SATHANO THE SLAYER

SATHANO THE SLAYER, by Jeremy D. Farkas, with artwork by Miguel Santos, and audio by Karen Bovenmyer and Timothy Menzel.

 

 

What happens when a man is kept as a beast, when he is stripped of his humanity, and forced to rely only on his most base instincts? In the case of Sathano, he became as the beast is—snarling and savage. From his capture as a youth in the jungles of Xoultan, he had been trained to fight, to rend, to slay. Diminished was his sense of a life’s worth to a value nonexistent. The death of neither man nor beast quavered his soul, for he had no soul to quaver. He was an animal… or so it was said.

 

#

 

Dust, darkness, sweat and mildew lorded over all. Faintly, as though muffled behind blocks of stone, came cries of exultation and bloodlust. The clink of chains sounded in the darkness. Upon a low bench in this dismal cell squatted a mighty-thewed form, ebon in the darkness. He rumbled silently, his muscles tensing, preparing for what was to come. He had done this countless times. Dimly he heard the crier announcing the bout to be fought. Three men would be given trial by combat for crimes against the Master of the city. In truth, the details mattered little to the man in the dark. He would kill as was his custom, not venomously, but reflexively.

The groaning of ancient timbers was soon followed by the flooding of blinding white light into the moldering pen, as the iron-bound portcullis was raised. He trod forth, into the dry expanse of the arena of Al Subakh.

The hot-blooded cries of ten thousand spectators met his ears, and the massive gladiator did what he could to shield his eyes from the dazzling light. The blistering heat bore down upon him, as did the gaze of the audience from their tiered seats above and about the vast fighting pit. All were dressed in brass and jade. The men were mostly bearded, and the women sported the fashionable head wraps of Abar.

Before him went the dry, rocky expanse of the encircled battlefield. Strewn about were mangled corpses, splintered weapons, and pools of sticky redness that congealed in the dry dust. The survivors of the previous match were being corralled at the far end of the field into pens of their own by slavers with whips and spears.

The gladiator swallowed hard, his throat caked in dust, his limbs tense with trepidation. No matter how often he did this, there was no adjusting to it. Over the blowing of horns and the cries of the onlookers there grew the chant that he had learned to hate more blackly than he did his captors.

“Sathaaaano the Slaaaayer, Saaaathano the Beast! Sathaaaano the Slaaaayer, Saaaathano the Beast!” they cheered. Soon the whole of the arena was swept up in the excitement. They knew that their Sathano would not disappoint.

At the far end of the battlefield, three gates of iron and bronze were raised, and from the dark recesses beyond the portcullises came the challengers. They numbered three, those accused souls, but each looked to be more than a task for a score of civilized men. Each bore a wild beard of greasy black and had eyes that showed equal parts malice and terror. Sathano would try to be quick.

Slowly did that trio advance, before the foremost leapt at Sathano, his fat lips slavering wildly. Above, the auditorium gasped at the animal speed. Not the attacker’s, but Sathano’s, for the bearded brute’s blow met only dusty earth. Before he could reel to make a second attack, Sathano’s tremendous fist collided with his skull right at the temple, producing sickening crack. The first of the accused fell—unconscious.

Now it was Sathano’s turn. The other two—one taller and more thickly built than he, the other short and heavily tattooed—stood back, a second of hesitation playing on their faces. It was all the time the gladiator needed.

With the ferocity of a jungle cat, he crouched, took up the broken length of a spear shaft, and rushed the others. Gutturally did he bellow as the point of the fractured shaft embedded into the smaller one’s throat. Sputtering streams of crimson dribbled out along the edges of the piercing wood, and as Sathano tore the crude weapon free, it gushed forth in a steady flow. Instinctively, the man clutched at his throat to stop the drainage though he was powerless to do so. He dropped dead.

Before he could strike at the third, the man had Sathano in a mighty bearhug, his arms pinned to his sides. The crushing weight of the titanic limbs caused him to drop his wooden shard, while his feet were lifted off the ground in the hold. Hot breath ran rottenly to Sathano’s nostrils, and he kicked his heels wildly into the body of his captor.

Sathano screamed and the audience cheered as the mighty giant bit down with preternatural force into his victim’s shoulder, drawing blood and pulling muscle. Over all came the chant again…

“Sathaaaano the Slaaaayer, Saaaathano the Beast!” rang in his ears like the death knell declaring the fate of a man still living. His heart rattled around in his chest, pumping blood through him with mad ferocity. With a mighty surge of strength, he broke the hold, digging his heels into the biter’s groin, sending both earthward.

The giant’s impact produced a plume of bloody dust, and while he was just getting to his knees, Sathano had come around to his back and leapt upon him. The greasy brawler stood erect, bellowing furiously as Sathano clung to his thick, corded neck.

His grip tightened, as he brought one hand to seize the bearded chin of his opponent, and with all his might, heaved. No lesser a man might’ve snapped that meaty neck, which broke like a rotten branch beneath the twisting grip of the black slayer. Both fell a second time, though now the drooling corpse was beneath the knees of the victorious gladiator. The entire stadium erupted in a cacophony of cheers and adulation.

Sathano’s breath was rasping, and his blood-splattered body shook with the adrenalin that coursed through him. He spat blood upon the corpse beneath him, and on trembling legs he stood. Over the cheers he heard the faint mumblings of his first opponent coming to.

Mechanically, Sathano strode over to the supine form of the remaining prisoner and loomed over him for a moment. The man plead to Sathano in a language he did not understand. Sathano seized his throat and sought to end him quickly. The last thing he saw in his fading life was the deep scowl of his foe, whose eyes betrayed an interminable sorrow.

 

#

 

“Why do they call him a beast?” came a voice husky and mellow. In response, the Master of the city state of Al Subakh, dressed in his rich purple silks and seated upon his velvet throne turned his attention away from the aftermath of the match to the inquisitor. The inquisitor—a strikingly beautiful dignitary from afar—called Lady Visima—stood near his side. She had been looking down from their vantage point in the Master’s box into the arena, drinking from a goblet of blood-red wine. Her hair was as dark as could be found in any land, and her skin was as an ancient porcelain—beautiful yet marked with the scores of time and hardship. Most remarkable of all her features were the striking coloration of her eyes, which called forth memories of the purest lavenders cast upon the snowy crags of Trallheim when the summer sun set. These eyes turned to the richly clad figure whose black beard wagged as he spoke.

“It is a beast, my love” explained the Master as though it were self-evident, “What more is there to say?” He stroked his perfumed beard of midnight black and gazed upon the noblewoman. The sallow, bulbous eyes set in his wide-set face regarded her. “Sathano has fought with the tenacity of a wild animal since I brought him to my city… Even his capture cost ten men.” The woman’s pale face held firm and stern at the revelation. She was not surprised. Still the Master—called Rahim Al Issak—told her of his beast.

“He has smitten man and animal alike. Whatever I put before him, he kills. I never need to goad the killing, for it is the beast’s nature to destroy.” A smile curled between the bristles of the black beard. “He brings good business to Al Subakh, though you can see that for yourself.”

With a gesture, the purple garbed Master indicated the throngs before and below his private theater box, who waved their arms and chanted for Sathano. In the pit, it looked like the slayer was being corralled to one end of the field by warriors in bronze with long spears.

“His use is doubly apparent in dealing with attempts on my life.” His companion nodded in understanding.

It was common knowledge that Rahim Al Issak had many enemies in his fair city, a reality that came with holding power such as his. It was also common knowledge that attempts on the Master’s life were commonplace, though none had come close to succeeding—that is, until the past week, when three rogues stole to Rahim’s Palace and sought to kill him in his sleep. When the plan went awry, they were detained and questioned. Now they were dead beneath Sathano’s feet.

“Will a public execution be enough, oh wisest of Al Subakh?” probed Visima.

“I should think so,” nodded Rahim, “Those who still wish me dead wish to avoid Sathano even more. In time, the rabble will rise again, but experience tells me I have bought us a month of peace at the least.” With that he grinned darkly, reaching a lecherous hand out to stroke her side.

“I have never seen one of his kind,” winced the dark-haired beauty, rolling the wine in the goblet absently. “Where was he captured?” She wished to steer the conversation back to Sathano.

Rahim Al Issak eyed the foreigner with mild suspicion. Her white silks and sweet scent made her seem dangerously enticing to the Master, though he was never one to pass an opportunity to speak of his triumphs, especially to his most precious jewel.

“The beast was found in the jungles of Xoultan, south of the sea of sand, though that was some years ago now. A land of giants and monsters, where Gods of fire cast stones from the heavens. I’m certain the beast has no memory of the place. It lived without home or hearth in the jungle, eating flesh raw and gibbering incoherently.”

“I am impressed with his physicality,” smirked Lady Visima, leaning past the rail of the theater box to get another glimpse of the mighty slayer before he was forced through a door leading beneath the colosseum. Next came a string of thieves to be stoned, which lost her interest rather quickly.

After a time of executions and chariot racing, the Lady Visima asked Rahim the question that had been stirring in her mind for some time. “How much to buy your Sathano?”

In response Rahim Al Issak took a date from a platter set between them, bit and chewed, then managed with a full mouth “Not for sale.”

Lady Visima set her hand upon the Master of Al Subakh’s shoulder, leaning in so that she might dominate his attention more fully. Rahim could see an intent in those dark eyes, though not the nature of it. Instead he opted to openly admire her figure from this invasive angle, reaching out a hand to explore further.

This she slapped away quickly, and the Master’s face reddened slightly, his brow creasing. “The beast is not for sale, and if we are to be wedded by the month’s end, you’d better be more accommodating to my desires, oh lovely Visima.”

The Lady sighed and took two steps back. Inwardly Rahim cursed himself, for though his God was a permissive being, one of his soul tenants was not to take a woman by force. Deeply did he yearn for his bride-to-be, though she continually denied him.

“Perhaps a trade then,” quoth the Lady Visima. “If I find a beast that can best yours, we will exchange animals.” Rahim looked troubled by this, which prompted Visima to push further. “If yours is best, you lose nothing, but if mine is best, you get the superior slayer. Either way, you win.”

“Why all this talk of trade? We are to be one in all things,” said he.

“I merely aim to make things more… interesting.”

“But what if my beast is slain, what will you get then?” frowned an incredulous Master of Al Subakh.

She grinned. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” As though to seal the deal, she leaned into him again, and gave him a deep, passionate kiss that stole the breath from his lungs.

“Fine,” huffed Rahim Al Issak, folding his arms in defeat when she pulled away, turning to the races going on far below. The audience cheered triumphantly, as one charioteer was thrown from his basket and trampled by a horse not far behind.

“I’ll need to inspect him up close if I’m to have a fair chance at besting him,” suggested Visima cautiously. Without verbal response the Master waved his hand in agreement.

 

#

 

The darkness blanketed his frame and made him little more than a vague shadow. Every fiber of his being ached, and through his body drained the last remnants of his adrenalin. His body was becoming heavy and unwieldy. It was not a pleasurable sensation, and not just for the physical experience.

With silent, undirected prayer, he lamented the fate of the men who fell at his hands. Not just those slain this day, but every day since he had learned the law of the pit.

The law was simple. Slay or be slain.

All his life he had hated violence of any kind—a surprising attribute for one of so powerful an edifice—yet his desperate cling to life was greater than his apprehensions, and so he had risen to the status of a mighty slayer.

None would believe it if they were told, but Sathano truly mourned for his victims. None go to the pit willingly. Only by grave misfortune do such battles take place. Grave misfortune and wicked luck for all involved. Still, he did what he had to, and understood that they would’ve done the same. It was a mutual respect held among all men pressed to the brink, where the primal instincts of self-preservation dominated all decision making.

Concluding his prayer, as he had done hundreds of times before, he sat lethargic in the darkness, lids slowly drifting shut, only to flit open once more. He heard movement off in the dark distance. He saw orange light too. Inwardly he panicked. Was he to fight again already? He was not ready, emotionally or physically. Wearily he watched as the light and the sound grew, until he saw the point of origin. The source of the light was an open brand, held aloft by a man whose brown plates glinted reflectively in the dark dungeon.

Sathano squinted in displeasure at the glaring light of the torch and eyed the man in bronze suspiciously. His suspicion only grew upon seeing the warrior was not alone. Behind the bronze-clad guardsman stood a smaller figure—a woman of alien appearance to the titan, not unbeautiful, but wholly strange to his sensibilities.

She was ghostly pale, dressed in fineries astonishing and unknown to him, and with eyes which shone like amethyst in the torchlight.

“Stand.” Ordered the man in bronze, and slowly he stood. His imposing physicality became more apparent with closeness, and both the Lady and her escort had to appreciate the primal force exuded by the man in the pen.

“Leave us,” came a new order, this time from the woman to her bronze guardian. “I should not be long.”

The guard sought to protest, but the lady needed only to raise her hand to deny him. Before leaving he took his torch to a candle to grant enough light. Then he turned and trod back up the dusty passage, calling back firmly “Five minutes, my Lady.”

In the dimmer candlelight, the dungeon depths felt more claustrophobic, more malignant, and more alien. Sathano could detect a certain trace of fear in the stranger, but she masked it well.

Neither Visima nor Sathano spoke, simply watching one another from opposite sides of the cell, until the sounds of the guard’s footfalls vanished into the darkness. When the silence was broken, it was she who spoke.

“You speak the Abar tongue?”

“Some,” he grunted. “What want you with me?” He was immediately weary of her presence. Men came to him only to feed him, exercise him, or otherwise prepare him for the act of killing. This girl was clearly related to none of these activities.

“I wished to see you in person, Oh, slayer.”

“Call me Sathano,” he urged, a malice twisting his face cruelly. In response, the Lady Visima narrowed her gaze.

“You do not like your title, then?” She pried gently. Sathano only shook his head in disgust, forcing the question.

“Why are you here, truly? Is this some fresh torment of Al Issak?” His brows creased in consternation.

There was another long silence, which set Sathano on edge, but it was broken before too long, when Visima spoke again.

“Do you hate Rahim Al Issak?”

He gave a curt nod.

“Would you kill him if given the chance?”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and every nerve in his body tingled with wild suspicion. This was some scheme of Al Issak’s, surely. When he did not respond, she smiled softly and nodded. “I see. You are too weary of violence to kill even him.”

He shot her a bewildered look. This was indeed his deepest and most solemn feeling, but he felt sure none could have guessed it. Before he could manage a response, the sound of footfalls grew down the dungeon corridor, and Visima raised a finger to her mouth.

Wordlessly, she procured a small velvet pouch from seemingly nowhere, collected a tiny handful of its contents, and blew it in a cloud upon him. It was a white powder laced with near-imperceptible crystals, which flitted through the air on her breath, between the bars, and upon his flesh. The powder painted his skin ashy gray and made him cough and sputter wildly. Through his coughing fit, he saw her receive her escort in bronze, and watched the two leave him once more to his own thoughts in the deep dark.

 

#

 

The days crawled by slowly for Sathano, who was only turned loose from his sweltering pen to train his body, on the order of Rahim Al Issak. He was relieved that the duty of slaughter had not fallen to him in such a time, and in the great spans that demanded nothing of him, he turned his attention inward, and wondered at the nature of things around him.

What had the woman wanted with him? He had not had visitors before. Indeed, he knew none in this land beyond those who drilled him or kept watch over him.

Something was going on, and it gnawed at the corners of his soul not to know. How could he know? None had any reason to tell him anything, and to question the guards would be fruitless.

It had been ten days since the purple-eyed one cast the salts upon him, and since then he had been put through rigors unfamiliar to him. Not only was his body put to the absolute limit by Kashakh the Gladiologist during the day, but also at night he was tested.

His dreams were filled with two things, widely different and equally intense. In both instances he would always awake bathed in sweat, feeling the walls of his cell looming closer upon him than before.

The first of these dreams was of the horrible gore of Rahim Al Issak, splayed beneath him, butchered upon the silks of his palace divan. In the dream acts, Sathano repaid the wicked Abaran for all the suffering he had caused. Hate flooded his psyche, and as the caged tiger is oft to do, he paced restlessly in his prison cell when he woke from such dreams.

The other dreams were of the purple-eyed witch—he was convinced she was of no other profession—watching him in darkness. She never spoke nor acted, yet she was always just visible in the inky blackness of the dream-world, nodding to him gently. He liked those dreams far less than those of Rahim. Violence he could understand, even if he had no lust for it. It was simple, direct, and had clear reason behind it. The purple watcher had no such clarity in purpose, and sorcery was vexing to his mind.

Inwardly, an inexplicable anticipation came to pass. His skin itched, and always he thought he saw some goblin lurking in the corner of his eye. Sathano swore an oath to whichever Gods of his jungle homeland cared to listen and prayed for an end to this alien dread.

Often, he reflected on the fateful day, those many years ago, when the Abar prince came riding through the jungle lands of Xoultan with his troupe of hunters. In those days, Rahim was more adventurous, wandering far from his city of Al Subakh, and was prone to make quick work of the strangers he encountered while abroad.

Such was the fate of the Uzuna tribe, whose people were Sathano’s own. It had been a hot day, and at its end, Sathano returned from his field where he tended the kine. First, he met the scent of smoke, then of charred flesh, then of the sounds of shrieks and laughter. Next, he saw the smoke drifting lazily among the boles of the ancient, mossy trees, then he saw the flicker of fire, and men paler than he had seen before upon the backs of great four-legged beasts, carrying weapons that glimmered in the firelight, and bit like hellfire. His fields were torched, and his animals butchered, the people he’d known all his life scattered to the four winds.

The fate of his mother, his father, his sister, his two brothers, all his people were lost to him—never to be uncovered, and to think of them even this much later would have made the red coals of his soul spark and sputter with animal ferocity, but he couldn’t remember any of their faces anymore… only names. It was like the life of another man to him, distant as another world. For that he felt guilt.

When the waiting and the sorrow came to be nearly intolerable, he was interrupted by a lesser evil. Guards of the Order of Brass came, brandishing tulwars and whips, and ordered him to stand and be dressed for battle. Already he could hear movement above him, signaling the filling of the arena stadium.

He did not fight them or offer any form of resistance, which made them weary, for they expected the caged beast to lash out at whatever came near, considering how long it had been since it had taken a life.

One of the Order placed a brass helmet upon his brow, while another strapped a cuirass of tarnished bronze. In his mighty fist they placed the shaft of fire-hardened wood, the length of one and a half men. Its end was whittled to a spear-like point.

Reflexively, his fingers wrapped around the weapon and the veins and tendons bulged in his wrist as he tested its strength. Already the cheers were beginning to grow above him, and he knew that it was time once more.

 

#

 

Again, he was led to the great iron-bound portcullis which creaked and made the dust about them dance. Sathano went out into the blinding light, where the oppressively hot south-borne wind whipped and bit his skin with blistering particles of sand. The seas of onlookers cheered at his arrival, casting to him orchids and yellow lotuses in signs of adulation and good will. He did not care.

Kicking up dust as he went, he went to the center of the great arena, where he looked up to the Master’s theater box. In the cool shade he could see the toad-like Rahim seated, fanned with a palm branch held by a naked slave. At his side, much to the slayer’s shock and anxiety, sat the enchantress who visited him those many days ago. Even from so far away, her purple eyes shimmered like witchfire. A knot began to form in his gut, and Sathano wondered at the significance of all this.

To the gods of Xoultan, and to his fallen brethren and forebears, he sent out a prayer and raised his spear to signify his readiness. In response the horns blared, and the drums thrummed mightily, and by instinct, his heart began to pound more heavily.

The doors at the far end of the stadium shook and groaned against their frame. The iron which bound the portal strained as though an incredible pressure were slowly being applied to it from the opposite side, and Sathano wondered what manner of opponent was worthy of these unusual circumstances.

A gong ran out, and the hidden mechanisms which managed the door began to grind to life, raising the portcullis with agonizing speed. The audience had redoubled their chant, and with his own name ringing in his ears, Sathano the Slayer beheld his foe.

Cries of terror came from the arena seating, and almost immediately, the jovial chants for Sathano turned sour and hushed. Sathano’s heart melted into his feet as he gazed upon the physical manifestation of a bygone era—something he would’ve deemed the ravings of a madman not but moments before.

It trod forth on cloven hooves as black as midnight, kicking stones and sand as it went, propelling a huge body which dwarfed Sathano’s own. It stood at the height of one and a half men, and was coated in dark, shaggy fur that wound and twisted into hideous tangles that resembled the mosses of a primordial swampland. Massive arms rolled and twitched, bearing muscles as thick and heavy as the bulk of the greatest python, and leathery fists clenched into hammers that could warp steel. For a head, the thing was remarkably like the wild bison of the distant northlands, though with black horns that reached as far as a man might reach, and with eyes which glowed like hot iron at midnight.

A dim recess of Sathano’s blasted psyche cried out, demanding action from a body that would not respond. When Sathano did seize control of his faculties, the bison-man was already upon him, snorting hot breath which made his skin crawl and raising mallet-like fists to dash him to the earth.

Any longer and Sathano would have been reduced to a bloody smear, but luck was with him, and he managed to dive sidelong, past the beast’s massive flank to roll in the dust unscathed.

Slowly it turned, and as it did, Sathano was blind with trembling terror. Surely no mortal could survive such a demon’s onslaught, and yet as he set his spear to gore the thing turning about, the same voice called out in the deep recesses of his mind, stronger now.

“Strike the sternum,” came the echoey message to Sathano’s psyche. Looking up at the bullish head of the thing which faced him fully once more, he caught a glint of lavender light.

With a terrific yell, Sathano lunged his spear forth as the beast surged to claim him. The tip of the shaft tore into the flesh of the behemoth, drawing cool, syrupy blood from the wound, yet the spear did not land true, embedding into the tough tissue of the monster’s shoulder. With a grunt it seized the shaft and snapped it in twain. Both ends clattered upon the dusty floor. Sathano’s heart surged to the pit of his stomach.

It seized him then in a vice-like grip, and slowly he was lifted into the air, brought face to face with the ugly thing. Looking into those eyes from so close a distance awakened the animal fear that lurks in all men. The trumpeting of the horns, the snorting of the beast, the cries of the onlookers were muted to him. All he felt was the biting of the claws at his sides, the crushing, inhuman strength at his arms, and the deafening pounding of his own pulse in his ears. Again, he heard the voice.

“Keep calm,” It cooed. The slayer swallowed hard, setting his face in a primal scowl. He wondered if a second mind was in his own.

The monster dashed Sathano to the dry earth, sending up a plume of dust on impact. The wind was nearly knocked from him, and his limbs shook with the force of the throw. Onlookers began to cheer again. The black slayer gasped and sputtered pitifully, hearing over the cheers the dull thud of hooves on dry earth. Soon he was again lifted.

Once more he was dashed to the earth, this time supine in position. The hot sun baked his face, though the scorching rays were quickly eclipsed by the bulk of the looming abomination.

Again, the phantom whisper came to mind… “Strike the sternum.”

Gritting his teeth and bracing his arms against the ground, Sathano waited the space of time it took the leering demoniacal visage to come close, and—with a primal roar—kicked both feet into the monster’s chest.

The titan did not anticipate the move, and lurched backward, teetered, and in that time, Sathano stood and rushed. His shoulder collided with the monster, sending it to the trembling earth.

With lightning speed, he took up the broken shaft of his spear and brought it down with whistling speed upon the creature. It shattered like glass upon bronze, and thereafter things turned in the monster’s favor.

A taloned paw rushed up from the kneeling bulk to grip the now weaponless Sathano by the throat. The digits pricked his skin and drew hot streams of blood all around his neck, painting his dark torso burgundy. His breath began to fail him.

Sathano squirmed and tried to cry out, but no sound would escape him. His eyes bulged, and he felt as though he were about to burst. His feet left the earth, and once more he was held up by the bison-man, who bore curling tusks in demoniac pleasure at his suffering.

Blood rushed through his ears and time began to slow. Stars shot from the edges of his vision, and soon after them came a cloudy blackness, like the night sky, which he had not seen for so many years.

With sudden abruptness, the battlefield rose to meet him, and the wind rushed to his withering lungs. There was much cheering and screaming, and then silence, as blackness took him. The last thing that came to his mind before the nothingness was the little voice.

“Rest easy. We’re just beginning.”

 

#

 

When the light returned, it returned only dimly. It was dusk, by his best estimate, though Sathano had not seen a sunset in many years. He was supine, looking up at a beautiful cacophony of brilliant, marbled oranges and purples that made his heart well with the burden of emotions long forgotten.

He was so overwhelmed by the impression that he paid little heed to the damage wrought upon his body. He saw the sky, smelled the wind in the grasses, heard the playing of chimes on the cool evening breeze. It was salvation, surely! That fabled realm which lies eternal beyond the gates of death.

The rapture of a paradise everlasting was cut short however, when Lady Visima came into his field of view, with those wild, sorcerous eyes.

He scowled then. “Where am I?” he grunted. In response she made a

snide gesture and indicated the lush gardens about them, whose broad-leafed branches harbored gray-green shadows.

“You are in my gardens, in the royal palace of the house of Issak, in the city of Al Subakh.” He could only shake his head in disbelief, his mind reeling as to his fate. This was no paradise; it was doom itself. By this point his frustration was fully intolerable.

He shot bolt upright, towering over her comparatively small body. He exuded a primal ferocity as he did so, but she showed no sign of the fear that struck her during their first encounter in the dungeons. She coolly took a step back and allowed him to do as he pleased.

“Why have I been taken here, and by the damned devils of Hell itself, who are you!” His voice was halfway between a roar and a whisper, as he was filled to the brim with both rage and fear of discovery. In faux aggression, he raised his hand as though to strike her, but still she was unphased.

“It is simple, oh slayer of slayers,” she purred. “You are my property—I won you in a bet with my lord Rahim.” His eyes bulged in disbelief. “We agreed if I could find him a better slayer, I would lay claim to the loser. You lost, and have since spent a week in my garden, resting. I kept you pacified with various salts until you were fully healed.”

Sathano’s head reeled and his soul shook with the memory of the demoniac aberration that bested him in the arena. Slowly he lowered his fist and began to process the new information.

“Why me?” It was all he could manage.

“You can kill better than any warrior I’ve ever seen.” To such an observation his face wrinkled with deep lines of hate and sorrow.

“Your demon seems a better warrior than any upon the earth,” said he, “and it no doubt lusts for the shedding of blood and the splintering of bone.”

“You are not wrong, though that demon was called from the inky blackness beyond the world and cannot be easily controlled. Men are infinitely more moldable.” Her eyes narrowed and flashed wildly in the gathering darkness of the walled-in garden. Lights were beginning to gather in orange glows high up behind her, and he saw that the garden was attached to the high towers of the palace of Rahim Al Issak.

“Who are you really, and why am I here?” He was tired of the witch’s mere allusions to his true purpose under her mastery. The last of the light was evaporating from the garden, and to his mind came the longing of his homeland. His heart ached, and his body surged with confusion and anger.

“I am Lady Visima, bride-to-be of Rahim Al Issak. You, my dear Sathano, are here to kill my groom.”

Sathano shook his head in disbelief. He felt faint then, and with little better option, sat his huge frame heavily upon the rapidly cooling grass.

He was stunned by the opportunity placed before him. The chance win the justice owed to him for his years of captivity, and to make a vile man suffer was unique and unexpected. In his heart, he wished for the wicked Master to die, but deep down he worried he lacked the spark of primal violence to carry out the task. Killing was of him, but was he a killer? He did not know. He hated the Master, but so too did he hate killing, and the title of ‘Slayer’.

Then he considered Visima’s part in this, and his suspicion flared once more. “Why?” he managed in a low voice.

“It’s simple,” she shrugged, “I sought to marry him for political gain, yet he is unwilling to involve me in any form of governance. I am to be little more than a trophy. With him dead, and no other heirs to the throne, I am the most legitimate inheritor to the throne of Al Subakh.”

“Kill him yourself, then!” scowled Sathano, his distaste for the witch-woman growing rapidly. “I am told poison is the way of the woman.”

She laughed then, a cold, icy laugh. “I would be instantly suspected if either sorcery or poison were used. A murder is another thing entirely, especially one so bloody as to be an impossible feat for one such as myself. I tried once already, by proxy… you made the death of my hired killers look so simple in the arena.” Sathano scowled, beginning to understand.

“It would be suicide for myself—” he began but was cut short.

“If you refuse, it will only be back to the pits with you. Besides, once it’s done, you’ll never have to kill again. I’ll even release you to go where you please and as you please—as a free man.”

“But if I’m caught…”

She shook her head in faux frustration. “You’ll be sentenced to death of course, but the proceedings cannot go on without a Master of the city. Once I’m in control, I’ll simply pardon you.” Sathano severely doubted this.

Long after the crickets came out and the chill wind came from over the garden walls, Sathano relented. The cool weight of a dagger was placed in his calloused hands.

 

#

 

She left him not long after that, saying that it would be necessary for her defense that she be far away from the palace on the night of the incident. She stayed with him only long enough to explain how to get to Rahim, who would be resting in his apartments by now, likely sour with wine and drug.

Alone, Sathano walked to the eastern edge of the garden of the Lady Visima, which was boxed in by a tremendous wall of dark stone coated in spidery ivy. Looking up the surface of the great construct, he estimated its height to be around four men. He girdled the knife, and with a grunt, he seized the dark vines and began propelling himself upward.

Visima had explained to him that beyond this wall lay another set of gardens, those belonging to Rahim Al Issak. These were directly attached to the Master’s personal apartments, and were accessible most readily by means of an open balcony on the second floor.

Upon coming down on the other side, Sathano found himself in a similarly designed garden, though with far more sculptures, fountains, and works of tile and mosaic than the latter. Despite the designs and stonework however, the place was still thick with lush foliage and the darkness of the Abar night.

Flitting through the broad leaves and the thick dusk, he thought he caught a glimpse of light, up high and far away, as though on the other side of the jungled space. Like a panther, he glided through the dark gardens, eyes trained on the light.

Sathano emerged then, quite suddenly, into a clearing of short grasses. Sure enough, the light he perceived was the light of oil lamps, whose warm glow was cascading down from the gaps in a balcony of polished marble. Through the arching opening, he caught evidences of a richly adorned living space.

He went to advance, but stopped short, the hairs on the nape of his neck standing on end. Something was wrong. Half a moment later and he thought he heard something on the wind—a sort of deep, absent rumbling. Before madness and desperation took him, he confirmed his suspicions and caught sight of the origin of the ghostly, faint sound. The iron dagger was in his hand in an instant, poised like the fangs of a venomous cobra.

What he initially supposed to be a deep shadow cast by the oil lamps against the outstretched balcony was not as it seemed. The shadow cast upon the soft grasses of the garden floor was moving, ever so slightly. It was then that Sathano made the terrible connection, and recognized the beast from the pit, again before him, though now it was snoring. He swallowed hard and wiped the cold sweat from his brow while eyeing the shaggy bulk nervously.

The monstrous thing was directly in his path and would need to be navigated if he were ever to gain the balcony, from which he was sure he heard the distant voice of Rahim Al Issak.

No mortal knife could lame such a beast, Sathano was sure. With resignation that his doom was likely close at hand, he did the only thing he could think to do in that moment. He rushed toward the dreaming bison-man and, with tremendous exertion of his mighty thews, leapt a champion’s leap. Through the air he hurtled, his heels just dusting the greasy hair of the titan before landing softly in the grasses on the other side.

Madly he whirled, ready for anything, but the beast only stirred slightly, and rolled over in its dreams. For a fraction of a moment, Sathano wondered what it was that demons dreamed of, but decided against further investigation.

Once more he noticed something, only this something was regarding the massive abomination. Sathano perceived the reflective glint of steel about the bison-man’s neck. The telltale sound of clinking links told him everything. The beast was bound where it lay, and in an odd way, Sathano felt a sort of unnatural kinship with the thing.

He shook his head and turned away from the sad sight, instead looking up to the balcony which hung overhead. It was child’s play for a man such as he to amble up a nearby tree and leap from its thick branches to the firm stone of the balcony.

It’s cool touch was uncomfortable to his bare skin, as he was used only to bitter heat, but he ignored the discomfort and crouched low in the deep shadows on one side of the archway. There he listened and waited.

The stink of perfume and luxury ran rank from the portal, as well as the drunken humming of a lone man. Sathano was sure as to who the voice belonged.

The voice came closer and made a sigh as though reclining. It was time.

Silent as a housecat yet with the speed of a bolt, he sprang up, rounded the corner, and came face to face with a nearly unconscious Rahim Al Issak, whose bearded, toady face was red and puffy with too much alcohol and spice. He lay back upon a narrow divan, whose surface was stained with expensive wine, as were the bright robes of the Master.

Rahim’s eyes went wide upon seeing the intruder, and gasped and sputtered pitifully upon the sight of the dagger Sathano carried. With trembling limbs, his perfumed hand shot to the curved knife about his own belt. Sathano’s tremendous hand enveloped the Master’s smaller one and squeezed till the blade was dropped, clattering powerlessly upon the tile floor.

He made to cry out, but Sathano, who had been calm the entire time, dropped his own knife to place his other hand over the Master’s mouth, giving him a warning look.

“I am not here to kill you,” whispered the dark giant, and at these words, Al Issak relaxed some.

“I am here to throw you.” The statement hung heavy in the air, and Rahim’s eyes bulged tremendously in the batrachian head as he suspected its meaning.

He managed to bite down on Sathano’s hand, which cause the slayer to pull away long enough for the squirming man to let out a lone cry.

“GUARDS!” he managed, but that was all.

In a single movement, Sathano took up his body, whirled around, and cast his burden with all his might over the edge of the balcony into the dark garden below.

 

 

In the darkness ran a bloody, hot-throated cry, and the sound of a mighty bull being aroused from its slumber. Next came a sense of violent thrashing, pitiful screaming, and an ear-splitting roar. Rahim Al Issak—Master of Al Subakh, and slaver of Sathano the Slayer—was dead.

He had little time to collect himself, for a banging went up behind him, against the doors to the apartments of the late Al Issak, alongside the shouts of frantic guards. The door shook with the blows being delivered to its other side, and Sathano made his own decision for the first time in many years.

“To Hell with Al Subakh, and to her future Mistress,” he whispered, before mounting the railing of the balcony. He leapt off into the darkness where he caught the branches of the nearby tree. Below, the demon was still distracted with the of crunching bones, and so Sathano swung down into the dark beyond the hideous thing—just as the first of the bronzed guards burst through the door into the chamber.

He tore through the gardens, over the wall, and into the night.

 

#

 

It was some months later, while trekking south across the sea of sands that he heard news of Al Subakh. A merchant along the road of the salt carters told him of the unusual circumstances surrounding the death of the city’s Mistress, one Visima Al Issak, and that one of her counsel was suspected of assassination. Sathano only smiled a grim smile.

“You seem unsurprised?” asked the salt merchant, and Sathano shook his head.

“No, it is the nature of beasts to kill one another so.”

 

________________________________________

Jeremy D. Farkas was born and raised in Traverse City Michigan, where he slowly developed a passion for fantasy and science fiction, especially the pulps and adventure stories.  An avid tabletop gamer since high school, he was able to first immerse himself in the milieu of fantasy literature by way of Gary Gygax’s Appendix N.  As a college student at Grand Valley State University, he wanted to introduce his love of swords and sorcery to his peers, and by extension the rest of the modern generation of fiction readers who were tragically oblivious.  He served as President of the GVSU Writers’ Club, where he was able to further sharpen his skills and expand his repertoire into editing and workshopping.  A recent graduate, Jeremy currently resides just outside the city of Grand Rapids, where he works and occasionally writes pieces of heroic fiction in the inspirational vein of Howard, Leiber, Moorcock, Smith, Anderson, Wagner, and Saunders.

 

Karen Bovenmyer earned an MFA in Creative Writing: Popular Fiction from the University of Southern Maine. She teaches and mentors students at Iowa State University and Western Technical College. She serves as the Assistant Editor of the Pseuodopod Horror Podcast Magazine. She is the 2016 recipient of the Horror Writers Association Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Scholarship. Her poems, short stories and novellas appear in more than 40 publications and her first novel, SWIFT FOR THE SUN, debuted from Dreamspinner Press in 2017.

Timothy Menzel is a life-long science fiction and fantasy enthusiast from central Iowa. His narrations appear on PseudoPod and Heroic Fantasy Quarterly.  

 

Miguel Santos is a freelance illustrator and maker of Comics living in Portugal.  His artwork has appeared in numerous issues of Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, as well as in the Heroic Fantasy Quarterly Best-of Volume 2.  More of his work can be seen at his online portfolio and his instagram.