“Once I’m inside, I’ll be a slave.”
“Until we rescue you,” Komir said. “Zabaj, this will work. We’ve never let you down before, have we?”
“There’s always a first time,” he muttered.
Feena walked up to Zabaj and stroked his cheek. She had yet to remove her gaze from him, nor had she ceased to project her feelings onto him. Aloud, though, she only said one word. “Please.”
They stared at each other for several seconds.
Zabaj finally looked away. “Very well. For you, my love, I will do this.”
“Thank you.”
After kissing the mul on the cheek, she turned back to the others. “I picked up from Calbit that they need more guards.”
Karalith regarded Tritcht’tha. “Time to bring Chrids’thrar out of retirement?”
“Why not?” Tricht’tha chittered. “Haven’t hunted with her in a while.”
Feena shook her head. Where the others all referred to their schemes as “the game” and “gaming” people, to the thri-kreen it was a hunt. That matched with the usual mode of thri-kreen, a predatory race for whom hunting was the primary means of survival.
But Tricht’tha had been the last survivor of her clutch, the rest having died during a particularly brutal sandstorm. Many a thri-kreen would have killed themselves, but Tricht’tha simply sought out another clutch. No other thri-kreen would have her, but she found satisfaction working with the emporium. She claimed to never be suited to the type of hunt that her own people engaged in-the impression Feena got, both from her psionic abilities and from Tricht’tha’s own conversation, was that her clutch might well have starved to death had the sandstorm not gotten them due to their mediocrity as hunters-preferring the type of challenge brought on by the game.
Karalith got up and moved toward the shelves on the left, specifically the one where the spices were kept. “Of course, Chrids’thrar goes nowhere without her flask, and this flask will be full of something special …”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At first, everything had been fine for Drahar. The soldiers brought Mandred and Douk to Destiny’s Kingdom, the king’s compound that included his palace, the King’s Academy, and more. Both prisoners were locked in one of the king’s dungeons, which both Drahar, as the king’s chamberlain, and Tharson, as the commander of the Guard, had full use of. Their task was to figure out how to exploit whatever it was that made Mandred so mighty.
Then the next morning, Drahar’s assistant, Cace, came into his office. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have some bad news.” She spoke in her usual calm tone-bringing him tea, telling him an appointment had been canceled, passing a message from his wife, passing a message from the king, telling him they were being invaded, Cace always delivered the news with the same soothing affectation.
Distractedly, Drahar asked, “What is it?” He was going over some shipping manifests that didn’t track with what was actually delivered.
“Mandred broke the dungeon door down.”
That got him to look up from the manifests. “Excuse me?”
Cace repeated: “Mandred broke the dungeon door down.”
“That would be the stone dungeon door?”
“Yes, sir.”
Drahar put his head in his hands. “Where is he now?”
“One of the psionists was able to subdue him, but he said it would only last a few hours.”
That prompted Drahar to put the manifests down and run to the dungeon.
Looking through the small window that allowed air into the cell, he saw Mandred lying on the floor.
Or at least something that resembled Mandred.
His flesh was no longer covered head to toe in pustules, but his entire epidermis was now a reddish gray color. The only exception were his shoulders, which still had the red-tinged lesions-and the flesh under them was fully red and pockmarked. His body hair had disappeared entirely, and his head and beard hair had thinned considerably.
The otherworldly magic was doing more than making him stronger.
He glanced at Cace. “Get one of the psionists over here-Frocas, maybe, or Danvier.”
“Danvier was the one who subdued him.”
Drahar nodded. That was why he kept Cace around, to remember details like that. “Fine, make it Frocas. I want a constant watch on him-control if necessary. Have Frocas go at it for eight hours. By then, Danvier should have recovered enough to take over. Mandred isn’t to make a move that isn’t controlled by a psionist, is that clear?”
Cace nodded.
The next morning, Cace ran into his office at the exact same time. “Something’s happened to Frocas.”
Again, Drahar ran down to the dungeon. There he saw Frocas lying on the stone floor, convulsing, while Danvier was on her knees, concentrating harder than Drahar had ever seen her do.
“Can … barely … hold … him.”
Drahar’s own psionic ability was nowhere as strong as that of a proper psionist, but he was able to help in some ways. Placing a hand on Danvier’s shoulder, he was able to bolster her own psionic talent with his own. His own participation was passive, but it served to strengthen Danvier’s ability to hold onto Mandred.
And then he felt it.
Let me loose, let me loose, let me loose, let me loose, let me loose, LET ME LOOSE!
Chaos. Aggression. Hate. Violence. Brutality. Murder.
Free me and allow me to loose my greatness upon this world. Free me, free me, free me, free me, FREE ME!
Never before had Drahar considered those characteristics to be palpable, but they were strong enough to touch in Mandred.
I must be free. Let me loose. Free me. Let me free. Loose me upon this world.
It threatened to overwhelm him, and he was getting it secondhand through Danvier.
Focusing all his concentration, he added every erg of power he could to Danvier’s own efforts.
The voice receded after that scream, but Drahar could still hear it. I will not be denied …
“Maybe not,” Drahar muttered, “but you will be controlled.”
Then he collapsed.
He woke up in his own bed, surrounded by Cace, two healers, and one of the king’s page boys. The latter ran out of the room as soon as he awakened, no doubt to inform the king that his closest advisor was no longer unconscious.
“What happened?”
Cace quickly filled him in. “Danvier is in her chambers as well. Three other psionists are now standing watch over Mandred.”
“No, not Mandred. Whatever’s taking him over, I felt it. It was an incredibly violent force. We need to harness it.”
Drahar started to sit up, but one of the healers-the young man-put a firm hand on his shoulder. “You need rest, Lord Chamberlain. This will keep.”
Gently, Drahar put the hand aside. “No, it won’t.” Then he sat up fully, at which point the room started to jump around in several directions at once, and Drahar’s breakfast started to surge upward from his stomach to his throat.
Both those things stopped when he very, very slowly lay back down.
“Or perhaps it will,” he said weakly.
“You need at least a full night’s sleep before you get up from this bed, Lord Chamberlain,” the other healer, an older woman, said.
Cace added, “I’ve already taken the liberty of rescheduling your appointments.”
“Good.” Drahar nodded to his assistant, then considered. “Keep three psionists on the dungeon at all times, and tell all the court psionists to prepare. I need to enter Mandred’s mind, and I’ll need everyone we can get to keep him under control and boost my own power.”
“Of course, sir.”
The female healer tut-tutted, while the male shook his head. “You really shouldn’t try to perform any acts of magic for at least a few days, Lord Chamberlain.”
“We do not have that option. It’s obvious that this creature is getting stronger and harder to control.”
The two healers looked at each other, then b
ack at Drahar. “Very well, but one of us should be monitoring you at all times.”
“I was going to insist on it,” he lied. It actually hadn’t occurred to him, but it was an excellent idea.
Drahar got a good night’s sleep, and then went into his office the next morning, intending to catch up on everything that happened while he was sick in bed.
However, Cace ran in immediately. “Something’s happened to Mandred.”
The worst part for Rol was the total loss of control.
You …
The excruciating pain in his extremities, he could deal with. Watching his body change and alter itself, that was bizarre, but tolerable in its own way. Even the increase in strength that accompanied each act of violence was something he could handle.
You are …
But from the moment he surrendered to the voice, gave in to the Voidharrow, he lost all control.
You are going …
One of the things that defined Rol as a fighter was that he was in full control of himself. He only used exactly as much force as was necessary to win a battle.
You are going to …
Now, though, he had nothing. He couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, could barely think. He had no idea where he was, nor where Fehrd or Gan were, nothing.
You are going to spread …
No, he did remember. Fehrd was dead. Someone killed him. And Gan-Gan had done something stupid. Of course, Gan was always doing something stupid, so that was hardly new.
You are going to spread the …
It didn’t make sense that Fehrd was dead. The three of them had been through so much together, that the notion of Fehrd just dying like that was insane.
You are going to spread the seed.
Willing himself to speak, he screamed, “No.” But nobody heard him-he didn’t even hear himself.
But the Voidharrow heard his plaintive cry.
Yes, you will. You cannot resist. None can resist. None have ever been able to resist. You have lost this battle.
“Like hell,” Rol said. “I’ve fought every type of sand creature in the desert, I’ve fought demons, I’ve fought madmen and madwomen who wanted me dead, I’ll fight you too.”
You dare to compare those pitiful opponents from your past to me? Such a fool, you are, little human. You are mine.
“Who you calling little?”
I have already remade you in my image, fool.
“What’re you talking about?”
Your metamorphosis is almost complete.
The Voidharrow granted him the ability to see himself.
Then he screamed.
His skin had turned gray.
His hands only had three fingers each.
And he had grown larger.
Something felt wrong with his shoulders and chin as well.
“What have you done to me?” Still he spoke, but could not hear his own voice. The Voidharrow had granted him the wherewithal to feel his own face, and his mouth did not move when instructed by his mind.
He was still caged within his own body-or, rather, what his body had been changed into-but the only difference was that he could see the bars on the window.
I have granted you the greatest gift that anyone can receive.
“Some gift.”
Then Rol screamed again, but it was not a scream of his own making-and he could hear it.
What is this? We are invaded!
That didn’t sound good.
Suddenly, Rol felt his stomach contract into a ball, pressure slamming into both temples making his head feel as if it was being squeezed, and his muscles turn to jelly.
After a second, the sensations died down, and he found himself standing in a multicolored plane. The ground beneath him was purple, the walls around him were orange, and the ceiling was a pink and red spotted pattern. The purple floor felt as if it was made of metal.
At least, Rol thought it was metal. He’d never walked on a metal floor, but it certainly felt like what metal should have felt like …
And then he realized what was happening. Someone was entering his mind.
Rol had been interrogated by a mind-mage before. He’d found himself on some strange plane of existence where nothing made sense, and then afterward his spit tasted bitter and acidic for the next week, and he couldn’t hold any food down for two days.
It was happening again.
One thing that relieved him: he looked like himself. His skin was back to its former bronzed state, and his arm was the size it had been for most of his adult life.
Standing next to him, on a part of the floor that was gold instead of purple, was a large creature with gray skin, three fingers on each hand, strange rubylike protrusions coming out of its shoulders, and a bizarre mouth. Its chin had been bisected down to the throat, making it look as if the mouth had three lips.
“Holy frip, is that what you’re turning me into?”
Yes, it is, little human. Do you not admire the dreadnaught?
“I don’t even know what the dreadnaught is.”
Another voice said, “Nor do I.”
Looking up, Rol saw a tall, thin man walking on the ceiling. He was wearing the functional beige clothing of one of Urik’s sirdars, and was surrounded by a glow that Rol just knew indicated magic.
Ah, one of the wizards of this realm comes forth to greet me.
“I am Drahar, the chamberlain of Urik.”
“So you’re the bastard who took me from my friend.”
Drahar regarded Rol for a moment, then turned to the monster. “Fascinating. It seems that you are both occupying this mind, and that you-” he pointed at the gray monster “-are the source of the strength and power that I sensed in Rol Mandred.”
I am much more than that. This little human that you refer to as “Rol Mandred” is but the first to become a dreadnaught in my service.
“You say ‘my’ service-whose service is that, exactly?”
Rol stared at Drahar, but he also realized that he wanted the answer to that question too.
I am the Voidharrow, and I work in service with Tharizdun.
“I do not know that name.”
He is a great and powerful god, but not from this world of sand and sun. Through me, his will shall be done.
Rol continued to stare at Drahar. “You don’t believe this nonsense, do you, sirdar?”
Drahar gave Rol a look that only a noble-born ass could give to a person of lower station. The aristocracy had it bred in them. Even as he gave the look, the colors changed, each shade becoming noticeably darker, the pink spots becoming bloodred. “I believe what I am presented with, Rol Mandred-this creature certainly has a power that could be called godly.”
What this foolish little human believes is of little consequence.
“But what I believe is quite critical,” Drahar said. “At the moment, my psionists are controlling your movements and keeping you restrained. That will remain the case unless you cooperate.”
So you are the one who ordered me sedated?
“Yes. And I will do so permanently unless you-”
Cooperate, yes. How would I cooperate with the likes of you?
“Oh,” Rol said with a laugh, “he’s a chamberlain in King Hamanu’s court. Trust me, dreadnaught, this is who you want to get in bed with if you want to serve this ‘Thor’s done’ person.” The colors all brightened, and the purple became bright red, with the spots becoming green.
It’s Tharizdun, and your advice is unnecessary.
“Yes,” Drahar said dismissively, “it’s obvious that your active participation in this endeavor has come to an end. It’s a testament to the power of your will that you can even participate in this conversation. But that is the extent of your influence, Mandred.” Drahar turned to the dreadnaught. “However, he is correct about one thing-it would behoove you to cultivate me as a friend. I have the ear of the most powerful king in the world.”
Rol muttered, “Yeah, he keeps it in a jar on his shelf.”
Interesting.
“Is that all you have to say?”
For now. Go away, while we consider your offer.
The monster gestured with one hand, and suddenly, Drahar was gone.
Rol hoped that the departure was painful for the wizard.
Then Rol was back in the dungeon where he had been. With Drahar gone, so was the strange plane-which was kind of too bad, as he missed the spots.
He also had again lost control. However, he wondered if that was because the Voidharrow had taken that control-or because Drahar did. He said that his psionists were keeping physical control of him.
Drahar had also expressed surprise that Rol had any kind of presence. He wondered if the Voidharrow was truly as strong as it claimed to be.
Outside the cell, he could hear voices.
“Are you all right, Lord Chamberlain?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Forgive me, Lord Chamberlain, but that doesn’t answer the question.”
“Yes, it does. Is the creature being held?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good.”
Odd, isn’t it, little human, that the desires of the king as expressed by Drahar are exactly the same as the desires of Drahar?
“Not odd at all,” Rol muttered. “Drahar’s the chamberlain. His desire is to keep the king happy by whatever means necessary. Kind of like you and this Tharizdun.”
Perhaps. He does not wish to bargain, but to force us.
“I’d think you’d like that.”
You are wise, little human. A pity you will die.
“If I die, who gets to be your dreadnaught?”
I speak of your mind, not your body.
“Joy.”
Rol said nothing further. He knew he retained at least some sliver of himself. He needed to make use of that.
He just wished he knew how …
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sasker hated his job.
Not that there was anything especially bad about it. It was better than digging in the mines or shoveling manure in the orchards or any number of other jobs that would’ve been a great deal less pleasant than watching over a bunch of slaves between fights.
Under the Crimson Sun (the abyssal plague) Page 15
