Everything had become fuzzy after something sharp stung him in the shoulder. A needle. It was hard to walk, hard to breathe. At times he felt as if he were choking. The ground under his feet became soft and flexible, like a cloud. It was the effect of the poison pumping angrily through his veins. They had a nasty, moldy, brown bag over his head and a leather cord circled his throat. His hands were bound tightly with chains.
He wondered if they were going to kill him. He wondered who they were, some cultists, perhaps? Whose god was he going to be sacrificed to? It was hard to think clearly and walk at the same time. Yet they continued to drag him by the neck. The belt around his throat was tight and it severed circulation. They led him down narrow passages and grimy roads through the Underground like a dog on a leash. A fitting end for the Old Dog, perhaps. He tripped a few times and skinned his knees along broken glass and sewage gravel.
Wherever they were leading him, it was getting louder, warmer. He realized that they were going up to the surface, not down deeper into the Underground. Then the smells of bodies, spices, and animals flooded through the brown sack over his head. They were in the Black Market, there was no question. Why here if they were cultists? Wouldn't they lead him into their dungeon, and then to the altar of their pissy little god?
He tried to choke out a question, but he was quickly silenced by a harsh tug that snapped into his neck. He couldn't speak. His tongue felt dry and heavy and his eyes watered as they strangled him quiet. He couldn't see well, but filtered light began to shine through the burlap cloth the further up they traveled.
There was a tiny, moth-eaten hole that he could just barely peer through. The best he could assess was that there were at least five people acting as his captors. There could have been more.
Then there was a splash of sap green. He saw the hem of a cloak of one of his captors through the small hole in the bag. It was a sick color, like a healing bruise. He knew that color green; it was on the flags and banners of Seralah's followers. Seralah the Spider. The Marquis of the Hidden Quarter. The so-called prophet. She was the self-proclaimed queen of the Underground. Her following was organized and fierce, Kia knew. She claimed to hear the voice of the dead god, Nehmain, and did his bidding. Many of the Unquenched and other undead creatures followed her every word, and thus made her more feared and powerful.
He settled a little, knowing, at least, who his captors were. Perhaps he could talk some sense into them, use his power and influence. Then again, maybe it was for those exact reasons that he was captured. Careless, Kia, he thought to himself. He had been too careless coming here. He should never have agreed to it. The entire thing could have been a set-up from the start.
It was too late now, he thought. Whoever was the puppet master behind this whole charade, they had won. They were clever.
He didn't normally pray, not in this manner, anyway. Kia wasn't a man who usually begged or pleaded. If he was going to die in a brutal, painful, bloody manner with torture and violence, he knew he probably deserved it. It wasn't a shock.
He just didn't want to be killed as a sacrifice to Nehmain. He hoped for something better. Nehmain seemed so pointless, so meaningless to him. At least let him be sacrificed to the flesh god, Baellith.
And then he thought of all the people he didn't get to see before he died. Arie, he thought bitterly. He didn't have much to say to her. He was angry with her. Then his chest swelled in sadness and bled with hot pain and hurt. Why did it have to end like it did? Why did she have to become an addict, and ruin herself in that way? Why did she have to turn on him, as all women did – betray him and fuck all of his captains? It hurt to think about Arie. His face flushed with rage and despair. He was shoved roughly in the back, as if encouraged to walk faster towards his end.
He thought of his friends, and each of their faces was a disappointment or a regret of some kind. He had so few friends. He pushed them all away after they had wounded him in some manner. He was left sour and isolated until all that he had in his life was fear, respect, and his job.
All he was left with was his raven, Matthias, and Anryn Stormcrow.
Anryn. Why the fuck couldn't he have gotten to know her better? Maybe even have her for one lousy night. That's what he regretted the most, he thought. He wanted her, and now it was definitely too late. If Arie got to cheat on him, the least he could have was one roll with a woman he rather liked.
If she liked him back. He doubted she did. Most women just liked him for his money and influence. Power turned them on, not him or his face. It was hard to like him as a person. And he understood why. There wasn't much to like.
Maybe he wouldn't even fuck her. He wanted to have a beer with her. A cigar. A chat. For hours. That's all he wanted.
He squeezed his eyes closed and thought of the goddess Ysimul. He wasn't a lucky man, but if he ever needed luck, he needed it now. He doubted that she would listen, but it was worth a shot.
Then he thought of his more patron goddess, the one he truly cared for and paid homage to each night. No one ever knew that Kia worshiped her with affection and devotion. He was a callous man, cold, hard, and made of rusted nails. Who could imagine a beast with blood stained hands ever loving something beautiful? But he secretly loved her, the goddess of the arts, Eryss. He apologized that he didn't get to play on his piano for her, one last time. He longed to stroke the ivory keyboard and pound out a song to express his sorrows. Never again. He was sorry.
He could have played something for Stormcrow, he thought as one of the guards cracked their foot onto the small of his back. They wore plated armor and it felt as if he were punched with a fist made of stone. He fumbled and crashed forward to his knees, unable to see where he was going. He landed on a hard surface, stairs made of wood. His captors then grabbed the burlap sack and a fistful of hair to yank him back to his feet. He was blindly led up the short flight of stairs; he could not see where his footfalls were landing.
A jaunty tune, something light and upbeat, he thought. Anryn probably would have liked that, but he couldn't sing worth shit.
His mind was fighting the haze. Whatever drug they had injected him with, it was slowly wearing down. He felt less complacent, he wanted to fight. But he found that even though his mind seemed more clear, his limbs were not doing as his brain commanded. He felt stiff and heavy.
He was shoved again, and then heard the squeal of a door being closed. He was unable to get a proper grip on his footing. The ground was hard and uneven; he was walking on a floor made of small, smooth mounds or balls.
Once the belt was removed from his neck and the bag torn from his head, the scene unfolded. Slowly, he drank it in and realized what was happening to him.
He was in a cage made of bone. It was as if he were swallowed by a giant, dead carcass. Under him was a long thread of what was once a massive spinal column, the uneven ground he had stumbled over. He was being made a spectacle of. It was a perverted, carnival freak show. He was displayed on a giant wooden stage, a lifted platform high above a crowd. The entire Marketplace was below him, gawking, watching, laughing, pointing, and jeering. Torches were lit to his left and right, illuminating the glitz and glamour. Jumbled, disjointed music began to play with tambourines and an out-of-tune accordion.
Yes, of course this was a set-up, he thought bitterly as color began to bleed into his face. He wanted to hide, but there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to go where he couldn't be seen. Every eye was locked on him. He felt like a laboratory rat to be picked apart and studied. He was locked in his dry, ribcage prison cell. This was all about him, and he was about to die in a terrifically undignified, public display. He was being made a mockery of, and he was the centerpiece of some macabre circus.
He could see that his first assessment was correct. These were Seralah's soldiers. There were eight of them. When he looked again, there were even more beginning to gather, keeping the clamoring crowd appeased. Ten. Twelve. Dozens of them. They were dipped head to toe in black, spiked armor decorated in carved silver skulls and spider emblems. The long, floor length cloaks and embellishments were Seralah's iconic sap, infected green, the color of puss and disease. Every face was hidden behind a long, narrow helmet with tall, twisted horns. All he could see were their eyes glittering with amusement within their endless, black sockets. They were armed with gleaming, razor sharp scimitars hooked to their sides.
The show was about to begin. The air buzzed with electricity and anticipation. The captain of the soldiers bounded up the makeshift wooden steps and approached the stage. He wore armor that was even bigger, heavier, and grander than the others. The sigil of the spider was embroidered on the back of a decorated green cloak. His helmet was like a hollowed cattle skull, with curled black, green, and silver markings etched into the sides. The scimitar gleamed with a smile, polished, serrated, and sparkling.
Kia scanned the crowd. Every stall in the Marketplace had been abandoned in favor of this show.
It wasn't the first time a show had been performed on the grand ramshackle stage of the Black Market. Often times live music or dance was showcased to attract consumers and new customers. There were bloody shows featuring sex, violence, and even public executions. Kia had no doubt in his mind that the Old Dog, the head pusher, drug lord, and pimp, would bring a huge amount of public interest and press. This is exactly what that was, he just knew. Either Seralah or Lillandyr – maybe even both – were the puppet masters behind this debacle. He was being dethroned for the sake of power. He was turned into a joke. He just hoped it would be over quick, but doubted that would be the case. They would drag this out as long as possible.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" the captain called out. It was a woman with a husky, authoritative, thick voice. It was hollowed and echoing in her helmet. The crowd jittered and hollered as they formed a horseshoe ring around the platform, observing and listening. Seralah's guards kept them at a controlled distance from the stage.
The captain paused to unlatch her helmet. It flipped up to reveal her face with a click. She was a severe woman with a square jaw and short, cropped, dark hair.
Where was Anryn, he wondered?
Dead, said a small voice inside of his brain. If he was captured and this was all a trick, then she was probably captured, too. His heart sank. He was more disappointed and sorry for the bouncy, cute woman than for himself. She didn't deserve to die. She was just as much a pawn in this as he was. Her infamy was probably also being made an example of by the traitorous women.
He wondered if they simply decided to hang her. Short and quick. Stormcrow, he hoped, wouldn't suffer. Or, maybe she would be the show after him. He hoped not, but at least he would be dead and wouldn't have to witness it.
A rounded face stood out. It was an unmistakable fat face, leering, sneering, and grinning broadly like a malicious animal. She was highly amused and standing far in the corner of the crowd near her pointed, purple tent. Magda the Mad. She noticed him notice her. Their eyes met. Her chubby hand waved, causing her arm to flap like a pink flag. Her gray, dandelion hair puffed out over the sea of people. It was her, he knew it. She was taunting him. She betrayed him. This was all her doing. She pledged loyalty to no one. With the mere cat-calling gesture, she was letting Kia know that she was the catalyst to his capture and wanted to rub lemon juice into his wound.
Fuck her, he thought acidly. She had won against him in a war he wasn't even aware of being a part in. If he ever made it out of here alive, he would wrap his bare hands around her spongy neck and strangle her to death.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the large, female captain, the ringmaster, said again. The crowd tried to settle down into an excited lull. "We have for you something very special here this evening. Someone I know many of you have had encounters with, either directly or indirectly. In a way, he has touched all of our lives, hasn't he? Many of you don't even know his name." She paused and smiled. There were hisses, people attempting to silence one another so they could hear better. She waited a moment to take a breath for dramatic effect.
Her heavy boots clacked against the stage as she paced from one end to the other. Kia watched as her liquid green cape slid behind her. He gripped his hands along the bones that acted as his cage.
"Mister Kia Sin'del, the Old Dog himself. Captain of the West Lion that drops poison into our cities. Drugs. Illegal prostitution. Gambling. Murder." She paused and took another theatrical breath, "He is a merchant of death and destruction, and needs to be made an example of, doesn't he? He needs to be replaced by someone much more trusted. Someone who will bring order to this chaos. Someone who I know you all can trust to bring peace into your homes, minds, and hearts." She went silent again as she turned to sweep her eyes across the faces spread before her.
She smiled and bobbed her head in agreement as the crowd began to froth. The captain, a talented speaker and showman, continued to stir the pot.
"For those of you who don't know me, I am Captain Senni Firedawn, leader of the high priestess and prophet's armed forces and her acting right hand. We bring to you today a demonstration of her power. Today, I bring you the death of Kia Sin'del, in the name of Seralah Bloodhaven, the next Empress of the city of Belshalara!"
The crowd exploded in a riot of talking, screaming, laughing, and hooting with joy and pleasure. Seralah's name was sacred to the Underground. She was their savior and their leader. In their minds, the great prophet was already the Empress, ready to raise her people above the stinking pits to the surface world. She would deliver them from the muck, filth, and hell of the Underground. Seralah would legitimize the forgotten, the undead, the zealots, and the untouchables. Seralah was the savior to those without a voice.
Senni lifted her chin and watched them with detachment. She wanted to allow them to have their moment of anticipation and happiness. She waited for the people to settle and simmer down into a boil before she continued her speech.
"Yes... yes..." she cooed in agreement, pacifying the angry, hungry mob. "I know, and I agree!" she said as she paced across the stage. "So we brought something special for all of you to see. Mister Sin'del's death will not be a waste. It will not be in vain. Come, I will show you all what we have in store for you. A special show and a sacrifice in the name of your god and prophet."
Captain Senni turned as three armored soldiers clattered to the stage. With them they had two Unquenched, bound and chained.
Kia immediately knew what his fate would be.
The Unquenched were in their last stages of unlife. They were decomposing, falling apart. Their flesh barely clung to their pink-stained bones. They had been starved and beaten, succumbing to madness. Captain Senni intended to feed him to them. His organs would be ripped to shreds, turned to red pulp between their rotting teeth. It would be a tribute to Seralah's patron god, Nehmain, and be an amusing, gory show to appease the insanity of Underground. The Unquencheds' jaundiced, yellow eyes rolled mindlessly in their sockets. Growling and hissing and dying of famine, they needed blood, meat, and bone of the living to feed upon. They would turn Kia into mulch and feast on his carcass in front of the world.
The crowd knew, too. The moment the Unquenched were brought from their cages and yanked on stage, another wave of approval rocketed through the atmosphere.
Captain Senni smiled, showing a white crescent moon of teeth. "Are you all ready for a good show tonight?" she asked, her voice bouncing off the back of the stone walls.
Music picked up, louder and more maddening. It jingled and honked, broken and strange. It was a noisy cacophony fit for a jamboree. More lights and torches sparked and ignited. Shadows danced on the walls making each of the horned soldiers look like demons straight from the pit of hell. Kia sank back into his cage in defeat and horror. A trapped rat.
The crowd answered her with applause and noise.
No, Kia thought. Fuck no.