by JD Franx
“Oh, thank god,” she whispered, relieved, once she realized Kael was still breathing. Burns covered most of his exposed flesh, along with numerous cuts and a few splinters the size of her finger that had punctured the flesh on his arms. She began healing him right away, and fifteen minutes passed before some of the town’s people, led by Cassie and Cornelius began filtering through the lodge to the courtyard while others fought to contain the blazing fire.
“Kyah!” Cassie shouted and then stopped suddenly as she spotted Kael on the ground. “Is.. is he..?”
“He is alive, sweetheart. Come, you can help me,” Kyah offered.
Hesitant at first, the little girl finally knelt beside Kael. Kyah took her trembling hand and placed it on his ribs. “His ribs are broken on this side,” she said. “I need you to help me. I am too weak to heal him without you.” Cassie’s eyebrows drooped and her face wrinkled up in a frown.
“I don’t have any magic. I can’t help him. You have to do it.”
“Cassie, I would never lie to you. Now, come and listen, but most important, believe. I can feel magic in you. Why can you not?”
“I don’t know...”
“Your bond...” Kyah hesitated, casting her healing spell again. “You have not taken the Bonding yet.”
Kyah shook her head at the oversight. Placing her hands on top of Cassie’s, she began healing Kael’s broken side, at the same time teaching the young girl the simple words to activate her limited magic. When she had the pronunciation correct, Kyah waited for only a minute before removing her hand, but the magic continued to slowly flow into Kael. Even though it was much weaker than Kyah’s, the magic came from Cassie.
“Am I doing it? For real?” she asked, looking from Kael to Kyah and then back.
“Yes, you are,” Kyah said, her voice quiet. “We believe that the Fae are back in our realm once more. Teaching to heal is much easier than it used to be, especially to one as gifted as you are.”
With a big smile of excitement, Cassie asked, “How do you know that?”
Kyah pointed at the magic flowing from the twelve-year-old girl who was not even aware she had magic and had yet to complete the Bonding ritual. It was all the proof she needed. It was disturbing.
“The proof is in what you are doing right now, and Kael is very lucky for it. Now come, we must get him to a bed where we can finish healing him. We are not done, not by far.”
The freed townsfolk were happy to carry Kael to Cassie’s aunt and uncle’s house, it was one of the few still standing. Kyah worked through the night to heal him.
Cassie helped as much as she could, but without a true connection to the earth she tired quickly and soon fell asleep in the corner.
DWARVEN RUINS, EAMON’S GLADE
“Crazy fucking bastard,” Dominique sighed, regaining consciousness.
“That crazy bastard really, really, knows too much,” Shasta moaned.
“Uh, my head,” Cormack whispered. “Talk about being here before. Didn’t we already have this conversation?”
“Yesterday? I think.”
“Were we out that long, Shasta?” Dominique asked. Pushing his stiff body up off the cold floor, he leaned his back against the cell wall.
Rubbing his eyes, Cormack agreed with the pirate captain’s first mate. “She’s right, feels like a full day. I’m damn hungry. Where is that insane old fart?”
As if the universe were answering, a crash down the hall cut Cormack’s words short. A bright flash cast a shadow identical in shape to Eamon two hundred feet down the darkened stone hall. A fiery explosion similar to the one out in the glade days earlier quickly followed as again the floor of the ruins sighed, lifting the captives by a foot before they crashed back to the floor. Cracks in the walls and out in the hall rocketed into the cell as the ceiling beyond Eamon’s shadow collapsed and dust rolled their way like a living being. Dominique rolled to his right, dragging his ropes with him, as several foot long slivers of stone jutted from the cracks racing into the cell. A long, low howl echoed down the hallway.
“What the fuck is going on out there?” Dominique asked, quietly. Eamon walked out of the heavy smoke and dark gloom with a large pack slung over his shoulder. A second, muffled howl bounced off the walls behind him.
“Well, boyos, that was refreshingly terrifying. Seems you gobshites brought all kinds of fecking weird with ya.” Falling stones rumbled down the hall, and Eamon turned back, clearly uneasy. It was the first time any of them had seen him startled.
“What’s coming?” Shasta asked. The old man trembled the slightest bit. It was alarming to see the normally stoic, but crazy fool in such a state. “We heard the Mahala yesterday. What’s here now?”
“Bloody fecking werewolves!” he exclaimed.
“Werewolves?” Cormack said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Ya, werewolves. And not the cuddly fuzzy ones that keep you warm and smell like wet dog. Big, fecking, walk-on-their-back-legs-with-bloody-big-fecking-teeth-and-claws-to-scare-the-shit-out-of-you-type of werewolves. Mary, Mother of God, what the goddamn hell is wrong with this screwball world of yours? I blew one of its arms off and the bloody thing didn’t even slow down.” Turning away from the cell, Eamon used the lantern on the table outside the cell to light another short tube he pulled from the pack on his back. It sparked, hissing as he stood there watching for trouble.
“This is our fault, Dominique,” Shasta whispered. “The northern forest clans must’ve got word we were here. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Torgo and Shae have been after us for years.”
“No,” Cormack said, frowning. “They came from deep inside the ruin. They’re Ella’s forward scouts...”
“That’s why the Mahala were here yesterday. The wolves pushed them ahead. Probably hoped to flush the crazy fart out of the ruins,” Shasta said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Dominique said. “Eamon won’t hold them off and this cell won’t keep them or Ella out.”
“Ask him if there’s another way to leave these ruins. Paranoid bastard has to have an escape plan,” Cormack said, sliding over, his ropes slithering across the stone floor. Another howl and the sound of more falling stones came from down the hall. “They’re digging their way through, we don’t have much time. Dominique, Ella’s still wants to kill us, even more so now... We need to get out of here.”
The Northman shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We can’t trust him and he sure in the Nine Hells won’t trust us.” Eamon tossed the sparking tube down the hall. It detonated, shaking the ruins and adding more dust to the already chokingly-thick air. The old man coughed, spun around, jogging back to the cell.
“You a Northman, ain’t ya?” Eamon asked, staring at Dominique.
“I am.”
“I heard a rumour once, about ten years ago,” Eamon continued. “That a Northman never broke his word once he offered it on an oath of his blood. True?”
Dominique frowned. “It is.”
Eamon smiled. “I’ll make you a deal, Northman. I ain’t dying in this effed up world. I’ll give ya everything ya came for and more, but we leave here together and you protect me until I can leave this crappy world of yours. Your wizard says there’s more Dwarf ruins, which means there’s more machines to take me home. Deal?”
Dominique shook his head. “I can’t trust you, you crazy bastard. You’ll blow the shit out of us the moment we’re free of here.”
“I’m an Irishman, arsehole. My word’s worth more than all the gold stashed on your ship.”
“We’re running out of time here, Dominique,” Cormack muttered, leaning in so Eamon didn’t hear. “There’s at least a dozen weres on the other side of that collapse and something—someone—I’ve never felt before. Not Ella. My esoteric senses aren’t that strong, but trust me, we do not want to be here when they break through. We need to leave.”
“How do I know I can trust you, Eamon? For all I know, every Irishman could be a crazy fucker, just like you.”
&nbs
p; “Oh, now you’re effing asking to get punched in the fecking mouth. Well, we are all crazy feckers. Don’t mean our word ain’t worth nothin’. Tell you what, pirate, we’ll grab your gear before we bail into the mountains. The traps and mines I’ve put there will slow these overgrown hellhounds, and then if it makes you not so scared, baby-boy, you keep me prisoner until I rig your ship with cannons and barrels of black powder. You’ll be an effing seagod in half a year.”
“What the fuck is a cannon?” Dominique asked.
Eamon frowned. “Of course there’s no gunpowder in this ass-backwards world. That explosion that lit up under your ass two days ago? Imagine being able to aim that anywhere you want. What I’m offering will change warfare in this world forever, and it’ll all be yers for as long as you can hold it. What do you say? Ready to be a god?!” he yelled, as more stones tumbled off the collapse down the hall. Eamon pulled a small blade from inside his boot and sliced open the top of his forearm before sliding his hand and the blade through the bars of the cell. “Northman’s oath, bound by blood. Deal?” Eamon repeated.
Dominique stood and stared at the crazy old man. Taking the blade, he slowly cut his own arm on the opposite side. “The blood oath isn’t just a word of honour or a deal, old man. If you betray this oath, my kin will spend their entire lives and fortunes tracking you down. They will kill you slowly.”
Eamon shook his head. “My word has always been my oath, pirate. I won’t break it. And I am not dying in this effed up shitehole.”
Dominique grasped the old man’s hand and pressed his arm to the old man’s, surprised by the strength he found there. Eamon nodded and released his grip, pushing the cell door aside.
“Let’s leg it, pirate, unless ya want to become overgrown-dog shite.” Turning, Eamon barrelled down a side hall away from the collapse.
With no other choice and the deal struck, Dominique and the others followed.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“After so many years of fighting the Wildlands’ Tribes, I have come to one conclusion. You can never predict what they will do in any given situation. The Sartaq Tribe are even worse. Somewhere in those twisted minds, corrupted by the spirit magic that ages them so fervently, there is a vile, sinister plot to advance only their own kind, even at the cost of the other tribes, let alone the rest of the world.”
Calladia Veht, ArchWizardess
Personal journal entry, Darkwinter, 4952 PC
AVELERA CITY, ELLORYA
THE OSOK ARENA
“Yorcali-younger, you can’t possibly expect me to force my Lanistae to sell all their gladiators, not even to you and your father.”
“Ellorya owns a lot of gladiators, Emperor Mero, surely...”
“The state—I—own over half of the Ludi, yes, but there are arenas in every city and most major villages. Even a few of the smaller towns have arenas. The amount of fighters you would require... I understand the desire to defend your borders, Yorcali-younger, but the cost would be beyond your ability to pay.”
“The cost beyond our ability to pay? Sounds like the opening of negotiations, Emperor, not a refusal,” Niko added, smiling.
“Perhaps it is, my beautiful flower. Does your boss have the means to negotiate at this table, Miss Sattori?”
“I promise you he does, Emperor Mero. We have something you will definitely want.”
“Well then, I guess we had better invite the Senate’s gladiatorial accountant into these proceedings. He will have an accurate set of numbers of available gladiators for you to look at.” Niko nodded, bowing her head slightly as Kyro smiled at her skilful manipulation of the Elloryan ruler. Emperor Mero waved at one of the ceremonial guards and the big man unlocked and opened the door. The young steward entered once again, bowing to his emperor.
“Find me Senator Illius,” the Emperor said. “Tell him his services are needed here. Now.” The steward bowed a second time, retreating from the Gods Balcony as fast as he could. “Now, Yorcali-younger, it’s clear you have something in mind to trade for my gladiators. Care to share?”
“Sorry, Emperor Mero. Starting a negotiation with your strongest negotiating tool is rarely the best strategy. You understand, of course?”
The emperor laughed. “I do understand, all too well. We shall wait for Senator Illius.” A knock at the balcony’s door heralded the steward’s return.
“Enter,” Emperor Mero barked.
Stepping onto the balcony after the guards opened the door once again, the steward bowed. “Emperor Mero, guests, may I present Senator Marcus Illius, head of the Senate’s empirical gladiator finance houses.” The newcomer bowed and took the seat offered by Emperor Mero. Seated with Emperor Mero to his right and Kyro to his left, the senator grabbed a cup of wine.
“Emperor Mero, Kyro Yorcali, Mistress Sattori, thank you for the invitation. How may I be of assistance?” With the steward gone from the balcony, the guards closed and secured the door, remaining at their posts.
Raising his glass of wine, Emperor Mero smiled. “It seems that the Yorcali family have something we desire, greatly. They wish to trade this information and a large weight of gold for as many of our gladiators as we can spare. How many can we spare, Senator?”
“And still keep all of Ellorya’s arenas operating?” Senator Illius asked, disbelief riding every word.
“Of course. We can’t deprive our citizens of their national pastime now can we?”
Wincing and hesitant, the senator replied, “I’m... not sure, Emperor. Maybe a hundred.”
Kyro frowned. “You must be able to do better than that,” he said. “I need at least fifty times that many.”
“How many active gladiators do we have in Ellorya, Senator?” Emperor Mero asked.
Closing his eyes, deep in thought, Senator Illius finally answered. “Ten, maybe twelve thousand. Perhaps a couple thousand more, but they’re bloodless—no arena experience.”
“I think we can do better than a hundred men then, can we not? Say... Two hundred?” Emperor Mero sighed, and the two men began talking faster back and forth. Without a number and no reason to further his argument, Kyro winked at Nikko and sat back listening to the banter.
The emperor and his senator’s voice soon faded, transforming into a whisper humming monotonously in Kyro’s ears. His eyes grew heavy as he relaxed in his velvet padded chair. The heat, wine, and the emperor’s rich food all added to his exhaustion.
Without even realizing it, Kyro nodded off, succumbing to the after-effects of the previous night’s partying and too many glasses of wine in the last hour. As if being injected in the heart with ice, he gasped and jerked awake. His surroundings had changed ever so slightly. The droning voices were still present, but the entire balcony and the people in it were surrounded by a muted, hazy glow. Sitting up, he frowned, his body moved slowly, as if weighted down by the confusion of a dream. It was happening again—his mind had shifted in time, showing him some distorted vision of the future. It was a rare occurrence, but one that had happened six times since he had turned sixteen. Kyro glanced around the emperor’s personal balcony, noticing everyone was still seated where they had been when he drifted off. Even the newly arrived senator sat to his right.
“Kyro? What is it?” Niko asked. Her voice had slowed, garbled by the distortion of what he was seeing, or by the vision itself. It got worse as the arena horn blared on, almost endlessly, and the announcer’s enhanced voice added to the ear-splitting combination of sounds and dizzying sights.
The voices faded and movement from his peripheral vision beyond the senator caught his attention, pulling his focus to the moving guard. Turning slightly in his chair, Kyro was too slow to stop the guard from pulling a strange blade from within his armoured white gauntlet and stabbing the senator in the back of his neck, right at the base of the skull. Realizing the other two guards were already moving, Kyro could only stare in horror as a guard stabbed Emperor Mero in the exact same place with an identical weapon while the third guard did the same
to Niko. Grinding his teeth in anger, Kyro felt a blade pierce the back of his neck at the base of his own skull, understanding he’d forgotten about the fourth guard. A sharp explosion of pain shot through his entire body and he watched, helplessly, as the guard who stabbed Niko jerked the handle of his dagger downwards, snapping the blade off inside her neck. The identity of the killers dawned on him as the blade poked out of his throat before the click of it snapping off inside his own neck echoed in his ears. Kyro cursed as the last of the trademark kills were completed.
“Fuck!” Kyro coughed, jerking awake. Pulling a shuddering breath into his lungs, he grasped at his own throat, as if the memory and agony of his vision were real. Emperor Mero and Senator Illius stared at him.
“Kyro?” Niko asked, sliding forward in her chair. Like in his vision, everything seemed to be moving at a crawl. “What is it?” The arena horn blared just like in his vision and he glanced to the right. The guard to her rear had already moved to attack, the wooden blade sliding free from his gauntlet.
“Assassins!” he shouted, his eyes leading her to the direction of the attacks. With no time to explain, Kyro grabbed the senator by the collar and pushed him to the ground. Niko drew her hidden blade and twirled out of her chair. Tossing it to Kyro, another dagger appeared in her hand as if by magic, making him wonder for a brief second where she could have possibly hidden it. Caught off guard, her attacker moved in for the kill, but clearly unaccustomed to the restrictions of the heavy armour he wore, he was too slow. Niko struck first, sliding her dagger past a gap in his armour and into the assassin’s the armpit.
As Kyro’s fingers closed around the tossed dagger’s hilt, the world seemed to catch up, returning to normal speed. Spinning out of his own chair, and knowing he had no time to hesitate, he grabbed the descending wooden blade and pulled the assassin forward, stabbing the phony guard in the throat. The assassin’s wooden blade clattered to the balcony floor as the third guard grabbed Emperor Mero in a choke hold, pulling the Elloryan ruler backwards off his chair. The assassin tore his dagger free from his heavy gauntlet as Kyro kicked his own chair forward. It crashed into the assassin, shifting his arm at the last second. The blade sliced the side of Emperor Mero’s face and neck, missing the base of his skull by inches.
