Sea Queen (12 page)

Feeling clean and refreshed, he put his clothes back on along with his gloves to cover Kyrr.

He paced the room while he waited. When he became bored with that he decided to do a few pushaways. He dropped down on his hands and toes, kept his back stiff and straight, and began the exercises he had seen the Vald doing so often. He pushed himself to fifty and dropped to the floor, panting. He had often seen the Vald doing pushaways and lost count well before they were through.

Finally, a knock came at the door.

“Follow me,” said Grimald.

The strange man led him down the hall, through the room of many hammocks, and down another hallway. They passed through a room filled with dozens of tables and the smell of cooking food, and a commotion could be heard as they entered the next hall. It led them to a room full of screaming and cheering men who stood packed around a rail overlooking some sort of pit.

Grimald led him to the right and up a short flight of stairs onto a platform with two rows of benches. Captain McGillus stood leaning against the rail, watching the spectacle below. He noticed them and gestured Talon.

“Come, lad, you’re going to miss it.”

Talon joined him and peered over the rail. The pit below was at least twenty feet wide. Inside, two big bloody Skomm grappled with each other to the sound of screaming spectators, some twenty in all.

“This is where men are made,” McGillus said in his ear.

Talon looked to the captain apprehensively.

He chuckled and pointed. “Look! I think he’s got him now.”

The shorter of the two Skomm was unleashing a flurry of punches on his opponent. Though the bigger man did well to block or dodge most of them, too many landed for him to keep his feet, and he went down face first in the sand. Half the crew cheered while the others booed.

A crier on another platform overlooking the pit, across from Talon and McGillus, began counting at the top of his lungs.

Those who had bet on the taller man screamed for him to get up.

When the crier’s count reached, “seven,” he called out, “Winner! Bruiser!”

The Skomm fighter Bruiser raised his hands to the cheering crowd and walked around the pit victoriously. As he passed below, he laid dangerous eyes on Talon.

McGillus indicated the bench next to him and Talon sat.

“Many of the Skomm slaves I buy from Volnoss have a chance to prove themselves in the pit,” said McGillus. “If they win enough fights, and it pleases me, they win a place among my house’s gladiators—and a life of freedom on the seas.

“We sail all around Agora, from Eldalon to Shierdon, Isladon and Uthen-Arden. I answer to no man, and my crew answers only to me. It is as close to a life of freedom as any of these hopeless Skomm could ever know…including yourself. We might be dodging icebergs in the bitter north, or sailing along the tropical shores of southern Arden, but it’s always women, wine, and gold—the finest fare. Of course, you want only the red-haired beauty, and she can be yours if it pleases me. Prove your worth, Talon Windwalker, and you shall be rewarded.”

Below, in the pit, the loser of the last fight was being dragged up a ramp. When the floor was clear, everyone looked to the door on Talon’s right. The crier pointed and bellowed an introduction. “Next fight…Firefang, Windwalker!”

Talon looked at McGillus. The captain smiled, his gold tooth gleaming.

The door below burst open, and a large Skomm with tattoos on his face and shoulders came striding out, punching his fists together. He was bare chested and wore only ragged trousers cut off below the knees. Talon’s heart sank. He wanted to crawl in a deep hole and pull a stone over top.

McGillus nodded to him as Grimald pulled him to his feet from behind.

Talon shrugged him off angrily.

Grimald’s smile dared him to retaliate. “Take off your shirt and vest. Leave the boots behind as well,” he said.

Talon did as he was told.

The crowd was looking around for the other fighter when they saw Talon preparing to enter the pit, and burst into laughter.

“I’m putting a lot of money on you, lad. Don’t let me down,” said McGillus, handing a small sack of coins to Grimald.

Talon took a deep breath and leapt into the pit. He knew he must have looked ridiculous—such a small boy with a silly pair of black gloves. When the crowd saw the dozens of whip scars covering his back, however, the laughing ceased. Facing Firefang, he bent low, like he had seen others do, and then he and the big Skomm warrior circled each other.

“I’m gonna win my freedom with your blood, boy,” Firefang screamed.

The crier yelled, “Fight,” and blew a small horn.

Firefang came at Talon with arms spread wide, intending on squeezing the life out of him. He didn’t fear his tiny opponent in the least, and left himself open to attack.

Talon quickly punched him in the gut, sending him staggering back in shock, and then circled the man, waiting for him to fall.

He didn’t.

Instead, Firefang finally sucked in a greedy breath and barreled across the pit, ducking low.

Talon dodged to the side but was clipped on the shoulder. He flew into the wall and hit hard. Before he could get his bearings, Firefang picked him up by the hair and the back of the pants, and heaved him across the pit. Talon hit the ground, rolled, and came back up quickly, and Firefang advanced with a barrage of quick punches.

Talon ducked a right hook, came up under the blow, and hit Firefang in the jaw, sending him staggering back again.

The crowd went berserk.

“Get him, Firefang,” someone yelled.

“He’s just a boy, you big, stupid piece of shyte,” screamed another.

Firefang sneered and charged like a bull.

Talon back peddled and fell, and the bigger Skomm jumped on him, raining down blows on his face.

Cheers for Firefang filled Talon’s ringing ears, and he realized he was losing.

Catching one fist, and then the other, he pushed Firefang off and rolled away. He quickly leapt to his feet, slightly dizzy, and leaned against the wall to wipe the blood from his eyes and get his bearings.

Firefang rose and began circling him with a maniacal grin.

Talon stalked around the pit as well, focusing on Kyrr’s power. He dodged a three punch combo and spun behind Firefang to punch him in the back of the head.

Some in the crowd began to chant, “Talon!”

He became electrified.

Firefang attacked again, but soon tired himself, missing with every punch as Talon ducked and dodged with incredible speed.

Finally retaliating with a series of quick punches to the ribs, Talon forced Firefang back and finished him off with a well-placed uppercut.

The big man went down with a thud.

Talon staggered and caught himself against the wall. He whirled around, expecting Firefang to come at him again.

“One, two, three...” called the crier.

Many in the crowd chanted the count as well, and Talon realized that Firefang wasn’t getting back up.

“…six, seven…Winner! Windwalker!”

The crowd went wild.

“Can I pick ‘em or what, Grimald?” said McGillus, but his guard was unimpressed.

I pondered Kronas’ words for many years. I traveled Agora and the dwarf mountains, busying myself with my Ralliad studies. Always was the burden of the star scroll on my mind and haunting my dreams. The night of his birth came. I had not been able to keep myself away from the barbarian island…I was compelled. I sat in a tree above the hut in the form of an owl, and heard the first keening of the child, he whom I had drawn so long ago in the cave of dreams. The years passed and the day drew closer, and still I didn’t know what I would do. It was not until I met him that the answer became clear to me.

Kronas warns that my intervention will cause me my life. It seems as though meddling with the echoes of time carries its own punishments. Can the elders hand down a harsher sentence for my actions? No, I go to them with clarity of conscience and acceptance of what will be. For if I am to sacrifice myself for anything, it will be his legacy.

–Azzeal of Elladrindellia, Keeper of the Windwalker Archive, 4997

Talon was taken to a room off the sleeping quarters and laid upon a wooden table. Now that the rush of battle had left him, the pain and fatigue of the effort hit him all at once.

The Skomm man who led him there yelled out into the hallway, “This one here’s gotta be tended to right quick, Demoore.”

He peered into Talon’s good eye as if looking through a keyhole.

“You awake, Windwalker?”

Windwalker.

No one but his Amma, Akkeri, and Jahsin had ever called him by his bloodline.

“I’m alright,” said Talon.

“Just between you and me, kid, I put five gold on you. Damned if it wasn’t a hunch. Cap’n don’t take just anybody under his wing. Now I mean it, you keep that between us—only them that’s won their freedom is allowed to bet, but the rest of us Skomm got our own pool goin’. Best the cap’n don’t find out.” He extended a hand. “Torrance is the name.”

Someone else entered the room as Talon was shaking hands. “You got somewhere to be? I got a job to do!” came a gruff sounding voice. An old man came into view. He began roughly wiping the blood off Talon’s face to find the cuts, and then wedged some cotton up each nostril.

“Ahh!” Talon protested.

“Demoore will fix you up right quick,” said Torrance.

“Demoore’s goin’ to kick your arse, you don’t leave his sickroom,” said the old man flatly.

He ran through the cave of dreams. All around him, the taunting of Fylkin echoed off the mysterious murals. The blue glow emanating from behind told him the chiefson was close. That glow…where had he seen it before? He felt for Kyrr.

The ring was gone.

Chief howled and snarled. Startled, Talon looked to the mural beside him. In it, Chief was attacking and killing Skomm villagers. Behind him Fylkin held the trinket in his hand and laughed at the carnage. The chiefson gave a war cry and leapt out of the mural.

Talon ran.

Fylkin pursued him into a chamber full of bloody murals, and Talon saw Azzeal depicted in one of them.

“Help me, Azzeal!” he cried as he tripped and fell.

Azzeal’s painted face turned to regard him there on the floor.

“You! My efforts have been wasted on you. Draugr, Skomm, Plagueborn. Their words are true. You do not deserve the power of Kyrr,” he said with disdain.

“Please, Azzeal,” said Talon.

But the mural shifted. Its colors churned and swirled, and slowly the face of his amma Gretzen came to life before him. Fylkin’s footfalls grew louder, closer.

“Amma, please help me!” Talon cried, trying to stand.

But his amma would not help. She shook her head in shame and turned from him. Her grey hair swirled as the mural shifted once more. Now the fierce eyes of Kreal Windwalker glared down on him in disgust.

“Father, please. I didn’t mean for mother to die. I can be strong like you. I can make you proud.”

“You are a curse, Plagueborn. You are no son of mine!” he bellowed.

The mural burst into flames and a voice like thunder boomed throughout the cavern.

“Talon Plagueborn!” it called out.

The flames formed the face of Thodin, and Talon cowered in fear.

He woke with a start, screaming.

“Thodin comes to you in your dreams?” said Demoore. He pushed Talon’s head back against the rope hammock. “What does he say?”

“It was a dream.” said Talon.

Demoore responded absently. “Perhaps. Open your mouth, drink.” He raised a cup. “You’ve slept through the night and morning. I suggest you get up and try moving around. You’ve another fight at dark, I hear.” He checked Talon’s swollen eye.

“You’re Skomm,” said Talon.

Demoore began inspecting his nose, pushing on it with two fingers.

“Feikinstafir!” Talon cried, as pain shot through his head.

“You best be protectin’ your nose. It ain’t goin’ to take much more before it splinters into your head. A few ribs are likely bruised too,” Demoore informed him before leaving.

Talon was wearing only his pants and black gloves. He felt Kyrr on his hand still, and reaching down, was relieved to feel the familiar weight of Chief’s figurine. His clothes and boots had been set on the lone chair, with his cloak draped over the back. He dressed and walked out into the room full of hammocks. A few dozen men were sleeping, and Talon guessed that they worked at night. He walked down the hall, following the murmur of many voices, and pushed the swinging door into the mess hall.

A few men looked up from their food but regarded him with little interest. He noticed some Skomm gladiators sitting on the right, but the rest were Agoran crewmen. He marveled how the Skomm were collectively taller and stronger looking than their mainland counterparts, though they had seemed so small compared to the gigantic Vald. And unlike the Skomm on Volnoss, these men kept their chins held high, their eyes up. Their postures hinted at a self-respect and pride he had never seen in his people.

Torrance stood from one of the tables and walked over with a big grin, calling back over his shoulder as he approached. “I told you he was still alive.” He turned back to face Talon. “How you feeling, Windwalker?” He was a good foot and a half taller than Talon, with broad shoulders and big hands.

“Like shyte. What’s there to eat?”

Torrance chuckled. “That’s the fighting spirit. The cooks got stew and bread. Come on, have a seat. I’ll get you a plate.” He led him back to the table. “Fellas, meet Talon Windwalker—the one who beat Firefang last night.”

Of the six gladiators sitting at the table, some were bigger than Torrance, and others smaller, but all were larger than Talon.

One of the men laughed. “My arse he beat Firefang. He ain’t much bigger than a child.”

“You’re tellin’ tales again, eh, Torrance?” said another.

Talon sat at one of the empty seats and smiled at the jesting—he had heard it all.

“Damned right, he beat him. Got another fight tonight, he does, and my gold is on him.” said Torrance. He leaned in to pat Talon on the back. “Sit tight, I’ll get you some grub.”

One of the gladiators across the table addressed the doubters. “Nah, he’s telling the truth. Don’t know how the hells he did it, but he beat Firefang.”

The others looked at Talon with newfound interest, though still slightly skeptical.

The gladiator smiled and extended his hand in greeting. “Argath,” he said.

Argath looked in his early twenties, with a hard set jaw and a wide, flat nose, but in contrast to his rough facial features, his kind, hazel eyes hinted at a caring soul. He pointed to the men around the table in turn. “That there’s Foxfire, Whitewing, Aegir, Ormir, Black Claw, and Brakk.”

Talon nodded to each of them, but Aegir and Whitewing kept eating without even acknowledging his presence.

“We’ve all won a place in House McGillus,” Argath went on, “the pits is for weedin’ out the champions from the rest of the worthless Draugr. The real test, the chance at winning your freedom, is in the arena. Them the biggest pits you’ll ever see. But if ya lose, ya won’t be thrown back in the slave hold.”

“You mean, men kill each other in the arenas?” said Talon.

Ormir laughed. “He’s a right quick one, he is.”

Upon closer inspection, Talon saw that every man had his share of scars, and not all of them had come from Vaka whips. Brakk wore a patch over his left eye, and Foxfire had a dent in the right side of his skull. Talon wondered how the man still lived—the wound must have been horrendous.

Argath nodded. “Aye. In the arena, it’s kill or be killed.”

“Oh, he’ll win his freedom,” said Torrance. He had returned with a heaping plate of stew and a big piece of bread. He placed it in front of Talon and took a seat beside him. “Damned if he won’t.”

Ormir scoffed.

Talon attacked the food hungrily. The stew was delicious and, together with the bread, filled his empty stomach. He continued to inquire while he ate. “How many pit fights you gotta win before you fight in the arena?”

“Depends on the cap’n,” said Argath. “House McGillus is the winningest in all the lands. We sail from city to city, sellin’ the Skomm and fightin’ in the arenas. There’s always hot food, strong ale, and women aplenty. It’s a right better life than any Skomm be knowin’. In Agora we’re champions, and we live like Vaka.”

“And there ain’t no laws about us havin’ a wife or children, if we be so wantin’” Torrance added. “I got me a pretty little thing and a son in Sidnell—see ‘em a few times a year when we make port.”

“But, you help sell your own people,” said Talon.

That got him a few looks from the others.

Aegir grumbled. “Kill or be killed, sell or be sold. Who’re you to judge the ways of the world?”

Brakk rose from his seat and towered over the table. “I ain’t wasting my breath on someone who’ll soon be dead.” He gave Talon a look of disgust and left.

Whitewing rose to leave as well. “Best keep them thoughts to yourself, boy, lest you’re fond of torture.”

Torrance still regarded him fondly. “You just eat up and leave philosophy to the learned,” he said.