Lion of Zarall

by E B Rose

  “King Kastian has a strong distaste for Zarall name,” one of the guards had laughed. “Next, he’ll make sure the name will be erased from all history books.”

  “Not that you know how to read ‘em,” his friend had mocked, before they’d resumed Lion’s torture.

  Therefore, when Master Karhad declared Lion’s name to remain the same, a sense of foreboding had twisted Lion’s stomach as he obediently recited the memorized phrase and acknowledged his new Owner.

  This couldn’t have been good.

  When the physical beatings had stopped after that, Lion’s unease had only grown more.

  They never asked him anything about the free men he’d killed. They never asked what he’d been doing in that tower, or what had happened to that man in the black robe. He even had a visit from a new physician once, making sure his guards hadn’t taken their hospitality too far.

  There was only one explanation why Lion was still alive, still at Castle Brinescar, and still carried the Zarall name; King Kastian had plans for him.

  A very public, humiliating, and slow death for the late King Leonis’s beloved, famed Lion of Zarall.

  When he heard a group of approaching footsteps again, Lion turned to his side, curling up on himself. He wasn’t afraid of dying. He didn’t even care about the torture. He just didn’t want to die without knowing what had happened to Saradra.

  The grill slid to the side with a metal screech. Lion tensed. Instead of his Pain Word, the next sound he’d heard was keys turning into the lock and the cell door opening with a creak.

  The light dispelled the sheltered darkness of his cell. Since taking up residence in this cell, Lion had developed a distaste for the light. The darkness was safe. The pain always came with light.

  Lion sensed his time was up even before two pairs of strong hands yanked him up on his feet. His stomach growled, his head spun, and he swayed on his feet.

  When the guards dragged him into the hallway, he was struck temporarily blind by the torches hanging on the walls. He hung his head down, blinking his eyes furiously, as he staggered forward along the hallway between the two guards.

  He almost sensed them. Sensed her.

  He was walking past the slave holds, and he didn’t know how, but he could sense her presence there, amongst them.

  He whipped his head to the side, digging his heels to the ground. However, his sight was still impaired by the light. One of the guards kicked behind his knee and dragged him forward.

  Lion kept craning his neck back. He couldn’t see her. He just wanted to look at her bright blue eyes one last time. He wanted to break free and run back.

  As if sensing his intention, one of his guards lodged a punch below his ribs. The blow stole his air. By the time Lion caught his breath, they were already out of the dungeons.

  Master Karhad was waiting for him in a room he’d recognized. This was where Raydon had prepared him before every appearance at King Leonis’s feasts and banquets.

  They dropped him on a chair first and pushed a plate in front of him. Lion hardly even looked at the food, shoving it in his mouth with his eyes half-closed. He tasted bread, cold meat, and some sort of gruel.

  Next, Karhad gestured him to get into a wooden tub, filled with hot water. Already feeling stronger and steadier on his feet, Lion complied without help. Two house slaves approached to scrub the blood and dirt off his skin. One of them was the familiar female slave who’d worked on his appearance before every battle. Lion wondered what happened to the old slave with the weathered face and bony fingers.

  After the bath, Lion climbed on the low pedestal and stood still. He knew the drill.

  The slaves brought the outfit he’d worn at the last feast; a pair of black pants and boots, and a black half-cape. He scowled when they slipped the golden greaves and the golden belt on; the Zarall symbol was openly engraved on them both.

  He wasn’t surprised when he didn’t receive any weapons. The slaves spent most of the time brushing his hair; the whole process was almost comparable to having his skin flayed off alive. They slapped a grey liquid on his curls, giving them more volume. He looked exactly like he did at the last feast; King Leonis’s proud Lion of Zarall.

  After a final inspection, Karhad led him back outside, with two guards bringing up the rear.

  Lion couldn’t help but feeling like a lone cat in a house full of hungry dogs. Or bears, more likely. He had no loyalty for the black and gold lion of House Zarall he carried on his accessories, but the fighting bear of Vogros evoked hostile feelings in him.

  He shouldn’t even have been feeling anything for any of his Owners. He was just property, nothing more.

  This was Saradra’s doing. She had awakened something inside of him. She had made him desire and want and wonder. His world had been black and white prior to meeting Saradra. Now it was coloured with thoughts and feelings he couldn’t control. His mind was jumbled, chaotic.

  Part of him missed the emptiness.

  They reached a small, service yard behind the upper kitchen. It was night outside and the yard was lit with torches on the walls. The kitchen sounded busy. The new King was giving a feast and Lion sensed he would be making an appearance very shortly.

  A cage waited just outside the large doors leading to the inner keep. It was tall enough to stand inside and was placed on a cart pulled by two slaves - beasts.

  One was Hopper… or at least he used to be called Hopper. The other was Crowseye. They were both wearing Vogros colours now.

  Lion’s steps faltered when he approached them, his jaw clenched. He wanted to ask them what had happened to Badimar. They were with him the night of the coup. Had he survived?

  Karhad unlocked the cage and motioned Lion inside. When Lion didn’t move, Hopper glanced in his direction. Underneath his frown was curiosity. A pinch of annoyance too. Reading Lion’s unspoken question from his face, Hopper’s eyes narrowed.

  The hilt of a sword landed hard between Lion’s shoulder blades. He staggered forward, swallowing a groan. Ignoring the brewing growl deep in his chest, Lion climbed inside the cage before the guard struck him again.

  “Stay standing and face forward,” Karhad instructed. “Eyes on the floor.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Karhad and the guards pulled a black curtain over the cage. Just before the curtain separated Lion from the outside world, Hopper’s chin dipped vaguely.

  Lion’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t know what to make of the ambiguous nod, but he sensed it had to do with Badimar. The Master of the Beast had survived.

  Lion closed his eyes and let out a breath.

  With the thick curtain draping over all four sides of the cage, Lion was left in semidarkness. He could still hear outside and see the dark silhouettes of anyone who was near enough, but nothing more.

  He stumbled back when the cart started moving forward. He steadied himself by holding on to the bars on two sides. Anxiety was like a giant animal trapped inside the cage with him. It filled every bit of the empty space near him, strangling him, stealing his air. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this cart was taking him to a painful death.

  For the millionth time, he wished he could see Saradra one more time before he died.

  The fear must have been playing tricks on his mind, because he started hearing violent growls. Lion’s skin prickled as his muscles froze. The image of the burning hound flashed in his mind, followed by the image of the monster on the ceiling.

  The man in the black robe!

  Lion shook his head. He wished he was imagining, but the sounds were growing louder. Closer.

  The man in the black robe was outside, along with his monsters!

  Was this the painful, humiliating death Kastian was preparing for the Lion of Zarall?

  The cage rattled and Lion stumbled to the side. He didn’t dare closing his eyes for the fear of reliving the events of the horrible night in his mind’s eye. In his dark cell, he’d tried so hard to forget about the man in the bla
ck robe. His pale, sunken face. What he did. How he stabbed his heart and killed him!

  The cart stopped.

  Lion heard muttered speech from outside, but the low rumble of the monster blanketed it. As the time stretched, the anxiety continued to gnaw on him.

  Oddly, he searched for Astaldo’s teachings to find comfort. This is not my body; it’s their property.

  They could do anything they wanted with him. It didn’t matter. Whatever was going to happen, Lion wouldn’t be here.

  He reached for the escape hole in his mind. He readied himself to disconnect from the moment. It worked. His fears flickered out like fire under pouring rain.

  He heard large doors creaking open and the cart started moving again.

  More speech, excited whispers. Echoes. Lion’s eyebrows dipped as he listened. Were they in the banquet hall? It sounded crowded.

  The monster’s growls broke away, but it was still nearby. Silhouettes of people glided past behind the curtains. The cart slowed down, stopped, and turned right.

  Lion’s heart was thrashing wildly in the cage of his ribs. Not my body; it’s their property. Not my body… Whatever happened, he wasn’t going to stay here…

  Then he heard a male voice speak.

  “You are the most fortunate descendants of your families,” the man said with a strong, tenor voice that Lion clearly heard despite the thick curtain between them. “Because you are here, in this hall tonight, to witness the beginning of a new era for Chinderia.”

  “Long live King Kastian!” someone yelled and others repeated.

  The man - King Kastian - gave a brief pause. The cheering people quieted one by one. Lion didn’t have to see to know that every pair of eyes in the hall was now firmly fixed on the King.

  “This country had an illness,” King Kastian said gravely. “A taint it had been trying to wash its hands of for a hundred years.” He paused to let the murmurs of agreement heard, then continued: “But before I elaborate any further, I’d like you to listen to what High Priest Mendrich has to say. I know you all are loyal followers of the Twelve Riders, but in days like these, it is important we remember the Twelve’s teachings. It is important we remember the Dividing of Homes.”

  A pause, shuffle of feet, low murmurs. Lion imagined King Kastian greeting an old man in priest robes up the platform in front of the long table where King Leonis used to sit. When the man spoke in a gravelly voice, Lion knew he was right to picture the high priest as an old fart.

  “Kiejain, the first Rider, the first warrior, the first husband, the mightiest,” the priest bellowed enthusiastically. “We have wandered from your path, and came to confess our sins. We seek redemption and…”

  “It is important we remember the Dividing of Homes tonight, Master Mendrich,” Kastian interrupted. There was an impatient edge to his voice. “I’m confident everyone here will attend to the first sermon at the House of Twelve in the city first thing tomorrow morning.”

  The old man cleared his throat. If he was offended by the interruption, he didn’t show it in his voice. “I will recite you Dividing of Homes, word by word, from the Book of Twelve.” He paused to take a deep breath, then spoke again:

  “In the early days, the world was whole; and it was in darkness. Two races fought for dominance long before humans have arrived. Both races were children of fire. Dragons were defeated and were driven into hiding in the vast depths of the Frozen Caves. Demons were victorious and they have ruled the darkness.”

  Lion crossed his arms and leaned against one side of the cage. What was going on? The monster was still growling lowly somewhere behind the curtains; he wasn’t imagining it. King Kastian was giving a feast, invited guests, and brought Lion over, for what? To make them listen to some religious garbage?

  “There were thirteen Demon Lords, each one holding dominion over hundreds of demons and demonic creatures. There were no human countries or kingdoms to stand up against demon armies. People lived in tribes lead by half-demons, who were born of atrocious mating rituals between the Demon Lords and human whores. They were forced to serve, to worship, and to give human sacrifices. The demons fed on their flesh when they were alive, and they fed on their rhoas when they were dead.”

  Lion started pacing back and forth. Even though slaves were not allowed to worship - since they didn’t have any rhoas - Lion still had heard bits and pieces of this story from the castle servants and soldiers. What was the point of…?

  His steps faltered. Was the burning hound he’d seen that night - and the one who was snarling out there - a demon? Did Kastian have a demon here tonight?

  Was this the death he’d prepared for him?

  “Then one dark day, a nameless Pilgrim set out to find help. He travelled the dark roads of the dark world alone, until he finally reached the Frozen Caves. He searched them with his heart, and he found the twelve dragons, last of their breed, resting in the deepest, darkest of the caves.”

  Lion shivered. An absurd laughter was building up inside his chest. He pressed his palm over his mouth to muffle loosening nerves. A demon! He was going to fight a demon!

  “The Pilgrim begged them to come out and help humans fight the Demon Lords. Twelve dragons each refused and advised the Pilgrim to go away. Yet, he stayed. And he begged them for twelve years.”

  So, man found sleeping dragons, woke them up, and pestered them for years. And that was how religion started?

  Lion doubled over, breathing through his nose and fighting to reign his laughter.

  “The Pilgrim died in the Frozen Caves, still begging them with his last breath.”

  Or maybe, the dragons had finally had enough, and the fellow was just begging not to be eaten alive.

  A chuckle escaped Lion’s lips. He took a sharp breath, held, and pricked up his ears. Even if someone had heard him, there was no way of knowing. The priest continued passionately.

  “The Pilgrim’s dedication and righteousness had touched the twelve dragons’ hearts. Each shed a tear over his dead body. Then, they climbed out of the Frozen Caves and spread their enormous wings for the first time in centuries. They flew above the clouds and disappeared behind the moon.”

  Looking for another place where they could sleep without being disturbed by noisy missionaries.

  Lion slid down to his knees, shaking with silent laughter.

  He was going to fight a demon! A demon! There was nothing funny about this! Why was he laughing?

  “The next morning, they came back with twelve riders on their backs. The twelve gods and goddesses united all the humans under their dragons’ wings and waged a war against the Demon Lords. They were led by Kiejain, the God of Warriors, riding on the back of Karaalev the black dragon. Next to him was his wife Alunwea, the Goddess of Mercy, riding on the back of Alnara the red dragon.”

  Please tell me he’s not going to name all twelve gods and goddesses, with their dragons and colours. Please…

  And he did.

  Lion rolled his eyes and listened to the screeching voice of the priest with a half ear. There was the God of Shadows, Kyrus, riding a grey dragon. He was brothers with the God of Craftsmen, Kahil, also riding a red dragon. There was a woman and a man, twins, each riding a golden dragon. They were the God of Art and Goddess of Nature, or visa versa.

  There was even useless sounding gods, like Zaon, the God of Roads, who just travelled the roads. He was riding a bronze dragon named Yolgezer.

  Why would someone bother with roads where they could simply fly on their dragon? It didn’t make sense.

  Nothing made sense.

  Lion wiped a tear, still laughing silently, as he listened to the end of the story.

  “The demon wars lasted for years, and the Twelve Riders defeated the thirteen Demon Lords one by one. However, there were still too many lesser demons left in the world and too many rhoas for them to feed on.

  “Finally, the gods and goddesses decided to divide the world in three. They created the Darkhome and banished all the demons there.
Then, they created the Farhome and took all the rhoas there to rest in peace after their death. What remained was the Earthome where humans would live and thrive under the light.

  “And the Twelve Riders stayed with us to honour the Pilgrim’s sacrifice. They started the Thrive, a time where humans prospered under their guidance. To this date, our civilizations still Thrive with the light of the Twelve Riders.”

  “Thank you, Master Mendrich,” King Kastian said as soon as the priest stopped talking. The old priest mumbled a response, before shuffling down the platform. Lion stood up. The gravity of his situation had settled in his chest like a rock. His unwanted mirth was leaving its place to nausea. He held his breath as Kastian continued speaking.

  “Some of you have known Leonis Zarall’s unhealthy obsession with ancient artefacts. Some of these artefacts were family heirlooms handed from father to son. What you did not know was a lot of these artefacts he collected with pride were tainted by Darkhome magic!”

  His dramatic pause was filled with shocked gasps and shaken whispers.

  “Yes,” Kastian raised his voice to be heard over the dismayed chatter of his guests. “House Zarall had their hands deep in Darkhome magic up to their elbows!”

  He gave another pause to let the guests work themselves up to near panic. He savoured their fear before continuing with an angry, vengeful voice.

  “We have been scaring our children to behave, to be loyal followers of the Twelve Riders by telling them of the horror tales of Black Stain in the far south,” he said. “Some believe that the Thrive ended the day Black Stain appeared.

  “Then, there is the Forbidden District in the city of Varostan, just beyond our western borders. Two places of darkness, created by blood and massacre of innocents. Created by wicked experiments using Darkhome magic.” He lowered his voice to a whisper following a brief pause. “In a few years from now, our neighbours would have been scaring their children with the horror tales of Brinescar!”