by Susan Faw
Commander Cayos crossed his arms across his chest, biceps bulging, and brows drawn together to frame fierce eyes. All signs of mirth vanished as though someone had wiped a slate board clean.
“Lesson number one. Never ever leave a man behind,” he snarled. “When you fight for your life, you must be able to trust your squad to have your back. You must know that they will not abandon you. Cohesive fighting is both knowing and understanding instinctively, not just what your partner is doing, but what he might do when he is out of sight.” The laughter died as the boys realized that this had not been a game. Feet shuffled in embarrassment.
“You will strip off your clothes and check the tags inside for your name. When you have exchanged clothing and are fully dressed, you will all run the fifty laps, as a team. You will all finish at the same time and leave no man behind. You are only as strong as your weakest link. Now get started.”
Grumbling and muttering broke out, but the young men did as instructed. Once their clothing was sorted and properly donned, they began their laps. The boys naturally fell in with a partner who matched them in stride, and, at the slowed pace, they were able to talk as they ran. Names were exchanged, and the seeds for bonds of trust were planted.
When they had finished their fifty laps, they found Commander Cayos with his feet up on a chair, warming his toes by the brazier. As they halted one by one in front of him, huffing and puffing, Cayos sent the young men off to fetch their old clothing.
When they had reassembled, sweating and thirsty, he said, “Toss your clothing into the brazier. You will no longer need it. There is water with lemon in the pitcher on each of your nightstands. Help yourself to a drink.” One by one they did as commanded then hurried off to their assigned beds (this time they looked for their names scrawled in chalk on the foot of each bed) and poured full glasses of the quenching liquid. Having drunk their fill, they walked back over to Commander Cayos, chatting with their adopted running partners.
Cayos watched the parings, observing who spoke to whom and made a mental note.
He dropped his feet to the floor and stood, towering over them.
“Food will be served in a half hour. You will eat, shower once again, and then lights will be put out at the top of the hour. You will go directly to sleep. Starting tomorrow, you will train from sun up to sundown, eight days a week. You will wear your crystals at all times. Never take them off for any reason, for the day that you do, you may die.” Jaws dropped at the pronouncement, and eyes widened with fear. “Enjoy your last night of more than six hours of sleep. I will be back at the stroke of dawn, and you will be dressed and ready when I arrive or it will be more laps.”
“But, sir!” said Mirza of Tunise, “how will we know what time it is?”
“That is for you to figure out. Mark my words. You will be up before dawn and dressed for my arrival.” With his final warning lingering on the air, he left the barracks, locking the door behind him.
Chapter 18
The Training Arena
COMMANDER CAYOS WAS TRUE to his word. As the grey vestiges of night were pushed back by the brightening sky, he stood in the midst of the barracks once again with arms folded while the sleepy young men lined up in front of him.
“When I call your name, you will answer ‘Yes, sir,’ your name and your home province and ‘live to serve.’ Jael!” he barked.
“Yes, sir! Jael and Cassimir live to serve!”
“Sargon!”
“Yes, sir. Sargon and Hindra live to serve!”
“Tobias!”
Silence greeted the fading echo.
“Tobias!”
A voice yelled, “Yes, sir!” Tobias strutted forward as the other young men parted way for him. He wore the same uniform as the other boys yet it fit him differently. It wasn’t just the breadth of his shoulders or that he stood a foot taller than his companions. He exuded confidence and self-assurance and a large dose of vanity.
“Yes, sir? That is all you have for me?” growled Commander Cayos. The menacing tone was lost on Tobias.
“Well, sir, I am a prince of Peca. I do not bow to servants or,” he stared boldly at the commander, meeting his eyes and holding them, “teachers.”
Mutters broke out amongst the young men.
Commander Cayos’s eyes flickered over the young men, measuring their responses. He walked around the young prince, examining his proud stance. “Who here agrees with Tobias’s statement? Do you accept him as your prince?”
More muttering met his ears, this time louder.
“He is not my prince,” said Ellas of Tyr. “Tyr does not do princes.” Tobias scowled at him, and Ellas grinned back.
“Nor mine,” said Hans. “In Fjord, officials are elected, not born. We are a democratic society born of the highest of principles.”
“In my province, we put the gods before men. It is the proper order of things.” Heads swiveled to stare at Casper, a skinny boy from Shadra. Such primitive expressions of faith were foreign to many of the young men present, and a few openly smirked at him.
More muttering broke out as the young men absorbed each other’s presence, weighing their relative strengths and weaknesses, pondering the meaning of it all. It wasn’t their height and weight that went into the evaluation, but rather their obvious cultural differences, for each province had strict rules about interaction with their neighbours.
Commander Cayos stopped in front of the young prince, arms folded once again.
“What is it that makes you a prince?” he said softly, eyes hard.
Tobias swallowed, his Adam’s apple bouncing underneath the red chafe of his recent shave. He cleared his throat and straightened his back, drawing himself up regally. “I was born to bear the crystal heart. I was chosen to be a prince. It is the will of our people.”
Commander Cayos nodded. “It is not a matter of your genetic birth that made you a prince, but the presence of magical blood, identified at birth. Your parents are neither king nor queen, correct?”
“Yes, sir.” This time, he said the words with a deference missing a few minutes earlier.
“Yes, sir…what?”
Tobias swallowed once again and said, “Yes, sir! My name is Tobias, and Peca live to serve!” He kept his eyes staring straight ahead at the curving wall.
Commander Cayos swung away from Tobias and bellowed, “Not one of you is better than the other! You are brothers! Your former allegiances end right now. Leave them on the floor in front of you or have them beat out of you because from this moment on you serve the Citadel and it alone. Your heart, mind and soul belong to the emperor. Is this understood?”
Echoes of “Yes, sir” bounced off the stone walls and swirled around the openings.
“Day one of training commences right now. You will learn to trust each other or you will be eliminated. There is no going back. Follow me.”
Commander Cayos’s heavy boots stomped away toward the sloping ramp. The young men fell in behind him as he took the downward path to ground level, eventually emptying onto a high-walled compound set with a puzzling array of equipment. Tall poles, like ship masts were spaced around the perimeter of the compound. They were strung with ropes and pulley arrays and a mind-boggling quantity of flags.
In the center of the compound was a sea of dark mud surrounded by dew-slicked grass glistening in the early morning sunshine. Weapons of various configurations stood in wooden racks in a three-sided lean against one wall and ladders rested against its side, waiting for who knew what. Benches made of wood dotted the field, and towering structures with flat tops and curving staircases brought to mind the stone passages of the Citadel.
Commander Cayos came to a halt just shy of the mud sea and waited for the gawking to end. When he had their full attention, he said, “This is the training arena. Here you will learn to fight and to defend. Here you will hone your skills, and here you will be remade. If and when you acquire the skills to be chosen, you will be allowed to leave this arena and move on to serve th
e emperor. Mark my words. You will succeed or you will be destroyed by the process. If you do not succeed, you will die.”
Eyes widened with shock at the words, and a nervous shuffling of feet betrayed their fear. Casper laughed, nerves pitching the sound higher than he intended.
Commander Cayos took them around the training facility and explained the use of the various pieces of equipment. “Each of these devices will help you perfect a different skill set. Warrior Wizards are the rarest of all wizards. They take the battle to the foe, and emerge victorious every time without fail. Why? Because to fail is to die. What you are being trained for is the most sacred of duties. From here on out, you will be fashioned into warriors to be feared, regardless of your province of birth. The best assassins, the best generals, the best warriors are Wizard Warriors. All others pale beside the might of one such as you will become. Expect to be hurt. Expect this training to be torturous. Expect to come to know pain at a level that would break a common man, and become the master of your pain. You may be teenaged youths coming in, but when you leave this training you will be men.
“Each of you will have a training partner who will keep you accountable. They will become your support and your conscience. The parings will be,” he reached inside an inner pocket of his leather vest and pulled out a scroll and unfurled it, “Samos with Tyr, Wydra with Peca, Fjord with Bastion, Cassimir with Shadra, and Tunise with Hindra.” The boys shuffled around to find their training partners. “Every day will begin and end the same with an inspection for injuries and a potion to heal and strengthen. It begins now.” From the ramp they had recently vacated, two men entered in the livery of the Citadel, a golden tower embroidered on a black linen shirt. In their hands, they each carried an ornate silver tray with ten clear glass vials. One tray of vials contained a pale pink potion. The other’s tray of vials was full of a moss-coloured liquid that gave off the smell of rotten eggs. The servants stopped in front of each boy and offered him a vial with a bow of deference.
Once all the potions had been distributed and the servants had withdrawn, the commander spoke. “The green potion is a healing and strengthening elixir. It will cure most abrasions and contusions. It can mend bones and heal internal injuries. What it cannot do is heal your mind. Should another wizard or witch attack you with magic and gain control of your mind, they can destroy you from within. Now drink your potion.”
As one, the young men downed the green liquid. It tasted of mint and a bitter herb they couldn’t quite identify. Instantly, a warm, tingling sensation spread along their veins, bringing a rush of blood to their cheeks. Their ears heated and sweat broke out on the brows. Grins spread across their faces as strength surged into their muscles and they twitched with energy, begging to be released.
“I feel like I could fly!” said Marco from Wydra, flapping his arms with glee. The other young men laughed.
“You will get your chance soon,” said Cayos, ominously. “The second potion is how you protect your mind from attack. It will bind you to the emperor and to the power of the Citadel. With this potion, he will have access to your minds. He will create a shield within your mind that only he can access that will repel enemy attacks. It will still take the strength of your own magic to do this, and it requires your submission and will. You will start out with a low dose, which will be gradually increased as your training progresses. Drink it all.”
Obediently, the young men drank down the second potion. At first, nothing appeared to happen, and then a light flooded their minds, as if someone had entered a dark room and lit a lamp. It pushed back the darkness of the shared space within their minds, but it was not intrusive. The young men looked at each other and grinned, eager to begin their training.
“Follow me. We will start with the wooden towers.” Cayos led them to the base of the closest structure and walked them through the features. “One pairing will defend the tower from within, the second set from the upper wall. The other three sets are invading. You may use any means that come to mind and any of the weapons in the armoury shed. You may wound but not kill. Now go grab a weapon. Go!” he shouted.
The young men raced over to the array of weapons and each hauled one out. Some were random picks; some were intentional depending on the boy’s knowledge. But all ran swiftly back to the tower, establishing their positions. The clang of the dulled weapons echoed long into the day, without a break, punctuated by yelled instructions and occasional pauses for corrections in strategy or to switch places within the tower.
Toward the end of the day, a woman appeared high above them on a narrow balcony. She studied the young men in practice arena below with a keen, but silent, interest. Once she was satisfied that she had committed their images to memory, she went back inside.
Chapter 19
The Depths
EMPEROR MADRID PARTED from his wife-host and solidified into his normal form, separating back into his own body. It had been an interesting day, strolling around the castle as a servant, observing without being observed, overhearing the conversations denied to his mortal shell’s ear. He’d heard the regular chatter about sick babies and husbands coming home in the wee hours of the night and the best herbal cure for a pox that was running through the lower town, resulting in boil-like lesions that burst painfully after a few days. Almost every maid had a cousin whose best friend’s sister had witnessed a child snatching. No one could positively identify the witness, however, despite how carefully Carissa questioned the maids. None of this useless information interested him, as rumours always circulated where servants congregated, but what it did do was reinforce that the Citadel was unaware of his activities within the upper levels. There was no reason for any to know what happened at that level for they were not allowed into the sacred reaches, being that it was his private domain, but he never knew with servants. And many a loyal servant would turn spy for a bit of coin or a favour when needed.
Madrid’s thoughts flitted back to his old friend Gaitain, and he grimaced before turning away from Carissa. She swayed on her feet, dark circles under her eyes. He took her by the hand and led her to a bed tucked in the corner. He pulled back the covers and eased her gently down onto the down-filled mattress. Then, he plucked the shoes off her feet. She lay back with an exhausted smile, and he pulled the covers over her.
“Sleep, my love,” he whispered. “Sleep.” Her eyes drifted closed under the soft, soothing words and was asleep in seconds.
Madrid stretched, reacquainting himself with the use of his muscles, his body feeling foreign once again. He examined his hands and saw the aging skin and reddened knuckles and grimaced. It was a means to an end. But it would not be his end.
He left the tower suite through the main wooden door, pulling it closed behind him with a soft click. The corridors were empty at this level, and he walked away, unimpeded by human presence. The hallway ended in a wall of solid stone. Madrid stopped in front of the facade, pulled a knife from his pocket and sliced a shallow cut across his palm. He lifted it to the rough wall, pressing his bloodied palm to a matching impression in the stone. It rumbled in acceptance of the bloody proof and slid aside to reveal a wooden elevator waiting for his arrival. He stepped into the device and reached out for the rope twisted around a hold in the shape of a wooden boat cleat, unwinding it from the two points and pulling on the rope that began its descent. This elevator was for him alone. It was his secret conveyance that allowed him to bypass the populated sections at ground level and go deep into the bedrock. He set the rope humming through its pulleys and the carriage swiftly descended down the shaft of stone. The silence mocked the speed of his descent until with a swallow his ears popped. He pulled back on the brake as the warning marker flashed past and slowed the carriage till it eased to a stop at level five, identified by the keystone above the passageway. The sound of dripping water reached his ears, echoing up the shaft and bouncing around the walls. Madrid stepped out of the elevator and onto the mist-slicked surface, his boots clicking on the flagstone floor
as he walked toward the sound of the waterfall.
Lights sprang to life with his passing, his presence triggering their decaying energy to spark into flame, feeding off of his presence. There were no signs of the passage of any other being. His own footprints led the way down the twisting passage. No one else knew of this cavern’s existence, for it was a Citadel secret so deep and so sacred as to be isolated and locked away in the mind of each emperor throughout history. Indeed, the last emperor had not wanted to part with this information, but Madrid had convinced him of the necessity before he had died.
The secrets secluded in this deepest of levels were the source of the Citadel’s power. Not a soul alive knew of their existence. Through the thick-walled chambers flowed the magical energies that fueled the vertical shield that walled away the provinces and kept the populace apart. The shield had prevented age old feuds from sparking into confrontations and outright war. Or so the legends said.
But that was not all to be found this deep, not by a long shot.
The sound of running water increased in volume until it became a roar, just as the tunnel ended in a wide cavern. A crescent phosphorescent light bathed the waterfall in a haunting greenish glow. The twisting stream suggested the presence of spirits. Madrid grimaced, dragging his eyes away from the eerie specter. He was not a superstitious man yet he often thought he was being watched by the spirits and the waterfall did nothing to ease the crawling sensation along his shoulders.
The falls spilled into a deep pool that frothed and churned then flowed swiftly away toward a large wooden wheel, set with paddles that turned with the force of the underground river. The unique feature of the cavern was not the spooky water or the immense wheel or even the sparks of electricity that ran along a conduit of metal up the side of the wheel housing. No, by far the most amazing thing about this cavern was the massive stone head that sat at the end of it, surrounded by rippling waves as the river split and went around it. The ancient face was carved of a stone that was not found within the cavern. It was too large for any opening that existed in the rock and the smooth walls gave no hint of an opening. Indeed, the cavern was buried so deep, it was encased in solid bedrock at the footing of the Citadel. The eyes were hollow, as far as Madrid could discern and the stern face was decorated by a drooping mustache and a long beard swept to one side as though an invisible breeze blew. On its head was the only non-stone element. A helm of silver encircled the crown of the head with a broad band and an oval-shaped disc on its forehead. The disc was as empty as its eyes.
