“You’re good.” said Ovid. “But I’m afraid you’re not quite good enough. And I fear Galen’s time is just about up.”
“We have a bargain.” said the demon. “Your safety for my weapon. You’ve sold your soul to me. You have nowhere else to turn. Take my hand. Aeoria can’t love Apollyon’s child.”
Rook’s eyes smoldered as they fixed on Ovid. He spit blood upon the floor, his breaths coming heavy.
“You need me as much as I need you.” spoke Bulifer. “Together we can let loose. We’ll turn out the dead. Take my hand. There is no other hope.” The beast extended its hand. Long, charred fingers tipped with charcoal claws reached out to him.
Rook glanced over at Galen. The boy lay lifelessly beneath Ovid’s bracer. Rook’s lips furled in an angry growl.
“Come now, boy,” said the demon. “You asked for this. Karinael died for this. Don’t let the chance to kill Ovid slip from your grasp. Take my hand, Apollyon’s child.”
A tear fell from Rook’s eye. If I kill Ovid, I could still learn about my sister from Marisal, he thought.
“Last chance, Rook.” said Ovid, walking toward him. The Saint flourished his sword. “Give me the Golothic.”
“Ah,” moaned the demon. “Your anger and hatred screams out my name. Take my hand.” urged Bulifer. “If you don’t, Galen will die. Ovid will kill the others, one by one. He shall make their deaths painful and agonizing, and he shall make you listen to each of their wails.”
“I’ll never give another thing to you!”
“That’s a shame.” said Ovid. He leapt at Rook.
Rook rolled just as Ovid’s sword plunged through the floor where he had been. Back on his feet, Rook whipped Starbreaker around and came at Ovid. Their sword’s cracked together. Rook wheeled around, bringing his sword low. Ovid jumped over it and side-kicked, his boot impacting Rook right in the ribs.
Rook felt bone crack as he flew across the room, rolling on the floor. He lay on his belly, coughing and spitting blood. He looked at his hands. They began to char and crack with veins of fire. A terrible anger began to rage within him. “Does Galen live?” roared Rook.
“If you take my hand now, he might.” spoke Bulifer.
“But if I take your hand, there is a price?” he growled.
“There is always a price.” laughed the demon. “You’ve already paid one to be here. But wouldn’t you like to know what’s become of your sister?” The beast’s fingers reached to Rook.
Rook grabbed the demon’s hand and pulled himself back to his feet.
There was a flash of steel. Rook flourished his sword; felt flesh and bone butchered upon his blade. Blood sprayed his face. A dagger clanged harmlessly to the floor beside him. Rook looked up as Marisal’s body fell in two halves. “No!”
Ovid chuckled from across the room. “You’re a true sport, Rook. And as a man of my word, I’ll tell you that your sister is in Valdasia.” said Ovid. “Give me the Golothic and I’ll tell you the rest of the tale. I’ll tell you what poor, old Gabidar just didn’t have the heart to tell you himself.”
Rook’s eyes gleamed with fiery light. He looked at his arms, and they were hulking, blackened things veined with molten heat. Red and orange embers swirled around him. Fires curled up his legs. His charred arms flexed as his grip tightened on Starbreaker.
“No? Then I’ll tell you how the rest of this shall play out. I’m going to cut your arms and legs off so you can do nothing but watch as I kill each of the Saints.” said Ovid. “And if you still won’t talk, you will watch as I take apart those boys, piece by piece. Then I will take the Golothic from your corpse.” He moved in on Rook.
Rook roared out as he charged forward. All he could see were fires and swirling embers. Swords cracked. Rook twisted, bringing his sword high, knocking Ovid’s away. He spun, swinging out with his left arm. His electricity shield burst to life and Ovid stumbled back. He whirled in, sweeping his sword up as Ovid moved to parry. Rook twisted, swooping his sword around the opposite direction and caught Ovid across the belly. Blood flew across the floor. Ovid staggered back as Rook spun. Ovid moved his sword up and Starbreaker knocked it away. Then Rook grabbed Ovid by the throat.
Ovid choked and clutched at Rook’s wrist. In Ovid’s obsidian eyes Rook could see his own like pulsing embers. “You wanted to call a demon? Well, you’ve called one!” Rook lifted Ovid off the floor by the throat. The Saint’s eyes went wide in disbelief. His hands glowed with intense, Caliber energy, yet still he could not pry Rook’s grip from his neck.
“What, is this not what you had in mind?” roared Rook. “Did you think you could just take the Golothic from me? It’s a covenant between me and my demon! It’s not yours and can never be yours! Did you really think he’d let me die at your hand before taking his due from me? To raise a sword against me is to raise a sword against him!” Rook twisted his wrist and the bones in Ovid’s neck popped and cracked. He dropped the Saint and the body fell to the floor, the weight of the Star-Armor splintering the wood.
And then fires began to lap up from the broken floor. Rook stepped back as gangly, charred arms began to reach up, clutching at Ovid’s body.
“Damn you! Damn you!” Rook heard desperate, hungry moans. From the floor rose flames, and from them crawled lanky, pathetic, charred men and women with eyes like pale moons. “Damn you! Damn you Ovid!”
To Rook’s surprise, he saw Ovid’s eyes open. Horrified, he stepped back further.
The creatures crawled upon the floor, their feet bound in shackles whose chains seemed to have their origins some place below them, with the fires. They clawed and clutched at Ovid, and to Rook’s astonishment, the Saint saw them and screamed. “Damn you Ovid! Damn you! Damn you!” they moaned and wailed.
Ovid looked at Rook, reaching out to him. “No! No! Don’t let them take me!”
One of the creature’s charred hands wrapped around Ovid’s face. “Damn you!” More hands clutched his arms and legs. Ovid struggled, but they held him firmly. “Damn you! Damn you!”
Ovid let loose a terrible scream as the creatures dragged him under the floor where he was swallowed by fire. The remaining creatures all clawed their way after him, and then they were all gone. The fires receded, leaving behind Ovid’s dead body still in his Star-Armor. After a moment, the Saint’s body convulsed. Bones cracked. His limbs writhed, and all at once he was consumed into his armor.
Rook fell backward on his butt. Panting, he looked at his arms. They were his own now. He looked up. Marisal’s children cried and struggled against their bindings.
Rook scrambled up to his feet and ran to Galen. He tried to pull the bracer off his still body, but it was no use. “Help! Help!” he screamed as he yanked and tugged on it.
He ran to Asteroth. The Saint was breathing, white spit foaming and bubbling at the sides of his mouth with every shallow breath. He slapped Asteroth on the cheek, trying to wake him. “Help! Help!”
It was then that the warehouse door was kicked opened. Diotus stepped in, garbed in his plain, brown robe. Ertrael was with him. Ertrael immediately ran to Galen and threw the bracer from his lifeless body as Diotus attended the Saints.
Rook fell to his knees on the floor. Diotus said something about the Saints having been drugged. Rook looked to where Marisal lay. Her body was in two pieces atop a pool of crimson. In Rook’s mind he was certain he could hear Bulifer’s voice laughing at him, There is always a price.
Rook felt something hit his head. He turned, raising his arms as small fists pummeled him. He stood up.
“You killed her!” screamed Jocab, Marisal’s eldest son. “You killed Ma! I hate you! I hate you!”
Rook backed away as Jocab came at him, punching and raking with his nails. He saw Tomas fall down before Marisal’s body, his knees splashing in the blood. Tomas’s little hands clutched at Marisal’s blood-soaked hair and he let loose a terrible, how
ling cry. Rook looked the other way and saw Ertrael encompassed in Caliber energy as he cradled Galen’s limp form in his arms.
Jocab’s fists pounded on Rook’s belly, but fight was no longer in the blows. Rook looked down at him. The boy collapsed before him, crying. “You killed our Ma! You killed her!”
Rook placed a hand on the boy’s head but didn’t say anything. All he could hear was the demon’s laughter.
— 27 —
Chazod
Anxious whispers stirred Chazod from his dreamless sleep. He sat upright on the uncomfortable, wooden bench and opened his eyes, but it was dark all the same. He and the other captives in his aisle were all bound together in a row, and the chains that cuffed his wrists and ankles clanked as he felt himself tugged left and right when his fellow captives began to stir. Most of the men remained silent, but the women captives in the adjacent aisle all began to speak in hushed voices. Directly across from him he heard Adalia whispering words of comfort to her daughters. From above he could hear orders being shouted, and many boots clomped upon the ship’s decking.
“What’s going on?” asked Jaquin, who sat just two spots down from Chazod. Chazod couldn’t really remember what the man looked like, other than he was fair of hair and eyes and had no slave brand. Most of the men and women down here were from Ragtown, many of them slaves, though a good handful were just poor and unlucky like Jaquin. They had been kept down here in eternal darkness for nearly three-weeks and Chazod had gotten to know many of them by their voices alone.
“We’ve arrived, obviously.” said Chazod. Just by the way the ship rose and fell he could tell they were docked, nevermind the scraping of the hull against the pier.
“Arrived where?” asked Jaquin.
“Wherever it is they’ve taken us.” said Chazod. He yawned. “Maybe you’ll be lucky and they won’t brand slaves here. Myself, I have enough scars and don’t really want another.”
“You don’t really think…”
“I’ve been a slave all my life.” said Chazod. “I know slave traders when I see them.”
At that the anxious whispers intensified. During the journey there had been a lot of speculation over where they were being taken and for what purpose, but much of it got pushed aside as everybody tried to hope for the best. Chazod didn’t hold any delusions though. He knew from the start that they were being taken to slave away somewhere. To do what, he had no idea. Fight? Mine? Labor? Whore? He really didn’t care all that much. He hoped, however, that Adalia and her three young daughters might at least be taken by a kind master. They weren’t slaves, just more of the dredge from Ragtown with no money. Adalia and her girls were kind and always helped make medicine for the needy in Ragtown without any profit to be had. Even now he could hear the girls crying. They were all pretty. They’d definitely be going to a whore house if a kind master didn’t buy them quickly.
A chain rattled and a large hatch in the ceiling was thrown open. Daylight painfully hit Chazod’s eyes and he and the other hundred or so captives all flinched, holding their arms to their faces. The cool, fresh air, however, was a welcome guest. It had been many days since Chazod had seen sunlight and it illuminated just how filthy he and the others were. Their clothing and possessions had all been taken before the voyage began and they were given cloth smocks to wear, none of which appeared to have been washed since the last set of captives wore them. The latrine buckets were all overflowing and explained the wetness his boots had been soaking in. Apple cores and other refuse from their paltry meals were strewn everywhere and floated in the rank trench at their feet.
A pair of armed men jumped down into the hold, splashing sewage everywhere. They began coughing and waving their hands in front of their faces.
Chazod smirked. “Try living down here for three-weeks, ass-holes.”
One of the men looked at Chazod and swatted at him, but Chazod ducked the blow.
“Fuck you.” said Chazod.
The man growled and lunged for him but Chazod kicked his feet up and twisted, causing the chains at his ankles to tangle in the man’s legs. The man fell backward into the trench of stinking water.
At the head of Chazod’s aisle a captive named Banden threw his head back in a roaring, cackling laugh as the guard struggled to his feet, drawing a dagger. “You fucking rat! I’ll gut you!”
Chazod could feel the cold steel at his neck, but he just turned his eyes up to the man and smiled. “If you break me, you gotta buy me. I believe that’s how it works with slave traders.”
The man’s face was an ugly mask of red anger. Chazod felt the blade quivering at his neck.
“He gets top billing at the pits.” said Maddox who sat beside Chazod. “You got that kind of money just to cut his throat?”
The man turned his hateful eyes to Maddox.
“Come on!” said the other soldier, grabbing the man’s wrist. “Let’s just get these putrid rats out of here.”
The man spit in Chazod’s face and pulled his dagger away.
Chazod huffed a laugh as he hiked his shoulder and wiped the mucus from his cheek. He watched as the two made their way to the far end of the hold and slid open a hidden doorway. From it they pulled a tall, wooden staircase and wheeled it down the aisle and secured it beneath the open hatch.
A familiar face now stared down, blocking the sun. “All of you, out.” said the fat man with the droopy eye. Chazod had come to know him as Garrot, one of the men who had taken him hostage back in Bellus.
“Gladly, you fucking piece of shit.” Banden’s voice was deep and rumbling, made more so in the cramped hold. He was the oldest but also the largest of all the captives. Even sitting down the dark-skinned man was tall, formidable and imposing. Chazod thought it was as if the very forces of nature had carved Banden from the world. His upper arms looked like they were stuffed with small boulders; his legs like the trunks of trees, braided with sinew. Chazod had fought beside Banden a handful of times in the arenas back home and considered him something of a friend. He was a fierce warrior, albeit a little slow with a sword for Chazod’s taste. He was all brute force and wrestling was his forte. He often packed arenas by promoting himself in unarmed combat against bears and other beasts. Banden’s bald head had three pinks scars across the top from where a tiger got him, and his torso was a mosaic of similar wounds. He had bought his freedom a few years ago and lived just a few streets down from Chazod back in Ragtown, still fighting in the pits to scrape together a living. Like Chazod, he had been ambushed in an alley by Garrot and Rennic.
Banden was the first of the men in Chazod’s aisle and as he stood up, the chains at his wrists yanked the others to their feet in a wave that flowed down the bench. Chazod was only two spots down from the large man, Padraic and Maddox being ahead of him. The two were just a few years younger than Chazod, and like himself, were owned by Grandon. Chazod had helped Grandon train both of them and they were quite good in the arena. Padraic was shorter than Maddox but both had brown hair and eyes, though Maddox’s hair was darker. During the voyage Chazod often amused himself with thoughts about how mad Grandon must have been when he realized that three of his best pit-fighters were missing.
Banden moved toward the stairs and the others followed, all connected by rusty chains on their wrists and ankles. Chazod had to shuffle slowly behind Maddox, trying desperately to keep the pace, lest he stumble and fall into the sewage like Jaquin behind him just had.
As Chazod made his way up the first couple steps he had to turn his head away in disgust. Maddox had soiled himself—a while ago from the looks of it—and the air that was once so fresh now just worked to waft the stink into his face.
“Could be worse.” said Maddox with a chuckle. “You could be behind Jaquin.”
“Still not as bad as the first time Grandon threw you into the arena.” said Chazod. “Never saw a man shit himself fighting a woman before.”
“That was no woman.” said Maddox. “That was your mother.”
Chazod laughed. “Good one.”
At last Chazod was on the ship’s deck and he began looking around in wonder, even as Garrot ushered them all into a straight line before the gangplank. They were docked behind a colossal stadium—a coliseum the likes of which none of them had ever seen before. It rose some three-hundred feet above the ship’s deck, right into the blue skies above. Between great, stone pillars were numerous arches through which Chazod could catch tantalizing images of the stadium within. He knew this was an arena for fighting, but it dwarfed any he had ever been to. Back home he had fought in pits crudely constructed of wooden walls, or sometimes more professional arenas of stone and brick. The largest arena he had ever fought in was the coliseum in Narberia which seated two-thousand. But this? He guessed it had seating for fifty-thousand or more.
Chazod turned his head around. The river they had come up was wide and fast-moving. Upon the opposite bank he could see the sprawl of a vast, modern city. There were large, brick buildings and well-paved avenues that cut between them. There was an arched bridge that was high enough to accommodate a galleon sailing beneath, and it connected that side of town to this one. Chazod could see there were hundreds of people walking across it even now.
Nearby, upon a high pole, flew a red banner emblazoned with a golden phoenix. Chazod couldn’t immediately place the flag. He didn’t know the heraldry of the other kingdoms too well, but he was certain Jerusa was a bull, Dimethica a griffon and Valdasia a crow. Narbereth, where he came from, was an eagle on a field of yellow. He couldn’t recall the flags of Penatallia or Escalapius, but hazarded a guess that they must be in Penatallia. Escalapius was far away and across the ocean. He didn’t think they had been in the ship long enough to go all the way there.
Here Shines the Sun Page 54
