Keith Decandido - Under the Crimson Sun

Gan was going insane sitting around.

Feena had told him to stay in the back office where the money was kept. A messenger from the castle had brought the “investment capital”-three thousand gold, with the promise of another two thousand once the treasurer determined that the first thousand had indeed been spent on upkeep.

That determination would never take place, of course. Thirty silver would go to the fighters, and there were some other expenses involved-like all that ale the fighters drank at Dedie’s-but mostly the Serthlara Emporium would wind up with a near-three-thousand-gold profit, and Gan would have his freedom once again.

Fehrd would still be dead though.

And then there was Rol.

With the three thousand in place, it was just a matter of distracting the soldiers and the mind-mages in such a way that they could get Rol out of there.

Gan’s job was to stay in the back room for the dual purpose of guarding the money and staying out of sight. He’d been a prominent fighter there, albeit only for a couple of days, and someone might recognize him. The eye patch, after all, was distinctive.

But after sitting in the office for the better part of a day, he was going quite mad. His knees ached, his left eye socket itched, and he had to pee.

So he got up and walked around for a bit, locking up the door to the office to keep the money safe.

As soon as he turned a corner, he bumped into a man in fine linens who looked maddeningly familiar.

Then he recalled when last he’d seen him: in a palanquin outside the tavern near the oasis. It was Chamberlain Drahar. He was being escorted by two soldiers.

“Excuse me,” Gan said quickly, turning around to go back to the office. He promised never to leave it ever again.

“Stop,” the chamberlain bellowed.

Not wanting to do so, Gan ignored the order and kept going.

“Stop that man.”

Unlike Gan, the soldier did as Drahar instructed, and he ran after Gan. Quickly picking up speed, Gan started to run, hoping that the staircase he thought was around the corner was still there, as once he got downstairs, he could easily lose the soldier in the catacombs.

However, the staircase wasn’t there-it was the dead end that led to the office he’d just locked.

Turning around, he saw the soldier facing him while holding a large bone staff. “I don’t like it when folks make me run.”

The soldier swung downward with his staff, which Gan was able to block by crossing his wrists-one of the first tricks Fehrd had taught him during his one and only lesson in use of the staff as a weapon.

He then grabbed the staff and yanked it downward, forcing the soldier to lose his grip. With the staff firmly in hand, Gan struck the soldier in the jaw, sending him onto his back. Gan finished him off by slamming one end of the staff into his nose.

The soldier lay dead at his feet, the bones of the nose having been jammed up into his brain. Gan then ran back the way he came, hoping that he could run away before the second soldier caught up.

Like far too many of Gan’s hopes of late, it was a forlorn one. The soldier slammed his right arm into Gan’s throat as he turned the corner, sending him crashing to the floor in the same manner as the first soldier had done a few seconds earlier.

However, the second soldier didn’t finish Gan off, instead yanking the staff out of his hands and hauling Gan to his feet, pulling his arms behind his back.

Roughly bringing Gan to Drahar, the soldier said, “ ’Ere ’e is, sir.”

Drahar stared at him. “You were a fighter in this arena. I saw you. Yet now you walk around free. Something about that is wrong. Something about all of this is wrong.” He turned to the soldier. “Take me to Mandred’s cell, and bring him with us.”

“Yessir.”

Gan put up a struggle out of habit, but he knew it was no good. The soldier had him gripped tightly.

He tried not to think too hard about how he had screwed up yet again .

They went downstairs to the catacombs, eventually winding up in front of the cell where they’d put Rol. Three mind-mages were standing outside the door, concentrating for all they were worth. A soldier-that one a sergeant-was standing next to them.

“I’m not sure what’s going on here,” Drahar said to the sergeant, “but until I do know what’s going on, I want Mandred back in the palace where I know we can control him.”

The sergeant looked confused. “My lord?”

“I will take responsibility with the king, Sergeant. I believe that there is a trick being pulled on us.”

For a moment, Gan considered denying it, then decided, for once in his life, to not speak. Talking would just make things worse.

As the sergeant moved toward the door to unlock it, the mind-mages each stepped back, their faces still twisted with concentration, eyes focused forward on the door, none of them actually looking where they were walking.

With a creak, the door flew open, the sergeant telling the monster that Rol had turned into not to move (as if he could).

Then one of the mind-mages slipped on a bit of green pus on the stone floor that hadn’t been cleaned up.

A second and a half later, all hell broke loose.

At last!

The dreadnaught was free.

Joy echoed throughout the mind that once belonged to Rol Mandred, as the Voidharrow chortled with glee at the loosening of the mental bonds that had been used to shackle the dreadnaught in place.

It was the first of many soldiers of Tharizdun that would stalk across the land bringing the god’s will to life. As the Voidharrow’s first act of freedom, the dreadnaught reached out to grab the soldier on top of his head and then twist. With a meaty squelch, flesh tore and blood spurted, and the snap of the man’s spine as it broke in twain echoed in the corridor.

The dreadnaught exited the cell in two lengthy strides, face-to-face with the psionists, as well as the king’s chamberlain, Drahar; another soldier; and Gan Storvis, the one-eyed human who had been friends with Rol Mandred.

The Voidharrow took great glee in the look of dismay on the one-eyed human’s face at the sight of what his friend had become.

A dismay that increased noticeably when the dreadnaught grabbed two of the psionists around the waist, picked them up, and slammed them headfirst into the third one’s torso. Flesh and bone and muscle and blood commingled in a twisted, pulpy mass from the impact of the three bodies against one another.

The soldier turned and ran away, and Drahar looked as if he wanted to do the same, but instead he seemed to be preparing to cast a spell.

Gan Storvis stepped forward. “Rol, it’s me. Please, you’ve got to-”

With a mighty howl, the dreadnaught opened all three lips and screamed, making it clear to the one-eyed human that he had no say in what the dreadnaught had to do.

Even as the dreadnaught screamed, Drahar cast a spell. The scream modulated from one of anger to one of agony as spikes of pain shot through the dreadnaught’s head.

Drahar was attempting to regain control. The Voidharrow could not allow that, so it resisted.

Gan continued to plead his pathetic cause. “C’mon, Rol, you can do it. Fight this.”

But Rol was no longer a factor. The Voidharrow had taken full possession of this body and transformed it into something better.

The dreadnaught backhanded Gan across the face with its left hand, sending Rol’s friend through one of the doors to the cubicles that held the fighters.

To his credit, Drahar only hesitated for a moment before casting another spell.

One that brought the dreadnaught back to the Astral Plane where the Voidharrow and Drahar had had their last conversation. The multicolored plane was designed differently than before. The ground was earth, not metal, and it was cerulean. The walls were a sickly green, while the ceiling was striped.