Chapter Two - The Awakening, Part Two

Frank felt himself crushed under Cole's weight. The sounds of the Carnivale invaded the tunnel as they entered the maw of the ride.

Sarah was screaming, her hands on Cole trying to hold him back.

A sound grew in the belly of the beast, lights danced around them. Faces lit up in a frenzy of kinetic movement. Demons and ghosts, violent images.

The sound grew into a scream that absorbed all others.

Then, there was silence.

He woke up to a dead leg.

"Get up!" The gruff voice shouted, moving on to the sleeping lump next to him. He blinked, trying to discern the details around him. A canopy of trees shimmered into focus. A gloved hand wiped his face as he stood up unsteadily.

Frank looked down at himself and tried to piece together the holes in his head.

Beyond the trees he could see a valley stretching out below a ridge. Gentle farmland rolled away into the distance away from the wooded foothills until it reached a smoking walled city sitting atop cliffed plateau. Around it stood the dark moat of the sieging army, trying vainly to reclaim it.

"Ffin," a voice muttered beside him, he turned to face a woman. She was dressed head to foot in a camouflaged cloak of green leaves. Beneath it she wore a tunic of green leather similar to his. "And the Aelf say we can't build beautiful cities." She snorted before turning to walk away. Frank meant to stop her but his voice caught in his throat. Something was wrong. His dream infected him, it had all seemed so real. The last few days blurred together in one long stream of images.

Lined down the path, resting in the shade of the trees was a score of unnumbered people. Bedraggled survivors and refugees worn with marching. The gruelling pace they'd set could be seen in their eyes.

Something definitely wasn't right. Uncertainly he followed his legs up the slope, trying to work the sleep out of his stiff muscles. At the top of the path he found the woman. She was old enough to be his mother.

"What's your name?"

"Elai," she replied with a brisk smile. She handed him a short sword, a wooden quiver and a short bow. Unconsciously his hands strapped them to his body.

"Elai. That's a nice name."

She laughed at him. "Why do you want to know?"

He shook his head, distracted, "My name's Frank." He blurted, ignoring her question. There were things he needed to say, he needed to have said.

"That's a strange name." She replied, handing weapons to another figure dressed in green. "Nice, but strange."

He nodded. He knew it was a strange name

"Are you feeling well?" Elai asked, a look of motherly conern in her bright grey eyes.

He nodded again. In truth he felt fine – better than fine, he felt wonderful and intensely alive. But something sat at the centre of his being like a stone of dread. Bizzarely, this stone had a face. She was young and pretty. He didn't know her name but he knew she was real. Images returned to him from his dream but he couldn't think of the words to describe them.

Frank looked up and saw an old couple stumbling up the path. The man was shaken, his wife was trying to hold him back, but his withered hands were determined to stretch out before him towards the branches of a specific tree. Frank placed a hand on the old man's arm and asked him what was wrong.

"The fruit…" he muttered earnestly, his eyes wide and wet, "The fruit."

"He's a little confused," his wife compensated, her voice frail and worn, "We grew these trees back in the city and made preserves. We worked for Lord Ilstan in the Royal Gardens. He loved the fruit. When his mind was sound he'd enter them in the Karnivale."

Frank leaned up and pulled one of the fruit off the trees. It looked familiar but he couldn't think of the word. "What is it?" He asked softly. Her look was puzzled, as if he'd just fallen out of a tree.

"It's Symblene dear," she replied, "Haven't you ever had one?"

He shook his head, smiled and walked a short distance away. Something fundamentally wasn't right. Why couldn't remember the name of the fruit?

Under the light of the rising sun he adjusted the scabbard at his waist and shrugged the quiver and bow on his back into a more comfortable position. Ahead the rest of the marauders were gathered in a semi-circle around their leader.

"Keep the civvies moving." The silver bearded man addressed the assembled, "We'll make Ean by nightfall."

Frank watched the faces of the marauders. Misfits, grey faces and grey eyes for the most, those without stories or no wish to tell them, they moved away to gather the flock silently.

Why did all of his memories feel like dreams?



Sarah could still hear Cole's voice pummelling in her ears. She'd never seen him like this before. The sight of him, his pupils wide, incensed and all of his massive form driven to violence, terrified her.

Inbetween then and now she must have passed out, she thought, a degree of clarity returning to her. She must have gone somewhere and drunk a barrel of beer to get over it. She certainly felt like she'd drunk enough o floor an elephant. All of her muscles ached and there were defintiely cuts and bruises in places.

Grimly she tried to sit up and assess where she was but it was easier said than done. Her hands and clothes were soaked in some slimy substance. Something was itching her and an entire side of her face felt numb and cold. Around her she could hear noises, clanging, the rushing of feet – high voices.

Her eyes opened slowly and for a moment all she could see was darkness. Light and shadow slowly seperated like oil over water. She was on the floor of a long, smoky stone room. Her nostrils were assaulted by a rainbow of pungent kicks. The floor, she realised, was filthy. Rife with mud and faeces.

Shocked and sickened, she sat up and saw that her hands and dress were covered in the stuff. Wait a moment…

Dress???

Looking down at the coarse, pale sack-cloth disaster she was wearing in horror, she almost dismissed what was going on around her. Similarly dressed were dozens of men and women bustling around her. The same drab materials, all to-ing and fro-ing across the room.

Across the vaulted space she saw a blazing fire, over it, spit-roasting and dripping with fat must have been an entire pig. Enormous pots were boiling. The air above the floor was rich with the smell of cooking and heat. Everyone was ignoring her. This was ridiculous. How much could she have drunk in order to end up in a medieval recreation?

Slowly getting to her feet, she assessed how she felt. More bewildered than angry – though whoever had put her up to this would pay. Obliquely, ignoring the people around her and rubbing the sore spot on her head and arms she moved through the throng of the kitchen towards the door. Her thoughts lingered on a hot shower, a big breakfast then a consolatory binge of retail therapy, when a sweaty, slug-fingered hand gripped her by the ear.

"There you are, you swine of a gel!"

The hand spun Sarah around until she was face to face with a rotund, greasy middle-aged woman who must have been one of the cooks. The woman's expression curdled from angry to disgusted as she examined the horrific state Sarah was in. "Rolling in muck again, have we? Time enough to clean you I suppose, you lazy slut. The Captain of his Lordship's guard wants to examine you."

The woman's grip didn't lessen as she dragged Sarah through the murky kitchen and into the sharp outside air of a courtyard. The smell out here was so appalling that it made her reel. Dogs, pigs and fowl in all states were hobbled together in pens between four towering stone walls. The narrow chasm seemed to lean in on her, trapping out the light.

"Get over there and get those rags off." The woman commanded. Meekly Sarah began to pull away her dress, wondering whether this was all part of the act. Sarah's mind slugglishly tried to figure out where all of her clothes had gone. When she was down to her petticoat Sarah heard a splashing noise from behind her. She turned to see the imposing woman holding a bucket of filthy water.

"Arms up gel," she sneered before dousing her with the bitter tasting, ice cold water.

The next moments passed in a haze of shock and terror. The effect of the water reduced her to tears, unlocking all of the hidden hurts she'd been valiantly hiding behind for some time. Cole, Robby and Frank haunted her in vivid detail. As the woman rubbed her down with a coarse sheet and rough-handled her into a new dress, the guilt and anger sat in her gut, indigestible and acidic, like bile.

She was led dejected by the hand through the bowels of the castle, along the back corridors and narrow servants passages until she was led out into a wider, plushly decorated avenue of tall windows and tapestries. All the while the austere woman muttered bitterly to herself.

"Why Ilstan ever gave a rag like you the time of day, I'll never know. Private maid, my arse. I wonder how intimate you were with his sheets, you sly cunny." Sarah winced at every remark, every bewildering comment. Her eyes were beginning to blur and her skin was crawling with the sickening rhythm of fever. Was it a hangover? She couldn't remember anything and this charade was beginning to scare her. The intensity of it, the reality. It was like she'd walked into someone else's life.

Two enormous wooden doors swung inwards admitting the woman and Sarah. They were standing in a wide hall, lining both sides were two lines of black armoured knights facing each other. In the centre of the hall stood a tall black knight in a long, flowing cloak. His helmet was adorned with the black tusks of a ram.

The woman bowed deeply and retreated without saying a word, leaving Sarah alone and terrified in the middle of the hall. When the black knight finished looking over a roll of documents he looked up and walked towards her.

"You must be Saraii." He said, his voice echoing mechanically from within his helmet. Sarah blinked.

"I am Captain Kytan." He continued without waiting for a reply. "I hear you served the recently departed Lord Ilstan as his private maid." He was scanning down a roll of parchment and looking to her for verification. Blank with fever she nodded weakly. "Good. I have been sent ahead by my own Lord to prepare for his coming. Top of his list of priorities was the task for which I have you in mind."

He turned and began walking away, like a ghost she followed him unconsciously as if commanded like a puppet. "The new master of this city is a generous man. A man who has been misrepresented and resisted for his beliefs. He's a man of principle and I hope you will come to see that." He led her down the aisle of knights to the end of the room. The light draining in from the wall of glass blinded Sarah momentarily. As the glare cleared she could see the castle sweeping away from them. Towers and keeps rose up with within the walls of castle in tiers. Beyond, a vast and ancient city surrounded it. Sloped tile rooves, thousands of chimneys and a haze of smoke that glowed in the early morning light. Sarah's breath caught in her throat and her hands began to tremble.

"I want what is best for this world. I want to help my master carve its future. Have you heard the motto, Strength in Division?" Kytan said, his voice sounded more alien by the second. This is a dream. A nightmare, Sarah thought. "Most people believe that strength comes from working together. Unity forms a semblance of strength, but it is a mirage, a falsehood. Strength comes from driving the individual to meet its own needs. Ambition, focus and purpose – these are the organs of strength. To this end Lord Venger wishes to distance, himself from someone close to him. Lord Venger has no need of a Maid, but his daughter does."

Sarah barely heard him speak, she only listened to the rhythm, the reality of the fact that she could hear his words. Nothing else seemed real. Nothing else mattered.

What had happened? Sickened and numb she thought of her brother. What on earth had happened?




The Idjian slave sat up in his cot and rubbed his ears. They were waxy.

The earthy bowels of the Arena were hot at this time of the morning. The cattle, slaves, fighters and workers bundled in close proximity created a swealtering heat. He was used to it. It was all he'd ever known.

Around him, the other men and boys were stirring, hanging through the bars of the cells waiting for food. He didn't need food, not yet. Maybe if he lived to the afternoon he might think about it. For now, the gnawing sensation was comforting.
When the time came the guards opened the gates and the slaves of the morning were led out and chained together. They sat in the low armoury that huddled near the gates of the arena.

They'd told him that there was a war going on – that the city had changed hands. New rulers were stepping it. All that didn't matter down in the Slave Pit. People still wanted to see violence and gore and the Arena kept its gates open.

"Barbarians," Tritus, his owner greeted the assembled, "We have come a long way together. You've proved yourselves worthy fighters. I have been told that you embody, in pure fighting form, everything that our glorious new ruler admires in our sickening, putird race. Aelf we are not, Harz we are not. We are Brythic flesh, flawed, infertile and violent to the core."

He looked around at them, admiring each in turn for their reserve, blank and hollow. They were bred to die, they all understood this. A worker shuttled along the lines and unlocked the chains. Every man and woman walked past the the weapons rack. The Idjian slave reached into the rack and found his favourite weapon, the club. Everyone else chose swords or maces or any of the pointed, vicious looking weapons. The Idjian slave liked the feel of the wood flesh. It served him well.

Adjusting his loincloth he stood awaiting the rapture of the fight on the ramp that climbed into the arena. From here they could all hear the roar of the crowd, and just over the top of it, the sound of puking flame. The Idjian slave smiled.

"Barbarians. Die with honour. Today, you fight Dragons!" Tritus bellowed up the ramp and the slaves roared in kind, before running out into the sun.