Chapter Nineteen

They were fed a midday meal—an unheard-of luxury.

While they ate, Caelan heard a clamor outside. Half the men went to the window to look. The rest, Caelan included, took the chance to grab all the food available. In minutes guards appeared at the door, yelling for them to assemble outside.

Squinting in the glaring sunshine, they milled around uncertainly while all the veterans filed out from their barracks as well.

“Form ranks!” Orlo shouted.

In the broiling sun, they divided themselves into two lines. Veterans on one side, trainees on the other, facing each other. The guards were extra vigilant today, keyed up even more than the fighters.

Caelan felt increasingly nervous. His stomach knotted up, and he wished he had not eaten so much. He kept swallowing, trying to ease the dryness in his mouth. He tried not to think of tomorrow, and yet it was impossible.

While they stood lined up, the gates to the compound opened, and a procession of priests entered, swinging incense holders that burned with crimson smoke. The priests were chanting something unintelligible that sent eerie chills up Caelan’s spine.

The priests wore long brown robes with leopard hides across their shoulders. Their heads and faces were shaven. Still chanting, they walked between the two long rows of fighters, then circled around and headed up the steps into the arena itself. Prodded by the guards, the fighters filed after them.

Caelan wasn’t interested in what the priests were doing. Their incense stunk, and he tried to breathe as little of it as possible. Going up the steps, he felt his heartbeat quicken and his palms were suddenly damp. He glanced back once for a quick look—probably his last—of the compound.

The interior was cool and slightly dank, all dim and shadowy, with ramps leading up to the stone seats that circled the entire structure. To his surprise, Caelan found the arena was shaped like a bowl, with the fighting area at the bottom and the spectators ranged above. He had never seen such a place before, but he had no chance to study it, for the guards were shoving them along as quickly as possible.

The veterans branched off through an open door, leaving only the trainees to follow the priests along a dim passageway and finally down a broad flight of stone steps. In the near darkness the steps were treacherous, and the air smelled strange and unhealthy.

As the air gusted up into their faces, Caelan’s nostrils wrinkled with revulsion. It was more than dank. It carried smells of oiled leather, mildew, blood, and death.

He shook his head, angry at his own vivid imagination. Nothing had died in here for at least three months. Corpses were cleared away immediately to hold down the chance of disease.

Still, there was something odd and unusual to the mingled scents in the air . . something he could not identify, yet it sent involuntary shivers through him.

Caelan stopped, all his instincts warning him against descending farther.

A hand shoved him forward so hard he nearly fell. “Get on!” Orlo said angrily. “None of your Traulander nonsense about the dark here.”

Given no chance to protest, Caelan was crowded down the steps along with the others.

At the bottom they found themselves pushed into a large, vaulted chamber lit by flaring torches. Stone columns carved in twists supported the ceiling at its highest point. Carved into the far wall was an enormous, tormented face of a demon. At first glance Caelan thought it was the fire spirit himself.

Caelan’s blood congealed in his veins. He glanced around swiftly, trying to back out, but Orlo shoved him forward with the others. The door was slammed shut and bolted, sealing them in with the chanting priests.

Already the stench of incense was chokingly thick. Caelan smelled blood again, fresh and warm. But now he realized it wasn’t his imagination. Across the room stood a stone altar flanked on either side by two vats of copper. Both held a thick, shimmering liquid that darkly reflected the torchlight.

The face of the fire spirit on the wall had a fire kindled inside the open hearth of its mouth. The flames burning there made the empty eyes of the horrifying visage glow, and every darting shift of the fire made the face appear to move and gaze back at the men.

Overhead, Caelan could see the snarling faces of wooden beasts carved into the support beams, shadowy and all the more menacing. The fire hissed and licked the stone lips of the fire spirit, and if Caelan closed his eyes he could hear unworldly sounds in the steady chanting from the priests, a whispering of vile blasphemies from the ways of antiquity.

From infancy Caelan had been taught the lessons of ancient times, when the world had been ruled by the shadow gods and their spirits of chaos, also called shyrieas. Then they had been sealed away and the world had been placed under the rule of mankind. Such unholy carvings as Caelan saw around him now were said to be small breaks in the seal, creating tiny gateways for evil to return.

Caelan’s forehead was beaded with sweat. His  uneasiness grew, and he backed up until he stood behind all the others al the very rear of the room. The door was stout wood, bound with iron straps and bolted from the outside. He had no way to escape from this place, and he felt as though he had entered hell itself.

The stone floor was black with ageless grime. The burning torches sent dark streaks of soot up the walls. The torches themselves smoked fearsomely, emitting fitful pops as though they’d been soaked in bad pitch.

The chanting stopped. In silence the priests arranged themselves behind the altar in a semicircle. One priest in a saffron robe stepped forward to the altar and raised his hands.

“Here in the halls of death stand condemned men, O Gault.”

Caelan held back a gasp. He had never known the father- god to be worshiped like this.

Again, Caelan involuntarily glanced around for a way out. There was none.

“Their blood is your blood, our father. Their lives are forfeit by the will of their masters. By your will, we have come to prepare their souls for the journey into your hands. We are your avengers, O Gault.”

“Avengers,” the other priests chanted.

“We are your punishers, O Gault.”

“Punishers.”

“We are the chosen faithful, who lead others to your understanding, O Gault.”

“Chosen.”

“Vindicate us, oh great one, as we vindicate others.”

The priest lowered his arms and picked up a plain copper bowl, which he dipped into one of the vats of fresh blood. lifting it high so that the blood dripped onto the altar in small, dark spatters, the priest looked around him with bright, fanatic eyes.

“Who will be the first to come?”

No one moved.

Caelan had long heard it said by gossips that the emperor permitted perversions of all kinds to flourish in Impe- ria, that the emperor—in his own desperate search for immortality—had opened the gates to the dark spirits. But this was Caelan’s first real encounter with any such practices. Of course he knew who the Vindicants were. He had heard his father and other men in the hold shake their heads over the most powerful faction of the priesthoods. There were almost no Vindicants in Trau, and scant tolerance of such rituals as this.

Disgust rose in Caelan. He scowled and planted his feet, crossing his arms over his chest. Whatever they intended, he wasn’t going to participate.

The priest was speaking again, softly, cajolingly. Whether pushed by a guard or drawn forward by curiosity, one man stepped up to the altar and bowed.

“I am afraid to die,” he whispered.

The priest smiled and put his hand on the man’s head. He spoke something aloud, then put the bowl to the man’s lips. “Drink,” he commanded.

Caelan swallowed hard, his revulsion stronger than ever. It was forbidden to drink blood. By all he’d ever been raised to believe, such was not allowed.

The priest was not satisfied with merely a sip. He insisted until the man had swallowed the entire bowlful, gagging on it. Then the priest seized the man’s wrist and made a swift cut with a copper knife. The man screamed and tried to twist away, but the priest held him with unexpected strength. Blood bubbled up from the man’s wrist, and the priest collected several drops of it in a second bowl, chanting all the while.

“From fear is born obeisance. From despair is created belief. You have taken the blood of the god and given your blood in return. Such is your passage into the brotherhood of life-takers. Gault be praised.”

Another priest bandaged the cut efficiently and gestured at the large face of the fire spirit. “Pass through the mouth of the god,” he said, “and receive your blessing in the next room.”

Miraculously the fire blazing inside the mouth of the carving died down as though by command. Hesitant, the man finally ducked low and stepped through, hopping over the glowing coals. As soon as he vanished from sight, the fire blazed up again. It was as though the god had consumed him.

Everyone waited, but no sound came from the other side—not a scream, not a whisper. It was as though the man had vanished forever.

Someone crowded next to Caelan, his face pale. “What in the name of the gods do you think is beyond that?” he whispered.

Caelan shook his hand, unwilling to utter a sound in this place of evil. He had never witnessed such blasphemy, such a twisting of the truth or the old ways. Even witnessing these acts made him feel unspeakably tainted. He wanted to cry out condemnation at what was being done, but he kept silent, afraid of punishment from the guards. His own fear shamed him.

One by one the trainees went forward, sweating and fearful, forced to the altar if necessary. Some drank the blood with bravado, pretending to enjoy it. Others spat and choked. Again and again the priest dipped the bowl for more. Not one trainee failed to flinch as his wrist was cut in turn. Bandaged, each man then stepped through the mouth of the fire spirit and vanished until there were only five men left, then three, then one.

Caelan stood alone, the last man, and he would not budge.

The guards sighed and gripped his arms. “Always causing trouble, you are,” one murmured. “Come now, Giant. Move your big feet.”

They force-marched him to the altar, with him planting his feel at every chance.

“Bow to Gault,” the priest commanded.

Caelan glared at him, tight-lipped and defiant.

“Blasphemer! Bow to the father-god!”

“Gault is not worshiped this way,” Caelan retorted. “I will not defile him with such evil.”

Fury twisted the priest’s face. He struck Caelan across the mouth before the guards could react.

“You dare defy us, slave! You are a condemned man. You have no choice but to serve as you are bidden.”

“Go to the hell you serve,” Caelan said.

The priest stepped back, glaring. He snapped his fingers, and the guards closed in on Caelan. One socked him in the stomach, doubling him over.

While Caelan was still gasping and choking, trying to draw in air, the other man twisted his left arm behind him and gripped him by the hair.

Caelan gritted his teeth with all his might, struggling and kicking, but with four guards on top of him even his strength was not enough. One of the guards pried open his jaws while the priest poured the blood down his throat.

Choking and drowning in the stuff, Caelan thought he would be sick. Gasping and shuddering, he was released and sank to the floor at their feet. The priest chanted grimly over him, then gestured. Caelan was kicked.

“Get up,” the guards told him.

Slowly, resentfully, he rose to his feet and towered over the priest. The man lifted the copper knife, its tiny blade stained with the blood of all the others. At the last second, Caelan jerked his wrist so that only the skin was cut and not the vein. A few small beads of blood welled up, but not enough to be collected.

“Hold him,” the priest said to the guards.

They grabbed Caelan’s arms, but he lifted his feet and kicked at the altar, sending bowls and implements flying. Blood splashed across the robes of several priests. Their chanting stopped abruptly.

Still kicking and struggling, Caelan condemned them at the top of his lungs.

The chief priest glared at him while others knelt on the ground, hastily trying to scrape up the spilled blood. The man’s face was taut with fury. Spots of color blazed in his cheeks.

“Gault’s curse be on you!” he shouted. “Defiler, know now the true meaning of condemnation, for you shall face death without the protection of the gods. All blessing is stripped from you. Gault’s face shall be turned from you, and when you die the shyrieas will shriek acclaim at another soul lost to all damnation.”

Even the guards looked shaken.

But Caelan did not believe in the religion of the Vindicants, and he laughed scornfully at the curse. “Teiserat huggen fieh ein selt ein fahrne teiseran!” he shouted, using the old words spoken to drive wicked spirits away from the walls of hold, house, and hearth. It was the only ancient countermand he knew.

Whether the priests understood it or not, it had the effect of freezing them in their tracks.

The chief priest gestured at the guards. “Get him out of here. Quickly!”

The guards dragged Caelan over to the fire spirit and released him with a shove. “Pass through!”

The fire was still blazing in the mouth. Caelan hesitated.

Another guard kicked him. “Do it or we’ll throw you on the fire.”

The flames died down, and Caelan ducked through. As he did so, he could feel the radiant heat from the coals beneath him. He hopped down to the floor on the other side and found himself alone in a small, featureless room. An open passageway led from it.

Surprised, Caelan stood there and glanced around. There was nothing in here to fear or light.

Suddenly the walls seemed to till. He sank to his knees, feeling nauseous with shame. If his father walked the spirit world and could see him at this moment, he prayed Beva would understand the many failings of his son.

Caelan ran his fingers down his throat until he vomited up the blood.

Spitting and wiping his mouth, he moved to another, cleaner corner and leaned back on his haunches, bracing his shoulder against the wall. Bitterness lay sour in his mouth, and he found the old hatred rekindled in his heart. Perhaps it was a mercy to die on the morrow. He would certainly rather be dead than to continue like this.

But another part of him raged silently, demanding vengeance for all the degradations that he had known. He had to find a way to battle free of slavery. He had to live, and win, and survive.

The strange, frightening scent that he’d been unable to identify earlier now returned to the air.

Startled, Caelan lifted his head and gazed at the passageway. Only darkness lay inside it, a darkness he did not want to explore.

“Come,” whispered a voice. It was strange and mysterious, raspy yet soft, and definitely female. “Come to me, man of violence, and let me give you power to win on the morrow.”

The hair rose on the back of Caelan’s neck. Wide-eyed and dry-mouthed, he stared at the passageway, trying to see what spoke to him from the shadows. He saw nothing, yet she was out there.

“Do not fear,” she whispered. “I am given to you until the dawn.”

His mind raced. A prostitute?

Everyone knew a man lost his prowess by indulging himself the night before combat. Like draining blood from men under the guise of initiation rites, this was another trick designed to see that the trainees failed.

Angry, Caelan jumped to his feet. “Go away,” he said curtly. “I don’t want you.”

“You must come to me,” she whispered, her voice sultry and enticing. “I have power to give you.”

“You will steal my power,” he retorted. “Begone from me!”

“You are wrong.”

There was silence for a moment, and he thought she’d left. The fire still blazed in the mouth of the carving, cutting him off from leaving the way he’d entered. From the larger chamber beyond came the sounds of the guards talking. The priests filed out in silence, their footsteps walking in even cadence.

He thought that as soon as everyone had gone, he would find a way to scatter the fire or smother it. Then perhaps he could get out of this place.

A scraping sound, as though something heavy were being dragged, came from the passageway.

“I can approach no closer,” she called softly, her voice sounding breathless and strained. “I cannot enter the light. Come to me, and I will share wonderful secrets with you. It will be a night to remember always. This I promise.”

“I’m sure,” he said grimly. “But I’m not interested.”

“You are gruff and fierce,” she replied as though amused. “But when does a man refuse pleasure?”

“I do,” he said, although the more she talked, the more uncomfortable and uneasy he felt. “I said no.”

She began to sing, softly and throatily. Despite his suspicions, life stirred in his groin, He frowned and tried to block out the sound, but for once he could not tune it out. Even an attempt to sever did not work, he could not say the sound was melodic or pleasing, and yet it sent swift ripples of desire through his muscles. He found himself turning in that direction, swaying in time with the song, his breath rasping in his throat.

“Come,” she sang. “Come, for I am given to you to make you happy, to make you forget tomorrow. I am given to strengthen you and make you invincible. I am better than wine. Come to me, Caelan E’non. Come.”

He was afraid of the spell she was weaving over him, and yet into his mind came an image of a woman with pale flowing hair. She was running naked through a meadow of alpine flowers, laughing, her arms outstretched as though she were flying. He wanted to run with her, to laugh with her, to catch her in his arms and swing her to the ground.

Before he realized it, he was walking across the small room, drawn by a force greater than his own will. Through a haze he wondered how she knew his name. Through a haze he wondered why she would not venture into the light. Through a haze he thought of how this was a mistake.

Yet what was one more mistake among a lifetime of them? He had no hope of success in the arena anyway. Why shouldn’t he lake this opportunity to enjoy himself?

He reached the mouth of the passageway and somehow managed to stop by clutching the frame with his hands. His body swayed toward her, yet his fingers dug in and held him in place.

“Come to me,” she whispered.

Her scent rolled over him again. He snorted against it, finding it cloyingly sweet, exotic, and yet somehow rotten.

“What are you?” he struggled to say. His lips felt wooden and thick.

“I am a haggai,” she replied. “How strong you are. How suspicious. Do not fear me. I am given to you. Come.”

He took one step forward, his hands sliding down the wall and dragging free.

At that angle, with the firelight shining behind him to cast faint illumination into the mouth of the passageway, he saw her. Just a vague outline—the long mass of curling hair springing up and blowing as though in a breeze, the liquid gleam of her eyes watching him from the darkness, the pale curve of her ripe breasts. She seemed to be sitting on the floor, and yet the height was wrong for such a position.

Blinking against the haze in his brain, Caelan took another step forward, staggered, and bumped into the wall. Feeling dizzy and strange, he twisted to put his back against the wall.

As he did so, the faint firelight gleamed off something shiny and smooth coiled around her. She was sitting on it, but . . .

She leaned forward, reaching out her arms. “Caelan, come. I am here to give you ecstasy such as you have never known.”

When she moved, he realized she wasn’t sitting on the coils. Instead, they were a part of her. The lower half of her body wasn’t human at all, but rather eellike and a sickly mottled gray color. Her hair wasn’t hair either. There was no breeze blowing here to stir the tendrils on her head. Instead, a thick mass of tentacles grew from her scalp, stretching and reaching, constantly moving with life of their own.

Horrified, he stood frozen, his mouth agape.

“Caelan, I want you,” she sang.

Even more to his horror, he felt himself moving forward, obeying the spell of her summons. Revulsion burned his throat, and with all his will he tried to fight, but it was as though his feel belonged to another. They would not obey him.

He walked right up to her, raging inside, lighting the spell she’d cast over him. She was a monster, something demonic and evil. He couldn’t couple with that.

Her fingers stroked his arm. With shock he realized he was suddenly close to her. She ducked her head and brushed his chest with the tentacles. They felt soft and warm, squirming against his flesh.

Desperately, he shut his eyes and reached for severance. With a snap, he was freezing cold as though he’d entered an ice cave.

She cried out something, but her voice was too far away to hear. She reached for him, but he stepped back slowly, oh so very slowly, feeling as though he were moving under water. Yet her grasp missed him and he was free, still stepping backward while she called and called his name.

When he came to his senses he was running for his life along the sandy jogging track, arms and legs pumping, his breath a desperate rattle in his throat. Something unnameable was chasing him. He could sense it, although dusk had fallen and he couldn’t see much in the starlight.

Then he realized those were hoofbeats behind him. He heard the horse snorting and the oaths of the rider. Exhaustion plunged through Caelan. His legs were burning, and his heart was hammering out of control.

He stopped abruptly and dropped to his knees, dragging in deep, gulping breaths of air. Shudders ran through him, and he had no idea how he’d gotten out here.

The horse reined up beside him, and its rider jumped down.

“Traulander?” It was Orlo’s voice, half exasperated and half afraid.

Caelan dragged in more air, lifting his hands to wipe the sweat drenching his face. “Yes, master.”

“Great Gault above, are you mad?” Orlo shouted. “What in the name of hell are you doing out here? How did you get past the guards? How did you get out of the arena? What are you doing running like this? You crazy fool, you can’t escape the compound.”

“I wasn’t trying.” Still panting, Caelan found unwanted memories washing over him. He could not shut them out. “That thing in there—the haggai—” His voice broke on him, and he shuddered.

“I see,” Orlo said at last. “You fool, you destroyed the initiation rites and risked the wrath of the gods, and now you run from the arms of ecstasy. Truly, you are mad.”

“I wish I were,” Caelan muttered, closing his eyes. “That thing—the sight of it—what in the name of the gods is it?”

“You saw a haggai?” Orlo sounded disbelieving.

Caelan nodded. “I didn’t want to go into the passageway when she—when it called to me. I figured I should preserve my strength the night before combat. But she—it cast some kind of spell on me. When I got close enough, I saw what it was.”

Orlo sighed. “That’s the whole point. You aren’t supposed to see them. Men would go mad, which is what happened to you. Am I right?”

Caelan remembered the order forbidding him to sever. “Yes,” he lied. “I went mad.” And perhaps it wasn’t a lie. He didn’t like losing himself this way. It was why he’d resisted severance at Rieschelhold, resisted those lost gaps of time spent doing the bidding of the masters with little or no recollection afterward of what he’d done.

He threw himself at Orlo’s feet, all pride gone. “Don’t make me go back to that creature. In the name of the gods, have mercy on me.”

“Hush.” Orlo kicked him back, sending him sprawling. “I’d rather have you stiff-backed and causing trouble than sniveling like this. Do you have regrets now for what you’ve done? The priests cursed you, do you understand?”

“Yes, master.” Caelan pulled himself to his feet, trying to regain his composure. “I didn’t like the blasphemous service they forced on us.”

“And who asked you whether your approval was needed? Gault above, you are more trouble than a ring full of Madrun prisoners of war. Aren’t you afraid now of tomorrow?”

“No more than before.”

“But you face the chance of death without the protection of the gods. You cannot enter the afterlife without—”

Orlo broke off his sentence as though realizing he was sounding too concerned. He cleared his throat and gave Caelan a shove. “Move! I’ve a dozen duties ahead of me tonight. No time to mess about with a superstitious Traulander who won’t take a night of pleasant forgetfulness with a haggai witch.”

Caelan faced him. “I will not go back to such a creature. If I am to be whipped for disobedience, then do so, because I will not—”

“Careful,” Orlo warned him. “You are an insolent dog, but it is a privilege, a generous gift, that is provided to condemned men, not an obligation.”

Some of the tension faded from Caelan. He let out a breath of relief.

“I do not bargain with slaves,” Orlo said. “Do you understand me? I do not bargain. But if you will not tell anyone that you saw a haggai, no matter what tales of pleasure are shared with you on the morrow, then I will quarter you with the veterans where they do not venture.”

Caelan was grateful but also surprised. “The veterans don’t—”

“I didn’t say that!” Orlo broke in irritably. “The veterans have their favorites. They go down deep into the  catacombs when they wish, but it is by their choice. The haggai do not seduce or lure them. Only the new fighters, for the first time.”

Caelan had more questions, but instinct told him he had pressed his luck far enough. “I am grateful for your mercy, master.”

“Walk,” Orlo said gruffly. “As stupid as you are, you’ll be dead by the first round. Just mind that when you are killed, you do not choose to haunt me. Gault’s mercy!” He made a swift gesture of supplication and glared at Caelan. “You should have taken the night of pleasure.”