“You dragged me here, didn’t you?” Tristan asked.
“Ox bring here, so other Minions not see Chosen One sick. That bad for new lord of Minions.”
Tristan noticed a strange taste in his mouth, coming from something that seemed to be lodged between two of his teeth. He liberated it and spat what looked to be a tiny piece of tree bark into the palm of his hand. “What’s this?” he asked. “Did you do this, too?”
Ox picked up a small, wet length of tree branch. There were deep bite marks at its center. “Ox put this into Chosen One’s mouth, just as wizards say,” the Minion answered. “Keep from swallowing tongue, or Chosen One could die.” He smiled, almost sheepishly. “Chosen One almost bite Ox finger off.” He raised his eyebrows at the prince. “Ox thinking maybe wizards would have to put it back on, like foot.”
Another faint smile came to Tristan’s lips. “How long have I been out?” he asked, rubbing the back of his head. Ox looked up between the tree branches, finding the sun.
“It midday. You gone about five hours.”
Five hours, Tristan thought glumly. I have now had the second of my four convulsions. I can’t begin to imagine a third. Two more, and I will be a dead man.
Looking down at his right arm, he saw that the menacing black veins had lengthened even farther, extending into his hand. His arm felt far more stiff and sore than before. He sat there for some time saying nothing, quietly thinking to himself before trying to stand up.
With Ox’s help he finally came to his feet. He checked his weapons, also taking stock of where he was. Thankfully, the warrior had dragged him approximately twenty meters into the woods. Through a clear spot at the edge he could just make out the dark soil of the grave he had unearthed, and the heel tracks left in the snow. Choosing to say no more of it, Tristan began to exit the forest, Ox in tow. After walking silently past the grave, they headed for the Recluse.
The partially constructed foundation of the blue marble rose commandingly into the air, resting squarely atop the island in the center of the magnificent lake. But as Tristan and Ox approached the first of the two drawbridges, they could see no one. Nor were there any of the normal, busy sounds of construction work, or voices ringing out through the air that would accompany an undertaking as grand as the rebuilding of a castle. Sensing something was amiss, Tristan and Ox slowly stopped. It was then that they heard the sound. Cheering.
Turning, Tristan finally noticed a mound of earth to his right. It was approximately one hundred meters away, and covered with snow. It rose upward for about thirty meters, ran for some distance, and then descended to some depth. Looking at it, Tristan came to realize that it was a great bowl of some sort. The bowl was obviously man-made, and he was sure it had not existed at the time of Shailiha’s rescue.
Looking quizzically to Ox, he asked, “Do you know what this is? Why is there shouting coming from it?” The hollering and cheering seemed to come in waves, rising and then subsiding, over and over again.
“Was built after Chosen One leave first time,” Ox answered. He looked Tristan in the eyes, but it was clear he did not quite know how to proceed. “Is for Kachinaar.”
Tristan looked back at the mound. “What is a Kachinaar?”
“Is warrior’s vigil,” Ox said. “If one warrior accuses another, then Kachinaar held. If contest fails, then warrior guilty and killed, punishment already done. If contest succeeds, then innocent, warrior set free. Kluge use Kachinaar very much, sometimes in other ways. Traax use too.”
Tristan’s jaw went slack. “What happens during this Kachinaar?” he asked quickly.
“Kachinaar take many forms,” Ox said. “Best go look.”
Tristan had originally hoped to see Traax, the second in command, in a private setting. But on the other hand, confronting a great number of the Minions at once might prove more effective. Provided, of course, that they accepted his rule over them. And besides, there seemed to be no one at the construction site to speak with, anyway.
“All right,” he said resignedly. “But I do not want our appearances made known until I say so, do you understand?”
Ox clicked the heels of his boots together. “I live to serve,” he said quickly. Together they started up the side of the embankment. Finally reaching the top, they looked down.
Layered from top to bottom against the inner side of the earthen walls was row after row of blue marble seats filled with shouting and cheering Minion warriors. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves, and it was apparent to Tristan that many of them were quite drunk. The amphitheater was in the shape of an oval, rather than a circle, as he had first presumed. The floor in the center was made also of blue marble, presumably having been taken from the nearby construction site. Tristan ordered Ox to lie on his stomach behind the last row, then followed suit.
There were perhaps a dozen Minion warriors on the floor of the amphitheater, where they seemed to be playing some kind of violent, deranged game. Arranged into two teams, each was struggling mightily to gain and keep control of some type of ball. As one warrior would gain possession of it and try to make it to the opposite side, those from the other team would use any and all means—short of weapons, he noticed—to try and take it away. There seemed to be no other rules whatsoever. Blood lay pooled in many areas upon the slick marble floor, and the bodies of several of the warriors, apparently smashed senseless from their previous participation in the game, lay inert along the sides of the ring. Some of them, unconscious and their mouths open, were quite obviously missing teeth. Others of them were splayed out in very unnatural directions, their limbs obviously broken. It was then, during a split-second break in the action, that Tristan could finally see the “ball” clearly. It was the severed head of a fellow warrior.
Aghast, Tristan turned to Ox. “What is the meaning of this?” he whispered angrily. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing!”
Ox indicated an area segregated from the others. Small and square, it held a single warrior. He was seated in a marble chair, his hands, wings, and feet bound tightly with rope. He looked extremely worried.
“He accused,” Ox whispered back. “If team on right side take head across to opposite end three times first, then he guilty, and die. If team on left get head and take across other way three times first, then he innocent, and live.”
Tristan shook his head back and forth in utter disbelief. “This is insane!” he snarled. “Only a proper court can make a man guilty or innocent! Besides, I outlawed this kind of behavior before I left Parthalon! Why are they disobeying me?”
Ox looked back, an obvious expression of complete misunderstanding upon his face. “Pardon, but Chosen One wrong,” he said as courteously as he knew how. “Chosen One never outlaw Kachinaar. Ox know. Ox there that day in courtyard.” He looked back down to the bizarre game. “Is Minion way,” he added with finality, the pride in his warriorship showing through.
Tristan thought for a moment, his mind going back to that awful day when he had slain their previous leader, subsequently being anointed the new lord of the Minions. Ox is right, he finally realized. I only outlawed those things that I knew of at the time. He looked back down at the horrific game as the warriors continued to gleefully, recklessly maim each other.
“Why do they use the head of a warrior?” Tristan asked. “And where did it come from? Did they kill someone just to provide a head for this awful game?”
“If two warriors accused for same crime, and first one guilty in different Kachinaar, then head brought here for second. Is only time this place used. Kachinaar in theater special, and much enjoyed. Minions like.”
Tristan looked down again at the accused, sitting alone in the marble box. “If this man is found guilty, then how will he die?” he asked, playing along for the moment.
Ox pointed to another segregated area at the side of the amphitheater floor. “There,” he said. “If guilty, warrior go to that.”
Tristan’s eyes followed Ox’s thick arm.
Lashed
beneath huge rope nets, a long, black creature was being kept under tight control. Huge, sleek, and deadly looking, it had a barbed, reptilian tail and a head and face that closely resembled a rat. Pink, obscene-looking gills lay just behind its head.
In the same area in which it was confined could be seen a rather large pile of what looked to be human bones, long since polished clean and glistening in the cold afternoon sun. Bits and tatters of what was once obviously the leather body armor of Minion warriors still somehow clung to many of them.
“What in the name of the Afterlife is that thing?” he whispered urgently.
“Swamp shrew,” Ox whispered back. “If warrior guilty, they push him down shrew throat.”
Tristan shook his head and closed his eyes. For as long as I know the Minions of Day and Night, they will continue to amaze me, he thought. Just as with the wizards.
He turned his attention back to the raucous game below, and to the plight of the warrior in the marble box. He knew he had to make a decision quickly, but he remained unsure of what to do.
Suddenly the warriors stood and cheered. A player in the game had finally been able to take the severed head deep enough into the opposite team’s territory, placing it triumphantly on the floor of the theater for what was apparently the third and final time. His teammates ran to leap happily upon him, literally burying him with their bodies and wings.
“Kachinaar over,” Ox said. Tristan held his breath, at first not wanting to ask.
“Is he—”
“Warrior innocent,” Ox answered, interrupting the prince. “Warrior live.”
Tristan let out a thankful sigh and tried to focus again on his now-more-pressing problem. “Ox,” he whispered, “are you strong enough to carry me in your arms when you fly?”
The huge Minion smiled, puffing out his chest. “Few that strong, but Ox able.”
Tristan bit his lower lip, thinking. It would definitely create a dramatic entrance, he thought. That is exactly what I need. And now would be the perfect time. It was then that he saw Traax.
Traax had left his seat and was walking toward the validated warrior, apparently to free him. Tristan took in Traax’s tall, muscular stature and the fact that he was one of the few Minions he had ever seen who was clean-shaven. Younger and more handsome than Kluge had been, Traax wore his long, dark hair tied in the back with a piece of black leather. The Minion commander drew his dreggan, and the familiar ring of its blade drifted through the theater. He expertly severed the Minion’s bonds with a few sure strokes, then took him into a congratulatory bear hug. The entire crowd leapt to their feet at once, arms waving in the air. Minion ale and wine slopped over many of the warriors’ heads and the amphitheater seats. The cheering was deafening.
“Ox,” he said quickly, “pick me up and fly me around the theater twice, then land us in the center, directly before Traax.”
“I live to serve,” the warrior said. Picking Tristan up, Ox snapped open his strong, leathery wings. Taking a few quick steps down the other side of the embankment, he launched himself into the air.
Tristan was mesmerized by his first experience of flight. The cold wind in his face was bracing, the sensation of freedom wonderfully intoxicating. Ox soared higher, his strong wings carrying them around the perimeter of the theater. Many of the Minions began to point into the air at them, shouting among themselves. Finally completing the two turns ordered by the prince, Ox swooped to the center of the amphitheater floor and landed gently. He let the prince down directly in front of Traax.
The entire theater went silent as Tristan and Traax stared at each other in an obvious contest of wills. No one moved; no one spoke. The only sound was the cold, swirling wind as it blew in and out of the great bowl.
Tristan stared calmly into Traax’s green eyes, not giving an inch.
He must speak to me first, thereby recognizing my authority over him, he remembered. Even Traax does not know how important this moment is. For if he will not honor my authority, I cannot order the Minions back to Eutracia, and all is finished for us.
The initial look of surprise in Traax’s eyes was quickly replaced by one of skepticism, as if he did not wish to relinquish command of his legions, no matter how briefly. His jaw hardened, one brow coming up questioningly, almost sarcastically. Every pair of Minion eyes was on Traax, waiting to see what he would do.
After several silent, excruciatingly tense moments, Traax relented, slowly going down on one knee. “I live to serve,” he said in a strong, clear voice.
Immediately the entire body of warriors in the theater also went to their knees. “I live to serve,” they said as one, the many voices seeming to shake the very coliseum in which they stood.
Tristan showed no outward signs of emotion, but his heart was leaping. He’d done it, he thought. But now that he had control, he had to learn to keep it.
“You may rise,” he shouted to the theater as a whole. Traax came to his feet. The other warriors did the same, continuing to stand at stiff attention.
“The Chosen One graces us with his presence,” Traax said, bowing slightly. Tristan thought there might be a hint of sarcasm in the Minion officer’s voice, but he brushed the concern away. “It is an honor,” Traax added, this time a bit more humbly. He then looked at Ox, and to the foot that had once been severed from the warrior’s body. “I see your foot is healed,” he mentioned. “I am glad the Chosen One’s wizards were successful.”
Bowing shortly, Ox clicked his heels.
“I have come for your report, as I said I would that day in the courtyard,” Tristan replied calmly, continuing to hold Traax’s eyes in his. “There are also urgent matters to discuss pertaining to Eutracia. Is there somewhere more private that we may speak? What I have to say is for your ears only.”
“Of course,” Traax said. “Follow me, my lord. But first may I request permission to return these warriors back to their duties of rebuilding the Recluse?”
Tristan had almost forgotten them, focused as he had been upon Traax. “Granted,” he said.
With a wave of his arm, Traax indicated the Minions were to leave. At once the several thousand warriors took to the air, flying back in the direction of the castle. “Now, if you will follow me,” Traax said.
Tristan and Ox followed him out the amphitheater and around the outer edge, finally stopping before a rather elaborate entrance of marble that had been constructed into the wall of the embankment. It was guarded on either side by very large, fully armed warriors. Opening the door, Traax beckoned Tristan and Ox within.
Once inside, Tristan was surprised. He had expected something rather stark, as was his overall impression regarding most things of the Minions. Instead the chambers here were light and airy, the marble of the palest indigo, with carpets on the floor and comfortable furniture placed tastefully about. A broad marble conference table with six chairs sat in the middle of the largest of several such rooms. Oil chandeliers gave the chamber a soft, inviting glow. It was not entirely unlike being in one of the smaller rooms of the Redoubt.
They each took a seat at the table. In an obvious gesture of respect, Traax removed his dreggan and placed it on the tabletop. Tristan and Ox replied in kind.
“Food and drink?” Traax asked.
“Yes,” Tristan answered, suddenly realizing how hungry and thirsty he was.
Traax slapped his hands, and almost immediately two Minion women appeared, coming to stand by the table. Tristan realized that these were the first Minion women he had ever seen.
They were quite beautiful.
They stood proudly, rather than adopting the meek, subservient postures he imagined they had been forced to maintain under Kluge’s command. It would be interesting to see how Minion society emerged, provided his orders remained in place, he thought.
“Food and wine,” Traax said to the women. “The grouse, I think. And be quick about it.” He then looked to Tristan, pursing his lips. “Please,” he finally added, in a softer, less commanding tone. A
s the women walked away, Tristan thought for a moment he could see slight smiles come to their lips. He had a hard time repressing one of his own, but he managed.
“They are strong, the Minion women,” Traax said thoughtfully. “Many of the warriors, especially those who have recently married as a result of your permission, seem to be even happier than before. Minion warriors prefer their women to be forceful, and sexually aggressive. Given their newfound freedoms, the females have responded in kind. Many of them have even made significant suggestions as to the rebuilding and decorating of the Recluse.” He spoke almost as if it were astounding that mere women could accomplish such intellectual acts. Then one corner of his mouth came up. “As I said, my lord, your changes have been interesting.”
“Please give me your report,” Tristan said. “I particularly wish to hear of your progress in the orders I gave you just before I left Parthalon. But be brief. There is much left for us to discuss.”
Traax nodded, quickly outlining for Tristan the progress that had so far been made.
When Traax had finished, Tristan asked, “What were the crimes of those who endured the Kachinaar? And why is this theater here?”
“The first warrior, the one whose head you saw, was accused of forcibly taking another man’s Gallipolai wife,” Traax said. “There was truly little doubt that he was guilty. His vigil failed, reinforcing not only the fact that other men’s women are no longer to be shared, but that the Gallipolai are no longer slaves.” Traax spoke as casually about this brutality as though he were discussing the weather.
“If two or more Kachinaars are to be held within days of each other, should the first accused be found guilty we also take his head, using it for the theater games,” he continued. “It was said the second fellow, his friend, also took the woman after the first one did. But his guilt was far less certain. In any event he survived his vigil, and is now free.” He paused for a moment, smiling.
“And to answer your second question, the theater was constructed of imperfect marble pieces left over from the site of the Recluse,” he went on. “There is still more work to be done upon it, such as decorative statues and the like. I ordered the stadium built so that if more than one accused was to suffer the Kachinaar at once, or if I deemed the crime to be important enough, far more of the Minions would be able to watch. It has become quite a tradition.” He smiled again, leaning in conspiratorially. “As you saw, we even keep a live shrew here, for just this very purpose. It tends to add a great deal of liveliness to things. Sometimes bets are taken on which day the shrew will vomit the bones back up.”
The Gates of Dawn Page 43
