by Chad Corrie
When the minor noble was murdered by some rival political faction, the factory was reorganized. A few prominent slaves noted Dugan’s strength and size, for he’d grown into a very strong man over the thirteen years he’d been there. It didn’t take those interested in him long to acquire him. This took him to Gilthanius, a rich and influential elf who’d come to be one of a handful of men who helped keep the arena stocked with various spectacles and sport. It was a business that constantly required fresh acquisitions to make it both popular and profitable.
Just as he was recalling his first introduction to the elf, the door opened and Gilthanius himself strode inside, surrounded by skittish guards. “You put on quite a show today,” he said in Telboros. “I don’t think there’s been a Founding Day celebration like it. Pity it had to end the way it did but—”
“You’d be with him too if you weren’t hiding behind your men.”
As one, each guard’s hand went for their sword. “Rest easy,” Gilthanius assured them. “He’s more bark than bite now, aren’t you, Dugan?”
“Why don’t you come closer and see?”
“It seems you tried that once already. And I don’t recall it working as well as you had hoped. However, your antics did help us find some weak spots in our security, which I’ll have to pass on to the new captain, since you removed Balus from his post.
“He warned me about you, you know,” Gilthanius continued. “Balus said you’d be a hard one to break and pushed for me to have you be one of the rank-and-file warriors. But I thought that extra fire would prove more profitable. And I was right.” If Dugan’s eyes had been spears, Gilthanius would have been pinned to the wall behind him.
Gilthanius searched over the bruises and scabs that covered Dugan’s healing body. “I see you made a satisfactory recovery. Then again, you are pretty hardheaded.” The elf smiled. “But I could have told the physicians that. I was against it, but they insisted they stitch up your wounds. They said it would make you last longer tomorrow, and I want to get as much gold out of you as I can.”
“I got close to you before.” Dugan’s voice was rough. “I can do it again.”
“I don’t think so.” He called Dugan’s bluff. “But I will have a good seat. As will the emperor, who was impressed with my bravery in the situation.” Gilthanius again flashed some teeth. “You’ve actually helped my standing with him. And your crucifixion tomorrow will make me richer still.” He sneered. “I thought it only right to thank you in person.” The sarcasm was a knife he enjoyed twisting in Dugan’s gut. “If not for your actions today, I wouldn’t be on my way to even greater riches and glory.” He paused, a gleam in his eye.
“I’d wish you a fair slumber, but then I’d be lying. I will say that I’ve opted for straps with the nails—to help keep you up longer. I’m told they prolong the agony by at least a few hours. I’ll be eager to see how long exactly. Until then, I have a party to attend. It seems my bravery is being honored.” Gilthanius made his way for the door, adding, “So I guess that means you’ve served your master well. The perfect slave in the end. Maybe Balus was wrong after all.”
The guards slammed the door behind Gilthanius, being sure to latch it as loudly as possible. Dugan pressed for the door, straining the chains and his fresh stitches, but to no avail. Relinquishing his rage, he slid down the wall and rested on the cold floor, lost in depressed silence, until a small, masculine voice filled his thoughts.
Dugan.
He looked around in bewilderment. No one had entered his cell or was looking through the small barred window on the door.
Dugan. This time the voice was louder, but still calm and seductive.
“Show yourself.” Dugan leapt to his feet. He was well past the point where he’d play the fool for any games the guards or Gilthanius might have invented for his final hours.
Peace. I mean you no harm. The voice seemed clearer now.
“Then show yourself!” The gladiator scanned the empty room. His eyes saw no movement in the flickering light.
Look to the flame.
The torch by the door suddenly changed from a dirty yellow to a copper flame that shot up a good three feet, licking the ceiling.
I’ve heard your prayer, Dugan, and have decided to aid you . . . personally. The last word of the sentence slithered around his thoughts.
“Who are you?” He stared at the copper fire.
Rheminas. The flame lowered itself only slightly, turning a more brilliant copper, illuminating the entire room in what could have been pure sunlight.
“I’ve prayed for years and now you show up?” Dugan searched the room again in growing frustration. “They’re going to crucify me tomorrow. What good can you do me now?”
There’s a mighty fire already at work in you. I just need to stoke it to greater heights.
The torch’s flame leapt from its roost, landing on the ground like a gelatinous mass. Slithering toward the gladiator, it wound itself around his leg and coiled—twirling up the muscular appendage rapidly. Dugan winced and waited for the flame to singe his skin, but it never did. There wasn’t even the sensation of its touch, or a spark across his skin, as it continued its coiled climb. He felt his heart clench as the flame twisted itself around his arm, aiming for the brand on his shoulder. As it did it began taking on a more literal serpentine form.
I’ll give you the revenge you seek. The copper serpent peered straight into Dugan’s face. You’ll destroy this elven owner of yours—along with anyone else who should cross your path—and win your freedom as you desire.
“Nothing’s free.” He stared back unflinching at the fiery snake. Its tiny scales and glowing red eyes made it seem all the more lifelike. “What will your favor cost me?”
Your soul.
Dugan kept his face an expressionless mask. “So when I die, what then?”
You’ll pass into my realm.
Though he wanted to finish what he’d started with Balus this afternoon more than anything in the world, Dugan actually wanted a better afterlife, too. Something to make up for the sad excuse of a life he was currently enduring. He wasn’t a priest or sage; his understanding of the realms beyond was only a mass of fragmented sparks in a great darkness at best. He’d gathered, from a few smatterings of myths and tales he’d heard over his years, that Helii, the realm where Rheminas ruled, was a place where eternal fires blossomed like weeds, scorching all who passed their way. It was far from anything he’d want to call home for the rest of his eternal existence.
“That’s not much of a bargain.”
You’ll have an afterlife befitting any brave warrior, I assure you. Better than anything you’ve had here . . . and what’s awaiting you tomorrow.
Dugan held his tongue.
I don’t plan on waiting long for an answer. Your executioners won’t show you any more mercy, let me assure you.
When he closed his eyes, he felt the flame slide from his shoulder, encircling his massive chest. The scales were smooth as velvet and as warm as a beam of sunlight upon his skin.
Imagine what you could do if finally let off your leash, Rheminas whispered. Imagine the delight in seeing that weak elf groveling before you . . . begging for his life, with you the one in power over him—the lord of his life and death.
Blood began racing through his temples as Dugan envisioned the scene. He’d wanted to run Gilthanius through very slowly, very painfully; he wanted to look into his eyes as he did so, to take in the full effect of his actions upon the elf. It wasn’t something most men would hold to but with him, the greater he meditated upon the vision, the more his need for revenge overcame any other thoughts.
Are you really going to toss my gift aside in favor of a crucifixion? The voice was growing impatient.
Dugan’s eyes shot open. “Gilthanius and my freedom?”
Of course. He could hear the smile behind the voice. Can’t have one without the other, now can we?
He let out a small sigh of submission.
Good.
Now open your mouth.
Dugan’s countenance darkened.
Trust me.
As he slowly opened his mouth, the flame-birthed snake coiled around his neck, twisting over his tongue and down his throat in the blink of an eye. He suppressed a gag as Rheminas slid deeper into his chest, intensifying in heat as he did so.
Revenge. Revenge. Revenge. Dugan heard the word spoken in rhythm with his rising heartbeat. He felt a small part of his heart go numb, then screamed in agony as his chest was engulfed in flames. Smoke poured from his mouth and nose. His vision blurred and was tainted with red. Falling on his knees, he coughed up spatters of blood along with his new master, who hit the floor in a shower of sparks—coiling and twisting into a copper inferno before him.
I’ve given you the power and strength to meet your goal. Now embrace your hatred and do the rest. Break your bindings!
Though his chest throbbed with pain, Dugan strained against his shackles. The chains looked as if they were centuries old, but even as he tugged with all his strength, they held fast.
Release my gift to you.
He grunted as veins pulsed from his head and neck. He fought to lay hold of what Rheminas had planted inside him. A moment later, he connected with it at last, and his heart and mind became alight with incredible power. It was the power to take back control of his life, the strength to rule over his oppressors, and the means to exact his revenge. With a bestial roar, Dugan shattered his chains—the iron links exploding into shards.
Good! There was a deep satisfaction nestled in the tone. You’ve taken the first step. Now take the last. Approach me.
Dugan paused, recalling the pain he’d just been dealt by the god. “How? I’ll burn myself if I touch you.”
You have already been burnt, Dugan. You can’t be wounded any more than you are now.
“What do you mean?”
I thought you wanted revenge? The longer you remain indecisive, the more time your captors have to react to the noise. You’d best be ready for them.
It was too late to turn back now.
Approach me!
Dugan drew near the shaft of flame, which once again illuminated all in a coppery light that was as warm and bright as natural daylight.
Take this weapon. Once it takes the life of the one you seek, I’ll owe you nothing more. The flame shrunk to about two and a half feet in length before glowing bright white—like metal in a forge. The heat in the room intensified, rivaling a furnace. Sulfur permeated the air, as did the acrid perfume of burning metals. The heavy smoke clogged Dugan’s already sore lungs, causing him to cough up even more blood. The smoke the process produced obscured his vision, causing his eyes to water and lose sight of the manifestation altogether.
Take the weapon. Claim your revenge.
As soon as Rheminas’ words faded from Dugan’s mind, the smoke cleared, revealing a sword standing where the flame had been. It was crafted from a strange black metal, but looked sturdy enough to do anything he’d require of it. Grasping the hilt, he found it to be a perfect fit. No sooner had he done so than the metal cuffs around his wrists unlocked, falling like rotten fruit to the floor.
As he swung the blade, he noticed it was not only well balanced, but worked as though it was an extension of his arm. Even more peculiar was its ability to connect with—even increase—the burning inside him. The longer he held the weapon, the more enraged he became, and the more he wanted to slaughter anyone who crossed his path.
Go. Take your revenge. The words now whispered from some distant place.
Dugan smiled as he heard the guards approaching from the outer hall, and raised his sword in anticipation. The lust for retribution pumped through his veins like a tidal wave, which he channeled into a great bellowing charge, bringing the black blade down upon the cell door. The wood split in two before bursting into flames, toppling to the floor like kindling.
Dugan heard his own voice, so raw and distorted with rage he barely recognized it. He yelled as he burst out of the cell, blade arcing down with an accuracy honed by countless kills. “Die!” he shrieked as he raised the blade above his head, preparing for the next blow. The weapon sliced into the nearest elf’s stomach, spilling his intestines out onto the floor in flaming pools lit by the touch of the fiery sword.
He slashed the second guard across his upper torso. The elf fell to his knees, gripping his wound in horror as blood spilled out of the flaming gash. His hands clenched at the wound in a pathetic attempt to keep his fate at bay, but to no avail. The elf fell face down onto the floor, his final words a wet gurgle.
His path now clear, Dugan ran to find Gilthanius. He followed the smell of spiced meat and sweet breads down another hallway and up a flight of stairs. The scent of privilege wafted from these upper levels of the arena, where the gladiators’ owners and lesser nobles kept personal suites for hosting parties and private fights.
As Dugan drew nearer, he heard music, and even the occasional night calls of birds. Once he cleared the top of the stairs, he ducked into some shadows as a patrol crossed his path. He watched them silently, but refrained from striking. He knew if he did, Gilthanius would be warned and could very well find time to escape. As he stood still, he heard Gilthanius sing a merry tune. It seemed he wanted his guests to take note of his other talents—craving ever more honor and praise.
“Oh, the rose is a beautiful flower, but on them many a thorn does roam.” Gilthanius’ singing increased Dugan’s ire, like stoking a raging fire. In short order, the guards passed and Dugan darted up the hallway.
“That’s the way, my darling, I feel when you’re not at home.” Dugan neared the door, preparing to break it in. He wanted to give himself enough distance from the guards who’d just passed so he could work his will without immediate interruption.
“Glades and meadows are charming, but not as charming as you. Like the shiny fairy, I love you . . .” Dugan brought his sword down upon the door, shattering the wood into flaming splinters with one mighty sweep of his arm.
“GILTHANIUS!” Dugan shouted with such a mass of hatred and blood lust the company inside the room—musicians, dancing girls, and other nobles and persons of a lesser rank—paled to a deathly white before seeking the nearest refuge. Many tripped over each other in their haste for an escape from the madman, screaming in hysteria and panic. More than once Dugan heard his name whispered in terror. Each time it sent a thrill down his being. The respect . . . the fear of him in so many . . . the power he wielded over them gave him even greater desire to unleash it.
He ran through the scattering crowd, cutting down those who got between him and his target without any thought of innocence or guilt. He would not be denied his prize. All fell before him, gurgling their last breaths and clutching grievous wounds as he headed for Gilthanius, who was cowering behind a purple settee.
He stopped when he reached the elf. The room grew silent. “Mercy,” Gilthanius whimpered, his face dripping with tears.
Dugan raised his sword.
“No!” Gilthanius extended a ring-covered hand toward the gladiator. “For Aero’s sake, spare me.”
Dugan responded by plunging the tip of his blade into Gilthanius’ left eye. Searing smoke and blackened blood ran down the ruined opening as the elf screeched for his life. Dugan ignored the gibbering cries, slowly running the sword in a path from Gilthanius’ eye, down his cheek and neck to his chest and stomach. As he cut into the elf, a small flame erupted and chased the line the sword drew while Gilthanius’ screams grew louder and less coherent. Dugan picked up the convulsing mass of flesh with one smooth motion.
“Guards . . . Guards!” The wounded elf could barely speak through the pain.
“They won’t get here in time.” Dugan’s delight had become sadistic, but he knew the truth. His window for action wouldn’t remain open forever. Reinforcements would be coming soon no matter how much he pretended otherwise. Still, they were nothing but distractions now. He could die content he’d sent Gilthanius to Mortis
screaming in agony. He would have wished the same for Balus, but at least both would be dead by his hand.
He grunted as he dragged Gilthanius into a short hallway, toward the elf’s box overlooking the arena.
“I’ll let you go.” Gilthanius was nearly mad with panic. “I’ll get the emperor to reverse his decree. I have some rank now, he’ll—”
Dugan hoisted the bleeding elf over his shoulder and moved for the edge of the box, staring out over the arena floor two stories below. The arena was empty and dark, with only a gibbous moon shining down upon the sand. He flung the wounded elf off his shoulder. Gilthanius landed on his back with a heavy thud. Dugan leapt over the ledge to join him, landing on his feet. Gilthanius inched backward from the crazed Telborian, but the sand and his injuries slowed his progress.
“I’ll give you gold,” Gilthanius said, scuttling away from the advancing gladiator. “Gold and your freedom.”
“Can you take away my scar?” Dugan thrust forth his left shoulder for Gilthanius to clearly see. “Give me back the life you stole?”
Gilthanius’ back now pressed against the arena wall behind him. “Please . . .”
“Can you?” Dugan rushed forward, taking a downward swing with his sword. The elf screamed as his left arm was lopped off with one smooth strike. “Can you?” Dugan hacked off Gilthanius’ left leg at the knee. Blood started leaking out in a thick pool, which the thirsty sand worked quickly to absorb. Dugan watched the doomed elf struggle to stay alive. It reminded him of a squashed bug twisting in its death throes.
