Death Cloud: The Senturians of Terraunum Series (Book 2)

by R. J. Batla

  “Now light ‘em up!”

  Red-hot beams of fire from Phoenix and fire Senturians blasted down into the two dozen yards of ground between the two defensive walls, lighting the fuel concealed just beneath the grass. A raging inferno burst up, completely engulfing the pyarks, their foul stench filling the nostrils of the defenders.

  Despite the boiling mass of fire, hundreds more still scaled the wall of the eleventh ring, only to be cut down or blasted off by the waiting Senturians before they got over the edge. Without the aid of numbers behind them, the defenders easily dispatched the remaining pyarks. As the flames died down and the smoke cleared, the Senturians looked to the west to see that the rest of the enemy army had not moved.

  Ames pulled out his binoculars, searching down the line. Quickly he spotted Malstrak, the enemy leader’s black robes billowing in the wind, a smirk upon his face as he stared right back at Ames. He held up one finger, and mouthed, “One down.” Ames couldn’t hear him across the battlefield, but the intent was clear — Malstrak easily took down the twelfth ring of defense, and he probably had a plan to take down the rest just as quickly. With a mocking two-finger salute, Malstrak turned and disappeared back through the middle of his army, the various creatures that made up the rest of his vile force snorting and shrieking at their success. To Malstrak, the pyarks were an expendable legion, and they performed their function well.

  Ames wiped his face with his shirt as the battlefield grew quiet once again. Lots of people died today. People who will never make it home. One of his least favorite jobs was telling devastated families they had lost someone. But it was a necessary evil, and the sacrifice that these brave soldiers had made wouldn’t go unnoticed. Either way, it didn’t make it any easier to lose men and women in battle.

  Thankful that Malstrak seemed to have stopped the siege for the time being, Ames gave orders to regroup the troops. “Get the wounded to the Elves’ healing tents and send as many Elves and healing Senturians as you can back to the front line. I want everybody as healthy as possible for the next round of attacks. We don’t know when they’re going to come again, but it’ll probably be sooner rather than later.”

  Commanding Senturians barked out orders to secure the eleventh ring, solidifying their defense, at least for the moment.

  Turning back to the east, Ames looked at the enormous Wall Gate and the now eleven defensive rings in front of it, then to the north and south along the smooth surface of the wall that stood outside the Breaks. The immense structure gave the Easterners their main level of defense against the monsters from the West before you got to the Break Pass and the gate that defended it. Thankfully, the ancients who made the Wall not only made it massive and tall, they’d also infused it with power so that the only way of egress was through the gate in the center. The gate now stood open slightly to allow the flow of troops and supplies to the defensive rings outside it, but not open wide enough it couldn’t be shut quickly in case the invaders managed to break through.

  Ames sighed. This was the first of many battles to be fought here, and already the loss of his men and women weighed heavy on his heart. There would be more deaths, too many for his liking, in the coming days. Weeks. Months. Since General Sterling’s betrayal and attempted murder, Ames had been selected to lead the combined armies of the East Side. The responsibility weighed heavily on him, like each life was his own.

  As he watched the preparations being made to once again repel the enemy, Ames couldn’t help think of the squad of warriors and the champion chosen for the East Side, thousands of miles away, as he prepared to fight to the death for them. He wondered how Jayton Baird was doing, and if he was faring any better than they were at the Wall — having lost the twelfth defensive ring so quickly.

  Chapter 2 – Jayton Baird

  “I THOUGHT WE WERE HERE to fight — not put on a monkey suit and go to a party!” I said, trying in vain to get the neck of my shirt to loosen. The twelve remaining members of my group, plus Hank, the Ranger stationed at the Bowl who’d secured my entrance into the tournament, were all dressed in their finest and heading to the Fighter’s Ball. Men in tuxedos, women in nice dresses.

  And when I say heading there, I mean we were all in an elevator on the way up to said party. I’d rather be heading back to the Dew Drop Inn, where we’d stayed the last couple of nights. Hank’s place. But no, we’re in the arena, in the stadium where the tournament will be fought.

  “You know damn good and well that this is necessary Jayton Baird, or Royn and Hank wouldn’t have us go,” Leona said, reaching up and straightening the tie I had just messed up. Electricity seemed to shoot through me at her touch. Her blonde-streaked brown hair framed her pretty face and those green eyes.

  “Easy for you to say — I’m all gussied up and you’ve still got your armor on! You wouldn’t even let Mogie touch your clothes!” I said.

  She chuckled and stepped back, wrinkling her face in concentration. Instantly her armor melted and smoothed itself into a knockout red dress, cut in all the right places and showing off her amazing... features. I’d forgotten about her shape-and-color-changing armor. “That’s because I didn’t need her to, remember? How do I look?” she asked as she did a little twirl, the bottom of the dress flaring out as she spun.

  Like an angel.

  I shook my head. I couldn’t help it when it came to Leona — she had my heart, but I couldn’t be with her. Despite confessing my feelings for her when we were lost in the dark swamp, which I was confident she reciprocated, that was as far as I’d pushed it with her. I wouldn’t put her at risk of pain when my future — my very life — hung in the balance. I wouldn’t do it.

  “Stunning, as usual. Leona, you—”

  “You two quit messing around and everyone listen up,” Hank said, motioning for us to gather closer together.

  I’d forgotten anyone else was there. The elevator’s few buttons were lit — we’d arrived in the basement and were now moving to the lobby. Two buttons. Very complicated. And incredibly slow.

  Hank was average in every sense of the word — average height, average build, average age... anywhere between thirty and forty-five. Not good-looking but not ugly. Made sense how he was the best Ranger spy on the West Side, and the only one in the Bowl — he could blend in anywhere, get noticed if needed, and yet not be memorable. His voice was even and steady. Average. “The Fighter’s Ball is mandatory for all tournament participants and anyone associated with them. They’ll explain the rules of the tournament. Plus, it gives some people a chance to show off. This will be our opportunity to scope out the competition and position ourselves accordingly.”

  Anton, another member of my original Ranger squad with high level earth powers had to get an extra-large suit to fit his wide, muscular frame. Straightening his jacket, he said, “Doesn’t seem right we’re having a party while others are fighting for their lives on the East Side.”

  Hank rolled his eyes. “We’ve done been over this. This is just a part of the formalities. It can’t be avoided, so you might as well get over it and—”

  Royn slapped his hand to his ear, listening intently to the report that must have been coming through. We all remained silent while he took the transmission from the telestone earpiece. All of us had one, which allowed us to communicate with each other. Ours functioned over the airwaves, transmitting our voices to each other’s earpieces and receiving communications from headquarters. Being in the Rangers, and on a high-priority mission, we naturally had the best equipment. Back on the East Side of the Breaks, most telestones had to be connected through cables and relay stations, forming their own network. It was what allowed communication and news to flow much easier from the far-spread peoples. If the history books were right, they were like a radio, walkie talkie, and phone wrapped into one device.

  Royn was the only one receiving this particular message. As he listened, his face grew more and more grim, until he finally said, “Understood.” Our blond-haired, middle-aged leader took a deep
breath as he straightened his posture and squared his shoulders.

  “Once we get out of this elevator, you can’t be putting your hands to your ears all the time, Royn. It’ll look suspicious,” Hank said.

  Royn said, “Yeah, that’s an old habit I’ll have to break.”

  “Well, what did you hear?” Morgan Keller said. The Phoenix warrior and master fire wielder, whose short red hair had grown longer over the months of our travel, wore a blue midriff-baring dress with a high slit showing ample amounts of her red skin. Her full lips set in concern, and the dimples that showed when she smiled were not present.

  With a somber expression, Royn said, “That was Ames Talco. The first of the twelve defensive rings outside of the Wall Gate has already fallen.”

  As one, we hung our heads slightly. That was quite sobering news when you were about to head into a party. Men and women were giving their lives to give us a chance to be here. Like Anton had just said.

  And yes, I had my mission. I was going to fight for them in this gladiator-style tournament, but that didn’t make their sacrifice any less heavy on my heart. Or make me feel any better about going to a party.

  “That’s right sad news,” Celeste Dumas said. The Tempus warrior’s dark blue skin almost blended into her black dress. At six-foot-three, she stood out even more. Not to mention the blue-streaked dreadlocks, red bandana, and cutlass strapped to her hip, at her insistence despite Hank’s objections. She maneuvered balls of water around her hand and dismissed them as she drew her fingers into a fist. “Let’s not make their sacrifice be in vain.”

  Euless, the yellow-skinned, energy-wielding Manu was beside me, struggling with his bowtie, the capital M tattoos on his hands shivering. Frustrated, a jolt of electricity arced between his hands. “Damn tie,” he muttered, rubbing his goatee. “Should be easier to do this.”

  Josey rolled her eyes. “Here, let me help you with that.” The purple Elf, master healer, rocked her head side to side, her pointed ears sticking out from her blond hair. Her hands glowed with a slight purple light, and Euless calmed down. Actually, everyone let out a breath, thanks to Josey using her healing powers to loosen the tension in the room. God bless her. She finished with a flourish and Euless thanked her.

  Royn looked at Euless funny, saying under his breath, “He must be nervous. He’s the one who taught me how to tie a bowtie.”

  Three loud bells sounded as the elevator came to a stop. “All right boys and girls, here we go. Remember the plan,” Hank said as the elevator doors opened and he led us out.

  A throng of people were in a line partitioned off with velvet ropes that led to an elaborate set of doors. Hundreds of others crowded around the outside the ropes, some with cameras flashing their bulbs, trying to catch a glimpse of the fighters.

  “I’ve always heard the West Side was home to nothing but monsters and savages,” Gilmer said, unconsciously smoothing his already immaculate hair and straightening a wrinkle that had dared to appear in his suit jacket. “From what we’ve seen of the Bowl, the accommodations are better than a lot of places on the East Side.”

  “That’s a pretty common misconception,” Hank said, blocking one of the people trying to push through the ropes. “I think it’d be better if more Easterners made a trip over here to see that people are just people, no matter where they’re from. It might assuage some of the animosity between the sides.”

  Wow. Hank the thinker. Who knew?

  The space narrowed as people crowded us even more, throwing questions at us.

  “Which of you is the fighter?”

  “What’s your strategy?”

  “Is this your first tournament?”

  “What will you do if you face the Uland in the first round?”

  “What are your powers?”

  “It’s February 6th, are you ready for the fights tomorrow?”

  Huh. February. It had been a year ago that I’d been Awakened. What a difference a year makes.

  And fight tomorrow? What was he talking about? We had more time than that...

  A pair of heavy wood and metal doors stood in front of us, with three thick-necked thugs standing on either side. They were huge men with gleaming metal armor and giant battle axes, daring anyone to get close. No one did — except us. We walked right up.

  Hank said to the one who looked like he was in charge, “Jayton Baird here for the orientation.”

  The big man grunted and held out a stone tablet. “Right hand here.”

  I placed my hand on the thing, it beeped, and he said, “Welcome, Mr. Baird. Please place a foot on each of the yellow spots and pull up the legs of your pants.” He pointed to the floor. I obliged him, though I felt funny.

  “Now don’t move.”

  “What?” I got out before each leg was slammed from either side by metal arms. “Ow!” The arms retracted, and in their place was a skin-tight metal band that had a blinking red stone in it. “What the hell is this?”

  “It will be explained during the orientation. Please proceed inside and take a seat on the bottom deck.” He waved a hand at the door while one of the other goons opened it. “Next,” he said, already looking behind us.

  Once through, more goons, though less... goonish... ushered us down a now red carpet walkway, through some kind of fancy lobby area that must have run around the whole stadium, complete with concessions and memorabilia stands, and quickly through a cement arch into a brightly lit arena.

  The ceiling was so high it darkened at the peak despite the lights. The massive ceiling made a wide arch from the apex down to where the seats started. And holy crap there were a lot — had to be two hundred thousand. They flowed down in descending rows of colors, starting at the top with red, orange, yellow, green, blue, turquoise, and purple at the edge of the ring. The ring itself looked like a perfectly circular cookie cutter had gouged out a huge chunk of rock right in the middle, twenty yards deep with a one-hundred-yard diameter. Two bright red triangles were on the north and south ends, close to the edges, pointing at each other, with a dark black line bisecting the ring. A small circle marked the direct middle. Two other arced lines on the ground marked the halfway point between center and the arrow on either side. At east and west, a small stream flowed — providing an ample source for any water powers, I guessed — as well as piles of rocks of varying shapes for earth powers, and even two different clumps of trees on each side.

  The only thing that looked out of place was the wooden stage that sat slightly off center. On top were a dozen extravagantly dressed men, each with a different colored cape; the cape on the man in the center had a stripe of each color.

  We were ushered quickly to first deck of purple seats — about ten rows back. Looking quickly around, almost all the purple seats were filled with people dressed in a wide range of crazy outfits. And the colors — not just the outfits, but the actual people — were multicolored! Half red, half blue, or any number of other combinations! It was the strangest thing I’d ever seen, and I couldn’t help but stare.

  I was so focused on watching them I almost missed the emcee stand up, swishing his multicolored cloak. Cheers and applause erupted from the crowd and stragglers hurried to their seats. The crowd quieted as the emcee raised his hands.

  “Welcome, welcome, participants and guests, to the one, the only, Tournament!” More applause and yells followed, and when it calmed down, he continued. “We’d like to thank all of this year’s fighters, and a special thanks goes to our dear benefactors, who, because of their generosity, allow us to put on this grand spectacle. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Lords of the West!” He swept his hand wide and introduced each of them as they stood and waved. “Lord Byers, Lord Edom, Lord Pampa, Lord Rusk, Lord Beasley, Lord Hawkins, Lord Olney, Lord Reklaw, Lord Snook, Lord Weimar, aaand Lord Ivanhoe!”

  Applause broke out in different sections after their lord was announced.

  Once it died down again, the emcee gave a slight bow. “Thank you again to our lords. Now, fighters,
as you may or may not know, there will be rampant betting on each match, which is highly encouraged, and all part of the fun. Every bet made on you ups the amount of gold you will receive after each round — if you win. That being said, there are rules, few though they may be.

  “One: this is a fight. The match continues until either fighter gives up, they’re incapacitated, or dead.” The crowd cheered after the word dead. Apparently, that was preferred. “We have a new device this year for every fighter, which shows when a competitor is incapacitated, thereby ending the match.” The sensor cannot be fooled or tampered with, so don’t even try, or... well, let’s say you won’t like the results.”

  I wondered when we’d receive it. “Why would they do that?” I whispered to Hank on my left. “I thought they liked gore and death?”

  “They do, but there’s something the lords and the tournament organizers like more than that — money. The more fan favorite fighters left alive each year, the more money people will bet on them the next. And money is just another form of power, which is really what most people want.”

  “Oh, makes sense.”

  “Two,” the emcee continued, clearly not caring for our side conversation (like he could hear us anyway), “only the fighters are allowed in the ring. Only two people per fight. Any violation will result in immediate punishment and dismissal from the tournament.”

  “Three — only one energy storage device per fighter. If you try to use more, you will be caught, and it too will result in immediate punishment and dismissal from the tournament.”