The demon before him droned on with his father’s voice, “… and if you prove—”
Hayline cut him off, “Tell me. How many bastard children have you left strewn about the city?”
Caught off guard, the Principal asked, “I beg your pardon?”
A voice from behind said, “Hayline, don’t.”
But he continued, “It is a simple question. How many bastard children have you left to fend for themselves in your city?”
His father stammered, unable to speak.
“Why do you think I would want to take your throne, a throne you sullied with your unrepented greed and fornication?”
Soto sat there, his mouth open, unable to speak, in shock, his hands gripped the arms of his ornate chair.
“Hayline, you aren’t well,” came the woman’s voice from behind him.
“I denounce you and charge you with high crimes against the Mother, my Goddess, and against your wife, my mother. You are not fit to lead a family, let alone a city!” Hayline stood, pulling away from the small woman’s touch on his shoulders. He felt free to move now. More alive than he had ever been. His demon father’s eyes began to bulge, tears of blood dripping from the corners.
The tiny woman moved in front of him, trying to block him from reaching his father. The Principal’s mouth now parted in a silent scream, his tongue thrust out and swollen purple as if about to burst.
“May the Goddess condemn you to rot in the hole of the hells until your body and soul have suffered for your shortcomings, demon! You are not my father! You are a demon sent to replace him!”
The bloody tears poured down Soto’s face as he grabbed his throat. The veins in his neck throbbed, about to burst.
Rushing to the dying man as best she could, the woman shouted, “Someone—” but Hayline backhanded her across the room, sending her bouncing off the wall. He felt the power of the Goddess fill him with strength, and he wasn’t afraid to use it.
“Shut up, woman, I will deal with you shortly!” Hayline turned back to his father. “I will never take your throne while demons walk this land! I am not your son, you demon!”
Soto’s eyes couldn’t take the pressure a second longer and popped from their sockets like two corks. They dangled on his face, held in place by the nerves. Springs of blood flowed, coating his body with gore.
Hayline wasn’t sure how he did that, how he killed a demon without touching it, but the power he felt course through his body was intoxicating. He turned to the broken woman who lay semi-conscious on the floor.
“See what you made me do now, demon bitch?” Unsurprised to find her face morphed into that of a Cambion, half-demon half-human monster. He grabbed her head, his thumbs over her closed eyes. It didn’t take long to push past the limits the orbs could take, the bone cracking under his force. She died like Soto: eyeless gore-filled sockets in a lifeless skull, and his thumbs the only part of his body covered in blood.
He picked up her body and draped it over his dead father. Two demons to share their fate in death. He found that strangely fitting.
The power still flowed in him. He felt ready to rid the world of all demons, he discovered. If they inhabited the two most close to him, he knew they might be anywhere. It would be a massive undertaking to clean his shard of the menace, but he knew he was up to the task. The mirror he spent so much time looking into sat not far off now. The room seemed much smaller. Somehow, he grew to fill the space with his presence. He glanced into the mirror and saw Giblet’s likeness staring back at him, smiling widely.
“Time to talk our way out of this,” Hayline said softly.
“I agree, then we will find some real fun,” Giblet replied.
“Yes, real fun. Now shush. I need to talk.” Hayline banged on the thick wooden door and shouted, “Guards, come quick, there is evil in the palace. Demons run among us! Let me out!”
Chapter 9, Lane Stone:
The magistrate’s fighting dojo lay far inland, situated away from the cooling breeze that normally came off the water. As a volunteer fighter, Lane was allowed to venture to the wall and walk to scan out over the farms and catch the small whiff of breeze drifting over the crops. The light breeze did little to upset the torches that lit the walkway. During the day, even this far north, he spotted the tops of snow-capped mountains that laced through the interior of this and every shard. If the wind shifted during a storm, the air would come rushing off those white peaks and bring a refreshing chill to the air. That didn’t happen often enough for Lane.
He was surprised to not spot a perimeter wall surrounding the town of Cliffside. To his knowledge, all the city-states were protected by a curtain wall that surrounded a good portion of the city’s surrounding farmlands from raids of the mountain folk. As a youth, he studied at a monastery not far from the mountains outside the city of Abaraka. He learned the stories of the monsters that lived in the mountains. Creatures that were no longer human that would pour out of the valleys burning, raping, and pillaging everything in their path.
Those were the old stories. Even in his home city of Abaraka, the perimeter wall had fallen into disrepair. An offense punishable by thirty lashes, people would steal stones from the wall to build homes with. It was a law that was rarely enforced, near impossible to catch the perpetrators unless they were turned in by their neighbors. For the most part, the stones used to build the wall were too heavy for a team of humans to cart off.
He turned his attention to the sand pit that made up his world now. Just a few days ago, he found himself ready to plunge off the cliff and into the void. The woman Rachel pulled him back from the edge. He knew the Son would judge any suicide harshly, but at the time, after the senseless deaths and the capture of so many by the slavers, he felt no need to go on. His god’s inability or unwillingness to judge the evil happening around him every day caused his crisis of faith. Lane was sure he would never be able to return to the order.
The hole waited for any judge who turned their back on the Son and their duty. He had prepared long ago for his fate, as preordained in his teachings. He trained enough initiates to go out and sacrifice themselves for a belief. Now he would try to teach a few to stay alive in the pits.
The magistrate discovered the latch on his weapon quickly. He was impressed with her knowledge of the Brotherhoods weapons. Shakopee lay a long way from Abaraka. An educated person could be a dangerous thing. He learned many things while exploring the massive library locked in the temple of the Son in Abaraka. Not many of the judges bothered with the books and learning to be found outside the holy scriptures, but that was where Lane discovered his freedom from the constraints taught to him by the order.
In the right hands, he knew a little knowledge would set people free. In the wrong hands, it might bind people as strong as any chains ever would. In the magistrate, at least in this, he found a kindred spirit. She had little use for a dead fighter. She wanted her fighters to win and live. She made gold every time they won. She wanted the best opponents possible in every contest. He focused on the kitchen staff as they worked hard preparing the morning meal. Their life had to be simple enough: day in and day out the same routine, fixing meals for the fighters that trained here. He found them little more than slaves themselves.
“You think too much.” The familiar voice of the magistrate spoke from the balcony of her house. Lane was surprised he allowed her to sneak up on him, even if she stood a good ten feet away.
Looking across the gap that separated them, he asked, “How do you mean?”
“When you think, a crease develops between your eyes. It has left a deep wrinkle there. It’s your tell and an easy one to spot.” She leaned against the rail, a silver wine chalice dangled between her fingers.
“I am a simple man. I have no need to hide my feelings or my thoughts. Only complicated or devious people need that skill.” He moved a few steps closer, so he didn’t need to speak loudly to be understood.
“I don’t think you’re that simple. In my experience
, anyone who upholds the law shouldn’t be considered simple. Even if that is religious law.”
Lane shook his head. Unsure how to proceed, he continued to stick to his ruse. “You seem to be under the misconception that I am a follower of the Brotherhood, a judge as you might call them. I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”
She took another sip of the wine. Lane noticed she’d probably had too much. However, her speech did not slur from drink. “Tell me then, what was your occupation before you stumbled upon that simple tavern and your friend came up with the plan to start a fight?”
“I ran a home for war orphans. I would take in who came and try to keep them alive. Before you ask, prior to that, I was a husband, father, and farmer. That was the job I held for many years until a band of Perdition warriors stumbled upon us and ended my life forever.” Lane rarely spoke those words aloud, they always held so much pain. He preferred to speak about something else, so he would do his best to change the subject. “You have children, I must assume there is a Mister Magistrate somewhere.”
It was time for the woman across the gulf to lower her eyes when she spoke. “My husband is on the front. Our meager forces left to join the fight and protect our citizens. Even if half of them still support slavery.”
“Odd choice of words from someone who runs a dojo. You have to admit, historically these were filled with slaves fighting for your profit.”
“Over a year ago, you and your friend would now be in chains. Sold to the highest bidder at the auction. Indentured servitude is what the Council liked to call it. Yes, because of our position as magistrates and owners of this dojo, we were the largest slave owners in all of Cliffside and perhaps the entire shard.”
“And yet you were forced to free your slaves. Forgive me for asking, but shouldn’t you be fighting on Perdition’s side?”
“I must admit, when the decision was first made, we fought to the very end. After our fighters were freed, some stayed, and a few even trickled back into the fold. Gold has a way of motivating individuals to do things against their better nature.”
“Just like prostitutes and individuals who marry for wealth.” Lane knew he risked much by the jab, but he wasn’t entirely over his death wish. There were times he just didn’t feel like giving a shit. This woman held his freedom and his life in her hands, but sometimes he just couldn’t control his tongue.
“Sharp words coming from a criminal, but before you get your tunic in a twist, the money is mine. I guess in this situation, I would be the John, not the whore. Tell me, which is worse: the one who pays or the one who sells?”
“I admit, the Council was wise picking you as a magistrate. You seem to hold an answer for everything. Hopefully, you truly believe the words you speak. They should do you well in your final judgment.” Lane mentally cursed himself. He let his guard down while debating the woman. His last words were a common saying throughout the Brotherhood. If the magistrate were as smart as he thought, she would’ve picked up his mistake quickly.
She took another drink from the silver cup and leaned against the railing, her loose hair dangling over the edge. “You’re lucky, I’ve heard some of the cities began holding fights to the death. Here, the Council demands steps be taken to provide for fighter safety. You should be able to survive your two months’ sentence.”
“We both know how this works. Once our two months are up, some minor infraction will be found, and we will be awarded an extended stay as your guest.”
“How old are you?” She glanced his way, sizing him up. His robes hung over his body, hiding the form underneath.
He instinctively ran his hand over his growing age paunch, his prime passed years ago. “I stopped counting at forty cycles. That was several seasons ago.”
She shook her head, her luscious hair swaying in the light of the twin moons. “My, that is old. I didn’t think people survived that long in a war zone. I am barely over thirty. I intend to live for a good long time. Therefore, I’ve no intention of forcing you to stay any longer than you wish. It makes for bad business. Angry fighters tend to riot and kill everyone in their path. No, I hope you will find working here profitable, and if things work out for much longer, you will be training fighters on how to best put on a favorable performance. Everyone prefers a fight that is exciting and lasts. If they end too quickly, then what’s the point?”
“You want me to teach others to fight?”
“No, I want you to teach others to perform. If you are half as good as I think you are, you should be able to teach nonlethal combat. If you can teach others how to fight and make it look real, I believe I can arrange with the other stables to create prearranged matches.”
“You mean cheat.”
“The people come to be entertained. How can it be cheating if we provide the best entertainment possible?”
“I told you before, I’m a simple man. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out there would be a large quantity of gold to be made if a person knew the outcome of the matches before they began.”
“You are very wise. That is why owners are not allowed to wager on their fighters.”
“But that doesn’t stop you from having a third-party do it for you.” Lane shook his head.
The magistrate laughed loudly and finished her wine. “Get some sleep, Judge. I think we are about to create a wonderful working relationship. Everyone involved stands to become very rich, and very popular.”
<=OO=>
He slept little, not out of fear but out of concern that the woman that owned this place would tell others of her suspicions. He felt Rachel guessed his past, but the other fighters in the area might take umbrage to working with a former member of the Brotherhood. In some areas, a member of the order would receive a death sentence for merely being discovered. In a standup fight, he worried little at his rusty skills. He felt able to hold his own against any man or woman on the shard.
He couldn’t go indefinitely without sleep, and if someone wanted him dead, that would be the time they would strike—or an assassin’s poison slipped into the food. He could not watch everyone at once. If the men wanted him dead, it would be only a matter of time until they succeeded.
Breakfast eaten before sunrise, the training was about to commence when the magistrate called down from her balcony that overlooked the pit, “Trainer, I want to see what the new acquisitions can do.”
Rachel stood, slapping her right fist into her left palm. “It’s about time I get to show what I can do.” Her missing front teeth caused a pronounced lisp of her s-words.
Lane remained squatting, his back leaning against the outer wall.
The woman continued from the balcony, “Let’s see what the…”
Lane knew she would expose him as a judge and was surprised after her long pause.
“Let’s see what the priest can do. Trainer, send in your best fighter for hand-to-hand.”
Rachel stood over Lane, a blank look on her face. “Is that some sort of code for sex? If she wants to see good fighting, she should’ve called for me.”
Lane glanced up at Rachel and spoke softly, “I’m sure you’ll get your chance. This shouldn’t take long.”
“I should hope not. You don’t have your fancy staff with you now. All you’ve got is your hands.” Rachel leaned her back up against the wall as Lane walked to the center of the fight pit.
Lane had to admit the man they sent to fight him appeared a brute. It was instantly apparent he had been here training for some time. He wore a loincloth tied around his waist, his tan body a crisscross of scars, a testament to battle wounds from long ago.
The trainer stepped up between them. “You know the rules, hand-to-hand only. No maiming.”
The much younger man jumped up and down, warming his body and flexing his muscles after his breakfast. Lane quietly stood there, his hands inside his sleeves. The younger fighter made a brash move, a lightning fast jab directed at Lane’s face. Lane’s reply was to dodge his head to the left. The punch met only air.
The judge’s response picture perfect, his legs spread into a fighting position, he squatted down, and with the flick of his wrist, he drove the fingertips of his right hand directly below the Adam’s apple of the charging brawler. This had the dual effect of surprising the hells out of the man who attacked and instantly rendering him ineffectual, as he went to the ground struggling to gain his breath, both of his hands grasping his throat.
Lane faced Rachel and witnessed her jaw agape at the display. Turning a slow circle, he found only slack-jawed stares.
A familiar voice cried from the balcony, “Too fast, you need to go much slower.”
Lane leaned over the man he had just disabled and spoke softly, “Just relax, you will be able to breathe in a moment.” He rested his hand on the victim's back until two trainees came and helped carry the victim out of the sand pit.
Without looking at the faces that now stared at him, he strolled back to the wall to take up position beside Rachel. When he leaned next to her, she whispered, “Isn’t it just like a woman to shout instructions during a performance.”
Lane couldn’t help but smirk slightly at her joke.
The magistrate continued, “Trainer, let’s try three fighters this time.”
Lane let out a deep sigh. “I think it’s going to be a long day.” Bending down, he reached between his legs and lifted the back of his robes to the front. He tucked them into the rope that acted as his belt, thus turning his priestly robes into a fighting tunic.
Rachel reached up and patted him on the shoulder. “What’s your endgame here?”
Fractured Loyalties Page 7
