by T P Sheehan
“Have him spend the night with that woman he calls his mother. He’s safer there. And I want no less than the four of you at the door at all times. If anyone so much as lands a finger on him, you’ll all be sold into slavery.”
Magnus was unsettled by Carlo’s comment about Sarah. Does he know the truth about her? He considered him for a moment, wondering how much more Carlo knew about him than he realised.
“Wait… Leave us a moment,” Carlo ordered his guards, who moved out of the armoury, leaving Magnus and Carlo alone together. Carlo paced up and down the room, looking to the ground. He had one hand behind his back and the other stroking his silver goatee. After his third time back across the room, Carlo stopped in his tracks and rested his index finger upon his lips, frowning.
“Why are you here, Lucas, if that really is your name?” Carlo asked.
Magnus could not understand why he was being asked such a question. “Because you made purchase of me.”
“No, no. Why are you here in Ba’rrat? Is it that woman? Sarah? She means something to you, that I can see. But she’s no relative of yours. Being captured by the Quag guards? I don’t see it. There’s more to know and you’re going to tell me.”
“There’s nothing more to tell.”
“I’ve completely run out of patience with you, boy.” Carlo thumped a table with a strong fist, making Magnus shift uneasily on his feet. Carlo pointed an accusing finger. “You’re strong, unnaturally strong. Some twisted work of gypsy magic and a decent education in swordsmanship keeps you in good stead. But if push comes to shove, I will kill you myself, do we understand one another?”
Magnus realised he was going to have to come up with a more convincing story, but he needed to at least challenge Carlo’s accusations. “Who are you to say she is not my mother?”
Carlo grabbed a pair of small wooden stools, handed one to Magnus and sat on the other. “Sit,” he instructed. Magnus did as told, sitting beside him. Carlo spoke softly, “I have spent my life sizing people up. I know what gives one warrior strength and another speed. These are different traits typical of each of the realms with few exceptions. This woman Sarah is a gypsy—through and through. You bear no resemblance to her. She is short, you are tall. You have fine hair, long limbs and an objective demeanour—those are the attributes of people from the Ice Realm. These would be from your real mother. Your fighting style and sword skill is somewhat refined but brutal in execution—not from the North at all, but, I warrant, from the Fire Realm. Taught by your father no doubt. Correct me where I’m wrong.”
Magnus was left without words. The bravado he felt moments ago was gone and replaced with a deep sense of insecurity. Carlo had summed him up perfectly. All he had to do was name his parents, reveal his true identity and turn him over to Delvion and his wretched son. But there was more—he could feel it. There was a point to Carlo’s revelation.
“This woman you are so protective of. I see you know each other well. But there is more. You owe her something.”
Magnus felt the need to emphasise her importance to him. “I owe her my life. She and her husband saved my life.”
“Her husband you say. This is one of the men you asked me of, whose horse is ridden by Daxton?”
“Aye, it is,” Magnus said.
“Would it appease you to know this man—together with another I will assume is your father—is still alive? For now, at any rate.”
Magnus was stricken with shock. He leapt to his feet and held one of the black blades to Carlo’s throat. Carlo responded with a dagger of his own pressed to Magnus’s breast above his heart. Neither budged from their position.
“What do you know of my father?” Magnus wanted to slaughter the man with every fibre of his being, but for the ache in his heart that so desperately wanted to know more.
“Both are captive here in Ba’rrat, under the King’s guard. I tried to make purchase of them when they arrived the week before you did. Thanks to Delvion, they can’t be bought at any price.”
They are here. Magnus tried to hide his relief. He removed his blade from Carlo’s neck. In turn, Carlo withdrew his own blade.
“It seems he has taken an interest in them, particularly since word has spread of Delvion’s son exacting revenge for his brother’s death—a death your father was responsible for.” Carlo looked Magnus over, as though seeing him in a different light for the first time. “Unless you have a brother, you were the son Crugion is supposed to have slayed?” Carlo asked. Magnus nodded in confession. “There is just the minor problem of you, the supposedly dead son, drawing so much attention to yourself just now. The best of Crugion’s men will no doubt wish to prove themselves against you in the arena. Tell me J’esmagdman, will they likely recognise you?”
“Crugion certainly will. And another—Briet.”
“Ah, Briet. A savage warrior that man.”
“You know of him?” Magnus asked.
“Aye, I do. And if it’s him you face in the arena, you’d best fight with everything you’ve got. He’s killed every man he’s ever faced—in the arena and on the battlefield. Including many of my men.”
Magnus looked Carlo over to see if he was serious about Briet. His bitter expression confirmed it. All the pieces of the puzzle seemed to be falling into place in Magnus’s mind. All but one—where was his mother? He wanted to ask Carlo about her, but thought it best to keep something to himself. After all, he had no idea where Carlo’s loyalties lay.
Carlo sheathed his dagger and let out an exasperated breath. “Well, if we’re having you fight Delvion’s guards we can’t have you looking like a filthy slave anymore. The crowd see you as a warrior and so a warrior you shall be. Dine with your companion as you always do then return here. I will have a smithy fit you for appropriate armour including a helmet to aid in your disguise.”
Magnus nodded in appreciation, more so for Carlo’s discretion about his identity than the offer of armour. Before Carlo called in his guards to take him away, Magnus asked Carlo a final pressing question.
“When all this is over, what of Sarah? What will become of her?”
Carlo nodded. “I tell you what. You have fought well and longer than I anticipated in the arena. Give me a month more with the stakes raised as they are and she is free to go.”
REPERCUSSIONS
Magnus shared what he knew with Sarah that evening. Relief mixed with desperation washed over her face.
“One more month, then Carlo will free you.”
It was not soon enough for Sarah, who made him promise to escape when he could. He did so, knowing he would do no such thing until Sarah was safely away herself.
After his supper, Magnus returned to the armoury where a smithy was shaping a set of armour for him.
The smithy was a man of few words, which allowed Magnus to think over his predicament while he was fitted with various steel plates for size. Sarah wanted him to break free to try and find Ganister and his father as soon as he could. Yet if he did so without taking Sarah with him, Carlo would certainly kill her. Furthermore, he still had no idea where Delvion was keeping Ganister and his father, but was sure it would be the most guarded of prisons. There appeared to Magnus to be no solution, and yet he was so close. There was a solution at hand—he could feel it—but could not put his finger on it. His thoughts were broken as Carlo entered the armoury.
“It would seem your antics in the arena today have brought what you requested.” Carlo handed Magnus a piece of paper. The paper was folded and addressed to Carlo. It had a broken wax seal, stamped with the Quag coat of arms consisting of a cross and two curved swords angled through the cross. Magnus folded back the letter and read the inked inscription within.
Carlo Dresenga,
It has come to my attention that you attempt to bring the abilities of my warriors into disrepute. Within the realm of Ba’rrat this is punishable by death. However, in light of your contribution to Ba’rrat’s arena and the games within, I forward two of my men. Should your entran
t into the games die, you have been proven wrong and your life is forfeit. Should both my men die, your point is made and I shall spare your life and pay the sum of 50,000 darna for ownership of your champion. The games will be held in the arena at dawn.
Delvion, King of Allumbreve.
Magnus’s mind spun. He sat to avoid falling and reluctantly looked to Carlo whose expression was blank.
“You will kill these men or I will see to it that every person you know dies an agonising death. Including Ganister and your father. Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” Magnus murmured.
“Do you hear me?” Carlo shouted.
“I do,” Magnus said, nodding. Carlo signalled to the guards who pulled Magnus to his feet and dragged him out of the armoury.
Magnus shouted after Carlo, “What of Sarah? What will happen to her?”
Carlo stared blankly at Magnus as he was dragged away. He was taken back to the dungeons, rather than to Sarah’s room for the night as was planned.
Locked as usual in cage six, Magnus sat cross-legged in the back corner of the room. Brutus was no longer in there with him and was nowhere to be seen within the other five cages. Magnus knew this meant he had lost his life in the arena. He shook with fear as to the ramifications of him losing the following day. All his worries came to a head at once.
‘What if I fail?” Magnus mumbled to himself, shaking his head. He knew Delvion would send nothing less than his best men into the arena. What was I thinking… was I thinking at all? He fought to keep thoughts of those he loved from his mind for fear the pain would make him go mad. Can a madman win in the arena? He clenched his fists as tightly as he could until his knuckles turned white and his nails dug deep into the palms of his hands.
The harder he clenched, the more the dragon blood within him coursed through his arms and into his tightly bound fists, until he felt as if they would burn from the heat. But the feeling helped dull six months of pain. Gritting his teeth, Magnus stared at his fists, focussing to maintain the tension to see just how much of the heat he could bear. There must be a limit.
But what was beyond that limit? How was he to master this gift—this blessing of being the Electus—if he did not truly know what he was capable of? In the flash of a moment, the heat reached a climax and, straining to keep himself from screaming, his fists burst into two balls of flame.
Magnus leapt back, releasing his fists and spanning his fingers outward. The pain was gone, but the flames remained. He shook his hands, trying to shake the flames free but they clung to his flesh. He stared in shock. His hands were now completely engulfed in fire, yet there was no more pain and it did not burn him.
Awestruck by the spectacle, Magnus brought his hands together, then as he separated them a large ball of fire formed between the palms of his hands. He shook one hand free, leaving him holding the crimson ball within the palm of one hand. A grin crossed Magnus’s face and he spoke the spell his father had taught him—“Fara gin parshin-ar.”
The ball of fire exploded outward, filling all the cages in the dungeon with a flash of light. The other prisoners screamed in terror and Magnus heard the footsteps of the guards approaching. But as they entered the dungeons, the light had vanished and all that remained was a trail of smoke wafting toward the ceiling.
Magnus lay to sleep, facing away from the guards. His heart raced. Hope returned and as the night passed, he began to feel tired and drifted off to sleep, smiling and feeling more confident of the battle he was to fight in the arena the following day. At least that was one thing whose outcome he was now certain of.
BREAK IN
After passing into Ba’rrat without any trouble, Catanya spent the afternoon weaving her way through the throng of traders, trying to garner whatever information she could about where the prisoners were kept. She asked a question here and a question there, but was careful to never ask much of any one stranger, fearing it could cause suspicion.
At first her venture proved fruitless. The best she got was from a young farmer’s wife who pointed to a gate. “Many a prisoner is taken through there, but once underground, only a guard of the city knows of the labyrinth that weaves beneath.” Further inquiries suggested there were countless gates like this one, all servicing networks of underground tunnels. Catanya knew she needed more information than this.
As the day grew old and Catanya grew impatient, an eruption of excitement exploded from the direction of the arena. Catanya moved to the centre of the city and came upon throngs of people leaving the arena through its numerous gates. They were all talking about the warrior who had just battled a notorious slave by the name of Shadow and defeated him easily. The warrior’s name was Balgur. This got Catanya’s attention. With the people of Ba’rrat so distracted, Catanya dove in with questions.
“Tell me about Balgur!”
“Where is he from?”
“What does he look like?”
“How long has he been fighting in Ba’rrat’s arena?”
All the descriptions seemed to fit, but one—“He is built like a true warrior!”
Magnus? Built like a warrior? Catanya tried to imagine it, but could not. Then she remembered Magnus laughing at the thought of her becoming an Irucantî—and yet here I am… and if Magnus is the Electus…Catanya was sure then that the warrior named Balgur must be him.
Heeding the words of the farmer’s wife, Catanya knew she needed to find a guard to take her to Magnus. But not just any guard. It would have be one that worked for whoever claimed ownership over him.
“That would be Carlo Dresenga,” a well-dressed trader shared with her. “His fortunes have changed since Balgur entered the arena.”
As night came, Catanya retreated from obvious sight and studied the toing and froing of the guards of the city. They frequently moved in companies of two, three or four and crossed paths with other guards as they went. But as the hours passed, their numbers dwindled and many—particularly the younger ones—retreated to the taverns dotted around the southern end of Ba’rrat. Catanya decided it was one of these guards who could be persuaded to help her find Magnus.
As Catanya watched on, she thought more about Magnus and how he had remained captive for such a long period of time. Surely if he has the strength to fight for so long in the arena, he has what it takes to escape. What keeps him here? She was sure she would find out soon enough.
As the hours went by, Catanya chose a well-frequented bar close to the city’s gates. Here, she spotted the old farmer who had helped her into Ba’rrat. He seemed to be enjoying himself, draining his purse of gold coins in exchange for ale and wine. By midnight, guards started to spill out of the tavern, drunk and disorderly and in no condition to put up a fight should Catanya pose a threat. But she waited in the darkness of shadows, hidden from the street lamps and rising moon, watching in silence.
As the hours passed, the tavern’s patrons became louder and more intoxicated. They were leaving in fewer numbers and in worse condition. Two of the guards left the tavern and stumbled into the street, arguing.
“Fifty darna says Balgur defeats Delvion’s men,” slurred one of the guards.
“I don’t care how good he is, there’s no way a slave can best two Quag warriors,” his friend argued.
“It’s a bet then.” the first guard tripped over his own feet, his friend steadying him.
“Aye. It’s a bet.” The two men shook hands.
Watching them, Catanya pulled back her hood, swept her hair across the left side of her head to conceal her markings and loosened the top of her robe. It took her little effort to present as an attractive young woman rather than a deadly Ferustir. She strode out in front of the guards, who were quick to notice her. “Good evening, my beauty!” one of them shouted. “Would you join us for a drink?”
“Perhaps,” Catanya answered. The guards cheered with excitement. Catanya flashed a glance at their swords—each carried a single, heavy longsword that would be slow to draw in their inebriated state.
&nbs
p; ‘Come then, join us back in the tavern!” the second guard encouraged.
“I’ve a better idea,” Catanya spoke pleasantly. “Follow me.” Much to their excitement, Catanya led the guards back up the narrow street. When they were out of sight of the tavern and away from the street lamps, she stopped and turned to them. The pungent scent of wine was on their breath.
“Do you know where I can find Carlo?” Catanya asked.
“Carlo? Carlo who?” the first guard replied.
“Carlo Dresenga.”
“Nay, but stupid Stubert here does. He works for him.” He pointed to the second guard, who struggled to walk at all, making his friend laugh. “What do you want of Carlo that you cannot have of us, my lady?”
Catanya ignored him and addressed Stubert. “You work for Carlo? Do you know where he keeps his slaves?”
“Of course, what of it?” Stubert said.
The first guard reached for Catanya. She brushed his arm away, still focussing her attention on Stubert. “Is Balgur among them?”
“Aye. You’ve got a sweet spot for the dragon warrior, have you?” Stubert said. “I’m not sure Carlo would approve of conjugal visits. You’re best saving yourself for one of his men, pretty lady!”
Stubert made a clumsy lunge at Catanya. She stepped back and the other guard jumped at her and wrapped his arms tightly around her. His face was right at the back of her head. Catanya was quick to react. She threw her head back, breaking his nose. With a yell, he let go of Catanya, who pulled a throwing knife from beneath her robe and thrust it into his throat. She pushed the struggling guard to the roadside where he fell, gasping for breath. Retrieving her knife, she turned quickly to Stubert. She pulled her lance and pressed it to the guard’s face. “You will take me to Carlo’s slaves.”
His eyes widened at the sight of the weapon held against him. The lance was unlit, yet its red glow moved about beneath Catanya’s fingers. Stubert looked from Catanya to his friend, whose struggle for breath was weakening. “Who are you?” he stammered.
