Jundag

by Chris A. Jackson

  It was time.

  As he exited the cramped cage, his attention was captured by the creature entering the arena. It was roughly the size and shape of a large man, with muscular limbs and a thick torso protected by a shirt of finely wrought chainmail and breastplate. Where the armor did not conceal, scales as black as a moonless night covered its body. Its face was short and angular, with a wide, thin-lipped mouth and sharp horns protruding from its cheekbones and just above its temples. Spurs jutted from its knees and elbows, and a long, black tail writhed like a snake from beneath its short skirt of mail, divulging the beast's demonic origin. He occasionally saw demons in the audience, but had never seen one as a combatant.

  This is to be my opponent?

  After facing huge ogres, hukkoll, and even a troll in the arena, this seemed a less-worthy foe. Unless there is more to this strange demon than meets the eye, he thought as he reconsidered his opponent.

  A spear butt in the ribs herded him into the combatant circle, the stone floor cool and damp against the bare soles of his feet. He heard the announcer call out his name and rank—“Jundag, Champion of Clan Darkmist”—then continue.

  "Voultredk, Champion of Clan Gorgoneye."

  Clan Gorgoneye—the bitter enemies of Clan Darkmist. Jundag had fought against Gorgoneye champions before, winning slightly more bouts than losing. But unlike all of the other opponents, this one wore no collar. This was no slave.

  Perhaps, Jundag thought warily as his opponent displayed what he assumed was a smile, exposing rows of sharp teeth between thin lips, this is more than just a stupid beast.

  "The rules for this bout will be as follows," the announcer bellowed, catching Jundag's attention. This was something new. Usually the "rules" consisted of a simple "kill or be killed" with provisions for being struck unconscious or crippled.

  "Time will be kept by the glass," the announcer continued, holding aloft a small sand-filled hourglass, "and melee will begin and end with the gong. Each successive round will be twice the length of the previous round. At the beginning of each round, the combatants will choose a weapon to be used for that round only. Melee will be restricted to the circle. Leaving the combat area or striking a blow out of timed melee will result in the following round being fought weaponless by the violator.

  "Combatants," roared the announcer, "choose your weapons!"

  Attendants carried in identical racks of weapons, placing one behind each combatant. Jundag turned and took a look at the array of armament. A few pieces were recognizable—variations of halberds or hooked pikes, misshapen axes or spiked bludgeons—but others were completely alien to him. He felt a momentary dismay, then sloughed it off as he remembered a long-ago lesson he had given to Avari: anything can be a weapon. In fact, he had been carrying a very useful jawbone with him when... He dismissed the distracting thought and set himself to evaluating his weapons. Unfortunately, there was not a simple sword or hand axe among them. He quickly picked out two by eye that he thought he could handle with some proficiency, deciding to save those for later, longer rounds. There were four or five others he thought he might not cut his foot off with. But the most promising was a stout shaft of leather-wrapped black wood armed with three serrated metal blades, each nearly a foot long, set at equal angles from one another, rather like a three-bladed axe. That, he decided, he would save for an emergency.

  He glanced over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of his opponent's choice, but was met by a stare that resembled two glowing red cinders. His opponent was watching him with the same strategy in mind.

  "Make your choices, or this round will be forfeit!" the announcer growled. The audience called and heckled, and Jundag could see money changing hands as bets were placed.

  He turned back to the rack, placing his hand on a spiked bludgeon, then hesitated. His ears caught the slightest rattle of chain from behind, and he quickly scanned the armament before him, noticing two different weapons with lengths of chain.

  He snatched up a long, hooked pike with a serrated blade, then whirled and advanced into the circle. The dark demonoid glared from the other side of the circle, hissing in displeasure at the tribesman's last-minute tactic. The pike Jundag carried would be a good defense against the weapon chosen by the Gorgoneye champion—two blades affixed to the ends of a ten-foot length of chain.

  Jundag swung the pike to test its balance, and grinned at the dark warrior opposite him. Focusing on the task at hand, he blocked out the hisses and cat calls from the crowd. As the deep gong sounded the start of the first round, Jundag advanced on his opponent cautiously, moving the pike from side to side. The demon began whirling the bladed ends of the chain, and slowly edged along the circle’s circumference.

  The catcalls increased in vigor and vehemence. The crowd had come to see blood spilled, and if the fighters would not supply it, by the Dark Gods, they would. Debris began to litter the floor of the fighting circle. Rotten food, dung, and even a few stones arced toward the combatants.

  Jundag was performing a series of feint-thrusts to provoke the demon when something flashed at the edge of his vision. He twisted his body, narrowly avoiding a fist-sized stone that was aimed at his head. His opponent leapt in a high twirling arc, pirouetting in midair and lashing out with the chained blades at viper speed.

  But Jundag had been raised amongst the quickest vipers of the northern lowlands. He twisted and thrust his pike, while noting the supernatural height and speed of the other's leap. The blade of his weapon sang as it slid across the chain, but the hook did not catch. The attack was past in the blink of an eye, and Jundag bore a shallow cut along his cheek as a lesson.

  The demon’s next attack came the instant its foot touched the floor, and was even faster than the one before. It swung one of the blades out the entire length of the chain, straight toward Jundag’s head. But Jundag ducked and thrust the pike upward, whipping it in short circles to wrap the chain around it. Then he dropped the head of the pike toward the demon, and was rewarded as the blade carved a deep gash in the demon’s thigh.

  The demon leapt back, hissing at him. Jundag smiled cruelly at its hesitation; this beast was not as fearsome as he had supposed. But his smile faltered when he looked at his opponent’s wound—the bleeding had stopped, and the flesh was healing over, a tremendous advantage in a fight to the death. His own wound was minor, but it stung, and he knew that every drop of blood he lost would weaken him. Now it was the demon’s turn to smile, exposing its rows of sharp teeth before it launched its next lightning attack.

  "Is there any change?" Kenrah asked the high priestess of the goddess Demia as she exited the sick chamber.

  "None whatsoever, I'm afraid," Marania answered solemnly. "He remains comatose, and seems to grow steadily weaker. I have tried everything, but Demia does not see fit to heal him.”

  “Perhaps we should find a deity,” Feldspar said, tired of the priestess' haughty attitude, "more open-minded to the maladies of mages."

  Marania shot him a venomous look, then continued.

  “If Demia cannot rectify his condition, it may be that his illness is not from within. Perhaps he is being magically attacked?” she suggested, then shrugged off the scornful looks the wizards cast at her. “Regardless, it seems that the problem is not within my sphere of influence, but derives from something that disturbs the very fabric of his being."

  With that pronouncement, she swept from the room in a swirl of red robes. Feldspar scowled at her receding back.

  “Well,” Zerchia said in a rather hopeless tone, “we’ve consulted with clerics from all of the local temples, but none has done any good. What do we do next?”

  “May as well consult with a priest of one of the Dark Gods.” suggested Crellington sarcastically.

  “The Dark Gods,” murmured Feldspar. What did that remind him of?

  Kenrah turned to him with an incredulous look on her face.

  “You think we should consult with worshipers of the Dark Gods?”

  “Befo
re you consult with them, you’ve got to find them,” said Voncellia. “They may allow their temples in Tsing, but I don’t think you’ll find any in Fengotherond.”

  Feldspar ignored the discussion among his colleagues as he attempted to organize his own thoughts.

  "Well," said Kenrah, “we should at least update Master Belregash on Braelen’s condition.”

  This pronouncement was greeted with groans all around. The emperor’s current archmage had a well-earned reputation of being aloof, and most of the Royal Retinue—Kenrah excepted, she being the youngest and most impressionable of the retinue—tended to avoid him. Although Feldspar agreed with the general consensus, he also thought that some of their attitudes resulted out of jealousy.

  “All right, then,” said Crellington, "Zerchia, Kenrah, Feldspar and I will have a chat with Master Belregash. If—"

  "Count me out," Feldspar said. "I'm going to the library to do some research. I suspect that something in Braelen’s past may shed some light on his present condition." He exited the room before the others could protest.

  An idea was developing in his mind, but he needed more information before he presented it to his colleagues. If answers were to be found, they would be in the library, not with the archmage. Somehow, somewhere, he had to find a way to help Braelen.

  Blood and sweat flew in a fine mist as Jundag flung himself out of the path of his opponent's sweeping stroke. The demon hissed and stabbed its broad-bladed halberd at the tribesman's torso, but steel sang in his defense. The three-bladed axe was slower, but its weight deflected his enemy's blade with little extra effort—which was good, since Jundag had no energy to spare. This was the fifth round of combat and Jundag was beginning to believe that it was going to be the last—and that it might not end in his favor.

  The voices of the crowd roared in his ears, and he thought that on occasion he heard Calmarel calling out: encouraging him to win, threatening him if he didn’t. He blocked out the noise and focused on saving his life.

  Though he had fought well, accumulating only a dozen minor gashes, each wound bled and stung, weakening him little by little. Meanwhile, every cut he inflicted on the demon healed itself in moments. So as Jundag slowed with fatigue and blood loss, the demon maintained its relentless attacks, leaping in arcs just short of flight, then bounding forward to slash, stab or tear. His only hope was to inflict a death stroke, but the demon was far too quick to be caught in path of the axe’s heavy blades.

  But I am stronger! Jundag reminded himself stoically, though he presently was at a loss for how to apply that advantage. The opportunity came when the demon tried a low swing at Jundag’s waist, only to have the curved blade of the halberd catch on the serrations of the axe blades. The demon’s eyes widened slightly, and Jundag knew it was time.

  He jerked savagely, pulling his startled opponent off balance, then releasing his grip on the axe. As the weapon clattered to the floor, he clamped his fingers around the haft of the demon’s halberd, just below the blade. The demon thrust with all its weight, but Jundag pivoted around the blade and lashed out with his foot, cracking it into the demon's nose. The beast reeled, its eyes blinded by the black blood that spurted from its nose, shaking its head in shock. Heartened by his opponent’s distress, Jundag pushed his advantage, slackening his hold on the halberd's haft and reaching for the demon's throat—it was his first, and possibly last, mistake of the bout.

  Jundag realized too late that the beast had only feigned disability. As Jundag closed his fingers and squeezed the scaly flesh with all his strength, he felt the demon jerk its weapon, and the halberd’s curved blade as it pierced his back.

  His breath left his lungs with a hoarse cry, not as much at the pain as in disgust that he had been so lethally deceived in his moment of triumph. He let loose the demon’s throat and grabbed the halberd’s haft once more. The demon grinned, jerking and twisting the weapon, working the razor edge in farther.

  Pain unbearable exploded as steel grated against bone. Jundag looked down to see the tip of the blade protruding from his belly, the rest of the sharpened metal enveloped by his own flesh. His knees felt weak as he watched his blood pool at his feet. The pain was excruciating, but it was nothing he had not felt hundreds of times under Calmarel's ministrations. At the thought, he pictured her face, even as he heard her screech in frustration from the stands where she would watch him die—yet again—before revivifying him so he could live this hell over and over. A flame of defiance sprang from his pain, and that flame ignited his anger. As the anger burned away the agony, Jundag summoned forth his last vestige of strength.

  Just one step, he prayed. Lowering his head in presumed defeat, Jundag feigned a stumble, then lunged backward. The demon jerked hard, as if to slice the tribesman in half, but in order to keep its balance, it placed its foot in a pool of Jundag’s blood, right where the tribesman had hoped. The beast slipped, pushing on the blade instead of pulling, and the blade slid free of Jundag's flesh. Overbalanced, the demon sprawled into Jundag’s vice-like embrace.

  Jundag howled rage and pain, squeezing with all his might as the halberd clattered to the floor. The demon screamed as its breastplate buckled and its ribs sagged and cracked under the strain. It gnashed at Jundag’s neck and shoulder with it sharp teeth, slashed the tribesman’s cheek with its horns. Jundag savagely head butted the demon’s jaw, and was rewarded with the sound of bone snapping. He shook his head to clear his vision, glanced around, and pushed forward.

  Just one more step!

  The demon realized his opponent’s tactic and exploded in a frenzy of kicking and gouging, howling its own rage and fear. Jundag gave one last powerful shove with his legs and they toppled. At the last moment, he released his embrace and let their combined weight bear them down, directly onto his discarded axe.

  Lying flat, one of the axe's three blades always pointed up. The serrated steel stabbed cleanly through the demon’s back, slicing through its armor like paper, and pierced its body to dent the inner surface of the breastplate. Jundag felt the punch of the metal on his bare chest, but it would only leave a bruise.

  Jundag rolled off the dead demon, his agonized gasping the only sound in the suddenly silent arena, as the crowd tried to comprehend his unexpected victory. Pressing one hand into the gaping wound in his back to staunch the bleeding, he struggled to his feet, and nearly fell back to his knees as the arena exploded with sound. The entire chamber trembled beneath his feet, and the noise a physical assault. So loud was the din that Jundag barely heard the proclamation of his victory.

  Slaves scampered into the arena and dragged away the body of the demon, sluicing the blood from the floor with buckets of icy water. Jundag snatched one of the buckets and splashed the chill liquid onto his face and neck, then indulged himself by dumping the entire bucket over his head.

  The icy shock brought him back to reality. He felt no remorse for the demon’s death and no triumph in his victory. Glancing into the stands, at the hundreds of faces shining with greed and bloodlust, he felt only disgust. One face stood out from the crowd: Calmarel. Her eyes were fixed on him, her teeth gleaming in a broad smile. Oddly, her mien showed neither greed nor lust, but something else. Pride, perhaps?

  Jundag dropped his gaze and staggered toward the exit, where Tredgh waited with manacles. The cold iron clicked around his wrists, and he staggered into the blessed quiet of the tunnel, his strength finally giving way to pain and blood loss. At the door to the healing room, halfway down the tunnel, he eagerly pushed the cool stone aside, knowing that relief from his pain was only moments away.

  He shuffled in and stopped. Normally four guards were positioned in the corners of the room. Today, only the haggard-looking healer was present, impatiently motioning for Jundag to lie on the stone slab.

  Adrenaline shot through him despite his wounds and weariness. Casting down his eyes and slumping his shoulders, he limped forward.

  He leaned on the slab, then rolled facedown onto the cool stone surface. Th
e treatment was swift and none too gentle. After brutally probing the wound in his back, the healer cast two quick spells, and the pain receded. A third more intricate spell was cast, and even Jundag’s headache disappeared. Strength coursed through his body, but he maintained a weakened facade. He rolled off the slab at the healer’s command, then clutched his stomach and groaned, stumbling as his feet hit the floor.

  "He's got more hurts," Tredgh said crossly to the healer. "You furgot sumthin'!"

  "I forgot nothing!" the healer snapped. "If some injury remains, let your mistress take care of—"

  The healer's words were cut short as shards of bone, tissue and shattered tusks sprayed across his face. Jundag had whipped the chain of his manacles around with such force that he had swept Tredgh’s head right off his shoulders. The half breath it took the healer to recover his composure was too long to save him. The chain crashed into his throat, crushing his trachea and snapping his neck like a dry stick.

  It took Jundag only seconds to recover the keys from Tredgh’s belt, free himself from the manacles, snatch up the torture-master's bludgeon and dagger, and slip out the door. Voices toward the arena sent him deeper into the tunnel. Relying on Calmarel’s descriptions of Xerro Kensho, he headed down steep passages, away from the city and into the deepest caverns.

  CHAPTER 11

  It is such a pleasure to meet you!" the mage gushed as he dabbed his brow with a silk handkerchief, then extended his hand. His grip was as limp and moist as a dead fish. "Mistress Lynthalsea speaks so very highly of you, I half expected you to be ten feet tall and chiseled from stone!" Avari was too tired and in no mood for false flattery from this overdressed twerp, mage or no.