Samulengililisyana nende bhaandu bhatamba bhuyali ta. Muleyonaka.
(You shall not consort with men of no honor lest you destroy yourselves.)
- Sourced from The Sitabh, Book of Laws, Ch. 12 Vs. 9, Codes of Honor
The arena was packed. Everyone had come. All the slaves, seasonal workers hired to bring in the harvest, the freed guards and overseers, farmers from surrounding villages, and townsfolk from Confluencia. Everywhere Allara looked, she saw white.
Every face looked happy, expectant. It was the happiest collection of people Allara had seen for as long as she could remember. Above her, Baenarites were rigging up a giant piece of cloth to shade the arena from the unforgiving summer sun.
Allara sat between Bogdyr and Sylvia. Her friend Elena and her husband Lukar, fresh from the dungeons, sat beside Sylvia. On the opposite side of the oval racetrack, about ten rows up, Allara spotted Rhatko and Landyrn, sitting alone. Everyone avoided them.
Even with their leper status, Rhatko and Landyrn were luckier than their other friends. Ervin had been buried like a criminal, condemned to rot in the earth and be reborn as a worm. Many of the guardsmen and overseers of The Roost, including Allara's overseer Brutch, had been released from captivity. Only the worst of them were left cooling their heels in the castle's dungeons, awaiting an uncertain fate. Speculation as to what their fate would be dominated many a conversation.
Allara remembered Thunderbolt's words, "Nothing good for Carman Kantbhurg." She hoped the king had chosen a fitting punishment for his rogue castellan but tried not to hope too much. Today was Aeduisia. Lord Carman could just beg for mercy and wiggle out of whatever punishment the king planned.
A hand tapped Allara's shoulder. "Did The Thunderbolt really wash your hands?" the awed slave asked. For the hundredth time that morning, Allara launched into the tale. She was growing tired of telling it but what else could she do? She had never been good at wilful rudeness.
The blaring of trumpets saved her from another retelling. The whole arena rose. From a side entrance, came Mukhlun Gregory and half a dozen of The Thunderbolt's bodyguards. Behind them was The Thunderbolt himself, flanked by Archmikhlin Carla of Confluencia, High Priestess of Aeduia in the city, and Audemar Trevantbhurg, formerly King Audemar II of Trevantum.
A gaggle of Baenarite commanders, lords, knights, priests, priestesses, a barbarian king who had defected, and Confluencia notables, accompanied The Thunderbolt, forming an honor guard hundreds strong.
Everyone was dressed in flowing white robes except for Mukhlun Gregory and the priestesses of Aeduia. The mikhlins wore mud-colored robes slashed with green and trimmed in gold. The Archmikhlin's robes were trimmed with purple.
Bringing up the rear of the procession were a thousand Baenarite officers leading an almost similar number of high-ranking barbarian captives. The four kings were at the front of the procession, marked by their golden shackles. Their less illustrious subjects wore shackles of black iron. The barbarians were fair-haired men with skin so pale it bordered on translucent. "What's wrong with their skins?" someone behind Allara whispered.
"There is no sun beyond The Drapes," a second person explained. "Aemlilon won't let his light shine on uncircumcised savages. When you put a barbarian in the sun, his skin turns red, starts peeling, and then he dies."
Allara knew there was sunlight beyond the mountains of the far north, just not as much as there was in the south but decided not to intervene. She didn't want to be accused of defending heathens.
Everything about the barbarians was pale. Their skin, their hair, and their eyes were all varying shades of beige. The barbarians had all been dressed in white, which made them look even paler.
But the most sinister thing was their bizarre heads, some of which were conical instead of rounded. Baenarites said the barbarians bound the heads of their children to achieve the conical shape so icebricks could slide off, an explanation Allara found silly because the barbarians all had shoulder-length hair, even the men. There was no way an icebrick was sliding off all that hair. And northern icebricks were larger than a human head anyway.
This procession made its way to its reserved seats on the very first rows opposite Allara's position. Theirs were cushioned chairs instead of the hard benches the rest of them sat on.
The Archmiklin mounted a dais at the center of the racetrack and led everyone in a long prayer. A priestess brought a barrel of wine and Archmiklin Carla emptied it all into the ground as an offering. From the unmistakable golden glow that tinted everything within ten feet of it, Allara knew the wine could only be Salandria's most famous product, Naesaenon's Nectar, the best, rarest, and most expensive wine in the world. A wine so heavenly that Baenar The Beheader's nephew, Yaerad The Drunkard, had sold his uncle his birthright to the throne in exchange for six barrels of a 700-year-old vintage.
With ten gallons of wine worth its weight in gold soaking the soil, a spotted black and white bull was then matched into the arena by another priestess. Archmiklin Carla slit the bull's throat, the blood splashing everywhere. The mikhlins went out of their way to make sure they got drenched. Then they hefted the bull onto an altar and burnt it whole. Acolytes kept feeding the fire. Mikhlins chanted and walked around the altar as 2,000 pounds of meat was turned into ash. Everyone else watched in silence.
Four more bulls were brought in and sacrificed at prepared altars. These were not turned into ash. Only the hearts and livers were. The rest of the meat was passed around in wooden plates by priestesses, acolytes, and specially selected and purified children.
Allara was too stuffed to eat much but refusing sacrificial meat was unthinkable. But the best part about partaking in the sacrificial meat was it allowed one to sit. After standing for so long, Allara was grateful for the reprieve. The whole ritual took the better part of two hours.
Then the festivities actually began. Huge pots of boiled and roasted meat were brought in. There were all kinds of meat: mutton, pork, fish, chicken, and even duck. There were fresh loaves of hot bread, thick soups, platters of fried rice, shimmering vegetables sauteed in butter instead of the overboiled cabbages slaves were accustomed to, a dozen varieties of fruit, and wine. Barrels and barrels of wine.
The slaves eschewed bread, rice, and vegetables, choosing to load their plates with meat and drown themselves in wine before it ran out. But it didn't. The food never ran out. This wasn't one of Lord Carman's niggardly parties. The Thunderbolt had pulled out all the stops. There was no limit on the number of helpings one could go for.
As they ate they were entertained by troupes of singers, dancers, and acrobats from Confluencia. Allara was transfixed by the high clear voices of the Confluencia Boys choir. No sooner were they gone than the slaves were left open-mouthed by contortionists, fire eaters, and a troupe of acrobats that formed a human tower ten levels high.
"This is the best day of my life," Bogdyr slurred. He had eaten and drunk so much that he could barely sit up straight.
"You're just dreaming," Allara teased.
"Then I'll kill you if you wake me up," he threatened as he slid off the bench and onto the floor. Allara had to help him back up.
Allara spied The Thunderbolt on the dais. He only paid only cursory attention to the entertainers who were trying so desperately to impress him. He would give generous gifts to troupes that received particularly loud applause but Allara couldn't discern his own opinion on any of the performances.
He sat on the right hand of the Archmikhlin, engaging in sporadic conversation with the priestess and the captive king, Audemar II. Audemar II seemed happy, thoroughly enjoying himself. Even the barbarian kings, who had been seated in the first row not far from The Thunderbolt himself, seemed to have mellowed under the food and wine.
Small Willy, Amran, and Little Horax sat just behind The Thunderbolt, motioning one petitioner after another to take the seat next to the prince as soon as it was vacated.
Of all the day's entertainments, the most cheered-for ones were the chariot races. The best charioteers and some not-so-good ones from Confluencia and every village and twon for 50 miles in every direction had come to race for the slaves. The Thunderbolt had announced a reward of 50,000 silver stallions and a hundred horses for the ultimate winner. Every boy who could afford to hitch two horses to a rickety chariot had entered the race with dreams of claiming the fat champion's purse. Hundreds were whittled in the qualifying rounds, half a dozen got maimed, and one died of his wounds after getting trampled under the hooves of his competitors' horses.
After three dozen qualifying rounds, the final came down to five men. First, there was Hamyr. The Thunderbolt's bodyguard had proven quite the adroit charioteer, tripping up opponents, laming their horses, and tearing their chariots to shreds with his scythed contraption.
There was a second Baenarite in the race, Sir Ronnar Karkbhurg. The cavalry officer hadn't done anything flashy. He had won his four qualifying races by just racing ahead while his opponents flogged each other.
The townsfolk from Confluencia were split between two celebrity charioteers from their city: Dyr the Destroyer and Marlon The Merciful. The two were flamboyant larger-than-life characters, focusing on entertaining the crowd just as much as they did on racing. They would vault into the air to dropkick opponents while still holding the reins, run beside their chariots, somersault over their horses, and invent increasingly ridiculous and entertaining ways to flog their opponents.
The last finalist and the favorite of the slaves of The Roost was Leytyrn Brooksbhurg, the dashing 19-year-old son of Lord Uptyrn, their late castellan.
Archmikhlin Carla waved off the race and soon it was on. There were no rules. The first man to circle the 1,000-foot-long by 300-foot-wide racetrack won. Traditional chariot races saw five laps but The Thunderbolt had decreed single-lap races because of both the sheer number of qualifying races and the time crunch.
Almost immediately, the two Baenarites, Hamyr and Sir Ronnar ganged up on young Leytyrn, their weakest opponent. The teenager had no chance. The soldiers came at him from two sides. Sir Ronnar went first and when Leytyrn turned to face him, Hamyr took out the legs of one of his horses with his scythed chariot. The horse neighed in pain and went down. The second one stopped. Leytyrn Brookbhurg was thrown off his chariot and rolled in the sand for twenty feet before coming to a stop. Young Leytyrn's early exit was greeted with loud jeers from his disappointed fans. Bogdyr jeered so loudly that Allara thought her ears might pop.
"Pincer! Pincer! Pincer!" the Baenarites in the crowd chanted lustily while Leytyrn's wounded horse continued neighing like there was no tomorrow. It was a shrill high-pitched sound full of pain, almost like a human scream. A Baenarite in the crowd hurled his spear at the poor animal, nailing it in the eye and ending its suffering.
Hamyr and Sir Ronnar barely slowed down, racing ahead to catch up with the Confluencia charioteers who were having an acrobatic fight of their own a few feet ahead.
Hamyr and Sir Ronnar closed in on the celebrity charioteers from two sides again. Marlon The Merciful deftly disengaged by vaulting off his chariot and onto one of his horses, leaving Dyr The Destroyer in the trap. But he didn't get away unscathed. Hamyr's bladed whip caught in his harness, slicing it cleanly off. Marlon's chariot veered widely as it was now attached to only one horse by a single harness. It soon overturned and Marlon had to jump back on it to prevent his chariot from being smashed into smithereens on a barricade. His leg got sliced by one of the scythes on his chariot and he howled in pain.
Marlon The Merciful ignored the copious bleeding. He stopped the horses, righted the chariot, and used his whip to reattach the harness by making a crude knot. He did this in mere moments while blood gushed from his cut leg like a geyser and Dyr The Destroyer fought like a madman a few feet behind him. Only once Marlon had restarted his horses did he rip off his shirt and try to staunch the wound.
Dyr The Destroyer put up a much stronger fight than Leytyrn Brooksbhurg but he was vanquished just as quickly. His fancy maneuvers were impressive but the methodical Baenarites just threw grappling hooks into the spokes of his chariot wheels and raced away on opposite sides of his horses. The wheels caught and the thin plywood chariot shuddered and split into pieces. Still holding the reins, Dyr The Destroyer was dragged behind his horses for a good one hundred feet before he had the sense to let go.
Marlon The Merciful had just finished fashioning his crude harness when the two Baenarites tore Dyr The Destroyer's chariot apart. "Do you think they'll turn on each other before or after they finish him off?" Bogdyr asked.
"Why do they need to turn on each other?" Allara asked without looking at him. She was engrossed in the action.
"Because there can only be one winner."
"Maybe Marlon will win and they won't need to," Allara said.
Bogdyr laughed. Others who heard this comment laughed as well. Marlon's crude new harness wasn't even. One side was longer than the other and his chariot kept jerking from side to side with every move, threatening to throw its already weakened rider. Without a whip, Marlon couldn't spur his horses along. All he could do was pull desperately on the reins and scream at them. The charioteer could barely stand, let alone fight off an opponent.
Hamyr and Ronnar were riding side by side, eyeing each other warily. "Don't double-cross!" Bogdyr howled. The chant was taken up by the crowd. "No double-cross! No double-cross! No double-cross!"
The two Baenarites eyed one another, exchanged a hand signal, and peeled away from each other. The whole crowd let out a collective sigh of relief. Hamyr took the outer lane, hugging the barricade while Ronnar took the inner one. Sir Ronnar slowed down slightly as Hamyr raced ahead. There was just one final bend left to round before the finishing line. All Marlon could do was pull frantically on his reins and howl as his chariot jerked from side to side.
"Crafty fellow," Bogdyr said admiringly.
"Which one?" Allara asked.
"The pale one. The one who's not a knight. On the outer lane."
"Hamyr?"
"Yes. That's the one. A crafty bastard if I ever saw one. Killing two birds with one stone."
"I don't see it," Allara said.
"How can you not?" Bogdyr responded.
"I don't! Ok?"
"Well," he explained. "They're going to corner Marlon on that bend. The Hamyr guy from the front and the knight from behind. Marlon is finished."
Allara could see it now. Hamyr was racing ahead because the outermost lane was longer than the inner lanes. Marlon was keeping to the middle lanes because he was having trouble keeping his unbalanced chariot going in a straight line. Hamyr and Ronnar were racing towards Marlon the Merciful at an angle. They set to corner him at the bend, closing in from two sides with Hamyr slightly in front and Ronnar slightly behind. As the two men tightened the trap, their plan became obvious. Everyone could see it. "Pincer! Pincer! Pincer!" Baenarites in the crowd chanted.
"That pincer is really crafty," Allara admitted.
"Oh no. That's not the crafty part," Bogdyr told her.
"What's the crafty part?"
"When Marlon falls, his horses will lie between the Hamyr guy and the knight. He will have enough cover to take out the knight's chariot before the knight even knows what's happening. If he has faster horses, he can just pull ahead and race for the finish line while the knight tries to go around Marlon. It's only 70 feet or so. The knight will never catch up."
Allara looked at Hamyr with newfound respect. As Marlon The Merciful approached the final bend, he seemed acutely aware of his doom. He looked around frantically, his face contorted with pain. Allara felt sorry for the charioteer but part of her admired him. Lesser men might have given up and limped off to find a physician but Marlon hung on.
Marlon The Merciful howled and tugged on the reins but his horses couldn't go any faster. His opponents were closing in. Sir Ronnar was two horse lengths behind on his right while Hamyr's scythed chariot was almost pulling even on his left. All Hamyr needed to do to corner Marlon was speed up, turn, and let Sir Ronnar crush the professional charioteer from behind.
Hamyr finally pulled slightly ahead of Marlon's horses on the bend. He gave a hand signal and Sir Ronnarr spurred his horses to go even faster. His trajectory put him on a direct collision course with the wounded charioteer. Hamyr started to turn and close the trap. Allara knew the carnage that was to come but she couldn't look away. The whole crowd looked on in anticipation. There was complete silence.
Marlon the Merciful howled one last time and tugged on his reins, gently, differently. His horses came to a complete stop. Ronnar Karkbhurg thundered past the wounded charioteer like the wind. Nobody had thought Marlon would stop. They all expected him to keep racing until he was flung off his chariot or dropped dead.
Sir Ronnar overshot Marlon The Merciful's expected position and crashed right into Hamyr. He was launched off his chariot, over the tangled mess of screaming horses, straight into Hamyr, and then onto the stone barricade. Hamyr had the worst of the encounter, slamming into the low stone wall with the entire length of his back while Ronnar Karkbhurg used him as a cushion. Marlon The Merciful restarted his horses and raced for the finishing line.
The crowd went wild. They all jumped off their seats. There were howls of "Wow!" Baenarites in the crowd groaned and screamed like they were getting murdered. People started jumping up and down. The Confluencians started clapping and chanting, "Marlon! Champion! Marlon! Champion!" It was infectious. Allara and Bogdyr found themselves joining the chant. It was hard not to.
Down on the racetrack, Sir Ronnar disengaged himself from his unfortunate embrace with Hamyr. The young Baenarite was howling in pain and rage even louder than one of Sir Ronnar's horses which had gotten its leg sliced right off by the blades on Hamyr's chariot. The knight slit the horse's throat in one fluid move, limped onto Hamyr's scythed chariot, and went after Marlon.
Reenergized, the Baenarites were soon chanting, "Ronnar! Conqueror! Ronnar! Conqueror!" "Marlon! Champion!" and "Ronnar! Conqueror!" became competing chants. Allara was firmly on Team Marlon. As charioteers on the track tried to outrace each other, fans were trying to outshout each on the stands other. The knight was catching up, howling, and flogging his lathered horses to run even faster. For all his grim tenacity, Sir Ronnar hadn't escaped the crash unscathed. His face was bruised and scraped. He stood uneasily on his chariot with one hand on the reins and the other on his ribs.
Marlon was in an even worse state. He stood on one leg, barely holding onto the reins. He no longer spurred or yelled at his horses. He just held on for dear life and let them go. His makeshift tourniquet had turned red and was leaking blood.
Sir Ronnar kept whipping his horses and alternately gripped his ribs. He was half a horse length behind but there were only ten feet to go. The chanting intensified. "Marlon! Champion! Marlon! Champion!" the Confluencians yelled. "Ronnar! Conqueror! Ronnar! Conqueror!" the Baenarites answered.
Sir Ronnar pulled even as the horses tore through the narrow ribbon stretched between two sticks and every side celebrated their man as the winner. Marlon the Merciful let go of the reins and fell. Sir Ronnar held a hand to keep his opponent's head from hitting the ground. He jumped chariots and brought Marlon's horses to a stop.
Two priestesses carried the charioteer away. At the bend, Hamyr was being carried away as well. Sir Ronnar pumped his fists in a victory salute and ignited a thousand fistfights. The argument over who had won had started as soon as the race ended. Allara could have sworn it was a tie but she was in the minority. "There's no such thing," Bogdyr scoffed. "Marlon's white horse crossed first."
"It was Sir Ronnar's black horse," Elena's husband, Lukar, countered. "I saw it with my own eyes."
"Then you need to pull them out. They're useless."
"Yours are the useless ones. It was Sir Ronnar."
"It was Marlon."
"It was Sir Ronnar."
"It was Marlon."
"It's Sir Ronnar you blind fool!"
"It was Marlon! Call me a blind fool again. I dare you."
"I think it was a tie," Allara intervened.
"Shut up!" they shouted her down in unison. Allara slunk back. Similar arguments were happening all over. Fistfights broke out and competing chants of "Marlon! Champion!" and "Ronnar! Conqueror!" continued. The situation was quickly getting out of hand.
Trumpets blew and the arena went quiet. The archmikhlin rose and walked to the dais. She put up a fist and yelled, "Marlon!"
"Champion!" the Confluencians answered back. The Baenarites groaned.
"His Highness says he saw Sir Ronnar win the race," the High Priestess said. This was met by cheers from the Baenarites and silence from the Confluencians. "But I swear to Aeduia Marlon won." Archmikhlin Carla asserted. This was met by rowdy cheers from the Confluencians and nos from the Baenarites. "King Audemar claims the race was a tie." This was met by universal jeering and Allara sank lower into her seat.
Archmikhlin Carla turned to address The Thunderbolt. "Your Highness, I hate to pull rank, but this is the only day of the year on which I outrank you." She paused and eyed him, clearly waiting for permission. The Thunderbolt gave a small nod.
The priestess continued, "And what good is that rank if I cannot use it to honor the favored son of my city, Marlon Marlonus Farrier, with the ribbon of victory?" This announcement was greeted by deafening cheers from the townsfolk present. The Baenarites clapped reluctantly.
Marlon was trotted out on a stretcher. "Marlon is alive and well," Archmiklin Carla announced. "He has just lost a little bit of blood. He will be fine." More cheers. "And to present the victory ribbon, His Royal Highness Caedmyr Daeganus Aemlilonus Rhexhburg, Prince of the Tides." More clapping.
When The Thunderbolt stood, everybody stood. He walked up to the podium. Marlon tried to sit up on the stretcher but The Thunderbolt shook his head. Archmikhlin Carla yielded the lectern and The Thunderbolt climbed up.
He looked into the crowd and said, "You can sit." Allara had heard his deep sonorous voice before but never when it was raised. It was like a thunderclap, reverberating off the wooden walls and making the ground shake. 20,000 people obeyed instantly.
"The archmikhlin swears Marlon won the race. I may have disagreed but today is Aedusia and as the highest-ranking representative of our Great Mother within 100 miles of this place, I will defer to her judgment. I may not have rooted for you, Marlon but you impressed me with your tenacity and craftiness. You are a son any city would be proud to own to."
The archmikhlin handed The Thunderbolt a purple ribbon. He tied it around the charioteer's head. "Marlon Farrier, you are a champion today. Let lesser men look upon you, and question their worth." With these words, The Thunderbolt dismissed the charioteer. Marlon was carried away and the archmikhlin followed behind.
The Thunderbolt gestured and Amran ran up to the dais with a rolled paper. A detachment of Baenarites brought Lord Carman, Sir Zemil, and all the guards and overseers who had been cooling their heels in the dungeons. An excited murmur went through the crowd.
Shackled hand and foot, the men looked haggard and defeated. The Beast was the only one not in shackles. With one hand, there was nothing to shackle. He looked more pathetic than the rest. His arrogant bearing was gone. He kept his head perpetually bowed, like a slave. The Thunderbolt eyed the men the same way one would look at a piece of shit stuck on his shoe.
The Thunderbolt unrolled the sheet of paper. He waved at the prisoners. "I have here a letter from my royal father regarding these 64 men."
He continued, "Let all men who listen know that these are the words of The Divine Earthly Deputy of The God of Gods, The Subaephyr Daegan The Thirteenth. The 97th Wearer of The Purple Hat, and Guardian of All Aeduiana. Him of The Blood of Gold, the King of Kings, Lord of All Men, and Master of All Beasts Under The Eternal Blue Sky. Son of Fire, Son of The Sun, Son of Aemlilon."
The Thunderbolt turned to the letter and read in a loud clear voice:
"Caedmyr, I was deeply disturbed by reports concerning the awful treatment of my loyal servants at Siiruch's Roost. The gods judge a man's character by how he treats those weaker than him. Thanks to Carman, I now have a strike against my name.
"I will now address you directly, Carman. You were always a crappy soldier. During Hvirak's Revolt, your incompetence and cowardice allowed the rebels to escape the Siege of Minia. This prolonged the war for three months. I should have executed you right there then but Uptyrn urged me against it. He always loved you. He assured me that you were a better governor than you were a warrior. So I spared you.
"Out of respect for my dear friend Uptyrn, may the gods feed him honey, I allowed him to take you as his second in command when he became harbor master at Caedmyria. He dragged you along again when I gave him the keys to The Roost. When he went north to help fight the barbarians, he assured me that my servants and my loyal subjects in Confluencia would be safe in your hands.
"When he was struck down by disease, I wept for him. Out of respect for his memory, I confirmed you to his position as Castellan of The Roost, Citymaster of Confluencia, and Marshal of Central Rhexia.
"And how did you repay my faith in you, Carman? With treachery, greed, and corruption. Uptyrn spent 1,000 silver stallions a month on salt. You spent the same amount of silver buying salt, according to the accounts you sent me, with one major difference: none of my servants has tasted a salted meal in three months. What did you do with all that silver, Carman?
"The money-grubbing doesn't stop with salt. You skimmed off everything. Take your accounts for rice expenditure. Your accounts say you spent the same amount Uptyrn did but in reality, you only spent a tenth and pocketed the rest. I know that instead of buying rice fit for human consumption, you bought rotting and wormy grain that I wouldn't use to feed my pigeons if they were starving. How could you do that to me, Carman? Every merchant up and down The Luche knew that my house was the place to sell rotting grain. My house, Carman. You turned my house into a garbage pit!
"Your sins are endless. I know that you dismissed many of the free men working at the castle and gave their jobs to slaves. But you still claimed the wages of those men on your expense reports and pocketed that silver. Why would you do that, Carman?
"As if it wasn't treasonous enough to steal from your king, you extended your pilfering to my subjects. Instead of dispensing justice fairly in my name, as was your duty, you extracted bribes for favorable rulings. You harassed law-abiding traders who refused to bribe you, and you neglected your duty to maintain roads, ports, and markets in your jurisdiction despite overcharging my subjects for using them.
"I gave you the keys to Confluencia, Carman. The wellspring of my house. The confluence of the four rivers is where Aemlilon and Bhai Andi together made and birthed the immortal child, my revered ancestor, The Smith. The man who taught men to work metal. Who taught them to farm and build and worship the true gods. The demigod who now inhabits the North Star was bred and raised where you now stand.
"85 kings were born and ruled from between the four rivers for a millennium and a half before The Restorer moved the capital to the mouth of The Luche. I entrusted you with such a storied city, Carman. And my family's castle. I made you custodian of Central Rhexia and this is how you repay me? With bribe-taking? With theft? With rape? With murder?
"Caedmyr informs me that he has already seen to your other partners in treason. They're worm food now. Only you and the 63 beasts from The Roost are left. The men who turned my house into a whorehouse, used my slaves as prostitutes and never paid them a cent, beat them to death for their own entertainment, and skinned them alive for dropping eggs.
"I have thought long and hard about how to deal with you and your 63 minions, Carman. I could have you flayed. It would be poetic. Maybe I should hand you over to the slaves you so terrorized. They can use you for archery practice or turn you into pig feed. But I will not do any of that.
"It's Aedusia. Our Great Mother asks us to be merciful. In the spirit of this sacred day, I will do just that. I will extend my mercy to you, Carman. I pardon you and your 63 accomplices for all your crimes. I insulate you from all earthly consequences of your actions, and I decree that no man shall do you any harm."
A grumble went through the crowd. The Thunderbolt shut it down with a look. Carman Kantbhurg raised his head for the first time. It was the happiest Allara had ever seen him. His compatriots were similarly relieved. Even The Beast looked mildly happy. Allara's heart sank. The Thunderbolt gave a signal and the Baenarites started unshackling the guards and overseers. He continued reading:
"Moreover, I have decided to honor you, Carman. I have ordered Caedmyr to tear down this wooden amphitheater he has built and have a more durable one of stone erected in its place. When you die, your ashes and those of your 63 friends shall be interred beneath the sands. The Mausoleum of 64, I intend to name it. This is what I, Daegan, son of Aemlilon, have decided to do today.
"If you and your 63 have any honor left, Carman, you will submit yourselves to the judgment of the gods."
The last line was greeted with stunned silence. Carman Kantbhurg's eyes went wide. The relieved faces of his 63 minions filled with worry and confusion. They couldn't believe what they had just heard. The priestesses who emerged from a side entrance with silver platters piled high with swords made it terrifyingly clear.
The guards and overseers picked up the swords with trembling hands. Tears flowed down their cheeks. King Daegan's suggestion was just that: a suggestion.
Carman Kantbhurg and his compatriots could take their pardons and walk away with zero legal consequences. The only wrinkle to the plan would be admitting that they had no shred of honor in front of 20,000 witnesses. This would doom them to a life of ostracism on the fringes of society, shunned by everyone, even their own families. Diseased pigs were held in greater esteem than honorless men. The alternative, of course, was proving the existence of their honor by journeying to meet the gods in Mwikul. For any self-respecting Aeduiana, this was no choice at all.
Carman Kantbhurg was the first to go. After a short mumbled prayer, he yelled, "Khufumn Saekhfw'!" and plunged a sword into his heart.
"Glory? What glory?" Bogdyr scoffed.
Allara didn't answer him. She was focused on the events below. One by one all the other 63 men plunged two feet of steel into their bellies, hearts, and throats. Sir Zemil went last, struggling to grasp his weapon one-handed. Finally, he just braced it on the ground and fell onto it. His legs twitched for a long moment before his body finally went still. The Mausoleum of 64 indeed. Allara couldn't have come up with a more fitting name.
The crowd watched the event with a mixture of awe, glee, and shock. Audemar Trevantbhurg looked uncomfortable. The barbarians were open-mouthed, kings and their subjects alike. The Thunderbolt's expression was inscrutable. He could just as easily have been watching paint dry on a wall.
Once the corpses had been carted away, The Thunderbolt turned back to the crowd. "The Subaephyr has decided to appoint Brandon Georghinus Turner as the new Lord Castellan of Siiruch's Roost, Citymaster of Confluencia, and Marshal of Central Rhexia for a term of ten years. Approach, Brandon Georghinus."
The merchant stood and marched to the podium. He was greeted by loud cheers from his townsmen. Everyone knew and loved Brandon The Boisterous, Grand Master of the Luche River Shippers' Guild. Brandon Turner was the son of a shoemaker and grandson of a butcher who had turned himself into the richest man in Confluencia.
He often styled himself as Lord Spicebhurg but the name had never quite caught on. Everyone called him Brandon The Boisterous or Brandon of The Blue Barges.
Mukhlun Gregory and Archmikhlin Carla followed closely behind Brandon The Boisterous, who was subdued for once. The merchant knelt at The Thunderbolt's feet. After an oath of loyalty and a binding ceremony performed by Archmikhlin Carla, Mukhlun Gregory draped a purple cloak on Brandon Turner's shoulders.
"In light of your elevation, you shall assume the surname Roostbhurg, to be borne by you and yours until the end of your days," The Thunderbolt said. The crowd clapped and the newly minted Brandon Roostbhurg smiled in triumph, now a nobleman in truth instead of a mere pretender. "Rise, Lord Roostbhurg," The Thunderbolt confirmed it.
The Thunderbolt finally turned to the subject that had been gnawing at many slaves for days: manumission. Under Lord Uptyrn, the names were released a day in advance and there were rarely any surprises. Everyone had expected Lord Carman to only free his favorites but after his incarceration, the assumptions had changed. Despite all the speculation, no one knew how The Thunderbolt intended to go about it.
"On to manumission," The Thunderbolt announced. "To honor our Great Mother Aeduia for a bountiful harvest and the victories up north, my royal father will grant liberty to a tenth of his slaves all across the country. Here at The Roost, that number is 736."
This announcement was greeted with subdued clapping. The slaves already knew what the number was. What they wanted to know was who would be included in that number.
"After careful deliberation, I have decided to emancipate all slaves above the age of forty." Rapturous cheers broke out. Allara felt crushed. For a moment, she had dreamed it would be her. The older slaves jumped and danced with joy until the Thunderbolt put down a hand and quieted them all down.
"To prevent you from falling into destitution in your new lives as freedmen and in gratitude for your years of loyal service, my royal father will make a gift of a thousand silver stallions to each of you. You shall also receive a horse, two cows, four goats, and ten sheep. Those of you who wish to do so shall be granted fertile land to farm as crofters in the new province of Trevantum and the recently liberated ones of Roenia, Vyrmania, and Drapia. Skilled craftsmen and the learned among the new crop of freedmen shall remain right here at The Roost and continue performing their old duties. The king will pay you a generous wage for your services." The dancing intensified.
"But there are only 612 slaves older than forty here," The Thunderbolt continued. Everyone went quiet. "That leaves 124 slots for the young and spry among your number. Toward that end, I have devised a series of 31 games. There shall be foot races, a swim across the river, embroidery contests for the women, bullfighting, and many others.
Men and women will compete separately. The winners and the runners-up of each event shall be granted their liberty. Your overseers and the Baenarites will organize you and adjudicate these events. Only slaves of The Roost will be allowed to participate. Interlopers will be flogged. Feasting and bullfighting will continue here in the arena. The other events shall take place outside. We still have three or four hours of sunlight, let us finish before dark. Go!"
There was nearly a stampede as slaves raced for the exits.
"What event will you compete in?" Allara asked Bogdyr.
"Bullfighting."
"Isn't that dangerous?"
"Not if you know what you're doing. I have been herding the bloody animals since we came here. No cow is getting the better of me."
Allara wished she had his confidence. "Where are you going?" she asked Bogdyr as he followed her out of an exit. "His Highness said bullfighting is taking place inside."
"I need to vomit. My stomach is too full."
She parted ways with Bogdyr and went to find events to enter. There were all kinds of races. Plain running, running with an egg on a spoon, running with a pot on your head, jumping with your feet bound. The races attracted the largest crowds. Allara had never prided herself on physical prowess. She left to find something she was good at.
She found and entered the sewing contest. It was one of the smaller events. Only 30 participants. Two-thirds were the seamstresses she worked with. The other ten women clearly had an exaggerated opinion of their skill with a needle. Allara, Lucinda, Gloria, Lola, and the rest of her compatriots sewed clothes and decorations all day every single day. She wondered how much practice the other ten got.
All they had to do was embroider a rose onto a tablecloth. Brutch and a Baenarite who couldn't be older than Bogdyr supervised them. It was nothing Allara couldn't do but she wasn't sure she could do it faster than anyone else. Of the best seamstresses, only Lucinda was present. Marietta was 42 and had already gone free, something for which Allara was glad. She couldn't have stood a chance otherwise. She knew she had no hope of beating Lucinda. The woman's abilities were simply not human. But if she could finish second…
Allara had worked with many of the women she competed with every day for half a decade. She considered them friends and had never wished them harm until that day. She blamed that attitude for her third-place finish. Aeduia had damned her. Lucinda finished first, to one's surprise and Gloria came second. Allara was a close third but third nonetheless.
She hugged them and smiled and told them how happy she was for them while slowly dying inside. She wished she could be genuinely happy for them. It was the virtuous thing to do. But she just couldn't help it. The envy came unbidden despite her best efforts to suppress it. The best she could do was pray for forgiveness after the fact and hope the gods were merciful.
The other events were winding down. Allara thought she could try her luck with one of the races or even the swim across the 500-yard-wide river but it was too late. The elimination rounds were over and the final races were in progress.
She could hear cheers and boos coming from the amphitheater. She wanted to go cheer for Bogdyr but she couldn't bear it. If he were to perish or have some accident, she didn't want to watch. She had watched her father die and the nightmares never went away. Watching Bogdyr meet an even more gruesome end would finish her. One recurring nightmare was bad enough. Two would drive her insane.
By sunset, all the events had been completed. Baenarites started ordering people back in. Allara saw Bogdyr standing on the sand with a big smile on his face. He had won. Her heart felt lighter. She waved. He waved back. That was one thing to be happy about. Bogdyr would come back for her. He would never abandon her.
The food hadn't run out yet. Allara filled a plate with assorted meats, took a cup of wine, and went up to the stands. She had something to celebrate. People looked mellow. Some townsfolk from Confluencia had gotten so drunk they had fallen asleep on the benches. A couple was kissing passionately, and seemingly forgetting themselves, started humping right there on the stands. They only stopped when a nearby man whipped them with his belt.
On the sands below, the new freedmen lined up to receive their edicts of manumission. The music and feasting continued while slaves circulated, saying hello to old friends and spreading gossip. Allara hadn't quite gotten used to her younger brother being called Bogdyr The Bullslayer. He had always been Bogdyr to her. She still remembered back when he was Little Bogdyr. But his new sobriquet had been bestowed by The Thunderbolt himself. She knew it wasn't going anywhere.
Allara saw a lot of familiar faces among the new crop of freedmen. Even Sempronia whom she had just befriended that morning was there. Some of the slaves watched their newly freed former compatriots with hard eyes and long faces that betrayed their inner thoughts. Allara knew what they were thinking. She had thought it too: 'It should be me.'