“What?” The man pulled Finster closer. “I’ve killed men for less.” He pushed Finster into the alley. Two other sailors followed.
“I don’t care, river rat. Now, unhand me before I make a fool out of you.”
The man shook him. “I hear a little jingle under those robes.” With his free hand, he patted Finster down. “Your purse for your life.”
Finster’s eyes narrowed. “You really don’t want to do this. And stealing is a crime in Rayland. You’ll force me to call the authorities on you.”
“Heh, we are the authorities. Now hand over your coins.”
“If you insist.” Finster fished out the purse from a pocket in his robes. The little leather bag was still mostly full with the gold he sold the rowboat for. Using his power, he dangled it in the air in front of the thug’s eyes.
“What in the…” The man blinked. All three men’s eyes were fixed on the bag. The little sack floated higher. “Bring that back down here, trickster.”
“If you insist.” Finster flipped his hand down. The sack of coin streaked downward, smacking the brute in the forehead with hammer-like force. Whap!
Blood ran freely from the man’s face as he stumbled backward. His fingers fumbled for the handle of his sword. On wobbly legs, he yanked the weapon free. “You’ll die for that.”
“No, I won’t.” Finster bent the man’s sword with his mind. The other two men closed in. With a single thought, Finster ripped the weapons free from the men’s hands and held them to their own throats. The whites of their eyes showed brightly in the darkness of the alley. “Are we finished here, or must I finish all of you?” He bent his ear. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Aye,” both men said. The leader with the bent sword gaped at his sword blade. With blood running into his eyes, he nodded. “Aye, sorcerer. Apologies.”
The purse of coins flew into Finster’s awaiting hand. He didn’t like the evil glint in the biggest man’s eyes. Something about the man stirred him. Pointing with his pinky, he said to the man, “You better never cross me again. I’ll turn you inside out next time.” He put his purse away, backed into the street, and joined the crowd on their way to the stadium.
Aside from Mendes, Finster knew Rayland better than any other city. He was a man of the south, born and raised. Mendes was the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, whose census boasted over a million citizens. It had the largest army as well. The other Seven Kingdoms, all of which Finster had visited in his travels, numbered from the smallest of over one hundred thousand in Toozaan, to perhaps just a couple hundred thousand shy of a million in Umpton. All cities offered something different, but Rayland was a mix of all of them. The locals typically had tanned skin and lighter hair, whereas Varland, the kingdom on the rocky steppes, was ruled by the Orientals. That’s where Satrap Chen of the Violet Tower was from. Archmenis, residing on the bottom of the Surge, was the kingdom of the stone-face blacks renowned for hunting and working their iron mines that they treated like gold. All of the kingdoms feuded with one another from time to time, mostly over trade and business disagreements, but they were living at peace, for now.
Finster stepped in line to the stadium. The building was crafted from huge blocks of stone, accented in black and white marble. The perfect square stood four stories tall. Golden banners with black serpents entwined around a ship mast, the symbol of Rayland, hung from the outer rims. Entertainment of all sorts occurred in the stadium—music concerts, contests of strength and skill, even tradeshows. Finster couldn’t have cared less. Stroking the hair on his beard, he shuffled forward, thinking about the kingdoms.
Peace. You can’t have peace without the Red Citadel.
The Magus Supremeus of the Red Citadel was dead. Finster killed her, and she killed the one before her. The Red Citadel was little more than a tomb now that its greatest wizards and sorcerers had been dispatched by Ingrid the Insane. Ingrid took the rings of power from the mages she defeated and killed them all. That created a void. The magi of the citadel were the advisors and peacekeepers of the kingdoms. They kept the kings and queens from being at each other’s throats. Now, the magi were gone, and without their wisdom, the kingdoms would begin warring with each other soon enough. That was what Rolem wanted, and Ingrid too. Rolem would turn his adversaries against one another, whittle down their forces, and strike when the time was right. That was Finster’s theory anyway.
He paid his entrance fee and made his way inside. The vendors’ concourse that ran inside of the stadium smelled of savory cooked food. Partakers bought large tankards of wine and ale as they headed to their seats. Finster made his way around the concourse first, searching for a man who towered over the others. There was no sign of such a man. Finster figured Moth would be going after food if anything. Even the roasted hen on sticks looked good to Finster.
I never should have given him coin.
Bumping his way through the excited crowd, he headed to his seat. He took the steps up and stopped where he had a good gaze at the open stadium floor. The stands were filling fast. People pointed and talked with vigor at the contraptions on the stadium floor. Finster’s brow arched.
No wonder this place is packed with fools. They’re running the Gauntlet.
His eyes found Moth on the main floor among the other contestants.
“Damn!”
CHAPTER 44
The Gauntlet was a time-honored tradition that dated back four centuries. Men and women from all over the realm came to pit their skills against the bone-busting challenges that always resulted in severe injury or death. The Gauntlet was built on scaffolding made from beams of iron and banks of bloodstained cedar. It spanned the full length of the arena in all directions, reaching over thirty feet high at the highest obstacle at the top.
A vendor carried a box filled with small green glass-blown bottles. Wine filled them to the rim. Up and down the stairs he called out, “Spirits! Get your spirits!”
Finster didn’t notice the young wine-slinging lad at first, but his growing backache and the youth’s high-pitched voice caught his attention. He’d gone a full two days without a strong drink. He hadn’t made any promises but to himself. He needed his wits sharp. He needed control or the scarab’s power could control him. He raised his arm and held up two fingers.
The young vendor caught Finster’s movement immediately. He handed over two bottles, took the coins, and said, “Thank you, sir!”
Finster chugged down the first bottle. “Ah, that’s better.” He found a frumpily dressed woman with a nest of wavy hair looking back at him. “Don’t judge me, cow-face. I don’t judge you when you graze.” He started into the next bottle as he watched Moth. The brute wasn’t as out of place as the rest of the freaks who were dressed for their run. Men and women from everywhere wore costumes with their own personal flair. There were hats, feathers, body paint, and animal bones decorating many. They chatted among themselves as they did stretches and calisthenics. Moth’s protruding brows faced the Gauntlet. A woman with a helmet of auburn hair spoke to the savage. He didn’t even give her a glance. She kept talking.
“What in the Seven Kingdoms has driven him out here today?” Finster’s knee bounced. He wanted to go down on the main floor and haul Moth back to the apartment, but it wouldn’t do him any good. Moth didn’t listen to him, or anyone. He just did what he did. “I think I’d have been better off if I hadn’t chased him at all.” Dizon slid into the bench seat beside him. He glanced her direction. “You made it here quick.”
“My daughter’s vomiting woke me up,” she said.
“Don’t you mean, the king’s daughter?”
“Same one,” she replied, eyeing his bottle. “I thought you were avoiding the drink.”
“This is the stadium. Look around. At this festival, it’s tradition. Even I’m not one to break with traditions. It can bring bad fortune.”
“Fair enough. I see your comrade is making new friends. That could be fatal.” Dizon put her hand on Finster’s thigh. “No one has b
eat the Gauntlet in over one hundred years. They keep lifting the value of the prize as well. Every contestant enters by paying an entrance fee with their own gold. The prize is over ten thousand gold jacks. There is also the chalice encrusted in gems. Another fortune. I’ve heard the king’s treasury is not so flush. So, nobody wins.”
“Of course not. The king needs money for his harem.” Finster chuckled when Dizon’s fingernails dug into his thighs. “I hope you aren’t getting too attached to me, Dizon. I’m a dangerous man to care about.”
She looked at him with her painted eyes and long lashes. “It’s too late. I love you dearly. I’ll follow you to hell and back.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous. Do you have clients that fall for that phrase?”
“Usually, it’s the other way around,” she said with a smile.
“That I can believe. As for your footsteps walking alongside mine, I’m willing to entertain it, so long as the bastard born isn’t involved. Not that I have anything against children. Even I was a child once, briefly. No offense.”
“I’ll just sell her. No worries, Lord Finster.”
Under a compulsion that didn’t seem to be his own, he put his arm around her waist. “You have a wonderful way with words. Your wine-red lips bring forth nothing but honey. How did King Alrick ever let you out of his sight?”
“All of the harem are dismissed when they are thirty. Many before that.”
“Why, that couldn’t have been more than a week ago.”
“Now it is your lips that spew forth honey. I like it.” She crossed her leg over his. “Very much.”
Finster’s blood stirred. Dizon was more than what she appeared to be. Born in the right place she would have been a queen. Instead, she was a commoner, born in the streets, probably to an unknown father, whose beauty was discovered by dubious slavers at a young age. Still, he liked her, whether she was the biggest flatterer or not. She almost seemed like a part of him. The wife he’d once longed for.
Don’t even dream it, Finster. Remember what happened with Ingrid. All women are crazy in one way or another. Give her time, she’ll prove me right. They always do.
The trumpeters standing on the lower level of the stadium sounded off their horns. They belted out a ceremonial series of notes customary before an important event. The men and women on the ground rose to their feet. On the other side of the stadium, a bare section was outlined with soldiers dressed in ring mail and carrying spears. They wore tunics over the armor with the colors and signs of Rayland on them.
The thousands of people in the crowd started to chant. “The king! The king!” They lifted their fists in the air and pumped them wildly. “The king! The king! Hail King Alrick!”
“The king is coming to this event? Doesn’t he have better things to do?” Finster said. He couldn’t have asked for a worse scenario. The last thing he needed to happen was for Moth to draw any further notice. Especially from the king himself.
“King Alrick, unlike his father, has always come, every year since he took the crown. He’s very fond of the Gauntlet. It excites him.” She shouted and started waving. “Hail, King Alrick!”
“I don’t think he can see or hear you.”
King Alrick entered, and the stadium erupted in deafening cheers. The king stood tall with a small gold crown on his head and wore an ivory-white suit with brass buttons. A wave of chestnut-colored hair almost covered his eyes. He was young, no more than thirty, and showed a gracious smile.
“It seems the people are very enchanted with him,” Finster commented. “I admit, he is an improvement over his father. Will his mother be present?”
“She adores the festival, but not the games. The queen runs the castle when he is gone.”
“I see.”
King Alrick sat on a chair that looked like a small throne. The rest of the crowd sat down. The king leaned over and whispered in his head servant’s ear. The man gave a quick nod, moved to the front of the stands, cupped his hands over his mouth, and shouted, “Let the Gauntlet games begin!”
CHAPTER 45
Sitting, Finster said, “This Gauntlet is much different than that last one I saw. Granted, I’ve only witnessed this once before. I seem to recall a Toozaan-born warrior falling to his doom in a vat of acid.”
“The configurations are changed every year. And the engineers rotate from kingdom to kingdom, trying to outwit one another,” Dizon said. Her fingers spread over his thigh, firmly massaging it. “Herclon created this year’s Gauntlet. Mendes fashioned the Gauntlet before that.”
“If anyone knows how to create traps it would be the descendants of the pirate king. It astounds me that that kingdom of black-eyed rogues stands a kingdom to this day.” Herclon was the fifth kingdom north of Mendes. “Its people are nothing but a bunch of hairy-armed sea raiders. Even the women.”
“They are a burly bunch, but you have to respect their creativity.” She pointed her lips at a sheer wall, thirty feet high, with steel spikes sticking out of it. Spread out on the wall were small wooden finger- and footholds. At the bottom of the wall was a pit that was covered in a black canvas. Dizon tossed her hair with a swing of her neck. “The final obstacle. Though, I don’t think any will make it that far.”
“I could,” Finster said.
“I know you could, shipwrecker.”
Finster gave a thin smile. “Ah, so you heard about that.”
“I hear everything. I pride myself on it. And such exciting news travels fast. There aren’t many tales in the bars that can top a lone man capsizing an entire fleet.”
Bare-chested men in dyed blue woolen trousers manned the different stations of the Gauntlet. Gold flecks of paint were sprinkled on their bodies, and black snakes were tattooed on their backs. There were levers and pulleys that operated some of the obstacles. Finster studied the contraption. The last thing he wanted was for Moth to finish the course. If anything, that would get him an audience with the king, and he didn’t want that. He wasn’t sure Moth wanted it either.
“Here goes the first scrapper,” Dizon said with a hungry gleam in her eyes. Everyone in the crowd sat on the edges of their benches. Above, dark clouds passed over the open ceiling of the stadium. The facility was lit up by the glow of torches and hundreds of oil lanterns. Each and every obstacle could be clearly seen. “They call them scrappers because they are desperate for a fortune.”
“Or just greedy. Greed will get them killed. But who am I to judge? Whatever will be will be.”
The first scrapper climbed up onto the ten-foot-high platform. She saluted ten thousand screaming people. She was a wiry gal, just over five feet tall, with her hair braided on the top of her head. All she had on was a cotton shirt and cut-off trousers. Her feet were bare.
“She’s a Herclon,” Finster said. “I can see her hairy legs from here.”
The first obstacle was a twenty-foot-long narrow beam of wood. Below it was a rectangular metal basin of oil that ran the length of the plank. The basin sat on a bed of burning coals.
“That looks simple enough,” Finster said.
An official-looking man in seafoam-green robes with onyx stones sewn on the sleeves stood on the same platform. He gave the female scrapper a nod.
The Herclon woman spread her arms out as she stepped onto the beam. Slowly, she began to cross. She did a flip on the beam, landed with the ease of a cat, and bowed.
The crowd broke out in rousing applause as the scrapper did a little dance on the beam with the delicate feet of a ballerina. She executed another perfect front flip. The beam shifted forty-five degrees.
“Here goes,” Finster said.
The scrapper’s feet hit the edge of the beam. Her legs split open. She landed hard on her crotch. Agony filled her face.
The audience erupted in laughter as did all of the other scrappers. King Alrick slapped his knees. His head thrust back from laughter.
Finster spied one of the burly assistants in the shadows turning a crank at floor level, rotating the be
am.
The grimacing scrapper scooted along the beam, pain etched on her face. She was halfway across, but the beam turned faster. She flipped over, using her arms and legs to hang on from underneath. She shimmied as fast as she could. Her fingers slipped. She hung upside down with her feet locked at the ankles.
The crowd gasped.
Dizon’s fingers dug into Finster’s leg. “Ouch,” he said, calmly peeling her fingers away.
Hanging upside down, the scrapper tried to swing herself back up to the beam. Finally, she managed to bear-hug the beam with her arms and legs. The beam continued to spin, over and over, turning the woman like a roasted pig on a spit. Shouts echoed through the crowd, a few encouraging her, but not all.
“Drop, dirty Herclon. Drop!”
The words became a chant among many. “Drop! Drop! Drop! Drop! Drop!”
Neck straining, the scrapper shouted something that couldn’t be heard over the crowd. Her arms and legs failed. She dropped with a splash into the vat of boiling oil.
There was a unified “Ewwwww…” followed by a chorus of “Yays!”
Without warning, the scrapper from Herclon burst out of the vat. Her boiled skin had bubbled up, was crispy, cracked, and peeling. With a monumental effort, she crawled out at an agonizing pace and fell over the scorching rim of the metal basin. She managed to stand once more before a gaping and silenced crowd. She lifted her charred and rigid arm, saluted, and died.
“That was awful,” Dizon said with her fingers covering her open mouth.
Finster nodded. “Cocky will get you killed. Don’t fool around with the Gauntlet.”
CHAPTER 46
The next scrapper raced over the beam, not leaving it time to turn. He was a muscular black, shorter than most, with the agility of an acrobat. He patted his chest over the heart and let out a triumphant scream. Finally, a door opened to the next obstacle. The scrapper hopped through the door and onto the next higher platform. A row of huge axe blades, bigger than a man, dangled in the path to the next level. With help from the assistants who turned a hand crank, they started to swing as if hung from a pendulum.
The Red Citadel and the Sorcerer's Power Page 15
