by L J Andrews
“I don’t.”
“I don’t, my lord,” Tama corrected.
Roark hissed the words through clenched teeth. “I don’t, my lord.”
“Bruisers, my boy. Tournaments of courage, strength, and power performed by my bruisers. Now, if you don’t believe the boy would suit as my bruiser what good have I for him? Perhaps he would better fit my second industry. Harvesting. You likely haven’t heard of that. The lengths some noblemen will go to stay young as though they will live forever. The horrifying surgeries of adding stronger parts, smoother skin, even new eye colors to their own bodies are sickening.” He said the words, but Tama never lost his smile. “Not to mention the trade to Blood Knights from Corian. How they love their blood.”
Roark thought he might vomit the nothingness in his insides. “You harvest people?”
“Tissues and fluids mostly. Though hair is quite popular in recent years for wigs. You think us barbaric?” Roark didn’t answer. Tama chuckled and straightened. “No matter what you believe, we are wealthy, industrious, and hold your life in our hands.”
“Surely you have a household,” Roark said.
“What are you saying, Ro? What is that language?” Furv shouted through tears. A Trapper backhanded his ear to silence his sobs.
Tama tilted his head once more. His earlobes draped over his shoulders from the stretching. The man was more metal and gold than skin at his mature age, but his body seemed strong and agile. And Roark was more frightened than he let on.
“Of course, I have a household, what are you saying, slave?”
“The boy. He could serve the household. He is quiet, works hard, he wouldn’t be seen if you commanded and he’s intelligent. He knows how to turn barren earth into fertile soil.”
Tama’s grin faded. “Is what you say true?” Roark nodded. “Interesting. What would you be willing to offer me to seal this idea of keeping your young friend alive and out of the Ring?”
Roark’s mind blazed to find something that didn’t wind up with him on the harvesting table. “I will fight for your tournament.”
Tama laughed. “You don’t have a choice. You’re the perfect height and—what is your age?”
“I recently passed my twentieth year, my lord.”
Tama nodded. “Then your bones haven’t gone brittle yet. And it is the only way to earn your freedom.”
“I will fight for your ring, and I will win every time.”
The lord wasn’t laughing now. “Bold statement. What makes you so sure. Look around you boy, don’t you see the strength in my bruisers?”
Roark stared at the cages of feral men, thick with muscle. He sucked in a sharp breath and met Tama’s eye. “I am wounded. If you allow my arm time to heal, teach me the rules of your game, I give you my word I will defeat any man you put before me. I will be the greatest entertainment your people have seen in years.”
“And if you lose?”
“Kill me. I have a strong heart and it will fetch a good price. Kill me and put the boy in the tournament in my place.”
Tama’s dark eyes brightened. “Well, you have a clever mind. It’s been many years since I’ve met an intelligent bruiser. I shall accept the bargain. I do hope you pull through for I know many customers throughout the Bloodlands that would kill their wives or husbands to have the boy’s curls.” Tama stood and addressed the unit of Cy guards. Roark noticed a man in a rouge robe. His face was hooded, and his head bowed, but Roark thought he was muttering something. “The skinny one will join the household of my women. He will be charged with caring for their needs as well as my gardens. Why aren’t you translating to him?”
A guard hurried and spat the instructions at Furv as he was forced to his feet. Furv stared at Roark when he was told he would tend to crops. Roark smiled and nodded. He hadn’t worked out all the details, but somehow, he’d get instructions and plant care guidance to Furv. His life depended on it.
“What of this one?” asked a trapper.
Tama smiled. “You’re right, he’s worth the obscene price tag Bale set.” Tama faced the man in the red cloak. “Holy man. Take the skinny boy to the manor. Then you shall tend to the healing of this man. I think we have a champion in the making.”
Roark gaped when the man removed his hood. His soft eyes locked with Roark as he drifted to Furv. “Mount priest.” Roark muttered. If Emperor Sha’run knew a priest of the mystic Mount was alive and well, there would be a bloodbath of Cy cliff dwellers.
Furv cried out when the priest handled him—gentler than the trappers—and led him toward the wagon once more. Roark watched them heave the boy in the cage, and to his astonishment and gratitude the soft moving mount priest stepped in the dirty carriage and rested an open palm over Furv’s forehead. Roark felt a sting behind his eyes. Furv, Agnus, both gone now, and it was as though he’d lost his family all over again.
The massive grate locking Roark in the dark cave hissed and groaned as it slid across the red stones. Roark glimpsed over his shoulder and felt his pulse tick up. “Mount priest. I thought your people were exterminated.”
The priest floated across the room. In his hands was a ceramic basin sloshing with water that smelled of clove and mint. The man had a clean-shaven face. He wasn’t graying, and there were few lines on his face, but still he was Roark’s elder by years. “It’s difficult to exterminate an entire faith, even if many temples were destroyed and many of us must stay hidden. You did not eat.”
“The water made me vomit.” Roark grimaced at the plate of blood oranges and seed bread.
The priest nodded, dipped a towel in the water, and faced Roark. “You must keep taking sips and try to eat. I understand the boy calls you Ro?”
“You saw him?”
“I settled him in the house of Lord Tama. He is frightened, but the kitchen staff made sure he was watered and fed.”
“Thank you. Please, can you bring a message to him—he doesn’t know how to tend fields, but I do. I hope you are a true holy man with a kind heart and will relay my instructions to a boy who does not deserve to die because I lied.”
“You lied to the Lord of Cy to keep the boy from entering the Ring tournament?” Roark clenched his jaw and turned away. The priest remained somber for a moment before Roark heard the rustle of his cloak and the man stood in front of him. “I wonder how a simple farmhand from neutral lands can speak multiple languages without pause?”
“I speak Cy, and common tongue, that’s all.”
“Really? Then how have we conversed just now in Mulekian, Jershonian, and common tongue?”
Was he so fatigued he hadn’t even realized the priest was switching dialects? Roark’s mouth turned to ash, and he met the man’s pale eyes with caution. The priest might be called holy, but he still lived with the wickedness of Lord Tama at the helm, and he could be loyal to the Lord of the Cy. “I did—”
The priest held up a calloused palm. “Not to mention, a simple farmhand knowing forgotten languages enough to ink them on your arms. Are you sent from the Mount to test me, or help?”
Roark’s brow furrowed at the sharp tone. “The Mount is a myth. The gods, fables. Sha’run destroys anything regarding god-blessed or the Mount. I’m beginning to think he has the right idea.”
Roark had no desire to offend the priest and his belief in the Mount of Rays, and Lightborn, but he trusted no one. Although he’d read the scrolls and although his arms were tattooed in the language, his faith that Lightborn, the Mount, or the silent gods existed had faded into nothing but bitterness. If there were such places, why had no one aided him on his quest; he’d prayed enough for guidance through the months. If the gods wanted their powers returned to the Bloodlands, they would have prevented this—enslavement, and likely death. Roark had been willing to aid the Lightborn, to help them rise against tyrants like Kawal, but now the only powers left were greed and darkness and lust. Even the remaining amulets seemed a foolish dream.
The priest grinned. “Ah, and you know your history. Tam
a is right, you are educated. For one who stares at me as though I am a fool for my religion, you have a great deal of it written on your skin.” Roark hugged his arms against his chest, desperate to hide the words as the priest knelt. “I see something in you that I nearly lost hope believing. You have rays I thought forsaken in this place, I hear your unique voice in my soul. You were a hero to that boy and could be a hero to many more if you would rise to the occasion.”
“I am no hero, priest, and I don’t believe in your mystic nonsense. If rays and Lightborn exist, then they are from the creation of men, a trick of the mind; Understand, that I will do what I must to survive, no matter the cost.”
“I don’t believe you. You are not motivated by self-interest, or you would have let the boy enter the Ring. If you detest the Mount so much why then keep such mystic writings permanent on your skin? Only those desperate to hold onto something would do such a thing.”
“You don’t need to know anything about me.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” he sighed as he rose by pushing off his knees. “But alas, I expect we shall see much of each other. I’m tasked with healing you, and then blessing you each tournament. I admit, for once, in all my years in the Cy cliffs, the thought does not disgust me. I shall relay your message to your frightened friend. I’ll keep him under my watch as best I can. Soak your shoulder with this ointment tonight. I’ll check on the bruising tomorrow and our healer will help me set the joint.”
The priest set the damp towel in the basin and nodded at Roark before he stepped toward the grate. Wincing as he spoke, Roark turned over his shoulder. “Holy man.” The priest turned. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “You may call me Elder, Ro, although I suspect that is not your real name. Until tomorrow. I hope your time here will not dull your hope that keeps the rays alive in your soul. For when hope dies, so does light.”
Chapter 8
Shattered Rays
Blown glass shattered against the alabaster wall. Kawal’s shoulders fell in gasping breaths as his blood finished boiling. He stared at the broken vase absorbing the faintest tingle of energy prick his skin from the amulet. A prickle, that was all. Ancient writings said the trapped rays in the amulets had the strength to encompass an entire body in power.
“You brought me a counterfeit, Bale.” Kawal ripped the emerald longsword from his waist sheath and stomped across the room.
The swindler sat unmoved, chipping dirt from beneath his fingernails. He glanced at Kawal as though he were bored. “You didn’t think it would come so easy, General. The best things come with time and patience. You know as well as I, rays connect with willing hearts. Open yourself, perhaps that is the problem.”
“I don’t need your philosophies; I need a true emberstone. If this is as powerful as you say, then without its power I may never find the remaining amulets.”
Bale scoffed. “This is real, General. According to the banesman, filled unique rays and stronger than the other amulets. But, if you and my banesman would consider that isn’t working for another reason...”
Kawal shook his head. “Don’t say it, you fool. The Mount of Rays exists.”
Bale clicked his tongue. “Soothsayers have a keen ability to trick the eye. Who’s to say the Light King was nothing more than a skilled magician who convinced the people the Mount of Rays and Lightborn existed, and if they believed enough even a peasant could harness such power.”
Doubt was strong, and Kawal wasn’t willing to doubt yet. “Have you read nothing regarding the mystics?” Kawal said through clamped teeth. “I will hear the power; it will encompass my being. I am so close to understanding the ancient rays. Taking all the amulets is the only way to rise in strength. If it would only connect with me.” Kawal snapped his eyes up. “You know a great deal about magicians, perhaps you’ve brought me a false amulet with some half-rate Magic’s touch. The Saga are said to be skilled in the arts, and you frequent Saga camps often. I should take your ears as payment.”
“Your empty threats mean nothing.” Bale glared and pointed at the amulet. “Whatever that is, has not been tainted with Saga tricks. It is genuine and if it does not work then the reason is because the rays do not exist as you believe. In fact, I am the one who should be frustrated, General. Thieves Waste still stands, and your botched attempt at an assassination has called all three guilds to defend the forest and Noble Passage. For the first time in history the feuding guilds have united. How am I to reach her with thousands of trained killers on the defense? My trade and business are at risk should they continue to terrorize caravans.”
“You walk a dangerous line. Your reluctance to use your banesman forced me to reach out to a mere apprentice. If you want the girl dead, use your man.”
“He will not.”
There was at twitch near Kawal’s eye that spurred to life whenever Bale spoke. “Yes, because he claims to be a Diviner as well as a banesman. If you truly believe the girl has some hidden destiny then you are a greater fool than I thought.”
“Remember it isn’t only my life at stake according to the banesman.” Bale nodded at Kawal and it only sent a new agitated prickle down the general’s spine.
“My life will not end at the hands of a thief with darkness, I assure you. You are falling into the superstitions of a man who believes he can see the future. The last man who claimed to see into the future days was killed.”
“A Diviner is different than a councilman lost in his own mind shouting war and destruction.”
“If you believe the banesman why do you want the girl dead? He said it will end your life as well.”
Bale’s eyes narrowed until they bled black. “The desire to see her writhe in agony outweighs any prophecy that I will die by flames that a self-proclaimed Diviner could ever make. Now, fulfill your part of the bargain general or you shall meet the banesman in less than cordial circumstances.”
I will see to—” Kawal bit back his threat and tossed his heavy sword so it clanged near Bale’s head. A mousy shriek broke above the noise. Kawal turned over his shoulder and froze when Emperor Baz clapped in arrogance in the doorway. His brawny guards stood at his flanks, but also a pale-skinned woman with raven hair.
“I hope you put just as much passion in defending my empires, General Kawal.”
Kawal swallowed and tucked the amulet beneath his sweat drenched tunic. He took to one knee, as did Bale. “Your Highness, I did not see you.”
“Yes. Plainly.” Baz adjusted his green robe that trailed well beyond his heels and walked with purpose. “Leave us,” he said to Bale.
The swindler smiled and bowed his head though his expression clearly had no loyalty for the emperor. Baz followed Kawal with his gaze as the general rose from his knee. “What angers you, General?”
If Kawal were a lesser man, he might fumble over his words. He wasn’t a lesser man, so he always had pleasing things to speak to the emperor at a moment’s notice. “I tire of underground resistance efforts of your rule, My lord.”
Baz scoffed and stood in front of the wide balcony. “All part of overthrowing, General Kawal. There is still hope and loyalty to Abram in some of my subjects. It will fade with time. You saw the new girls’ house, did you not?”
Baz grinned, but Kawal’s exhaustion from working with the amulet kept his face frozen in stone. “I saw. Madonna Skoka said it would be for the noble class.”
“The women believe they are not from the same vine as those on the streets.” Baz laughed and leaned against the balcony. “Servicing noblemen, drinking finer wine, wearing jewels, but in the end they all make their bed the same. But it is the sliver of hope for a different life out of the dingy, dark red houses in the shadows. My mercy has earned loyalty from the Skoka name and her girls. Unlike Abram, their beloved new emperor allows vices once kept to the shadows to be revealed in the day.
“Next, I will give a wider berth to underground trade. They serve me, and I turn a blind eye to smuggling. Before long, I pull my sights out of the gutte
r and toward schoolhouses, repositories of learning. Children learning the philosophies of Baz. You see how it will work? It takes time, but memories are short, mercy appeals to the primal need to survive. Before long, these rebellions will be quashed, and people will fall in love with their new way of life. They will be mine to the last breath. So, don’t fret over trivial things. I have brought you good news.”
Kawal turned when Baz signaled to the open doorway. The guards stood at either shoulder of the trembling woman. He furrowed his brow, when Baz gripped the female beneath the arm and urged her into the room. “Who is she, Your Highness?”
“Your wife,” Baz said as he shoved the young woman onto her knees.
“My wife?”
“A gift, as my gratitude. You would do well to take such a beautiful creature as your own. She comes from a nobleman’s house, and from the trapper’s word, her mother was a fierce Zahara warrior before death. Fitting for you. She goes to you or Madonna Skoka.”
“She is Zaharan?”
Baz nodded. “Traded by trappers and brought to the port. I thought it a shame to have such a beauty lost to the houses. Can you imagine if such a creature were ruined?” Baz cupped the chin of the woman who trembled but didn’t look away.
“I am honored, sire, but—”
Baz held up a hand and Kawal’s voice bit the inside of his cheek to stay silent. “I insist. If I am to be emperor over all the Bloodlands someday, then it is time interracial unions take place as a commonality. Abram began, but he allowed prejudices to slow the process. Not with me. No more halflings, we shall be one people with the strength of all blood.”
Kawal glanced at the woman who narrowed her gaze at him. The sprite would likely try to slit his throat. On the other hand, she could be an intriguing challenge. “The Blood Emperor takes an interest in halflings. He could come for an entire empire breeding them.”
