It makes sense you blotchers would put me in the arena to die. What I don’t understand is why you’ve bothered bringing me here to heal.”
The cleric’s mouth tightened at the curse, but he declined to comment on it. “The answer the Dunelord would give is simple: he wants you to die fighting. In style. The answer I would give is more complex.”
“What?” the thief spat.
“You may have deduced by now how Dunelord Ymorio has kept himself in power for so long.”
“He kills all the other people like me- people who can play with sand.”
“Play with sand…” the nymph mused. “Humorous, and true. Ymorio has learned that with every Sand Strider he defeats, his own power grows and the Ymeer comes one step closer to being completely under his control.”
Gribly had been watching the cleric’s eyes as he said this, and had noticed the irritation- or was it stronger than that?- in his eyes.
“So having my gift makes me a Sand Strider, and the Dunelord kills Sand Striders. That doesn’t make you happy, eh? Even though you’re the Dunelord’s pet hermit?”
“I am not… his… pet.” The cleric unfolded and folded his hands several times, agitated. “He has kept me here long past my time, and I have endured his tyranny for one reason only.”
“And that is…?”
“You, little thief.”
“Me? You don’t know me, oldskin!”
The nymph smiled ruefully. “No, I do not. I had hoped you would be different… but I suppose this is to be expected… You have never learned of my kind, or the Aura, or even-”
“I have, actually.”
“Have heard of the Aura?”
“And the Creator. I saw you about to say his name. I’ve even met one of the Aura, I think.”
“You have?” gasped the thin man, his eyes wide under his hood. Gribly hadn’t expected his story to get such a reception, and it confirmed his idea that the Aura, the Creator, and the clerics were real and terribly important. He nodded to the nymph. “Then you must be the one,” the older man said. “You have no parents, yes?”
“Everyone has parents,” Gribly snapped. “I’ve just never met mine.”
“I’ve already seen you change the sand to suit your will. That would leave one thing…”
“What are you talking about??” Gribly demanded. “If you don’t explain to me why I’m here right now, I’m going to use all this sand to dig you a living grave!”
“No, you won’t,” returned the cleric, and Gribly had to admit he wouldn’t. This was too interesting, and his naturally enormous curiosity was peaked. “You have met the Wind Strider, then?”
“Wind strider? You can’t mean… Lauro? That brat?”
“Lauro?” asked the cleric, suddenly even more interested. “Is that his name?”
“Sure,” Gribly said, “But he isn’t a… whatever. He’s some nobleman’s son… I think, probably sent into the army as punishment. He claims he’s got a letter for the Dunelord himself, and… and…”
The cleric was bent forward, eyes hungry for more information. Gribly could have kicked himself: how had he been so careless as to let so much out? Some professional thief he was, telling the Dunelord’s right-hand man his secret so easily…
“You’re just going to tell all of this to the Dunelord, aren’t you?” the thief snapped. “You’re only pretending to be on my side to trick me. I’ve met your kind before.”
The cleric leaned back and smoothed his robes carefully. “I think it is safe to say, Gribly, that you have never, ever met my kind before. And I am not reporting this to Dunelord Ymorio as you suppose. He is at the arena preparing your doom, and does not know of our meeting.”
The brazenness of the cleric’s assertion surprised Gribly as much as the sudden use of his name. He didn’t think he’d mentioned it to the nymph. “But those are his guards outside, aren’t they?”
“Naturally,” the cleric told him. “But I control the silverguard and half the bronzeguard, in addition to managing most of Ymorio’s martial duties. He does not know of my plans to defeat him, and I will do it without bloodshed if possible… but there you have it. I am not loyal to him.”
“Then what’ll you do if I tell him about you?” tried Gribly.
“You won’t get the chance,” the nymph answered smugly. “He won’t speak to a peasant like you, even if you are a Sand Strider. He knows nothing of the prophecy.” Immediately the cleric bit his lip, as if he’d said something he hadn’t meant to. That more than anything made Gribly believe he really did intend to overthrow the Dunelord, even if he wasn’t an ally.
“Prophecy?” he prodded.
“It is beyond your need to know,” answered the cleric as he stood and smoothed his robes again.
Chapter Eleven: Prince of the Arena
At the cleric's word, the door behind Gribly opened and the four guards in silver came through. “Thank you for your cooperation,” the old nymph smiled as the thief was hoisted between the four men again. “If it is possible to secure your safety when I make my final move, I will certainly do so. The prophecy I spoke of does not concern you; it concerns your friend. If I find him in time, you may live through the ordeal Ymorio has planned for you to undergo.”
“What?!” yelled Gribly, and was gagged by one of the guards in return.
“Ymorio has no knowledge that you have been allowed to touch sand and clear your mind for the combat. I have allowed it so that you will at least have a fighting chance against your foes in the arena. Live long enough, and you may be rescued. Your life is in your own hands. Goodbye.”
The guards carried Gribly’s chain-entwined body away, quickly trotted down the deserted corridors of the prison section of the palace, and strung him up in his cell.
It intrigued Gribly that they removed his gag, and it intrigued him more when they left him chained loose enough for his feet to touch the ground. As they left, one of the big coal-skinned men grabbed his head in a vise-like elbow as if to beat him.
Instead, he stealthily shoved a hunk of sweet, heavy bread into Gribly’s mouth.
Then all four guards left, locking the door behind them.
~
Gribly drifted in and out of a troubled sleep all night. He didn’t dream, not really, but when he woke he seemed to remember hearing a voice and seeing a face that belonged to Traveller.
You have done what is needed, the voice said soothingly. All you need do now is survive.
It didn’t exactly give him the kind of encouragement he wanted.
~
In the morning six of the silverguard- different men then the day before- fetched Gribly from his cell and transported him to a dusty room far from the prisons that resembled an underground stable. In keeping with the cleric’s plans, he pretended to be as hurt and befuddled as he had been before meeting the strange old nymph. A spark of hope had kindled in the young thief the night before, and he had nurtured it until it was small but strong.
People would die today, and he didn’t plan on being one of them.
The dark, warlike men unbound him entirely except for his hands, eyed the large double-doors at one end of the stable intently, and waited. Gribly wasn’t allowed to move or speak, and they made sure that he stood on thick, prickly hay instead of sand. Thunder rumbled overhead, or what seemed like thunder.
With a startled twitching of the ears, Gribly realized he could hear applause. It wasn’t thunder above him- it was the sounds of an arena!
Ymeer had an arena, of course. Like clothes and food and pets, death matches and war games were high-paying enterprises for merchants and nobles alike: the merchants supplied capital, slaves, and animals, and the aristocrats sold their weight in gold to watch daylong blood-baths in the arena every month.
So this is how he would die. It just figures that I’m caught during the monthly games, the youth complained internally. He was still wondering exactly who or what he’d be forced to fight when he noticed that the guards had stepped back from him and let go of his arms.
“How kind,” he told them, turning slightly. With a loud boom, the doors in the opposite end of the room parted and swung open. Two men in bloody armor had just been dragged off the field through identical passages. The largest guard lifted a strung bow and aimed a long, black arrow at Gribly.
“Your time… here. You go…now,” he growled in a deep, throaty accent.
“But I was having so much fun,” Gribly protested sarcastically. The guard made as if to fire, his face still expressionless. “All right, all right,” he responded, “I guess we’re not friends, then.”
He raised his manacled hands, and the guard shook his head no. I’m fighting crippled, then. Turning to face the open doors and the bright, open arena beyond, he hoped the man didn’t plan on putting a bolt in his back when he ran.
Stooping low so that his fingertips brushed the hay at his feet, Gribly bent his knees, then shot forward and sprinted past the doors into the blinding sunlight.
The world changed instantly from dark to light, cold to hot, quiet to jarringly loud. The sun burned his eyes and kept him from clearly seeing the gathered crowds seated in circular stands around him, but he heard them without a doubt. Roaring, shouting, screaming and calling out names, they jeered at what they probably thought was a sorcerer and an enemy doomed to die at the hands of some gladiator or wild beast.
At the other end of the open space, a terrifying guttural sound came from the blinding brightness. It was a beast, then.
Come on eyes! Work! Gribly pleaded. Rubbing didn’t help, and his vision was coming back too slowly. A large dark shape was bounding towards him, huffing and snarling, b
ut he just couldn’t tell what it was.
It was almost on him. Hoping the sand would answer his call, the boy dove left, letting the arena floor mold around his heels and push him off faster than he could have done on his own. Sand sprayed where he had been a second ago, and the whatever-it-was plowed through empty space, teeth snapping closed on nothing. The crowd cheered with excitement, none of them having noticed his sand-playing.
Gribly hit the ground, rolled, came up, and cart-wheeled into a fighting position. His street fighting was good enough, but he doubted it would help him. His point was to survive as long as possible, and if anything had a chance of prolonging his life, he would try it.
In those few, tense seconds, his vision cleared. He saw the beast that was his executioner: a greyhound-like animal the size of a horse, with long, floppy ears, wide, slavering jaws, and a hide that seemed to be rotting off its bones. Its legs were muscled and almost catlike, and there were six of them, each ending in five long claws. Blood dripped from its teeth and barbed tail.
Brother Thief (Song of the Aura, Book One) Page 9