by T P Sheehan
With over half of the escaped prisoners armed, they made their way further south toward the gate, keeping to the shadows. Soon the gate was in sight and Catanya turned away from it, down a narrow alleyway where several market carts and horses rested. She recognised the cart belonging to the farmer with whom she had entered Ba’rrat. His cart was now empty of sacks and in their place were bags of manure purchased to fertilise his crops back in Brindle.
Knowing the farmer was most likely still at the tavern, Catanya set her escapees to work. While Sarah petted the farmer’s horses, she pulled back the large tarpaulin covering the cart and had them remove half the stock of fertiliser. They then hid amongst the foul-smelling stuff that remained.
“Cover yourself in manure. You must mask your scent from the wyverns who patrol outside the gates,” Catanya instructed. Without hesitation, they did as told.
“Should I join them?” Sarah asked.
“No. I need you up front with me,” Catanya said. She tied the tarpaulin down again and handed Sarah the farmer’s coat and hat that lay on the seat of the carriage. Sarah donned the disguise and tied her hair up into the farmer’s hat. Catanya pulled the hood of her brown robe over her head. “All must appear as it did when this cart arrived.”
Catanya pulled on the horses’ reins, setting the cart trundling slowly toward the city gates. As they got close, a single guard approached. He appeared somewhat annoyed at being risen so late in the night.
“Late is the hour for your departure, old man.”
Sarah turned to Catanya and whispered, “Let me deal with this.” Catanya held firm to her hidden lance as Sarah leaned forward and spoke to the guard in a deep voice. “I carry goods too unpleasant to spend the night within the city walls. A fellow colleague of yours insisted we take our leave.”
“Oh?” the guard exclaimed, moving in closer to Sarah. “What are your goods then that be so unpleasant?”
Sarah reached behind her, burying her hand beneath the tarpaulin and pulled forward a large clump of the steaming horse manure. “Here, you see!” she exclaimed in her deep voice, shoving it under the guard’s nose.
“Ah! Get that away from me. What is that filth?”
“Aye! It’s filth! Too good for the fine folk of Ba’rrat!” Sarah enthused. “But wonderful for the crops back ‘ome!”
The guard wiped his face with a sleeve and cursed. “Open!” he shouted to the gatekeepers as he stood back from the cart. “See if I don’t double your fee next time you enter the city gates!”
Catanya moved the cart forward once again as the iron gates divided, allowing her, Sarah and the sixteen other escapees to leave the city of Ba’rrat. The checkpoints beyond the gate had no interest in people as they left the city, and the one wyvern lurking about in the night seemed to pick up the scent of their goods from afar and kept its distance.
Catanya smiled to herself, for she had expected far worse of the ordeal. But it was not over for her yet. Now to get back into Ba’rrat…
DELVION
By twisting his wrist and fiddling about with the lock, Magnus was able to secure cage number six from the inside. He pulled the rusty iron key from its lock and wedged it between the stone wall and lower bar of the prison cage.
Magnus lay down, closed his eyes and waited.
It did not take long to be visited by a group of vengeful guards. He knew they were there to punish him for the death of their kinsmen and so Magnus braced against their assault, resisting a counter attack. He and his fellow prisoners had been warned too many times that the penalty for attacking a guard was death. Magnus had come too far to forfeit his life for such a thing.
The beating seemed to go on forever before Carlo arrived, by which time Magnus was injured worse than he had ever been in the arena.
Carlo was furious.
“You all but kill the only person able to keep me alive beyond today!”
Magnus had not paid thought to this. If I die, Carlo dies… At least there will be some justice in that.
“Can you stand?” Carlo asked, concern in his voice. Magnus nodded, struggling to get up. His body flooded with heat—the healing had begun. The guards had broken several ribs and possibly his jaw. His right forearm was broken and his left knee had given in. After a moment limping about Magnus started to feel sick and fevers started to take hold of him. He had not had this sickness in months. Why now?
“Anunya,” he mumbled.
“What was that?” Carlo asked.
Magnus threw up and doubled over, succumbing to the rigors that accompanied the sickness. “Just give me a while,” Magnus grunted through chattering teeth.
“Damn it!” Carlo directed his anger at the guards. “You delinquents should each receive five lashings of the whip for this. Do you think if he killed the guards and freed all the prisoners he’d still be in his cage? It’s more likely one of you drunk bastards left doors unlocked and they freed themselves!”
All the prisoners… Magnus smiled through his shakes. Catanya had been clever. No better way to hide Sarah as being the primary target than to free other prisoners as well.
“Clean him up as best you can,” Carlo barked, then spoke directly to Magnus. “It seems Delvion has been alerted to the prisoners escaping. Between that and your actions, he has taken an unpleasant interest in my affairs.”
Magnus wiped blood from his mouth. Sitting up as best he could, he stared at Carlo, showing deliberate contempt for the man. He could see fear in his face—he looked like he had aged ten years in one night.
“I’ve just spent the best part of an hour reasoning with the man. I’ve not grovelled like that since I was a boy.”
Magnus tried not to laugh.
“Delvion now wishes to meet with you,’ Carlo said. “Not so smug now, hey?” He stormed out of the cage but turned back. “You just remember our agreement.”
One of the guards threw a bucket of cold water over Magnus’s body. He gasped from the shock, but it seemed to help with his sickness. Another bucket followed and then a third.
“Like the big man said—we’re cleaning you up,” the guard sneered.
Magnus paid no attention to him. His blurred vision came back into focus and he found himself staring at a small white pebble embedded into the black stone wall at the back of his cage. He had never noticed it before. After all the days spent in the dark dungeon underneath the arena, he had never seen this one little pebble. He glanced around the cage, looking for any more detail that he may have missed over the past six months, for this was the last time he would ever see it. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad spending the rest of my life in this cage. He knew the cage. It was predictable and it was always there at the end of the day’s fighting in the arena.
A guard threw a towel and a clean white shirt into the cell. “It’s time to go,” the guard said.
Magnus wiped the water from his body. The fevers had passed quickly and his nausea was fading as well. Mindful of his still-healing ribs and arm he gingerly put the shirt on, buttoning it up at the front. Even through the pain it felt nice to have the clean shirt against his skin. It was the first time he had worn a shirt at all since arriving in Ba’rrat. The guards took amusement at his awkward appearance, wearing a clean shirt over the tattered remnants of his brown leather pants and dirty bare feet. Again, Magnus ignored them. He was thinking of his forthcoming meeting with Delvion.
It was a long walk down passageways Magnus was unfamiliar with. After half a mile following indirect and meandering passages the guards led Magnus upward and out into a small walled-in courtyard. From inside it, Magnus could hear the echoes of an excited crowd. They’re gathering already…
There were at least twenty Quag warriors standing guard around the perimeter of the courtyard. They all fixed their eyes on Magnus. They’ve all heard of my challenge to them. Magnus eyed them closely. It had been a while since he had seen a Quag warrior. Whilst they certainly looked tougher than city guards, Magnus found them far less intimidating than he on
ce did.
It was still dark and Magnus guessed about an hour before dawn—and an hour before his battle in the arena. He looked to the sky and drank in the stars for the first time in too long. To the northwest he recognised the Couldradt constellation. It seemed to shine bright, like the God of Fire was watching him, reminding him where he was from. Magnus smiled. He thought of Thioci and Balgur. He thought of the powers he unleashed the evening before and of Catanya—right there in Ba’rrat with him. Everything seemed to have its place. And now he was facing Delvion.
Several of the Quagmen came forward, relieving Carlo’s guards. The Quagmen shackled Magnus’s hands behind his back and placed others around his ankles. A final shackle was placed around his neck, reminding him of the one Breona was forced to endure. A Quagman either side of Magnus and another to his rear held tight to chains fastened to each shackle. It was almost impossible for Magnus to walk, let alone free himself. Nevertheless, he was pushed across the courtyard, through a doorway and, with the noisy clattering of chains, walked up another staircase.
The top of the stairs ended at a great passageway that reminded Magnus of the corridor leading to the Great Hall in Guame where he waited before his meeting with the Authoritarium. Here, at the opposite end of Allumbreve, he was about to meet the other great power threatening the freedom of his people.
Magnus observed the walls either side, lined with an ornamental array of weapons. There were swords and shields, spears and flails, maces, knives and more. Magnus took particular notice of the swords. There was a collection of steel swords from the Fire Realm, bronze swords from the Earth Realm and others not familiar to him. He noticed a single Icerealmish sword. Magnus thought again of the Quag attacking his mother’s family, slaughtering them all. The weapons here were a crass testament to Delvion’s domination of the four realms.
Magnus’s progress was slow and awkward with the Quagmen dictating his movement, pulling on his shackles as if they wanted him to walk in several directions at once. The final sword mounted before a pair of tall doors at the end of the passageway caught his eye. It was bronze, but a paler colour than was usual. It was long and curved and its construction was fine and precisely made. It bore the glyphs of the Fire Realm. Magnus guessed it was a fire-bronze sword—the likes of which were only forged by artisans for the priests in the Romgnian Mountains. Magnus recalled the tale of the Battle of Fire and how Delvion slayed Balgur with a fire-sword. This must be the sword, Magnus realised. A chill ran down his spine at the thought of facing a warrior capable of slaying the greatest of dragons.
The Quagmen marched Magnus to the doors, which opened inward.
“Enter,” a voice commanded from within.
Magnus was dragged into a wide, rectangular room. The far wall held eleven tall arched windows that looked out to the southern ocean beyond. A full moon threw thick, blue beams of light through each of the windows. Standing in front of the middle window were three men, hidden in shadow. The man in the middle stepped forward. A candelabrum at the centre of the room shed light across his face. Magnus stared at the man. He was tall—perhaps six foot five. Bony brows and high cheekbones framed his intense, staring eyes. The rest of his face was slender with a prominent chin accentuated by an underbite. His demeanour was too calm for Magnus’s liking—a bit like a snake assessing its prey. He licked his upper lip slowly with a dry tongue.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
“Yes,” Magnus said. His palms began to sweat.
“And now that I have you before me, is there anything you wish to say?”
Magnus shook his head.
“In the arena yesterday you certainly had a lot to say—words directed at me.”
“My words were directed at your men.”
The Quag guards pulled violently at Magnus’s chains, thrashing his body to and fro.
“Enough,” Delvion said calmly. “Leave us.”
The four Quagmen left without a hint of hesitation and closed the doors behind them.
Delvion addressed Magnus again. “I understand you call yourself Balgur in the arena.”
“Yes, I do,” Magnus said.
Delvion pointed to the doors behind Magnus. “Did you see the last sword to your right as you came in?”
“I did.”
“It is a fire-sword. It once belonged to a priest who was kind enough to relinquish it so that I may kill the great fire dragon—Balgur. That was twenty years ago. Unless you are he reincarnated, I am guessing you have another name.”
Reincarnated… Magnus was intrigued by Delvion’s choice of words, for he spoke a greater truth than he seemed to realise. As for his real name, Magnus felt it best to remain silent. It seemed Carlo had not turned him in. I guess he needs me to fight in the arena to save his skin.
“You are quite the accomplished fighter. Warrior is the term bandied amongst the people of Ba’rrat. Do you call yourself a warrior?” Delvion asked.
“Every bit as much as any Quagman. Perhaps more so,” Magnus winced internally at his audacity, waiting for Delvion’s retort.
Delvion lifted a hand and his two companions hidden in the shadows stepped forward. A hot flush of fear shuddered through Magnus. The man to Delvion’s left was Crugion—bearing the scar across his cheek Magnus had given him months ago. He glanced with contempt at Magnus then let his sights wander as he crossed his arms, clearly not recognising him. The second face made Magnus gasp in horror.
It was Lucas.
Lucas’s face was pale and drawn. His eyes were tired and grey and void of the spark they once held, but most of all, they did not recognise Magnus. Delvion turned to his son and whispered to him. Crugion nodded in reply.
Magnus flashed a glance at Lucas, wondering how he came to be under Delvion’s control. Was it a spell? Was it some curse? Was it the wyvern poison? That must be it—the wyvern poison… Oh no, Lucas…
Lucas looked at Magnus and then, captured in the candlelight, Magnus saw a single tear fall from his friend’s right eye, tumbling down his cheek. It was the only sign that Lucas was still present somewhere inside the shell of his former self.
Delvion finished talking with his son. “Be off with you then,” he commanded. Crugion marched toward the door. Lucas turned and followed him. Magnus took a deep breath.
Alone in the room with Delvion, the Quag King looked Magnus over. “You have lasted longer than most in the arena, and yet, you seem to have kept your spirit. You may not be a warrior yet, but you certainly have the makings of one.” Delvion walked to the window, his back to Magnus. “Unfortunately, when you enter the arena today, you go to your death.”
Delvion turned back to the candelabra at the centre of the room and looked at the flames. Magnus silently muttered—“Fara mi parina.” The flames of all eight candles flared momentarily. Delvion shifted backward a step. He glared at Magnus who pulled his shoulders back and glared in return.
“Before I send you to your death, I have an offer for you.” Delvion walked back to Magnus. “I offer you the chance to become a warrior, but you must swear a binding oath of allegiance to me that cannot be broken.”
Magnus was dumbfounded. “You know nothing of me, yet you offer this?”
“I know a strong man when I see one. The people of Ba’rrat see it too. If you show your allegiance to their king, they will follow you.”
“When I win, they will follow me regardless of my allegiance.” Magnus saw what looked like a twitch in Delvion’s eye.
“Do you seriously think you can defeat two of my best men?” Delvion asked in a pompous tone. Still, Magnus thought perhaps Delvion was worried about the outcome.
“I think you are concerned I will.”
An unpleasant smirk came to Delvion’s face. “I see you have given this much thought.” Delvion paused for a moment then paced the room, wringing his fingers in the palms of his hands. Finally he stopped and raised a finger. “Here is what I propose. I will send two men as promised. The first you will kill, of that I am cer
tain. The second you will battle, but on my command, you will yield.”
“You mean, surrender?”
“Precisely. Then before the people of Ba’rrat you will swear an oath of fealty to me.”
Magnus stared at Delvion. He could not believe what he was hearing. Why would I swear allegiance to this madman?
“Why would you want my allegiance?”
Delvion smirked again. “Because—Magnus—there is no greater vengeance against the man who killed my son than to win the allegiance of his own.”
Magnus reeled. Delvion knew the truth after all. That is why he has Lucas under his control—to spite Ganister. Now he wants the same of me.
“And if I defeat both of your men?” Magnus asked.
“Then your father’s life is forfeit.”
“How do I know you’ve not killed him already?” Magnus strained against his shackles. “And Ganister?”
Delvion pointed a long, bony finger at Magnus. “You will yield in the arena tomorrow at the sound of the Quag horn.” He drew a seething breath through his teeth. “Or witness Bonstaph and Ganister die in the arena alongside you.”
Magnus thrashed at his shackles. He had no power over his situation—he never had—and realising that now only frustrated him more.
Delvion called for the guards, who returned and dragged Magnus away. Before he was taken from the room Delvion called after him.
“Know this, Magnus of J’esmagd—all virtuous beings eventually come to desire power as you have. But not all are destined for it.”
DAWN
An hour later, Magnus was escorted up the all-too-familiar network of corridors and stairs that led to the arena. All the way, the four guards accompanying him spewed insults.
