I strain to yell. The strain causes the pain throbbing from the base of my skull to my crown to intensify. It’s a wasted effort. I continue but I know it’s useless. No one would reply even if they heard me. They wouldn’t dare. No one questions Volac. Not the citizens of Sinsity, and certainly not his guards. If they ever did, they wouldn’t live to do it a second time. I realize I have no choice but to be still. At this point, it’s the only option I have. It’s all I can do. Leaning my head back carefully, I rest it against the stone wall. I remain as I am, trying desperately to ignore the aches and cramps in my shoulders, until my eyelids grow heavy. The darkness and quiet of the cell and surrounding hallway tempts me. I doze, drifting off intermittently for what feels like eternity until the sharp clack of booted feet sends a surge of adrenaline through my bloodstream.
“Rise and shine!” a voice calls out. My head snaps toward the sound. For a moment, in the darkness and from a distance, I think it’s Volac himself. But when I see that four others dressed identically, flank him, I realize they’re the five guards who abducted me last night. “Time for your trial.”
They’ve come to collect me for a trial? It doesn’t make sense. What law or laws did I break in the short time I’ve been in Sinsity? “What am I being tried for?”
“Oh as if you don’t know!” The guard closest to me wags his finger, narrowing his eyes. Light from the lantern he carries illuminates his eyes, nostrils and mouth. All other features are darkened by shadows, lending him a far more sinister appearance. He shakes his head at me. “Alright, I’ll play along.” He pauses dramatically like his leader. “You’re being tried for the death of Ryker Sinclair.” He splays one hand at his side while the other holds the lantern.
“What?” Shock bolts through me like lightning. “You can’t be serious! That was a fair fight!” I protest. “He challenged me!”
The guard with the lantern makes a tsking sound. “Tell that to Volac. We’re just here to bring you to him.” Then to the others, he says, “Open the gate and bag him.” The remaining four guards reach the gate. One unlocks it and the other three swarm in. Yanked to my feet by two, the third shoves a sack over my head, eclipsing the meager light of the lantern and casting me into utter darkness.
“This is crazy!” I shout, my voice muffled by fabric. “I didn’t do anything!”
Volac’s guards ignore me. My arms are gripped and I’m jerked forward. Half dragged for a seemingly interminable distance, I stumble over rocks and pebbles. Little light seeps in through the tightly woven fabric of the sack. Air is scarce and the heat is unbearable. I’m led up three steps and walked across a surface upon which my shoes echo loudly. “And here he is.” Volac’s unmistakable voice is near. As if he’s standing right beside me. A thunderous round of applause shakes the ground beneath my feet. “Ladies and gentlemen of Sinsity,” he bellows theatrically. “We have an assassin before us! A man who has only been here for a matter of days.” Boos and jeers erupt. “I know. I know.” His overly saccharine attempt to placate the crowd succeeds. They fall silent. In a quiet, almost intimate tone, he says, “Should we get a look at him now?”
“Yes! Let’s see his face!” a random voice cries out.
“Take off the hood!” another shouts and incites the whole of the crowd.
“Take it off! Take it off!” the crowd chants.
“You want me to take off his hood?” Volac asks his audience. Cries of approval echo until they become a single voice that says “yes”. “Well okay. Your wish is my command!” His feigned humility is obvious. I can’t see him but witnessing his antics yesterday was enough. In seconds, I’ll see him. I’ll see his performance. Only on this day, I am part of his performance. I’ll be on the receiving end of his punishment.
The rap of his boots against the wooden platform speeds. He’s advancing, closing the distance between. The sack covering my head is ripped off. Blinding, white light sears my retinas. Eyes watering and temporarily blinded, I blink. As soon as my eyes adjust, I see him before me. Smooth tan head and serpentine tattoos slither up his arms, torso, back and neck, he’s shirtless and clad in leather pants. He looks down at me, glowering. “I’m not an assassin,” I say, refusing to break eye contact with him.
Staggering backward with his mouth open wide, Volac performs for his people, exaggerating his every facial expression and movement. “Did you…did you hear him?” Volac slowly sweeps his head from left to right. “This man claims he’s not an assassin!” His hand flies to his mouth, covering it. Wearing a mask of shock and offense, Volac continues. “How can that be?” He taps his index finger to pursed lips, as if deep in thought and considering the answer to his own question. “Witnesses say he was paid by this man to assassinate Ryker Sinclair, the very man who defeated his son in a fair fight.” Bran is shoved onto the stage on cue. The crowd offers a collective gasp. Bran’s hands are bound behind his back. He’s led to the same block where just yesterday a boy lost his hand, blood still fresh from the severance. His head is force upon it, his neck exposed.
“I was paid nothing,” I say. In my periphery, I see Reyna, Ara, Pike and the others in the second row. They’re the only ones among the crowd who aren’t clustered and chatting. Rather than speculate about what would motivate me to lie about getting paid to kill Ryker, as the people assume I have, Reyna, my siblings and the rest of my friends stare in stunned silence. “I didn’t even challenge him! He challenged me.”
“Liar!” Volac roars. Mannerisms shifting from flamboyant and entertaining to lethal, any and all friendliness drains from Volac. Brow low and drilling me with eyes as hard and cold as steel, Volac shouts inches from my face, “You were seen talking to this man.” He points to Bran. “And a moment later, Ryker is dead.” Scowling at the crowd, I’m unsure whether his look attempts to gain their approval or threaten them into complying with his opinion. Maybe it intends to do both. He looks at me again. “It’s not hard to figure out what transpired!” Wild-eyed, danger and unpredictability seeps from his pores. Volac looks as though at any moment he could erupt. Whether he erupts into a murderous fit or a flashy display of pretend affability is the question. I decide to push him.
“You’re wrong,” I say simply. My gaze is unwavering. Locked on his, I see the almost imperceptible dilation of his pupils.
Upper lip stretching thin over his bared front teeth, Volac growls, “Who do you think you’re speaking to, boy?” No one else hears him, just me. In the space of a breath, he spins, continuing his erroneous ramblings of a plot between Bran and me to kill Ryker. “This man hired an assassin because he’s too much of a coward to handle the problem himself!” he addresses the crowd. Boos rumble through the people. “The way he chose to handle that problem is punishable by death!” Rabid cheers demand blood. The energy of the people of Sinsity is reminiscent of the Urthmen in the arena. Ferocious. Bloodthirsty. Insatiable. Volac bobs his head, absorbing all of it with a smirk. He turns his head toward his men, who wait off the stage and to his left. He clips his chin to the one closest to him. The guard lifts an object from the ground. Hefting it up onto his shoulder, the light catches the razor-sharp blade of an ax. He calmly walks to Bran, whose head is positioned over the block, and hoists the ax high. He lowers it, barely touching Bran’s neck with the blade then whips is around, swinging it hard and fast.
“Nooooo!” I scream.
Bran turns, his eyes locking on mine in the seconds before the blade lands against his neck with a sickening thwack. On impact, his eyes widen. Blood splatters. Skin and muscle is severed, but Bran is still conscious. Gaze in and out of focus and on the verge of passing out from pain, he moves to stand but is immediately repositioned. Held down, Volac’s guard takes a second swing. Grunting and using every ounce of his might, the blade lands a second time, hacking through bone and completing the decapitation. Bran’s head lands upon Volac’s stage and rolls before coming to a gruesome stop. Vacant eyes stare out at the crowd, the father of a family dead without reason.
“Mu
rderer!” The word vents from deep in my lungs like lava, spewing on Volac. “You call yourself a leader? You can’t see truth! You can’t uphold justice!”
As soon as the last word leaves my lips, Volac descends on me. Launching his powerful fist into my gut, I double over, winded and hurting. “What did you say to me?” he screams. I lift my head and he punches me in the face. The impact of the blow knocks me off my feet. Lying on my side with my hands still tied behind my back, I spit a stream of blood. “Get him up!” Volac bellows to his men. “Get him on his feet now!” Instantly, a guard is on either side of me, hauling me to my feet. Volac cracks his neck. Nostrils flared and eyes darting, he paces, chest heaving and sweat trailing down his chest. He looks like a caged animal. In a voice low enough so only I hear him, he says. “It’s a shame you’re going to leave your wife alone without her man.” He looks from Bran’s gory neck, headless, to me. “But don’t worry. I’ll make sure she isn’t lonely. I’ll keep her company.” He looks as though he’s bordering on killing me where I stand at this very moment. Within the space of a breath however, he composes himself. Outwardly, at least. Wiping his nose with his thumb, he inhales then turns toward the crowd, resuming his show. “What should his punishment be for his lawless behavior?” he asks the people of Sinsity.
“Wheel! Wheel! Wheel!” A small group starts the chant but within seconds it spreads like wildfire, raging through everyone until the word burns from every mouth. Every mouth except my family and friends.
“Very well!” Volac bows with mock servitude and respect. “We will let the wheel decide!” The wheel is rolled out to the center of the stage. Volac grips a rung and spins it. Colors and letters on the divided sections of the circle blur as it whirls. Gradually, its speed reduces to one lazy revolution after the other, slowing so that I think it’s landed on “Death by Stoning”. But the wheel continues rotating slightly, forcing the pin to finally land on “The Gauntlet” instead.
Crazed cheers explode from a crowd gone mad. The word “gauntlet” is ear-splitting. The stage vibrates from the swell of noise. Judging from their overwrought enthusiasm, I’m guessing The Gauntlet promises gruesome injury, torture and a prolonged, excruciating death. Stomach plummeting to my feet, I scan the crowd for Ara, Pike and Reyna. But before I find them, I see a figure streak by, charging the stage. Long cords of hair trialing behind him like a banner, I realize it’s Garan. “There’s no law about asassins! You’ve just made that up to serve your purpose!” he accuses Volac. “I know the laws of Sinsity!” Garan is unable to utter another word or hurl another accusation. He’s tackled to the stage floor by a pair of guards.
“Silence!” Volac bellows. His deep voice carries. Ripe with self-righteous indignation, it catches the attention of the closest rows of onlookers, spreading back until the entire crowd is quiet. “You dare approach your leader during public hearings!”
“No laws were broken!” Garan shocks me by continuing to defy Volac. If he’s willing to go against all of the warning he issued me about keeping quiet and following rules, The Gauntlet must be far worse than anything I could possibly imagine.
Smiling smugly and facing Garan, Volac cocks his head to one side. “You know,” he touches his index finger to his chin. “I’m glad to see you’re so concerned.” He then turns to his audience. “It looks like he wants to join our lawless assassin in running The Gauntlet!” Volac points to Garan.
Madness claims the crowd once again. The thunderous roar is deafening. Nauseated by the overwhelming din and Volac’s most recent revelation, I glance at Garan. Head low and gripped in both hands, I can’t tell whether he’s screaming or crying. Or making a sound at all. His voice is swallowed by the ravenous citizens of Sinsity. I shift my gaze to Ara, Reyna and Pike. In the instant that I look upon their features, the faces that bring me hope and solace, I realize it’s likely the last time I will ever see them. A voice at my ear rips my attention from them, however. “You’re lucky you have a chance to live,” Volac says. “All you have to do is make it fifteen blocks back to where you stand now and you get to live.” I slowly turn to face him. He frowns at me. “Unfortunately for you, no one has ever come close to making it.” A demented chuckle bubbles from him. He smiles. “Good luck.”
Feeling the color drain from my face, I stand, mouth agape, staring at Volac. The scene is surreal. He gazes out at his adoring fans, a self-satisfied smirk curling the coroner of his mouth. He pumps his fist, waves and even blows a kiss to a heavy-set, older woman, who swoons, pretending to catch in and place it on the left side of her chest. He couldn’t care less about the sentence Bran, Garan or I received. After all, it’s only our lives.
Chapter 18
Dizzied by the thunderous cheers of the crowd, I watch in horror as Garan’s hands are tied behind his back. It’s the last sight I see before a bag is placed on my head and I’m shoved into a vehicle. Mind reeling, an endless stream of questions torments me. How did this happen? How did Garan end up a part of this? He spoke out, but played no part in Ryker’s death, or the discussion before it. Why did he question Volac? Struggling to understand and reconcile what just happened, I’m dazed. The sack over my head and the deafening commotion do not help. I stumble as I’m jerked and pushed along. Once stopped, my upper arms are gripped. I’m thrust forward head-first. Unable to stop myself from falling, my forehead hits a cold, hard surface before any other part of me does. It absorbs the brunt of my weight, meeting with what I gather is the interior of the vehicle with a hollow knocking sound. I scramble to my knees, head smarting, then sit, scooting backward until I hit a wall. I lean my back against it, hoping against hope I’ll find a sharp piece of metal jutting out to use to fray the ropes at my wrists. Using my fingertips, I search for a projection—anything jagged or pointy—but find nothing. Only a smooth plane. Seconds later, a solid thump echoes beside me. It’s accompanied by a grunt. Garan’s grunt. Though I can’t see him, I recognize his voice. He curses a few times then asks, “Where the heck are we? The back of a truck?”
“I guess. That’s what it feels like,” I reply over the wild cheers of the crowd. The roar nearly drowns out the sound of the engine as it starts. A door is slammed shut and the frenzied shouts are quieted. .
“Feels like? You can’t feel any more than I can. Your hands are tied.” Garan releases a sound that’s equal parts a huff and a laugh.
“I meant the impression I get, not that I actually feel it’s a truck. But I’m glad you have your sense of humor still.” I shake my head, even though he can’t see me.
“Doesn’t matter if we’re being brought by truck, on foot or riding on the back of a forest beast. We’re headed to The Gauntlet.” I hear the hollowness in his tone. The resignation.
“According to Volac, The Gauntlet is our death sentence,” I say. “Is that true?”
“No one’s survived it,” he replies.
“Yet.” I try to be optimistic. “No one’s survived it yet.”
“The odds aren’t in our favor. That’s for sure,” Garan says.
“So? We beat the odds.” I force the thought of dying and leaving Ara, Pike and Reyna alone from my thoughts. It’s too painful to consider. Especially since Garan will be with me. They’ll have no one to guide them. No one to help them navigate Sinsity. No one to protect them from Volac. The image of Volac leering at Reyna from his motorcade flashes in my mind, nauseating me. Angering me.
“Does Volac strike you as the kind of man who allows for even the remote chance that someone will beat the odds? Odds he’s set in his favor?” Garan counters. “He’s going to throw all sorts of things at us. That’s what The Gauntlet’s all about.”
“Think we can survive?”
“No one has survi—” he starts but I cut him off.
“I know no one’s survived it. I got that part. But that’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking if you think we can survive.”
Garan pauses for a long moment. When finally he speaks, he exhales loudly first then says, “Anything�
��s possible.” It’s not exactly as hopeful an answer as I’d have preferred but given the circumstances it’ll do.
Hope aside, before we face The Gauntlet, a question burns in my brain and needs to be answered. “Hey Garan?”
“Yeah,”
“Why’d you speak out at my punishment?” I ask. “You knew there was no way Volac would change his mind and that by opening your mouth and calling him out he’d never let you off the hook.” I take a breath, recalling the shocked silence of the crowd, as well as the outraged expression on Volac’s face when Garan attempted to speak on my behalf. “So why’d you do it? Why’d you say anything?”
Garan doesn’t respond right away. The vehicle, which has been moving, gentling bumping us along, veers left. The turn is sharp and I struggle to keep myself upright. “I lost my temper,” he says. I envision Garan shrugging casually as he says the words. As if losing his temper is a simple answer that makes sense.
“You lost your temper.” I repeat his sentence to be sure I heard correctly.
“Yeah,” Garan says. His tone is breezy and without regret. It’s difficult for me to understand what he means.
“Yeah, you lost your temper and now you’re sentenced to The Gauntlet with me, where no one has lived to tell about it?”
“Yet, right?” Garan corrects. “No one’s lived to tell about it yet, remember?”
“I’m being serious here.” An edge of annoyance creeps into my tone. Does he think this is somehow funny? He will probably die. I needed him to look out for my sister, brother and Ara and now he may die alongside me instead.
Sin City Page 19
