The Exodus Sagas: Book III - Of Ghosts And Mountains (4 page)

“Then I will win my freedom through the blood of my enemies.” Saberrak stared into the dark, thinking only of the battle of the unknown on the morrow, whenever morrow would be, deep underground.

“Surely. Like Chalas Kalaza, supposedly free, yet do you see him leaving this foul place? No, never.”

“I will.”

“Not if you become the beast and the killer, you will be their tool one way or another until your breath stops coming! Play the part, never too much, and keep that beast inside you away. Lest you become as Chalas.” His hushed anger was a whispered growl toward his eldest, as if others might hear his scolding.

“What are we then, if not horned killers, bred to battle?”

“We are the minotaur. But this is not our way, and this is not our home. Do as I say, Saberrak, and one day you will taste true freedom of the surface. Until then, just play the part of the gladiator. Our time to leave will be soon.”

“Brother, father, when will I learn to fight like you?”

Saberrak looked to little Tychaeus as did Tathlyn. Then the older grays looked to one another, the quiet fell quieter and the tensions faded elsewhere. Neither could bear to see him eager, yet neither could deny his time would come.

“Very well, tell me what I must do, for Tychaeus, tell me father.” Saberrak felt his chest heavy at the thought of his little brother in the arena, a slave, a tool for blood and coin to profit the foulest of sorts underground. He closed his eyes and listened. He heard the voice of Tathlyn the gray, he heard the plans, he heard the wisdom of one who had once known freedom. Eyes closed, he smiled with something to believe in. Escape.

Saberrak III:II

Ajastaphan Arena, Devonmir 345 A.D. four years later

“Here there is nothing wicked, and nothing just. There is no law, no criminals, and nothing to feel shame about. Out there, the wealthiest of all Agara and kingdoms beyond secretly watch with clothed faces and jingling pouches. They do not come to gamble, no my friends. They watch to see who they would buy from great Ajastaphan, and he who spills the most blood will surely be taken away. So bloody your enemies, show them your worth, then perhaps I shall never see you again.”
---false words of Napralis Ten-Scars, eighteenth master of ceremonies for Ajastaphan, spoken to every cell block of new slaves before their first, and likely last, battle in the arena.

Saberrak the gray, formerly of Unlinn, heard the words before he understood them. Prayer, Norrice and his men were praying in the barracks of the underground arena. Eyes closed still, the minotaur heard them ask for mercy and strength from their Lord Alden in heaven, and from Annar whom they believe that the gray minotaur spoke to. Armor clanked from man and beast, shuffled steps, oiled stones drew across steel, still breaths and thundering heartbeats, Saberrak felt and heard it all. Half a year’s freedom, and in an arena barracks preparing for combat he was once more. Saberrak opened his eyes.

No, this is no dream unfortunately
, he thought. Where Unlinn had been a filthy diseased place of savage butchery, Ajastaphan was clean and well maintained. The Tre’Hahdim arena above ground was all most common folk knew of, yet Saberrak was well aware that the true fame of Devonmir was kept below like some secret treasury of long dead kings.
And here I am
, he admitted,
from rags to quilted tunics, yet still a slave made to fight and kill.
The weapons were honed and polished, the armor repaired, gladiators had quite an array along the barrack walls to choose from, and the dead did not linger and rot after a show. Bars and chains kept order as opposed to whipping of ogre masters and bloody examples to instill fear. Human men were kept separate from beasts, minotaur and ogre kept apart from the
creations
of the three lords of Devonmir, the dead they raised that howled and hissed in the darkness below. No one saw, but they all knew. Even the food was at least cooked meats and warm gruel with drinkable water besides. The gray gladiator grinned as he amused himself with how his surroundings at least improved to his favor.

“
Saberrak? Saberrak
, is he with you now?”

He heard Norrice whisper across the cages from his left, the dark stone and shadows of underground carrying his words of hope to the minotaur. “Is
who
with me?”

“Annar, the brother of our Lord Alden of heaven, is he with you? We have heard you speaking to someone in the dark and Cristoff once told me you were blessed by…”

“No.” The weakness of the human captives’ voice was irritating to him. He had told them they must be strong, ready to kill, and clear everything else out of their minds. Prayer was but fools’ words in a place like this.

“But you have spoken to Annar, we heard you nights past, he speaks to you and you hear him. Tell us what he says, please.” Norrice was scared, frightened for his men and for the certain death awaiting them. Devonmir was still in the kingdom of Harlaheim, and Norrice was a Capitan in Saint Erinsburg, if his city had survived the war brought by their king. The slavers had captured him and his men in Willborne, yet he would never be allowed to leave this place with word of what transpired underground. He knew his fate and the fate of his men, so solace in prayer is what they sought, hourly it seemed.

“He said he had to leave, that is all. I do not know who it was and I need not this religious sermon, especially about a God who was lost for thousands of years. I know where I am and what is about to happen, here and now. I am not lost, merely imprisoned again, Norrice. I suggest you find your courage and lead your men in battle, as for prayer, save your breath.” The gray minotaur huffed his whisper with force through the bars, torchlight flickering on his curved horns and bovine face. He knew they wanted more, he thought the humans needed his words or the wisdom of Annar to survive. Saberrak knew that he was no priest, Annar had left him days ago, and his words had nothing to do with them unfortunately. If that was who it truly was,
although the fact that only I could see or hear him does lend truth to their claim
, he thought. Saberrak thought of the scroll and his friends, wherever they were. He resigned to knowing what he knew, if that was what faith was, so be it.

The light streamed in greens and oranges, the double doors of iron drug by ogre slaves opened slowly. After a squint, Saberrak could see the hundreds of iron cages with thousands of iron bars, mostly filled with men, ogre, minotaurs, salisan lizard men, trolls, and dwarves. Captured, enslaved, sold by their own kin, or scavenged from somewhere by someone, each and every one. Axes, blades, spears, armor, shields, and helms of every sort lined the walls to the front. Black robed men hovered in surrounded by at least fifty armed soldiers of Devonmir, all masked black, yet human for certain, or mostly. All manner of slave stood as the Lords of Devonmir and rulers of both arenas walked past, down the middle of the left and right cells. Ogre slaves were dragging bodies, parts of bodies, and bags with the leftover pieces of what appeared to be their own kind. To the steps they walked, the lords three floating ahead, inches off the ground, and down the immense dark descending steps to further below. Down where the hisses were and the red eyes shone, down where they created things from things that should not be, it was there that no one wished to end up after a battle, so the whispers told.

“Gray one with the tattoos, white one, tall troll, the seven Harlian traitors, and the five dwarf captives! Fifteen for the next battle, get them ready!” The booming voice of a rather fat but armored man bellowed into the silence. His greased black hair shone like his unused weapons, and his face was masked with black cloth.

Ogre slaveguards and human soldiers took their cautions and in turn opened cages one by one and led those chosen to the front. Norrices men ceased their disputes after a few armed ogre lifted one captive up by the throat. They chose weapons from the racks, blades mostly, then piecemeal and chain armor, open helms, and steel shields. That false security seemed to easily bolster them as they were led out the huge doors to the arena. Saberrak looked up slowly at the dark haired leader of the soldiers and his retinue as they approached his cage. He had questions, yet remained silent.
Would I trust any answer he gave me anyway?
He thought.

“You are the one called Saberrak? The gladiator supposed that escaped Unlinn?” His dark brown eyes looked at the gray minotaur like so many thousands of other captives that had names over the years. His soldiers and a few ogre stood behind him as he fiddled with the keys to the cage.

“Might be.”

“They say you and that brown savage of the spiders are both undefeated from there. Hard to escape the arenas it seems, for you anyways.” He chuckled, always did when someone or some beast had a reputation coming in.

“And you are?” Saberrak stood back toward the rear of the cage, knowing before being told on where a slave should stand when the time to move came about.

“Some give me titles such as general or capitan. Some call me a lord of the dungeons or the arena. Just words. I am Koyd Cullimai, your keeper for as long as you live. Give me or mine no troubles and you won’t end up dead before your shows. Get bought or freed, remember I gave you no troubles.” The lock opened and the well-oiled iron doors swung wide.

His breath stunk five feet away, as did his sweat, like pickled rot even through the black cloth mask. Saberrak closed his eyes and banished the thoughts of tearing into Koyd, his men, and his ogre slaveguards right here and now. “Bought? How much am I worth, do you think?”

“Minotaurs go for about four or five thousand in gold. Grays, reds, and browns in good health for up ta’ double that I hear. I doubt that shithole in Unlinn can vomit up enough stolen loot and get it here though. You’ll likely be bought by a noble who you’ll never meet would be my bet. They’ll bet on you, pay for food and armor, and sell you for parts when you die. Happens to all I’m afraid.” He chuckled. “Unless you win enough, then they…”

“Do not try me with those sweet words, Koyd. I know full well the intentions of any arena, and anyone partaking in one in any fashion. Setting slaves free does not ever happen in truth, so save your air.” Saberrak walked forward, ignoring the shoves from a few brave and ignorant ogre.

“Well put gray one, well put.”

“What will I be fighting in there?”

“Pets of the Lords of Devonmir.”

“The dead ones?”

Koyd stood by the weapons and signaled his men to fetch the next slave. “Yes, mostly dead anyways. They do not feel pain and they have a habit of eating their kill.”

“I will take those then.” Saberrak pointed to a twin greataxe, then another. “And those plates, and that scale shirt.”

Soldiers gave the gray minotaur his choices after a nod from Koyd. “You know, Saberrak the gray, even if you survive this that on the morrow you face Mafahann the two headed ogre of Bloodskull, yes? He has never lost a battle, never left an opponent alive, and has never fought less than three gladiators at once. And you are fighting paired with that Chalas Kalaza, it has been arranged by the spiders it has.”

The scale shirt had a few missing links, but fit well enough, and he managed to get the plates on his shins and shoulders fastened. Saberrak smelled the old blood on the leather bindings, then took an axe in each hand. “So I will see you on the morrow.” and he walked out the iron doors into the arena.

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It was nothing like Unlinn, not at all. The floors were black stone as opposed to packed earth and sand. It was clean here, unlike the blood, bones, and grit under Arouland fighting for ogre slavemasters. And the quiet was unnerving. Saberrak expected screams, howls, grunts and threats either for or against him, yet noise and lusty raucous nonetheless. There was none. Silent stirrings in the onyx seats, whispers of dark masked nobility, and soundless stares from unknown eyes of those watching that should not be, by their stations in society. Hundreds, no perhaps many thousands now as he looked up and around, the gray minotaur could not be sure. Orange and green torchlight loomed from blackbone circular candelabras too high to reach. Gray polished stone walls kept the fighters from those attending, stone that matched the smooth floors and domed ceiling that was so very out of place deep under the earth’s surface. Three double doors of iron and stone were flanked by armored ogre slaves. He walked forward, toward the middle of the huge arena floor where Norrice and his men stood.

Each step brought his mind back to the recent past. For a moment, the horned warrior thought of his only friends, wherever they might be. He assumed James Andellis survived for he had obviously not been captured after the fall of the second dragon,
at least not by the same band of slavers that had poisoned and taken me.

He recalled leaving on the back of the ferocious male dragon, while Shinayne, Gwenne, and Zen were still back in the cave atop the mountain outside of Bailey.
The elf is sharp, she would have gotten them out of there safely. Azenairk and his dwarven God would likely have helped. Gwenneth probably had a spell or trick of some sort up her sleeve. James, he can heal his wounds, so, he could have fixed those breaks and survived. Leaves just me, a slave again, but at least they are safe.
Saberrak took comfort in that, though it was just his mind rationalizing the cares for his friends, and loneliness he now felt without them. He knew too well that despite the dragons they had faced, Bailey and the forces of Lord Keervin would be looking for them as well.