Sons of the Condemned

Chapter 1
Incentive Enough

"In spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can't build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery and death."
-Anne Frank




Piercing screams filled the air, searing to all the towering balconies out of what was once normal earshot. A silence would follow the impending intensity of another life soon to succumb to the pain, suffering, and the lingering hollowed-out voices haunting every action. Staring down into the thick scent of blood, it had to be wondered why such a torture scene would be enjoyable and popular.

It was the only entertainment, cheap enough for the people of the city- Sidorya. Sure, it looked romantic to die under such a fate, but until that situation, until that very moment before pain was to be inflicted, this act of cruelty being romantic or at all fulfilling was nothing to be had and often deafening to all who had the privilege to hear.

Her Grace, Taya, Princess of Cisaron watched the bloodbath. Every week she had done this since she was a child. It was usual, nothing abnormal, or One forbid cruel to her. She had been told that it was for enjoyment, and like so many others, she had, at first, forced herself to watch the sight. But now, it was simply a bore, some of the time. Pain was supposed to be non-existent.. Pain was supposedly nothing more than a way to get attention from your betters. Supposedly, only cowards succumbed to pain. They weren't truly human if the caved under...

So, Taya sat there, shoulders back and straight, hands in lap, head held high. Her delicate fingers tugged at the light green cloth of her gown. Absentmindedly and with another scream, she tugged at it quickly, jumping ever so slightly in her seat. Supposedly, only the worst of cowards succumbed to the pain of others.

She looked up, back at the scene, catching her mother’s watchful glare in the corner of her eye. Of course she enjoyed watching it, but it was the sound, the screaming, the snaps of a whip, ear-wrenching cries... deafening.

Like everyone else in Sidorya, the capital of Cisaron, she had wavy, scarlet hair, which held long and loose to her sides. Her eyes were a light green and she was of average height for a woman. Pulling her hair back behind her shoulders, she focused on the torture, with a premeditated yawn, as a man was dragged away, angry lines of red across his back.

It wasn’t long until another man was dragged across into the center ground, encircled by an audience of thousands, and ten or so balconies for the well-to-do of society. The man struggled to get away from guards who forced his chest to dangle and his legs to drag. Being pulled by the rope wrapped around his hands, the man’s body collapsed on the ground from the sheer energy it took from just having to make the journey to his fate and death.

The crowd jeered at these attempts for a longer life in a series of roaring ‘boos’ and the throwing of rotten vegetables, fruit, and over-decayed meat which they had found on the main road of the city before the event. Since the people had come into The Abyss it, too, now smelled like a pig pen, even after having the population decreased suddenly throughout the previous two years.

Taya had been out there on the street several times, especially during the day, and the smell was pungent and nauseating. Unfortunately, the coliseum was forever filling up with the citizens desperate to get some kind of relief from the angst, life... and the smell. Quite frankly, there wasn't much contrast. It was repulsive and it only became worse.

She was out of luck. Sweat poured fervently from her brow and neck, and the smell of the arena was amplified times a thousand.

The balcony, in which royalty sat, was decorated lavishly with silks and velvets of darker hues of bright colors. The floor was covered in thick white fur. Jewels of ruby and amethyst were strung elegantly about on silver thread. Goblets of wine were on two separate podiums that looked like miniature columns.

With little ease, the guards kicked the man in the sides, his limp body digging into the jagged rock. The men tied his wrists to posts on each side. And, without warning, there was a crack of the whip. It was embedded with glass. It made her shudder.

It shouldn’t take long to realize his heathen ways, Taya figured, her forced thoughts seeming realer and realer as each show passed. The whip would snap again and the man yelped to the highest raptures, and the audience began to cheer with more glee than usual. It wasn't uncommon. It was a spectacle and almost a magic trick to people. The momentous ending with his will being broken. The thousands seemed to forget that this magic sideshow was real.

Taya leaned back in her chair glancing at Trist, her older brother by six years, her being at the age of eighteen. His hand covered his mouth as if he was debating himself. It was a look of persistence in his green eyes to overcome the drenching heat, but it was also, she knew, because he had to force himself out of cringing at every scream, yelp, snap, cry, and groan. He was the only one to have such a weak bone in his body. He was the only humane one out of thousands. The thousands knew how inhumane it was, but it was such a pretty sight.

Trist looked different from herself and the rest of Cisaron. His hair was a light shade of blonde and tied back. He was taller than most and certainly was a few heads higher than she. He was broad-shouldered and appeared to be strong, but not intimidating.
It was a rumor in town that he was the child of his father, the late King Rethor of Cisaron, and his notorious mistress. Another said that it was the beautiful, Queen Marith who was, in deed, unfaithful to her previous husband with some callous soldier. But then again, rumors were common, since many of the poorer folk didn't even have books to exercise their imaginations, which seemed to flow like crashing waterfalls under the burn of the sun. The people needed to be in denial.

Trist was dressed in the traditional dark pants and light emerald, linen shirt. With another snap of the whip, Trist’s body noticeably cringed. Never had he enjoyed the sight of it, but the people of Cisaron did, especially on the days where Niehvan worshippers were the headliners of the show. After all, the Niehvan religion was a group of pagan god worshippers. Most were supposedly in the mythical Niehvan city of Biardyne- its location unknown to non-worshippers, supposedly, where they kept their prisoners. More likely, they were in hiding, below all eyes.

His eyes darted into the crowd, staring at someone in particular. She tried to follow his gaze, but found it pointless. He was entranced with someone.

Queen Marith leaned forward, looking between her two children. Her attention was quickly drawn to Trist. “He’s of the Renegade, my son." She started, forcing his eyes back on the scene. She tried to catch any proud-ness in him. "See the ring?” she said as the man screamed again, a small smile on her face. The queen studied his face more, and that same smile turned into a frown, as she brushed a graying stand of hair up into place.

The Renegade was the epitome of rebellion against the Ecriep, against the world. Their numbers dwindled, their names not mentioned, besides from Ecriepan generals. The Renegade was the reason that so many disappeared at night. They were the reason that those hostages were tortured. They were the cause of their deaths, corpses appearing in their beds the next morning. The Renegade was responsible for bringing their wrath of blood thirst down upon every city just to satisfy their own heathen practices. It was a thirst never to be quenched.

“I know,” Trist said begrudgingly, almost jumping at the final snap. Taya looked back down onto the grounds, blood swiftly flowed. No skin was left. His ropes were cut, his body fell limp onto the ground, and he was dragged away, either unconscious or dead. There wasn't much difference. This wasn’t just a death sentence, but revenge upon the heathens.

"Wouldn't tell us what he did with that girl the Renegade killed." Marith continued with the gossip, watching, dutifully, over the crowds, with such precise poise and grace, that she seemed unreal. A dream.

The woman leaned over to her left, towards Taya's father and Trist's step-father. He was a strong-looking man, dressed in simple velvet and linens. His face was a square shape and had barely any wrinkles. He could've been twenty years old or he could've been fifty years old, but closer to the latter.

“Renegade gave up on him now did they?” Taya asked, with a yawn, cozying into her chair, the back of her dress sticking to it.

“It appears as if... they're many things, but not that degree of foolishness. It would be suicide to come now,” her father said, not even making a glance towards them. Instead, his green eyes were focused sternly on the crowds, looking for any kind of soul stirring trouble.

Servants were at their beck and call. The family continued to watch a new man brought forward (she hadn't heard the man's introduction or crimes.) It was maybe, a long series of silent moments, for a while, interrupted by coughs and finger-tapping against the oak arms of the chairs.

“My lord?” A young girl’s voice asked, at last, breaking the unbearable quietness. Taya, opened her eyes suddenly at the words, catching site of it. The child knelt in front of Trist in a poorly made shift.

“What is it?” he asked, taking his hand away from his mouth, reluctantly.

“My Mistress, she requests you,” the child said with small smile of innocence. Trist nodded his head edging in his seat, muttering something inaudible.

“I’ll be there soon," he said, seemingly forcing those words.

The child nodded, a smug smile on her face, and she scurried off like a mouse.

Taya looked squarely at Trist, trying to study him over. He had been distracted. Hopefully, it was just with every death as of late and missing person. It killed her that she didn't know what he was doing. And it killed her that he didn't tell her even more. She could only guess. Hopefully, it was to find some cure for this incurable “disease” across the city... but Trist was no savior.

“I must leave” he said, standing up, briefly glancing at Marith and his step-father.

“Go." Marith sighed, frustrated. She had given up her questioning of whom it was he visited so often at night. He left without another word.

“Mother, I’m leaving also” Taya said with a fake resonance of innocence. Marith, defeated, nodded, and then clapped along with the audience’s exuberating cheers.

It was one thing that she had learned not to mention: where you're going, why you need to, and what time you'd be back. It killed any chance of her idea of entertainment.







Later on…




Taya was escorted to the stables behind the castle- the only open air area in the city. It had grassland that was maybe an acre in size, and it was completely open-ended, besides the stone walls on the left, right, and behind it, but those were just lines off in the distance. Next to the stable was the armory. The other exit of the stable went off onto a back road where Taya navigated to the town square, very large, red-stoned and in front of the castle and coliseum.

She rode the horse down the road, the streets vacant save for several bodies lying on the road and poor souls, unable to go up to the entertainment because of injuries, age, appearance, and other such offences.

The main street was strictly made of wooden buildings all at thirty feet tall. The several people who were out gave Taya a measly bow as she passed by, slowly. There were several stands along the sides of the very large roads. One said shop was a butcher's, with a narrow red counter and a dead pig hanging from the shaft of the roof. There were run-down black and silver-smith shops and a jewelry store. Taya had been in one, once. The jewels were basic thread with a cheap stone in the middle. Pathetic.

Finally, maybe half-way down the road, was one of the older taverns in the city. It blended in with the rest of the buildings, save for the rotting porch in the front and an old sign which hung, swayed eerily from a post. It said: The Broken Wheel.

A guard next to the door came up to Taya and he helped the small woman down from her horse. The man led the horse and soon disappeared to the narrow alley behind the building where horses were tied up. A guard from the inside appeared from out of the place and brought her in.

The Broken Wheel Tavern was filled with drunks, barmaids, and rowdy couples dancing, throwing glasses, knocking over tables, and ripping each other apart. The whole place was wooden and smelled of ale, heavy smoke, sweat and vomit. Every which way was coated in a thick layer of dirt and she wouldn’t be surprised if there were a colonies of rats hidden in the walls. Just like Trist had told her.

Trist came here often, since there was almost always a royal guard or two standing in the corner. In fact, it was quite easy for a royal to go around without an entourage, and he/she would not feel threatened. Especially, since, Cisser soldiers had seized any and all kinds of weapons from the peasants years ago.

At the back of the tavern, in a secluded spot from all the chaos, Trist was sitting at a table, leaning back in his chair, lazily, scanning over the room. Maybe it was some girl he was meeting for the night... and the tavern was the safest place to meet. Or maybe Trist was some high-profiled assassin and he was meeting with a client. Or maybe... Taya quickly hurried over, shoving past several people, knocking most onto the floor or on top of tables. Mugs were broken, and whiskey and ale cascaded over the tables.

“What are you doing here, Taya?” He asked, sitting up immediately, slamming down his mug. She jumped from where she stood. “Can I have some privacy not involving you?”

“I wanted to see what you were up to,” she said, childishly, as she sat in her chair, still examining the place. Taya had never seen one before. She was told that taverns were fun, enjoyable, relaxing. But apparently that person was also drunk.

Taya looked around, trying to take the scene in more. What made Trist so involved with this place? She wouldn't give it the time of day, and already, she was wishing that she hadn't come. That, then, led to her assassin theory. But maybe it proved the other. Her brown eyes began to watch a man, guzzling down his poison.

Her line of vision was soon blocked by a woman who stood behind a chair at their table. She was cloaked, but her face was visible. It was beautiful by most standards. Her eyes were the most enchanting shade of grey. Soft, stray brown curls hung by her cheeks. She had a radiant glow and appeared to be one that got many men into trouble with their wives. She had that type of allure, Taya could sense it.

“You’re late.” The woman said in a low tone, pulling out her chair, and she sat down one fluid motion. “Who’s that?”

“Nobody,” he said quickly. “Did you find who it was? Or is this another pointless meeting you've conjured up?”

The woman’s lips formed into a mischievous smile. “Tell me who she is.”

Taya tilted her head. What was going on? What did her name matter? That's when it occurred to her: maybe this was some heroic mission that Trist was going on, just like in the stories their mother had read to them. And, if it was, then she, herself, would be written as well. Then, she just wouldn't be well-known, but she'd be the greatest legend!

Before he could say anything, Taya quickly let her curiosity get the better of her. “I’m his sister,” she blurted, eager to listen. "Now will you tell us what you've come to say?" The woman tilted her head, contemplating over something. The woman put several fingers resting below her chin, and her thumb next to it. She smiled, leaning forward.

"You never told me you had a sister," the woman said, amused, still facing Taya's direction. She could see some fire underneath Trist's eyes. So, she just grinned as a child would to get out of something that they did wrong. It usually worked with Trist. He could hardly ever hold a grudge against her.

After several moments, the woman put her arm up over the table. “See this ring?” She unclenched her palm, a black ring laid there. It looked to be nothing special. But just in case... Taya took it greedily and began to examine. There was some kind of gold scribbling. Elfish, maybe. Handing it to her brother, she rolled back her shoulders, picking up her head.

"This is the ring of the Renegade," The woman started as if it were a digger's most precious find. Trist stared at it.

Trist nodded at the woman's answer, putting the ring delicately back on the table. “How’d you get it?” There was no emotion in his voice.

“My source.” She paused and took a sip from his mug. “They will be here for you in a couple days, and they will tell you some lie that you are the Chosen…” the woman started sarcastically, followed by a scoff. She placed the mug back in front of Trist.

“Most likely,” she continued, “you’ll meet a woman, a little taller than I, wavy brown hair… blue eyes- from the land just across the river- Thorren.” The woman took the ring from off the table, like a dog that just saw a bone, putting it somewhere that Taya could not see. “Her name is Arden Calder, and she will tell you so. And, most likely, another Renegade member will be sitting not far away.” She paused, looking, at Trist now. "She's their negotiator, if you will and she has backup," She said with a tilt of her head and a motion of her arm. The woman drummed her fingers against the wood. "Kill her and you’ll be a hero. You’ll stay alive. Incentive enough.”

The woman stood up, suddenly, and turned to one of the barmaids, whispering something to her. The girl quickly took his mug, refilled it, handed it back to the woman, and then scurried off. The woman took a quick sip and then walked over to Trist’s side, leaning closer to his ear.

Reaching into the pocket of her cloak, she took out a small change purse, and poured its contents into his drink, “Adds taste." Its white, powdery content was poured into the liquid. "You’ll need it. You’re going to have a hell of a week.” She said as she pushed the mug into his chest, his hands grasping it quickly, and she dropped the ring on the table.

The woman stormed off, passing through the small crowd that blocked the door. And then she was gone. And everything seemed unreal.

Trist leaned back in his chair from his awkward hunch, and he stared at the mug, taking the ring into his pocket. His mind was worried, no matter what he’d say. It was the change in tint of his eyes that gave it away, or at least to Taya, anyway.

“So what was that about?” Taya finally said after several moments of silence between the two, besides the start of a raging fiddle, played by a homeless man in the opposite corner of the room. Trist broke his stare.

He cleared his throat. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.” He watched the floor for a moment. Rarely did he get angry at her, and even then, that wouldn't last long. She knew how to push his buttons just enough, without ripping them off.

“Think it’s poisoned?” he asked her, returning to his stare-off with it.

“Why would she? She’s helping you… somehow.”

Trist grimaced, shrugging his shoulders. “Doesn’t seem right,” he said quietly.

“She's a woman in a poison-house. She's not exactly perfect or morally sane or-- Who is she, anyway?”

Trist sighed in defeat. “I was returning from a trip…" He paused, traveling his index finger over the side of the mug. There was neither anger nor fear behind the words. “On the night of Stefan’s funeral a woman forewarned me that someone wanted me dead. She left before she could tell me who the killers were.” Trist nodded his head to the door. “I asked the priestess to tell me who they are.”

“I’m not paying her anything, nor did she ask for it," Trist said with raised brows to add point. "-as long as I didn't ask for her name.” He pulled dragged the mug closer to him, studying it over. He raised it, as if he was about to toast. “Want to try it?”

Taya shirked back, shaking her head. “I’d rather stay on the Renegade’s hit-list.”

Trist shrugged his shoulders, setting the mug back on the table, a weak smile on his face. "Assuming they have one."