Freedom's Price | Chris Castro

The light in the dungeon was nothing but faint illumination seeping through cracks in the stone from above ground. Fortunately for me, I have something I don’t actually resent from the elvish half of my heritage: heat vision. It’s weaker with me, of course, because I’m not a full-blooded elf, but it works, so I don’t complain. Unfortunately for me, the undead don’t really stick out in dark, cold dungeons. They don’t generate any body heat, and they don’t breathe, so I can’t even watch for warm vapor to pinpoint their location. However, I have honed my sight over the years so that a barely perceptible boundary between creature and object emerges. It’s that I go for: tiny rippling flickers of movement. Of course sometimes I just end up skewering a bug.

So there I was, crawling through a dank, musty crypt filled with the fetid odor of the dead and the not so dead. Searching the darkness to the point of nearly spraining my eyes, I almost didn’t see it coming. I twisted my body defensively and, opting for the katana, swept it in a diagonal arc from right to left. When it didn’t contact anything, I knew I’d missed. When I felt the sting on my open thigh, I knew my opponent hadn’t. But it was a sting, not a horrible, tearing pain, which meant it was a nick. I glanced down and saw the heat rushing to escape from the small wound and thanked the gods of Dar-Jam’la for their kindly intervention. I could stitch it up later and it would leave only a small scar. For now, my attentions belonged elsewhere.

I brought the katana up to parry another stroke. With my eyes now slightly more adjusted, I could see what weapon met my own–a rusty short sword. Wonderful. My nick would probably become infected. A harmless, little, infected nick. That’s where carelessness gets you, I suppose. The rust wasn’t even new, or young on the blade, either. It was that dark, crusty sort of rust that builds up over the course of years, threatening disease from within its intricate layers of decay.

All at once I began to wish that I’d never walked through the rune-carved stone archway. I knew it would be dangerous. All my jobs are. But I’m never especially fond of exploring the mysteries of wrathu cairns, no matter how good the pay is. They’re dark, confining, smelly, and since they’re graves, they can always becomes your own.

Wrathu cairns are fairly rare in the Dar-Quti wastes. There are probably more in existence than any one man knows about, since sometimes they can be completely covered by sand and at other times laid bare by the desert winds. Legend tells that wrathu cairns were created when some sultan angered the gods. After his burial, the city was buried with him and disappeared into the sand. All that was left was a strange, dark cairn, nestled beneath the sand, from which strange wails and ghostly cries constantly emanated. People swore it was the tortured spirit of the dead sultan that was doing the crying, but anyone who’s been in and out of a wrathu cairn without losing their senses knows that the wails belong to something far worse than any pathetic, tormented spirit.

The last time I went into a cairn, I vowed it would be my final visit. So why did I keep venturing into them? For the treasure? For the thrill, perhaps? Maybe in some small way it helped me mentally. And no, before it comes up, I do not have zerka hair in my head. I like being scared out of my wits, knowing that every moment could be the moment in which I draw my final breath. I like fighting for my life, because it’s really the only thing I’m good at. And it helps me to ignore the past and concentrate on the present. There’s nothing worse than the life of a slave to drain the will from a person.

Blade grated on stone as I ducked a piercing thrust that was meant to pin my shoulder to the wall. Dust and flakes of rock sprayed onto my head but thankfully not into my eyes. I used the opportunity to strike, and felt as if I’d hit stone as well.

Cursing as I followed through with my thrust, I nearly twisted my wrist off as the blade caught awkwardly. I stumbled forward and let go of the handle, then tumbled out of the way as the short sword arced for my head. Rolling up into a sitting position, I flipped my arms behind my head and quickly unsheathed my second weapon: a bastard sword. Its weight is different than the katana’s, much heavier, wider and longer. It’s a slashing weapon like the eastern blade, but turned flat it can sometimes simulate the crushing force of a mace.

I heard the katana clatter to the floor as it finally slid out of my opponent. The truly annoying thing about skeletons is that they’re all bone. There are no soft and fleshy parts and they don’t bleed. They just come apart in bits, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, their bones break and then they’re easier to destroy. Otherwise, skeletons are one of the most inconvenient monsters in existence to defeat. As evidenced by my dilemma.

The skeleton moved jerkily towards me. It wasn’t that it was injured, that’s just how they walk. It’s an animated dead thing. I raised the bastard sword into a defensive position, gripping the hilt tightly. The skeleton’s approach was almost boring. It knew where I was, but it wasn’t in any hurry to get to me. It wouldn’t get tired, like I would, and time meant nothing to it since it was already dead. After a few moments of waiting, I decided to make the first move.

In two hands, my bastard sword was a much more lethal weapon than it could ever be one-handed. And if the tales they were beginning to tell about me in travel houses were true, more lethal in my hands than just any man’s. It was flattering, certainly, but I wasn’t about to refuse the praise. After living a life of slavery, if a man earns any respect at all, he’d better keep it. And prove it.

I feinted for the skeleton’s head, and as I expected, it moved to block. Instead, I changed the direction of my swing, and reversed the angle of the blade so that it smashed into the lower part of the skeleton’s bony sword hand. Contacting with part of the short sword’s pommel, my blade rang with a dull echo inside the musty chamber, and I heard a satisfying crackling noise. The sword flew from the skeleton’s ruined grasp, and shards of bone scattered onto the floor. As I dodged back to gauge the damage, the skeleton flexed the one remaining thumb it had on its hand, trying to understand what had happened to its weapon. The arm was still raised, and the skeleton’s head was cocked to one side as it peered at its broken appendage.

Wondering where my katana had fallen, half because I didn’t want to trip over it, and half because I didn’t want to lose it, I took a moment to survey the floor, but my vision wasn’t helping much. I could barely make out the contours in the mottled sandstone. Of the katana, there was no trace.

Glancing up, I noticed that the skeleton had recovered. It was moving around slowly, and was apparently interested in something other than its sword hand. I sighed and moved to finish the job. This time I went for the open ribcage, intent on crushing it inwards. I cut straight down the middle, trusting in the weight of the blade to carry through and split the bone, but my sword hit something else instead.

Gods be cursed, it was another sword. My sword. The katana.

Most people who know of me know that I carry two swords. The one I’m known to use more often is the bastard sword, and I choose it mainly because of the style I employ. I don’t have need for a shield; I always thought they were bulky and didn’t particularly allow for much maneuverability. I like the feel of a sword in both hands. That way I can control the blade completely, add as much strength to a thrust or slash as I need to, and parry more effectively. I’ve learned to use this style with the katana, but it’s much easier to do with the bastard sword.

But which sword I use more has very little to do with how much I’m attached to them. Truthfully, I’m more attached to my katana than my bastard sword. The bastard sword I bought. The katana I earned. It belonged to a wizard who owned me indirectly through a minor lord. He kept it on a mantle in his private chambers. One day he got careless around me and I was forced to steal it, and then kill him with it. The cold steel had seen me through many problems, and was literally the only reason I wasn’t a subdued and broken eunuch serving a bloated desert lord. So I was obviously unhappy that the skeleton had somehow located the weapon and decided it was his.

There was a high-pitched whine of steel as the swords slid off each other. I winced, not liking the sound of it, especially since I’d never meant for either of my swords to meet in that fashion. The skeleton was wielding my katana in its offhand, but it didn’t seem to affect its ability much. Just my luck. One would think that chopping off a hand might do something, but now the skeleton was even more dangerous than before. It had a better weapon, and didn’t need its other hand. And here I was, nicked and probably infected, still bleeding, with aching muscles and lungs screaming for a rest.

Suddenly, the skeleton came at me with surprising speed. I hadn’t been expecting it, since until now the cursed creature wasn’t doing anything other than shambling. It slashed low and I barely dropped the bastard sword in time to avoid losing both my legs. What was it with this skeleton and my lower extremities? At least it hadn’t aimed higher and more toward the center of my body. Thank the gods for that.

With very little time to react, I twisted the sword up to deflect another blow aimed at my head. The skeleton was relentless, and I was caught completely off guard. Could it be that it was actually angry about its missing hand? I had no time to attack, only time to defend. This was becoming a very dire situation. And worsening by the minute.

The only way to save myself was to try something new that the skeleton hadn’t seen before. I pushed aside the katana again with a little extra strength this time, ducked slightly and sprang upwards, performing a standing somersault to catapult myself behind the skeleton.

Just in time to lose my second sword.

The skeleton had raised the katana as I flipped past, knocking the bastard sword from my grasp. I heard it bounce onto the floor and slide somewhere into the darkness of the chamber. I spat with disgust and whirled around as I came up into a crouching position. The skeleton was just turning around, and I swear that despite what poor substitute I had for vision, it was grinning at me. So this was it. It would kill me with the weapon I’d used years ago to free myself from the bonds of slavery. And in a wrathu cairn, no less.

But then something split that grin in two. Literally. A large crack formed in the skeleton’s skull, snaking up from the chin all the way to the forehead. The creature wobbled, coming to a halt. I stared in disbelief as the two sides of its head peeled apart, falling to the floor, followed shortly by its torso, limbs, pelvis and legs, crumbling into dust on the way down.

I peered through the blackness for my unlikely savior and my breath caught in my throat when I realized who–no, what–it was.

It materialized out of the gloom, spreading from the shadows like mist. Glowing bluish-gray, it began to form into a vaguely humanoid shape. Cursing, I tried to move, and realized that I was paralyzed by my own fear of the thing. So I continued cursing; at least it was something.

Sunken eye sockets bereft of eyes and a sneering mouth full of sharp, phantom teeth decorated its hairless head. Ghostly robes covered its body, which levitated several inches above the cairn floor. Even without eyes, it was looking at me, and that’s when I realized that it wasn’t my fear of the creature that held me in place, but rather its gaze: empty, dreadful, all-knowing. The gaze of a legendary being–terrifying, and unfortunately for me, very real. I faced a wrathu.

Locked in an iron grip stronger than any chains crafted by men, I watched hopelessly as the wrathu advanced. A dark gray tentacle appeared from beneath its robes, searching the air, uncoiling like a serpent’s tail. Slowly, tortuously, it stretched towards me. Time dragged to a crawl as I watched the ethereal appendage from the corner of my eye. And at last, gently, almost like a caress, it touched my cheek, pulling me into darkness, away from the world.

Fingers gripped my hair painfully, jerking my head upright. The first thing I noticed was the heat. Muggy, smothering, not at all like the cool air of the dungeon. My throat was parched, seemingly sucked dry of all moisture. Gods, I needed water. My eyes stung with sweat dripping from my forehead. I tried to wipe it away, but met resistance as something dug into my wrists. Strong leather bonds, from the feel of it. Blinking away stinging sweat, I looked up into the face of my captor. And froze.

A long, thin face frowned down at me, wrinkles stretched across old bone. Gray whiskers splayed outwards above snarling lips, connected to a long beard that spiraled down into a point encircled by four beads. One white, and three black. The colors of a master sorcerer.

"Oh gods no," I sputtered, hanging in my restraints. "You’re dead. I killed you."

The blow came without warning. My head snapped to the side and I felt something come loose in my mouth. A tooth? Perhaps more.

His cackles were raspy, bark peeled from a tree. Letting go of my hair, Fahmir bin Sujhin, Master Sorcerer of the Dar-Quti wastes smiled at me with open contempt. "Dead? I should hardly think so. What ever gave you that notion, zulbi?"

Zulbi. Slave. The word I thought I had escaped many years ago. The very sound of it grated in my ears. Howling like a mad desert leopard, I lunged forward, attempting to tear my bonds from the walls. The pain of failure dug into my wrists as I continued to pull against them. No. Not zulbi. Not again.

"I killed you," I spat through clenched teeth.

"And yet I am here," the wizard motioned to himself, waving his arms about. His gaze hardened. "And so are you."

"They found you out in the desert," Fahmir continued, walking over to a table covered with small urns, bottles, and sheaves of parchment. The tent looked the same as it had the day the wizard slid off my bloody blade, face contorted in surprise. The flap was drawn shut and tied closed. No doubt guards were posted outside.

"Face down in the sand and near death. Fifty miles from here." Fahmir began to sort through the pile disinterestedly. "Only the gods know how you made it that far." His sneer curled into a grin. "But no matter. Distance is meaningless."

I tried to collect my thoughts. Gods, but it was hot. "I was–I was in a tomb…" Dim pictures came to me, of cautiously creeping down weathered stone steps revealed by wind, into darkness. But they began to slip away. I strained to remember my purpose there. Where? I shook my head, trying to fight off the heat in the haze of my mind.

"A tomb, you say?" Fahmir chortled. "The desert would have been your tomb, indeed."

"No, I… I was looking for…" What was I looking for? Images swam into my head, of faraway lands and towns where I drank from wells that overflowed with no end. And there was a woman, with copper curls and a smile sweet as nectar. My hands clenched as I tried to hold onto these memories, but they eluded me, drifting, dissolving, out of reach. "I am Moon. I am a free man. I am no zulbi."

"Moon?" Fahmir straightened from the clutter, looking at me quizzically. His brows furrowed. "You have no name," he said. "You are a slave, my property, as you always have been. Only now," he paused, traversing the room to where a large woven basket sat, "I have no more need of you."

Lifting the lid, the sorcerer reached into the basket and slowly pulled something from it. It was squirming in his hand. Long, thin tentacles searched the air curiously, suckers at the ends opening and closing in hunger. The creature’s body was small, fitting easily into the palm of Fahmir’s hand. The wizard stroked its black, fur-covered back as he looked at it, almost lovingly.

All at once, I felt dread seep through me. Staring at the creature, I recognized it immediately for what it was: a tarzz’t. I’d heard tales of these desert scavengers, but never actually seen one. Even the most hardened desert traveler bristled at the mention of a tarzz’t, preferring not to speak of one or to even so much as think of one. And I didn’t blame them. Encountering one in the desert was not all too uncommon, although most of the time they hid under the sand, just out of sight. The unwary victim would step on the resting-place of the tarzz’t and realize his folly, but it was always too late. Tentacles would whip out of the sand, suckers latching onto open flesh. Tearing them off was painful and costly, almost always resulting in the loss of a leg or massive bleeding, or both. But that was not the true danger of the tarzz’t. Once attached, it would begin to suck the moisture from your body. Quickly. And it wouldn’t stop until it drank every last drop.

As I watched Fahmir bring the tarzz’t over, I remembered a time from my childhood, living in a camp of nomads, when a dead man was brought back from the desert. Or, at least, they claimed it was a man. The withered, misshapen corpse carried in on a litter looked more like a dark, twisted branch, brittle and coarse. I shuddered, clenching my teeth. The wizard looked into my eyes and realized my terror.

"I can tell from your expression that my pet requires no explanation," Fahmir said, still petting the tarzz’t. Holding up a hand, palm outwards, the sorcerer barked sharply. "Hold."

And just like that, my joints froze. My muscles stiffened, holding me in place. Magic. Gods cursed magic. I felt the sweat drip down my face, and watched the tentacles of the tarzz’t quiver, sensing its meal from a distance. It was all I could do to watch hopelessly as Fahmir held the creature up to my chest. The tentacles stretched in all directions, touching my skin, looking for the right place to sink into my flesh.

Fahmir backed away, a proud and evil beast. Holding up his palm again, he reversed the spell. "Release."

Fire exploded all around me as the sharp ends of the suckers dug in. I arced my back, flailing around in pain as I felt the tarzz’t begin to feed. How could this happen? I was a free man! No longer a slave! I had killed that bastard get of a zerka! Bathed in agony, I barely realized that I was screaming, searing my throat with curses. I tried desperately to cling to my memories. After slaying Fahmir, I has escaped into the desert with only a few possessions, katana in hand, not knowing whether I would survive the journey or not, yet filled with the ecstasy of freedom. But where had I gone? Whom had I met? I caught glimpses of faces, rooms, duels that left me hanging by a thread of life. It all faded, lost to the pain. I gnashed my teeth, still wailing. He was dead. I was free! What else could I hold onto but that?

Beneath the pain, apart from the madness, I could feel myself losing strength. The tarzz’t was feasting, and soon it would be done. My vision blurred, but still I could see Fahmir standing there, smug and vicious. Had I ever killed him? Or were these memories I was so sure of moments before just desert hallucinations? I had always been a slave, a zulbi, had I not? No longer feeling the pain, just the weakness and the promise of death, I let my head drop, mouth open and dry. So dry. Peering at the instrument of my demise, I prepared to surrender completely.

And instead my eyes fixed on my salvation–a tiny blemish on the surface of my open thigh. Pus oozed from a shallow, ordinary cut. A harmless, little, infected nick. The sword and the cut. The skeleton in the cairn. The wrathu. It all came flooding back to me in one instant. I was a sword for hire, traveling the Dar Quti wastes in search of something new, in search of danger and surprise. I was a fabled swordsman who had shaken off the bonds of slavery to make my own way in the world. I was no one’s slave, least of all his.

The tarzz’t was gone. As I looked up, my surroundings wavered, threatening to crumble at any moment. I was still shackled, but I could feel the leather beginning to slip from my wrists. Eyes wide, Fahmir drew a knife from his belt and lunged at me. The man I had killed. I almost laughed.

The katana was in my hands. As I ducked the lunge, the light and heat of the tent dropped away. The darkness of the cairn swallowed it up, and I welcomed it. The wrathu, forced into corporeal form when it touched me, was inches from my face. With a howl to frighten a mad desert leopard, I swung upwards driving all my strength and momentum into the slash.

Sliding my katana into its sheath, I found the base of stairs, still covered with dust and sand except for where I’d stepped in it when first descending into the cairn. Stopping, I turned back, peering into the darkness. There was no longer any sign of movement. There was no longer any sound but the wind that whipped by in the dunes above. This was no longer a wrathu cairn; it was just a grave, a tomb, preserving dead things long buried. And there I buried the memory of Fahmir, of my fears, of my struggles, of my slavery. I had won my freedom a second time this day, and by the gods, I meant to enjoy it.