Selene wrapped herself in the disguise of an orcish warlock once again. There was an apothecary’s shop off the plaza, not far from Dazlask’s tavern, and she insisted on stopping there and buying a bag of odd-smelling gray powder.
“A sleeping drug,” she said by way of explanation. Ridmark thought it peculiar to see her usual mannerisms leak through the illusionary disguise of the orcish warlock. “Might be necessary to put Rhandask to sleep. I don’t want to kill him since that might draw attention.” Her illusionary face grinned behind its tusks. “In fact, when he wakes up, he’ll think he passed out drunk and lost his seal. That might give us a few days while he panics and looks for it. He won’t want to tell the Confessor since that will make him look like an idiot.”
“Cousin,” said Third. “You have developed a remarkable streak of deviousness.”
“I have, haven’t I?” said Selene. “Fortunately, I can employ my talents in a good cause. This way.”
She led the way down one of the side streets leading off from the plaza. There wasn’t as much traffic here since the carts tended to keep to the main streets, but numerous kobold slaves moved back and forth on errands for their masters, and a few troops of orcish soldiers cut through the street to save time. But they all gave Selene a wide berth. Since Selene currently resembled an orcish warlock, Ridmark supposed that he, Third, and Tamara looked like the warlock’s personal enforcers. No wonder the common soldiers gave them a wide berth. They were wise enough to avoid trouble.
The cheering roars grew louder as they drew closer to the Ring of Blood. At last, they came to the plaza before the curved wall of the amphitheater. The white wall of the arena towered over them, its statue-crowned top rising at least two hundred and fifty feet overhead, and merchant stalls in the plaza sold wine and beer for the off-duty soldiers to drink as they watched the games. Ridmark could not guess how many spectators the Ring could hold, but it had to be in the tens of thousands, certainly.
Selene strode without hesitation towards the row of arches at the base of the Ring. One of the arches opened into a wide aisle that climbed into the arena, sunlight spilling through it. Likely that led to spectator seating.
Four orcish soldiers stood guard there, faces marked with the blue tattoos of the Confessor’s service.
“Hold,” growled one of the soldiers, holding out his hand. “You need an off-duty ticket to enter the arena. That comes down from the Lord Confessor himself. Anyone caught without one gets invited to join the confessing dead.”
“I’m not here to watch,” said Selene in orcish. She lifted a scroll sealed with blue wax. The sigil on the seal was the same as the one on the pommel of the Seven Swords, a stylized design of a closed eye. She must have created it as part of her disguise. Which made sense. If Selene could wrap herself in an illusionary face and illusionary clothes, why not create illusionary objects? “A message for Lord Rhandask, for his eyes open.” Selene smirked. “He’s gotten himself into bad odor with the lords of the city.”
“About time,” grumbled one of the other soldiers. “Lazy fat bastard.”
“Thinks he’s so high and mighty just because he’s a warlock of Vhalorast,” said a third soldier. “If the warlocks of Vhalorast are so impressive, then why did they all die with Justin Cyros?”
Ridmark had, in fact, killed many of the warlocks of Vhalorast at the Battle of the Plains, but he wasn’t about to tell the orcish soldiers that.
“I don’t give a damn,” said Selene. “Where is he?”
“Where he always is this time of day,” said the first soldier. “In the overseer’s box, drinking half the wine in the city.”
Selene grunted and beckoned, and Ridmark, Third, and Tamara followed her through the archway, up the aisle, and into the Ring of Blood.
The arena in Najaris had been the largest amphitheater that Ridmark had ever seen, but the Ring of Blood was far larger. Row after row of stone seats climbed towards the sky, all of them overlooking a wide round pit floored in sand, no doubt to make cleaning up the blood easier. Thousands of orcish soldiers sat on the seats, cheering as a team of orcish gladiators faced off against twice as many kobold slaves. Despite the size of the arena, only about a third of the seats were filled. Ridmark suspected the Confessor allowed the soldiers to take their ease here when not on duty, partly to keep them from getting bored and making trouble, and partly to fire their bloodlust for the coming battle.
It was rather cunning, really. The Confessor could have ruled his soldiers entirely by force, and Ridmark had no doubt that the dark elven lord used force liberally. Yet he was also clever enough to use rewards, to employ bread and circuses, as the Romans of old had once said on Old Earth. The carrot and the stick, wasn’t that what Selene had said?
Perhaps she had inherited that devious streak from her malevolent father.
“There’s the box,” said Selene. Ridmark followed her gaze and saw an ornate stone viewing box about halfway around the arena, above the bulk of the crowds. A half-dozen orcish men and women sat or stood in the box, and in the center of the box sat an enormous orcish man wearing a robe of black leather.
“That’s Rhandask, I assume,” said Tamara.
“Aye,” said Selene. “You know what to do. Ridmark, Tamara, follow me and look threatening.” She grinned at Ridmark. “Should be easier for you. A grim scowl is your customary expression. Anyway, stand outside the box and look grim. Cousin, you have the powder?”
Third patted the pouch at her belt. “Right here.”
“Excellent,” said Selene. “Let’s go rob the Overseer.”
###
Selene led the way through the tiers of seats, heading for Rhandask’s box. Ridmark and Tamara followed her, and she had to admit that they both played the part of bodyguards well. Ridmark needed only to look grim, and with Tamara’s coat and staff and long hair left unbound, she looked like some sort of mad sorceress from the hills, or maybe a former Sister of the Arcanii who had fled the realm of Owyllain for practicing dark magic.
There was no sign of Third, but that was the plan.
A bit of embarrassment tugged at Selene. She hadn’t planned to have that emotional outburst in the guest room of the Triumphant Gate Tavern, but it had just happened. Playing the part of the Scythe, wrapping herself in the illusion of the urdhracos that she had been, had dredged up a lot of memories, and all of them had been bad. Selene had been playacting as the Scythe to put the fear into Dazlask, but she had actually been the Scythe for centuries, and that had been no masquerade. She had been that dangerous, deadly creature, that blood-drenched killer, and the only emotions she had known had been rage and despair and bloodlust and a grim satisfaction in killing her foes…
Not at all like she felt now. The endless bleak decades of the Scythe’s existence seemed all the darker in comparison to the affection, and even love, she felt for her friends now.
The whole business of possessing free will was still going to take some getting used to.
But Selene wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
She still hoped she got to kill her father, though. Selene would cheerfully use all the dark experience and knowledge of the Scythe for that.
Selene pushed all the emotion out of her head and focused on the task at hand. Really, it would be dreadfully embarrassing if she had some sort of maudlin outbreak of tears in front of Rhandask. Though maybe it would be worth it just to see the befuddled expression on his face.
She stopped at the edge of the box and looked at its occupants. Rhandask sat on a wooden chair in the center of the box, clad in the ragged robe of black leather favored by the Wise Elders of the Pyramid of Iron Skulls of Vhalorast. Except the Vhalorasti warlocks tended towards asceticism, and Rhandask had clearly abandoned that practice. He was so fat that his girth strained against his robe, and Selene uncharitably thought it made him look like a polished onyx ball. Three orcish soldiers stood guard, likely to defend the Overseer, though their attention was on the games. Two orcish women sat on either side of Rhandask, likely his concubines. It was just as well that orcish women were far stronger than human women since Rhandask’s concubines would need that strength to withstand his bulk on top of them, assuming he was even still capable of lying with a woman. Selene wasn’t sure he was even capable of standing up from his chair without assistance.
“Lord Rhandask?” said Selene.
“Eh?” said Rhandask, his voice thick and wet. His dark eyes turned to face her. “Who the devil are you, sir?”
“A messenger from the Lord Chanter,” said Selene. A flicker of unease went over the guards’ expressions. The Chanter was not known for his sanity and was willing to use up the lives of his soldiers more profligately than the Confessor or the Blademaster. “For your ears only, Lord Rhandask.” She gestured with the illusionary scroll. “This was only to get me past the guards.”
“Blood gods and ashen devils,” grumbled Rhandask. He reached for his goblet, took a long drink, and set it on a little table next to his chair. “Well, you heard my brother warlock. Go buy some more wine and come back here. And some of those skewers of rat meat, too.”
The orcish woman on his left scowled. “Rat meat?”
“I have no intention to share,” said Rhandask. Both women looked relieved. “And it is our civic duty to the Lord Confessor to reduce the rodent population for the good of our city. Besides, they are delicious with a bit of salt after fried in bacon grease.”
Selene doubted that but had no desire whatsoever to find out.
An idea occurred to her as the orcish concubines and guards filed out of the box. Perhaps in addition to getting his seal of office, she could also obtain some information about the Confessor’s intentions.
“Well, sir?” said Rhandask, glaring up at her. “What message does the Lord Chanter have for me?”
“You are aware, of course, that soon the army shall muster and march from Urd Maelwyn,” said Selene.
Rhandask waved a thick hand. Selene saw the blue seal of office affixed to his belt, the symbols cut into the metal glowing with crimson fire.
“Of course I know that,” said Rhandask. “It’s all the lords have been talking about for months, the great march to the east.”
East? Why was the Confessor going to march east? Hektor Pendragon was to the west.
But Cathair Animus was to the southeast…and the easiest way to get there from Urd Maelwyn was to march east through the vale and then turn south along the line of the Tower Mountains.
Was her father planning to abandon Urd Maelwyn and march on Cathair Animus?
A disturbing thought. But Selene could worry about it later.
“The Lord Chanter has new orders for you,” said Selene. “In three days, you are to report to him with a plan for using the gladiators in the campaign. You are also to accompany the Lord Chanter himself when the army marches.”
“What?” said Rhandask, his eyes going wide. He burst out coughing, took another drink of wine, refilled the goblet from a skin, and set it back down. “That is absurd. My appointment is from the Lord Confessor himself. I am to remain here and oversee the games, make sure those lazy dvargir don’t abandon their work.”
Selene shrugged. “That is no concern of mine. You have your orders. Report to the Lord Chanter in three days with a suitable plan.”
“This is preposterous!” said Rhandask, trying to stand. He wheezed a little, thought better of the idea, and slumped back into his chair. “The gladiators are not suitable for a pitched battle! They are dangerous beasts and nothing more, and the combination of punishment and reward that serves as their training makes them useless as soldiers. What is more, they have no loyalty to their masters, the ungrateful swine, and will turn on us at the first opportunity! The Lord Chanter must understand…”
Rhandask complained for some time, laying out several cogent reasons for why using gladiators as soldiers was unwise. Selene listened, keeping a bored, indifferent expression on her illusionary face. She held Rhandask’s attention as he ranted, which let Third sneak up behind him, vault over the railing of the box in perfect silence, pour out a generous helping of the sleeping powder into Rhandask’s wine, and then retreat without Rhandask noticing.
The Overseer of Games helped himself to several swallows of wine to wet his throat as he ranted.
“Bah!” he said. “This has me so upset that even wine tastes bitter to me.”
“That is unfortunate, my lord,” said Selene. “But that is the Lord Chanter’s message.”
“I shall bring this to the attention of the Lord Confessor himself,” said Rhandask, “when he holds court today.”
Selene’s attention focused. “That is today? I have been so busy with preparations for the march east that I have lost track of the days.”
“Of course,” said Rhandask. A faint slur entered his voice. “The Lord Confessor shall hold court in the Great Plaza before the Sovereign’s tower. There he shall…there he shall…he shall reward the brave and condemn the cowardly, the shirkers, the…the…”
Rhandask’s head slumped against his chest, and he began to snore.
The sleeping powder was a powerful drug.
In one smooth motion, Selene snatched the seal from his belt and slipped it into a pocket. She turned, stepped out of the box, and rejoined Ridmark and Tamara as the concubines and the guards returned.
“The Lord Rhandask has drunk himself into a stupor,” said Selene. “You had best see to him.”
One of the concubines glared at the Overseer of Games and let out a sulfurous curse, and Selene walked towards the aisle to the exit.
“Did you get it?” murmured Ridmark as Third fell in behind them.
“Aye,” said Selene. “Let’s talk more once we’re out of the Ring.”
The orcish guards nodded at Selene as she passed back into the plaza, and soon they were walking back to the Triumphant Gate Tavern.
“I’ve got the seal,” said Selene. “I also learned something interesting. It seems the Confessor is planning to abandon Urd Maelwyn and march to the east.”
“East?” said Tamara. “The jastaani are in that direction. Maybe he’s planning to fight them.”
“Maybe,” said Ridmark. “But Cathair Animus is also in that direction, is it not? If the Confessor’s planning to turn south after his army leaves the vale.”
“It is,” said Selene.
“The Well of Storms is in Cathair Animus,” said Ridmark, “and apparently the Maledicti need it to create the New God. Maybe the Confessor wants to seize the Well for himself before the Maledicti and the Masked One can do it.”
“Now that’s a disturbing thought,” said Selene. “My father is enough of a monster already. I don’t want to know what he would do with the Well of Storms.” She shrugged. “Though he would have to find a way through the wards Rhodruthain raised around Cathair Animus. Those wards are powered by the Well of Storms itself, and in fifteen thousand years of trying, the Sovereign never managed to get through them.”
“If the Maledicti are going to need the Well of Storms to create the New God,” said Ridmark, “then they’re going to have to find a way through the wards.”
“Yes,” said Selene. “It’s another question to ask Irizidur.” She looked back at the Shield Knight. “We should rejoin the others and head for the Sovereign’s tower as soon as possible. Evidently, the Confessor will be holding court in the Great Plaza below the tower. He likes to do that from time to time, to praise soldiers who have pleased him and execute those who have annoyed him. A good crowd always attends.”
“I suppose watching someone get executed is almost as enjoyable as a gladiatorial match,” said Ridmark.
“Amusement tends to be bloody here,” said Selene.
“She’s not kidding,” said Tamara. “The orcs who have accepted baptism and joined the church tend to moderate their…bloodier instincts. The Confessor’s orcs worship him as a god, and he encourages their bloodlust. Makes them more useful as soldiers.”
“East,” mused Ridmark. “Why is he going east? If he doesn’t march soon, he’s going to find himself trapped in Urd Maelwyn by Hektor’s army.”
“Maybe that’s what the dragons are for,” said Tamara. She hesitated. “Perhaps…we should warn Hektor?”
“I don’t see how we can,” said Ridmark. “Not after we’ve come this far. I wouldn’t send someone alone back into the Basilisks’ Run. And finding Irizidur is probably more important than learning the Confessor’s plan. Because whatever the Confessor intends has something to do with the New God and the Seven Swords, and until we get some answers from Irizidur, we’re blundering around in the dark.”
“I agree,” said Third. “We have been reacting to our enemies – the Maledicti, the Confessor, Justin, and the Masked One. Until we know what the Masked One and the Maledicti truly intend with the New God, we cannot decide on a proper strategy to defeat them.”
“Aye,” said Selene. “Maybe Irizidur will know how the Maledicti plan to create the New God.”
At least, she hoped so. She had the nagging feeling that she was missing something important. Selene half-hoped that Morigna would appear and offer some counsel, but the Guardian remained silent.
She would just have to keep her wits about her.
***