Lady of Drith

by Chad Huskins

  You will, she told herself. For the love of your father and mother, for the vengeance of your house, you will do it.

  Drea sat with erect posture, her hands cupped in her lap, all manners. Her poise befit a Lady of Drith, her face the very quintessence of composure.

  Observe everything, she thought. Betray nothing.

  The next blaring of trumpets signaled a group of Lictors entering the arena to the cheers of all. Fifty thousand screaming Dritheans watched as the Lictors walked over to all those people strapped to wooden platforms and being whipped. The Lictors unsheathed their swords, and, one by one, to the applause of everyone, slit their throats.

  Drea looked away. When the mass sacrifice was finally over, slaves came running out with massive two-wheeled carts to take the bodies away.

  Trumpeters marched out onto the main field, blowing on their horns and dancing. While they played, six prisoners were pushed out onto the field by Lictors, who chained them up in pairs, then left them at the center of the field. The crowd waited with bated breath, wondering what was going to happen next.

  Then a door opened at the far end of the arena and a pack of wolves was set loose. The crowd cheered.

  The trumpeters retreated through another door, and allowed the prisoners to be chased around and around the field. In the stands, spectators were leaping to their feet and calling to the wagermasters, those yellow-robed men who walked around accepting bets on who would die first or survive longest.

  Heart in throat, Drea watched as each pair of men tried working together, but they were always hampered because their legs were chained to one another. Her anger rose as she listened to the crowds laughing and cheering for the wolves.

  The men tried climbing onto walls, but the wolves found their ankles. They tried hiding behind one of the large torture devices at the center of the arena, but the wolves sniffed them out. And when the last pair did manage to climb a tower to evade the wolves, they found they had walked into a trap. The tower’s walls suddenly sprouted steel spikes, which impaled them instantly.

  The twist ending was met by roars of approval. Drea felt her gut lurch, and her head swim. The sight of such violence was distasteful, and uncivilized.

  More than once, Daedron and his sisters applauded.

  The wolves were called back into their cages, and before the crowds could become bored again, six more prisoners were sent out onto the field carrying nothing but small knives. Three cages were carted out onto the field, all covered by black curtains. The prisoners huddled near one another, quaking, until at last the cages were opened and out shot a bear, a lion, and a giant white boar.

  Plainly, all three beasts had been trained to feast only on humans, for they went right for these six pathetic warriors with their six pathetic knives. This part of the show went on for far too long, for the animals tore into one man apiece, and then became so consumed with their eating that they ignored the other three. The crowd soon became restless, tossing out occasional boos. Finally, the beastmasters came out and coaxed them to attack the others.

  Two of the remaining prisoners were killed by the lion, while the last man had unwittingly stepped onto a hidden trap. Steel teeth came out of the sand, clamping down on both his knees, trapping him and making him an easy victim for the boar.

  Then acrobats came out, some of them riding atop elephants and large bears. Then someone released a flock of birds, while men with long bullwhips swatted them out of the sky. Sharpshooters used their longpistols to fire at a group of crippled slaves, to the delight of everyone.

  The crowd had been won over again.

  As Drea watched each of the prisoner’s heads snap sideways from a bullet, her hands balled into fists.

  A trumpet sounded, and when she looked back, she saw that all the bodies were finally being cleared of the arena. “Thank the gods,” Drea muttered. “I thought it would never end.”

  “End, new-sister?” said Vaedris, who had overheard her. “It’s not over yet. Far from it. Those were just the pre-trials. Now come the real games.”

  After the trumpets finished sounding, doors opened all around the side of the arena, and in came six small clockwork chariots, each one drawn by two horses. The drivers did one circuit around the arena, waving at the crowd and creating a mad round of betting with the wagermasters.

  The sun had fully set, but the arena was illuminated by the electric globes, the three moons, torches, and a mosaic of twinkling stars.

  The only thing that obscured Drea’s view of the games were the ushers who occasionally went walking by, and, of course, her own inclination to shut her eyes from the horrors happening below. One time, one of those ushers passed in front of her, and looked right at her. Drea couldn’t be sure, for she’d only seen the usher’s face by globelight, and he’d been wearing a hood, but she thought she recognized him…

  “Izyru?” she whispered.

  But the usher had vanished into the crowd before she could go after him.

  “What did you say, Drea?” asked Daedron.

  “It’s…nothing,” she said.

  The race began at the next trumpet call, and each driver pulled on his levers to direct his horses, while occasionaly chucking spears at the other drivers. They smashed into one another, occasionally whipping out swords to slash the throats of the competitors or else tossing some large pole into the spokes of their wheels, causing them to crash. At the end of four laps, only four chariots remained, and one of them pulled ahead by a slight margin.

  Half the crowd booed, the other half cheered.

  Next, there came a series of gladiatorial events. Men with shortswords and shields faced off against men with longswords and plate armor. Swords sang their one-note song of death, and men gargled on their own blood. Men jousted on horseback, impaling each other with pointed spears or else knocking them out of their saddle and trampling them under their horse. One gladiator got his ankle caught in a rolling snare, which lifted him off his feet and forced him to fight upside down. He died quickly.

  The arena’s sands filled up with blood, and the crowd couldn’t be happier.

  Then, all the bodies were once again cleaned off the field by fast-moving and efficient slaves, and there came a long, mournful blow of a horn. At the far end of the arena, Drea saw a door open, and through it stepped an imposing figure, one made of iron and machinery. The crowd went silent. Until, that is, they heard his heavy breathing.

  Sssssssssssssssssss-chhhhhhuuuuuuuuuuu

  The crowd went mad for Lord Hiss. People were jumping out of their seats and practically throwing their money at the wagermasters, already betting on him to win whatever challenge he was beset with.

  Unconsciously, Drea pushed herself to the edge of her seat and leaned forward. Here was the man that had saved her and Thryis from a legion of dark vehl. Here was a cursed man who begged to be killed. Her heart went out to him.

  Many in the crowd were on their feet, either cheering or standing on their toes to see over others’ heads. When the next door opened, Drea, like everyone else, expected to see the dahzoletch. But instead, there came a long procession of prisoners, all being pushed out into the arena by gunpoint.

  The crowd cheered.

  “Ah,” Daedron said. “It’s the appetizers.”

  Drea looked at him. So far, she’d seen no obvious direction from him, no sign for how he intended to kill his uncle. He appears so calm. What is he planning?

  Drea squeezed her bouquet, thinking about the weapon hidden inside.

  There were about forty prisoners on the field, and they were all armed with swords, spears, knives, and maces. The crowd laughed. They seemed to think all these prisoners with their weapons was quite a pitiful and hysterical sight. Normally, Drea would disagree with them, but she’d seen Lord Hiss in action against a host of demons, and she knew his power.

  Lord Hiss stepped up to them, and the arena went quiet. Then, Lord Hiss shouted, for all to hear, “Prisoners to the City of Steam, my name is Lord Hiss! Kill m
e, I beg you!”

  A thunderous roar shook the air. Even Daedron stood to his feet and clapped. Others joined him, including his sisters and his uncle.

  And while this was going on, Drea took a moment to finally peek inside her bouquet. Inside the collection of winterflowers, hidden in all the stems, was a single knife, with a short, crooked blade, and a hilt etched in glyphs.

  And, engraved across the blade itself, were the words,

  The Hand in the Darkness

  Drea’s heart skipped a beat. So, there it was, the final proof that the Host was no delusion. Whoever he was, however he was able to penetrate her dreams, he was, undoubtedly, real.

  Horns blew. The crowd roared. The prisoners charged at Lord Hiss with their worthless weapons while he stood there, unarmed, waiting for them.

  Wagermasters pushed their way through the throng of gamblers, and men jumped over each other to place their bets.

  While this madness was going on, Drea took a moment to examine the Hand in the Darkness. Its handle seemed to have an empty socket in it, one surrounded by five prongs. It looked like some jewel had been removed from it. She suddenly recalled the Host’s words. You may use its power, but only if you charge it with your own stygian stones—I can’t provide you with everything.

  Drea thought, But where will I find a stygian stone?

  The crowd oooed and ahhhed, and when Drea looked up, she saw that five of the prisoners were already dead, either crushed by Lord Hiss’s hands or by his feet. One of them tried stabbing him with a spear, but its wooden shaft shattered when it struck him, and Lord Hiss lifted the man off the ground by his neck and flung him at the others.

  The crowd heaved and undulated, men climbed over each other to get a better view. They watched while the last of Lord Hiss’s opponents leapt onto his back, trying futilely to pry his helmet off with his dagger. In one move, Hiss reached up, grabbed the man by his neck, and twisted it. The snap wasn’t audible above the din, but the prisoner’s body went limp, and dropped to the ground like a wet sack.

  The crowd roared its approval. The wagermasters paid the winners their earnings and pocketed the losers’ coins. The forty dead men were left lying where they’d fallen as Lord Hiss stood at the center of the arena, listening to his name being chanted.

  “LORD HISS! LORD HISS! LORD HISS!”

  Then came the next horn blow. Another door opened, and twenty men came out bearing chains. These weren’t prisoners, they were game organizers. Their chains were connected to a cage made of iron, and covered by a giant black cloth.

  “The dahzoletch!” gasped someone behind Drea.

  The name went around the crowd in murmurs and whispers. Dahzoletch. Now, even Drea stood to her feet, and watched as the cage came rolling out, its wheels screeching from the weight. A small steam engine was running on it, puffing out white clouds as it tried to lend the pullers a hand.

  Lord Hiss took a few steps back, allowing the cage to take the center of the arena.

  There was a weird silence that befell the arena. And into that silence, the sound of wood clapping, and a whistle. Two Rain Guards stepped out to the center of the arena and waved torches, beckoning all attention to them. Behind them, came two hooded Priests of Mezu.

  Lord Syphen waved to Daedron and the others, and said, “Now is our moment, my family. Come.”

  Vaedris and Daedoris followed Lord Syphen as he headed for a set of stone stairs that led directly down to the ground floor of the arena. Daedron looked back at Drea. “Stay close,” he said. “For it is almost time for our moment, as well.” He smiled knowingly.

  Drea wondered, But how does he know what Lady Blackveil plans? How does he know when and where to allow her to strike? Then, like a slow morning dawn, it came her. Of course! He’s a Diviner. He has a vehl whispering to him where to go and where to be.

  Drea suddenly understood the subtle genius to it. Daedron could conspire with anyone he wanted to, even if he never met them in person, because his Divination skills allowed him to forecast when and where to be, so as to perfectly align his actions to his fellow conspirator’s.

  She followed her new-family down the steps. A horn blew in their honor, and the crowd applauded. As Drea approached the ground level, she became uncomfortable with how many lights were on her.

  She glanced at her timekeeper. It was just after the Hour of the Wolf. Thryis luv, are you at the Great Generator yet?

  Thinking of Thryis gave her an idea. Stygian stones…

  While they walked, Drea subtly removed the hempen rope bracelet Thryis had made for her all those years ago, when life had been so much simpler. Hiding her hand in her bouquet of flowers, she tore one of the stygian bluestones out of the bracelet, and tried to fit it into the hilt of the Hand in the Darkness.

  At first, the stone didn’t seem to fit, which worried her. Then, with a kind of viciousness, the prongs surrounding the empty socket snapped shut, locking the stone into place and nearly catching one of her fingers.

  When they came to the arena, Drea followed her new-family nervously through a small gate, and onto the field. The sandy earth was soaked in dark red blood. The corpses that she passed stared up at her vacantly, or else gaped up at the sky, seemingly wondering about some unknowable philosophical question.

  At the center of the arena—surrounded by lights, torture devices, and fresh corpses—the Syphenus received the applause from the most prominent Dritheans. Lord Syphen waved to the crowd, then bowed humbly to the temple priests who stood nearby.

  House Det was there, too. The patriarch, Harkonex Det, joined Lord Syphen at the center of the arena, and received worship from the crowd with a smile. The rotund man, who barely fit in his senatorial toga, was beaming as he vaingloriously waved some rusty ancestral sword.

  “SKEWER!” the crowd chanted. “SKEWER! SKEWER! SKEWER!”

  Lord Det smiled humbly and waved it off, but then finally gave in to the crowd’s needs. He approached one of the dead prisoners on the ground. He placed a foot on the corpse triumphantly and raised his sword high, as though he had defeated the prisoner himself. Then, with a quick and clumsy motion, he thrust the blade into the corpse’s chest.

  The crowd went mad with delight. Daedron, who stood nearby, applauded politely, as did his sisters. Lord Det pulled the bloody blade back out and held it over his head, beating his chest and screaming.

  So he thinks he’s some kind of warrior now? she thought. He thinks he can convince the crowd he’s some champion on par with the other gladiators? To her, the fat patriarch looked about as fitting in the arena as a duck in a chariot race.

  And yet still, the people applauded him. Drea suddenly understood why. He’s distilling the Glamour. He’s making them see him the way he wants to be seen. A virile man. A conqueror. A leader.

  Here was a kind of revelation to Drea. That a person could simply stand confidently in front of thousands and pretend to be something he’s clearly not was an astonishing thing. He rides on his family name, and stands waving a sword. Is that all it takes?

  By Markus Dustrang’s own admission, Harkonex Det was a member of the Hidden Door, which meant he would follow the teachings of The Way. And when Drea looked at the priests and saw them muttering something to Lord Syphen, Drea recalled Daedron’s words about the Ninth Precept. Religion is useful to controlling the masses.

  Was this all a show, then? Was it theater? Were politics and power just as much an organized event as the games inside the Den Beasts? Is nothing real? she thought. Are we truly controlled by such monsters? By puppetmasters? Does power really just come from willing it out of a vacuum?

  Suddenly, Drea recalled the Host’s words to her. Something from nothing.

  Do we, then, conjure up reality? Do we manifest it from sheer thought and will? Does becoming a leader result simply from saying, “Look at me, I’m a leader”?

  Ten feet away from her, the Priests of Mezu waved for silence. And, as impossible as it seemed, all fifty thousand members of the crowd we
nt quiet. One priest raised a giant metal cone to his lips, and shouted through it to have his voice amplified.

  “Hearken all you! Hearken!”

  His words echoed off the stone walls, passing through the silent crowd.

  Drea looked at her timekeeper. Ten minutes past the Hour of the Wolf. Thryis luv, what’s keeping you? She sent up a silent prayer to the Mother of Mercy to protect Thryis in her mission.

  “Hearken!” the priest said, turning slowly so that all in the arena could hear. “We come here as Dritheans because these games honor the gods! But now comes the truest test of our faithfulness! The gods have decided that our Imperator was not good enough, and now we will see if this new Triumverate has their blessings!”

  The priest waved for Lords Syphen and Det to step forward.

  “Mezu, hear us! Here, we have your sons—Phaedos Syphen, and Harkonex Det! They stand now before you, awaiting your holy judgment! Together, they form two parts of the Triumverate of Drith, in charge of keeping this city godly, just, and lawful! We ask now that the auguries be taken, and that you, Mezu, show your will to us through some sign!”

  Drea looked over her right shoulder, and saw Lord Hiss standing fifty yards away. The black curtained cage was nearby. Whatever beast was inside it wasn’t moving or growling, it didn’t even seem to be breathing.

  “And now, the Council of Augurs will take the auguries!” shouted the priest. He stepped aside, and behind him came seven yellow-robed augurs, all of them elderly men, all of them with long, gnarled staffs which had measurements on them, which helped them mark off sections of the sky, measure the length of clouds, and the distance between moons and stars.

  The augur who took the lead was the same augur Drea had seen at the Temple of Mezu. He slowly bent over one of the corpses on the ground—it was so silent, Drea could hear the man’s knees crackling with age. The augur dipped his fingers in the dead man’s blood, then approached a small cage filled with doves. He painted the doves with the blood while muttering a prayer under his breath.