Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [60]
She had a sudden vision of Torval, striding through the heavens, pulling on rope lines that were tied to the world, dragging the world behind him. He was old and weary and his wounds were many. His armor was dented, his shield splintered. Yet he ran on, defiant.
“Your gods are dead,” Raegar kept telling them.
Beaten down. Desperate. Dying, maybe. But not dead.
Aylaen lifted her woman’s voice and joined in the song. Rich and mellow, her voice soared on the crests of the deeper voices of the men. She pulled on the ropes until her hands were blistered and bloody and sang herself hoarse in praise of Torval.
The crowds had turned out to jeer or gawk at the barbarian slaves. But their mocking laughter was drowned out by the singing. Many Sinarians who had come to sneer and pity ended up admiring and applauding. The streets that day were full of slaves. They looked up from their onerous chores: cleaning the muck from the gutters, carrying slop jars, shuffling in long chained rows to work in the mines or the clay pits, hauling their masters about in curtained chairs, cooling their mistresses with fans. They saw the Torgun, this new crop of slaves proud and defiant, and for the first time some dared to find hope in their hearts.
The Torgun fought their own battle that day. They had no care for the battles of others. They would never know it, but they lit sparks in the hearts of many. They started tiny fires in the wet and filthy straw, and because no one was paying attention, no one noticed the thin, wispy, ominous puff of smoke.
The all-seeing Aelon saw, however. He saw much as he gazed into the future.
Last came Acronis riding in his chariot. He had created a public sensation; this parade of his would be the topic of discussion among the populace for days, perhaps months. His friends would be pleased for him, his enemies consumed with jealousy. But he thought little of all that. He rode through the streets, paying scant attention to the cheering throngs, impatient to reach the end. He wanted to see the smile on one face, to see the light in one pair of eyes.
The Torgun hauled their ship toward a vast arena. They had no idea what it was. It looked like a bowl sunk into the ground surrounded by benches. In the center was what appeared to be a large fire pit. The remnants of circles and lines that had been painted on the grass could still be seen; the rain had not yet washed them away from the last Para Dix game. Large boulders, some as tall as a man, were placed at various intervals around the field. A track for wagons and chariots and other vehicles circled the center playing field.
Acronis entered the Para Dix arena to the cheers of the audience. The Torgun pulled their ship into the arena and, at Zahakis’s direction, came to a halt. Skylan tried to keep his face stern and impassive, hoping he did not show his feelings of bafflement and confusion. He had seen sights this day that he could not have imagined. A glance at his friends told him they felt much the same.
Acronis in his chariot rolled up to the royal stand. He bowed to his new Empress—a vapid woman wearing an elaborately coiffed red wig. Her eyes were painted with kohl, her lips with carnelian. She rewarded weeks of danger and monotony, death and hardship, with a tepid smile and a vague nod and held up her pug dog so that he could get a better view.
In truth, though he bowed to the Empress, Acronis saw only one person—a slight girl of about fifteen years, small in stature, thin for her age, seated on cushions several rows removed from the Empress and her party. The girl’s eyes were large and brown and shining with pride. Her smile was Acronis’s sunrise. She was clapping so hard her hands must sting.
She pointed to the barbarian ship, the Venjekar, and