Crimson Sword Stalker

by Morgan Blayde

  I may have chortled to myself. In such a situation, a man must grab entertainment where possible.

  She pointed at me but spoke to the men. “You have permission to beat this insolent filth.”

  The men weren’t grinning, or budging. In fact, they looked downright unhappy at the offer. The biggest one in the middle spoke. “We are hunters and warriors. We have killed leopards and crocodiles with our bare hands. Beating a wounded slave brings us no glory.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Do not be deceived by his human appearance. He is dragon-born. If he were not wounded, it would take Anubis himself to subdue the creature. Even now, it will take all three of you to punish him without taking serious injury.

  “Dragon-born?” one of the warriors echoed. They stared at me like I’d just grown wings, a tail, and were blowing smoke rings out my ass.

  There are times I should just shut up and not run my mouth. Like now. Some perverse streak in me had to love suffering because I couldn’t do it. I said, “One of them will die trying. The others won’t do much better. You need more than three idiots to tame a dragon.”

  “Truly?” The voice belonged to Anubis. Arriving unseen, he stood there.

  The priestess and warriors knelt to show respect. I just lay there, wearing my sackcloth, the ceramic bowl still in one hand, that hand resting on the floor, off of my little rug.

  The priestess arose. “My Lord, this creature is quite insolent. I merely thought to beat some manners into it.”

  Anubis’ gaze swept the floor where fresh piss puddled. “I see he’s been spilling his piss again.” Anubis’ red stare went muddy with power. His eyes shifted color, shining like bile-colored coins. In that light, the piss on the floor and the priestess’ tunic pulled away, a mist in the air that became a spectral serpent of glowing pee. The pee rippled in the air and wandered to the bowl in my hand, refilling it.

  Anubis smiled. “I think I would enjoy watching him drink his morning piss. Every drop.”

  Seldom do I despair of the impulses I let overtake me. I grinned. “Go fuck yourself, doggie breath.”

  The smile never left Anubis’ face. Apparently, this was the answer he’d expected, maybe even hoped for. He turned his radiant green gaze to the three warriors. “If you would have the blessing of your god for your next hunt, pour the bowl down his throat.”

  The three warriors rose from their huddled positions. “Your will is our command, Lord Anubis.”

  I stared at Anubis. “You’ve just gotten them killed.”

  “I am the god of death. It is meaningless here. As meaningless as your own existence has become. The sooner you surrender hope, the less miserable you will be.”

  I smiled. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  My bravado might have seemed ridiculous to some. But as the dog-headed bitch had said, I am dragon-born. Even cast out by my people as an infant, that meant something.

  The biggest warrior used a subtle hand-sign to tell the others to hang back.

  Conserving strength, I lay on my rug, making no effort even to get to my knees, or assume a martial arts posture. Why bother? To hurt me, they’d have to come close. In martial arts, it is the Way of the Snake to wait with infinite patience, letting many opportunities go by, until the perfect opening end things. I’d wait, but I couldn’t afford much more damage. My spine was barely half healed.

  I tossed out the piss—yet again—and slammed the bowl hard enough to break it against the floor. I plucked up the largest piece, holding it like a knife jutting down out of my fist. The piss would endanger his balance. The shard might cause caution.

  Or induce him to rush me, to end things fast.

  Which is what happened.

  He slid in the pee as his raised, sandaled foot lashed at me, a short kick aimed to make me drop the ceramic shard. Sitting up enough to wash the world away with red agony, I slashed, feeling contact.

  He cursed. I heard him stumble back, kind of hopping, sliding in piss a little more. Zahra had helped me out far more than she knew, bless her mighty bladder.

  My vision cleared. My breathing came hard. Just that little activity had drained me. To cover up just how vulnerable I was, I gave them a long-practiced smile, one that made me look like a mental patient who’d just figured out how to slip out of a straight-jacket.

  The big guy fell on his ass. His back ankle was red with blood. I’d imitated a ferret by going for a tendon. My ceramic fang had sliced deep. I still held it like a sound weapon, but I could feel that the material had broken in my fist. With a writhing motion of my arm, I slung the broken ceramic pieces into Anubis’ doggy face. He lifted a forearm and slap the shards away, not realizing at first that he’d cut himself with the swipe.

  I laughed. “Anubis, you are an idiot. Do you think it makes you look strong that even a beggar can defy you in front of your minions?” I looked at the remaining two warriors. “The next one I’m going to kill without even standing up. It is the oath of Fairy’s High King.”

  I wanted to see if I was fully cut off from that place of power. This moment would tell me. High in the air over the temple, I heard the peal of mission bells, confirmation of my status. I smiled at Anubis’ startled expression as his face swung up and his doggy ears perked.

  “Not so absolute in your power as you thought, huh?”

  The two warriors looked at each other and nodded; which I took as an agreement to rush me together. They came in quick, one dropping to his knees to fight me at my level—smart. The other came in along the wall, leaning against it up high where I couldn’t reach, keeping his legs away from me until he thought he could safely stomp on my head. These guys were good. Too good to serve Anubis.

  I had little shadow magic to play with but combined with dragon and fey magic, I formed a small spell tatt, energizing it. It was Dragon Voice. “Kneel to me and forsake the jackal-god!” My words echoed, booming with power.

  Anubis did nothing. The priestess knelt, but kept her teeth clenched, fighting my spell. The Warrior already kneeling froze in place, looking puzzled, as if forgetting what he’d been about to do. The warrior looming over me collapsed nearly on top of me, his knees just missing my head as he thumped to the rug.

  I found a bronze knife on his belt and, mindful of my promise as a fey king, I borrowed the blade and stabbed him through the heart. He gasped, sagged, and died, eyes going empty. I shoved him, wishing I had more power. He rolled into his fellow warrior.

  I used a slit stare to glare at Anubis. “You know I’m making you look stupid as a rock, right?”

  “No more!” Anubis growled. He gestured at me. Bile-green light washed over me, and the knife fell from nerveless, paralyzed fingers. I couldn’t move a muscle but I could feel the slimy sting of his power gathering me up. Which hurt like hell.

  I hate spinal injuries.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Honest, this was my plan all along.”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  When the mystic energy thinned away, I found myself sitting on a small wooden stool, my sackcloth-covered back against a cold, stone wall, my arms stretched up and were held by manacles and chains. I saw a brazier with a dozen hot irons poking up in the air. On the floor, miniature tables, like bed trays, held numerous torture devices. I recognized thumb screws, tourniquets, surgical knives, and embalming tools for removing organs should anyone need to be mummified alive.

  Polished stone marbles in a ceramic bowl caught my stare. Few people would understand their use, but the bliss of ignorance eluded me. They were bone-breakers. What the torturer does is wrap the cloth around a limb, an arm or wrist, maybe a leg, with a stone inside, pressed snuggly against a bone. Then the torturer slips a stick inside the cloth and takes his time winding the material into an ever-tightening knot. That way, the stone slow-breaks the bone it’s against; an old torturer’s trick.

  Almost as much fun as nailing hands to a board or popping toes with a hammer.

  Anubis cleared his throat to command my attention.
He stood on the other side of a locked cell door, smiling like a bastard. It was an ugly expression, not well practiced. I pitied him.

  He said, “The Royal Torturer will be with you soon. Let us see how entertaining you are while he skins off your face, cuts your tendons, and breaks your bones hour after hour.” Anubis turned away and left; he had faithful petitioners to attend to.

  I would have been left alone, but another prisoner hung in chains on another wall, his feet off the floor.

  I nodded at him. “Come here often?”

  Before the half-out-of-it prisoner could focus on me and disgorge some witty repartee, several clicks chorused in the air. I looked up and saw cameras suspended in spectral green light. This failed to irritate for the first time.

  I guess I’m not lost and forgotten after all. Makes sense that there are few places a god can go where a ghost can’t follow. This is good, except, how long Kain will leave me here.

  A bad thought struck me as one of the cameras zoomed in for close-ups.

  Click-click-click!

  What if he’s just going to sit back, wanting to see what I’ll do next? I could take a helluva lot of damage before my spine is whole. I need to proceed like I always do—like I’ve no hope at all—and just depend on myself.

  I heard slapping steps approach. The cameras turned invisible, or left, I wasn’t sure which. A dog-headed man in white linen came into sight. He wore a gold collar and had a key tied to his waist. He used the key to let himself in the cage door. He didn’t bother closing it behind him; we were chained. No one would run for it.

  He stopped in front of me, staring down. His deep voice boomed. “I’ve heard of you. Too good to drink piss at Lord Anubis’ command.” He shook his head sadly, making a clicking sound with his tongue and teeth. I thought for a second it was a camera taking a shot. He said, “The lack of piety these days, scandalous! Well, before we are done, you will beg to shower in horse piss and will eat beetle-dung while you’re at it.”

  I glanced at the wall where my fellow victim hung. His eyes were closed. He pretended to be passed out, hoping I’d take the torturer’s full attention this session.

  Every man for himself? Fine.

  Still looking at the prisoner, I said, “I see your work. I’m not impressed. Still, I suppose you’re doing the best you can. Have you been at this long? Maybe you got your license off the internet?”

  “Inter…net? What kind of a net is that?”

  The were-jackal strolled to the braiser and pulled on a thick leather glove. Hand protected, he extracted an iron rod the length of a scepter, about half an inch in diameter. He examined the red glow of the metal to see how hot the rod was, and put it back, sinking the tip in deeper.

  “Don’t grow silent. It’s fine to talk, now,” he said. “Later, you will use all your breath screaming. That will be all I will want to hear—the baying of your pain, such sweet music… For now, why not tell me how I cannot break you. Tell me you will die with dignity and I will never see tears glisten in your eyes. Tell me to do my worst; you will never plead for mercy.”

  I grinned. “I guess they didn’t tell you who I am?”

  “Once you come here, it doesn’t matter. This is a god’s domain, and by divine decree, death is the only power allowed. Whatever you may have been in some other life is dust in the wind.”

  Good song.

  He said, “You are nothing now. Just a worm about to wiggle in the flames.” He turned back to study me with cold, dark eyes.

  Guy thinks he’s a poet. This is his Abandon-Hope-All-Ye-Who-Fucking-Enter-Here speech.

  I glared cold contempt. “When you fail to break me—and you will—Anubis will grow pissed. He will punish you. You might wind up hanging with us in chains of your own. You know, I don’t have to hold out forever, just long enough to destroy you.”

  I gave him my #23 vindictive smile: the one that promised I’ll-Drag-You-to-Hell-With-Me. For some reason, the smile came rather easy to me even though I hadn’t dusted it off in a long while.

  There was a soft click.

  I didn’t look toward the sound.

  My soon-to-be torturer let his gaze roam the cell. His doggy brow furrowed at the distraction he couldn’t account for. I think none of his opening strategy had progressed as expected. The whole point of tools on the trays being displayed was to get my imagination working on how much they were going to hurt. A true professional knows that the anticipation of torture can be as bad as the real pain. Such anticipation softens up a target for the real thing.

  But I grew up in a demon clan. My physical training had been brutal, though never without purpose. Growing up, there were times I felt sure the Old Man would kill me, trying to make me into a counterfeit demon. That was before I knew I was half-dragon, before the suppressed memories of my dragon mother surfaced.

  Part of my training was to learn what an enemy could do to me, and the mechanics of how. Nothing here surprised or alarmed me much. As a child among demons, many of whom considered me the Old Man pet, a stray he’d eventually tire of, and dispose of, I was bullied, kicked around, accidentally stabbed a few times, once, even buried alive.

  Good times.

  They’d made me strong. My abusers had learned my capacity for revenge. I often invested weeks of thought so nothing could ever be traced back to me. This sent the needed message: “Leave the runt alone or else!”

  There are always those who are too stupid for caution. A few of the demon clan wandered off, leaving no forwarding address. Their bodies were never found.

  My smile widened.

  Great times.

  I gave the torturer a hard stare full of death. “Let’s go ahead and dive into the program. What are we starting with, skewers, thumbscrews, skinning knives? Too bad this is such a dump. If you knew anything about electricity, we could really get inventive.”

  “Eh-lec-triss-e-tee?”

  “Amperage versus voltage, contact points… Oh, the fun we could have.”

  “You are a madman.”

  “And you are poorly informed for your trade. How many centuries has it been since you tried out something entirely new? It’s all been just the same old boring routine, right? How sad for you.”

  “Since we are only talking at this point, I will hear you out about this triss-i-ty of yours.”

  “No point; you have no battery or lead lines. I don’t suppose there are storm demons or elementals around here? At the least you need electric eels in a water tank. What’s the technology level? Oil lamps and horses, right? Forget it. I can be hurt with electricity in my human form; I shouldn’t even have mentioned it.”

  Hurt but not damaged. It can only feed my strength. I just shouldn’t seem like I want it or he’d never do it.

  I looked back at the trays on the floor. “So, where were we?”

  “You have intrigued me. I will do some research. We will see just how out-of-date my methods are. It is possible you have been a great help, not that it shall help you.” The Royal Torturer strolled out of the cell, locking the door behind him. He walked from sight, head bent toward the floor, a were-jackal in deep thought.

  Well, coming up with electricity from scratch would consume time. Even if he went to Anubis and had him hit a hardware store back on Earth. With every passing hour, I grew stronger, healing more and more.

  The prisoner on the wall lifted his head, looking lively once more. He stared at me and spoke. The temple magic translated his Egyptian. “You are a fool to bait your doom. Do you think your flesh made of stone that it will not cut and bleed? Do you believe some strange god will traipse in here—the stronghold of Anubis—and spirit you away?” He laughed, a broken, ragged sound. “If so, introduce me to your god. I can write a play and sing his praises…burn incense…and strew petals in his path.”

  I thought of my reboot spell, of becoming a god of death myself, even as I summoned the Sword of Light to cleave Anubis’ skull.

  Soon. Soon. Just let me get a little stronger.


  I smiled. “You want to know the name of my god? Caine Deathwalker. That clever bastard is the god of booze, and babes, and bloody vengeance. The Mustang is his holy relic. His evil endures forever.”

  “And when will he save you?”

  Despite my wrists being chained, I shrugged. “That’s a good question.”

  I wish I knew.

  I heard clicks. The ghost cameras were back.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Pain has many delightful textures,

  meant to be enjoyed leisurely.

  You’re rushing, damn it!”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  He chose the sharp-tipped eighteen-inch skewers, pulling a flat strip off the tray he dragged closer. He set the tip for a front-to-back piercing above my ribs, punching through the latissimus dorsi muscles. Good initial choice; lots of pain, minimal damage. No major blood vessels so internal bleeding would be minimal. My respect for his professionalism went up a notch.

  He shoved.

  The tip skidded off of my extra-tough, part-dragon skin.

  “Was that supposed to happen?” I asked with an innocent tone.

  “Your skin is more resilient than most.”

  “I’m dragon-born. Once I lose control, I’m going to fully change and bite your head off or bathe this place in lightning maybe. It could all come down on your head.” I’d added the maybe in there so it wasn’t a firm promise. If the mission bells rang, I’d be boxed in and forced to follow through on the threat, no matter how inconvenient.

  He paused to stare at me. “A challenge indeed.”

  He put a good face on his surprise, but I could smell his fear. He knew the legendary power of dragons. And Anubis’ power drain of my magic could not touch my dragon self. The only reason I hadn’t changed was the spinal injury. I wanted it healed first. A fierce dragon is less fierce dragging around hind legs and a limp tail. Besides, I needed a more long-term solution. Even if the shapeshift magically healed me, which could happen, I’d still be stranded, and an even bigger target. I needed more of an exit strategy first.