Under the Crimson Sun

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  The wish was so fervent within him, that when he heard Feena’s voice from the corridor, he simply assumed it to be a hallucination of his rapidly-becoming-deranged state.

  “This is where you keep the fighters? I’m impressed—my slaves don’t live anywhere near this well back home.”

  Gan wondered why, if he was hallucinating Feena’s voice, she sounded so brutal and nasty.

  Jago’s voice came next. “Perhaps he won’t want to leave.”

  “I was not under the impression that he would be given a choice.”

  “No,” Jago said in response to Feena’s harsh words, “the choice is ours. If we choose to trade your mul for our slave—”

  “He’s not your slave, he’s mine.”

  “So you insist.”

  Gan could hear three sets of footfalls: Jago and the nasty woman who spoke with Feena’s voice were two, with the third likely being one of the guards.

  Sure enough, it was the latter who barked at him. “Stand away from the door.”

  It was turning into a very odd hallucination.

  And then he hallucinated Feena’s voice in his head. Play along, Gan. My name is Wimma Anspah, and Fehrd was my husband, and we owned you and Rol.

  When the door opened, Gan saw his sister wearing the most ridiculous outfit he’d ever seen, and realized that it was no hallucination. His sister had come to rescue him. Untrained as she was, there weren’t many people that Feena could simply project thoughts into without burning their brain out, but the blood tie with Gan made it possible for her to do so.

  His first thought was, Rol’s not here—the Imperial Guard took him—

  We know, Feena assured him.

  And there’s something wrong with him.

  Aloud, he said, “You know, I was just sitting here wondering how this day could possibly get worse, and then you go and find me.” He gave Feena—or rather, “Wimma”; obviously she was supposed to be from Raam, based on the absurd outfit—a derisive look.

  “It wasn’t difficult, Gan,” Feena said with a vicious smile. “I simply followed the cloud of stupidity that hangs over your head. You thought that my husband’s death would allow you to escape your rightful bondage.”

  “There’s nothing ‘rightful’ about being bonded to you and that bastard of a husband of yours.” Gan tried to channel all his self-loathing into bile directed at Feena. He just hoped she’d forgive him—then rejected the notion as ludicrous, since she was the one who wanted him to behave like this.

  The good news, of course, was that if Feena was there playing dress-up, it meant that all of the Serthlara Emporium was there as well. It was the first thing to go right in Gan’s entire life since he lost the frolik game, and it killed him that it wasn’t going to go quite according to plan thanks to the Imperial Guard’s apparent interest in Rol.

  “Just me now, thanks to you getting the bastard killed.” Feena then turned to Jago. “Very well, I’m satisfied that you have Storvis, at least. I’ll take up retrieving Mandred with the king.”

  Jago laughed at that. “Good luck with that.”

  “We’ll meet tomorrow to make the exchange.”

  The guard slammed the door, leaving Gan to wonder what he was being exchanged for.

  Feena continued to hold “Wimma Anspah’s” vicious smile during her entire walk down Obsidian Way toward the Slave Gate and the emporium’s carriage, currently parked at the Three Brothers Stable just outside Urik’s walls near the City of the Dead, Urik’s cemetery.

  Only when she passed the City of the Dead—a place she had truly feared she would find Rol and Gan—with its forbidding, rusted iron fence topped with lions’ head posts, did she put her own face back on.

  The stable was located just past the boneyard. Feena had thought it an odd location for a stable, but it was near the crossroads where the four thoroughfares that went through Urik all met. Besides, the cemetery’s caretaker was one of the Three Brothers.

  As she climbed into the back, Feena said without preamble, “We have a problem.”

  Since they were running a game, and since there really wasn’t anywhere in Urik for them to set up shop as merchants, the members of the emporium had to continue to live out of the carriage even after arriving at the city-state. You never knew when running a game who might be needed, so anyone who wasn’t in play had to stay out of sight.

  When Feena arrived, they were all sitting in a circle in the center section of the carriage—the only spot that had anything like proper floor space—eating. On either side were the shelves, all tightly packed with the emporium’s merchandise (on the left) and everyone’s personal belongings (on the right), with hammocks for everyone hanging from the roof over the shelves.

  Zabaj handed her some jerky as she entered, and she swallowed it hungrily. The sort of role playing that the game required often made her hungry.

  “What’s the problem?” Karalith asked before gulping down some water.

  Quickly, Feena outlined the situation. She finished by saying, “Gan’s fine, at least. A bit cut and bruised, but that’s to be expected.”

  “Whatever your brother’s failings,” Tricht’tha said, “he brawls well. In fact, that arena may be the best place for him.”

  “Not as a slave,” Feena said tightly, using some of Wimma’s iron on the thri-kreen.

  Komir spoke up before Tricht’tha retorted. “In any case, we need to make this exchange, and then bring down the arena.”

  Tricht’tha chittered a curse in Chachik. “What? Why are we doing anything to the arena? The Pit is one of the most beloved arenas in Athas.”

  “Because,” Karalith said, “we want the Pit’s owners to be out of business for two reasons. One, they kidnapped our friends.”

  “And two,” Komir added, “it looks like we need to game the king once we’ve gamed the arena, and in order to do that, we need the arena to be bereft of ownership.”

  Tricht’tha rubbed her arms together. “That doesn’t make sense. If something happens to the owners, the arena becomes property of the state.”

  “Yes,” Feena said, “and then the state finds someone to administer it for them.”

  Komir and Karalith both smiled. “That’s where we come in.”

  “What does that give us?” Tricht’tha asked agitatedly.

  “A place from which we can take Rol,” Komir said, rubbing his bald crown. “Right now, he’s a prisoner of the templars. There’s no way we can get him out of there—but if we can talk the king into releasing him back to the arena, and we own the arena, then we’re free to take him along with us at our leisure.”

  Only then did Serthlara speak up. “There’s a problem with your plan.”

  Feena already knew what it was, but Karalith and Komir looked confused. “What do you mean, Father?” the latter asked.

  Staring right at her lover, Feena said, “Zabaj.”

  The mul had been sitting silently during the entire exchange, staring daggers at Feena. “You did this without asking me.”

  “I had no choice, Zabaj, you know that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “No,” Karalith said, “she didn’t. We thought the provenance claiming ownership of Rol and Gan was sufficient, but we didn’t know that Rol had become their star attraction, or that Rol had been taken. She needed to come up with another solution fast, and offering to trade you was her best bet. Besides,” and she cast a glance at Komir, “her brother needs her.”

  Zabaj ignored Karalith and continued to look at Feena. She stared right back. She couldn’t project her thoughts to Zabaj the way she could to Gan, but she was able to project her emotions onto him, and she let him know psionically just how important it was to her.

  But she could also feel Zabaj’s emotions, and the mul had very strong feelings on that particular matter.

  “I swore I wouldn’t fight in the arena again.”

  “That’s not true.” Feena refused to turn away from her lover’s gaze—which was good, as accusing him o
f lying and then turning away would have been the gravest of insults. “You swore you wouldn’t be enslaved again. You won’t be a slave—at least, not really.”

  “Once I’m inside, I’ll be a slave.”

  “Until we rescue you,” Komir said. “Zabaj, this will work. We’ve never let you down before, have we?”

  “There’s always a first time,” he muttered.

  Feena walked up to Zabaj and stroked his cheek. She had yet to remove her gaze from him, nor had she ceased to project her feelings onto him. Aloud, though, she only said one word. “Please.”

  They stared at each other for several seconds.

  Zabaj finally looked away. “Very well. For you, my love, I will do this.”

  “Thank you.”

  After kissing the mul on the cheek, she turned back to the others. “I picked up from Calbit that they need more guards.”

  Karalith regarded Tritcht’tha. “Time to bring Chrids’thrar out of retirement?”

  “Why not?” Tricht’tha chittered. “Haven’t hunted with her in a while.”

  Feena shook her head. Where the others all referred to their schemes as “the game” and “gaming” people, to the thri-kreen it was a hunt. That matched with the usual mode of thri-kreen, a predatory race for whom hunting was the primary means of survival.

  But Tricht’tha had been the last survivor of her clutch, the rest having died during a particularly brutal sandstorm. Many a thri-kreen would have killed themselves, but Tricht’tha simply sought out another clutch. No other thri-kreen would have her, but she found satisfaction working with the emporium. She claimed to never be suited to the type of hunt that her own people engaged in—the impression Feena got, both from her psionic abilities and from Tricht’tha’s own conversation, was that her clutch might well have starved to death had the sandstorm not gotten them due to their mediocrity as hunters—preferring the type of challenge brought on by the game.

  Karalith got up and moved toward the shelves on the left, specifically the one where the spices were kept. “Of course, Chrids’thrar goes nowhere without her flask, and this flask will be full of something special …”

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  At first, everything had been fine for Drahar. The soldiers brought Mandred and Douk to Destiny’s Kingdom, the king’s compound that included his palace, the King’s Academy, and more. Both prisoners were locked in one of the king’s dungeons, which both Drahar, as the king’s chamberlain, and Tharson, as the commander of the Guard, had full use of. Their task was to figure out how to exploit whatever it was that made Mandred so mighty.

  Then the next morning, Drahar’s assistant, Cace, came into his office. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have some bad news.” She spoke in her usual calm tone—bringing him tea, telling him an appointment had been canceled, passing a message from his wife, passing a message from the king, telling him they were being invaded, Cace always delivered the news with the same soothing affectation.

  Distractedly, Drahar asked, “What is it?” He was going over some shipping manifests that didn’t track with what was actually delivered.

  “Mandred broke the dungeon door down.”

  That got him to look up from the manifests. “Excuse me?”

  Cace repeated: “Mandred broke the dungeon door down.”

  “That would be the stone dungeon door?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Drahar put his head in his hands. “Where is he now?”

  “One of the psionists was able to subdue him, but he said it would only last a few hours.”

  That prompted Drahar to put the manifests down and run to the dungeon.

  Looking through the small window that allowed air into the cell, he saw Mandred lying on the floor.

  Or at least something that resembled Mandred.

  His flesh was no longer covered head to toe in pustules, but his entire epidermis was now a reddish gray color. The only exception were his shoulders, which still had the red-tinged lesions—and the flesh under them was fully red and pockmarked. His body hair had disappeared entirely, and his head and beard hair had thinned considerably.

  The otherworldly magic was doing more than making him stronger.

  He glanced at Cace. “Get one of the psionists over here—Frocas, maybe, or Danvier.”

  “Danvier was the one who subdued him.”

  Drahar nodded. That was why he kept Cace around, to remember details like that. “Fine, make it Frocas. I want a constant watch on him—control if necessary. Have Frocas go at it for eight hours. By then, Danvier should have recovered enough to take over. Mandred isn’t to make a move that isn’t controlled by a psionist, is that clear?”

  Cace nodded.

  The next morning, Cace ran into his office at the exact same time. “Something’s happened to Frocas.”

  Again, Drahar ran down to the dungeon. There he saw Frocas lying on the stone floor, convulsing, while Danvier was on her knees, concentrating harder than Drahar had ever seen her do.

  “Can … barely … hold … him.”

  Drahar’s own psionic ability was nowhere as strong as that of a proper psionist, but he was able to help in some ways. Placing a hand on Danvier’s shoulder, he was able to bolster her own psionic talent with his own. His own participation was passive, but it served to strengthen Danvier’s ability to hold onto Mandred.

  And then he felt it.

  Let me loose, let me loose, let me loose, let me loose, let me loose, LET ME LOOSE!

  Chaos. Aggression. Hate. Violence. Brutality. Murder.

  Free me and allow me to loose my greatness upon this world. Free me, free me, free me, free me, FREE ME!

  Never before had Drahar considered those characteristics to be palpable, but they were strong enough to touch in Mandred.

  I must be free. Let me loose. Free me. Let me free. Loose me upon this world.

  It threatened to overwhelm him, and he was getting it secondhand through Danvier.

  Focusing all his concentration, he added every erg of power he could to Danvier’s own efforts.

  The voice receded after that scream, but Drahar could still hear it. I will not be denied …

  “Maybe not,” Drahar muttered, “but you will be controlled.”

  Then he collapsed.

  He woke up in his own bed, surrounded by Cace, two healers, and one of the king’s page boys. The latter ran out of the room as soon as he awakened, no doubt to inform the king that his closest advisor was no longer unconscious.

  “What happened?”

  Cace quickly filled him in. “Danvier is in her chambers as well. Three other psionists are now standing watch over Mandred.”

  “No, not Mandred. Whatever’s taking him over, I felt it. It was an incredibly violent force. We need to harness it.”

  Drahar started to sit up, but one of the healers—the young man—put a firm hand on his shoulder. “You need rest, Lord Chamberlain. This will keep.”

  Gently, Drahar put the hand aside. “No, it won’t.” Then he sat up fully, at which point the room started to jump around in several directions at once, and Drahar’s breakfast started to surge upward from his stomach to his throat.

  Both those things stopped when he very, very slowly lay back down.

  “Or perhaps it will,” he said weakly.

  “You need at least a full night’s sleep before you get up from this bed, Lord Chamberlain,” the other healer, an older woman, said.

  Cace added, “I’ve already taken the liberty of rescheduling your appointments.”

  “Good.” Drahar nodded to his assistant, then considered. “Keep three psionists on the dungeon at all times, and tell all the court psionists to prepare. I need to enter Mandred’s mind, and I’ll need everyone we can get to keep him under control and boost my own power.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  The female healer tut-tutted, while the male shook his head. “You really shouldn’t try to perform any acts of magic for at least a few days, Lord Chamberl
ain.”

  “We do not have that option. It’s obvious that this creature is getting stronger and harder to control.”

  The two healers looked at each other, then back at Drahar. “Very well, but one of us should be monitoring you at all times.”

  “I was going to insist on it,” he lied. It actually hadn’t occurred to him, but it was an excellent idea.

  Drahar got a good night’s sleep, and then went into his office the next morning, intending to catch up on everything that happened while he was sick in bed.

  However, Cace ran in immediately. “Something’s happened to Mandred.”

  The worst part for Rol was the total loss of control.

  You …

  The excruciating pain in his extremities, he could deal with. Watching his body change and alter itself, that was bizarre, but tolerable in its own way. Even the increase in strength that accompanied each act of violence was something he could handle.

  You are …

  But from the moment he surrendered to the voice, gave in to the Voidharrow, he lost all control.

  You are going …

  One of the things that defined Rol as a fighter was that he was in full control of himself. He only used exactly as much force as was necessary to win a battle.

  You are going to …

  Now, though, he had nothing. He couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, could barely think. He had no idea where he was, nor where Fehrd or Gan were, nothing.

  You are going to spread …

  No, he did remember. Fehrd was dead. Someone killed him. And Gan—Gan had done something stupid. Of course, Gan was always doing something stupid, so that was hardly new.

  You are going to spread the …

  It didn’t make sense that Fehrd was dead. The three of them had been through so much together, that the notion of Fehrd just dying like that was insane.

  You are going to spread the seed.

  Willing himself to speak, he screamed, “No.” But nobody heard him—he didn’t even hear himself.

  But the Voidharrow heard his plaintive cry.

  Yes, you will. You cannot resist. None can resist. None have ever been able to resist. You have lost this battle.