Trial of Chains_Crimson Crossroads_Book One

by Sohan Ahmad

  Though the slaves cheered, they had never heard of this proud young man fitted in red and violet robes of rippled wool. Tobias? Tobias? Ah, yes, Tobias. But Grimmon knew of his father. Gentle man, strong words for the Cardinal’s ears. Second only to the Paladin. If this Samuel is half as noble as his noble father, perhaps builders can ask again.

  In Cairopa, the people were abuzz with excitement. The Cardinal’s pigeons carried a second scroll to the lords and ladies of his kingdom, given voice in the capital’s square by a royal messenger: “The Slithering Queen has been avenged! On winter’s eve, Cardinal Ramses Elijah, Holy Father of Isiris and emissary to the Divine Serpent, hereby invites his beloved children to attend the funeral games in honor of their late mother, Diana Jacqueline-Elijah. The Snake Pit will open its doors in a fortnight to noble and commoner alike so all may celebrate her holy descent into the palace of the Divine Serpent.”

  Once the announcement was made, Marcus questioned his father about the details of his mother’s killer, but none were offered. “That is the crown’s burden, and you are still a prince,” Ramses often reminded him. “I will speak no more on the matter. However, know that her soul can finally rest at ease.”

  More secrets. The young Snake was far from satisfied, but he knew that look in the Cardinal’s eyes. Once again, I am forced to bite my tongue. “Yes, Father.”

  On the morning of the games, they came, rich and poor, from as far east as the Crimson Coast to the western, jagged deserts of the Bloody Sands. The grand southern arena was ancient, a giant circle of stone, sand, and lumber laying atop the Earthly Mother like a jeweled ring that slipped from the Creator’s finger. However, centuries of serrated winds had slashed away at the surface, leaving the stone walls scarred and ugly. Outside its gates, bards played songs of string as performers brought to life legendary contests from the time of the Beast Kings. Children huddled around like bees to honey, laughing and clapping to old tales told anew.

  Just beyond the cramped tunnels, wooden benches were layered around the sands like the inside of an onion. It seemed as if all the South had gathered there, flooding the rows and columns with twice their capacity. Not a comfortable seat remained in the heavenly ring, but none cared, for the ceremony would soon begin.

  The Holy Wasteland feasted on dazzling displays of men and women who leaped through swaying hoops of flame to the roars of twenty thousand. A pack of massive gray beasts pounded the sands as horse masters weaved their stallions like stitching thread between the legs of tusked monsters. Fire eaters spewed breath so hot, it singed the remaining cool air of autumn, singing to the rhythmic banging of drums. The seductive melody made the heavens dance drunk with lust, but the crowd saw fit to silence itself once Ramses moved to speak.

  “My children and honored guests, I salute you!” The people responded in kind as he continued, “In honor of your fallen mother, let us feast on sport and combat, blood and glory. Summon the strongest voice you have and send it to the heavens so she may hear our love. Long live the queen!”

  The stadium thundered, and the earth trembled as chained warriors ascended from the pits. Two others emerged with skin painted a ghostly white while their hair flared in a ruby’s dye. “Before we see a contest of skill and strength, I would hold a battle for justice. Two slaves stand before you as fugitives, charged with betraying their master. Let them fight until our fallen mother declares a victor.”

  Many were shocked to see a child among the sands, most of all the prince. “Father!” Marcus jumped from his plush chair of red satin, spurred forward by old impulses. “What is the meaning of—” The words stopped short in his throat when he saw his father’s hands tremor like a frightened child’s. There is a reason. There has to be. He returned to his seat, but his gaze continued to lurk like a hungry viper. Show me, Father. Make me understand.

  The Pit boiled sand into broth at the bottom of a cauldron, simmering its two masked combatants like diced chunks of mutton. They were wingless flies trapped in the eyes of twenty thousand spiders with nowhere to run or hide. A chorus of cheers and jeers rattled them to their bones until Ramses, who shined divine against the sun as if he were the Creator, motioned for silence. The masked fighters were allowed to select one weapon from a rack of ten that included blades, bludgeons, spears, and more.

  The child’s fingers shivered from the icy touch of cold, lifeless metal, his arms buckling under the weight of the crude iron from which they were forged. But fear of death urged him toward an answer. What do I choose? he pondered. Swords, spears, axes, and maces appeared fierce with power, but they were much too heavy to wield so the bastard of a dagger and a short sword would have to do. A bastard for a bastard. It was a rough, ugly shard of black that felt more like a broadsword in his slender hands.

  Sweat trickled from atop his opponent’s brow, slithering down the arch of his round back of pale, sticky skin. As the fat man swallowed heavy breaths of cold air, his vision blurred into a pool of melted rainbows and the child’s shadow danced like evening mist within his eyes. In his delusion, perception had become reality, and the shadow of the boy’s dagger grew into a monstrous cleaver that dragged him to the floor. “I will do anything you want!” he squealed to Ramses, “please release me!”

  The Cardinal’s blood-hungry gaze seared a crater into his rat-shaped skull, scorching the fallen lord’s mind until it saw only a dim gray where the boy’s silhouette took solid form. A madness born from despair consumed the Betrayer. Drool slipped from the corner of his lips as his chubby fingers latched blindly to a rusted falchion, dragging the heavy-headed blade through scalding sand with a deranged babbling. Lies gave way to the truth of a blackened heart that seeped through his twisted face like a mirror for all to see.

  With both man and boy armed for battle, Ramses gave the signal. Stone trembled and sand scattered as the thunder of twenty thousand drowned out the voice of reason that cowered within the child’s head: Monster! I’ll restore my honor and pride as a son. His eyes blazed as he stared at the instrument of his mother’s desecration, the veins on his temple thumping like the red lump in his chest. With all his strength, he charged the masked rat like the great horned beasts of the West.

  The Betrayer’s mind was blind to all but the black figure dashing toward him. Instinct moved his sword arm just enough to deflect the attack. Clashing iron birthed sparks that danced through the air like fireflies. Cyrus was thrown back, and his fingers hummed with a numbing tingle, but before the rising sand could tickle his cheeks, he slashed low at the knees. Distracted by the dazzle of crashing metal, the rat’s reaction was too late to stop his shin from spitting red upon the sands.

  The seething pain and sight of blood enraged the fallen noble. Shrieking like a demon, his sloppy pink tongue wagged loose and wild, attacking with the discipline of a rabid dog. Each blind swing reeked of danger, yet Cyrus managed to avoid the rusted curve of iron again and again until he found an opening. You’re mine! the boy shouted, rushing through the gaps of swinging metal to secure victory. However, one of the madman’s blind flurries aimed true. Though Cyrus absorbed the blow with the black of his blade, his feet launched clear off the ground.

  He’s stronger than he looks. The slender bones in his body rattled. Golden dust blanketed all but his shaky vision as he struggled to his feet to find danger once again. Lucivius lunged, thrusting with all his might, hoping to skewer his prey into the pit, but once again, the boy escaped. When Cyrus finally returned to his stance, the exchange had taken its toll. His breath was ragged, and his muscles ached as if he’d worked the fields for hours. The monster can’t even climb his own steps. How is he not tired?

  The chaos seemed to embolden the demon. He began circling the weary child as the twenty thousand showered him with their disgust. A tiny stone from one of the angered watchers struck the mad rat’s skull, painting his white skin with a streak of red. “Grrr-aaaahhh,” he snarled at them in a bestial rage.

  Now, while he’s distracted. But caution called to him
—Damn it, I can barely move. I need to hide. He slid toward a nearby pillar and collapsed against the cool, shaded column of stone. His lungs staggered like those of an old man wheezing from winter wind. Calm down, watch him closely. Look at how he drags his blade, clumsy and with no grace. He’s probably never held a real sword before today. Finally, the hate that had driven him ragged faded and the roar of thousands were as soft as a kitten’s purr. Marcus would not fear him, so why should I?

  The rat wandered the caged desert in disarray, searching fruitlessly for his prey until Cyrus emerged from the black at the back of the giant stone column. “Lucivius! I’ll not run, come face me, slave.” Twenty thousand screaming voices devoured his words, but the fallen lord heard them loud and clear.

  “Is that you, my pet?” the Betrayer asked, his fractured mind finding peace through the sound of the boy’s familiar voice. Like a snake, the fiend swayed slowly side to side as his scaly presence began to tighten around the boy. “Did I not tell you once that my name is Master?” He glanced up toward the Cardinal as he continued to close the distance. “Did that fool truly think that a broken toy could kill me?” There they stood, face to face, as close as when they first met in his cedar wood wagon. He raised the tarnished falchion high with both hands, his lips twisted wide like a demon’s grin. “Know your place, bastard!” Lucivius shouted as he thrust the entire weight of the curved iron toward the center of the boy’s skull.

  Don’t look away, Cyrus told himself as jagged black metal inched closer towards his head. Watch until the end, he shouted to himself as the crash of iron against stone silenced the twenty thousand.

  The rat’s hands throbbed red as his blade fell to the sand. I’m alive! Cyrus realized, panting panicked breaths as chipped stone sprinkled dust upon his scalp. “Die!” he screamed, driving his blade into the darkest chunk of meat he could reach. The devil had never been so humbled as hot blood oozed from his thigh, kneeling and groveling like so many of his slaves had done. I’m not finished.

  Cyrus drilled his bloody blade of black into the belly of the beast. The fallen lord’s head sunk into his chest as he pressed both hands firmly against the wound, but red continued to pour like the thickest southern wine. His fingers locked within one another as if in prayer, but the boy was no god. “Who is the master now?” he mocked as he rammed the base of his heel into the rat’s pointed nose, knocking him flat on his back. “Taste the pain and humiliation my mother met at your command.” The boy hovered over him with a furious gaze, hungry for more than survival or victory.

  This is the only way to stop the nightmares—or so he hoped. One strike in the center of each palm before crossing the rat’s legs and impaling his ankles.

  Oh, how the Betrayer of Snakes and Dragons squealed, begging like a frightened child. “Mercy! I have powerful friends to the west. Spare me, and I can grant your greatest desire.”

  Gargles of blood choked the rat’s words, but the boy humored him nonetheless. “Can you bring back the dead?”

  “Of course not,” Lucivius scoffed, his face twisting in agony as his lungs continued to flood with crimson. “But I can give you freedom. Is that not what all slaves crave?”

  Not today. “There is only one thing I want from you, liar.” It came swifter than any had imagined, the stained shard of iron slipping through moist yellow flesh like a knife through butter. The metal bounced off clenched jawbone, ripping the cheek open as it pulled back.

  “Get away from me, you monster!” Lucivius wailed in anguish, blood pouring from chin and belly. The punctured rat crawled back against the sand like a worm in mud, but the boy was a snake, hungry for things that squirmed.

  “Monster?” he said with a puzzled disgust. The word fractured his fragile heart, filling it with a near unquenchable rage. His next few minutes were a blur, swallowed whole by a blinding silence. When Cyrus finally returned to himself, his knees stamped the sand with aching crimson hands atop them. He gasped for the bitter autumn air as if it were the purest spring water, drinking until sight and sense returned, only to realize that the blade was no longer in his grasp. Where is it? A glance between his folded legs revealed a trail, flowing like a river into an ocean of scarlet sand.

  There was his dagger, standing straight and firm like a spike in the rat’s mouth. Not even the Goddess could recognize the lump of flesh that fertilized the soil that day. The boy thought himself deaf as the god’s ring had never been so still. Then, among the thousands, a pair of palms struck and then another and another until the arena erupted in applause.

  How can someone so young be capable of such darkness? Marcus questioned from high atop his perch. The horrors he must have seen. They cheer, but I’d rather cry for him.

  Thank the Goddess you survived. Ramses sighed, blind to the boy’s malice. If only I could share my joy with your brother. He gazed at his firstborn son, uncertain as to what he should say. “Marcus, there is something I must tell you.”

  The prince turned to him. “What is it, Father?”

  Ramses could bare it no longer. “Do you recognize the corpse below?”

  Strands of strawberry blossomed against the gentle gust as he shook his head. “Who was he?”

  “Do you remember Lucivius Mammon? He visited us not so long ago.”

  “How could I forget?” Marcus recalled the eerie creep along his pale white skin from when they first met. “He stole from you and fled like a coward.”

  “Use your brain," his father said, gazing below. “Not your eyes.”

  Lucivius? “Why the theatrics? Why not show him as he is?”

  “He wronged me.” The Cardinal’s calm masked the rage that boiled. “I wanted him to know what that felt like.”

  Marcus smiled. “Good riddance,” he said, turning his gaze toward the victor. “Who is the boy?”

  I wish I could you tell, my son, but it seems I have become the new lord of lies. So be it. “He escaped from The Climb and sought refuge. I offered one condition: survive against his master—and so he has. Now that you know, what do you think I should do with him? Death or freedom? The people require an answer.”

  Who else knows? Marcus asked himself. It doesn’t matter, he told me, he finally trusts me. Grow up, Marcus, this is no time to gloat, a boy’s life is in your hands. Think hard. He pressed towards the ledge, squeezing against stone as his foot tapped against the floor to count his options. No matter which I choose, there will be trouble for our kingdom. Damn it, Father knew I would struggle with this, but I won’t fail his test. Try and try he did, but only one answer crept into his mind. What would Cyrus do? “Father, there is a better path . . . Exile.”

  “Elaborate,” Ramses replied.

  “We can’t kill the boy,” Marcus explained. “He fought hard and did what you asked. However,” he warned, “secrets have done enough to our family and the people could still discover the truth. Nothing good can come from keeping him in Isiris.”

  His holy father stroked the red ash of his beard with a lifted brow. “Where would you send him?”

  “West,” Marcus answered. “I don’t know what happened to him, but he seems to have a taste for blood.”

  If only I could tell you. Ramses lamented before rising to greet the twenty thousand that yearned to hear his voice. “Your Prince has passed judgment. He grants life!”

  As Marcus took his place beside his father, both stone and sand rumbled to the echo of his name. How does father control himself? He wondered, his heart racing to the rhythm of a thousand united voices. I want more.

  The chanting was even louder down below, drowning all other sound beneath its waves as Cyrus gazed up from the bottom of the pit. I am happy for you, Brother. Goodbye. He thought, trying his hardest to muster a smile from behind a mask of wet crimson.

  Not one of the shouting masses noticed as two scarlet knights emerged from behind the victorious boy with their man-sized spears of iron, the crowd forgetting him as quickly as they had loved him. “Time to go, child,” the two metal men s
aid, ushering him farther below, deep into the den of bestial men where a cage of black bars and stone walls awaited.

  It’s cleaner than my cell in the Devil’s Garden. And brighter too. A lamp burned in each corner to warm his throbbing bones, but there was little else beyond a damp rag atop a pile of wood upon which he could sit.

  “Clean yourself,” was all they said before departing.

  Surrounded by the lonely glow, Cyrus washed away streaks of salty red with the wet cloth. Cracks in the ceiling sprinkled tears of ground stone into the puddle below his feet as the boy gazed into the rippling reflection. Is this all I am now? A slave to hatred? Just then, a shadow splashed silently within the quaking water. “Did you see, Archonis?” he asked it.

  Long silver hair brushed against the black, strands wrapping around the bars as if they could break open the iron. “Forgive me, child.”

  “For what?”

  “I should have tried harder to convince him.”

  “If you believe that, then you never truly knew my father.”

  “The Divine Serpent must hold us both in contempt,” the Paladin sighed, his frustration squeezed dry against the metal rods. “But perhaps it is a blessing. There is only pain and misery for you here. Your mother knew as much. I pray that the Goddess shows you mercy and delivers you to the happiness you deserve.”

  Cyrus dropped the rag soaked in crimson to the floor. “Slaves have no gods,” he corrected the commander, his face resembling a human once more. “Only masters. As long as chains control my fate, I will never find happiness.”

  Chapter 17: Caged Demons

  One year after his victory upon the sands, Cyrus celebrated his thirteenth year on foreign soil locked within the deafening loneliness of his spacious new chambers. No Isirian slave had ever slept on bedding so soft or sat in chairs so finely crafted, and all of this is mine. So said western household law, and yet none of this feels like home.