Children of Swan:The Land of Taron, Vol 1: (A Space Fantasy Adventure)

by Coral Walker

  Two grim-faced keepers approached, shackles clinking in their hands. Jack’s heart shivered with dread.

  The pillar was plodding one circle after another. The white figure was swaying tediously to the plain, unvaried rhythm. She looked pitiful and frail.

  Is she tired? Is she scared?

  13

  Arena

  The lift plummeted and hit the ground with a loud thump, raising clouds of dust. Taken by surprise, Jack breathed in a large mouthful. Still choking from the dust, he found himself barefoot with hands shackled in front, marching out of the dark, vaulted passage into a circular arena, bright and open.

  A frenzy of shouting engulfed him. And the arena, girdled by an imposing wall alternating between rough rock slabs and shimmering metal plates, daunted him. He trudged on, not knowing where he was heading. For a while he hardly breathed, and his chest grew so tight that he felt it would burst. When he stopped to gasp for air, one of the guards shoved him and sent him tumbling to the ground.

  The crowd jeered as he got up and marched on.

  It was a relief when they reached the other side of the arena, under the shadow of the towering wall. They unshackled him and placed him with his back against a cold metal plate and between two vertical rails with clamps dangling from them. Without warning, the men grasped him by his wrists.

  He trembled.

  The man on his right chortled. “Did you see that? He shivered! Bagi was boasting he was a rare bokwa fighter and sold him for 5000 golden coins.”

  “A white-skinned coward he is, like all the others. Lady Cici was tricked,” sniffed the other man. After that, he gave Jack’s arm a hard wrench as if to prove how right he was, and smirked as a cry escaped from between Jack’s gritted teeth.

  “Hey, stop that. Keep him whole and it’ll be more fun to watch.”

  “Nobody wants to watch him. He’s a loser anyway with that pale skin. I’d be surprised if anyone, apart from Lady Cici herself, put money on him. Who did you bet on? I bet on Teilo, by the way.”

  “Teilo, of course.”

  The men jabbered as they hauled Jack’s arms up against the rails and locked his wrists into the clamps using the wristbands he was wearing.

  They jabbered some more before bending down to take hold of Jack’s legs by the ankles.

  It happened without warning, and his weight fell abruptly onto his wrists. Desperate to get a grip, he wiggled his hands frantically and his whole body writhed like a fish. The men’s grip on his ankles strengthened as they pulled his legs apart. The next instant his ankles were fastened to a lower pair of clamps, leaving him spread-eagled in mid-air, like trapped prey.

  The crowd cheered.

  One of the men plodded to one side of the wall and flipped open the lid of a concealed box, revealing a simple control panel. He fumbled with the buttons while the other man watched. Jack felt a pull at the wrists, and his upper body was dragged upwards by the motion of the wrist clamps. The foot clamps stayed fixed, and in a while his whole body was taut.

  The man in front of him looked on gleefully. “More, more,” he yelled and didn’t stop yelling until every muscle and bone in Jack’s body were stretched to the limit. He then strode forward, as if to check whether it was tight enough, and wrenched Jack by his arm. It was sudden and merciless. Jack cried out as a searing pain shot through him. Satisfied, the man gestured to his companion to stop.

  But before long he started to move up again. This time both pairs of clamps droned side by side upwards, lifting him up on the vertical rails.

  Up he went, over the metal surface of the lofty wall. Soon he was gliding past the narrow deck above the arena. A crowd gathered behind him, taunting and jeering at him. Some unruly ones, young kids mostly, poked and pinched him when they got a chance, cheered on by the seated onlookers behind.

  He halted when he came to the sloping tiers of seats, an optimum spot for the spectators to get a good look at him.

  For a weird moment, he felt like he was a spectator himself, disembodied, floating in the air. The pain from his taut body and the heartless mockery from the hysterical crowd went through him like thin air. The height was dazzling, and an unspeakable delight overwhelmed him as he gazed at the lanky, pale-skinned youth shackled in mid-air.

  He floated over countless heads, intrigued by their insensitive blue faces. At length, he was drawn to the brightly-painted pillar that was droning on as it endlessly spun. The white figure on top startled him, and the shock roused him from his reverie.

  He saw her.

  No longer a bleary figure, but with a face and body full of Brianna’s life and likeness. He had a blurred feeling that he hadn’t seen her properly for a long time. The mere sight of her shook him and struck him with an emotion raw and fervent, as if he had been longing to see her.

  +++

  Cici knew, without a doubt, she was the laughing stock of the arena. How those commoners, old and young, knowing he was under her protection, jeered at the skinny Ertharan with idiotic howls of laughter. Their sidelong glances, audacious and uncouth, fell on her, from time to time.

  Despite the hubbub, she still heard whispers, “Lady Cici spent 5000 golden coins for the pale-skinned outlander. 5000 golden coins, 5000 golden coins …”

  They chanted on and on.

  It hurt.

  Not that 5000 golden coins were anything to be concerned about. She would have thrown away another 5000 without a blink of an eye if it were necessary. No, it hurt because she knew the pale-skinned youth must die, and would die, in the game, and she was heading for an unfavourable outcome no matter whether she wanted it or not.

  How the lad had stumbled and trembled when he was taken into the arena! His earlier fight with the bokwas had no doubt been exaggerated. Queen Filliora would be satisfied. She would, with serenity, accept that he had died in the common course of events. Like other non-blue-skinned beings who perished daily, being killed in a game was nothing out of the ordinary. The Queen’s elegant face, a magnificent royal blue, wouldn’t be troubled, and her well-known virtues of being charitable and merciful would endure.

  The Queen had always been especially kind to her, but for some reason Cici always associated her gentle concern with a strange feeling of remoteness. It was unclear where the remoteness came from. Perhaps, in an unknown recess of her heart, Cici believed the Queen’s display of warm-heartedness was no more than a sworn duty that she had taken on to reassure her mother on her deathbed. The Queen had spent much of her youth with her mother, Yola, who had suffered a good deal and died giving birth to her.

  A queen’s crown doesn’t spare her from troubles. Cici knew only too well what was afflicting the Queen. Prince Mapolos, as the first-born, should be king, but he had been deformed from birth, and so was passed over for the Baran throne, for which a flawless physique was paramount among all the required merits. Prince Marcus, the apple of the Queen’s eye, had made her blissfully proud until his mysterious disappearance fifty yellow moons ago. His abrupt return, together with the woman Zelda, Princess of Rion, the sworn enemy of Bara, had set the nation in an uproar.

  Cici was aware of the gleam of panic in the Queen’s otherwise calm and superior gaze, and she was looking at her as if she were looking at her dead mother. How the Queen babbled and repeated things that Cici already knew — Marcus and Zelda had led a life together on planet Erthar where they had raised three children.

  “That’s the rumour going around. They want to rob my poor Marcus of his crown.” She uttered a cry as if the pain was tearing her heart apart.

  If the rumours proved to be true, it was not just the crown, but Marcus’ life that was at stake. Long ago, at the height of the nation’s hatred for Rioneans, King Lagos had established the rule that marriage or similar relationships between a Baran and a Rionean would be punished by death for both, regardless of the social status of the offenders. Little had the King realised this rule could later imperil his own son.

  The Queen knew the rule well. The des
pair in her cry was not just of worries for the crown but also fears for her son’s life. Her superior facade crumbled into pieces, leaving her wracked with emotions.

  “Think about it, Cici, you and Marcus hand-in-hand walking up to the sacred altar to swear your marriage oaths, cheered by thousands and thousands of Barans … I have always wished ever since your birth, that my dear Yola’s daughter would be my son’s wife.” Her face lit up, and she took her in her arms.

  Cici’s face was pressed against the Queen’s bosom. The Queen’s heart beat rather fast, but she felt stiff and strange. It was a curious moment, and Cici wasn’t sure she liked it much. For a girl growing up motherless, being cuddled was simply too strange. But she made her mind up to help the Queen. She liked to think she came to this decision under the influence of her dead mother’s spirit. But the Queen’s soft embrace and her hints of marriage also did their share of magic, especially the marriage. Not that it was a big deal for her, it was just a glimpse of a distant light in a deep, dark wood. Instead of drifting aimlessly in the darkness, she liked the comfort and assurance of seeing a light ahead.

  As soon as she heard that two Ertharan youths had been captured and taken to the arena, the Queen had come straight to her. She had an overwhelming intuition, as she described it, they were two of the three children, and her theory was that the third had been killed in transport.

  “They are possessed so they think they are Marcus and Zelda’s children.” The Queen talked like she was a peasant woman, shaking her fists, totally forgetting her usual graceful and mild manner, “One of them is a boy. I don’t care about the girl, but the boy has to be taken care of.”

  Cici knew what she meant by “taking care of”. Only the death of the boy could settle the Queen’s nerves. It was typical that she cared less about the girl, for a girl, being inferior to a boy, never had her voice heard. Furthermore, a girl slave would most likely vanish into some household and not be seen again, and would often be kept quiet by having her tongue removed, a common and cheap practice that prevailed among the slave-owning households.

  The Queen should have been glad to know everything was under control. 5000 golden coins was a solid insurance. No matter whether there were bets on the boy or not, Bagi would have the money. Money always wins. The pale-skinned boy was now well installed, being displayed on the high rails along with the three red-skinned slaves. It was the first round of the game. Before the shadows on the pitch were devoured by the midday sun, the game would come to an end. There would be only one survivor, and he would not be the pale-skinned one.

  +++

  Bagi was making his usual extravagant entrance on a mobile platform suspended from a cable that ran across the arena in mid-air. The platform glided down towards the centre, and fireworks ignited along the cable as he passed as if he was a sorcerer of splendid power.

  At the centre of the arena he dropped level with the suspended slaves. He turned at length to each of the four players, starting with the young-looking one who had been sobbing since he had entered the arena. He was small, and his hands and legs were pulled widely apart to fit the width of the rails. “Copa” was his name and no benefactor was mentioned.

  A weak one was always included to make sure some blood was spilled early on.

  The next one was a tall, long-limbed, angular-faced youth called “Karlla”. He was shared by a group of three masters at the price of 500 golden coins each. His angry expression and rough features were statements of their own. “One of the favourite bets,” according to Bagi.

  When Jack’s name was mentioned, Cici raised the silver-encased binoculars to her face. It was a distraction she sought, away from the rude stares, rather than the magnified scene they would bring. The binoculars were a recent gift from her father, who was in constant contact with every alien visitor that passed by, and so was never short of gadgets like this. She had tried out the binoculars only once before — from one of the tall towers of Cranpumply Castle, looking out at the hills in the distance. It had surprised her a good deal, how in half a wink things were brought so close to her, and so finely detailed, like they were right in front of her eyes.

  She saw Jack. Although 5000 golden coins had been spent, she hadn’t bothered before to take a good look at him. The sudden close-up shocked her. She saw every groove in his face from the agony of his bound body, and could almost feel his breath. When his head turned in her direction, she hastily dropped the binoculars and had to take a deep breath to convince herself that it was nothing but a magnified scene.

  There was something about him that made her heart race. She wasn’t sure what it was, and she brooded over it. Could it be the frowns on his face or the spasm of shivers on his torso? She started wondering what kind of pain was being inflicted on him to make his hands twist and face contort like that. She let her imagination roam freely for a while, so she felt like she was feeling the pain he was suffering, and her heart ached as if she were experiencing that pain in reality.

  When she raised the binoculars again, the scene was slightly out of focus, but then his blurred image struck her, and she knew all of a sudden why her heart had been beating so fast and what she had been pondering …

  He would look like HIM if his face were blue.

  Bagi was referring to her as “our clever and courageous Lady Cici”, and the audience responded with a laugh. She could see pairs of eyes staring insolently at her, as if studying a would-be loser.

  It was irritating. She disliked playing the loser, even when just pretending. It pained her more than she liked to admit. Waiting to see her slave die, her reputation for judgement tarnished, was like watching some part of herself slowly die.

  She was glad when the introduction speech finally turned to Teilo. The spectators roared at the top of their voices. Winning in two back-to-back games was a rare occurrence. If he could win this one, he would be granted his freedom on the spot. It was a collective agreement among the game ringmasters. As far as she knew, no one had ever been a three-time winner. However, the rarity of such an event didn’t stop him from being the favourite. According to Bagi, just over 10000 golden coins had been wagered on him. The announcement brought gasps from the audience, but soon the firm supporters started chanting “Teilo, Teilo!” In a while, the whole arena was seething with the name.

  “And his master is …” Bagi paused for a prolonged moment for the noise to die down.

  “Prince Mapolos!” Bagi cried.

  The seats trembled with the resounding noise. Cici let her binoculars fall to her knees.

  A shadow passed over her, and a figure slumped onto the seat next to hers. The next instant, a hand reached for her arm and poked it.

  Cici’s blood went cold. Without turning her head, she knew who he was.

  +++

  From up on the rails, Jack saw the ringmaster descend slowly down to the patch of sunlight in the arena. It was the same man who had sold him to Lady Cici.

  He looked furious, gesturing frantically as if it were a mistake. Instead of staying up, he was dropped down. The audience gave out ripples of laughter.

  The man seemed to have completely lost his composure and looked sick from worry. He rolled his eyes frantically along the wall before lurching to his feet and floundering his way to the vaulted passage — the only exit. The heavy, ornate gate shut promptly as he approached. Without slowing down, he smashed into it. The gate clanged loudly.

  The silence of the crowd made the sound echo hauntingly. Successions of drumbeats, seemingly instigated by the clangour, were heard from behind the audience. They started quietly but rapidly grew louder and faster, filling space with their unrelenting pulse.

  There was a commotion among the crowd. People were pointing, and children were screaming.

  Wisps of white smoke drifting out of the holes in the lower part of the wall. Snake-like bokwas, wreathed in the smoke, slithered out one after another and flopped onto the dusty ground.

  Somehow the suspended platform that had carried
the ringmaster manoeuvred its way to the trapped man. With his composure regained, he resumed his extravagant style and stepped onto it. Briskly the platform was raised and slid him back to the centre.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, let the game begin!” he exclaimed with a pretentious bow, before retreating the same way he had entered, vanishing behind a high tower.

  Jack almost missed the subtle clicks of the clamps. Lips curved into a grin, he laughed inwardly. It was mad to laugh at a time like this, but he couldn’t help it. Like a rapid current, his laughter seemed to course through every bit of his body, making it tremble.

  He was sliding down.

  14

  Dagger

  A foot from the ground the descent came to a halt.

  The whole arena was seething with bokwas. Sensing his approach, a few of them raised their heads. The feel of their wriggling, slimy bodies on the soles of his feet made him jolt and jerk. He struggled to keep still but soon abandoned the effort. Being shackled so tightly, keeping still was the least laborious option.

  But for how long?

  He looked around. He was too low down to see the spinning pillar, but someone else caught his attention.

  Lady Cici was sitting comfortably in an ample seat on the enclosed platform right above the vaulted passage and was chatting with a broad-shouldered, hunchbacked man. The man was ostentatiously dressed and wore a golden coronet on his head. She was smiling half-heartedly. For a brief moment, her casual glance met his. The smile froze on her face, and she quickly turned her face back to the man.

  She had bought him, and she owned him. Did she want him to live?

  He let his gaze linger on her face, hoping to catch her glance again. But no luck. If she wasn’t looking at the man, her eyes were roaming somewhere else.

  It was all part of the fun, wasn’t it? He thought bitterly, looking down at the slithering, monstrous bodies, cross-stitched into a thick, living carpet.