Sinbad: Rogue of Mars. John Garavaglia
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the next level clearing, the priest stopped and rested for a moment. The sky grew darker and the wind felt like a razor slicing his face but he did nothing to shield himself. He was completely exhausted.
The priest glanced at the stark outlines of the mountains all about them and shuddered. His soul shrank from their gaunt brutality. This was a grim, naked land where anything might happen.
A remote mountain village was in front of him. It was cut off from the world by sky-high peaks. There was a temple that overlooked a small enclave of thatch-roofed huts. Wooly yaks were tethered outside the dwellings.
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Something was visible through the mist, the silhouette of a temple. Prayer flags fluttered in the breeze, which carried the chiming of wind-bells down from the looming place of worship. Through the cold, blustery night the temple gongs boomed and the conchs roared. Their clamor was a faint echo from within the temple while the priest struggled on his journey. Beads of sweat glistened on his dark blue skin. His fingers twisted the hem of the rich fabric beneath him.
He proceeded to the stone walkway and up a small flight of wide steps to a tall marble door. The priest cautiously made sure he wasn’t followed, and opened the huge door while it gave a creaking and grinding sound.
The priest pulled himself inside. He was in a huge, vaulted hall lit by torches set into iron brackets on the stone floor, forming pools of flickering firelight that melted into surrounding shadows. There were thick, supporting pillars every few yards.
The door creaked and scraped and thudded shut. He locked the doors and took a tour of the temple. He walked down the center aisle past the rows of empty pews. The waning moonlight filtered through the windows overlooking the interior of the building.
The priest squinted, adjusting his sight to the semidarkness. At the far end of the hall there was a raised platform. Numerous candles glowed brightly on the altar, with the scent of incense filled the air. By it stood a robed figure, a person whose features, in the dim glow of the torches, seemed vaguely feminine, but only vaguely.
Despite the freezing temperature outside, the main chamber was warm and humid. The priest felt his body recovering from its ordeal as it warmed. He unclasped his robe and shuffled forward.
He hoped his contact didn’t have second thoughts on joining him.
He was startled by the swift loud flutter of his contact’s moving cloak. Before he could realize what was going on, or
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could draw a breath, a small green hand was placed over his mouth. Then he felt someone’s mouth closing in on his ear.
“I’m going to move my hand away from your mouth,” she instructed him, “and you are not going to scream. Is that understood?”
The priest narrowed his eyes, puzzled. If this was a nefarious plot from one of Akhdar’s most ruthless assassins, he would be dead by now. He could see his breath coming from his mouth. At first he feared a vindictive specter had risen from the dead and wanted to claim the old man’s soul for its own. But he recognized the soft female voice to be an ally. The priest slowly nodded his head, and the unseen attacker removed her hand.
“Qani!” the priest gasped, feeling his heart had skipped a beat. “This was most unwise! Akhdar has eyes and ears everywhere. I am risking so much to be here.”
“I wasn’t followed,” she replied. “Ankhara made sure of that. And my men are stationed around the temple so we won’t be interrupted. They’re outside waiting for my return.”
“You do not understand the peril, Qani. Akhdar’s spies make a profession on murder. Women have been stolen and men stabbed between here and the city. This is not like your home province.”
“But I am here, and unharmed,” she interrupted with a trace of impatience. “Now let us not waste any more time. Now tell me what you know, father.”
“We have located the Earthman, Qani,” he said, his voice level, conversational. The echo bounced off the walls and it was sent back right at him. He proceeded down the aisle, looking behind each and every pillar. “He has been taken prisoner by Akhdar. It will be a most dangerous undertaking.”
The priest was at the end of the corridor. In the corner of his eye he could see a dark figure swiftly scurrying beside him. He sensed instinctively that he was in grave danger. He quickly turned his head to the side to see it had vanished. He knew she was there. He could feel her presence.
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“You need not go. We are not sure he is the one.”
Suddenly the light went out and someone very close behind him said, “What if he truly is? We cannot take the risk. I will go.”
“Then may Daizha protect you, my child,” blessed the priest, his voice sunk into a whisper.
He waited for a reply. Finally, he turned around and he found that the temple was empty.
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CHAPTER THREE
JUDGE A MAN BY THE REPUTATION
OF HIS ENEMIES
Every battle won was a step closer to Azrak’s freedom. It was a weak justification for Sinbad’s deeds in the arena. With each victory he felt less than a man and more of a beast. Sinbad prayed to Allah that this will end soon, and that Sinbad will once again taste the salty air of the sea.
No matter how many bloodthirsty rogues and nefarious monsters Sinbad killed in the pits, it wasn’t enough to sway Emperor Akhdar’s decision to release Azrak. He was starting to believe the blood on his hands were all in vain. But he had no place to argue for his friend’s freedom.
While he was fighting in the arena, Sinbad could feel he was being watched. Not just by Akhdar and his royal court and the thousands of observers in the stands, but by someone who aimed to kill him.
Kar-Tyr watched Sinbad from cell. Studying the outlander’s technique, and running the upcoming battle through his mind. Taking in every detail and thinking of every possible situation the Earthman would be capable of. However, this human proved to be quite unpredictable in his last several matches. He had been fighting as if he had a death wish. He proved to be reckless and did not waste any time to try to end his fights as quickly as possible. Kar-Tyr wouldn’t accept such an informal victory. He was in dire need of a worthy opponent. All the past combatants have been mediocre to the least. After Kar-Tyr saw Sinbad vanquish the moktar, he believed the outlander would be a commendable adversary. But after his last fight, Kar-Tyr began to have his doubts.
To Sinbad’s surprise and horror his next challenger was none other than Kasson Bay, the Thulian inmate who gave him a hard time when he first arrived in the dungeon. With
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a burst of confidence he felt he could hold his own against the marauder now.
As Sinbad watched, Kasson pulled out a huge burnish iron sword with a flourish. He gave it a nonchalant spin, letting it catch the light. Then he touched the tip to the floor in front of him.
A challenge.
“Are you ready to die, outlander?” Kasson called out to him. His voice was low and sibilant, like the purr of a leopard, and yet it seemed to fill the entire arena, echoing off the walls and raising strange harmonics in the air.
Sinbad glanced at his opponent. “If Allah wills.”
Kasson smiled. “I’ll tell him you’re on your way.”
Sinbad’s breathing was steady and his gaze was clear.
A muscle twitched in Kasson’s leg as a bruised tendon complained. Sinbad saw the marauder’s