Under the Crimson Sun

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.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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.

But as before, there were three figures on the plane. One was the Voidharrow, one was Drahar-but the other was Rol Mandred.

But no, he was merely a shadow, a remnant of the original consciousness that belonged to the body. Mandred was curled up in a corner of the plane against one of the green walls, not moving, not even breathing.

Even that shadow would be gone before too long.

Drahar faced the Voidharrow. Unlike the previous time, Drahar came in on the floor.

You wish to control me, minion?

“I wish to work with you, dreadnaught,” Drahar said. “We should not be at odds. Together, we can-”

Do nothing. The Voidharrow does not collaborate, I subsume. And then I destroy. Your assistance is neither required nor necessary, minion.

And then the dreadnaught struck Drahar. The walls grew darker, becoming the color of cacti.

“Something’s wrong.”

Komir looked up at his sister’s words. He was standing in the arena, looking up at the wooden seats in front of the obsidian walls. With no people in the seats, the black walls were intimidating as hell. He felt as if he was staring right into the Abyss.

Karalith had come in through the entryway to the holding area. Remnants of a rusted metal gate hung from the top of the entryway like stalactites, all that remained of the gate after Zabaj had kicked his way through it, freeing the enslaved fighters.

“What’s the matter?” Komir asked.