The day passed quickly, the orcs escorting Max and company directly to the former human city now occupied by the war chief’s clan. Or, as Max learned when they arrived at the fully repaired main gates, several clans united under the war chief’s banner. There were a total of nine clan banners along the front of the wall, the chief’s hanging highest of all directly above the gatehouse. A red curved sword embedded in an obviously dwarven helm on a black background.
From the way dwarves had described it, Max had expected the city to be a literal ruins, with missing roofs, crumbling walls, tents erected where homes had once stood. Instead, as he passed through the thick wooden doors of the main gate, he was surprised to find a clean, well-maintained city. There were obvious signs of repair, where newer stone was mortared atop older, darker stone. But all the buildings had roofs, many had glass windows, including storefronts that appeared to be open for business. Max heard Smitty whistle to himself up ahead, and smiled. His corporal just rolled with whatever came his way. He looked to see that both the dwarves were wide-eyed, their gazes traveling up and down the clean cobblestone streets, mouths open in amazement.
Hundreds upon hundreds of orcs stared at them as the procession moved up the main street toward what looked like an inner keep. Most of these orcs had never seen a live dwarf, or whatever Max was. But none tried to interfere, or cross through the protective perimeter of orcs surrounding the party. There were a few growls, and a growing amount of muttering as more and more citizens got the word about the strange arrivals and came to see for themselves.
Max sat straight in his saddle, giving the crowd a smile with full fangs, occasionally waving at a young orc here and there. He did his best to look confident and regal, needing to play his part without faltering, and using this opportunity to practice.
Within a few minutes they were ushered through another gate into a wide stone courtyard. To their left a full company of armored orcs stood at attention in front of a barracks building, five rows of twenty nearly identical killing machines. To their right was a stable, from which several young orcs emerged to take charge of their mounts. Max guessed that the boy who offered to take his mount was about ten. He leaned down, produced a gold coin, causing the boy’s eyes to widen. “His name is Pokey. Please take good care of him.” He winked at the boy, who nodded vigorously and made the coin disappear. Kids were the same everywhere.
Directly ahead of them stood a wide stair leading up to double ironwood doors. Max noted that though a rider was sent ahead to notify the war chief of their royal visitor, no one stood upon the stairs to greet them. The commander motioned for the party to climb the stairs, taking the lead. Once inside the donjon, they were led a short distance down a wide corridor, one turn to the right, then a left, and into what had to be the keep’s great hall.
The space was larger than the dwarves’ hall, if less impressively decorated. The fluted columns that reached up to the vaults above were not carved. The floor was simply stone tile, though artfully installed. And toward the back of the room a massive orc sat upon a throne of iron with accents of gold. Max used Identify as they were led the nearly one hundred paces to the throne.
War Chief An’zalor
Level ??
Health: ??
Like Dorin Ironhand, the war chief was too high level for Max to get anything other than his name. Clearly, if things went badly, individual combat was out of the question.
The war chief ignored the commander, who was puffing out his chest and taking a deep breath to report on his captured prize, and cut him off. Looking at Max, he leaned forward on his throne and growled, “Who are you to walk into my city uninvited?”
Max decided in the moment not to bow or show obeisance in any way. Instead he stood straighter and met the war chief’s angry gaze. “I am Maximilian Storm, the Chimera King, ruler of the newly taken kingdom of Stormhaven! I come to you as a potential ally, bearing a great gift of legend, and an offer of peace from Dorin Ironhand of Darkholm.”
Feeling proud of himself for not fumbling his words, Max produced the sword and held it up for all to see. The war chief glared at him still, but there was a hint of curiosity in his eyes. He grunted and nodded at the commander who stood next to Max. When the orc began to reach for the weapon, Max glared at him, and he stayed his hand.
“Great chieftain, this weapon is not meant for the hands of mere mortals. I have sworn to place it in no hands other than your own.” He once again held the sword up high in both hands.
Skill Level Increase! Your Deception skill has increased by +1!”
You have learned the skill: Diplomacy!
There was more to the notifications, but Max blinked them away, still holding up the sword and refocusing on the chieftain’s eyes. For his part, the chief didn’t look as if he believed a word of it, but was amused that Max had the fortitude to speak the words. Waving for Max to step forward, he leaned down and accepted the weapon, one massive paw wrapping around the scabbard like it was a kabob stick.
Max stepped back as the orc drew the blade free of the leather, he watched An’zalor’s eyes unfocus as he Examined the weapon, then widen when he’d read the description. When he judged that the time was right, Max spoke loudly enough for all to hear.
“I recovered that weapon on the battlefield where your kind fought a stone dragon nearly one thousand years ago.”
The chief nodded, grunting the single word, “Brightwood.”
“That is correct, great chief. Seeing that it was of dwarven manufacture, I took it with me to Darkholm and presented it to King Ironhand. There I was told the story of the blade, forged by a great dwarven master smith as a peace offering to the war chief of that time. The dwarven courier charged with delivering the message and the weapon was killed along with the orcs at Brightwood, and it is believed he died before being able to complete his mission.” Max paused to see what sort of reaction the chief would have. An’zalor was leaning even farther forward, now sitting on the edge of his seat, his grip on the sword tight, absorbing every word with interest. Encouraged, Max continued.
“As the one who recovered the legendary sword, and as the new ruler of a neutral city, Ironhand of Darkholm requested that I complete that lost courier’s mission, deliver this gift to you, and extend an offer of peace with Darkholm.”
An’zalor didn’t answer, staring at the blade as he turned it over, reflecting the sunlight beaming down from skylights above. Eventually, he mumbled, “Good weapon. Worthy of a War Chief.”
Max began to relax, taking a moment to turn and smile at his companions, who were clearly still on edge. Which was why he was surprised when he heard the orc on the throne say, “Throw this tiny king in the arena! Kill the dwarves and the traitor!” He pointed at Smitty.
Max began to panic. This was not among the variables he’d considered during the journey here. Thinking fast, he shouted, “I thought orcs valued honor!”
Everyone in the room froze, including An’zalor. His head lifted from the blade and his eyes tried to bore holes in Max. “What did you just say?”
Max motioned to the dwarves. “My companions journeyed here with me in good faith, relying on the honor of the orcs, and the war chief in particular, to observe the ancient laws protecting messengers and ambassadors!”
“Ancient laws for ancient dead ones!” the orc growled, taking the hilt of the sword in hand. “You are no king! I will not speak with you again until you have survived the arena trials!”
Max grasped at that thin straw of hope. “I will gladly undertake your trials. I only ask that you let my companions complete them at my side, rather than executing them without honor.”
There were grunts of approval and possibly even admiration from the gathered orcs, and Max saw the chieftain noticing. An’zalor waived his free hand as if he couldn’t care less. “Fine! You all fight together in the arena. Begin tomorrow! We shall arrange opponents worthy of the Chimera King and his companions.”
With that decree, he waved for
the guards to take Max, Smitty, and the dwarves away. They were led out of the donjon, back out the gates on foot, and nearly half a mile across the city under guard. Reaching a massive stadium structure that had to be the arena, they were marched down a ramp into a tunnel that led to a room full of iron-barred cages. Each cage was approximately ten feet by twenty, with several benches set in rows a few feet apart. The same commander that had brought them into the city pointed at the nearest cage. “You will sleep here. Food will be brought to you later, and tomorrow morning you fight!”
True to their word, the orcs delivered a substantial meal to the party’s cell that evening. There was roasted leg of… something birdlike that Max didn’t recognize, but that tasted delicious. There was fresh bread, small potatoes served in gravy with chunks of vegetables, and even melon for dessert.
Smitty observed, with his mouth full of meat, “The orcs believe in making sure they’re entertainment is well fed. Sort of like a last meal kind of thing.”
Max looked around at his friends. “I’m sorry for getting you all into this. You were almost executed today, and we still might die in the arena tomorrow.”
“We volunteered.” Dalia stated, as if that were the answer to everything.
“Aye, this were our idea, lad. And yer quick talkin’ saved us from bein executed.” He paused, looking at each face in the group for a moment. “Don’t be so quick to surrender. We got muscle, magic, healing… we might just surprise the bastards tomorrow!”
When the meal was over, rather than sit and stew over their situation, Battleaxe got them up and sparring, working to raise the two Battlebornes’ sword skill as much as possible before the next day’s battle. After an hour of sparring, they began drilling in group mechanics, working out various formations using commands established long ago by the dwarves. Both Battleaxe and Dalia had served their time in Darkholm’s army as front line fighters, as nearly every adult dwarf did. Then one had specialized as a scout, the other as a healer. But they knew the drills like they knew their own heartbeats.
Battleaxe called out a command, and he and Dalia raised shields, locking them together side by side, then slamming them into the floor. On softer ground than the stone floor, like the sand of the arena, the short spikes on the bottom edges of the shields would penetrate the ground and help the dwarves hold strong against impacts. Smitty and Max would stand behind the shields and fire bows or, in Max’s case, cast spells. The only spell Smitty knew was Spark, but Max had a plan for him to use it.
They worked on different scenarios for battling humanoids, creatures, and humanoids mounted on creatures. They planned for spell casters as best they could, and ranged attackers with bows or crossbows, spears, even throwing knives. For three hours they drilled and planned, then drilled some more, until their responses to the commands from the scout, their most experienced warrior, were fast enough to suit him.
The workout had the added advantage of tiring everyone but Max, allowing them to quickly drift off to sleep on their chosen benches.
*****
Morning came with the light of the sunrise filtering through a high window near their cell, and the delivery of breakfast. Max had finally dozed off and gotten maybe three hours of sleep. He wasn’t feeling well rested, but was close enough.
He’d spent most of the wakeful hours dwelling on regrets. The regrets he felt around the deaths of his squad, the likely deaths of his current companions, which meant getting Smitty killed for the second time. He had looked back on his previous life, the choices he’d made. Max had put his career first, foregoing a family, or even any long term relationships. That one was tough. On the one hand, he’d missed out on all the benefits of having a family. On the other hand, he’d not left anyone behind to mourn his passing, and there was no one special he missed all that much back on earth.
Now, as he mechanically swallowed eggs and some kind of sausage, he put all that regret behind him. This was what he was good at. His chosen profession. He was a soldier, an experienced veteran trained to assess and adapt, to overcome long odds and emerge victorious. He had work to do, and the lives of his friends depended on him doing it well.
Shoveling fuel into his body so that it was prepared to fight, he found himself actually looking forward to whatever the arena had in store for them.
For nearly an hour after sunrise their captors left them waiting. Max and the others could hear the sounds of a crowd gathering, presumably in the arena stands. It sounded like a large crowd, but when they were finally ushered out of the cage and through a tunnel that sloped up into the arena, Max was shocked to see just how large the crowd was!
There were thousands, no, tens of thousands!
The structure approached the size of some smaller college football stadiums, with row upon row of stone benches rising up in an expanding bowl. Max immediately understood why the event was happening so early in the day. By midday the arena would be an oven, the heat of the sun on the sand and stone effectively cooking anyone inside. The sun hadn’t yet cleared the eastern lip of the stadium, but Max guessed it wouldn’t be long.
Their guards escorted them out to roughly the center of the arena’s sandy floor, then quickly departed, closing a metal grate at the tunnel exit as they passed. There was a mix of cheers and growls from the crowd of orcs in the stands, and Max’s ears picked up a good deal of wagering.
On the opposite side from where they’d entered, there was a clang of metal, and the gate of another tunnel began to rise. Before it was even halfway up, a large beast sped underneath, emerging from the darkness into the light. Max used Identify on it as it paused to size them up.
Manticore Male
Level 25
Health: 2,800/2,800
The creature was a mixture of two beasts, with the body of a large cat and a segmented scorpion’s tail. Its head was wider than most felines, and sat on a thickly muscled neck. The entire body from its nose to the venomous tip of its tail was black. It growled at the party in front of it, the claws of its hind legs digging into the sand as it crouched, about to pounce. The tail curved up over its head, twitching back and forth. The manticore was a living tank, all muscle with a large health pool, and a nasty main weapon.
The dwarves moved together without a word, planting their shields in the sand and drawing sword and axe. Max and Smitty both raised their bows. Without ceremony, both archers fired at the creature, which stood maybe fifty yards distant. Smitty’s arrow slammed into its right shoulder, the head sinking a few inches into the manticore’s flesh. Max’s arrow went much deeper, penetrating the creature’s neck. It shuddered for a moment, then roared as it sprang forward.
Both archers got one more shot in before the creature reached the party. Smitty’s arrow went wide, a sign of his nerves. Max’s arrow struck the left front leg, causing the creature to tumble forward, rolling ass over teakettle into the dwarves’ shields. The weight and momentum of the creature knocked both dwarves onto their butts, the manticore nearly crushing Dalia under her shield.
As they’d rehearsed, Max tossed his superior bow to Smitty, who promptly backpedaled to gain some distance even as he nocked an arrow and fired into the creature’s belly. Max equipped his sword and stepped forward, a downward chop connecting with the recovering monster’s shoulder, opening a long gash.
Critical Hit! Bonus damage 50% for striking a defenseless foe!
Three arrows in its body, a bad tumble into steel shields, and a critical sword slash had only taken about a quarter of the manticore’s significant health pool.
Battleaxe, with his back against the ground, gave a great heave on his shield, pushing one side of the rolling monster upward slightly, causing it to roll off of Dalia’s shield as well. The dwarf leapt to his feet and raised his shield in time to block a strike of the tail aimed at Dalia’s exposed face. When the stinger struck, there was a clang of hardened chitin on steel, and a thick black venom splattered across the face of the shield.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Max ch
ecked to make sure both dwarves were still behind their shields, and Smitty was out of range, before he pointed at the final, bulbous segment of the tail from which the stinger extended. “Boom!”
With nothing to hide behind, Max equipped his dwarven shield from Regin’s armory and dropped to the ground, holding it over his head at an angle, hoping it would protect him.
The manticore screamed when the tail exploded, and the crowd went momentarily silent. Then there was a wild roar of excitement as Max and the dwarves rolled to their feet, and Smitty fired another arrow at the beast. Max felt a few droplets of spatter strike his legs, but no immediate pain.
Black blood dripping from its shattered tail, the manticore charged at Max. He held his sword high and planted his feet, intending a downward slash at its face. But the creature deceived him, changing direction at the last moment and rushing past Max on his left side. He swung his sword anyway, already aware that he was too slow. The useless swing was interrupted as the broken tail swept his feet out from under him, putting him on his back and causing him to drop his sword.
The big cat instantly turned and pounced, its sharp teeth clamping down on Max’s shoulder, tremendous jaw strength driving its fangs through his armor, his hardened skin, and into the muscle beneath. Max screamed in pain, and more than a little fear, as the manticore’s front and back claws began to rip at his chest and legs. Another arrow slammed into its neck just inches from Max’s face, and he heard Battleaxe shouting something, but couldn’t make out the words with the massive cat growling in his ear. Max’s health bar was dropping quickly, already down to about forty percent.
Seconds later, as the cat stepped off of Max’s body and began to use its powerful neck to shake him, a hand axe chopped into its muzzle just above the cat’s nose. The beast screamed, letting go of Max as it reared up and back, then planted its face in the sand and covered its wounded face with one paw. Max felt a heal from Dalia, and his health climbed above half, but he was still bleeding from deep punctures in his shoulder, and several long lacerations on his legs. While his chain shirt had mostly protected him from the claws, his legs were unarmored above the knee, and the manticore’s claws had shredded his leather pants.
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