42
Killian
Killian’s worst fear and greatest hope had arrived, manifested as a veritable demon strolling out of the tunnels and into the center of the arena. All heads turned toward the enigmatic stranger who sauntered across the dirt floor. Each step Lazarus took radiated with control and power. He wore a long leather jacket that dusted the top of his knee-high boots. It was far too hot for such attire, but Killian knew there wouldn’t be a single drop of sweat on Lazarus’s brow. The demon didn’t wear the jacket for comfort or protection. It was all theatrics, a way to villainize himself. Based on the paralyzed reaction of the crowd, he was playing the part well.
No one breathed as they awaited his actions, his words. The injured rider kept screaming as he clutched at his stomach, trying and failing to keep his guts inside his body. The sound washed over the arena in a nauseating wave, but even the medicsattending to him had paused, too enamored by the mysterious intruder who marched their way.
Lazarus had come, and now it was time for Killian to make good on his promise to end him—for Elyse, and for Rhodan.
Killian made to pivot toward the Guard and begin spewing out commands, but he couldn’t move. His arms refused to cooperate; his torso failed to rotate. He tried to swallow the putrid taste of bile, but even his throat didn’t work. His chest didn’t rise, didn’t fall, didn’t pump air in and out of his lungs. The realization might have knocked him to his knees if he’d been able to move.
He saw then that no one else was moving. Everyone was frozen where they were, either seated or standing, some of them in mid-step on their race to get a better view of the chaos. Even the pennants across the arena—the same ones that had flowed all day in the breeze—had ceased moving. They remained half unfurled, curled in on themselves mid-ripple.
Every curse Killian knew flew through his mind as the realization sank in. Lazarus hadn’t stunned the entire crowd. He had once again stopped time.
Only two figures were free from the spell. Lazarus, whose movements were languid like a drawl, and the injured rider, still tormented and howling.
Lazarus sneered down at the rider like he was peering at a pest. Then he summoned a sword of pure darkness. Black from point to hilt, the blade hummed with ill intent. Killian’s insides lurched, cowering at the infernal weapon as Lazarus towered over the screeching rider. The rider’s screams changedfrom cries for help to pleas for mercy. The medics, frozen like everyone else, watched on as mere statues.
Without hesitation, Lazarus bent and plunged the smoky blade into the rider’s throat.
The gasp that reverberated across the arena was silent, yet it somehow roared in Killian’s ears.
Lazarus strode back toward the center of the arena, careless as he abandoned the soldier’s body. Blood dripped from the tip of the sword, leaving a dark stain in his wake.
Killian held his breath. Lazarus was headed straight for the center of the arena, to where the salt circle was buried. He had stared at that spot all day, memorizing every clump of dirt. He watched with agonizing helplessness as the demon crossed the hidden barrier. Lazarus strolled right through it, completely unaware of the trap he’d just walked into. It didn't matter, though. Killian's dry mouth couldn't even move. He couldn't speak the incantation, and Lazarus was free to roam and torment as he pleased.
Lazarus shifted in a slow circle, his head high as he took in the entire arena. With a rancid smile, he dragged his gaze slowly over Killian and Elyse before his attention landed on the royals gathered in their upholstered seats. “Your Majesties,” he called in a gritty yet booming voice that echoed through the arena. He gave them a low bow, but the sneer on his face never left. “Thank you for being here today. Though, it is really everyone else I am here to speak to.” He raised his arm out behind him, gesturing to the crowd.
Killian’s stomach felt heavy as Lazarus turned and faced the other side of the stadium. He was met with more silence, yet he swaggered about like the arena had erupted in cheers.
“You, the brave citizens of this continent, have endured so much,” he bellowed, a faux-sympathy in his voice. “You have toiled and farmed and hammered, bought and sold your wares, cooked and cleaned and paid your taxes—and for what?” He held out his hands as he peered at the crowd, waiting for an answer that would never come.
“For what?” he repeated. “So that you could wake up and do it all over again? Meanwhile—” He pointed a bony, accusatory finger at the monarchs behind him. “—theycontinue to live their pampered lives in their cushy palaces with their servants and their guards.”
A lump formed in Killian’s throat, one he could not swallow. This wasn’t about the royals or their wealth and security. Lazarus was trying to rile up the crowd, but Killian didn’t know why.
“For the past few months, you have been lied to,” Lazarus went on, ire growing in his voice. “I have been out there tearing you down one family at a time, and these gluttonous bastards want you to believe that you're safe. That there is no threat. That you shouldn’t panic, because if you do, they will lose control—the very control that their families imposed on you so long ago.”
He let that thought stew for a long moment, and Killian prayed that no one in the crowd was buying his bullshit.
“You should be afraid, though,” Lazarus continued. “After all, it was I who killed dear, departed King Cyril of Rhodan. And if I can kill him, I can do anything.”
Even with the effects of the spell, Killian swore he saw Elyse’s muscles tense. His arm ached to reach out to her and offer any sort of reassurance.
“But why should I get to have all the fun? After all, there’s plenty to go around…” With a wave of Lazarus’s hand, five massive trunks appeared on the arena floor. The lids sprang open, revealing mounds of gold glittering in the sunlight.
“Five chests, five piles of gold, five rulers of the continent,” he called out, sounding nearly drunk with excitement. He marched along the row of chests, emboldened as he taunted the crowd. He stopped at the last one and scooped up a handful. One by one, he let them fall back into the chest. The metallicclinkechoed through the tense space. “For each king or queen you kill,” he declared, “you will be awarded one chest of gold.”
Dread settled in Killian’s stomach. He knew every single person in the stadium was eyeing that gold. He prayed that most people would have strong morals, that their virtues couldn’t be bought. Yet he knew there were folks in the stands who had spent their last penny to come to the Games. More than that, there were plenty of people who had squandered money on losing bets, who were desperate to make back their coin. They were the dangerous ones, the ones Killian knew were salivating over the gold as they devised a plan to get to the rulers.
With a flash of white teeth, Lazarus turned his head toward the monarchs. “Let the true games begin!”
Killian let out the breath he’d been holding. The pennants began to wave again as the flow of time was restored. Yet no one moved. Everyone, including Killian, was too shocked to react. For a fraction of a second, the world remained still.
Then, the chaos erupted.
Everyone shoved and screamed. They flung each other to the side in a reckless attempt to get to the kings and queens. The whole arena was a rumble of trampling feet and shrieking voices.
