Every morning scores of fishing boats, hounded by hungry sea birds, set sail to scour the Western Bay for the day’s catch. At night search lights dot the water as the fishing nets and hook lines are laid in wait. Larger ships anchor on the peninsula, a sandy pier in the north end, which separates the harbor waters from the deep blue. Golden sandhills line the bay, dipping their toes in the surf. Farther in, they give way to limestone rocks climbing hundreds of feet to cast a gaze over the ocean’s whitecaps. A quick zephyr ushers in the crisp scents of open water. Waves full of noise and spray rise high to crash below the countless flocks nesting and soaring over the white cliff sides.
Further up the steep cliff perches the Palace Fort, seat of the High Sultan Seddiq-Khert III, who rules all that he can see from his overwatch. Spiral towers flaunt their Elven elegance as they stand guard over the Grand Prize, Kabir.
The City of Eternal Sun flares over the slopes like a many-layered skirt, whitewashed by the ocean’s salty glare. Seven circles of rock and gate divide the walk up the hill, drawing long rows of battlements full of light and shadow. Narrow streets score winding trails across patches of white houses, hundreds of veins that nourish a city swollen with brisk trade and thick crowds. Her blood runs upward, always looking to the shining palace, Lighthouse to the Gods.
Atop the royal tower is mounted a disc of pure white gold, an enchanted mirror bearing carvings just as the head staff of the Sun God. The mirror turns day and night held fast on its swivel, more valuable than a sacred crown jewel. It is a light as brilliant as a sun-bleached candle, held aloft by the coast and visible to the whole world.
Inside the oldest stone ring, the first wall is the thickest and tallest and it bristles with spiral towers to match those of the palace. At another time of war, guards would be shooting and throwing from the heights, but as the decades passed and new lines were drawn on the rocky hills, the old battlement finally rested in peace.
Yet the high sultan saw the ramparts in a different light: not solely as defenses, but as a symbol representative of his power. He imagined the eternal light beaming from the headpiece of his crown on a summit large enough to contain the flame of Ra. Thus, the first wall became that crown, painted in the royal colors of red, white, and gold. The towers turned into spired points surrounding a single barbican in the center, standing as the world’s only source of divine favor.
The ruling theater was staged at the fort, but the true power flowed from the temple, the sole conduit to the Sun Lord. Maintaining the magic was a duty bestowed on the high priest, whose pinnacle function was to help Kabir preserve its rightful place in the world as the City of God. And where the light shines brightest, there are bound to be shadows.
It is said that the divine light selected its bearer among the people. The chosen was then destined to become the high priest, protector of the celestial flame. If the Ninth Age were any indication, this belief would turn out to be a true fairytale.
Kabiris loved the guilty pleasure of a good fight. Before the Shaman’s betrayal, huge mobs gathered in the lower city over the fighting pits, betting and reveling in the bloodshed. Ten thousand voyeurs of death shouted their collective bliss at combatants from a hundred races who spilled their sweat and blood onto the sand for the crowd’s viewing pleasure.
Ryn Kartashee was a Bek, a foreign slave purposed for the fighting pits, but he was special. He was the rare combination of showman and assassin, mixing his feral skill with a dark charisma. When he stood on the bloody ground, black like a pinprick in the sun, he fed on the adulation and the drunken delirium pouring down from the bleachers. He was eager to give his audience what they craved most, ritual slaughter. He saw himself as a warrior poet. The blood was his ink, the quills his weapons, and the arena was the stage on which he performed his lethal play.
He was the property of Qelek-Khert, first crown prince, and most notably the high sultan’s younger brother. He had been a gift some years ago from their father, Seddiq-Khert II, one among other treasures as a type of down payment. It was intended to secure Qelek’s loyalty to his elder brother when he was ready to take up the crown. Every five years the new sultan would pay the fee to ensure that any threats to his throne would come mostly from the outside. Qelek tossed the young slave to the promoters, demanding a gold coin for every pint of blood spilled on the sand. The Paruvian Bek did not disappoint.
The Battle Master recognized great potential right away. Instead of the arena meatgrinder, Ryn was assigned to the training yard for six months, having to endure weather, drills, and the frequent whip if he displeased his trainer. Six months represents a fair stack of coin to prepare, equip, and feed a battle slave. In exchange, the trainer owed the prince a blood debt. If Ryn died in his first bout, the trainer would have to take his place until he earned back the coin or died trying. Every day, the lash and the stick reminded the new recruits of that bargain.
Qelek loved to visit the yard from a safe height. He usually demanded a demonstration, and he would toss a purse into the arena, a prize for the last man standing. Weapons and killing were forbidden, all but fists and feet, lest they damage the inventory. Ryn moved like a black cat, quiet, sharp, and unrelenting. The prince liked that.
During the next visit a month later, he tossed in an extra purse. He demanded that the Battle Master order the slave to take his time. Ryn covered the yard methodically, removing his enemies like chess pieces. When he lifted the coin, he stood below the prince with his head lowered, forbidden to look directly. Qelek leaned on the parapet to take a closer view of his investment.
The next time he brought company to show him off, expecting Ryn to impress them. He was not disappointed. When the dark man took the coin, the guests pleaded with Qelek to let Ryn look up so they might see his eyes. He had the dead gaze of a shark, cold and implacable, earning a gasp from the gathered idlers, save one: Harinni, the prince’s betrothed, who saw the pain raging behind the dark glass of his smoky stare.
A month later, Ryn stepped on to the arena and drank the death in the air for the first time. It was intoxicating. Six months after that he was still alive. To Qelek’s delight, the take had far exceeded his cost. As a reward the slave was assigned champion’s quarters, meat rations, and three measures of wine daily. The bodies stacked higher. His fame spread, attracting other promoters and many buyers, but the prince was in no mood to sell. He thirsted for bloody coin, but most of all he wanted a name. He did, however, rent his prodigy to manhunters who would pay a king’s ransom to mate their finest brood slaves, hoping to stud and one day raise their own champion. The bids were so plentiful, most months the prize was awarded at auction. Meanwhile the death count grew, bringing Ryn ever closer to his blood debt of one thousand kills. After every fight, sitting next to the prince, Harinni fell more deeply in love with the dark angel below, talking to him with just her eyes as he looked to the sky, wishing for a set of wings. Their language, confined to a glance, was secret and frantic.
After a while, looking was no longer enough for her. She desperately needed to touch him, but the risk was enormous. If she were found, both their lives would be at the mercy of Qelek’s rage. Fortunately, in Kabir everyone and everything has a price. Anything can be bought for the right coin. Harinni paid the auction master a King’s bribe to let her bid for husbandry and to take her call as the winner every time. It was the perfect charade. By night she bought his love with coin, while by day he earned hers in blood.
They lived a charmed life while it lasted. After a few months spent between ecstasy and peril, Harinni was with child. If she were found out, she would be denounced and most likely banished. If she dared have the child in Kabir, three lives would be forfeit. The gravity of such a scandal would make it impossible for anyone to appeal on her behalf. Their fates would be sealed by Qelek’s anger. Harinni realized that there was only one remaining option. She must leave the city. Her destination must be secret, kept even from Ryn. If he lived to reach a thousand kills, he would be free, and if he still loved her, they could be together once again. But for that, she would have to have eyes inside the city, a great risk all on its own. She knew then that once she was gone, she could never return. She kept her thoughts to herself, but it didn’t take a clairvoyant to know that Ryn saw it too; he just kept quiet. It was the only way to save their lives.
The stubborn fate had been a gift of resolute calm. Fear was now a luxury they could no longer afford. The plan was risky, but in order to improve their odds, a good dose of coin would blind the right eyes.
Harinni paid the promoter for the usual conjugal visit but switched clothes with her handmaiden. The servant went to Ryn in her lady’s cloak, while Harinni took the back stairs down to the servants’ quarters. Kihei, the lady’s personal attendant, carried a message impossible to intercept because her presence alone was the information. Kihei was half Elf, the daughter of a minor crown official, but her mother was a desert walker, a Yadibi. In seeing her, Ryn would know where to find them after he earned his freedom.
When she stepped into his room, he stood and held her hand to signal his understanding. Kihei held on to his for a time while he cried silently, unmoving like an onyx carving. His emotions clashed like the churning waves rising full of froth below the palace. He would pay a river in blood and turn the whitecaps red just to see Harinni and their child again. The tears fell on his stone chest, running down like winter sleet to land ice cold on his wrists.
His features hardened. It wasn’t easy, but he had to wave off his thoughts as a distraction. He returned to the moment as Kihei squeezed his hand in farewell before calling for her escort. She too was in danger. When they discovered Harinni’s escape, they would come for her. She would say nothing, but they would kill her just the same, only slower. The promoter Balzyck brought with him a bundle that he laid on the floor in front of her. She changed into desert robes of the camel messenger, bearing Balzyck’s colors on her cloak. She would meet her Mistress at the camp just inside the seventh ring. The gate guards had been bribed days ago to take the late shift. They would cross into the open sand at night, gaining some hours before the prince would send out search parties. Kihei would take Harinni to her people beyond the dunes. They would vanish to safety in the scorching heat.
Most of those familiar with what happened next have since died. They say that when the women reached the camp, they discovered that Balzyck had already betrayed them to Qelek. After Harinni paid him, the promoter realized that at that moment he possessed the most expensive information in the city. The one weak link had collapsed under its own weight. It went squarely against his nature to keep his tongue tied. The prospect of a giant payday made his head spin and his ears ring with the music of his fantasies. He dreamed of coin stacks rolling like the desert sand, running through his eager hands.
By the time Harinni arrived at the camp, Balzyck was already at the palace, flat on his belly. He was busy pressing his beard on the rug before a rudely awakened prince with a demeanor to match his ire, especially after hearing the rest of the news. The guard’s boot pushed his neck down and muffled his voice, forcing him to speak with pursed lips, adding to Qelek’s amused annoyance. He told them everything between rushed breaths. He hurried to get out all that he knew. He was unsure how high to raise the betrayal before the prince would agree to spare his life.
Somehow, coin stacks and piles were no longer in his thoughts. When he was finished Qelek waved off the boot. Balzyck, afraid to move, sobbed, drooling prostrate on the fine wool rug. Scoffing at the pathetic sight, Qelek leaned down to hand him a heavy purse. He called Balzyck’s name while his hand squeezed the promoter’s fingers closed around the fine leather. Balzyck looked up at the coin, but his eyes fixed on the menacing stare scowling behind the gift. His heart stopped for an instant and soon after permanently, when the jackbooted guard sank a dagger into his back between the ribs. He died for nothing.
By the time Qelek’s mercenaries arrived at Balzyck’s camp, the women had already vanished into the night. The prince watched, pacing in place while his men questioned and then killed everyone. He felt wounded, bested by an inferior, betrayed by his own property. He was an angry drunk with a need for violent revenge.
Around him the slaughter continued unabated. The screams washing over the smell of death assaulted his senses, turning into a sick aphrodisiac and spurring into him a murderous intent. Halfway through the killing he joined his men, relishing in the raw carnage. In the end he stood half crouched, wrapped in his gore-soaked finery. Winded and grunting, he clutched a bloody knife in his trembling hand, his addled mind barely holding on to the edge of sanity. At that moment, it would have taken only the slightest nudge to tip him over and plunge his pallid soul to unspeakable depths. There he would languish, devoid of light, while the pressure crushed his menacing heart.
With a sudden lurch, as if he had just awakened, he straightened up and looked around, taking in the horrific actions of his impotent rage. He had been robbed again by the whore and her savage. She may have slipped his grasp, but he would take his time with the slave. He staggered forward, dropping the blade on the sand. He shuffled his feet, hacking, spitting out the last remnants of his Humanity. Looking up, he stretched his bloody lips into a sneer. His voice became a growling hiss as he flared his nostrils, speaking the name of the despised as if pronouncing a verdict.
“Kartashee!”
The last act played out in public. At Qelek’s orders, Ryn was taken to the arena and placed in the animal cages. The chains were only just short, separating him from the maneaters by a mere breath. The prince demanded that they stop feeding the animals. Deprived of meat, ravenous predators paced ceaselessly around him, growling and drooling, constantly testing the strength of their bonds. If he slept, the guards would likely loosen the chains and he would be torn to pieces.
He knew they were keeping him from resting, trying to exhaust him and break his resolve. It wasn’t going to work. The arena had also turned him into a predator, able to sleep on guard. But most tellingly he knew the crowd. They would soon grow restless and demand to see him in combat. Only then would he be in his element, and he would let his audience drink their fill at the bloodbath. In the ensuing ecstasy, there might be a chance to get close to Qelek for the final reckoning.
It was never going to be that easy. After a few days the prince was bored and hungry for violence. He needed to see Ryn bleed while he squeezed every last coin out of his investment. To avenge his perceived slight and calm his greed, a raging Qelek offered the city a show of terrible cruelty and extraordinary violence. Ryn would fight without rest or care if he were wounded. Spectators were encouraged to bid, to see him matched against their sickest fantasies, while the rest of the crowd made bets on the odds. They came at him singly and in pairs, then in groups of three or more. Then as many as a dozen.
It took thirty-two men to nick him. Blood spilled over blood, forming slick puddles, turning the arena sand into a red sludge. That was just the first day. As the week passed, the stench of death wafted through the city. Carried by the stifling heat, it reeked up the hill, molesting the nostrils of the gods. At first the bloodthirsty audience was captivated, but as the days went on and the carnage continued unabated, even the most indulgent began to be repulsed by the depth of Qelek’s decadence and depravity.
The grim show went on while a river of blood painted the city. The body count stood in the hundreds, and somewhere within the last twenty or so he had reached a thousand kills. The thought lingered for only a moment, but his mind barely registered the passing number. His focus was waning. He hadn’t eaten in four days, even as he fought and killed twelve dozen men. He was given only water, so to keep up his strength he began to drink their blood. Single combat became feeding time. He would bite the jugular, then hold on with his teeth, taking a long drink from the ruby fountain on the man’s neck. He would savor the last gulp in his mouth, and he would turn defiant, to spit it up at the prince.
The first time, Qelek cringed in surprise, earning a gasp from the crowd. In his irrational state, the act was a grave insult, triggering violent retaliation. He ordered archers to fire at Ryn, this time evoking the crowd’s outrage at the cowardly move. After that he sat stone-faced, staring at a distance, while his servant whispered in his ear. He had finally gone mad waiting to see Ryn killed. Though he was defeated, he would never relent. He was held together only by his hatred and diseased craving.
Below him, Ryn was finally tiring. His time was running out. Soon he would be slower; now was the chance to get closer to Qelek. He had to draw the prince down to the sand. He would have to give him a reason to gloat in person, and for that to happen he had to die.
That afternoon he drew a pair of Dagghu. A lucky swing from a steel mace broke his sword. This was his moment. He took the next swing on the body. The force of the blow knocked him prone. He opened his shield as if he were trying to get up, and the second Dagghu pinned him with a trident. The central point went through him and then into the sand like a tent stake. He was down and ready for the final gamble. The crowd recoiled, breathless in disbelief. Qelek jumped out of his skin, like a man whose horse had just come in on his last coin.
“How was this going to end?”
He had no time to ponder the question as the mace came down hard, aiming for his head. He parried the attack, making the Dagghu lose his footing, and he stabbed him in the heart on the way down with what was left of his sword. The brute landed on him, his last breath whooshing out violently on impact. He held on to the trident as the other Dagghu tried to retrieve his weapon. He let the Dagghu pull him upright, and with a wince of pain he pulled free of the point. Smashing with a clenched fist, he broke the shaft and then turned the fork on its owner as he was hurriedly reaching for his sword. Another time he would have laughed and mocked those two clumsy fools out of the pit, but today they would be sung as heroes, dead heroes who earned the glory of killing Ryn Kartashee.
A cackling laughter shattered the stunned silence, bouncing on the crowded bleachers. Rude and giddy, mean like a child’s taunting rhyme. Smothered on the sand below, the sound hovered, lingering above the arena, insane like a flock of harpies, sapping the bloodlust of the audience. Qelek bobbed in place while holding on to the parapet, his face contorted into what passed for a smile. His lips stretched absent of any Humanity, revealing only his malicious delight.
Ryn’s heart froze at the realization. The truth sank like a stone into so deep a betrayal. He had been a fool fighting the prince as a warrior, when Qelek was a courtier, twisted and cunning. While he swung his sword at the decoys, his fate was sealed by deceit. The Dagghu were outmatched by design, baiting him to think he could lure the Prince down to the sand. It was what Qelek had hoped all along: that Ryn would attempt to deceive the deceiver. Blinded by his own pride, he expected warriors. Instead they sent him fighting jesters. The trap was set, and he had walked through it willingly.
He looked at his blood gurgling out of the puncture on his side, black with an acrid smell. It was poison, the coward’s way, but it wasn’t just any tincture. The smell gave away Qelek’s twisted malice. It was the juice of Nakiki, a berry from his homeland, used by trophy hunters to take their prey without spoiling the meat. The juice didn’t kill outright. The toxin paralyzed the victim until the hunter slit its throat. The prince meant to kill him while he looked into his eyes, as Ryn looked back helpless. He would not give him that pleasure. Nakiki paralysis was effective only when injected. If ingested, the poison would relax the heart muscle, bringing about a quick death. Lifting his bloody hand to his mouth, he drank the black mixture. His head began to spin as he staggered and fell, his ears faintly catching the crowd’s gasps of awe and disbelief. The world faded to black as he lay in a heap among his victims.
With a frustrated cry of unfulfilled anguish, Qelek pushed off the railing, hastily turning to the pit stairs. His cape swelled behind him, pulling at the strings around his neck, leaving the fine cloth to float in his wake. Leaping down the steps, he bounced off the sides of the stairwell, yelping, fanatical with urgency. He landed at the bottom and slid to a stop on the bloody sand. A few seconds behind him, his followers, guards, servants, and orbitals poured out into the pit, trying hard not to shove him where he stood. Turning frantically, Qelek grabbed his personal physician by the chest and heaved him toward Ryn.
“Nooooo!” he screamed into the man, “I said alive, alive, I wanted him alive!” His pitch rose with every repetition.
The stunned doctor approached the body as he would a rearing viper, taking great care to keep his robes off the gore strewn around the heap of bodies. He felt for a pulse on the warrior’s neck. His face sank and he looked up without lifting his face. He spoke from under his chin.
“He is dead, my prince. He is dead.”
He repeated himself, as if the finality would soften Qelek’s disposition and temper his cruelty. It failed on both counts. Before he finished the prince was upon him, pulling at his chest, his face so close that the doctor shared his breath, flecks of royal spit landing on his beard and in his mouth.
“Revive him, dammit—now, or you will join him.”
“I cannot, my prince; he has died.” The physician wilted, shivering in the sweltering heat.
Qelek whipped his neck around, turning to his bodyguard.
“Get me a priest!” he barked.
Behind him the doctor shriveled and began sobbing. The guard leaped, disappearing up the steps, leaving behind only the sound of fading footsteps. The prince swiveled his head slowly, his eyes burning with discontent. The doctor scooted backward on all fours, whining in muffled panic, whispering pleas for mercy toward the looming malevolent. His heels scraped the sand as he retreated further into the arena.
The prince stalked after him, letting his knife catch the sunlight, as the crowd stood in deafening silence, mesmerized by the morbid suspense. He lunged at the man like a wild beast. Grabbing his neck he stabbed him from below, again, and again, with his face pressed against the unfortunate doctor’s cheek, grunting into his ear. His arm pushed like a piston with a stuck metronome, while he repeated his grievance over the man’s dying gasps.
The sound of hurried footsteps drew his attention back to the stairs. He watched with eager madness as the guard returned, dragging a divine by the shoulder into the bloody pit. Qelek turned to the young priest with knife in hand, still dripping from his last murder.
“Revive him!” he barked at the newcomer, pointing with the knife. The priest’s eyes glazed with fear.
“Yes, my prince,” he blurted, then headed for the doctor with unsure steps. Qelek was incensed.
“Not him, you imbecile,” he spat at the priest. “Him!” he repeated. “Him.” He pointed his blade at the dead pit-slave. His other hand let go of the doctor’s body, which collapsed behind him with his life pouring out, as he watched the bloody footprints walk away.
With renewed vigor Qelek approached the priest, lurking ominously over his shoulder as he tended to the fallen warrior.
“Revive him!” he ordered. “I want him alive; he has to be alive,” he droned obsessively.
For the first time the crowd made a noise, a timid sound, as the spectators recoiled in abject horror, begging to surrender to hysteria. The sport had given way to a depth of wickedness none had seen before. Now, it was clear to everyone that the prince had gone mad.
Trembling, the priest placed a hand over Ryn’s forehead and began the incantation, rocking back and forth to the cadence of his chant. From time to time his eyes would dart between the dead doctor and Qelek, who seemed absorbed in the casting. He crouched, fingering his knife impatiently, while the holy words searched for divine favor. The priest knew in his heart that his petition was wrong. The Sun God would not ratify such malice. The act would likely evoke his wrath. He felt helpless before the murderous intent of his lord, forcing him to violate his oath to his Deity. He was weak and fearful, unable to refuse. To save his own life he complied, while secretly wishing for swift retribution against his cowardice.
His wish was granted. Divine retribution arrived from the most likely of places: not the Heavens; rather, it came from the very object of his casting. With his prayer to the Holy Radiance barely complete, Ryn’s body shook, gasping with a cough and short of breath. His eyes, caked with blood, half opened to see the prince hovering above him with a vulture’s stare, taking stock of the choice parts.
Ryn lay propped up against the dead Dagghu, his blood mixing with theirs on the red sand. He felt his life draining away as the Nakiki juice took hold of his heart once again. There was little time. Qelek shoved the terrified priest out of the way and focused on the warrior. He strutted like a predator who, having dealt the mortal blow, is back to claim his feast undisturbed. He took a knee next to his prey with a face full of teeth, looking forward to his violence. He poked Ryn in the chest with his knife as if testing a roast.
“You took from me,” he hissed. “You defiled what was mine. I will catch the whore soon enough,” he spat. “I will cut your bastard seed out of her with this knife,” he added, brandishing the blade, “but you—you are going to die for this many times, many times.” He kept repeating it to himself, whetting his lips, while he savored the idea.
At the sound of his bragging, Ryn took a labored breath. Turning his one good eye to Qelek, he studied the madness and hate carved on the prince’s gaunt features.
His voice came out low and breathy.
“I have already died many times needlessly, fighting for you in this arena,” he said, holding back a cough. “Many times, many times,” he croaked with mock whine, his breath quickening, taunting his tormentor.
A wave of anger cast a shadow over Qelek, who clenched his teeth and his grip on the castle-forged dagger. It was at that moment, on the cusp of his triumph, that he bared his weakness to an enemy who would need no second chance. With a practiced move, Ryn’s hand grabbed at the dagger, doubling over the grip, crushing the prince’s dainty fingers. Qelek screamed in pain that turned to fear, unable to let go of the knife. He tried to recoil but was tethered to the dying man-slave by his shattered hand.
Ryn stared at him, coldly efficient, his words spoken with finality.
“All I ask is that you die for me just this once.”
With that, he pushed the knife up into the chest through Qelek’s heart, pinning the point into his spine.
“For Harinni,” he added, just before the spark went out in the prince’s eyes.
Qelek’s head slumped over the crushed right hand attached to the knife at his heart. His body leaned over Ryn for a moment before toppling onto the bloody ground.
The priest ran, mad with panic, convinced he would be next to receive the wrath of the Sun God. His screams interrupted the deadly silence looming over the final curtain. Tripping over his own feet, he threw his body at the stairs. The guards let him pass as he stumbled up to the stands and into the waiting crowd. When the mob had finished with him, they tossed his corpse over the parapet and back into the arena, one last contribution to the city’s bloody tithe. By then, Ryn was gone a second time.
In a moment of tragic irony, Qelek had gotten his wish.