The Toldar Series Box Set

by Matt Mememaro

  “I understand, Marco.” Lois stood and took a deep breath. “What do you want me to do?”

  “The Hunter requested you meet with him under the cover of darkness the day before the Renori Tournament kicks off. You have two weeks. He said he’d find you there,” Marco said.

  “Wait, you want me to fight in a tournament?” Lois asked.

  “No, the Hunter does, not me. You’re my favorite student, Redjay, and I don’t want to lose you. I told you this. That gold that the Quartermaster gave you is more than enough to last you for a month. You should also get to a blacksmith and purchase the best full set of armor you can. You won’t be fighting in your Brotherhood robe at the tournament. The Hunter will tell you more when you arrive.”

  “When do I leave?” Lois wiped back a tear.

  Marco rounded on her, clasping her face in his hands. “Tomorrow, but we should make our last night together count.”

  4

  The Arena

  It was now a year to the day, since Malvrok’s death and Graytooth’s attack. Abner rode into the small town that surrounded the massive arena, situated on Renor’s north eastern border, only a week after he had left the Black Shards. The arena was raised on a spiraling hill that overlooked the surrounding terraces of the village, rising up high over the desert. It was surrounded on four sides by looming towers that housed dignitaries and nobles from various countries.

  At this time of year, the town was filled to overflowing with fighters from all across Taagras gathering to compete in the Renori Tournament, setting up tents underneath the shade of the colossal structure. Mixed in amongst the multicultural fighters were many spectators following their chosen warriors.

  As he rode through the crowds, Abner heard whispers of Malvrok’s name, only just realizing how far his master’s deeds had spread throughout Taagras. The Sword Lord had often boasted of being one of the few men to live out their time in Renor’s arena. Once he had fought through the blood-stained sands, Malvrok had opted to stand alongside Queen Gazelle as a member of her bodyguard. Within months, Malvrok had gone into exile, building the Fortress never to integrate into normal society again. Abner intended to find out what crime his master had committed before departing.

  He looked around at the townspeople and tourists, covered in lightweight robes, keeping the heat off their backs, their faces covered by thin veils, protecting them from the sand. Abner was also covered in protective clothing, his armor in a bag, packed onto his horse. Renor was well known for its sandstorms that could spring up at any time, however here near the border; the risk of an event was decreased.

  It didn’t take Abner long to find a place to pitch his tent on the grassy field that was located a short walk from the main arena gates. Once his tent had been erected, Abner searched through the crowd, searching for the familiar Renori livery. He found a short, portly man directing traffic in and out of the arena as the day’s activities were drawing to a close.

  Abner came up behind the man and gently tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, good sir; you wouldn’t happen to know what time the fights begin in the morning?” Abner asked. “I arrived today and nobody has told me as of yet.”

  The Renori official looked at the young warrior down his nose. “You’re fighting in this tournament, peasant? I wish you luck.”

  Abner frowned at the man, grabbing him by the collar pulling him close. “If I didn’t need your assistance I would gut you like the spineless amphibian you are. My name is Malvrok and I am here to fight every man on those sands.”

  “You’re the one that enlisted from the Black Shards? My apologies I did not know!” the official said. “Please let me go, your fight is the second on the ground! We begin as the clock strikes the ninth hour!”

  Abner gritted his teeth into a tight smile. “Thank you.”

  The next morning two late comers made their way into the arena. These two men were different to every other that had walked underneath the gates thus far. They were Hunters. Each man was covered by his hood and armor. Rowan Kreen and Barros Toldar made their way through the last minute stragglers with ease, pushing people gently aside as they raced to their seats just below the Councilors boxes.

  Rowan took his seat beside his friend. “Are you sure your boy is here, Barros?”

  “Of course I am. I checked the list of one of the officials, and where else would any man not tied to a country or cause be? Abner is here,” Barros said.

  “If you say so,” Rowan said. “Look here they come!”

  The gates that led onto the sands began to grind open, dozens of fighters spilling out onto the sand, brandishing their sharp weapons high above their heads, their armor sparkling in the sunlight. Abner was amongst the crowd, hardly showing any emotion, marching towards the center of the arena that was at least a bow shot wide in all directions.

  Barros spotted the Dreyth sword rested on Abner’s hip, the relic that he had left with the boy a decade ago. The blade was still sharp and shone like it had done the day Barros had left it with his son. He noted that Abner had acquired a new shield since the day the Fortress had burned to the ground at the hand of the Alilletian Councilor, Graytooth.

  Barros glanced around at the rest of the competitors on the field, noting who his son would be facing. None of them looked unseasoned. Both men and a few scattered women now stood in the sand, their armor reflecting in the sunlight. Each year the Hunter had travelled here in hopes of finding a new novice to take on under his wing, yet each year had left empty handed. The only apt recruit would be his son.

  A trumpet sounded from high above the arena floor, and every eye turned to the largest of the four towers that stood at each corner of the arena. Lord Reiner the Twelfth could be seen descending at a great speed on a small podium only large enough to hold him and two retainers. A magician dressed in elaborate blue robes stood to the right, while a man shrouded in a black cape stood to the left.

  Lord Reiner himself was dressed richly in red armor, a thick white fur cape draped over his shoulders large shoulders, a thick sword on his belt. He nodded to the magician that clapped his hands twice, making a wild gesture at Reiner’s throat.

  “Welcome to the forty-seventh annual Renori Tournament!” His voice was amplified by the magician’s magic. The crowd roared their approval, cheering for the ruler of Renor. “These brave warriors before you today will pit themselves against one another in mortal combat. There are no rules, save for only one fighter must remain standing at the end of the bout. If both contestants agree, a victory by submission will be allowed. With the power vested in me, I, Lord Reiner the Twelfth, Overlord of Renor, Councilor of Taagras, declare this Tournament open!”

  The crowd erupted, threatening to tear the shade sails that hung above them down. The Hunters were the only two in the arena that remained silent, annoyed in their deafness. Once the cheers subsided all they could hear was ringing.

  “Bit louder than a Banshee screaming at us then, huh?” Barros said, rubbing his ears.

  “The Magician must have put his spell on the crowd as well,” Rowan said. He looked down at Reiner on his platform.

  The Councilor drew two small pieces of parchment out from a large wooden bowl. He paused before reading out two names. A Sauriaan Sword Lord stepped forward first to loud boos, a long Aksah in his hair. The second man called was a Renori mercenary, dressed in mismatched scraps of armor, to a ruckus from the crowd. He whipped a dagger from his belt, waving it around his head in a complicated display of maneuvers.

  As the remaining fighters exited the arena by the massive steel gates, the Sword Lord and mercenary drew apart stopping at twenty paces. They turned, bowing respectively before the Sword Lord drew one of the two favored long swords that were crossed on his back. The mercenary’s lip curled, screaming a savage war cry before charging forwards. Around the area, the crowd grew silent in anticipation as the Renori approached his foe.

  Rowan leaned over to whisper into Barros’ ear. “You know, if I was a betting
man I’d wager the Renori will come out on top here.”

  Barros shook his head, his gaze fixed on what was occurring on the sands below. The Sword Lord shifted his stance, holding the sword at a crooked angle, putting more weight on his left foot. There was a slight movement as the Renori drew near and in the blink of eye, the Sword Lord struck, removing the head of the mercenary in a single blow.

  The crowd was stunned, their home favorite dead before any of them could react. Without hesitating he withdrew his blade, sliding it calmly back into its sheath before bowing towards Lord Reiner who returned the gesture in kind.

  “I think we all knew that was going to happen,” Barros said.

  “All I care about is whether Abner fights him or not,” Rowan said. “The boy wouldn’t last long against a man of such skill like that.”

  “He’s been trained by the best sword in Taagras, my friend. Someone that won this tournament over twenty years ago. I dare say Abner will stand a much better chance against most in this arena than that poor mercenary,” Barros said. “However I do not like how Reiner has set the tournament up this year. It somehow seems very different. I saw a lot of men armed with bows walking to the roof when we got here. It seems like this tournament could be a trap”

  “That doesn’t sound good; we better do something about it,” Rowan said.

  “Aye and I need to talk to Abner. Tell him who we are and what we’re here for. If Malvrok’s done anything right by him, he’ll be smart,” Barros said.

  “Yet ignorant in the ways of the world and harsh realities like Reiner would inflict upon him if he were to win the tournament,” Rowan said.

  “I assure you, Rowan that my son will walk out of here alive one way or another whether he wins the tournament or not.”

  “We haven’t seen him fight yet, how are you so certain?” Rowan asked.

  “If he’s anything like me or Malvrok he’ll survive. Let me go talk to him, just this once before we take him back to the Huntrey,” Barros said.

  “Alright, make it quick. You know the rules. We can’t be around the uninitiated for long. He’ll need blood soon if you talk to him for too long,” Rowan said. “And make sure he likes you, we want him to come back with us to the Huntrey.”

  “Trust me, Rowan. Getting people to like me is a walk in the park. Took me a while to warm up to you because when we first met, you decided to kick me in the head,” Barros said.

  “Shit happens, doesn’t it?” Rowan said. “Now get down there.”

  At the conclusion of the first bout, Abner stood with the other fighters waiting for their chance to get into the arena and progress to the second round. A marshal stood above them on a stack of crates, his Renori livery clearly visible as he called out Malvrok’s name. Abner stepped forward, answering the call, looking to his right to see an Alilletian that resembled Graytooth.

  Another marshal blew a long, solitary note through a brass trumpet signaling for both fighters to proceed to their respective gates as the crowd buzzed with excitement in the stands above. The horn sounded again two minutes later and the iron gate Abner stood before slowly opened revealing the sands he had been on moments ago.

  At the other end of the field, the shirtless Alilletian had already begun swinging his heavy axe experimentally, scowling at Abner as his opponent approached slowly, sword and shield still on his body. The crowd grew in noise, their roars becoming ever more prevalent as the horn sounded once again. Abner slid his shield off his back, the emblem of the Black Shards emblazoned upon it, and drew his sword as he jogged forward.

  The Alilletian swung his axe forward, the giant arch coming down heavily, smashing into the center of Abner’s shield. His mind was instantly transported back to the fight in the forest with Graytooth. This time he was alone as before and grateful his opponent only carried one axe. The Alilletian he faced was also considerably smaller than the Councilor, however therefore much faster and the strikes with less power.

  Abner’s shield wall defended him from the onslaught until the axe bit into the rim of the shield, stopping the Alilletian dead in his tracks. Using all of his strength, Abner flung both the shield and axe away from the bigger man, almost taking him off his feet. The Alilletian was now weaponless, yet far from defenseless.

  He swung with both meaty fists covered in brown cloth at Abner to no effect. The warrior ducked underneath both sharp blows, lashing out with a sharp kick, darting backwards to avoid the hammer like fists that struck down. Reeling, the Alilletian recollected himself, lunging forward launching a huge boot into the face of Abner. He fell backwards, the boot forcing him to flinch, sprawling away from his larger adversary. The Alilletian picked up both his axe and Abner’s shield, walking slowly over to his fallen foe.

  As the axe came down in its deadly arch, Abner rolled to the side, the blade clanking against his shoulder plate. Abner regained his feet, now seeing a slight limp the Alilletian carried, an old wound no doubt opened by the vicious kick he had delivered. The warrior regained his sword, waiting in a crouched position for the Alilletian to come within striking range.

  The axe came down again this time much faster than Abner anticipated. He ducked to the left side, lashing out with his sword, cutting the Alilletian’s bad leg. The blade opened a red gash, causing the giant man to drop to one knee. Abner rose above him to the roars of the crowd, carefully watching for any counterattack.

  With a solitary voice the crowd chanted one word. “Kill, kill, kill!” Abner looked down at the blonde Alilletian, his leg bleeding a pool of blood below him. There was nothing left to do now except finish the fight. Measuring his strike, Abner spun, slicing the Alilletian’s head away clean from his neck to an erupting cheer.

  He walked over to the head, picking it up for show, holding it high above his own, displaying it to the bloodthirsty crowd. After a few seconds Abner dropped the trophy in disgust before waving with his sword, intent on retreating to the underbelly of the arena.

  5

  Underbelly

  Abner sat alone in the depths of the arena on a cold stone slab, hidden far from the main walkways sharpening his weapons mostly in peace, preparing for the next fight later that afternoon. By then the field would be cut in half, most fighters dead, others too injured to carry on in the tournament.

  As the hours trickled by, the bodies that were dragged past him increased and the tents belonging to doctors and merchants slowly began packing up as the afternoon grew longer. Darkness fell onto the sands and soon only the essentials such as a witch doctor and weapon smith remained. No bell for the second round toiled, and the arena’s buzz began to fade.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Abner saw a shadow that moved too fast. Nobody near him could have cast it and he froze instantly, leaping up, pressing his back against a nearby wall for protection, drawing one of his daggers. The shadow moved again beside him and Abner lashed out, pinning a man to the wall, knife bare at his throat.

  Barros coughed out a laugh and looked into the angry glare of his son’s eyes. They bore no fear or lust for killing. “Who are you and what do you want with me,” Abner said.

  “Easy boy, I’m here to help get you out of this tournament alive,” Barros said. He raised his hands in an open gesture to show he meant no harm.

  “You didn’t answer my question. Speak now or I’ll cut your throat,” Abner said.

  “Alright stay calm. I’m Barros Toldar of the West Anacore Huntrey. We’ve come to recruit you to our cause.”

  “We? I don’t even know what you are,” Abner said. “I saw you and that other man you were sitting with in the stands. What was he? A Highlander? You made me curious.”

  “Of course, we are Hunters. We kill Vampires for a living and we’d quiet like for you to join us. You have the right skill set for the job,” Barros said.

  “Vampires aren’t real,” Abner said. “Everyone knows that. They died out centuries ago.”

  “And who is everyone?” Barros asked. “The ruling bodies that want you to b
elieve that everything is right in this world? Your tutors and mentors that want you to have a long and happy life leave you in the shadows. Let me tell you this boy, Vampires are real and they’ll kill you in a heartbeat if you give them half a chance.”

  “If they’re so real why have they not killed men or been killed by men?” Abner said. I’ve heard the stories that they are dead men, yet what cannot die?”

  “The stories are true and they have been on Taagras for centuries. And ever since their arrival here, the Hunters have been here to kill them,” Barros said.

  “Yet they still exist.” Abner looked up and down at Barros and snorted. “You can’t be very good at your job.”

  Barros’ eyes flashed before a smirk formed on his lips. “I’m rather good at my job, boy. There are more Vampires than there is Hunters and they happen to be rather hard to kill.”

  “How do you kill them then? If none could be killed surely humans would be overrun by now if they’ve been here for centuries?”

  “No two Vampires die the same. With the thousands I’ve slaughtered in my years I know they can die. Some need their heads taken off, others, cut to pieces or even a crossbow bolt will cause death and injury to a Vampire. Before you ask I will answer,” Barros said seeing the question about to form on his son’s lips. “Fyndfire is a poison if you like, all of our weapons coated with it. We developed it to specifically kill Vampires and their allies.”

  “I want to see how it works,” Abner said. “Say that it’s proof of your legitimacy and I will consider your offer if what you say is true.”

  “Very well,” Barros said his eyes looking over the few people in sight. “Do you see that man there?” He pointed to a man deep in conversation with another, looking to place what appeared to be a bet on an upcoming battle. Abner looked over his shoulder only to be pushed to the side, the knife slipping to his side. “Keep your eyes on him.”