Convict Fenix

by Alan Brickett

  At least judging by the shadow cast from the monolith. It was much broader than it was narrow, with a wide base supporting the hulking flat plane of it.

  Words were sprouting from the rocky surface of the monolith, in more than four dozen languages, if he judged it rightly. Of interest was that he could scan at least seven of them, and they all said the same thing, in letters as big as he was tall:

  All prisoners arrive the same.

  None will have memory nor goods to claim.

  All arrive equal and proceed on foot.

  Your lives are your own to grow or loot.

  Your sentence is final.

  You are here to die,

  How that happens,

  Is your last remaining denial.

  Now that told him some things to immediately put the scene around him into perspective.

  Aside from some poor rhyming.

  These three and the group to his left, who must have come up the path that dropped off to the north, and the old man and his brown eyes with his dirty hair and tarnished plate armor, they were all waiting for new arrivals to the Prison.

  “All right, I believe you. Just shut your mouth.”

  Torn had finally been convinced by the mewling, whining being that it had provided all it could. The colossal man-goat put it away inside a pouch on a thong that served as some kind of belt. Both were made from leather of a skin he didn’t recognize.

  “Why do you bother with such things you great oaf?” The blue-skinned being wrangled out.

  Torn turned to look at the much shorter creature, but he did not make any threatening pose, nor was his tone anything other than respectful.

  “Old Man Page, you are welcome to judge this for yourself. If this man has no value in strength or power that this puny creature can detect, then he is of no interest to my master. His creations all have a purpose. I have mine, and the Squee has its’, and I believe it.”

  “More the fool you are then,” the being called Old Man Page responded, the scorn in its voice quite clear.

  “We should make a more thorough search, to be sure.”

  It smacked its lips, a grotesque wet sound when coupled with the hunger Outcast could see in its eyes. He shuddered and looked away, not wanting to show any bravado.

  He needed to appear uninteresting to these beings, something not worth their time and at best a nuisance for having been a distraction for a while. He was confident that if they took an interest, one of them would take him away and he would likely have no chance.

  Not in his current state, anyway.

  “Perhaps since your men are already there Torn?” The woman purred, leaning into a pose that drew the only cloth she wore into a skintight revealing of her luscious body’s every curve and pointed reminder that she was, indeed, female.

  The goat man grunted and gestured curtly at the minions who stood to either side of him. As the minions roughly pushed his body around, lifted his orange tunic shirt, or checked his ankles and feet, he considered these powerful beings.

  The blue-skinned one was the most powerful, as evidenced by the deference of the other two. However, Old Man Page was not obviously going to overshadow them if they both paired up in conflict.

  The goat man served someone else, someone also quite powerful who had sent the goat man as his minion instead of coming himself. That person was powerful or arrogant, and able to create or modify the being that was the man-goat creature into his current state of strength.

  The woman was mysterious, but he somehow knew that she created and maintained that façade as well. It was part of her power, but not the limit of it. To survive as she did in a Prison like this, she had to be able to take care of herself.

  Not to be forgotten, everyone here must be a hardened criminal. This place was not general penal housing, it was somehow special.

  One of the minions pushed his head and then called out in a croak. Torn immediately stopped eyeing the female being and turned his focus back.

  “Show us,” Torn commanded.

  The minions grabbed Outcast and pushed him over, one leaning down on his left shoulder and the other pushing down on his head to show off the back of his neck. This gave him a sudden, and very close, view of the marble platform.

  Everything was wet as if a sudden squall had passed just moments ago. Except the moisture was also sticky somehow.

  Ectoplasm?

  Somewhere among all the blank space, his mind apparently retained some knowledge—and some skills.

  But not his own name?

  The words of the monolith seemed accurate in that respect.

  The moisture was the residue of certain spells, usually those involving some kind of conjuring or creation. Outcast had been brought here by magical means.

  “What is that?” The rasp of Old Man Page was unmistakable. His voice seemed to suck in everything alive from the air.

  Torn walked a few steps closer for a better look; he could hear the massive creature’s hooves distinctively clopping on the marble.

  “A marking, a tattoo maybe?” he growled.

  A puddle of the ectoplasm created a mirror-like sheen against the white veined marble beneath, and Outcast got a good look at his features. Long white hair, all untied and unkempt, hung about his face in great swaths.

  He was shaven, except for a neat fuzz of white hair along the chin, the sideburns neatly clipped, and his eyebrows groomed in thin lines above his sapphire-blue eyes.

  He had high cheeks and a strong jawline, with a well-defined nose to complement the overall look. He could not help but think of himself as handsome.

  The female creature’s voice swept like honey. “An intricate design, it seems.”

  The voice moved a bit closer. “Some sort of spell form or is it just for aesthetics?”

  The eyes in the reflected ectoplasm narrowed in a cunning expression.

  He understood that she was the manipulator; the attraction slid the mind away from her actual goals. She was good at it.

  The dangerous blue creature was interested in something, almost fixated on it, while Torn was here for a different agenda. If he didn’t play dumb and keep to himself, one of these beings would take him.

  He needed some way to throw them off.

  They believed he was powerful or strong, and he dearly hoped he was or he would not survive very long. But he had to somehow make them think he was unimportant. Convincingly—and soon. Or, at a minimum, he had to go with the least dangerous of the three, the one least likely to destroy him outright.

  “Well, now. This…this should be interesting,” Outcast mused aloud, and it was a pleasant discovery. His voice was mellow and pleasing to the ear, even speaking in a low voice.

  The ones who held him jostled him a bit to encourage him to stay silent.

  **

  The presence of the great ones was increasingly agitating the other wretches on the arrivals platform.

  Khanton knew that if this continued for much longer, they would gather enough wits to do something stupid.

  Like, try to run.

  He had seen it happen before. Oh, the great ones would not mind if any did escape, although Khanton might be punished for it later since he organized the work gangs. First, they would finish going through the latest arrivals.

  New meat, stock, chattel, whatever term you used, it was all the same to these beings. The killers, and worse, who were part of the sackcloth group had good reason to be here, of that there was no doubt.

  Their capability to resist anything done by these three would be minimal. That was why the notable prisoners, new inmates who were powerful or extremely dangerous, were marked with the orange clothes. One could commit a heinous crime through negligence or accident, even some intent to avoid a sentence could be involved.

  Those actions might bring you to the Echelon Prison.

  Usually, though, you were a habitual criminal, one who committed crimes repeatedly and by choice. The amnesiac effect all new inmates arrived with guarant
eed that a consensus on the origin of all crimes would never be found.

  What they did all have in common was that they had committed the crimes that sent them here, purposely with enjoyment or otherwise. However, not every criminal was immediately dangerous.

  Sure, some of them could build up a good crime, kill a few dozen beings, even a few thousand with the right materials and planning. That mindset was enough to have them sent here, but not enough to mark them as physically or magically dangerous.

  To arrive in the orange was a special kind of mark. Khanton had seen several arrivals in those orange outfits. Some had escaped, while others had fought and died.

  Khanton had never seen any of them win against the beings already here. Perhaps there were others, deep within the Prison, in some cave or another hollow. So far, since he had been here, he had seen these arrive and the ones that were powerful beings not allowed to live.

  Therefore, when the prisoner spoke, it immediately got his attention, as well as the others. Perhaps this would be over sooner than he had thought.

  “What did you say?!” Boomed Torn, who also took an abrupt set of steps closer, his posture menacing.

  The gray-skinned humanoid spoke again, louder this time, but with a deferential and humble tone.

  “I apologize, good masters, for my presence. I had hoped to find such beings as yourselves. My instinct tells me you are of great power, and I would pledge myself to service in the retinue of your kind.”

  Khanton had thought he could sound obsequious and slick, but this being put his groveling to shame.

  He was impressed.

  The Seductress raised an elegant eyebrow, while Old Man Page sucked on his lips. It was left to Torn to respond to the servile creature, who had stayed on hands and knees.

  “Of what worth are you? If you would so quickly beg us to be a servant?”

  The man-thing had long white hair that dropped past its face. No one could see his expression, but the tone of his voice remained respectful and pleading.

  “I beg of you, masters, let me be of use. I can perform errands, manual labor; I am strong and adept with my hands. I do not know who I am, but I know I possess skills worthy of service to a great master.”

  Torn growled deep in his throat, a sign that he was getting impatient with the being.

  “But of what value are you? Can you cast spells? Bring about rituals of power and destruction? Speak, you, or face immediate punishment for your presence that so grates on my nerves!”

  The inmate in orange groveled; further, his entire body bent closer to the platform marble.

  “I apologize, most high one, that my presence offends you so. I have no value other than my skills. If it pleases you, then beat me to prove your mastery. I could not resist even if I wanted to, oh great master.”

  Very impressive!

  That made Khanton look a lot closer at the new prisoner; his posture was correct, his mannerisms perfect. But perhaps it was because Khanton had so often pretended to be of just enough value to stay alive that he somehow knew this was an act, a pretense.

  This man gave him the impression of being very different from how he was currently behaving.

  “My lords,” Khanton called out, then quickly added, “and lady!”

  His yellow slug-like body quivered when all three cast their stringent gazes upon him.

  “I beg your patience, but it seems that the man-thing’s skin grows over that golden armband. It looks like a shallow surface. Perhaps what is underneath will prove enlightening?”

  Or at least goad the new prisoner into acting differently, Khanton privately thought to himself.

  “Why, yes, have your men strip the flesh from that trinket, dear Torn,” the succubus of many delights ordered.

  Torn quickly turned to her in a pique. “Do not order me around, harlot.”

  She smiled seductively, her natural smile. “But Torn, you so enjoy doing so to me when you come to visit.”

  Torn’s fists clenched, but he did not break into a rage. Khanton knew that Torn visited her traveling brothel. Even Khanton could find a whore to spend time with him when they came to visit the Warrens.

  A curt gesture and the men around the new arrival grabbed him again.

  Surprisingly, the man-thing did not react but stayed docile. Head hung with his hair down, he made quite the helpless impression.

  One impression that Khanton was not so sure of, at all.

  The third being stepped up and pressed his fingers into the flesh knitted around the golden armband. He dug fingers in, nails scraping on the gold to grip the tissue, and then he pulled.

  There was no outcry of pain from the man-thing, and the flesh came away loosely with a wet tearing sound.

  That was when the queen of whores reacted.

  **

  “The Rune upon the metal!” she hissed, and for a moment there seemed to be two forms where she stood.

  One was the most beautiful of feminine creatures, and the other a shadow behind it—not unlovely, but undoubtedly other. In addition, that being reacted with anger, a wave of profound anger that involved her lashing tail, a predatory stance, and half-visible extra limbs of smoke that also writhed.

  It was there and gone in the blink of an eye.

  The other two had involuntarily stepped back from her and her frightening reaction. The blue-skinned thing had moved calmly and assuredly, while the big goat man had had the decency to show some concern. Both of them relaxed when the shadow passed.

  Something dangerous could have happened there, he felt that much. But he had no idea what she meant, neither, apparently, did they.

  “What are you speaking of, harlot?” croaked the wrinkled thing.

  Her eyes narrowed, but she did not let the tension reach her luscious lips, which smiled.

  “Take a close look, Old Man Page, or do you not recognize that symbol?”

  Torn, the hairy creature, asked, “Should he?”

  “I would have thought one such as he would certainly have crossed Her path.” The Seductress licked her scarlet lips, giving Torn a look that made him step back.

  “Even here, those who have encountered Her have the memory of it, eventually.”

  “What are you blathering about woman?” Torn seemed to be less edgy than he had been, probably because of the blood running away from his head. The Seductress had incited him, and the reaction was clearly engorged for everyone to see.

  His current appearance was so at odds with the menace from before that it served as a stark contrast for her.

  She looked aside at the hunched old creature and back at Torn, exasperation written across her features. She pointed at the armlet enmeshed with the skin of his arm.

  “It is the symbol of the witch hag Aurelian fools.”

  “No.” The blue-skinned thing rose up taller with surprise. It edged a little closer, peering forward to examine the device.

  “Truly? The mark of the witch hag herself?”

  What surprised him was that even Torn was taken aback; the large goat man had stopped completely. Even the ardor invoked by the female’s look had waned at the words. Only a terrible fear could do such a thing, of that he was sure.

  And somewhere, deep inside, he responded to the name as well.

  “Aurelian’pur’Lonuria.” The woman being said the full name and a hush enveloped the platform, pouring silence over the crowd.

  The stillness was unnatural, like a thing from beyond all worlds that reached out with interest at the sound of the name. It weighed like a presence on everyone there; even he felt it, in his bones. A connection of some kind to the name that defied whatever magic had been used to erase all knowledge he had.

  The wizened old creature spat to the side and hissed out, “Silence, you. Do not speak of it. No good will come of that attention. Even here in this place, we do not suffer the attention of such a power!”

  Torn had paled from the experience of the female’s anger, but he nevertheless stepped forward to sho
w his lack of concern.

  “You fear her, Old Man Page? That witch hag of such devious design that she outshines even your schemes? Can you remember if you clashed, out there? Perhaps she sprung your doom upon you and sent you here.”

  The glare shot by Page at Torn was telling.

  “Perhaps she did, you buffoon. Moreover, perhaps it took such an entity to lay me low, such was my majesty. Blegh.”

  It turned back to look at Outcast, those pale orbs piercing in their regard, then suddenly dismissive.

  “Either way, it is clear now that the roiling storm was because of that trinket. That her magic would cause such a dissolution of the ether is to be expected. Likely this minion of hers is of no consequence. I am suddenly uninterested in him. Do with him what you wish.”

  With that, it moved away, over to the sackcloth group who were trying to gather themselves and rise to feet still unsteady from the transit that had brought them there. Each and every one of them cringed as they blue thing moved closer, instinctively aware that they were prey.

  “And what of you, Torn? Will your master be pleased if you bring him this man?” The woman of unearthly delights gestured at him; the languid movement of her hand sent a thrill up Outcast’s spine, despite the exhaustion gripping his limbs.

  Given the option, he would have gladly spent his remaining energy at her service, if she asked it.

  Torn gave a disgusted look toward Old Man Page, who flowed smoothly around the remaining men, smacking his lips grotesquely.

  “You may have him, Quelina, if you wish to take the risk of one of Her pawns close enough to kill you in your sleep. My master would not enjoy that risk. I say leave him here for the mines, or whatever else fate has in store for him.”

  The goat man turned from Outcast then, and his massive stomp carried him away toward the base of the enormous stone monolith that rose up before the marble platform. Torn’s minions let go of Outcast and followed after their master.

  Something changed when that blue being lost interest, as if what he wanted they might also want.