Trial of Chains_Crimson Crossroads_Book One

by Sohan Ahmad

  “Begin!” Dakar shouted from within the gathering clouds.

  Grom stood as a statue, with shield raised to cover his body from nose to toe. Cyrus snapped the black heads of his snake, but their fangs proved too dull for the task. Every shell has an opening. He began circling his prey with the deliberate strides of a stalker, searching for cracks in the Coward’s sturdy wall.

  With each advance, Grom slowly retreated, making sure never to relinquish his back. He had a talent for testing men’s patience, but the young stalker maintained his range, hissing and biting, barely scratching the gold barricade. The next strike arrived quicker than the last, aimed slightly higher to skin the top of Grom’s head, but the coward raised his shield just enough to deflect it. Then suddenly, Cyrus vanished from sight. Grom panicked, retreating farther so that the arena wall was at his back. He still had no vision of his opponent until two dull thuds knocked on his shield. “You cannot hide in your shell forever,” the brash young gladiator warned before sprinting out of range once again.

  Grom’s grip tightened as his eyes bulged, darting from side to side within his sockets. “Show yourself!” he shouted as tears of sweat began to trickle down his cheeks, greasing the grip on his sword and shield.

  “You show yourself!” a handful of the less lethargic crowd members shouted, hurling pebbles at Grom’s back. “Coward!” they chanted in unison until the rhythm captured the rest.

  I wish I could make them stop. No coward could survive for so long in the Pits. Cyrus looked back to his mentor for a sign.

  Bale gave the slightest of nods, speaking without speaking. End it.

  The young gladiator began moving with a tornado’s pace, surrounding his opponent with the fading images of each step. Grom’s eyes could barely keep up, but still he felt safe, nestled behind his gold shell.

  You’re getting stiff Grom. Cyrus fired bolts of black lightning from each direction. The first, aimed at Grom’s left was deflected, but then the second arrived from his right. An obsidian dagger sank its teeth just below his elbow, crippling his shield arm to a dangle. Stripped of the golden shell, Cyrus pummeled the Coward to submission as the skies split open and water streamed from within the void.

  The collective mouths of ten thousand opened wide like a canyon to devour the heavenly tears. Only two men continued to gaze at the battle in the pits as Cyrus lifted one head of his obsidian snake high to deliver the final blow. “Mercy!” Grom shouted, discarding his fighter’s mask to reveal the unmarked skin of a free man. “I beg you. Spare my life. My wife and child will starve without me.”

  Liar! The young gladiator raised his dagger higher, but his hands began to quake once again. Why would a free man choose this life? Rain masked the tears that spilled from his troubled eyes as he looked to his mentor for guidance.

  Take his life, boy. Bale stared past the falling beads of water directly into his pupil’s mind. Do it now, before they see your soft heart.

  Three years together allowed Cyrus to clearly sense the champion’s intent, even in silence. However, the tremor born from his heart grew louder. Mother would never forgive me for killing a defenseless man. He resisted as best he could until a voice pierced the gray heavens like a bolt of thunder.

  “Gladiator, stay your hand,” Dakar shouted with pride and joy, “the gods have blessed us this day. Let the Coward live and enjoy your victory.” Though he spoke these words, his mind was filled with concern. I cannot stay your hand forever, Cyrus. What will you do when next you fight? My power is limited to the boredom of my father. And now that the rains have returned, he will not remain idle for long.

  Bale offered a half smile to the Mazir. Soft-hearted fool. You know as well as I that he needs to learn. Fortunately, the thirsty people offered no objections once their throats were quenched. Instead, they shouted, “Shell Breaker! Dancing Snake! Storm Caller!” in honor of the pupil’s first victory.

  Cyrus lifted his hand to accept the people’s applause, returning to Bale with lowered head. The rains drenched his hair atop his face like a mask, hiding his angst. When they crossed, the champion placed a firm hand on his pupil’s shoulder. “You did well.” And with the other hand, he struck him across the face. “But freedom’s not free. There’s always a price. If your heart can’t take that simple fact, then kill it before it kills you.”

  “I’ll gladly pay that price,” Cyrus replied, wiping a trickle of blood from his lips. “But as long as I hold Mother in my hands, I’ll never allow my heart to die.”

  “If your heart’s so damn important…” Bale could hear it clearly. I’ve been too soft. The sound of his warning falling on deaf ears. “Your body needs to be much stronger.” Time the king calls his demons.

  Chapter 22: Crowned Ghost

  Three years would pass for Marcus and his Drakes before the door to darkness opened once more, allowing them to wake from the long nightmare. One by one, the enlightened three emerged from the black slumber, having lifted the once impossible stone slab as if it were nothing. The once vibrant skin of youth had grown dull and pale behind veils of untamed hair, starving for the sun like the ash worms that bred beneath the eastern cliffs.

  Good, I thought they’d be more excited to see the sun again. Kaiser noted, seeing each breath measured like a healer’s potion, and each step taken within what shadow they could find. Close, but not yet Ghosts. Stepping into the light revealed the tale of their trials. Scabs formed where the scars once lived, but black and blue still bruised the skin across their arms and legs. Soft muscles had sharpened into steel as limbs ripped through the remains of their tattered scarlet garments.

  Their eyes were restless with a distrust of all things, living and dead, lurking within the shadows of their whites. The absence of trust will allow you to hide within the tinniest lies, no matter how true they taste. Geno had learned well, but Katia was unlike anything Kaiser had ever seen. I never had a pupil return with a smile. Perhaps I’ve gotten soft over the years or perhaps she’s the reincarnation of deception. Born to be others but never herself.

  Marcus was another matter altogether. “Is there somewhere you need to be, Marcus?” the old Wraith asked, leaning against the dust-covered wall of his porch.

  "You have nothing left to teach me, Master,” he answered. Becoming a ghost meant dying as a human, but Marcus was still a prince.

  “Care to test that theory?” Kaiser threatened with one eye squinting half-open against the sky’s harsh glow.

  “Step aside, Master,” Marcus replied, scoffing at words that would have struck terror into the heart of any man who knew him. “You and I both know you won’t harm me.” But not the prince, not anymore.

  “Cocky little shit.” The Wraith’s violet eyes were open now, as deep and dark as the worst night below. Even the Drakes trembled at the sight of his wild white hair piercing through the air like the tendrils of a nightmare, and still the Prince stood fast. “Still too much of your mother in you. Go then, return to your father, My Prince,” he said with a mocking curtsy, “only ghosts are welcomed here.”

  “Then I suppose we will never see each other again,” Elijah’s youngest descendant said with the slightest hint of pause in his step. “Farewell, Master.”

  The Wraith waived the prince off with a grunt. Farewell, boy. Pride is the seed of chaos. I pray it doesn’t follow you home.

  Before he entered the gates of thick green, Marcus embraced his slaves as brother and sister. “Train hard in my absence; Isiris will need your strength one day.” The Drakes were humbled to silence, pressing firm against the breast of their brotherly master. “Until then,” he said, as if he had seen a prophecy within the void. But the sheen of fresh tears blinded them to what he saw. Moment later, walls of man-sized grass swallowed Marcus whole and spat him toward the winding trail of the Viper’s Tail.

  Below a withered willow tree, a single carriage, trimmed in scarlet silver, took shade from the fire’s eye. From within the cage of oak stepped a tall figure, cloaked from head to toe
. “It has been too long, My Prince.”

  I don’t believe it. “Who are you? How did you know I would be here?” Marcus asked.

  “Have I become so decrepit?” the figure answered. Two legs were no longer enough to carry him, a third sprouted from his palm. Crafted from hard cedar, it was straight as the sword that once hung from his hip. “I taught you how to hold that blade at your side—or have you forgotten?” Light revealed what shadow concealed, sagging sacks of skin rippling along cheeks so gaunt that the white of his bones were visible, even beneath flesh. “My brother sent a letter seven moons prior. It said that your training would end today.”

  “I hardly recognize you Archonis.” So, the old ghost knew. Marcus grinned, remembering one of his first lessons. He’s right, I still have much to learn, but there’s no time. “Take me to my father at once. I would know what else has changed in my absence.”

  The Paladin bowed, saluting as best he could, his back quaking like a leaf in winter’s peak. “As you command, My Prince.”

  Marcus remained silent throughout the short ride home, his gaze locked firmly upon the field folk who once relished the sight of a royal carriage. They look weaker than we did after our first month in Kaiser’s cage. What have you been doing, Father?

  The Paladin’s once pristine silver eyes quivered behind a crust of constant pain, but even a blind man could sense the crowned ghost’s frustration. “It was not always this way. The first seasons of your absence were hopeful, more crops survived that bitter cold than during any winter I had ever seen. For the first time in decades, hunger was not our fiercest enemy.” Archonis paused for a moment to clear his throat of a most violent cough that produced red upon the soft, white cloth balled within his fist.

  “The seed of today was born on the eve of the second summer. Your father summoned healers from across the four nations, but none knew of a cure. Disease crippled me, and shortly thereafter, enemies dressed in the skins of our brethren unleashed chaos upon us. I was unable to serve, and your father had no one left to trust. Battles raged every day, it seemed, but he would never yield. For half a year, we hid behind our walls, and for half a year, his desperation grew. Until finally, one day, he decided to burn the castle to ash rather than surrender it. I advised against it, but my words could no longer reach him. Thank the Divine Serpent your uncle Cassius arrived when he did.”

  Archonis talks more than I remember. “I will have to thank my uncle when I see him,” Marcus remarked, saying nothing else as he returned his eyes to the image beyond their carriage window.

  He speaks in my brother’s voice now. The old, broken commander noted, coughing blood once more into his stained cloth. Goddess, keep him safe.

  Considering the chaos that had claimed the countryside just a year prior, the surrounding land was remarkably clear. There were blistered patches here and there, but only when they arrived outside the silent gate did the Paladin’s words ring true. The massive gate of iron twisted in pain as if giant men, fifty meters tall, had hurled their fists into it. Charred granite walls surrounding the Viper’s den crumbled like rotting teeth where the boulders had struck, and the storied scarlet tower stood stained black from the burning tips of bolts and arrows.

  Ramses did not greet them, too frightened to step outside his chambers. “Come, My Prince, I will take you,” the crippled Paladin grunted.

  “I know how to navigate my home, Archonis,” Marcus answered, denying him the honor. “Your guidance is wasted on me. Father and I will speak alone, make sure of it.” The Paladin complied without question, and finally, after three long years and a climb up once familiar spiral steps, Elijah’s oldest and youngest descendants were reunited. “Father, I have returned.”

  “I saw your carriage on the Tail,” Ramses replied with his back to him, staring out through the wide southern glass over his battered kingdom. “Did the Wraith complete his mission?”

  I missed you too, Father. “Turn away from the window and see for yourself.”

  So, he did. Neither knew who they faced at first. The Cardinal was a living corpse, pale and frail, so thin that the skin appeared to melt off the bone. His once majestic mane of auburn gray had shed like the leaves of autumn, leaving a wasteland of ash. The bronze crown burdened his slender neck more than ever, pulling his torso forward into a hag’s slouch as scarlet silk draped over his emaciated frame like a woman’s evening gown. He hardly seemed to care. “You look thin, boy. Did Kaiser not feed you?”

  The irony of his words brought Marcus little amusement. “It was enough,” he answered. Will this be my fate as well? For a moment, they stood gazing upon one another as if a mirror stood between them, twisted and mangled by three years of hard separation. No, I promised you more than this, Father. And I promised her more than this. He wondered if Ramses could even remember his mother’s face, but it no longer mattered. “Does Lord Farro’s son still control the Devil’s Garden?”

  “The devil is dead,” Ramses reminded, his lips curdled like sour milk at the sound of The Climb’s former name. “But yes, Samuel was unharmed while you were gone. What do you want with him?”

  “Excellent,” Marcus answered, turning to face the window that faced North. With their backs to each other, there was the slightest pause in the prince’s voice. “I shall leave tonight then.”

  “Nonsense,” Ramses said, raising a brow as he finally turned to his son. “You just only arrived.”

  “What good will come of staying another night?” he asked his father. “Do you even know what has happened to our people since you’ve been hiding in the castle?”

  “Watch your tone, brat!” Ramses scolded. “I am still Elijah’s eldest and I am still your father.”

  “And I am the future!” Marcus reminded. “What future will our people have if I stay?”

  Ramses clenched his fist, wishing to scold. But his words are true. “Where will you go? Tell me that at least.”

  “Once I have finished my business in The Climb, I will travel north to unlock the mystery of their fortune.”

  “Chronos?” Ramses asked, plopping atop his satin sheets in a stupor. “Corbin Dantes is dead and you’ve seen how the rest of them treat us. Why would Hawk share such wisdom with a Viper?”

  “They wouldn’t. But what of their own?” The prince’s riddle confused him further.

  Stubborn. Ramses would argue no further. Just like you father. “If that is your decision, then so be it, but know this. You will receive no aid from me, for you are the son of hardship. If the Goddess deems you worthy of Elijah’s legacy, you will return with your wisdom. But if she does not, you will die alone, and Isiris will suffer for it.”

  Marcus turned his back on his father and on his home, just as his forgotten brother once had. And finally, the wrath the crowned ghost had kept shackled within a cage of ice escaped as hot venom from under his breath: “The Goddess can keep that useless legacy. I will make one of my own.”

  Chapter 23: Sebastian’s Shadow

  Nearly a year had passed before Tyr and his master returned home in his seventeenth year to the secluded woods of the Scilian outskirts. The long autumn was nearly over. Their field hungered for seeds, and their stores lacked the grain to sustain the winter. “Take care of it, Tyr,” Zephyrus instructed with a lazy wave of his hand. “Wake me when you return.”

  The clouds were idle, and the winds whispered that afternoon in the marketplace. “Pardon me, young lad,” A vendor greeted the Breeze with a smile upon his arrival. “You look awfully familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”

  Tyr shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  “Ah, yes, now I remember. You seemed so frightened of the merchants back then.” The merchant was uniquely observant, a necessary trait in his trade. “I had never seen anyone run so quickly from the market.”

  “That was the first time I came here without my master. I didn’t think that anyone had noticed.”

  “Swordsmen aren’t the only ones with a sharp eye, my boy.”


  “How did you . . .?”

  “Like I said, sharp eyes,” the merchant repeated with a wink as he pointed to the blade on the young man’s hip. “Now that introductions have been made, won’t you stop a moment and see what the Tremendous Tomlin has to offer? I have some delectable treats just brought in from all the capitals. Crunchy, soft, salty, or sweet, I am sure I have something to satisfy your teeth.”

  Tyr would normally never dare deviate from his master’s list. “What sort of crunchy, salty treats do you have, Trader Tomlin?” Master doesn’t have to know.

  “What sort, you ask?” Tomlin answered with a sparkle in his eye and a glint in his grin. “Why any sort you can imagine, my young friend. From the Pearl City of the East, we have the dried skin of a dragonfish. Succulent morsels of flesh, fried within their own lavish oils—but be warned, their fiery flavor is not for the faint of tongue.”

  “I tire of the East, Tomlin,” Tyr replied. “What of the West and the South? I want something I have never tasted before.”

  The merchant’s passion blazed in response. “I had no idea you were so well traveled, my boy. You seek the exotic, and you shall have it. My fetchers escaped the pursuit of arrows and spears from the border skirmish with the Radink. They nearly died from thirst after traveling through the western Sand Sea. All so you can taste this piece of luxury, a cured cube of beef from the rarest breed of bovine, cooked by the sun god himself.”

  Tyr’s mouth began to moisten, and his stomach’s lustful rumbles did not elude Tomlin’s ears. “Finally, your belly sings, but there is one more item from the South that will make your taste buds dance. Once every five years, the Earth Priests of the Holy Wasteland harvest a particular batch of dwarf potatoes. Small enough to fit between a child’s fingers, they bathe in the divine light of the Silent Cathedral. These miniature slices of heaven are then taken to the finest cook in the Godless Garden, who boils them in pig stew before finally searing them to a crisp.”