by Ryan DeBruyn
Azrael tilted his head, now curious where this conversation was going. He then frowned and matched her tone, “It would seem that the Sovereign Empire is stretched too thin. Everyone knows that the Sovereign himself and his elites are the real power.”
Jophi intensified her pointed glare. “The captured Empire citizens talk about the Sovereign coming to rescue his people. They believe he will not stand for this any longer and will come personally with his entire retinue to exact justice.”
Azrael heard the unspoken question. He shook his head and frowned. There would be no rescue sent for him. He countered, “You would think that one of the other Guilds would step in to curb the Tuatha, or one of the powerful Guilds’ higher ups would disagree with the Tuatha’s current path.”
Jophi looked to the head table, sneering at first, but her look softened when she saw Ogma. Azrael watched as she slowly turned back and shook her head. No rescue would be coming for her either. Silence stretched and he changed the subject. “This was much better cooking than this morning. I missed lunch, were you two there?”
Bat nodded and finally chimed in, “I unfortunately missed breakfast—” Azrael had somewhat forgotten the mournful pleading he had witnessed, however Bat continued, seeming unbothered, “—but the snake and mashed turnip of this meal was delicious! Lunch was a simple stew with bread.”
Of course it was a snake. Azrael closed his eyes and tried to mentally force his stomach to calm down—he had never loved snakes. Still, food was food, and he couldn’t complain as long as it kept him strong. If his broken fever was any indication, he needed to eat anything and everything they served him.
Bat’s jaw dropped open. Azrael was about to ask him what was wrong, when a collar fell over his head and settled on his neck. Azrael flinched his shoulders, moving them towards his ears and shortening his neck. He expected the rope to pull tight and wrench him from his chair. But an extremely well-dressed guard stepped up beside Azrael. “Oberan would like to have a word with you.”
He stood up and extricated himself from the metal bench. It was awkward with the collar around his neck but he managed. Once standing, he allowed another guard to place enchanted chains on his feet and hands. Then, in a strange shambling walk, he was escorted out of the room. All eyes focused on him as he moved through the crowd. He was sure the special treatment would not go unnoticed—he saw Torin’s darker than usual green face out of the corner of his eye. Torin’s eyes twitched continuously as it ground its teeth together menacingly.
Azrael amended his final thought—or unpunished.
Chapter Nineteen
Azrael wasn’t jerked around or abused on the pathway the guards led him down. On the contrary, the well-dressed guard guided the way and even indicated turns before he had to make them. Thinking back, Torin originally had picked him out as a loser of the Battle Royale, and so hadn’t hated him, but was strategically attempting to undermine his chances. His making it through alive had given birth to the toad’s intense dislike. Torin blamed him for the lost money and wages. Losers were often like that. Always someone else’s fault and never their own.
The guard behind him with the polearm, whoever he was, seemed almost gentle in comparison. Azrael wanted to Analyze the man but didn’t dare to turn around or stop. He knew that his treatment could change in the blink of an eye. That was also why he didn’t ask any questions. He did Analyze the well-dressed guard in front of him.
Laith Farr
Master-Steward
Level 61
Health Points: 700/700
Not a guard then. A non-power class, if Azrael’s guess was correct.
The smart-looking steward motioned up a set of metal stairs and Azrael felt his stomach lurch. Higher altitude clearly indicated better ranks to the Tuatha. As he climbed, the pattern he had seen elsewhere repeated itself. Metal morphed into simple wood after a single story of stairs, then polished wood after another, and when Azrael stepped onto the fourth set of stairs—made of hand-carved, highly polished wood—he knew this was a serious meeting.
What would Oberan want with me?
The guard maneuvered the pole to the top of the stairs and gave the lasso a firm but gentle tug. He stopped, which seemed to be what the individual wanted. Two very well-geared guards approached and nodded to the guard behind him. The steward came and gently removed the noose from Azrael’s neck and walked back towards the stairs. He chanced a look backwards but only saw the retreating back of Laith.
He faced front again and quickly Analyzed his two new guards.
Gyr Hoff
Master-Bulwark
Level 44
Health Points: 4500/4500
Gyr was a strange creature. His head was level with Azrael’s, but he was hunched over, and he used his incredibly long arms to help propel him over the floor. His skin was mottled brown, and his legs were muscular and bunched beneath him. Azrael was forced to assume he was looking at a sapient Plains Troll. His race would be outstanding as Bulwarks if the rumors of Troll regeneration were true.
Yonel Getz
Master-Swordmaster
Level 73
Health 1400/1400
Yonel, on the other hand, was red-skinned, tall, and wiry. He was extraordinarily well-muscled and wore only loose-fitting high-end clothes. The way he carried himself told of his supreme level of confidence. Azrael would have guessed that his lack of armor was because he specialized in Agility and Dexterity. Especially when he saw the health numbers. One of these guards alone would be challenging to contend with for most combatants. Both were a nightmare to his combat training. Even if he put himself on par with the level gap, he couldn’t see a viable winning strategy.
The two didn’t talk but efficiently frisked him, then took positions beside him and simply waited. They didn’t indicate he should move forward. So Azrael stood still, attempting to keep both in his peripheral vision. Not that seeing an attack coming from either of them would save his life, but his training wouldn’t allow him not to try.
After five minutes, he started to feel uncomfortable. After fifteen, he was sweating from keeping his body tensed and ready for movement. It was at the twenty-minute mark that the stalemate broke, and a voice made him jump. “Azrael. That was quite the display in the Battle Royale. Let me tell you, I don’t think I have seen such a promising new recruit since Octorian. Isn’t that right, Gyr and Yonel?”
Neither of Azrael’s guards answered the figure that approached. Azrael took the opportunity to Analyze him.
Oberan Faedon
Epic-Houndmaster
Level 21
Health Points: 9000/9000
Azrael’s mouth dried up like he was standing in the desert at noon. He tried to hide his reaction and stood straighter. He would never be presentable in his bloody and stolen clothing, but he refused to look like a mouse in front of this powerful man. His slight movement clinked his leg and arm irons together, reminding him of their weight and presence.
Oberan seemed to still be waiting for an answer, and he wasn’t looking at Yonel or Gyr. Azrael glanced at the guards. They stared ahead and showed no signs of speaking. He coughed. “Thank you?”
“The compliment was earned, young man. I am truly surprised by what I saw. Of course, I would expect nothing less from a Sovereign Son. Gyr, remove those chains, he won’t be needing them.”
Gyr moved forward using his long arms and bunched legs. Using strength alone, he ripped the enchanted chains to pieces and dropped them to the ground. Azrael felt his stomach flip at the Troll’s casual show of strength.
As soon as the restraints were removed, Oberan continued, “It is an honor to finally meet one of the fabled sons of the Sovereign. I brought you here today to ask you a few questions. Your pale face makes me believe you fear reprisal, but quite the contrary, young man, I plan to reward you.”
Oberon’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. It was wolfish. A Houndmaster eyeing its prey. Oberan let the silence stretch. Azrael took the hint. “What
do you mean, reward me? I haven’t done anything.”
They were playing a game now. Azrael knew it. He only hoped Oberan underestimated him.
Oberan tilted his head and pursed his lips. “You are quite right, young man. It is more what you are going to do. You see, I have a high enough Perception to see through your Obfuscate, and I am also high enough ranking amongst the Tuatha to know the Sovereign’s secret.
“I want you to unhide your surname and change your class to that of your father’s. I wish to have you fight under his banner. The crowds will love it. If you win, you will gain your father much in the way of reputation—at least amongst the common folk.”
Azrael picked out the unsaid. If he lost, the common folk would lose hope. Did he believe that Azrael harbored some sort of loyalty and love for his father, who he had never met? Other than the ring, scroll, and sword, his father had never given him a thing. They were definitely playing the game now, though. “I am sorry, but I would rather not. There is no benefit for me. Maybe if you offer me a way off this rock…”
He let his offer hang in the air. It was his turn to make the silence stretch. He was playing a dangerous card to act this way. Still, he was staring death in the face no matter how this played out.
Oberan could kill him by breathing on him, yes, but he couldn’t force Azrael to remove Obfuscate. Azrael understood what it was that Oberan could gain from a budding arena combatant who was a son of the Sovereign. But the people’s hope wouldn’t be crushed unless Azrael kindled that fire a bit.
The rumor of a dead son of the Sovereign would only be a quickly spoken of and discarded topic. The rise of a Sovereign savior would bring hope to the people, have them believe in something more. Then came Azrael’s inevitable death—that was the real blow Oberan desired. It would likely quell the masses, and send people to the arenas in droves.
Azrael had no intention of dying, but he knew there was a very high chance of it happening anyway. He might as well milk this situation for everything it was worth. He hadn’t had time to consider concessions from Oberan, and so now was scrambling desperately trying to find something. What did he need that this man could provide?
In a word? Privacy.
“I could have either of my guards kill you right now.” Yonel shifted his feet, and Azrael jumped. “You dare to ask me to provide passage off my planet. I would have believed that a son of the Sovereign knew when he had no ground to stand on.”
Azrael’s heart was racing, but the overreaction told him everything he needed. Oberan was desperate for something. He needed to crush the people and have more combatants in the pit. The reduction of slave ships to the planet likely meant that the Tuatha were falling behind on the amount of bodies needed to continue to farm Essence.
The raise in taxes suddenly made sense as well. It was like a thin bandage on a massive wound, though.
Oberan must believe Azrael was heroic, loyal, and strong to ask this. Azrael felt his mind focus and sharpen. Time to steer the conversation. “This son of the Sovereign knows that if you kill him now, you gain nothing. The people of Tech Duinn and the others that you enslave will hear a passing rumor of my existence. Even if you parade my corpse through the streets, it won’t matter. Obfuscate holds after death.”
Oberan made a noise of pure ecstasy. “Oh, how wonderful to talk to someone with education. I have been on this mud swamp for years, with only Yonel and Gyr.” Both men shifted, and Oberan shook his head and indicated them with a gesture. “You see what I mean. Great sparring partners, and combat trainers, but conversationalists—not even close!”
Why would Oberan change tactics so drastically in the game? He didn’t believe for a second the man was actually starved for conversation. He smoothed his features and asked, “Oberan, why do the Tuatha have you here? You are so strong, and running a planet could be done by others, I am sure?”
Flattery never hurt.
Oberan over exaggerated fanning himself as he pretended to swoon. “And he cares about me. If I didn’t know any better, Azrael, I would think you were hitting on me.” Oberan’s smile told a dual story. Azrael knew from that wolfish grin that Oberan was joking but would need minimal prompting to take up the offer to bed.
He stored that particular piece of information in his pocket for later consideration. “Your lack of good company aside, I have already told you, I won’t do as you ask for nothing.” Azrael held his breath, hoping he was right about the direction that claim would take them.
“You think you have nothing to lose then?” Oberan seemed to grow weary and studied the back of his hands. “Perhaps, instead of killing you, I should have Yonel here head down to visit Bat or Jophi? Maybe Verimy or Dara?”
Azrael intentionally flinched after Verimy and Dara. That was the direction he wanted. Now to close.
Oberan saw his reaction and pulled back his lips to show his canines. “Have a soft spot for your former trainers, do you?”
Azrael didn’t respond, needing it to go one step further. Come on, Oberan, you’re so close.
Just like that, Oberan stepped into the conversational trap. “Yonel, please go fetch Dara and Verimy.”
Yonel saluted and turned.
“No!” Azrael shouted. His voice cracked perfectly, thanks to his recent puberty. “I will do it, but you can’t hurt my friends,” he whispered and let his head fall.
That was the start, now to water it and get the second seed planted. Azrael shook his head and mumbled, “Only I should have to fight. Trainers of a Sovereign Son won’t get you much at all. I will do as you ask if you can guarantee no harm comes to my friends.”
Oberan studied him. Scrutinized his body language.
To give that final push, Azrael dropped his head and whispered, “No, he will trick you. How would you know if they are alive? Unhurt?” He shot his head back up to meet that wolfish grin and stared into Oberan’s eyes trying to give a sense of false bravado.
With Oberan being in the Epic ranks, Azrael knew he would hear his whisper. He just hoped Oberan didn’t realize that he knew that. Oberan seemed to grow thoughtful and held up a hand to stop Yonel. Yonel did stop and turned but the guard didn’t return to neutral, indicating that this was more of a hold on the execution. If Oberan dropped that hand, then Azrael had lost. Oberan would bring his friends up here one at a time to be slaughtered in front of his eyes.
For some reason his stomach and chest tightened at that thought. Was it because he would lose bargaining chips? He didn’t care for them—did he? His training wasn’t supposed to allow personal connections. So, was the emotion he was feeling a personal connection?
They are your trainers. Nothing more. Chess pieces. Just like Bat, you can discard them whenever it gives you strategic advantage.
Ten long seconds passed.
“I can offer you a place on the second level. We could move you and your friends into a single cell. That way you would know they were safe. I will be keeping one on the third level as insurance. I think Dara would work best.”
His stomach and chest got tighter. He forcefully ignored it and acted his part. He looked at the floor. He had perfectly orchestrated this result. His friends could look for a method to escape while he fought.
Putting them in the same cell was an added victory to Azrael. Instead of answering right away, he waited in his defeated posture for an equal ten long seconds.
Then Azrael nodded.
“Good,” Oberan said and then stared directly at Azrael’s hand and his ring. Azrael felt his chest tighten in a particularly uncomfortable way. “That ring must be quite powerful for my guards to not have removed it. I will expect you to use the ‘Soul Blade’ you have accordingly—to add to the show.”
Azrael stood frozen. Oberan had noticed the ring and was going to let him keep it? Oberan turned and left, which finally freed Azrael’s mind. Gyr tapped him on the shoulder and motioned to the other door out of the room.
Confused, Azrael stood up and followed the Troll out of the room.
On the way back down the stairs, he could only think—that had seemed too easy.
Chapter Twenty
The powerful Troll led Azrael back to a gate he vaguely recalled. Was this the same gate the prison transport had brought him, Ogma, and Jophi into the Pit through? He studied the courtyard. It definitely had space for a transport and the gate was large enough as well. It had been the middle of the night when he arrived, and the twilight of the setting sun currently shone through the massive iron bars.
Gyr stood off to the side near the entrance to the room. Azrael continued to try to figure out why he was back on the ground floor and waiting five feet from an exit. Did Gyr want him to try to escape? He studied the impassive Troll for a hint. Nothing.
Echoing footsteps came down the passage he and Gyr had entered through. Then fellow combatants dressed in ragged clothes streamed out from it. The guard near the front of the line stopped to speak with Gyr. Azrael wished he had stood closer. He couldn’t hear a syllable over the tromping feet. Papi was at the back of the line and joined the conversation.
Azrael caught a glare from the Bearman and looked away hastily. Soon the two guards had fitted each one of them with enchanted clankers. A quick head count told Azrael there were exactly thirty other slaves. Papi connected a chain to a ring on his chest and the other side to the second guard’s back. Azrael Analyzed that guard to discover he was a Journeyman rank. His white skin, white hair, red eyes, and gauntness meant he was likely a vampire.
The guards attached each prisoner in pairs on both sides of the enchanted clankers and then the vampire led them out of the gate. Out of the dungeon? Azrael could feel the change in the air when they left. He took in a deep lungful of air, smelling the city around him. Remembering the town that had formed around the Sovereign Halls. Where could they be going that was outside the dungeon?
