BLOODLUST: WILL TO POWER
By C.P.D. Harris
Copyright © C.P.D Harris, July 17th, 2013
Cover Artwork © Daniel Barclay
Special thanks to everyone who has helped with this project, or shown interest in my writing. Your enthusiasm carried me forward, even when things seemed bleak.
(A Glossary, a Character List, and a Map are included at the end of the book for your convenience.)
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Synopsis
“I love the challenge of a good fight and the roar of the crowd. I will impress you.” Sadira Lacivia, aka Red Scorpion.
“There's nothing quite like the feeling of finding that perfect comment to enrage an opponent. I will get under your skin.” Ravius Vergerus, aka Ravishing Rude Ravius
“My friends trust me to defend them on the fighting grounds, I can think of no greater compliment than that. I will not fail them.” Vintia Legarda, aka Brightshield
“The Great Games give us the opportunity to lend our strength to better causes. I will make a difference.” Omodo diYava, aka Hammerhorn
“The arena weeds the weak from the strong. I will not let anyone stand in my way.” Karmal Kolat, aka Crimson Dragon
“In spite of everything, I cannot deny that I enjoy the way the arena pushes me to test my limits. I will find my way.” Gavin Orphanus, aka Lionfang
In the Domains of The Chosen, magic is power. Because of The Reckoning, a cataclysm brought about by a war among magic-wielders, the Gifted, those with magic, are feared and controlled. Only those willing to face the rigours of The Great Games as Gladiators can earn the right to wield their magic unfettered. A lucky few might even win a place among The Chosen, immortal rulers of the Domains.
Gavin, a thoughtful young man, begins his career as a Gladiator in the Campus Martius. He seeks the freedom that can only be gained through the path of the Gladiator. Gavin is soon joined by Ravius, a cunning, sociable skirmisher who becomes his only real friend in training. Ravius introduces Gavin to the amiable Armodon Omodo.
After a match in which he executes a Heretic, Olek Agvarson, in a Deathmatch, Gavin begins to question his place in the bloody games. The man's only crime, in Gavin's mind, was his desire to live freely.
Gavin meets Sadira, a dynamic Shadow-Elf Gladiatrix, and the two fall in love. Sadira, already a skilled fighter and a consummate performer, seems destined for greatness. Many people do not understand what she sees in Gavin. One of these is Sadira's friend and rival, Karmal, who sees Gavin as soft and weak.
Sadira, Gavin, Omodo, Ravius, Karmal, and Vintia, another of Sadira's friends form a troupe and travel to the town of Dreadwood Junction. There they hope to gain the attention of Faction League recruiters and pursue a fast track to better leagues. They succeed in attracting the attention of the Red Faction, but not before Sadira and Gavin get tricked into a Deathmatch against local favourites Bella and Cat. During the match Karmal kills the corrupt arena master, Meady Mox, whom she was investigating on behalf of The Deliberative.
The six Gladiators join the Red Faction and travel to Camp Valorous, a busy military town on the edge of the Empire. They meet Cleothera, a friendly Grey-Robe. They train hard here and become favourites. Sadira, in particular, gains the attention of the crowd. When a rival Faction challenges the recruits, Sadira and Vintia are selected to represent them, winning handily. During this fight Gavin meets Valaran diVolcanus, the most feared Gladiator in a generation. Valaran becomes obsessed with Sadira, who he believes is the only woman worthy of him, and begins to send her gifts. Gavin struggles with feelings of self-worth.
When they troupe moves on, Omodo remains behind at Camp Valaran. He feels he must overcome his aversion to crowds and become more self-reliant. He eventually joins the Green Faction, but remains in contact with his old friends.
The rest of the troupe joins the Red Faction at Scorpion's Oasis. Sadira hopes to win the patronage of Chosen Giselle, which will greatly further her career. The Oasis is a town traditionally dominated by the Blue Faction. Sadira is put in charge of the troupe. She trains her friends hard, learns to lead, and masters the complex Faction challenge rules with Gavin and Vintia's help.
The troupe gives their all and leads the Red Faction at Scorpion's Oasis to a winning season, working hard to do so. As the season goes on it becomes apparent that Chosen Giselle will sponsor Sadira's ascension to a higher league, but she will have to part ways with Gavin. Thus their victory at Scorpion's Oasis is bittersweet.
Sadira and Karmal join Chosen Giselle in Brightsand Halls. Sadira gets a chance to train with a woman she has adored since childhood, but she finds that having little time to spend with Gavin is a heavy price to pay for glory.
Vintia is saddened to be separated from her childhood friends. She decides to remain behind in Scorpion's Oasis and defend their title. At least that way she will be close to Sadira in Brightsands.
Gavin meets Master Sax after a rough match in the Oasis. Sax reveals that Gavin's spear bears the maker's mark of the smith Liam Valcoeur, who never gives weapons to just anyone. Curiosity to meet this enigmatic smith and a desire to prove himself worthy of Sadira drive Gavin to travel to the north and join the Free Leagues. Ravius, Sax, and Cleothera join him.
Meanwhile Valaran seeks to find a way to eliminate Gavin and make Sadira his, and all the while the great players of the Domains plot, getting ready for the coming Grand Championships where the victor will join the ranks of The Chosen.
Interlude One: Entrances
(1150/07/17 AR, The Grand Arena in Krass, Semi-Final match in the Grand championships)
"Despite Chronology being the simplest part of history, getting times mixed up leads to the great confusion." Chosen Mazurin
“There is nothing quite as lovely as dire enmity in the arena.” Madam Chloe diSilk, Death-Leagues announcer.
The Gladiatrix stands motionless in the mouth of the shadowed tunnel, clearing her mind as she waits for the match to begin. She muses briefly about the torches, a purposeful anachronism in this sacred place. She loves them for the shadows created by the dancing firelight. Her sharply pointed ears perk up as the cheering for her opponent, first to take to the fighting grounds, begins to die down.
A chorus of one thousand trumpets sounds, brazen brass calling her. The Gladiatrix's heart quickens as her name is announced. The very stones of the greatest arena in the world shake as the people cheer. She feels that noise, that joy, in her bones. Adrenaline fires her blood, the crowd's excitement feeding her own. She allows herself a small smile, confident and eager.
As the massive drawbridge, bound in gold, lowers gently, the Gladiatrix tastes the growing anticipation of the audience. Her magic allowed her to drink the emotions of the crowd, channelling some of that energy. They want to see her. Sunlight spills into the passage of the Gladiatrix’s entrance; slowly, almost teasingly, revealing her to the hungry eyes of the audience.
Her hair, dark as a midnight shadow by the light of a full moon, is done up in a multitude of braids held stiff by glamour, each resembling a curled scorpion’s tail. A single red rose nests amidst the scorpion tails, a token from her lover. The style is uniquely hers; a small rebellion against the more formal or inviting fashions created by celebrated stylists for her peers. It is also a gift to her fans, who have come to expect such things from this Gladiatrix. She wears it with the swagger of one who knows, without a trace of doubt, that she is adored.
Her dark eyes slowly sweep the crowd as row upon row of faces come into view above the descending gate. Her gaze is piercing, even at such a distance. She does not blink even in the sudden li
ght of the bright sun. Many of the audience shiver, with fear or rapture, as those dark orbs rake over them; imagining that the Gladiatrix has eyes for them alone. She looks at the gathered multitudes, shouting her name, with the fearless stare of one who knows that she is respected.
Her shining black armour, scorpion themed and gold-edged, encases her shoulders and the outward faces of her limbs in overlapping metal plates. Her head and torso are left tantalizingly bare, save for the silks that cover her breasts and loins, rose red in colour, matching her lips. Her body is inviting in more ways than one; the pale, vulnerable skin of her bare torso makes a tempting target for thirsty thrusting blades as well as for hungry eyes. In this way her armour is a trap; she has but to pivot slightly and her bare undefended torso is now protected by the thick plates on her arms and legs. It is a clever ruse, one well suited to her mobile fighting style. She is an acrobatic Gladiatrix after all, not an armoured juggernaut. Still, there is no doubt that her attire is partly designed to titillate, just as there can be no doubt that she wears it with the poise of one who knows that she is desired.
The keen-edged blades of her obsidian coloured sabres are pointed upwards, mostly hidden by her cleanly muscled arms, like the folded wings of a hawk at rest. The long hilt of her matching greatsword is visible above one armoured shoulder, its ruby pommel catching the light. These weapons are polished and well-cared for, each one named and loved. She channels power into them and the runes pulse with life, red on black. She holds them as if they are a part of her, with the predatory certainly of one who knows she has killed.
Some in the crowd could sense her magic. Even the ungifted could get a glimpse of it through the devices and wonders of the arena. She weaves no spell, instead wearing her power like a halo, channelling merely for pleasure and presentation, like a strong woman flexing her bicep. She does this even though it required a powerful effort of will to hold such power, with the glorious energy and fierce joy of one who knows that she is mighty.
The Gladiatrix stands as the gate descends, perfectly still, drinking in the raucous praise of her audience. She loves every spoken compliment, every shout of encouragement, every word her followers utter; even the lusty and often lewd expressions of desire that they ejaculate at her. She basks in the rapture of her fans and her own anticipation of the challenge to come.
The moment is brief, but eternal, and the image of the Gladiatrix in her pose is etched in the minds of many who saw her.
This tableau was shattered when the drawbridge was half-way down and the Gladiatrix exploded into motion. She sprinted forward; in two long strides she cleared the tip of the drawbridge and launched herself into the air. The bright beacon of blossoming power was forged into a spell, increasing her already supernatural strength and speed. With muscle and magic, she seemed to take to the air like a bird, leaping higher than any mortal could.
For a moment it seemed as if she truly might take flight, and such is the faith of the fans that they almost expect this. The Gladiatrix revels in this feeling. At the apex of her trajectory, as gravity’s clawing grasp finally overcame her, she spun in the air to face the sun, unfolding her black blades like wings. This image was also etched in many minds: black hair, black blades, milky skin, bright sun. She then plummeted towards the sands, as the crowd gasped, turning a lazy flip to land gracefully on her feet, raising her swords and crossing the elegant obsidian blades above her in a salute to the spectators. They let the whole city hear their appreciation this time and her smile becomes a girlish grin for just a moment.
Sadira Lacivia, Gladiatrix Domina, revelled in the attention of her fans, like a dragon basking in the sunlight, forgetting all her troubles. For that one moment, everything seemed perfect.
But her opponent does not allow her to savour the sensation.
"Long time no see, Red Scorpion." said the flame-haired woman. Karmal smiles, emerald eyes glittering above too-sharp teeth. “You're a long way from the whorehouse.”
Sadira's joy in the moment is lost, vanishing like a dream, as she is finally forced to acknowledge her opponent.
Chapter Thirty-Two: Blood, Mud, and Sweat
1145/09/07 AR, Bullstock, Five years before Karmal faces Sadira in the Grand Championships
“The Free Leagues are The Great Games stripped bare. The Free Leagues offer a greater range of tournaments than the Faction Leagues, these events are relatively free of politicking and seen by many fans as more meritocratic. Some fans just want to watch a match without any meddling or pretence.” Arena Master Druth
“The Free Leagues are for wash-ups and dreamers.” Gaius Gerald White
Sax doesn't really sleep. He is fairly certain that the others aren't cognisant of this; he has mastered the art of dulling his thoughts so even a master Cogimancer has to check twice. Some instinct, honed by years of experience has drawn him into the woods. Because of what he is, ambush is often on his mind. Subtle noises, a shift in the forest, alert him. The feeling is unnatural, as if a dozen great cats stalked towards the fire in the distance. He spots forms moving in the darkness, shades of black among the night trees. He is too far away from the camp, and so he channels a power into a spell that is sure to warn the others. Swift and sure, he surprises his foes. They look like bandits. He unleashes lightning, cutting the darkness, as his Greatsword carves the nearest form in two.
Gavin is fuming over a link he has just read about Sadira's supposed sexscapades in the debauched Brightsands social circles. While he doesn't believe the rumours of her promiscuity, printed in the vulgar Arena Post, the taunting words and salacious pictures make him angry and play with his subconscious. His anger leads to jealously and heart-pangs.
Gavin's distraction and anger work in his favour, this time. When he hears a noise he does not hesitate. He turns. Sax's warning shout follows. A shadowy form lunges. Firelight glints on steel. Reflex takes over. Gavin's hand darts out. His grip is sure, vice-like on a wrist. He pulls and twists his body, throwing. His assailant is surprisingly light; a Quickling? The body hits the fire with a crunch. Sparks fly. He sees Cleothera's eyes widen as she stands. More forms boil out of the darkness. They make no sound other than their rustling movements and grunts of exertion.
Ravius scrambles. He see lightning flicker in the trees. He kicks his trident into his hand. An arrow whips by, missing his head. He sees a shadow behind Gavin and lunges. A dead-eyed bearded man stumbled into the light, throat a red ruin. The man does not scream despite his terrible wound. Instead he stumbles forward, hatchet slashing. This gives Ravius pause, men do not ignore such wounds, but instinct spurs him to act. A swift kick sends the dead-eyed man tumbling back, pushing him into his comrades.
Cleothera unleashes Ravius and Gavin, freeing them to use their magic. Part of her notices with clinical detachment that Sax is no longer under her bond. Is he dead? Is he betraying them? Spells flicker in the woods. Her thoughts become moot as a body pounces at her. She is not a fighter. The sword feels heavy and slow in her hand. She parries the spear, knocking it aside. She fights down fear and panic. She defends herself, giving ground. Gavin moves in to shield her.
Then the body in the fire rises. Flames dance in its hair and clothing. Ravius dodges away as it flails towards him. Zombie he thinks, and smashes the head with the weight of his trident. The body topples and does not rise again.
The Gladiators, free from constraint, bring their magic to bear. Power surges and heads explode, showering gore. Gavin finds his shield and wades into the bodies emerging from the woods. He notices that many of them bear fresh wounds. Fatal cuts. Sax he thinks. He shouts. The need to defend his friends spurs him. The clearing turns into a chaotic melee.
Sax cuts into their attackers from behind. He has killed a dozen, mostly archers, since the battle began. Those with missile weapons are a greater danger; he hopes he got them all. Countess, his fine-bladed Greatsword, sweeps through them as he joins the others. He aims for heads and hearts. Their foes know no pain or fear, but they are mortal enough.
The Gladiators form a circle. Surprise having failed, the remaining attackers cannot hope to overcome them. Still, they do not retreat; strange for bandits. They keep fighting to the last, silently and savagely.
Sax captures the last one, a woman covered in leaves and dirt, bearing her to the ground and knocking her unconscious with a blow from his pommel when a nerve pinch fails. He then begins checking the prone forms of their foes. Most are dead, having fought on despite terrible wounds. A few will live and he makes sure to bind them.
Gavin quickly checks his companions. They all have minor wounds, cuts and bruises. Some of them need to be cleaned. He looks around for other signs of danger before going for a kit.
Ravius picks up one of the weapons of their attackers. A woodsman's axe, the steel of it's head is blunted where it met the superior metal of Gladiator's armour. Hardly an assassin's weapon. Just to be sure he checks several of the weapons for poison.
Cleothera surveys the carnage, wide-eyed and breathless. She's has never been in a serious fight before. It's not at all like watching one in the arena. Their attackers, despite their suicidal bravery, do not appear to be bandits or assassins. She realizes that the small form that Gavin tossed into the fire was not a Quickling or a Dwarf and she retches violently.
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It is a long night after that. They move camp in the dark; Sax scouts ahead. Cleothera notes how easily he moves in the shadows, alert and poised.
In the daylight they are left with carnage and a group of terrified and half-mad prisoners who have no recollection of attacking them: all signs point to some form of terrible magic.
Domains of the Chosen 02 Bloodlust: Will to Power Page 1
