Under the Crimson Sun (the abyssal plague)

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  He couldn’t remember his parents’ names.

  But he tried not to think about it too much.

  His hands hurt.

  Some nights, when he slept-on those rare occasions when he could actually sleep, not toss and turn in the “cubicle” that Calbit and Jago had put him and Gan in-he dreamed about the red liquid. But in the dream, the red liquid was swirling madly in a whirlpool. Unfamiliar images crashed onto his consciousness like dunes overflowing during a sandstorm: a large golden vortexlike eye, a strange creature with gray skin but with shoulders covered in red crystal, a female wizard turning a tiefling into stone …

  Plus phrases he did not recognize: the Elder Elemental Eye, Bael Turath, Voidharrow.

  That last one he heard a lot in his dreams.

  But then he woke up. And he tried not to think about it too much.

  Sometimes he thought that he was better off not thinking at all. Just giving in to all of it.

  That would make life easier.

  “Rol, you okay?”

  For a moment, Rol panicked. He knew the voice, knew it, as certain as he knew his own name was-

  What was his name?

  Gan. That was it. No, Gan wasn’t his name, Gan was the name of the person talking to him. His own name was Rol Mandred. He knew that.

  He always knew that. Except when he didn’t.

  “Rol.”

  “I’m fine.” His voice sounded weird. “My hands hurt a little, but I’m fine.”

  He looked around the cubicle, but couldn’t see Gan.

  Maybe he was imagining Gan. Maybe he was imagining all of it. Maybe Gan didn’t exist. Maybe it was all a dream and he’d wake up from it soon.

  Maybe the red liquid was the reality and Gan was the fantasy.

  Yes, embrace the Voidharrow …

  “Rol, listen-”

  “Shut up.”

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “Not you. The other voice.”

  “There is no other voice, Rol. It’s just me.”

  After a second, Rol realized that he couldn’t see Gan because Gan was in the cubicle across the hall. Now he remembered-once they became the new main event, Gan and Rol were each given their own cubicles. That was just a stupid name for what was really a cell, just like any other. Rol had been in plenty over the years, so he knew what they were like, and this was most definitely a cell, no matter what they called it. Like that time in-

  He couldn’t remember where it was.

  “Rol?”

  Grimacing, he tried to recall that time when he was in that cell. There was a woman-there was always a woman-and her husband got a little peeved the way husbands always did, and did they take it out on the woman who cheated? No, they took it out on Rol, who was just having a bit of fun, and they threw him in a cell. They were quite humorless, the magistrates in-

  Why couldn’t he remember the city-state where he was imprisoned?

  “Rol?”

  “Gan, do you remember where it was when I was imprisoned for sleeping with that girl?”

  At that, Gan actually laughed. “Seriously? Rol, you’re gonna need to be considerably more specific than that.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Rol, we need to work on escaping this place.”

  “What? Why?” Rol knew that Gan was right, but he couldn’t remember why Gan was right.

  Speaking very slowly, Gan said, “Because we’ve been enslaved, you jackass.”

  “Right, right, I knew that.” Rol tried to force himself to focus. It was just so hard …

  He wished he could remember how they got there. It had something to do with Fehrd, but he could no longer recall how Fehrd was involved. Or even where Fehrd was. He should have been with them.

  Gan was talking about something that may have been important. It was hard to tell with Gan, since he was always talking. “It’s gonna be a lot harder now. Ever since you became the featured attraction, they’ve hired a lot more security. The crowds’re bigger too.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You, you moron.” Gan sounded angry; his yelling made Rol’s headache worse. “You beat the unbeatable fighter. People actually give a frip about the fights in this arena for the first time in years. Calbit and Jago hired about a dozen mercenaries to supplement the other guys, and some of them even have metal swords. The patrols are all random too-haven’t been able to find any kind of pattern. I gotta tell you, we had a better chance of escaping before you killed that mul.”

  “What the hell choice did I have?” Rol screamed, and slammed a fist into one of the cubicle walls.

  His hand no longer hurt, oddly, and a large chunk, and several small chips, fell to the floor from the stone wall.

  “Will you please calm down?” Gan said. “You’ll bring the guards, and then we can’t talk.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to talk to you. In fact, Gan, I’m sick of talking to you. All you ever do is talk.”

  “Good, that’s good.”

  Rol frowned, confused. “What’s good?”

  “You’re complaining about me. That’s a good sign that you’re you.”

  “Of course, I’m me. Who else would I be?” Rol asked that question despite not being entirely sure of the answer.

  “I wish I knew.” Gan spoke with tremendous emotion, so much so that Rol blinked in surprise. Gan usually didn’t speak quite so strongly. “Rol, ever since that night in the desert, you haven’t been yourself-in any way. You’re ridiculously powerful, and you look more and more like you’re diseased. I’m scared.”

  Gan never admitted to being scared of anything. At least, Rol didn’t think he ever had. It was hard to recall specifically.

  Hell, he still couldn’t remember his parents’ names. And his head still hurt.

  “We have to get out of here, Gan,” Rol said. “I don’t care what it takes. We need Fehrd to make a plan.”

  There was a long pause before Gan replied to that. “Fehrd’s dead, Rol.”

  Rol had forgotten that.

  In fact, he still didn’t remember it, and wasn’t sure that Gan wasn’t lying.

  No, that was crazy. Gan wouldn’t lie to him.

  Would he?

  “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “Remember, Rol, that Black Sands thug killed him. They were fighting with staffs, and then the leader took out a knife and stabbed him with it.”

  Rol didn’t remember that at all. But it didn’t sound right, somehow. “Why would he stab him if they were fighting with staffs?”

  In a voice reeking with incredulousness, Gan said, “He was the leader of a band of thieves-on what planet do you expect him to behave honorably? Hell, I don’t expect you to behave honorably, and you’re the closest thing to an honorable person I’ve ever met.”

  That surprised Rol. Somehow Gan saying something nice to him didn’t match with what he expected Gan to say.

  Things were obviously worse than he thought.

  But he couldn’t think straight, so that wasn’t surprising.

  He just needed to rest. Maybe then his hand wouldn’t hurt so much and his head wouldn’t hurt so much and he’d start to remember things again. Like his parents’ names and how Fehrd died and where it was he was in that cell and …

  Give in to the Voidharrow and all-

  “NO!”

  “What is it?” Gan sounded concerned.

  Rol shook his head. “It’s fine. Really, I’m fine, I just-” He moved to rub his eyes, then realized that his fingers were covered in lesions. No, they weren’t lesions anymore, they were red pustules that made it impossible for him to even touch anything.

  He snarled. “We need to get out of here.”

  “I’m open to suggestions as to how.” Gan let out a very loud breath. “I wish Feena was here.”

  “Who the frip is Feena?”

  Impatiently, Gan said, “My sister, you moron. She-” He cut himself off, then whispered, “Someone’s coming.”

  Rol hoped it
was someone who could make his hands not hurt.

  A new voice said, “Stand, whaddayacall, away from the door.”

  Actually, Rol realized it was an old voice: Sasker, one of the guards. He always came with three other guards, all armed with metal swords.

  So Rol stood back from the door.

  It creaked open to reveal Sasker, along with the usual three guards. Their swords were out.

  “Time for your next fight, and-” Sasker stopped short and stared goggle-eyed at Rol. “What the frip happened to you?”

  Rol had no idea what he was talking about. “I’m the same as always.”

  “Not hardly. Your face is all, whaddayacall, covered in crap.”

  One of the thugs said, “Maybe we should have a healer look at ’im.”

  Sasker looked at him as if he was insane. “Right, another one. Calbit hates payin’ for healers, and they sent, whaddayacall, half a dozen to look at this guy. ’Sides, it’s time for the fight.”

  Defensively, the thug asked, “What if it’s contagious-like?”

  The look on Sasker’s face didn’t change. “You’re bein’ paid to keep the fighters in line. You ain’t bein’ paid to, whaddayacall, think. So shut the hell up.” He turned back to Rol. “Get up, Mandred. Time to earn your keep.”

  “You don’t pay me.”

  “Fine, earn Calbit and Jago their keep, then. C’mon, let’s go.”

  At that point, Rol could do the walk to the arena in his sleep. The three guards were at triangle points around him too far for him to grab, but far enough away to be able to effectively use their swords if he made a false move.

  His hands really, really hurt.

  They brought him into the waiting area and then Jago started doing his routine, and Rol could barely hear it over the crowd noise.

  The noise just would not stop. Rol tried to ignore it, but it wouldn’t go away, and he tried to listen to something else, but there was just the noise and nothing else and it was just making his headache worse and worse. He needed to find something else to listen to.

  Embrace the chaos, my friend. Spread the seed and everything will be yours.

  That wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but somehow, that voice-that annoying voice, that voice which had been in the back of his head since that night in the desert and that would not go away no matter how many times he tried-didn’t make his headache worse.

  In fact, right then, hearing the voice, the headache went away.

  And his hands didn’t hurt.

  So finally, after not listening to the voice, after wishing the voice would go away, he embraced the voice.

  He barely paid attention to Jago as he droned on about fights and battles and other nonsense. The crowd was cheering, but he paid even less attention to that.

  All he saw was the thri-kreen facing him in the arena.

  Spread the seed …

  The thri-kreen skittered on all his legs across the arena, trying to avoid Rol, then jumping up onto his hind legs to slice at Rol with his pincers.

  Spread the seed …

  Rol smiled. He’d faced the thri-kreen before, and usually ducked and dodged his pincers, mainly out of a desire to keep the pustules from bursting.

  Suddenly, that was just what he wanted.

  A pincer came at his face and Rol didn’t move. It cut through one of the pustules, causing a minor bit of pain in Rol’s cheek and sending red ooze spraying out onto the thri-kreen.

  Dimly, Rol registered the gasp of the crowd. Jago had taken to blaming Rol’s “affliction” on his nonexistent trip to the Beastbarrens, where he met “strange creatures beyond all possible imagining” and that one had done that to him.

  So naturally there was concern when one of the strange red bumps that were covering him burst all over the thri-kreen.

  That concern no doubt elevated when the thri-kreen started to scream.

  Rol’s smile widened. The Voidharrow would not be denied. It would spread and bring magnificent chaos.

  And deep down in the darkest recesses of Rol Mandred’s mind, that thought terrified him. And the fact that his terror was so deeply buried while he was outwardly thrilled at the very concept terrified him even more.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Drahar hated coming to the arena.

  When he first was appointed to be King Hamanu’s chamberlain-the previous appointee having made the mistake of publicly disagreeing with one of the royal edicts-the king had attended the fights at the absurdly named “Pit of Black Death” once a month. And, of course, all the highest ranking members of the court had to attend as well.

  At first, Drahar had dreaded the very notion. He had been born into a sirdar family, and one of the benefits of being born to that higher class was that he didn’t have to participate in the gutter practices of those beneath his station. From the time he was born, he knew he was destined for great things, especially once he proved to have some psionic ability, and therefore received training in the Way at the King’s Academy. Of course, as a scion of the sirdars, he was able to receive the advanced training.

  Many options were open to Drahar after graduating the Academy, but he found himself gravitating to politics. The true power in Athas belonged with those who ruled the city-states, and Drahar knew he had to be part of that. His only plan was to work his way into the king’s inner circle. His skills in the Way got him appointments he might not have received otherwise, and his own intelligence and craftiness took him the rest of the way. He became a sirdar, just like his parents.

  Unlike his parents, he was able to elevate himself to one of the highest positions possible for someone not actually of royal bloodlines.

  Stupidly, he had assumed that would mean never having to go to the arena. What was the point of being one of the most powerful people in Urik if he couldn’t avoid the things that revolted him? And there was nothing on Athas more disgusting than watching two people fight for no reason. Truth be told, watching people fight for cause wasn’t particularly appealing, either, but there, at least, Drahar could understand it.

  But to call two people punching each other repeatedly “sport” made a mockery of true sport. Drahar wasn’t much for participating, but he loved to watch, especially simtot, which was a field sport that involved directing a ball toward a net while riding a crodlu. That required riding skill, as well as observation of one’s surroundings, and a certain skill in geometry, since one needed to calculate angles of trajectory and such. It was a sport that rewarded intellect and skill.

  However, affairs of state were often conducted in the royal box at the Pit. A critical trade agreement was hammered out during one of the fights between Gorbin and Szanka, before Szanka died in his sleep of unknown causes.

  According to Hamanu, that was when the fights started going downhill. It was Drahar’s considered opinion that they were already deep in a valley, but he said nothing, mindful of his predecessor’s fate.

  After a while, Gorbin won every fight quickly, and after a while, the king got bored with the fights. Drahar could have danced in the streets, he was so overjoyed when two months went by without an arena visit.

  Soon the king turned to other hobbies-including, to Drahar’s joy, simtot-and Drahar was convinced that he would never need to set foot in the Pit, or any other such place, again.

  Unfortunately, it was Templar Tharson’s favorite entertainment. And Drahar needed Tharson on his side.

  Tharson actually went to the Pit every night he was able to. Sometimes-often, in fact-his duties as commander of the Imperial Guard kept him away, but if he was free, he was there. The king even let Tharson use the royal box, which had the benefit of being raised high above the arena. If Drahar did have to suffer through the fights, he could at least do it from a distance.

  They had gone there that night after a particularly frustrating meeting with the king.

  Hamanu sat on his throne, which was unusually drab. One of the things Drahar admired about Hamanu was that the king did not believe in what he r
eferred to as “unnecessary finery.” He wore silks that were well-tailored, of course, and jewelry appropriate to his station, but he saw no need to be ostentatious. His throne was simply a chair, albeit one that was cushioned and apparently comfortable, on a dais that kept the monarch on a higher plane than the others in the throne room.

  Drahar was sitting with the other members of the court in uncushioned chairs that were arranged in a semicircle around the throne. The meeting had been to discuss possible methods of raising capital to increase the ranks of the Imperial Guard. Although the king’s army more than served its function to protect the city-state against invaders, many in the court felt that the king’s sights should be set beyond the walls of Urik. But the Guard, as currently situated, would be spread too thin to properly wage a war and also protect the homeland.

  Both the mines and the orchards-the two primary sources of income for Urik-had produced low yields of late. It wasn’t enough to cause major difficulties for anyone living there, but it also meant that they had no surplus. On the one hand, it was one reason why raising the capital necessary to expand the Guard would be difficult. On the other, it was all the more reason why Urik needed to conquer more lands-like, say, Tyr.

  The meeting was being held because Tharson and Drahar were attempting to convince Hamanu to take the latter position.

  “We could always expand the ranks through conscription of civilians into the service,” Tharson said to the king.

  Tharson barely finished his sentence before Hamanu replied, “No. We need soldiers, Templar, not knife fodder. More to the point, we need trained soldiers, not random fools taken off the streets.”

  One of Drahar’s fellow sirdars said, “Even if we did conscript, we would have to feed and clothe them.”

  Tharson made a noise like a fireball. “We’d have to pay them if we wanted them to be any good at it. Unpaid soldiers are poor ones.”

  “It does not matter,” the king said. “I do not wish to sully the ranks of the Guard by lowering the standards of service.”