Chapter Two - The Awakening, Part Four

Tritus was rubbing his hands eagerly. He could feel a sale.

Peace was good for business and war was good for business, but nothing shakes up the economy like a nice shift in power. With Ilstan gone a new aristocracy was going to emerge, rich with new money from Venger's campaigns in the Westerlands. With any luck, he'd be a part of it. A bigger house, more staff perhaps.

Vytrycean gold, Wystian sea-silk, Gythrian whisky… the allure of names and wealth teased him. All he wanted to do was ask questions like a small child.

"I want good-looking, capable slaves. No half-breeds. Preferably trained, but otherwise capable of learning." The Mage named Vyshe continued.

They were standing in Tritus's private booth overlooking the Arena. Below, the morning's fights were underway, around them the mob roared.

"Of course, all of my slaves are obedient and completely Human." Tritus replied, trying to hide the eagerness in his manner. Vyshe was tall, intense and dressed in Venger's dark, rich colours. He'd heard from his sources that Vyshe had played a key role in the capture of the city.

"Good." Vyshe said, staring out into the stands, watching the crowd. "Are you interested in politics, Mr Tritus?"

"In a manner of speaking. Only insofar as it affects business." Tritus said, watching the slaves below in their fight with the Dragon. It was a pale and sallow creature, hardly a Dragon at all, at least in a Classical sense.

"I've spent three years liberating the Westerlands, Humans, Giisi – many of the lesser races. They say this is the end of the line, that Venger's war ends here. What do you think?"

"I couldn't possibly comment." Tritus replied with a nervous chuckle. He was in the company of one of Venger's Mages – one of the Iryan traitors.

"Try." Vyshe commented dangerously. "As you say, your political interest is based on business. Is the name of Venger good for business?"

Tritus coughed. "People are investing, people like yourselves are buying. This is a good thing."

Vyshe nodded. He was watching the action below. The Idjian slave was leading the other slaves, guiding their attacks, circling the Dragon. "What do you think these people want?" Vyshe waved to the crowd, the mingled faces of the mob, all braying for violence and death. Each time a slave fell they crowed and cheered like carrion birds.

"Blood." Tritus said, the hair on his arms standing up.

"Indeed." Vyshe said. "The cry for blood. Stability and peace will not last. Venger's war has been one of vengeance and status. He has brought his army and his name to the doorsteps of the Harzish Kingdoms and the forests of Aelfheim."

The uncomfortable truth disturbed Tritus. He wasn't stupid, it was hard to ignore the proximity of the world's greatest races pressing down on Ymylic's borders. Ffin was a poor city, in a poor province in a poor land. The Human wealth lay elsewhere, across the sea in Idjia, Opello and Luuria.

"Soon, all will have to answer." Vyshe took a step towards the balcony's edge. The crowd was beginning to rise in anticipation. Blows could be heard from the sandy floor of the Arena. Tritus took a step forward and stood next to Vyshe.

"Who is that?" Vyshe was pointing at the Idjian slave who was locked in battle with the Dragon. His club was swinging in sharp, precise arcs, deflecting each blow of claws from the lizard. He was good, very good. Tritus had bought the boy when he was but a child from a Giisi trader in the Idjian capital. They said he's been brought up fighting Aurks. Tritus had believed them.

"That is one of my best fighters –" Tritus's reply began, but Vyshe didn't listen. From within his long navy robes a Staff appeared. For an instant Tritus recognised it, but couldn't think of where he'd seen it. With a clap of energy Vyshe leapt from the balcony and dropped the thirty foot to the Arena floor below.

Tritus swore under his breath and dived for the door. His short legs clattered on the stone as he descended the spiral staircase, shoving past all in his way.

The bright light of the Arena obscured his eyesight for a moment, when they adjusted he saw an incredible sight before him. Vyshe, the slave and the Dragon were engaged in a three-way battle. Thunderstrikes of power boomed around the Arena, prompting a frenzy from the crowd.

Terror gripped Tritus as his sandalled feet moved unconsciously closer to the battle. The slave moved with the grace and energy of a survivor. The Dragon attacked both Vyshe and the slave without prejudice, but Vyshe was only attacking the Slave. His movements were sharp and precise, his staff meeting the Slave's club blow for blow.

Shocked and horrified, Tritus watched as the Slave seemed to gain the upper hand, mastering the Dragon and using the beast against his opponent.

"Enough!" Vyshe bellowed, a wave of light exploding from his staff with a peal of bells. The Dragon reeled backwards, frozen mid-movement by a lyric of magic.

The slave fell, the club falling from his hands. Vyshe approached and picked up the weapon, calmly he examined both staff and club side by side. They were almost identical.

There was a silence from the crowd.

"I knew the man who crafted this boy," Vyshe said dangerously, his voice propelled menacingly around the Arena, "Where did you get it?"

The slave wasted no time, fearlessly he answered, "I defeated him. I took it from his cold, dead hands."

Vyshe's eyes widened, there seemed to be no question of the truth in the matter. Tritus's breath caught in his throat as he looked between Mage and slave.

Vyshe turned to Tritus and smiled, "How much for the Barbarian?"



Saraii's feet echoed unnaturally on the stone floor. Around her, Ilstan's quarters opened out, cave-like. An enormous four-poster bed, plush rugs and tapestries, lounging sofas and enormous open fire. He was standing in the centre of the room wearing only a loose gown.

"Come here, Saraii," his voice boomed, sounding distant and hollow. Her legs obeyed without question, her heart quailed within her chest. This was a mistake.

He took a glass of wine and passed one to her. Her hands stuck to the cold glass as he encouraged her to drink the alien liquid.

"Do not be afraid, child," his voice sounded light, but the words did not, "I am not going to hurt you. I merely wish to thank you for all the hard work you have done for me."

He retreats towards the bed and gestures for her to follow. Slower this time, she obeys his command and sits lightly on the edge of the bed. He looms over her like a storm-cloud, watching and waiting.

"I am very proud of you, Saraii." His hand reaches forward and touches a lock of her hair.

The air suddenly shimmers and her stomach twists…


She's awake and panting. Darkness envelopes her but she can still see the sickening room, his hands, the robe, the wine. Valiantly she works hard to quell the violence in her stomach, the disgust.

Who's were these memories? She wondered. Every night this week she'd dreamed of altenating places. In one, she was in the castle with the monster Ilstan. In the other she was in a house she was convinced was hers, surrounded by trees and cars. She had a brother, family – a happy, perfect life. A dream.

Tired and feeling empty she sat up and looked out of the narrow window. Her room was hundreds of feet up. She could see most of the city from this vantage. In all honesty she felt as detached from the world below as it looked.

From the next room she could hear whimpering then the rushing sound of the bell.

Saraii stood and walked to the door, gathering her robe around her. She opened the large wooden door and entered Attani's room. Candles lit the large bedroom revealing the bright colours and foreign antique toys. It was a playroom, bedroom – an entire universe for the creature that lay on the bed. A slender grey hand gripped the bell pull and Saraii walked over and took it away.

Softly her voice hushed the girl, wrapped up in her blankets.

"Cold, so cold," the girl whimpered. Saraii sat on the bed and drew the girl into her arms, rocking her back and forth. She'd done this every night since she'd been with the poor thing. Saraii would wake up from a nightmare memory and Attani would wake up too having seen an echo of the same nightmare in her own mind.

At first both had been scared. What connected them? How could they share a dream? But no answers were forthcoming to a maid and the girl everyone wished was not there. Captain Kytan and the Mage Scholars at the Academy had all ignored her appeals for answers. Now, they were both tired and wished they could just go to sleep.

"I know, I know," Saraii repeated gently feeling herself warm up slowly.

"I saw his mind. I saw what he wanted…" Attani whispered. Saraii seized up, horrified, and squeezed the girl closer.

Later, when Attani was finally resting, Saraii paced the room and unconsciously tidied things. The toys were put away, all the clothes arranged neatly for the morning. She emptied bed pans, changed the water, re-arranged the curtains, dusted the mantles until finally, she too was exhausted.

Attani called her the tidy-fairy, the imp that comes in the night and does all the things that no one wants to do. Despite herself, Saraii was growing attached to the burden she'd been placed with. Not even Venger wanted anything to do with his daughter. The rest of the staff ignored her, she was free to come and go as she pleased. But, of course, leaving their tower-top apartment meant leaving Attani alone. Over the days she'd watched a reluctant pattern emerge. She'd go down early in the morning to gather what they'd need for the rest of the day so that later, she would not have to leave the girl alone, in a cold room atop the highest tower in a land she didn't know.

From the bed Saraii flinched at the sound of a whimper. Softly she sat on the bed and finally slid under the covers. In her sleep the girl slid closer to Saraii and she lay there, staring at the patterned, childish ceiling of the bed until she too drifted off into the dark, sleep that awaited her.


Karnival. Saraii. Karnival. Saraii.

The words rebounded in Cole's mind like a game of Pong – not that he could visualise what that word meant anymore – the same two words, the same vital urgency, but with each passing second the meaning was slipping. He had memories – he was certain they were memories – of names, faces, places.

"It will all come back to you boy," the Apothecary told him serenely, "Do not worry. The siege made us all a little mad."

Cole was forced to listen to this every time he brought up the question of his memories. To them there was no question of where he'd come from, but Cole knew that he was not of this place.

"A force will remain here and continue to try and retake the city. Expeditions will be sent abroad to muster a counter-attack. Lord Ilstan has gone to Ylic, they say." The General said, confiding in the Apothecary.

Cole listened from the shadows. He kept away from the other soldiers when he wasn't helping out in the infirmary. He listened to the sounds of the camp and the whispers between comrades.

There'll be no help. We're on our own.

If we were any kind of patriots we'd be supporting Venger.

We'll stay until Ffin is ours again.

Rebellion was in the air, the soldiers were lost, split and lacking the leadership to unify them against the war to come. But Cole didn't care. He didn't bellong here and with each passing moment he lost the ability with which to see the details in his own mind. Dread and unease filled the wake left by his dreams.

One morning, a week, a month after his 'arrival', he was handed a pickaxe.

"You'll join the rest of the boys on the front now," a Captain commanded the tent of able bodied madmen, "We're shoring up our defenses for the winter. We need permanent shelter."

"How long will it take?" A small voice cried.

The Captain looked up sharply, his haunted eyes passed over the room. "A month – a year. As long as it takes."

"What about reinforcements?" Another asked.
The Captain shrugged and left them to their thoughts. Cole smiled, feeling the grip of the pickaxe. It felt real and comforting. Maybe the work would take his mind off things – help him remember. Maybe.