One Cannot Deny a Blood Oath with a Dragon

by T P Sheehan

  “You’ll not last two minutes against Delvion’s warriors…”

  “Your mother fled to find a more worthy son…”

  “Do you have any last words before you’re cut to pieces?”

  By the time Magnus climbed the second flight of stairs to the armoury, the last of his ailments—his injured knee—was healed. But the heat within him still raged. Magnus desperately wanted to kill Delvion, but in his absence, the guards would have to do.

  Magnus spun about and kicked one of the guards square in the chest, sending him tumbling back down the stairs. His body hit the landing with a dull thud and the sharp crack of a leg bone snapping. The guard howled in pain. The remaining guards shuffled back, out of Magnus’s reach.

  “What did you expect?” Carlo scolded his guards as he met Magnus at the top of the stairs. “The man’s a warrior. Can’t say the same of you lot.”

  Carlo seemed in good spirits, which grated on Magnus no end.

  “A man you say. No longer a boy?” Magnus asked.

  “I think we can move beyond boy now.” He winked at Magnus in the most condescending manner. “How are you feeling? Not too beaten up I hope?”

  “I’ll be fine. The wounds were mostly superficial,” Magnus lied.

  “Hmm. I call it gypsy magic.” Carlo frowned. “Speaking of which, do you find it strange that your dearest friend would abandon you after such loyalty on your part?”

  Magnus could see Carlo was searching for signs of his part in Sarah’s escape.

  “I’m happy for her. I’ve been telling her for months to flee if she got the chance.”

  “And why would you say a thing like that?” Carlo questioned.

  “Sarah and I both knew I’d be killed someday. And then you would kill her, was that not the promise?”

  Carlo mumbled to himself but said nothing coherent.

  They arrived at the armoury. Magnus sniffed at the familiar scent of blood, sweat, steel and dust and was pleased it would be the last time he would ever have to be there.

  The smithy was waiting with the completed suit of armour. It lifted Magnus’s spirits to see how well it was finished. It seemed to have been re-crafted out of Quag armour. All the pieces of black armour had been burnished and beaten back to their natural copper hue. A chest and back plate were fitted with three thick leather buckles either side that the smithy tightened firmly, then loosened a touch to give Magnus breathing space. Next, he fitted greaves to his shins and thighs, rerebraces to his arms and vambraces to his forearms. Finally he handed Magnus a full-face helm, but Magnus declined. Delvion knows who I am, so why bother?

  “Well then… whaddya think?” the smithy slurred through his toothless mouth. He seemed rather pleased with his work. Magnus jumped around in the armour, then ducked and weaved and raised his arms over his head.

  “Good, but a little restrictive,” Magnus remarked. The smithy scratched his dirty cheekbone nervously.

  “Restrictive? What’s that then? You can move, can’t ya?”

  “Take it off my arms.” Magnus said. The smithy did as he was told, removing the rerebraces, mumbling to himself as he went. He kept the vambraces in place, but with his upper arms free Magnus could move around a lot more. He stripped the armour from his thighs to good effect as well. “That’s better. Thank you.”

  “Anything else?” the smithy grumbled.

  “One more thing.” Magnus went over to the weapons arrangement and picked out two small daggers, each about five inches long. “Can you loosen these a little, just enough to conceal them?” Magnus pushed the tips of the daggers into his greaves.

  “Ah! Good idea.” The smithy did as instructed, helping Magnus place the two hidden weapons up against his calf muscles, such that the handles could be easily accessed when required. Satisfied, Magnus took the two black blades that had served him well the previous day and twirled them about, familiarising himself with their weight and balance and feeling warmth shift through his limbs.

  “I am ready.”

  Carlo shook Magnus’s hand with a strong, firm grip. Magnus could feel the man’s hopes and anxieties in that shake and, for a moment, felt sorry for him. Just like his own, Carlo’s fate was in Delvion’s hands. Magnus considered that this was the fate of anyone living within Ba’rrat’s walls.

  That shall not be me.

  Magnus looked out to the arena. The morning sun had risen over the eastern grandstand. Morning dew steamed from the black granite ground, giving a mystical quality to the event. The stadium was filled beyond capacity. Many stood in the aisles and even then were jostling for position.

  He could hardly believe all this was from his outspoken behaviour in the arena the previous day. So much had changed for Magnus since then. He was overwhelmed. Six months of nothing and then everything… He questioned whether seeing Catanya was a dream, as with Sarah escaping, but the beating he endured because of it was testament to its truth. As for Delvion’s confession to holding Bonstaph and Ganister captive—at least now Magnus knew where he stood.

  He was entirely unsure how the events in the arena would play out, but there was only one way to find out. Magnus stepped out of the armoury. The crowd spotted him, erupting in cheers. They started chanting his name as he walked to the centre of the arena.

  “Balgur, Balgur, Balgur, Balgur…”

  Magnus lifted the blades above his head and the crowd raised their chants to a deafening roar. Magnus was alarmed at all this commotion. He was glad for it though, for it was surely making Delvion nervous. When he stood at the centre of the arena, Magnus turned, taking in the mass of people and wondered if they truly supported Delvion and his regime in taking over Allumbreve.

  There were over thirty guards around the perimeter of the arena—a change from the usual five or six. Magnus wondered if it was to prevent him from fleeing or to keep the excited crowd in order.

  No number of guards could control this crowd.

  Trumpets blared from the top of the four towers surrounding the great arena. The crowd fell to respectful silence and focussed their attention on the arena’s two gigantic wooden doors to the southeast. Magnus had never seen them used before. Now though, they groaned as they opened. Clunk, clunk, clunk… the enormous chains rattled across the gears and held taut as the doors peeled apart. The trumpets fell to silence and an announcer in the northern tower spoke.

  “Rise and welcome your King and future ruler of all Allumbreve!”

  The crowd applauded as if on cue. It seemed to Magnus that they were doing it out of politeness more than for love of their leader. A procession entered the arena led by two wyverns that sniffed at the ground and snarled at the perimeter guards. They moved aside to make way for two enormous warhorses—the likes Magnus had never seen before. Far larger than a Wardemeer, they were broad chested with large feathered hooves like the draft horses used to pull the quarry carts back in the Uydferlands. They had a foul disposition about them with rolling blood shot eyes and drool excreting from their maws as though suffering from an insatiable appetite. Mounted on each were Quagmen dressed in full black battle armour with their paired swords sheathed by their sides. Their faces were concealed by their usual spiked helms and kerchief-wrapped faces.

  Next came an enormous black wyvern whose size rivalled that of a dragon. Magnus had no idea wyverns could be this big. On its back was another warrior. This man wore a flowing cape in a dark shade of purple that covered a more refined set of armour than his subordinates. As he entered, he removed his helm. It was Delvion. His dark eyes immediately locked on Magnus. Magnus sneered at Delvion’s excessive showmanship.

  The two horsemen dismounted and joined Delvion for a private discussion. Their leader nodded as the Quagmen spoke to him at length, but his eyes never left Magnus. Magnus was convinced Delvion was deliberately trying to intimidate him, but knowing so made it no better.

  Magnus stood and waited. The confidence he had felt as he walked in was waning and he started to feel very small standing alone amon
g Delvion’s army of men. Finally their conversation concluded and Delvion dismounted from the wyvern and raised his arms in the air.

  “My fellow Quagmen!” he bellowed. The crowd were silent. “On the field of the arena today we have a champion among slaves. A slave who calls himself Balgur, giving praise to the greatest fire dragon that ever lived.”

  The crowd were stirred and began to cheer once again. Magnus looked Delvion over. Even in the open arena his height was apparent, yet the truth of his strength was hidden beneath the flamboyance of his cape and armour.

  Delvion continued—“But, as the people of the Fire Realm know all too well, Balgur fell.” The crowd booed and hissed. “He fell under the hands of Quagmen!” Cheers rose again.

  “How do I know of Balgur’s fate?” Delvion drew the fire-sword and held it high. “It was I who wielded the sword that slayed the mighty dragon. This was the sword that smote the oppressor and paved the way to our future.”

  The crowd were ecstatic. Delvion knew how to put on a show, Magnus conceded.

  Delvion waited while the crowd settled, then pointed the fire-bronze sword at Magnus, who still stood at the centre of the arena. “Now it seems Balgur has returned. He has not learned from his defeat and requests that we teach him once again.” The crowd booed and hissed at Magnus and many shouted abuse at him. “Let us teach him his proper place in history. Let us see if we can tame the beast,” Delvion roared.

  These were the words Magnus anticipated—tame the beast. Magnus knew it was Delvion’s precursor to Magnus swearing fealty with him. It was a spectacular turn of events. Delvion had taken Magnus’s show of strength and made it his own. And he held his father and Ganister as guarantee that he would yield.

  Delvion ordered his entourage out of the arena. He mounted his large wyvern, took flight, and landed at the southern tower high above the common folk where an entourage of well-dressed dignitaries awaited him. The procession left the arena and the heavy gates closed once again with a heavy crash of chains and a dull thud as the doors slammed home.

  Magnus was alone once again, standing at the centre of the arena, only this time, he did not have the crowd’s support. He was left to wait alone for a few more agonising minutes before a small door within the larger gates opened and his first opponent appeared.

  This is the one I am supposed to kill…

  It was most certainly a Quag warrior, though not one Magnus recognised. He was dressed as all Quag warriors were but for one difference—he carried the fire-bronze sword Delvion brandished moments ago. He wore a confident smile across his well-scarred face. The crowd recognised him and began to chant his name.

  “Hermön… Hermön… Hermön…”

  He raised his helm to the sky and roared to the crowd with a scratchy, hoarse voice. No doubt from the deep laceration to his throat, Magnus spotted. Hermön replaced his helm and broke into a run toward Magnus.

  As a side effect of his recent healing process, Magnus felt as if he were overwhelmed with energy. Hermön approached and Magnus vowed to keep his secret to himself. You cannot have it Delvion… I am the chosen one. Besides, he knew an outward display of his powers would elicit a reaction from Delvion that would put his father and Ganister’s life in danger.

  Hermön charged at Magnus as fast as he could. His sword fell hard but Magnus shifted with unnatural speed, leaving Hermon to overextend. Magnus hesitated and skipped back, away from Hermön.

  Damn it… Magnus was anxious.

  Hermön took a deep breath and came at Magnus again. Magnus brought both his blades about, ready to counter Hermön’s swing. It was what Hermön wanted. His blow was single handed, leaving his other hand free to pull a knife from his breastplate and swipe it quickly at Magnus’s face.

  Magnus let go of one of his blades and pulled his arm to his head, blocking the knife with his armour. Hermön swung the fire-sword again and Magnus moved swiftly out of the way. Hermön overextended once more. Magnus was not going to give the Quagman a third chance to best him. He twisted his body about, using his elbow to push Hermön further into his overextension. Then, while Hermön was busy shuffling his feet to regain his balance, Magnus buried his blade in his back beneath his tunic and out through his stomach, never relenting until the blade pierced through his armour. Hermön’s body slumped to the ground.

  Magnus took a step back. The crowd was quiet except for a few isolated claps and cheers that soon died down. Magnus looked to Delvion who sat in his tower silently.

  Magnus went to retrieve his black blades when he eyed the fire-bronze sword resting beside Hermön’s body. Bending to one knee, Magnus wrapped his left hand around its grip and stood again, holding it aloft. He felt its weight and examined it. It was a truly impressive sword—beautifully constructed and well balanced. Up close, Magnus admired the exquisite detail in its engravings that started at the hilt and continued down either side of the curved blade.

  He recalled his dreams back in Froughton Forest. Balgur had told him, “I will show you the way to the salvation of our people.” It seemed fitting that he now stood in Ba’rrat’s arena holding the very sword that killed the great dragon, wielding it against Delvion’s men. He hoped it would some day slay Delvion himself.

  Magnus stood his ground, waiting for his second opponent to appear. Sure enough, the small door opened again and two men entered. Magnus recognised them both. One was Briet, the other Crugion. They both stared at Magnus with expressions of absolute hatred.

  Magnus had no doubt—they know who I am… He considered what a thorn he had been in their sides back in Froughton Forest and how Crugion must have gloated to his father about killing Bonstaph’s son, only to have his father find out he was lying—or a fool. Either way, they would want vengeance.

  Crugion and Briet exchanged words, looking from one another to Magnus. In the end though, it was Briet who placed his helm upon his head and took up his two black blades. The predictable choice, thought Magnus. Delvion would not risk sending his own son, regardless of what agreement Delvion supposed he and Magnus had made.

  That must surely pain Crugion.

  Crugion stayed with the guards at the entrance, pacing the ground in an obvious display of frustration. Briet walked to meet Magnus at the centre of the arena. He stopped just out of reach, removed his helm and discarded it, then stood and stared at Magnus.

  “I should have ignored Crugion and finished you off myself in the forest. I’d have spared you a prolonged death.” Magnus looked at the big warrior in silence. “You’ve got nothing to say? You just wanna get this over with?” Briet grunted in his usual uncouth manner. “Let me tell you this—you are going to die today. You are going to die a slow and painful death.”

  Briet took a step closer and Magnus felt his palms turn to sweat. There was no running from Briet this time. Not the way he had at the Hugmdael Inn. Not the way he had in Froughton Forest when he hid behind the oak tree. This time, he was facing the man in a fight to the death.

  Magnus let his fear turn to anger. He wanted to kill the tyrant for his part in killing Breona. He pictured his body flying in a ball of fire like he did the guard the night before in the dungeons. Magnus could feel the turmoil in his mind and body, the inner dragon who wished to unleash all its power on Briet. It seemed like the perfect chance to test his strength, but he forced himself to conceal his powers.

  No, Magnus asserted. I’ll kill him the same way I’ve killed every other man in the arena. If I can defeat Briet then the people of Ba’rrat will know a warrior of the Fire Realm can defeat the best of Delvion’s men.

  Magnus attacked first. The fire-sword sliced through the air silently. Briet did not bother to move. He used his brute strength to absorb each of Magnus’s blows with a single sword in a single hand and countered with his other, slamming his sword down with more ferocity than any of the one hundred opponents Magnus had faced before.

  Magnus was quick and danced about Briet, but he was shocked at his opponent’s speed. Magnus tried to dist
ract Briet with Sarah’s enchantments but he was too clever to fall for cheap deceptions.

  Each of Briet’s attacks was meant to kill. As the fight progressed, Briet grew increasingly frustrated, putting more strength behind each blow and recovering slower after each move. Finally, his speed waned and Magnus made a strike to Briet’s right thigh, cutting deep into the muscles and throwing him off balance. Magnus stood back for a moment, disbelieving he had injured him.

  The crowd oohed and aahed, but gave no favour to either contestant. Rather, they were savouring the duel between two contestants they had never seen beaten.

  The wound angered Briet and he came at Magnus harder than ever. He seemed to unleash every trick and combination he knew. Magnus fended off blow after blow until Briet was able to land a heavy strike across Magnus’s chest armour. It knocked the wind out of him, stalling him long enough for Briet to slash his sword through Magnus’s right shoulder. Magnus fell to his knees, still holding his sword as Briet held his own above his head, readying himself to strike.

  With heat searing through his body, Magnus pushed forward, driving his body into Briet, sending him tumbling back. They fell over one another, Magnus recovering first. Standing over Briet, he drove the fire-sword down. Briet shifted quickly to avoid it. Magnus went to repeat the strike when the horn sounded. The low sound resonated through the arena. Delvion’s words came to Magnus—“You will yield at the sound of the Quag horn…”

  Magnus swore loudly in frustration, his sword ready to strike again.

  “Or witness Bonstaph and Ganister die alongside you…”

  Magnus shook his head, dropping the fire-sword to the ground. He could not risk it. He could not kill Briet.

  “I’ll not make that mistake again!” Briet gloated. Magnus looked down at the repulsive man as Briet thrust his own sword at Magnus’s midriff, burying it perfectly beneath his rib cage, piercing his armour and thrusting it out through his back.

  The crowd fell silent as Magnus fell to his knees.

  The Quag-horn continued to blow, signalling Briet to stop.