“No! No! Let go!” Verami released his grip on her neck and began struggling.
Hold on tightly! Don’t let go! Why won’t you sing to us! There was a pop and a crack. Mummified tendons snapped. And as breath tore back into Tiffany’s lungs, Verami’s skull came off in her hands and she fell from the broken tower.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
“Naughty! Naughty! Mother must punish you!” shrieked Loretta as she brought her paddle down again and again upon the huddled knights. Each time she brought it up, more and more blood painted the walls. From the hall came maniacal screams and Loretta turned. “More naughty children! Mother will punish you too!”
A dozen or more ragged men rushed into the room with swords and bolt-throwers, all of them howling like rabid dogs. From their ears dried trails of blood clung to their cheeks and jaws.
“Look at yourselves! You’re pathetic! Weak! Invalids the lot of you!”
JINK-JINK-JINK! Loretta’s tall, rigid form turned from the impact of the blasts.
“Stop it! Stop it you brats!”
The men pressed in on her, hacking with their swords. Loretta raised her arms. “Stop it! Listen to your mother! You hateful, ungrateful little brats! Stop it! Stop it at once!” But the men did not cease. Swords stabbed in at her or sliced across her body, tearing gashes in her gown. Loretta struck at them with her paddle. “Punished! You must be punished!”
Loretta swung her paddle, knocking aside three men. She brought it down on another, destroying his face. “Die! Die, you wretched brats! You’re flies! Pests! Weak little insects!” She whipped the paddle back and forth and bodies crumpled upon it.
And then there was fire. One of the men held a large, glass jar in his hand and there was a dirty rag hanging from it, the tip of which burned. Loretta turned to him. The man howled and charged her. She brought her paddle down on him as he collided with her, and the jar shattered. Fire spilled out like water and Loretta’s gown burned.
“You hateful little monsters! You terrible children! Naughty! Naughty!” She patted at the flames, but they began to cling to her long fingers and crawl up her sleeves. The man before her burned and he screamed like a wild beast as he fell and wrapped his arms around her legs. “Naughty! Naughty!” Loretta fell. Fires spread out over the floor. “Naughty! Naughty!” She struggled up to her knees as flames engulfed her face. Her hair burned like dried straw.
Loretta wailed horrifically. She bolted from the room, tearing down hall after hall, crashing into curtains and furniture, setting them ablaze. She ran and ran until at last she dove through a barred window, sundering the wall. She fell for a hundred feet, her body thudding on the lawn. Rains pattered down on her, sizzling. At length the flames went out and all that was left upon the charred grass was a blackened, unmoving corpse.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Throughout the city square mangled bodies lay and blood pooled in all the cracks of the cobblestone. Sir Spengle tugged on Agana’s arm but the little girl clung to Kalarus’s corpse, gray fur poking between her white knuckles. “Agana, you must come with me!”
“You’re one of the bad men! You killed Ophelia! You made me turn scary like mommy!”
“No! That wasn’t me!” Spengle tugged her arm. “Come! We must go before more bad men come!”
“Go away! Go away! Leave me alone!” shrieked Agana.
Spengle backed off, afraid that he might awaken whatever demon possessed her. He looked around the empty streets, his keen eyes raking over the rooftops. He wondered if anybody who fled had seen what he had done. If they had, it wouldn’t be safe for him here in the city for long. He could go back to the castle, but Agana knew too much and if she returned he would have hell to pay. Also, what if Saint Tiffany had succeeded? What if the King and Queen were dead? Either way, if he returned to the castle, he couldn’t do it with Agana. Then he had a thought: The men on the roof who had shot Kalarus had silver bolts. If he could find one of them…
He turned to the buildings where they had fallen. There on the ground he saw one of their slender rifles. He tossed his bolt-thrower to the ground and ran over to it, grabbing it out of the dead man’s hands. He pulled the lever back and checked the chamber. There was a single, silver bolt inside. He looked at Agana who clung to the fallen beast’s side, screaming and crying. He threw the gun’s lever up and forward, locking in the round. He walked over to her.
“Go away! Go away!” screamed Agana at his approach. She buried her head into the bloody fur of Kalarus.
Spengle raised the barrel to her head. His finger went to the trigger. JINK!
Agana screamed. Spengle stumbled back as blood and fragments of his armor splattered everywhere. He dropped his riffle and fell backward onto the cobblestone. His eyes went to his chest, and he screamed. Frantic, he looked around. Crawling toward Agana was the man who had tossed the torch into the pyre. In his hand he held a bolt-thrower.
“You traitor! You son of a bitch!” cried the man, dropping the gun. His legs had been torn off by Kalarus and he left a gruesome path of blood as he clawed his way toward the Princess.
Spengle’s arms felt around the street for his rifle, but his hands were going numb. He tried to roll over but the effort drained the last of his strength. His vision faded into blackness as his face smacked upon the street. His last conscious thought was of Marlon, and the skeletal eyes staring at him through the glass.
Agana turned to the crawling man. She took a step back.
“Ursula,” he said, his voice weak. “Your name was Ursula. Ursula of Jerusa. You had a brother named Rook. I gave you to the Queen.” He reached out his arm and dragged his body closer.
Agana took another step back.
“Your sins are mine.” said the man. He grasped at the cracks in the cobblestone and pulled himself another arm-length closer. “You are as much my creation as the Devil’s. Tell me… tell me you’ve heard my confession!”
Agana looked down at the man as he stared up at her, life fading from his brown eyes. She stepped toward him and knelt.
“You were my daughter for a time.” said the man. “Will you forgive me?”
Agana took his hand and brought his wrist to her mouth. She bit down but the man made no sound. She drank until his body went limp and the blood no longer flowed.
A peal of thunder coursed its way across the dark clouds above, tracing their unseen path toward the castle’s hill. Agana looked up and saw fires raging from the windows of her home. Then lightning flashed, illuminating a lone figure coming down the street toward her. Rain began to fall. Agana stood up. It was a Saint with dirty, amber hair and honey-colored eyes. Her Star-Armor glinted in the lightning. She held her head in her hands as she trudged down the road.
“Tiffany!” cried Agana. “Tiffany!” She ran down the avenue toward the Saint, her black shoes splashing in bloody puddles.
“They don’t stop! They never stop!” rasped Tiffany as she clutched at her head.
“Oh Tiffany!” cried Agana, barreling into the Saint and throwing her arms around her waist. “Tiffany! Tiffany!” Agana looked up. Tiffany’s face was pocked with small cuts and she didn’t seem to take any notice of her.
“They don’t stop! They don’t stop!” Tiffany tugged at her hair.
Agana began humming a tune as she clung to the Saint’s leg.
After a moment, Tiffany looked down at her. Agana looked up and smiled as she continued her tune, the rain washing blood down her chin. Tiffany put a hand on the girl’s head and Agana leaned into her, resting her cheek upon Tiffany’s side. Tiffany’s other hand went to her sword as Agana continued to hum. Her hand trembled as it hovered over the sword’s pommel. Her other hand squeezed at Agana’s head. And then she fell to her knees in the street.
Agana hugged Tiffany close. “It’s all right, Tiffany. I’ll sing for you.”
&nbs
p; Tiffany began to cry. Her arms wrapped around the girl’s back.
“I’ll sing for as long as you like.” said Agana. “And then you can take me home to mommy.”
— 32 —
Beautiful Blood
In Duroton the summer sun was never very hot. As such, the awning that could shade the entire arena was kept retracted, leaving the dozens of masts to stick out from their corbels like skeletal fingers, casting the arena floor in shaded stripes. Today was trial practice for Exalted Lord Balin’s Woodswords—the newest gladiators—leaving the hundred-thousand seats that circled the ovular arena mostly empty. Raygar made his way down the stone steps toward the private boxes where Balin and the other Councilmen were gathered. King Dagrir Thorodin rarely attended the trials and Balin sat in the King’s box, in the King’s seat, with Jord, Gefjon, Aldur and Hymnar beneath him. Attractive attendants in sheer, silken gowns stood nearby with platters of grapes and cheese, or pitchers of wine.
“Where’s the old-man?” asked Raygar, taking a handful of grapes from a tall brunette. There was a seductive touch to her polite smile and her eyes lingered on his shrouded form for a moment.
“Rankin sold off his women and fighters to me.” said Balin. He took a sip from his goblet and set it down beside him.
Raygar stood beside Balin, leaning up against the large, high-backed throne as he munched on his grapes. “Why’s that?”
“Said he was through making debt against the Lands.” said Balin. “Renounced his title of Exalted even. His loss.”
Raygar looked over his shoulder at the brunette. She winked at him and swayed her slender hips. “Indeed.”
“I hope we’re in for a good show.” said Balin. “The people are eager for some new champions to arise.”
“There were some proficient fighters in that last lot from Narbereth.” said Raygar, turning his eyes down to the arena. It was a huge area, nearly four-hundred feet long and two-hundred feet in width, circled by marble walls twenty-feet high. At all ends were various portcullises and hidden doors. Its floor was smooth and flat, paved with tightly interlocking brick, home to a number of trapdoors of its own. In the center was the newest attraction: a full-sized galleon, complete with sails and cannons. The hull, however, was only partially built, leaving the bottom half open, exposing the mechanical contraption it was built upon. Iron scaffolding led up to the massive girders and hydraulic pistons the ship was attached to. The deck sat twenty-feet off the arena floor, making it level with the lowest seats and giving the King’s box a tremendous view.
“I hope so. I’d like to see Jorund lose one of these days and wipe the smug look off Gefjon’s face.” said Balin, his voice carrying an edge of bitterness. Even now Raygar could hear Gefjon boasting about the invincibility of his prize fighter to the other Councilmen as they sat in their plush seats beneath Balin’s throne.
From the galleon’s deck, arena workers began lowering rope ladders as twenty gladiators in full, plate armor came from an open portcullis and marched toward the ship. All of them carried broadswords in their scabbards, though the blades were flat and dull, as was typical for trials. Jorund was a large and muscular man from Dimethica. He was in black plate armor and a shroud, much like Raygar, and was playing the role of Lord Cailith, a Dark Star Knight who captained His Grace’s Ship, Bounty some sixty-years ago. The HGS Bounty was carrying gold and silver when it was besieged by pirates. Cailith held them off and sent them all to a watery grave in the shark-infested seas near the Crashingstones.
“Come on, men!” barked Jorund. His head was full of brown hair so dark that it was almost black. His beard was short and brown but he had a deep scar running down the entire right-side of his cheek that looked like a pink worm in the dirt. “Let’s show these Woodswords how it’s done!”
“Hoo!” the twenty gladiators in steel armor thumped their chests as they began climbing the rope ladders to the deck, Jorund shouting at them to move quicker.
Balin sighed. “Who’s this new one you were telling me about?”
“Chazod.” said Raygar. “Keep your eye on him. He’s got promise, and already seems to have some loyal followers. He’s your next champion.”
“Jorund has a habit of accidentally killing those with promise during trials.” said Balin. He drank down his wine and then stood up. “Let’s get this over with.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
“Alright you Woodswords, this is it!” bellowed one of the Arena Masters as he stood before Chazod and some one-hundred-thirty other men. His brown, leather armor was nicely polished and its brass studs sparkled in the gaslamps. He cracked his whip. “Line up! Line up!”
Chazod and the rest of the men all began forming up in front of the steel bars of the portcullis. Banden was behind him, followed by Maddox and Padraic. Jaquin was there too, the scrawny, fair-haired man always clinging to them. Past those in front, Chazod could see the giant ship sitting atop an iron contraption. Jorund, a Steelclad Champion, and his fully armored gladiators—all Steelclads themselves—were climbing the ropes onto the ship’s deck. Just outside the portcullis were twenty small rowboats sitting on the brick floor of the arena.
“Is this really all we get to wear?” whispered Jaquin.
“Aye. We’re pirates!” said Maddox, trying to sound as salty as possible. And they all really looked the part, none of them wearing anything but short trousers and dirty bandannas.
“But… but… but they all have armor!” whined Jaquin. “We’re Woodswords and they’re all Steelclads!”
“Yeah, but we got a Chazod.” said Padraic.
Chazod smirked as he gazed past the bars, trying to figure out how the machine beneath the ship worked. He could see hydraulic pistons, each of them secured by huge bolts to the iron beams the ship’s partial hull was rigged to.
“What about weapons?” said Jaquin.
“Shut up and listen.” said Banden. The dark-skinned man actually looked far more intimidating without a shirt on. He was nothing but slabs of muscle beneath scarred flesh.
“Take your pick!” cried the Arena Master as other workers wheeled some weapon racks over. All the swords were wooden, though there were a handful of metal weapons such as spears and chains. Anything that would normally have a sharp edge had been flattened and dulled. “I suggest sabers and rapiers! The better you play your part, the more favor you’ll win with Exalted Lord Balin.”
“Take a chain and a spear.” said Chazod. He turned around to face his friends. “All of you, take a chain and a spear. Jaquin, you too. Make sure you all take the metal spears, not the wooden ones.”
“Are you crazy?” asked Maddox. “I’m not boarding that ship against those Steelclads carrying a chain.”
“We’re not going to board it.” said Chazod. “Trust me. Do it.”
Padraic hiked his shoulders. “You’re the boss.”
As the workers wheeled the cart over, Banden grabbed up a spear and the longest, heaviest chain there was. Durotonian fighting chains had large rings at either end so that they could be slipped around the wrist and held with a firmer grip. Typically, the iron links would also be barbed but in this case they were not. That didn’t matter though. Chazod only needed them to have those large rings at both ends.
“Mariners fight with a spear and a net.” yelled the Arena Master.
“Banden fights with a spear and chain.” drummed the large man.
“Have it your way.” said the Master. “That chain’ll take you right to the bottom. Won’t win no favors with your Lord if you’re drowned.”
Maddox hesitantly picked up his own chain and spear and Padraic took his and swung the chain over his shoulder. “Let’s hope we don’t sink.” he said.
Chazod grabbed his own chain and spear. The spears were all metal, a little rusty, and had flattened tips and edges. He watched as Jaquin went for a wooden sword. “A spear
and a chain.” he said.
“They’re metal!” protested Jaquin. “They’ll sink me to the bottom! You heard the Master!”
Chazod grabbed the last spear and a chain and shoved them into Jaquin’s arms. “You’re taking these.”
Now the portcullis began to rise. Chazod looked at his team. “All of us in the same boat. Follow my lead.”
The line began to move forward, men hopping into the rowboats waiting outside. The galleon was situated at the opposite end of the arena, its entire starboard side facing the fleet. Chazod quickly pushed his way forward and leapt into an empty boat and defended it against anybody else until Banden, Maddox, Padraic and Jaquin all filed in. After them, another four men straggled over and boarded. They were a muscular lot, but Chazod could see it wasn’t fighting strength. They had likely been laborers prior to coming here and had the type of sinewy shoulders and forearms men developed swinging pick axes or hammers over and over again in an unending rhythm for years on end. Chazod thought it a happy chance they came aboard. They would make swift rowers and he decided they’d be known as his oar goons.
“I ain’t gonna be called no goon by the likes of you!” protested one of the men.
“Shut up, goon.” said Chazod, taking stock of what was in the rowboat. There were four pairs of oars and three grappling hooks, each connected to what looked about fifty-feet of neatly coiled rope. He shoved a pair of oars into each of the goons’ hands.
As everybody settled in their boats Chazod could see Exalted Lord Balin rise from his seat in the King’s box. He shouted something about the honor of taking part in this combat trial, promising this and that to those who show the most promise. And then he went into some bullshit about the Duroton sky and the Lands taking witness of them. Chazod, however, didn’t care what the idiot had to say. He was still focused on the workings of the machine beneath the galleon.
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