The First Champion

by Sandell Wall

  Brant turned an ear towards the sound of Kaiser’s voice, but he did not reply. Minutes later, they found themselves standing before the iron gate into the walled compound. A small crowd had gathered to watch the arrival of the newcomers. The slaves were forced to wait while their escorts called for the gate to be opened.

  A pugnacious-looking man swaggered up to the first slave in line and gave him a violent shove. Unprepared for the assault, the slave stumbled backwards and fell on his backside. The weight of his fall pulled the next slave in line down to his knees by the chain tied to his hands. This started a chain reaction, as each slave in turn stumbled forward. Kaiser braced to resist the pull on his own shackles, but in front of him, Brant flexed his shoulders and absorbed the weight without budging an inch.

  The cocky onlooker strutted down the line of slaves, sneering at each one in turn. When he reached Brant, he stopped and let out a low whistle. Kaiser silently dared the man to come nearer. If Brant did not crack his skull, Kaiser would gladly throw him into the dirt.

  Before the bully could work up the courage to taunt Brant, one of the men at the gate turned and noticed what was happening. He shouted something, and the ruffian backed down. Kaiser was amused by the look of relief on the braggart’s face. The man wanted nothing to do with Brant. A few mocking voices jeered from the crowd, and the man’s face turned red. He spat in the road at Brant’s feet before stalking away.

  At last, the gate was unlocked and pulled out of the way. Kaiser, Brant, and the other five slaves were ushered through the portal and into the care of two hard-faced men on the other side. The trio of men who had escorted them this far did not pass into the compound. They turned and walked back towards the city without saying a word.

  Behind Kaiser, the gate was shut and secured. The taller of their new captors shouted a command that Kaiser did not understand. The other slaves moved to stand in a row, and Kaiser and Brant followed their lead. Once they were in position, the man who had shouted began his inspection of the slaves.

  As Kaiser waited his turn, he used the opportunity to take the measure of the two overseers. The one conducting the physical inspection was tall and gaunt, with black hair going gray at the sides. His narrow, glinting eyes appraised each slave the same way a butcher graded a slab of meat.

  The other man was younger. Clearly bored with the proceedings, he waited for the tall one to finish his assessment. He wore a sleeveless tunic to show off his heavily muscled arms. A wooden practice sword hung from his waist. Kaiser identified him as a fighter almost immediately, and he suspected he knew what came next. If this truly was a school for fighters, the overseers would want to establish a baseline of fighting ability for each man.

  Sure enough, once the tall one ensured the first slave was healthy, the shackles came off and a wooden practice blade was thrust into the slave’s hands. The tall man barked a command and stepped to the side. Uncertain, the slave eyed the young swordsman for a moment. He hefted the sword in his hand, testing its weight. Finally, he worked up his courage and took a tentative step forward, blade raised in front of him.

  Kaiser watched the young swordsman carefully. The young man sighed in boredom, and in a motion as smooth as flowing water, drew his own weapon and dropped into a fighting stance. Kaiser did not need to see any more to know the man would be a formidable opponent.

  Instead of waiting for the timid slave to advance on him, the young swordsman surged forward. He struck once, twice, three times, each blow a basic attack that gave the slave more than enough time to react. The clash of the wooden weapons echoed off the stone wall behind Kaiser.

  The slave deflected each strike, earning the approval of the tall overseer. Although, Kaiser guessed that the man was disappointed that the slave did not try to land a blow of his own. If the arena in Orcassus was anything like those in Northmark, they needed fighters, not cowards. Kaiser assumed that these slaves were the dregs of the arenas from outlying provinces. He could not think of any other reason these men might have fighting experience.

  This pattern repeated itself until it was Brant’s turn. The swordsman struck at each slave thrice and then backed off. All the men proved competent, if unspectacular. However, it was clear that they expected more from Brant.

  Brant accepted the training sword and stepped up. The others might not see it, but it was painfully obvious to Kaiser that the big man felt uncomfortable with the weapon in his hand. Brant might be a ferocious scrapper, but he was a brawler, not a trained fighter.

  Faced with Brant’s intimidating bulk, the young swordsman came alive for the first time. His gaze sharpened, and his lips twisted in a smirk. Brant readied himself to meet the first blow. With a snarl, the swordsman lit into Brant with a flurry of strikes. Surprised, Brant backpedaled. He flailed with his own blade, trying to catch his opponent’s attacks. Brant accidentally parried a few, but most of them got past his defenses.

  Kaiser winced as the young swordsman’s practice blade struck Brant on the bicep, his thigh, and smacked against his ribcage. Brant grunted under each blow. When it became clear that Brant was outmatched, the swordsman attacked even harder, driving Brant back towards the wall.

  Brant managed to protect his face, but the rest of his body took a beating. Kaiser was impressed with Brant’s restraint. If he wanted to, Brant could have snatched the smaller man up and snapped him like a twig. The tall overseer finally called the young swordsman off when Brant could retreat no further.

  The swordsman turned his back on Brant and casually strolled back to his position in front of the slaves. Brant returned to Kaiser’s side, breathing hard. His bare chest was already turning black with bruises.

  “If those had been real blades, you’d be dead,” Kaiser said.

  “If they’d been real, I’d never have let him touch me,” Brant said. He winced as he tossed the practice sword into the dirt in front of him.

  Kaiser was last in line of the chained slaves. The overseer moved to stand in front of him. With a sharp turn from the rusted key he carried, the overseer removed Kaiser's shackles. Kaiser allowed the man to inspect his teeth, check the palms of his hands, and prod at the muscles of his shoulders and arms. When he was finished, the overseer stepped back to regard Kaiser. Standing with one hand on his chin, he looked Kaiser up and down with a critical eye.

  The overseer spoke to Kaiser, but the man’s words were gibberish. Kaiser shook his head to indicate that he did not understand. The overseer frowned. He bent over and picked up the sword Brant had discarded from the ground. After exchanging a few words with the swordsman behind him, the overseer extended the wooden blade to Kaiser, hilt first. Kaiser accepted the weapon. The solid grip felt good in his hands. It had been months since he had last wielded a sword.

  “It won’t do us any good for you to hurt this kid,” Brant said.

  “I won’t break his bones, just his pride,” Kaiser said.

  Kaiser took a step towards the swordsman. He was going to teach this cocksure stripling a lesson not soon forgotten. The young man looked bored again. He even had the audacity to yawn. Kaiser did his best to act uncertain. He kept the wooden sword low at his side and hunched his shoulders.

  The overseer barked a command at the swordsman, who sighed and finally turned his attention to Kaiser. Kaiser tensed, expecting the other man to identify him as a threat. Instead, the swordsman sneered. He saw only what he expected to see: a dirty slave.

  Time seemed to slow as the swordsman charged. Kaiser waited patiently for his opponent to commit to a strike. His attacker adopted the pattern from before, lashing out at Kaiser with a basic blow intended to test Kaiser’s defenses. This time, however, Kaiser went on the offensive.

  Kaiser closed the distance between them with two quick steps. This put him inside the arc of his opponent’s slashing blade. He relished the surprise on the young man’s face, but it was too late to reverse the blow. Kaiser brought his own weapon up in a quick strike—the blunt edge smashed against the exposed hilt of the
other man’s sword. The young swordsman howled as his fingers were crushed.

  With his left hand, Kaiser plucked the weapon from his opponent’s numb grip. At the same time, he placed a foot between the man’s legs, hard up against his back heel, and crashed into the swordsman with his shoulder. The young man toppled hard into the dirt. Kaiser pounced on him. When the dust settled, Kaiser stood with his wooden blade held at his opponent’s throat. The swordsman glared up at him, furious at being bested.

  The overseer laughed, which only made the man on the ground angrier. Kaiser stepped back to let him up. He sprang to his feet, clearly ready to cross blades a second time. Kaiser tossed the stolen sword, and the swordsman plucked it out of the air.

  Before they could clash again, the overseer stepped between them. He gave the swordsman a stern warning, which did not sit well with the man. Kaiser met the young man’s hateful gaze, silently daring him to try something. The swordsman turned away in disgust.

  Still chuckling, the overseer took the wooden sword from Kaiser. He nodded to indicate that he was pleased with Kaiser’s performance. The man reached into the pocket of his pants and withdrew a strip of red fabric. He tied this tight around Kaiser’s bicep.

  That done, he motioned that Kaiser and the rest of the slaves were to follow him. It was assumed that they would do so without question or complaint. Kaiser glanced over his shoulder at the gate behind them. It was shut and secured. The high stone wall could not be scaled without a siege ladder. Escape might be possible, but it would not be easy. Accepting his fate for the time being, Kaiser fell into step with the other slaves.

  Brant walked beside Kaiser.

  “You’ve made an enemy in that man,” Brant said. “He won’t soon forget what you did to him.”

  “Enemies I know how to deal with,” Kaiser said. “It’s friends that get me into trouble. Besides, I earned myself a red badge of honor, aren’t you impressed?”

  Kaiser gestured to the red cloth tied around his arm.

  “I don’t like it,” Brant said. “You’ve drawn unnecessary attention to us.”

  “What would you have had me do, try to break the man’s blade with my ribs, like you did?”

  Brant shook his head. “We need to lie low and do our best to survive. That’s all I’m saying.”

  The overseer glanced back at them and shouted something. Neither Kaiser nor Brant understood the man’s language, but it was an unmistakable command to shut up.

  Kaiser lowered his voice so that only Brant could hear him.

  “Survival has its place, but the time for half-measures is past,” Kaiser said. “From this point on, we overcome or we die.”

  Chapter 30

  SORRELL ESCAPED DEATH BY the width of an eyelash. When Mazareem’s metal nail pierced her throat, Sorrell had been certain it was a mortal wound. Even now, a day later, she still found herself grasping her neck in terror when the memory caught her by surprise. Sorrell would never forget the terrible prick of that needle point.

  After Mazareem slaughtered the guards and disappeared, armed soldiers swarmed the suite. Sorrell had lain on the floor, ignored and forgotten, as the soldiers tore the place apart. Perhaps they had thought her dead. She had been in a state of shock.

  Mazareem, here, and he almost killed her. Sorrell still trembled at the thought. She had let her guard down. Mazareem had seemed a distant, unpleasant memory in this place. Of course he would still be hunting them. Of course he would have followed them here. He had disappeared before her very eyes, but that did not provide Sorrell much comfort. He had already proved he could appear when least expected. The others needed to be warned.

  Sorrell had stayed on the floor until the soldiers finished their search and departed. In the quiet they left behind, the other slave women chosen by Mazareem had come to check on Sorrell. Finding her alive, they had carried her to one of their beds, tended to her wound, and let her rest.

  Their kindness in this hostile place filled Sorrell with gratitude. She could not speak the language of these women, but that did not prevent her from feeling a strong sense of companionship with them. Much could be conveyed that did not require words.

  They had left her alone for the last few hours. The servants’ quarters was a tiny room behind the suite’s kitchen. Sorrell lay reclined on one of the three tiny cots. She pulled the metal spike from her hair, where she had stuck it for safekeeping. Its tip was still coated with her dried blood, and for some reason, she was not inclined to clean it off.

  It was such a small thing. Sorrell had sailed through killing storms of cannon fire, dodged the shots of countless sharpshooters, and crossed cutlasses with the fiercest swashbucklers on the Coriddian Sea. And yet here she was, almost undone by a simple needle.

  Sorrell jammed the needle back into her hair. She decided that she had rested enough. Her throat felt better, and she had wasted too much time already. The room spun when she sat up. Sorrell gripped the sides of the cot and waited for the walls to stop moving.

  When they did, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and placed her feet on the floor. Sorrell used the wall on her right to brace herself. She stood up. Her legs were unsteady at first, but after a few steps, she felt her strength returning.

  A mirror on the far wall caught her eye, and Sorrell stopped short when she saw her reflection. She frowned at herself. She looked terrible. The other women had done their best to clean her wound, but the flesh around her throat was still angry and raw. Her hair, held in place by countless bone pins, was in wild disarray. And the black dress, once shimmering and beautiful, was tattered and covered in dried blood.

  Sorrell shook her head. It did not matter. What mattered was getting out of here. She moved out of the servants’ quarters and into the kitchen beyond. One of the other women was here, sitting at a small table. She looked younger than Sorrell by several years, with striking black hair. Concerned by Sorrell’s sudden appearance, the woman rose from her chair.

  Frustrated by their inability to communicate properly, Sorrell tried to motion the other woman to sit back down. She ended up only looking confused. Sorrell briefly thought about trying to explain herself, but she discarded the idea as impossible. The other two women would know what she was about soon enough.

  The black-haired servant followed Sorrell into the main room. Here, they found the third woman. She looked to be the same age as Sorrell, although she seemed to carry a great weight on her shoulders.

  Sorrell stopped in the middle of the room and faced the two other women. She touched her neck and smiled, hoping they understood she was thankful for their help.

  “I know you can’t understand me, but I’ll never forget your kindness,” Sorrell said.

  They seemed to follow her meaning, which pleased Sorrell. She gave them a final smile, a nod, and turned towards the outer door.

  Behind her, the young, dark-haired servant spoke, her voice clearly alarmed. Sorrell looked back to see what the fuss was about. The girl was shaking her head and beckoning for Sorrell to come back.

  “I can’t stay here,” Sorrell said. “I’ve got to warn my friends about the man who attacked me.”

  The older woman shook her head vigorously. She wrung her hands in the apron around her waist. Sorrell sighed. It could not be helped. If her disappearance was noticed, she hoped the two of them would not suffer for it.

  Sorrell ignored their protests. On the other side of the door, she found a narrow wooden stair descending to the street. Wishing she was wearing boots instead of flimsy slippers, she carefully navigated the smooth steps. At the bottom of the stairs, another door stood between her and the city. Sorrell cracked this door to peer out before stepping through.

  To Sorrell’s surprise, the armored back of a tomb keeper blocked her view. Two women stood guard right outside the door. There was no way Sorrell could slip out without them noticing. She quietly closed the door before they saw that it was ajar.

  Mazareem was gone. Why were they still being guarded? Sorr
ell retreated to the stairs and sat on the bottom step while she contemplated her options. After a few minutes, she was forced to admit that she had none.

  Sorrell was trapped.

  Chapter 31

  MAZAREEM LANGUISHED IN HIS cell for hours after Morricant revealed herself. He knew what she was doing. Her threats were not idle, and she was well aware that he understood that fact. Given enough time and solitude, even the most resolute mind could crack under the terror of imminent torture.

  On that front, at least, Morricant would be disappointed. Perhaps for the first time, she had underestimated Mazareem. He wished to avoid pain as much as the next man, but he was not about to be reduced to a blubbering mess because she left him alone in the dark for a few hours.

  In truth, Mazareem gave little thought to the suffering she might inflict. He was too furious at himself for ending up in this predicament in the first place. How could he have been so shortsighted? Morricant let him go the first time because she anticipated he had a way to escape. She had simply laid her trap and waited for him to spring it. And what a trap it was. Mazareem had never even heard of a way to intercept someone traveling by portal magic.

  Thanks to his quick thinking, Mazareem had covered his tracks with Sorrell. The more he considered the possibilities of what Morricant might do with the knowledge of the magi in her city, the more determined he became that she not find out. There was no telling what she might accomplish if she captured and harnessed their combined powers.

  As long as Morricant believed that Mazareem was only here for some minor errand of Abimelech, there was a limit to what she would do to him. He did not think she would kill him. Morricant might boast that she ruled in Vaul, but Abimelech’s reach was still long, and his vengeance fearsome.

  Mazareem tried to project himself into the spirit plane, hoping to find evidence of Abimelech’s presence. But something about Morricant’s tower cut him off from the source of his magic. It was as if the entire castle was constructed from the same material in the dampening collar he had worn. If Abimelech was out there watching, Mazareem’s master would not be able to intervene.