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Description

The dust and sand was uncomfortably warm, but it was nothing compared to the blistering outside. The arena’s supply of prisoners ran deep under the earth in rows of cells. Darkness ruled in these iron-laced tunnels, as the guardsmen preferred to save their torches and candles. Even so, the unforgiving Aken sun always found a way to squeeze through even the smallest of gaps and provide necessary illumination during the day. In the corner, the bony gateman sucked breathlessly from a bulbous sack of fresh water wheeled in from the city, cradling it. As precious as water was in Aken, it was only carried in and rationed out to be collected on the ground in the sweat and urine of dying men.

                Two guards made their way through the dungeon, pushing a tiny prisoner along at their feet. Moans of misery echoed incessantly and grew louder the deeper they went. Ahead, the captain waited at the entrance to one of the cell blocks. His bronze helmet concealed his face and a great red plume of feathers rose up from the top. He tilted his head at the tiny prisoner like a bird eyeing a roach.

                “That’s a small one,” the captain said.

                “Caught him stealing,” one of the guards explained. “We were going to cut off the tips of his fingers, leave him with a warning. Proved to be harder than we thought.”

                Their helms were wrapped loosely with silk, each one ending in a twisted black spike resembling the serrated capital building of their wretched desert city. One wore mail; the other scarcely had anything covering his chest at all. Each one was armed, and all three stared down at the small, chained boy that had arrived to their dungeon with increasing suspicion.

                “He almost pulled Zamir’s arm out of its socket,” the first cut in. “Little bastard’s an Ashuran, without a doubt.”

                “His parents?”

                “He says they were killed.”

                No one said anything for a while, and then the captain spoke up. “You should have cut his throat and let him bleed. He’s too dangerous to keep here.”

                “Sir, he’s strong, but can’t fight worth a damn. We were going to throw him in the arena, make him a fighter. He’ll still die and it might make for a good show.”

                “Alright, take him. Lock him tight.”

                Some of the prisoners screamed for water. Some of them sat silently on the brink of death, gasping at the humanity in the air. The boy kept his eyes closed and his feet moving, wishing he could shut off his ears too. Before he knew it, he was chained to a wall with a large bowl of sandy water dropped in his lap.

                “Might be here a week or two, better make that last,” the guards said. The iron gate followed their voices with a loud slam of its own. The boy didn’t mind. The world had turned against him and wanted him dead since the day he could remember. Survive, was the only word he thought. The last thing his mother told him, Survive.

                He had lived in the Aken desert long enough to know that water disappears if you let it sit, so he gulped it all down in one chug. He would piss it out back into the bowl and drink that too. The hardest part would be keeping it down. Two weeks would be easy.

                “Boy,” he jumped at the rasp of a voice and glanced around the cell, finding nothing. “Here.” The chains were loose enough to let him stand and move a few feet. His hands found their way to the edges of a barred hole in the wall of his cell. Squinting his eyes, he scraped the darkness away and found himself looking at a bearded leather face and a filthy, bald head in the adjacent cell.

                “Water… to share?” the face rasped. The boy shook his head.

                “The water is mine,” he said.

                “Smart…” The bearded face leapt up at him with large, muscled arms outstretched. Calloused hands wrenched forward and strained for him against irons, then stopped and shrugged as a chuckle was coughed out. “Can’t reach you either way.” The prisoner sat back down and the shadows turned him back into nothing but a face once more. “The guards called you Ashuran. This is good.”

                The boy merely tilted his head like a confused dog.

                “You’re dark-skinned like the desert people, but if you could hurt one of those guards at your age, it’s likely we share a bloodline.” The bearded face looked up at him peeking through the hole. “I hate the desert people. I tried to help them and they locked me in this cage. Now I kill them and it makes me happy. You’ll help me kill them, or you’ll die. You don’t want to die, I can tell. So talk to me, boy. Do you have a name?”

                The boy shook his head. “Had a name, forgot it,” he whispered.

                “If you forgot it, it wasn’t worth keeping.” The prisoner leaned back as his face crinkled in the dark. “Darius,” he said. “I will call you Darius. A good Ashuran name.”

                “Your name then?” Darius asked.

                “Vos. You will call me Vos. Do you know what Vos means, boy?”

                Darius shook his head.

                “In my tribe’s stories, Vos was a mountain that gave the people food, water and shelter. They never thanked Vos. Vos exploded into liquid fire and killed them all. I will do the same to the desert people. Will you help me do this, or will you be engulfed?”

                Darius stepped down for a moment and tugged on the iron chains. As he strained, the links began to bend. He could break them, but the guards had swords and if they heard, he would die. He climbed back up and looked back down at Vos. “They want me to fight,” he said.

                “So I heard. I’ll teach you to fight. Teach you to live, but I can’t guarantee anything. You have to listen to everything I tell you, or you’ll get a spear in your gut and be fed to the other prisoners. Do you understand?”

                The boy nodded.

                “This is good.”

Description

The dust and sand was uncomfortably warm, but it was nothing compared to the blistering outside. The arena’s supply of prisoners ran deep under the earth in rows of cells. Darkness ruled in these iron-laced tunnels, as the guardsmen preferred to save their torches and candles. Even so, the unforgiving Aken sun always found a way to squeeze through even the smallest of gaps and provide necessary illumination during the day. In the corner, the bony gateman sucked breathlessly from a bulbous sack of fresh water wheeled in from the city, cradling it. As precious as water was in Aken, it was only carried in and rationed out to be collected on the ground in the sweat and urine of dying men.

                Two guards made their way through the dungeon, pushing a tiny prisoner along at their feet. Moans of misery echoed incessantly and grew louder the deeper they went. Ahead, the captain waited at the entrance to one of the cell blocks. His bronze helmet concealed his face and a great red plume of feathers rose up from the top. He tilted his head at the tiny prisoner like a bird eyeing a roach.

                “That’s a small one,” the captain said.

                “Caught him stealing,” one of the guards explained. “We were going to cut off the tips of his fingers, leave him with a warning. Proved to be harder than we thought.”

                Their helms were wrapped loosely with silk, each one ending in a twisted black spike resembling the serrated capital building of their wretched desert city. One wore mail; the other scarcely had anything covering his chest at all. Each one was armed, and all three stared down at the small, chained boy that had arrived to their dungeon with increasing suspicion.

                “He almost pulled Zamir’s arm out of its socket,” the first cut in. “Little bastard’s an Ashuran, without a doubt.”

                “His parents?”

                “He says they were killed.”

                No one said anything for a while, and then the captain spoke up. “You should have cut his throat and let him bleed. He’s too dangerous to keep here.”

                “Sir, he’s strong, but can’t fight worth a damn. We were going to throw him in the arena, make him a fighter. He’ll still die and it might make for a good show.”

                “Alright, take him. Lock him tight.”

                Some of the prisoners screamed for water. Some of them sat silently on the brink of death, gasping at the humanity in the air. The boy kept his eyes closed and his feet moving, wishing he could shut off his ears too. Before he knew it, he was chained to a wall with a large bowl of sandy water dropped in his lap.

                “Might be here a week or two, better make that last,” the guards said. The iron gate followed their voices with a loud slam of its own. The boy didn’t mind. The world had turned against him and wanted him dead since the day he could remember. Survive, was the only word he thought. The last thing his mother told him, Survive.

                He had lived in the Aken desert long enough to know that water disappears if you let it sit, so he gulped it all down in one chug. He would piss it out back into the bowl and drink that too. The hardest part would be keeping it down. Two weeks would be easy.

                “Boy,” he jumped at the rasp of a voice and glanced around the cell, finding nothing. “Here.” The chains were loose enough to let him stand and move a few feet. His hands found their way to the edges of a barred hole in the wall of his cell. Squinting his eyes, he scraped the darkness away and found himself looking at a bearded leather face and a filthy, bald head in the adjacent cell.

                “Water… to share?” the face rasped. The boy shook his head.

                “The water is mine,” he said.

                “Smart…” The bearded face leapt up at him with large, muscled arms outstretched. Calloused hands wrenched forward and strained for him against irons, then stopped and shrugged as a chuckle was coughed out. “Can’t reach you either way.” The prisoner sat back down and the shadows turned him back into nothing but a face once more. “The guards called you Ashuran. This is good.”

                The boy merely tilted his head like a confused dog.

                “You’re dark-skinned like the desert people, but if you could hurt one of those guards at your age, it’s likely we share a bloodline.” The bearded face looked up at him peeking through the hole. “I hate the desert people. I tried to help them and they locked me in this cage. Now I kill them and it makes me happy. You’ll help me kill them, or you’ll die. You don’t want to die, I can tell. So talk to me, boy. Do you have a name?”

                The boy shook his head. “Had a name, forgot it,” he whispered.

                “If you forgot it, it wasn’t worth keeping.” The prisoner leaned back as his face crinkled in the dark. “Darius,” he said. “I will call you Darius. A good Ashuran name.”

                “Your name then?” Darius asked.

                “Vos. You will call me Vos. Do you know what Vos means, boy?”

                Darius shook his head.

                “In my tribe’s stories, Vos was a mountain that gave the people food, water and shelter. They never thanked Vos. Vos exploded into liquid fire and killed them all. I will do the same to the desert people. Will you help me do this, or will you be engulfed?”

                Darius stepped down for a moment and tugged on the iron chains. As he strained, the links began to bend. He could break them, but the guards had swords and if they heard, he would die. He climbed back up and looked back down at Vos. “They want me to fight,” he said.

                “So I heard. I’ll teach you to fight. Teach you to live, but I can’t guarantee anything. You have to listen to everything I tell you, or you’ll get a spear in your gut and be fed to the other prisoners. Do you understand?”

                The boy nodded.

                “This is good.”