Trial of Chains_Crimson Crossroads_Book One Read online

  TRIAL OF CHAINS

  BOOK ONE OF

  CRIMSON CROSSROADS

  WRITTEN BY

  SOHAN AHMAD

  Trial of Chains is a fictional work. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations are coincidental

  Copyright © 2017 by Sohan Ahmad

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be produced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form, binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Chained Snakes

  Chapter 2: Bound by Love

  Chapter 3: The Scarlet Sea

  Chapter 4: Bound by Hate

  Chapter 5: A Slave’s Price

  Chapter 6: Lost Eyes

  Chapter 7: Bale’s Tale

  Chapter 8: Drifting with the Wind

  Chapter 9: A Castle for a Cage

  Chapter 10: Hunt the Hidden

  Chapter 11: Two Mothers

  Chapter 12: Blood, Sweat, and Fears

  Chapter 13: Shiny New Chains

  Chapter 14: The Blue Woman

  Chapter 15: Bound by Lies

  Chapter 16: Shackles of Blood

  Chapter 17: Caged Demons

  Chapter 18: The Devil’s Court

  Chapter 19: Bound by Pride

  Chapter 20: Gentle Breeze

  Chapter 21: A Demon’s Snake

  Chapter 22: Crowned Ghost

  Chapter 23: Sebastian’s Shadow

  Chapter 24: Bloody Winds

  Chapter 25: Breaking Chains

  Epilogue: The Hereafter

  Chapter 1: Chained Snakes

  On a midsummer’s noon, a deep dark cast its shade, blocking out the yellow sun. From within the pitch black, two sets of eyes opened to the light of fists pounding away at their flesh and bone. A pair of young boys huddled tightly, shielding one another from a storm of hammering hands.

  “I’m scared, My Prince,” a boy in rags whispered, his scruffy hair blacker than a starless sky.

  “There’s nothing to fear Cyrus,” answered the other, his garments fine yet stained with the gold dust of the city streets. “You’re my brother, and I’ll always protect you.”

  But I’m just your slave. “Brother,” Cyrus said the word as if it were a gift. “I’m supposed to protect you,” he reminded though his dark forest-green eyes trembled.

  Before they could continue, one of the attackers barked, “This what you get for bad mouthing the great Snake Eater.” His fury spilling over them like the spittle of a rabid dog. “Go back to the wasteland where you belong.”

  “Please stay calm, Brother,” the slave whispered. “Words can’t hurt us.”

  “Words hurt more than any fist,” the prince replied, his short, ruffled strands of strawberry-red hair highlighting big, yellow eyes that blazed like the sun. “How dare you!” he shouted, throwing wild punches in their defense. “I am Marcus Elijah, the crowned prince of Isiris. When the city guards find out...”

  “Ya hear that, boys? We’re in the presence of royalty.” One of the attackers interrupted, laughing with the others in his pack. “Stupid prince of dirt thinks he matters. No city guard’s gonna waste his time for a piece of south-born trash like you.” Thousands of feet beat like drums through the city streets, drowning out the conversation as a rainbow of fabrics danced through the tempered air, blinding any who might have cared.

  “Hold on a sec,” the gang’s leader said with a twinge in his brow. “I hear you snake worshippers enjoy watchin men kill for sport. Fight and the winner goes free. The loser gets to stay wit us.”

  “Do your worst,” Marcus answered with a sneer.

  “Guess you both stay then.”

  Against the return of crashing fists, the brothers returned to their protective huddle. “Don’t worry, Brother. Once Sir Archonis finds us, we’ll be safe.” Cyrus reminded his royal brother who sulked silently within the shade of northern hands.

  The beating continued until Marcus caught glimpse of a glint that stood out among the myriad sights and sounds. “Did you see that, Brother?” the Isirian prince pointed forward with his eyes. “I swear I just saw a spark of light.” For the briefest moments, a flash of clashing steel revealed a swordsman. He blinked, and the wandering blade vanished within the crowds like a whisper as his opponent fell to the dirt.

  “No,” the young slave answered, his gaze affixed to the threat that surrounded them. “Chronosian hatred is all I see.”

  Amidst their conversation, the attackers barked yet again. “You Southern Snakes live off our scraps for hundreds o’ years and don’t even show us no gratitude.”

  Oh no. Please ignore them Brother, don’t listen. Cyrus waited for an angered retort, but Marcus did not say a word. “Brother, are you hurt?” Cyrus asked, his eyes stained with panic.

  “Forget those ignorant Chronosians.” Marcus broke his silence. “Look at the wound on that body. It’s so clean; barely a drop of blood.”

  Not a single Chronosian stops to mourn the dead man. While Marcus marveled at northern swordplay, Cyrus saw a different sight. I had hoped the North would be different, less savage.

  It was a particularly warm summer day; the boys’ torment transpired in Tempo, capital of the nation of Chronos. Known as the Timeless City, it was a haven of indulgence, flagrantly moving to the beat of its patrons’ desires. Tempo was the jewel of the kingdom, home to the royal palace, and the bustling hub of trade throughout the region. Located at the center of the nation, the capital was vast, spanning nearly a thousand miles across.

  The two brothers hailed from the neighboring kingdom of Isiris to the south, a land of harsh climates and sparse wealth. “Filthy dirt lickers,” their attackers took pleasure in reminding them. “You should thank the great Snake Eater for his mercy, I’d have set the rest of your wasteland on fire and left you bottom feeders with nothing.”

  The beating seemed as if it would never end, until a voice suddenly yelled out, “Halt, you cowardly mongrels!”

  Wrapped in the rags of alley rats, the attackers paused for a moment before their alpha peeked over his shoulder. “Another one?”

  Each of the alley rats took a turn at mocking the newcomer. “This dirt licker’s shiny.”

  “Must be their babysitter.”

  Before the alpha warned, “You leeches ain’t welcome here!” He spat on Cyrus, ushering his mob back to the slums from whence they came. The boys’ savior knelt in front of them, grief glistening in his weathered eyes to subdue the shine of silver scales that swam across his black armor. “My Prince, are you harmed? Please do not leave my side like that again, I beg you! Our kind cannot stroll about freely in Chronos. Not when we are only allowed such few men at arms within Hawk lands.”

  Marcus, youngest true descendant of Elijah Isiris, the Exalted Viper, and founder of the once great southern kingdom, responded, “I’ll not let these Northerners treat me like a commoner, Archonis. Besides, I am fine. Tend to Cyrus instead.”

  Age twelve, the prince was the sole heir to his father’s throne. He was neither tall nor short for his age. Violet snakeskin jerkin and leggings, exquisitely needled with the Viper’s crimson crest, caressed his pale skin, and on his wrists rested spiraled bands of interlocking copper crafted by his mother’s hands.

  Archonis advised, “Prince Marcus, my duty . . .”

  “Your duty is to follow my orders,” the prince reminded. “Now, p
lease tend to Cyrus.” Marcus turned his slave brother, “Are you hurt?”

  Cyrus dusted off the thin vest of horsehair that covered him from neck to knees, the brand of house Elijah inked across his chest. “I’m unharmed, My Prince. Please don’t waste your worry on me. You should listen to Sir Archonis and tend to your own wounds—your father would be upset.”

  Cyrus was Marcus’s personal servant and half brother, slightly the taller and born a handful of months apart from him as a slave. He bore no surname, accompanying his royal brother at all times.

  Marcus’s brows tensed. “You don’t have to call me that,” he scolded, placing two hands on his sibling’s shoulders. “You’re my brother, and I am yours, no matter what our father says.”

  Cyrus did not protest, instead succumbing to his half brother’s command as Archonis delivered an important message. “My Prince, we must have you cleaned at once. Your father is expecting you in his quarters. He seeks to conclude his business in Chronos so we may return home.”

  Archonis Deroy, the Paladin of Isiris, known to his enemies as the Silver Snake, towered over them, adorned in the crimson mantle of the Serpent’s Cross. He was captain of the southern royal guard and commander of the entire Isirian army. A carving of a coiled viper crawled across his chest, and his velvet cape bore the sigil of his order, a glimmering white hydra frozen in the mold of a cross. He was a man far removed from his youth, whose face made clear his romance with the battlefield.

  “Nonsense,” Marcus replied, darting off as the Paladin’s words entered his ears. “I wish to return home as soon as possible. Take us to Father now, I am clean enough.”

  The commander sighed and bowed to the wishes of his prince, placing his right arm across his chest with an open palm facing the ground, the common salute to Isirian royalty. As they departed, he turned back to give the young slave a look that said, “Do not cause the prince any further trouble.”

  Walking through the city streets, the prince took note of his enemy’s land. “The Chronosians have terrible taste, but their royal castle is taller than anything I’ve ever seen.” Indeed, it was a citadel that stretched to the clouds, gold wings extending from the east and west walls while a pair of jeweled hawk eyes gazed over the kingdom from atop its spire. Golden statues of history’s northern Primes were erected along the steps leading down from the entrance. The first was the most feared of the legendary Beast Kings who had founded the four great kingdoms of Colossea nearly a thousand years earlier when chaos ravaged the lands.

  “That one is Chrono,” the beaten prince said in admiration. “He is the nation’s namesake, known to all as the Titan Hawk, who crushed his enemies with his mighty broadsword, Serenity, and golden shield, Vigilance.”

  He continued, “The statue reflects the tales I’ve read since I was a child. The shield was wide enough to cover him shoulder to shoulder, and its surface resembled a hawk with wings spread, while Serenity was as tall as a man and as wide as a horse’s head with a perfectly balanced white blade that gleamed like the Ivory Sea on a summer eve. In the stories, his short hair was spun with golden silk, and his eyes were as blue as the clearest ocean. Despite being a Northerner, Father once told me that the Titan Hawk was actually a trusted friend of our holy ancestor, Elijah. Can you believe it, Cyrus?”

  “No, My Prince, I can’t,” Cyrus answered with a forced smile. What good are stories of kings and heroes to a slave?

  The most notable of Chrono’s descendants stood as golden monuments below him. “That one is Huber, the hated Snake Eater,” Marcus hissed with a bitter tongue. “The tales speak of him as well. One horse wasn’t good enough. He was so greedy that his throne-shaped chariot was pulled by three. I’ve read that he actually replaced his hair with strands of silver, and he melted Chrono’s famed shield just so he could make a crown out of the remains. Of course, the Northern books I’ve seen say nothing about how he burned our lands dry five hundred years ago, forcing our people and their fields to starve through endless droughts.”

  The Snake Eater doesn’t sound all that different from some of our own lords. Cyrus believed, ignoring the angry words that remained in his brother’s rant. If he had never lived, would we still be slaves?

  “Cyrus, are you listening to me?” Marcus noticed.

  “Of course, My Prince!” the young slave answered, “I mean, Brother.” As his royal brother’s folded arms squeezed tightly beneath a furled brow, he asked the first empty question that came to mind, “Do you know the last statue as well?”

  “I do, Brother,” Marcus answered, his arms unfolding to wrap around Cyrus. “The last is the reigning Prime, Vain Chrona, the Ivory Talon. He disgusts me as well, neither can compare to Father.”

  “Of course,” Cyrus remarked in agreement, hoping to cool his brother’s mood. “But please don’t say that too loudly. Remember why we were attacked.”

  The world’s largest bazaar stretched from the front gate to the ends of the city. There were eyes and ears scattered from every corner of the world. Prince or not, no Southerner was immune to punishment in the north. “Cyrus speaks wisdom, My Prince.” Even a seasoned warrior like Archonis knew better than to press their fortune. “Best you take heed, or we may not make it to your father.”

  “Very well,” the prince sighed. Finally, the three had reached the noble district, a place littered with towering estates made of gold and ivory, built only for Chronosian lords and foreign nobles. As Archonis and the children arrived at an estate noticeably lesser than those nearby, the gates opened to a large garden that invited visitors toward an old mansion surrounded by a scattering of small fountains. In the center stood a common sight within the district, a glamorous effigy of Prime Vain.

  As the group approached the freshly polished wooden entry to their manor, a woman dressed in a scarlet linen frock, its sleeves slit like the slither of a snake, greeted them with a warm smile. “Blessings, young Master.” A matching head scarf wrapped her long silky strands of black but could not hide the vibrant emerald and yellow glow from her eyes. A painted brand on the back of her hand, marking her master’s house, marred her otherwise flawless, milky skin. “Your father awai—” The woman’s throat constricted as she took in the sight of the children and their battered faces. “What happened to you?” Dropping to her knees to inspect their skin and bones with a mother’s eye, she asked, “Cyrus, my dear, are you hurt?” She turned to Archonis with a stern look, scolding him as a teacher would a student.

  “Apologies, Isa.” The old soldier’s commanding presence shrunk beneath her lecture. “We were separated in the sea these northerners call a market, but there is no need for concern. A band of ignorant hooligans cannot break their mettle.”

  “His Highness was by my side the entire time,” Cyrus confessed, proud even in his mistakes, unbothered by his own bruises. “I should have better shielded the prince. The blame is mine, Mother.”

  “Do not be angry, Aunt Isa.” Marcus would not hide from the truth. “Cyrus suffered for my curiosity. I left Archonis’s side to see if the ‘shining’ city was worth its name. Besides,” he said, puffing his chest as if he had just won a battle, “these bruises are nothing to the crown prince of Isiris!”

  “If you are both truly unharmed,” she sighed. “I suppose it is fine, but please show restraint, young Master. Think of Lady Diana’s feelings.” As first slave to the Isirian queen, Diana Jacqueline-Elijah, who remained in Isiris, Isa played mother to both slave and prince alike. “Your poor mother. You know how her health has been of late. Yet, she would find the energy to be furious if anything happened to you.”

  She’s right. Marcus shivered for a moment. “I promise it won’t happen again."

  A prince’s promise means little to a slave. Still she smiled. “Go on then. Your father is waiting ahead.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Isa!” Marcus said, dragging his half brother toward his father’s chambers upon hasty feet. Cyrus attempted to contain his royal brother’s zeal, helplessly looking to his mo
ther for assistance, but it was too late; the prince would not be stopped.

  Still just within sight, the young slave could hear words being shared between his mother and Archonis. “You spoil them, Isa. They require a firmer touch, especially young Cyrus,” the old commander stated.

  “Oh hush. Who deserves to be spoiled, if not children?” Isa replied.

  Archonis sighed a heavy breath. “Youth should be free of concerns, but we cannot—one day, he may have to—”

  His mother cut the words clean like a knife. “I am well aware of the sad fate in store for my son, so please allow me to see him smile, even if it is nothing more than a fleeting daydream.”

  The old commander once again yielded. “I pray the Divine Serpent smiles upon you,” he said, bowing to the slave.

  The two shared a brief moment of silent helplessness and then bade one another farewell. Archonis followed in the direction of the brothers, praying the Cardinal’s business had borne fruit as Isa wiped away the tear that trickled down her milky cheek before returning to her duties.

  When the brothers entered their father’s chambers, they could hear his voice resonating throughout its walls. “That little shit dares to deceive me?” Cardinal Ramses Elijah shouted, the bronze on his crown of four interwoven snakes appearing duller than ever.

  The brothers stood silent, their father standing a head’s length shorter than Archonis. When I was younger, Father’s hair burned red like the early dusk. Now, all I see are the touches of gray. Cyrus thought, seeing his father’s withered locks dangle besides the yellow eyes of their great ancestors. A long robe of scarlet silk, decorated in the serpentine marks of the Cardinal’s holy lineage, stitched to sleeves of white that were cuffed by bronze armlets. His face looks tired today, more like the King of Hardship as our people call him. Does that stranger in the corner have something to do with it? Cyrus wondered.

  “Twenty years of rule! Fifteen years of keeping Isiris from war! But no matter how long I manage to keep my people safe from invaders. No matter how I long I scrape to keep them fed, there is always something else that stands in our way,” Cardinal Ramses shouted, hurling his chalice against the far wall.