by Jeff Gunzel
“There is nothing to forgive,” said Ilirra, her voice steady and sure—as always, the very depiction of poise. “I am no longer your queen, hence you’ve committed no crime in my eyes.”
Whatever contraption they had her standing on began to move. Wheels creaked loudly, the immediate, squeaking echo assuring her they were in some sort of corridor, not in the streets as she had first suspected. A second sound, the screeching of metal on metal, a sharp, shrill note she had heard far too many times to not recognize, sent a sinking feeling through her gut. Moxis, the great arena, she thought with a shiver. The iron wheels grinding as the main gate opened were an unmistakable sound. So that’s where they had been keeping her. She should have guessed. Whatever Filista was planning, she most certainly wanted to make a glorious spectacle of it.
When the grinding came to a halt, Ilirra could hear the calls and jeers associated with a packed arena. Once her wheeled wooden scaffold neared the entrance, a vocal explosion rose up from the crowd. Some cheered, chanting for her head. Others cried out forgiveness, begging for mercy for their queen. Both sides made their presence known, displaying great passion in their choice.
Ilirra heard hollow thumps all around her: angered spectators throwing old fruit and potatoes. “You made a deal with the demons! You gave them our city!” a woman cried out.
“We love you,” came another call, this one sounding closer. “Our children live because of your sacrifice! All hail Queen Ilirra.”
A boy and his mother looked down from the upper balcony. The woman didn’t want to be here, and certainly didn’t want her eight-year-old son to witness to this madness. But Filista’s people had chosen households at random, forcing those families to attend. Many were here in attendance against their will. “Mommy,” said the blue-eyed boy, bits of greasy blond hair hanging out from under his gray cap. “Why is the Queen tied up? What are they doing to her, Mommy?”
“I don’t know, dear,” replied his mother, a thin woman, wrinkled beyond her years from a hard life. Her long, dark hair was streaked with white. “But whatever happens, you must do as I say. If I tell you to close your eyes, you listen to your mother.”
“Mommy.”
“Did you hear what I told you?”
“Mom,” the boy repeated.
She turned in her seat to face him. “What is the matter with yo—” She froze, mouth hung open. Her son nestled in close against her, trying to move away from the stranger sitting next to him. The mysterious man, wearing a loose black cloth mask, sat perfectly still. He turned towards them slowly, bringing a hushing finger up to where his lips should be. The mother swore she saw a smile crease underneath the black fabric.
Not sure how to react, she threw an arm around her son, pulling him closer. She gazed around at the crowd, soon spotting another. He was still as death, wearing the same black cloth mask. He got a few strange looks from those around him, but in general wasn’t doing anything that could be perceived as threatening. The woman turned around, looking up at the walkway a few rows back. She wondered if others were noticing the strange men popping up everywhere. Cryton soldiers stood guard at all the entrances, each holding a spear. They hadn’t seemed to notice anything yet.
She caught a glimpse of something strange: a large man nearing the back of one of the cryton soldiers. Even from this distance, his bright green eyes were obvious. She looked away, rubbing her own eyes briefly, wondering if all this chaos was just getting the best of her. But when she looked back, the large man was nowhere to be seen, and the cryton soldier was gone as well. His spear laid on the floor, as if he just dropped it in a hurry. Did that large man just—
“Attention, all,” came a call from the arena floor. “Your Queen commands your attention.” The short cryton stood next to Filista, translating loudly as she spoke. She, along with both human and cryton soldiers, stood on a separate stage, close to Ilirra’s platform. The soldiers wore their traditional armor, but were not allowed weapons. Standing among these men were Azek, Addel, and Berkeni. Having been close advisers to the Queen, they were now committed to serving the new administration. Taron’s laws were clear on this matter, but that did not mean that they had to like it. Azek stared straight ahead, his unreadable face carved from stone. The other two hung their heads, trying to fight back their tears.
“Today is a day of celebration,” the short cryton continued. “Today, we celebrate the strengthening of this great city.” He gestured to Ilirra standing over a trapdoor, a mask covering her face, a noose around her neck. “Gone are the days when the people were ruled by fear and prejudice. Gone are the days when Taron was laughed at by its sister cities, for she is now a power to be reckoned with. A new day has come when—” He stopped in mid-speech; some sort of commotion in the upper deck was causing quite a distraction.
“What is going on up there?” questioned Filista angrily, upset at having her moment of glory interrupted. One of the cryton soldiers ran up behind her, urgently whispering in her ear. Her angry gaze drifted back to the upper levels. “A rebellion?” she shrieked.
* * *
Men and women went running, chaos erupting all around them. The mother grabbed her son, then began climbing the steps towards one of the exits. Watching her feet, trying not to fall backward, she nearly ran directly into one of the crytons. She screamed when he raised his spear, but the blow never fell. His yellow eyes went wide before rolling back up into his head. The seven-foot giant crumbled down at her feet, an axe sticking out of his back. The green-eyed man ran up and retrieved his weapon, pulling it free with a crackling sound. “Get out of here,” he ordered. The terrified woman looked about as the sounds of battle exploded all around. She kept running as fast as she could.
Morcel flashed his fingers in silent tongue to the nearest man wearing a black mask. Don’t let them link. Keep them separated. The man nodded, then passed on the message in the same fashion.
Two nearby crytons ran towards one another, hands reaching out to link. One ended up being thrown backward, a hard tackle taking out his legs. The masked man hung on tightly, refusing to let go while receiving multiple punches to the back of his head. The much stronger cryton managed to sit up, grabbing the man by the throat. A second hand wrapped his forehead from behind, tilting his head back, exposing his neck. A quick flash of steel opened his throat, spilling blood all over the steps.
A large cryton jumped in front of Morcel, spinning his spear in circles. Not waiting, Morcel slashed forward with his axe, forcing him to bring the spear up to block. Immediately Morcel kicked his leg, cracking the kneecap and bringing the cryton down to one knee. In a rage, Morcel forgot all about his axe and began striking the soldier with closed fists. Two, three, four, the cryton tumbled backward, blood flowing from his mouth and nose. Morcel climbed on top of him, then began raining down elbows, cracking facial bones with each strike. Caught up in his bloodlust, he continued the onslaught long after the soldier was dead.
A second cryton ran up to Filista. “The rebel humans are causing us some serious problems,” he said urgently.
“Link now!” she ordered.
He stared at her a moment, as if not sure he heard her correctly. “But I thought we were trying to gain the humans’ loyalty? There will be tremendous casualties if we—”
“Do it! Teach these troublesome humans who the superior race really is!”
With a sigh, he nodded, then reached out his hand out behind him. Five others joined him, lowering their heads while he began to utilize their energy.
The cryton on the end cried in pain, crashing to the floor. His legs had been swept out from under him. Azek stomped his face three times in rapid succession, crushing his head. Another broke free from the link and rushed at Azek. The crafty veteran sidestepped the looping punch, then delivered two of his own to the cryton’s side. Surprised by the suddenness and power of this general, he bent over from the hard blows. Azek struck like lightning. A quick knee shattered the cryton’s jaw, dropping him flat to the ground.
When Azek spun to face the next threat, an explosion of white rattled through his head. He tried to stay on his feet, but his body simply wouldn’t respond. Knees buckling beneath him, he fell to ground, a smiling cryton gazing down at him.
Ilirra shook her head violently, finally ridding herself of the hood. She took in the horrible scene. There was fighting everywhere. The rebellion had given the common folk enough courage to join in. People in the lower seats were beginning to rush the first stage where Filista and the others were. Shouts of “Save our Queen” cascaded through the arena. “No!” screamed Ilirra, struggling to free herself. “You can’t win! Don’t try to help me. Save yourselves. Run!”
She looked up to the sky in horror. Black clouds began to twist and churn. She looked to the other stage. Azek was down on the ground, five crytons linked beside him! “No!” she screamed again. “They don’t know any better. Don’t hurt them!”
A bolt of yellow energy came streaking down from the sky. It blasted the upper seats with a thunderous boom. Charred bodies went cartwheeling though the air. Another bolt struck the lower deck, producing the same result. Morcel twisted the neck of a cryton he had in his grasp, snapping it like a twig, then turned and began flashing his fingers urgently. Abort the mission. It’s too late, they’ve linked. We can’t save her.
Ilirra watched while wave after wave of civilians came running towards her, determined to cut her loose. But bolts of yellow energy charred them into ashes long before they got there. “No! No more deaths. Not for me!” She glanced back to the first stage. Filista wore a satisfied grin while the carnage ensued. Azek was down but still conscious, his eyes locked with Ilirra’s. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed to him silently.
I’ve done everything I can to protect them. I’ve given up everything so my people would be safe. But as long as I draw breath, they won’t stop fighting. Therefore, they won’t stop dying! Ilirra slammed her foot down on the trapdoor. It rattled loudly. She slammed it down again, and this time it made a hollow cracking sound. She could hear Azek’s bloodcurdling wail begging her to stop. The cry sounded drawn out and far away, like in a dream. She refused to look at him. Refused to see the pain in his eyes.
Hundreds of lives will be saved at the cost of one. A small price to pay. Azek, forgive me. Jade, I love you. She slammed her foot down again, causing the trapdoor to break open. Her fall was short; the rope tightened around her neck like a vise.
The end of an era...
A small price to pay for the lives of hundreds. Such is the way of being a leader. Such is the way of heroes...
Epilogue
Azek lay still on a wooden table, a white bandage wrapped around his head. Eyes wide open, he stared lifelessly up at the ceiling. “What you did was very foolish,” said the cryton caring for him. This woman seemed to be one of the few who spoke common.
She wrapped another piece of thin cloth across his forehead. “You humans are such strange creatures,” she said. “The Queen had already given her power to Filista. Even by your own laws, nothing could have revoked that. Yet so many of you risked your lives trying to save the former Queen. So many had to die, and for what? The only thing that stopped the carnage was your former Queen sacrificing herself. Tell me, why did it have to come to that?” She wrapped another piece of cloth around his head. “Humans are strange creatures indeed.”
Finishing, she clapped her hands together. “There you go. We need you healthy and strong. Filista doesn’t want any harm to come to her newest gladiator. And don’t get it in your head that you’re not going to fight. You will obey your Queen and do exactly as she says. Ilirra Marosia’s passing of the crown was completely within your laws. The Queen had no heir that might challenge for the throne. Your way of life is forever changed.”
The woman left, leaving Azek alone to keep staring up at nothing. Suddenly, he rolled his head back and forth, laughing for no reason. “You think we humans scare so easily?” he said to no one. “I promise you a day of reckoning is not far away. A day when the humans will rise up, and take back what is rightfully theirs. And in that fateful moment, I will see Filista Umyon’s heart impaled upon the tip of my sword.”
He laughed again, longer and louder this time, like he had gone mad. His city taken hostage; the woman he loved dead—who could blame him for losing touch with reality? Then he stopped and began staring up at the ceiling once again.
“And you’re wrong, fool,” he whispered, voice hissing like a snake. “The Queen does have an heir.”
End of Days
Prologue
Gray clouds of slowly thinning dust still hung in the air, lingering for hours long after the angry sky had nearly laid waste to the Mountain of Dreams. The furious storm had dissipated, leaving behind a calm desert sky.
Large chunks of rock lay scattered about the base of the mountain, still smoldering from the electrical onslaught. Pebbles and dust steamed lightly, as if a hidden river of lava flowed beneath. All was quiet now. Peaceful. The gods were content now that The Trials were over. The Gate Keeper had been named, and none alive could deny that.
A single stone wiggled back and forth, then rolled down the side of the hill made of pebbles and loose rock, one of many steaming piles scattered about the area. Another stone moved in a similar fashion, then rolled down the other side. A nearby black bird perched on a dead branch looked on with interest, its head tilted sideways, blinking curiously at the pile of stones.
A sudden disruption from beneath the pile sent the startled bird into flight. Rocks scattered about in a spray of debris as a hand burst upward. Covered with multiple lacerations, dust combined with dry blood caked the trembling hand in a crumbly shell.
It reached about desperately, scratching around at the loose stone. Morita’s mangled face popped through the gravel, gasping for air, cursing the gods...
I will crush her!
* * *
Dipping his leathery hands into the old chipped stone basin, the man splashed lukewarm water across his neck and chest. Sullied, a light brown resembling tea, the water trickled down his front, dampening his tattered brown pants. Dipping his cupped hands again, the old soldier splashed himself several more times. Tainted liquid dripped from his chin, trickling down over numerous scars across his chest and stomach.
Placing two fingers into a small jar of white paste, he gazed into the looking glass. Broken sharp edges with no frame, the warped glass had a single, jagged crack across its middle. A twisted, distorted image stared back at him. His forehead seemed to bulge, his chiseled jaw stretching down longer on one side, and his graying hair flared out wildly. But even through the deformed reflection, the dark eyes of a hawk stared back crisp and clear, as if they were the only feature unaffected by the misshapen glass.
Other men wandered around the dank, stone room. Many were no strangers to this place, having been forced to participate in the games various times before. After all, competing in the games was an easy way to win back your freedom, or even pay off a debt. Easy enough for some...as long as they didn’t fear death. Others sat quietly by themselves, alone, praying that they might live to see another day.
But no one bothered the grizzled soldier while he smeared the white paste across his face and chest. Despite living down here for so long, hidden away from civilized society, they knew who this soldier was, and were fully aware of what had recently transpired outside these walls. The betrayal of the crytons, the surrender of Taron, and the fate of their beloved queen. Word of her sacrifice had spread like wildfire, even finding the ears of these poor souls.
Some of these men were here because of Azek Lamanton. Many had bragged of what they would do if they ever had the chance to get their hands on him. Clearly, it was the hollow boasting of fools, for here he was, the legendary captain of the guard, standing only a few feet away. He had graying hair, was slight of frame, and well into his middle years, yet none dared approach the bladesmaster. Better to take their chances in the arena.
A door
opened from across the room. As was customary, the men kept their eyes low while three large men in chainmail armor marched in. Avoiding eye contact made them feel like their chances of going into the arena were lessened somehow. Of course, this absurd thinking made no sense. Surely the combatants for the next event had already been decided on, but it still made them feel as if they had some control over the situation.
Armor clanging with each step, they marched up to a group of four men who still kept their eyes on the floor. The room was dimly lit; only a few lanterns hung about on thick black hooks. With the oil in each running out, their dull flames grew low and sickly. One of the soldiers lifted one from the wall and turned back to the four men.
Holding it high, the low light was enough to clearly show his face. He had deep-set blue eyes, and a thick greasy mustache that rode across his cheeks, joining up into his sideburns. “Where is the newcomer?” he bellowed. Heads sank even lower, while others turned away altogether.
“You know my name, Anglot,” hissed Azek from the other side of the room. “Is it my turn to satisfy the mob’s bloodlust?”
He and the other three men moved towards the stone basin and stood beside the grizzled soldier. Anglot sighed, placing his hand on Azek’s shoulder. “Azek, I’m sorry old friend, but you know why we are here. I have to follow her orders, just as I once followed yours. And please, don’t blame the people. They’re frightened and confused just like everyone else.”
Azek slowly turned to face them. Stunned, Anglot pulled his hand away, nearly dropping the lantern. They each took a step backward, shaken by the eerie sight. White paint highlighted most of Azek’s face and much of his chest. Black paint circled his already dark eyes, making the sockets appear empty. Dark, looping lines around his grimacing mouth gave the appearance of an extra set of teeth. The soldiers found themselves staring into the eyes of a living skeleton. “Then we must not keep her waiting,” said the skeleton, giving them each a chilling stare.
