Aketa's Djinn (The Caine Mercer Series Book 1)

by Cale Madison

  “So the victor becomes a slave in his Elite?” I asked, confused.

  “I traded pelts for a living,” the prisoner replied, “that man over there, in the corner, would carry sacks of wheat and grain for miles across mountains. We chose life over death, knowing what would come of it. The Elites are pampered by beautiful women and live in the Baron’s castle with endless wine and nice, comfy beds. There are no slaves here.”

  I allowed his words to help drift me into a deep, deep sleep. I cared little if I would awaken from it; the only person who mattered in the world to me sat waiting for me, nearly thousands of miles away while I lay chained in another cell.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE BLOODY EYE

  Even after the Baron’s guards awoken me, I had not fully opened my eyes until I was rushed into the burning light of an early morning. Crowds had gathered across the fields and orchards, cheering and screaming in excitement as we were led in a single-file manner down the path. Some would cry out, offering prayers and coin, betting on which prisoner would survive; some tossed apple cores and chucked rotten fruit at us in disdain. Being the second in line, I had the next best view of what was to come. My wrists were rubbed raw from a night sleeping in iron shackles and my neck muscles strained from sleeping on the hard, filthy floor.

  “I’ve got twenty coin on the bald one!” a patron shouted.

  “I’ll raise you ten for the big one in the front!” yelled another.

  The consistent betting pierced my ears like hot fire, knowing that they would not dare venture to be the ones in our position. We marched across hills and valleys, followed by the crowds. Laborers and their masters, onlookers and spectators, even peasants and their families walked alongside, muttering to each other in anticipation for the annual show. Children frolicked about the audience, swinging wooden swords in a feeble imitation.

  We finally reached the arena after hours of restless marching and heckling from our followers. The Bloody Eye towered above the trees, resting atop the tallest hill in the Southern Isles, overlooking miles of desolate land. Once inside, I noticed twelve gates encircling the bottom floor of the stadium, each appearing empty. This colloseum stood proudly, exquisite in its sleek design and structurally incredible. The Bloody Eye was nothing I had ever laid my eyes on before.

  The guards led us each into our individual cells, locking us inside. Outside in the stands above, civilians found their seats to watch over us. Peasants brought their children and families to watch a dozen frightened young men fight to the death.

  “One broad sword and shield,” a guard declared from behind me, dropping my gear, “best of luck. Word has gotten around that you’ve slain Skalige’s dragon so I’ve got forty coin riding on you lasting more than three minutes. Stay in the back.”

  “I haven’t slain-”

  “Shh,” he interrupted, “can’t get my coin back now. Stay optimistic.”

  With those final words of encouragement, he closed the door and then latched it from the other side. I lifted the blade, admiring the sleek design and golden hilt. Surprisingly, it was a perfect fit for someone of my stature. I could hear the Baron’s deep voice booming from outside the cell.

  “People of the Southern Isles, I bid you a grand welcome for another glorious year,” he announced, after which the crowd erupted in cheering, “we begin the new season with an offering to the almighty Gods. May they remain fruitful to our survival and have an everlasting mercy on us.”

  I stepped to the gate, lifting my shield and admiring the craftsmanship; it looked as if Taryn had forged it himself as I studied the intricate details: a blue frame, reinforced with multiple layers of steel. Suddenly, I noticed something inscribed into the leather grip. It read: AKETA. The Djinn must be continuing to provide assistance from the shadows. My sword had changed drastically from the blade I was given earlier, becoming sharper and lighter than before.

  “My fellow countrymen,” the Baron shouted, “you gather together on this beautiful morning to watch an event; an event uncomparable in magnificence. An event that has built the bravest soldiers I have ever known, or will ever have the pleasure to know. These twelve contestants have gathered now to fight, nay to kill for us and for our Gods. They are the true heroes today. It is my distinct honor to present to you the annual Tourney of the Bloody Eye!”

  He then turned to the prison cells below his podium, calling down to us, “You will fight to the death for a place among my Elite. Should you choose to cower away and refuse to fight, you will be executed. Should you attempt to flee the arena, you will be executed. The only escape from this pit is to hold the last breath.”

  I understood in this one moment that there would be no escape or returning from madness such as this. All of my life, I shied away from conflict but now, it has been forced upon me in this misguided path. The other patrons in this debacle stood either trembling behind their gates or appeared battle-ready. I tightened my grip on my newly-acquired blade and shield, mentally preparing myself for the forthcoming bedlam. My arms felt weak from lack of sleep and my excessive hunger, my eyes having to squint against the blinding sunlight; the crowds adored every second of our pain.

  “When the gates arise, you will fight. You will fight until the last blood has been spilt. A spectacle for the amusement of the almighty Gods. May they bless another year with crops in our fields and rain on our houses.” Baron Skalige shouted before sending the order to open the cells.

  The gate containing me to my cell rose sharply as he gave the command; I planned to stay hidden the shadows until one of the Baron’s guards shot an arrow at my feet, prompting me to step forward. Eleven other cells opened, releasing warriors and cowards into the arena with me. Each contender wielded a different shield and weapon as they stepped out onto the sunlit sand, scanning each other for who would be their first victim.

  A man with prison tattoos covering his arms and chest raised his spear in my direction, shouting, “You’re first, boy!” He then began to sprint towards me, but was inevitably blindsided by another contender who easily knocked him onto his side.

  I stood, watching in shock as warriors buried blades and knives into each others’ bodies, screaming and fighting to their last breath. Guts spewed from open cavities, pouring out onto the sand beneath us. A sharp pain to the side of my skull awoke me from this instant of trauma, bringing me to my knees as the tattooed warrior lifted me by my neck.

  A surge of energy within my soul found its way into my sword; I then thrusted it deep in between his ribcage. He staggered backwards, surprised, releasing me and collapsing onto the bloody sand. Above us, the crowds erupted in an uproar.

  Another contender swung his iron-clad mace at me, barely grazing my chin as it soared through the air. The chain on his weapon could easily reach me where I stood, so I strategized and departed as he ascended upon me. With each of his forward steps, I moved backwards, continuously dodging his blows. The heavy morning star loudly struck the sand, prompting gasps of terror from the crowds and with every strain of his iron flail, those same onlookers cheered. My head pounded as waves of sudden anxiety washed over me, shortening my reaction time and blinding me to the surrounding madness.

  Uninterested in a spectacular performance for my audience, I evaded the mace for one final time before running at the warrior at full force. My blade pierced his upper thigh, leaving a sizeable gash leading down to his kneecap and causing him to double over in agony. I backed away to watch him be slaughtered by the other contenders. I kept close to the arena wall, protecting my vulnerability from those who may have been behind me. I watched as smaller warriors became pinned into the sand before their victors finished them off quickly. Helmets rolled and swords dropped from lifeless hands.

  The horrors continued as those with proper battle training mutilated those without. Wounded contenders staggered, desperately trying to shield against their attackers with gaping punctures in their necks and arms. The crowds cried and applauded each death while I spectated from a s
afe distance. Bodies were carved in half, heads were sliced from their necks and the people above were ecstatic. The clean, white sand had become painted in dark red.

  Two warriors and myself remained. Their swords clashed against their shields and bodies struck the sand as they moved across the Eye, each swinging at their legs in misfired attempts to immobilize the other. I scrambled to find the flail or the mace as a precautionary second-weapon. Imminently, the taller warrior decapitated the other fighter with his broadsword, then turned towards me.

  We circled each other as my eyes frantically searched for the long-range mace buried in the sand somewhere. I could see an enraged, blood-thirsty look in his eyes. The bald warrior beat his shield against his chest, yelling for me to make my move. As soon as I found the mace, he threw himself upon me, swinging his sword at my tired body. His blade struck against my shield, inches away from killing me and his other fist found its way into my stomach.

  Out of breath and exhausted, I shoved him away from me and ran towards the mace, still locked within the hand of a fallen contender. As I pried the hilt from the dead man’s grasp, I felt a sharp, piercing pain strike through my left shoulder. The bloody tip of a sword thrust through my body for what felt like a lifetime until finally being withdrawn. I collapsed into the sand and felt the heavy waves of an eternal sleep rush over my eyes.

  “I am your champion, Baron!” the last contender proclaimed to Skalige.

  The crowds joined together in unison as they applauded and shouted. The warrior raised his blood-caked blade above his head as they cheered for him. Then, soft murmurs of contention began in the audience as I rose to my feet and swung the flail with all of my remaining strength. The heavy morning star soared through the air for mere seconds as the warrior turned his head, only to feel the crushing blow against his skull. The cracking sound could have been heard for miles around, silencing the spectators and bringing the Baron to his feet. With the spiked ball embedded into the side of his face, the man swayed for a moment before falling face-first onto the ground. Suddenly, I found myself to be the sole survivor in the arena.

  “Behold, our victor!” declared the Baron to his satisfied audience.

  I rose to my feet and staggered to find my balance. Spectators cried and cheered, finally having their appetites for blood satisfied for the coming year. My throbbing head pounded with the Baron’s drums until I could no longer stand it; I collapsed into the sand atop a lifeless corpse, hearing the gasps of thousands above me.

  * * * * * *

  “You proved yourself admirable in the arena, sir,” the Baron’s high steward said to me, “and as such, have gained a brief audience. One of which he is most intrigued.”

  “Noted.” I replied, checking my wounded shoulder. I had awoken on a table in the Baron’s medical wing, patched and treated with bowls filled with dark blood beside me.

  “The blade that pierced your arm was, fortunately, not rusted. The injury has been thoroughly cleaned and tended to. Luckily, you lasted as long as you did.” the steward said with a slight grin.

  “How was that lucky?”

  “I wagered you would survive five minutes. Now I have the coin for proper medical tools. Everything works out, it seems,” he answered, “but the Baron is an impatient man, so follow me.”

  The steward then led me down several empty corridors in the Baron’s fortress, lit in the dusk by vague torch-light on the opposing walls. Apparently, I had been lying unconscious in the medical wing for the majority of the afternoon. We were now dawning on the sixth day of the Djinn’s trials, much closer to schedule than I ever wanted to be. After familiar flights of stairs, we descended into the Baron’s chamber. The large man stood with his back to us, running his hands through documents and parchments strewn across his table.

  “Sir, the victor.” the steward announced as he stood upright in an honorable manner. Skalige turned to us, appearing delighted to see me after the battle. He laughed, heartily and embraced me as I stood in a bewildered state with his visible eye gleaming from admiration.

  “Quite the show, my boy,” he cackled before dismissing the steward, “quite the show. The crowds loved every twist and turn and they especially adored you.”

  “Not certain I feel the same about them.” I replied.

  “In my many years, I have never seen such a fight,” he said, “you come in as a foreign straggler, pulled from the ruins of a sunken ship. I won about two hundred crowns to your victory and had it not been for your impeccable return at the end, I would not be in such a chipper mood now.”

  “Wouldn’t the coin just return to you anyway?”

  “You think we’re savages? Nay, the coin goes to the treasurer who then dispenses it accordingly throughout the city. It’s all an entertaining game, wagering on the tourney.” the Baron answered.

  “You host this tournament each year?”

  “An annual holiday for my people,” he answered, “it helps relieve the agonizing stress behind a year of drought and famine. Disease has sunk its fangs into our land, pumping its venom until we’re left with nothing but dirt. The Bloody Eye serves as our escape from this harsh reality.”

  I understood in some strange way. The Baron, still wearing the half-forged helmet that concealed his face, crossed to the other side of the room to read other papers. I glanced over the parchments on the center table, recognizing Mercia and Ataman in an instant. Skalige turned to me, noticing my interest in the map.

  “So you hail from the North?” he asked.

  “A full-blooded Mercian like my father and his father before him,” I replied, “it’s peculiar how far away it all seems now.”

  “Why in fuck’s sake would a Mercian be so far from home? Full-blooded or not, nobody comes into our waters without a distinct errand to run. After seeing you in battle, I must ask: what military trained you?”

  “None. Just very, very lucky.” I answered. He smiled back.

  “Ah...on a more serious note, tell me why you’ve come.” he demanded, his smile fading into an emotionless grin. I felt a surge of uneasiness come over me. Now that I had experienced the warlord’s malice first-hand, I knew that the safest place was staying on his good side. I learned from Ulrik’s fiasco that not everyone is as liking to the Djinn’s existence as me, so I quickly configured a different answer.

  “I’ve come to set eyes upon the famous Crescent Moon.”

  Skalige’s eye shifted to my direction. I sensed some kind of unpleasantness in his relation to the tower I spoke of; hopefully, the conversation would steer in more favorable means in comparison to my previous encounters with these estranged men.

  “The tower,” he asked, “why’s it sparked your interest?”

  I prepared my lie, explaining, “When I was younger, my father would take me hunting and tell me of a tower across the sea. One of monumental size and stature, overlooking the world beyond. He claimed that upon this tower, you can see the Gods themselves.” I then paused, sprinkling truth within the deceit before continuing, “Unfortunately, he passed in that following spring from fever. I thought to honor his memory by setting eyes upon the one place he had never seen himself.”

  “I relate to this story, I do,” the Baron replied, exhaling slowly as he contemplated each word, “it is a magnificent wonder. Not nearly as tall as your father claims but it is indeed a masterpiece of architectural design.”

  “I thought, perhaps, that coming here would help his spirit find peace in the afterlife. I meant no harm to your dragon or the arena warriors.” I admitted, hoping to stay naive in his mind.

  “Benny will be fine. She’s a tough, tough girl,” the Baron laughed, “we once rescued a wrecked ship, full of Ataman Guardsmen crossing the sea that wandered too far off course and found themselves in her wake. Benny took about half a dozen with her to the depths, leaving the rest with stories to tell their families. When we found her, nearly fifty arrows and spears were stuck in her scales. She’s a fighter, that one.”

  “I’m happy
to hear you’re close with her. My wife and I never could agree on a pet to share a home with. Certainly not a water dragon.” I replied.

  “Dragons are docile creatures,” Skalige continued, “if someone were to step onto your doorstep and start throwing fire, you wouldn’t have it. Neither do they when we attempt the same.”

  “Can I ask a personal question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it only you that runs this kingdom? Where are your kingsmen and family?” I asked him, seeking more details of his life outside of this fortress. His eyes lowered.

  “What remained of my family died many, many moons ago. As for kingsmen, my Elites patrol the outer boundaries of the Isles, searching for new recruits and salvageable goods.” Skalige answered.

  “Sorry to hear that,” I replied, sympathetically, “what’s left of mine is in Mercia.”

  “Do yourself a favor. Go back to your family, Mercian. You’ll find nothing but barren land and unlawful souls in this part of the world.”

  With those words, he readied himself to depart from the chamber. I had to act quickly, as to ensure his company to the tower without him discovering some shred of my actual intent. I looked over the scrolls laying on his desk, moving them as I thought of some way to convince him.

  “Have you ever seen it yourself?” I asked.

  “Seen what? The tower?”

  I nodded.

  “I have but I’d rather not speak of it.”

  “Could you at least tell me where it is?” I asked, persistently. Skalige pointed towards the table as he departed, replying, “There is the map of the Isles. You’ll find what you’re looking for, there. I have other matters to attend to.”

  “Who did you lose?” I objected.