By reputation, Chosen Mordhawk seemed to care little for events that did not involve his secluded Northern Realm. He was known to patronize the Blues, as were most of the Border Chosen, but his involvements in the politics of his peers was otherwise unremarkable in the eyes someone like Gavin. The Spartan nature of his abode was an obvious insight into his character; the undecorated grey battlements of Dun Mordhawk demonstrated an appreciation for austere functionality as well as a stark presentation of power.
Gavin found the rooms of the inner keep, which he had not been invited to explore in his previous stay, comfortable, clean, and expensively decorated but without ostentation for the most part. The
furniture was of exceptional quality, made by local craftspeople using local materials; wood and leather predominated. The Chosen seemed to prefer rich, dark colours, and used oil lamps and candles for lighting instead of glowstones or more modern methods. A page escorted Gavin to a well-appointed waiting room decorated with bookshelves and trophies.
“Wait here, Honoured Gladiator,” said the page. “I will alert The Chosen to your arrival; he will join you at his convenience.”
The Chosen had asked to see Gavin alone, an unusual request, bur not outside his purview. The Deliberative did not police The Chosen, and the Chosen certainly did not need protection from most Gladiators. Gavin was uncertain as to the nature of the meeting. He saw no evidence of the Chosen's Hearthbound. Perhaps the visit had something to do with the dominated assailants that had attacked them on their way north. Ravius and Cleothera awaited Gavin's return in the town outside Dun Mordhawk, enjoying the Chosen's hospitality. Sax had gone off to visit the Flawless Blade monastery and planned on joining them later.
Uncertainty made Gavin nervous. He did not sit down in any of the comfortable looking chairs, nor did he feel like helping himself to some of the food that had been left out for him. The roasted meats smelled delicious, but he could not bring himself to eat with his stomach in knots. “What could Chosen Mordhawk want from me?” he wondered. He had fought in the arena at Dun Mordhawk arena, with the Chosen watching him, but he did not think his performance against the troll Stonebreaker had been noteworthy. Trying to discern the motivations of a Chosen, especially one as cryptic as Mordhawk, was a futile exercise. He tried to take his mind off the meeting by examining the room.
Gavin perused some of the books, noting titles like Chosen Mazurin's Guide to Bows and a massive illustrated bestiary that seemed to predate The Reckoning. As he was examining the bestiary, wondering if he could leaf through such an ancient volume without damaging it, he caught site of a monstrous Manticore head, mounted and stuffed, almost lifelike. The beast, far larger than the one he and his team had brought down at Camp Valorous, seemed to snarl at him from the wall. Gavin stared into its eyes, seeking signs of the same madness that he had seen in the other.
He became aware of the Chosen's presence before the man spoke; when a Chosen does not try veil his presence, even the ungifted, who are normally blind to magic, can sense power radiating from him. To Gavin, Chosen Mordhawk's arrival was heralded by a change in the room's atmosphere, much like the charged feeling in the air before a tornado touches down. He turned and bowed low, rather shocked to see that the Chosen was standing within two paces of him, as if he had appeared from thin air.
“Uval'vich,” said Chosen Mordhawk, nodding to the Manticore, as he walked towards and then past Gavin to gaze up at his trophy. He frowned, looking up at the beast for a moment before continuing. “You've seen a Manticore before, haven't you Gladiator?”
“Yes. I fought one a few years ago, Chosen,” answered Gavin, forgetting the Chosen's powerful presence for a moment as the aftershock of the nightmarish visions the Manticore had used against him, assaulted him once again. “My friends and I fought one for my tenth match.”
“Then you know the madness that infects most of their kind,” said the Chosen, turning his gaze away from the trophy. “It is interesting that The Deliberative would choose to place you up against a creature for one of their tests. Are these friends the same team that you fought with in Scorpion's Oasis by chance?”
“Yes, Chosen,” he answered. “All but of one us. When we went to the Oasis, our friend, Omodo stayed behind.”
“Hammerhorn?” asked Mordhawk.
“Yes, that is his arena name.” said Gavin, proud that that his friend's arena name came so quickly to the Chosen.
“I confess that I am looking forward to his match here. I've heard that his surge in popularity has taken many by surprise,” said the Chosen. “What do you think of it?”
“Omodo chose to find his own path instead of joining us at the Oasis,” said Gavin. “When I asked him about it later, he explained that he felt ready to face his weakness on his own. The talent was always there, but now he's more confident.”
“Mastering one's self is a worthy goal, from the lowliest citizen to the loftiest Chosen,” said Mordhawk. He faced Gavin. The Chosen was tall and strong, but he had been a Gladiator once. Dark hair framed a watchful face. “Gladiator, I was impressed with your match against Stonebreaker.”
“Thank you Chosen,” said Gavin. He hesitated, unsure how to respond to a compliment from a Chosen and hesitated.
Mordhawk chuckled. “There is no need to be cautious Gladiator. We hold to the rules of hospitality on the borders. You are my guest. You have nothing to fear from me here, unless you act against me. Your honesty won't offend.”
“I felt that I could have done better,” said Gavin. He felt uneasy, disagreeing with a Chosen, even over such a trivial matter.
“Of course one can always do better,” said Mordhawk. “But in striving to improve, one should not belittle what one has accomplished. Stonebreaker is a tough fight for a defender...”
“Yes, chains have an advantage against shields and he was gradually herding me towards the wall.” replied Gavin eagerly. “His strategy would have stripped away all of my defensive options. I had to attack.”
“Just so,” said Chosen Mordhawk. “But you deduced this yourself while fighting him, and you attacked.”
“I must be honest, Chosen; I was also trying to impress the spectators,” said Gavin.
“I understand. I was a Gladiator myself at one time,” said Chosen Mordhawk. “I have trained more than a few fighters since. We all have passions beyond the fight. Enough of that though; suffice it to say that you caught my attention. I have a little project I am working on. I could use some help. Have you ever hunted before, Gladiator?”
“No, Chosen,” answered Gavin. One of the few things he knew about Chosen Mordhawk was that he loved to hunt, sometimes even going beyond the borders of the Domains into dangerous territory to test himself against dangerous game.
“I thought not,” said Mordhawk, his eyes swinging back to the Manticore on the wall. He regarded it with a strange fascination for a moment, before he resumed speaking. “Uval'vich here was mad like others of his kind, but his mind had not rotted away over the years. He ruled these lands before I took them. He was strong, but also unpredictable and cunning... I had to hunt him.”
“I'm not sure I follow, Chosen,” said Gavin.
“Most tainted creatures, especially those whose minds have been destroyed, are not wary of us in the way that natural animal life is. They often attack with no provocation, even outside their territory. They actively seek to destroy us, and I feel that they see us as unnatural, as we see them. We scoured these hills for a year, killing five or six Manticores in open battle, as well as other tainted beasts. Uval'vich hid from us, and left us evidence that he was some lesser beast when he needed to kill. As the land was cleansed of the taint, monster-hunters moved in with my approval, capturing other creatures for use in the arenas. Uval'vich preyed on these, but only one or two lone hunters a year, and he was always careful to hide his presence. He left no bodies. I think he understood that he could not face a Chosen and survive. After the lands were settled he would take the occasional traveller, a
stray workman, an unguarded farm animal. He struck over a wide area, hid his tracks, and left false evidence. The land was more dangerous then, and such disappearances were not unexpected. He could have gone on for years, prowling the back woods, while our attention was focused elsewhere.”
“What happened?” asked Gavin.
“He attacked a farmstead in broad daylight. Butchered a family. He attacked the legion patrol when they arrived to investigate, killing a full squad of men and one of my... best... rangers before they drove him off. Once he had shown himself confrontation was inevitable. I tracked him back to his cave. He was strong, but no match for me. I killed him. It was only when I investigated his lair that I realized that he had survived our initial sweep and been operating in my Domain, undetected, for decades... it was a lesson for me. A bitter failure.”
“Why would he attack the farm after so many years of cautious behaviour?” Gavin knew that the madness that infected the Manticores was the easy answer, but the Chosen seemed to be trying to impart a more esoteric point.
“That is a question that I have been asking myself for many years, Gladiator,” The Chosen shook his head. “He was not getting old, nor was he suffering from starvation or some other new illness that would force him to alter his behaviour out of need. The taint did not drive him the way it did with his brethren, I could tell that when we fought. He did not even eat those he killed on the farmstead. What think you?”
“Perhaps the Manticore grew too confident, Chosen,” said Gavin, somewhat shocked at the question. He still could not fathom why the Chosen has taken this particular course of conversation. “Or maybe the Farmers offended him somehow.”
“Indeed,” said Chosen Mordhawk, turning to Gavin. “These are good explanations. They might be true. All I can say is that Uval'vich ceased to be a hunter when he attacked that farm. A true hunter only takes what he requires. He crossed that line and it brought ruin down upon him. I was merely the instrument of his doom. But I digress; I did not bring you here to discuss an old man's hunting trophies. What do you know of Valaran diVolcanus, the man they call the Golden Giant?”
“He is considered one of the best Gladiators in contention at the moment, Chosen,” answered Gavin, cautiously. Chosen Mordhawk was known to favour the Blue Faction, for which Valaran was currently fighting. “He is a favoured student of Chosen Moltar, trained outside of the Campus Gladius. He only fights Deathmatches. He is strong, fast, and unbeaten in competition...”
“Common knowledge,” said the Chosen, rolling his eyes. He did not seem angry, however. “Your caution is commendable Gladiator, but I think you know more.” The Chosen looked directly at Gavin, waiting, but did not extend his overwhelming presence. He merely waited patiently.
“He has killed all of his opponents, Chosen,” said Gavin. “No one has survived a match against him.”
“Odd, isn't it?” said Mordhawk, pacing away from Gavin. Even distracted by his own thoughts the Chosen's movements were precise, like those of a wolf or big cat. “In this day and age the spectators are frequently merciful, especially to popular fighters. The current time limits on a Deathmatch also work to limit lethality; an experienced Gladiator can often defend against an opponent who gets the better of him long enough to be saved by the trumpet. This was actually initially instituted to lower the chance of death in duels between the Chosen. Regardless Valaran has killed all of his opponents, more than thirty Gladiators. Every single one of them. He killed many of them outside the Death-Leagues, even. Some of them were very well loved.”
Gavin wanted to ask Mordhawk why he was interested in Valaran, but one did not simply question a Chosen. He watched the Chosen pace, saying nothing.
“His magic is... unusual,” said the Chosen, swinging to face Gavin again. “It has been approved by The Deliberative, of course, but not without some debate. His patron has a very keen interest in keeping it as secret as possible.”
“Isn't that cheating?” asked Gavin, curiosity overcoming caution.
“Not if the Council of the Chosen votes to allow it,” said the Chosen, smiling for a moment. “The true imbalances in a society as great as ours aren't what criminals do in spite of the law. Manipulations of the law to favour the ambitious and the powerful, whatever their politics may be, are much, much worse.”
Gavin nodded; he met the Chosen's gaze for a moment. The man's dark eyes swallowed everything in the room.
“I would have voted against allowing a little known form of magic to be used in the Arena despite my ties to the Blues,” said Chosen Mordhawk. “Interesting that such an important vote came on a day that I and many of my peers were otherwise occupied. Border raids kept us away from the Council.”
“I'm not sure I understand, Chosen,” said Gavin. Was Chosen Mordhawk saying that a trick of politics has allowed Valaran to pursue his unusual path?
“Forgive me, Gladiator,” he said, smiling; an unexpected reaction from someone who seemed so distant and controlled. “I tend to blather on as I get older. Valaran diVolcanus passed through my Domain a few days ago. His patron is one of my allies and so he was my guest here for several days. I watched him fight. I hunted with him. I learned of some of his habits off the fighting grounds. He mentioned you, in passing. He sees you as his prey. But what kind of hunter hates his prey?”
Gavin felt his cheeks redden with anger, and a cold feeling settle in his gut at the same time. “At least he acknowledges me, now.” he said, unable to keep an edge of bitterness from his voice.
The Chosen raised an eyebrow. “He is of a mind to destroy you, Gladiator. He thinks it beneath him to challenge you directly, but his hatred drives him to oppose you. He feels you stand between him and something he desires...”
“Good, I will gladly face him, Chosen,” Gavin replied, his voice trembling with anger. His hands balled into fists at his side. A shiver ran down his spine and he inwardly cursed himself for feeling fear. “Even if I lose, Valaran's 'desire' will be his downfall.”
“Interesting,” said the Chosen, his eyes appraising. “But I digress. I did not ask you here to talk about Hammerhorn or Valaran or to show off my hunting trophies. As I said, I have a project I could use your help with. I am creating a new arena, one that tests certain qualities. You have shown yourself to be both perceptive and adaptable. I would like to see how you fare in it.”
“I would be honoured, Chosen.” said Gavin. Refusal would be foolish, of course, but he was genuinely curious as well.
Chosen Mordhawk nodded. “We will discuss the specifics over supper, Gladiator. If you choose to accept, you and your troupe shall be my guests while the match is arranged. My steward will convey dining protocol to you on your way out.”
“Thank you, Chosen” said Gavin, bowing formally before leaving the room. His mind was racing, trying to make sense of the Chosen's words while his stomach churned with the thought that Valaran was near, and had not forgotten him.
Mordhawk watched him go. After the grand doors to the room closed, he turned back to the head of the Manticore, Uval'vich, mounted on the wall. Even after years of thought, he still did not understand why such a patient beast had grown so over-bold, nor did he understand why he, the consummate hunter and protector of this Domain, had failed to detect the beast. He glanced briefly at a picture mounted above and to the side of the trophy; a portrait of a young man dark and fair, like himself. Then he left the room to return to his duties.
o-----
All of Gavin's trepidation over the special match that Chosen Mordhawk arranged for him vanished when he looked up, through the transparent ceiling over the maze to see Omodo standing next to Ravius and Cleothera. His heart soared upon seeing his old friend, Hammerhorn. He waved up at the crowd, spear in hand, grinning broadly.
Gavin could not see very far in any direction other than up. The walls of the arena-maze were grown from what looked to be sturdy trees with thick interlacing branches and bocage bristling with thorns. Moss covered the ground and much of the wood. The
whole setup was obviously spell-crafted, custom grown by Druids under the Chosen's supervision. He could tell that the maze was quite large, just from looking up at the extent of the glass above him. No doubt the spectators were meant to follow his progress on foot, since none of them were seated. Perhaps he could watch them for clues, once the match started.
The rules for the maze match were deceptively simple. Gavin was meant to hunt down his foes and defeat them. They would, in turn, be hunting him. The only difference between this and a regular match was the environment, and the added uncertainty of not knowing what enemies he faced, how many there were, and how they would be coming at him. It could mean the difference between a simple fight and an ambush if he wasn't careful
The trumpets sounded. Within a heartbeat the roof of the maze above him became opaque to anyone looking up from below, which obscured Gavin's view of the audience. He could still hear muffled sounds and see vague shadows, but no useful details. He snapped the traditional Gladiator's salute at the crowd, confident that while he could not see them they would certainly see him.
Gavin chose a path and began moving warily into the maze, his footfalls cushioned by the deep moss. Traps were uncommon in arena matches, but not unheard of. He noticed a mist start to form low to the ground. He doubted it would rise high enough to obscure the action but it would certainly make it hard to see footprints in the moss or a short, crouching creature. A nervous tingle caressed his spine at the thought. The fog could hide a pit or a leg-trap, too.
Deciding to always take the passage to his right, Gavin followed advice he had once read about navigating mazes by always turning in the same direction if possible. Lionfang's focus narrowed as he tried to detect his opponents, who must already be in the maze. As he looked and listened he wove a spell that would help him detect an enemy by mental impulse alone. It would not work against a wary mind or an automaton, but he had to use every tool at his disposal. His spell caught a trace of mental activity from a nearby passage and he stalked forward, raising his spear to strike. The mossy ground cover and close wooden walls muffled his footfalls, encouraging him to opt for a stealthy, cautious approach.
Domains of the Chosen 02 Bloodlust: Will to Power Page 7
