Domains of the Chosen 02 Bloodlust: Will to Power

by C. P. D. Harris

  The Armodon nodded.

  “Textbook,” said Ravius. He made a dismissive gesture. “I am talking about false heroism. Manufactured heroes. The truth is that The Great Games are about re-creating the classical image of the hero, not in actually providing a true hero. A Chosen commands the very powers that brought about The Reckoning. The heroic image really helps mitigate that fact. The people need to feel that each Chosen has earned his or her place through a great ordeal. Hence, we go through a series of trials, at least fifty matches, all in view of the public. Any of us that actually makes it to a Championship has a ready-made heroic narrative for people to draw upon.”

  “It also provides a network of supporters,” said Gavin. He was thinking of Sadira's fans or Omodo's Hammerheads. He felt a twinge of envy, even though he knew how much both of his friends had worked for that support. “No one gets to become a Chosen without the support of the people and some backers behind the scenes, I think. A Champion needs to be seen as a hero to get the people's support, even if the demands of the backers are purely political.”

  “I think the matches also help familiarize the people with a potential Chosen,” said Omodo. “By the time they fight their fifty-plus matches and win a Grand Championship, people have gotten used to them.”

  “And they've also become invested in the image that the Champion puts forth,” added Ravius. “It is easy to influence people as a Chosen once they have invested so much in you as a Champion.”

  “Some of them will have watched you since your earliest matches,” added Omodo. “Followed your entire career, and watched you overcome every adversity.”

  “Which is why monster fights are the best way for a Gladiator to build up a fan base,” said Ravius. “Everyone knows who to root for.”

  “Except in zombie fights,” said Gavin. He smirked. Zombies had a rather large fan-base of their own in the Domains these days. He distinctly remembered a match where some of the audience had cheered the Stitched he was fighting, simply because of their love of zombies.

  “Or bull-fights,” said Ravius, chuckling.

  “Regardless, one of the reasons for The Great Games is to provide potential Chosen with that heroic image.” said Gavin. “It really backfires somewhat with people like Valaran though. He has all the outward trappings of a hero. He's handsome and noble, a thoroughbred Gladiator with a perfect record in the most dangerous match types. Sadly, he's Moltar's pawn through and through and his image collapses as soon as you get to know him.”

  “Truth, little brother; tyrants like Moltar have always loved heroic imagery,” said Ravius. “If they can convince the world of their epic qualities then their people will be more accepting of their despotism. Simple politics.”

  “That's a round-about way of criticizing our lords and masters,” said a familiar voice from the arming room door. Cleothera walked in, heedless of their state of undress. Ravius took the opportunity to stretch out conspicuously before pulling on his loincloth. Gavin shared a look with Omodo, who shrugged; modesty is not the way of the Arena.

  “Hello boys,” said Cleothera. “Nice view Ravius, but I'm here on business. My petition to bar Valaran from your matches has been blocked. He has a full contingent with him out there. Bastard has a lot of time on his hands since few people will fight him. Only the Death-Leagues can offer him regular matches.”

  Ravius snorted. “I can't believe he can drag his followers around to other people's matches. It has to be against the rules somewhere.”

  “Of course it is,” said Cleothera. “But we also have freedom of assembly in the Domains. I have to prove he is attending your matches to be disruptive. His backers are very powerful. They have influence even in The Deliberative it seems.”

  Gavin and Omodo looked at Cleothera expectantly. They wanted to know more about the investigation into the body found on the ice. Gavin was suspicious of the connection between Erbly and the Dwarven Grey-Robe that seemed to shadow Valaran. The idea of internal divisions within The Deliberative made sense, after all politics was the real blood-sport in the Domains. As Gladiators, however, they had never really penetrated the monolithic facade that the order put forth.

  “As for 'other business',” she said. “I can't tell you much,” her voice dropped to a whisper. “but we don't suspect The Chosen, and we have all but ruled out the possibility of heretics from within the Domains, or rogue Gladiators.”

  Gavin met Cleothera's eyes. Like most of the Gifted, her eyes told the story that her face did not. She looked tired, worn by worry and frayed by fear, but resolute. She was all but telling them that The Deliberative might actually suspect one of its own.

  “Is there anything we can do to help?” asked Omodo.

  “Stay alert, report anything out of the ordinary to me,” she said. “If something about a match strikes you as off, I need to know. I will be approving your next set of ranking matches personally, but that is the limit of my authority. Other than that, keep your teeth together in places where you might be overheard, and mind what you get into...”

  The three Gladiators nodded. Cleothera looked each of them in the eye. She seemed to be on the verge of saying something else, but after a brief pause she turned and left. Each of them finished their preparations silently, lost in thought.

  After a moment Omodo spoke. “Back to our earlier conversation. I cannot help but think that Valaran does not see himself as a pawn. Most people are the protagonists in their own minds.”

  o-----

  “Anyone else feel like a swim?” said Ravius, looking down at the water below. Fins cut the surface as several sharks, agitated by buckets of bloody chum, circled underneath.

  In late summer the arena at Sonarion's Crossing was quite a bit more hospitable than the last time they had fought there. The day was warm and the water looked inviting. Ravius might have been joking, but aside from the sharks, Gavin would dive right in. Perhaps he could swim the river for training later.

  “Fishing might be more fun,” said Omodo, raising his weapon in salute as the crowd cheered and jeered. They tried to ignore Valaran's gold-clad followers.

  They were standing on the deck of a small wooden merchant ship that had been built to look like it had taken damage from fire and cannon. Opposite them was a grim looking pirate vessel. Several boarding planks connected the two vessels. Their match was meant to mirror a boarding action of some sort.

  “I love theme fights,” said Omodo.

  “I'd enjoy it more if the sharks were fake too,” said Ravius. “Remember we get extra points for tossing the Stitched in the water.”

  The trumpets sounded. Doors on the forecastle and aftcastle burst open, disgorging undead. The Stitched were dressed like storybook pirate and wielding wicked-looking curved blades. At a glance Gavin could tell they were the work of skilled necromancers, their movements were almost natural and they held their blades as if they knew how to use them. He wove a quick disruption spell and felt Ravius drawing on power beside him.

  Omodo started forward with a grin. After their earlier discussion about heroes, he felt a little daring. Defending the gangplanks would be the smart choice.

  Gavin reached out with his magic. His senses analyzed the pattern of a Stitched as it took a step onto one of the boarding planks. It was fairly complex; the necromancer had woven simple pattern alterations that gave the creature increased skill with weapons and greater strength than a normal zombie. Gavin found the enchantment that was animating the creature, and directed his disruption weaves into the weakest point. The zombie pirate's limbs suddenly went limp. All this before it had taken three steps. It pitched forward, woodenly, falling into the water. The crowd cheered as shark fins cut towards it.

  Ravius did the same a moment later, felling another Stitched by disrupting it. His spell was slower than Gavin's but he added a flourish that made it seem as if he was drawing the spirit forth from his target with streams of iridescent purple energy. His showmanship drew cheers from most of the crowd, but they could s
till hear the boos and heckling from the Golds, Valaran's followers.

  Omodo surged onto the boarding plank. He lowered his head.

  “Is he...?” said Ravius, shocked into speaking aloud.

  The Armodon charged. The sturdy boarding plank twisted and shook as the massive Gladiator thundered into the Stitched trying to cross. They scattered like pebbles in an avalanche as he pushed his way through them. Several blades bounced off his armour and thick skin. Bodies fell into the water. The crowd roared as he powered his way onto the pirate ship.

  “He is,” said Gavin. He sprinted forward crossing the boarding plank that Omodo had cleared.

  The Stitched swarmed Omodo, slashing at him with their swords, trying to overpower him with the sheer weight of numbers. The Armodon brought his massive hammer down, crushing them against the deck and sweeping them away from him. He was surprised to see fresh blood splatter from his foes, unusual for undead of this type. Although he received a number of superficial wounds as he fought, Omodo held his ground, confident that Gavin and Ravius would come to his aid. He felt the pressure ease as Gavin rushed in behind him cutting a Stitched with hooks for hands into halves with a swipe of his bladed shield.

  Not to be outdone, Ravius leapt up, grabbing onto a rope and began to swing. He swooped low, just out of reach of the Stitched, and then arced high and let go. As he dropped he threw his net to entangle some of the Stitched on the deck, close to where he would land. Hitting the deck smoothly, the skirmisher swung his trident to knock a fierce looking zombie pirate to the ground.

  The three Gladiators closed ranks, fighting back to back, like a band of brothers. Omodo's huge maul rose and fell, smashing their foes as Gavin and Ravius kept the rest of the hoard at bay. They fought like this for several minutes until the deck of the pirate ship was littered with broken bodies and the water was red with the blood of the Stitched, through which the sharks swam, fighting over chunks of zombie flesh while crowd cheered.

  When the Gladiators gave their salute, the crowd roared “HAMMERHORN!”, giving an ovation to Omodo for boldly taking the fight to the pirates.

  o-----

  “I want you here when I interrogate the heretic officer Orphania,” said Captain diAuran as they walked. Sax loomed behind them, watchful and menacing. “You know the details of the scene and are sensitive to lies because of your skill with Cogimancy. I've read your files and I know what your capabilities of. I may also use you to pry open his thoughts if he resists questioning.”

  Mind-rape, thought Cleothera. The idea of forcefully dragging information from another person's mind without their consent was deeply repulsive to her. It was considered torture, but was legal in extreme cases. She tried not to betray her disgust to Captain diAuran or Sax.

  They arrived at the holding cells. A nervous looking man greeted them, saluting the captain

  “I am looking for the heretic named Mondarvis.” said Captain diAuran. “He was brought in last night.”

  “Cell Two,” said the jailer, handing her a key.

  “An interrogation cell,” said Captain diAuran. “How did you know we would be arriving so soon sergeant?”

  “I had no idea captain,” said the sergeant. He looked uncomfortable. “Officer Baurtrum is already in the cell; he started the interrogation an hour ago.”

  “Bloody Reckoning!” spat Captain diAuran. She started off into the cell block immediately, walking so quickly that Cleothera had to jog to keep pace with her and Sax. The Captain radiated anger; Sax unclasped his blade.

  Cleothera heard a scream, more animal than man, as Captain diAuran rounded a corner and shouldered her way through a heavy door. Sax, scowling and ready, followed her in. Cleothera steeled herself and stepped across the threshold.

  The room reeked of pain and despair. A dwarven Grey-Robe, flanked by two dangerous looking operatives, was standing over a scarred and dirty looking man whose body was etched with unusual runic tattoos. The Dwarf looked up at them.

  “What in the name of the Ancestors are you doing Baurtrum?” said Captain diAuran. Her eyes blazed and her hand rested on the hilt of her sword. She looked like she knew how to use it.

  “I'm interrogating the prisoner Captain diAuran,” replied the Dwarf, not looking up. “Standard procedure. I already have a list of co-conspirators. I intend to get them all before he breaks.”

  Baurtrum channelled, weaving a grim spell of fear and pain. The man screamed. Cleothera felt nauseous. She looked at Sax. The Ogre was eyeing the Dwarf's escorts. His face was grim.

  “I want names,” growled the dwarf.

  “Enough Baurtrum,” said Captain diAuran. “You're methods are over-zealous. He isn't going to give you anything useful like this.”

  “Please diAuran,” said Baurtrum. “I know what I'm doing. I'm certainly a better interrogator than that fucking amateur you have with you. I have years of field experience.”

  “Give it a rest while we sort this out,” said Sax.

  “No mercy for heretics,” mumbled Baurtrum. He turned back to his work.

  “If you continue you will drive him into permanent madness,” said Captain diAuran. Her voice was icy cold and held a clear warning. Tension filled the room. Sax eyed the two agents with Baurtrum. “Stop, that's an order Baurtrum.”

  The dwarf ignored her. He began weaving another spell. The pitiful victim, the heretic Mondarvis, whimpered as the spell began to fill his mind with fear and pain. He sagged with relief as Captain diAuran unwove Baurtrum's spell.

  “Fool! Ordo Navyr has given me leave to do as I must,” said Baurtrum. Spittle flew as he spoke, his face twisting with rage.

  “And Ordo Grevex has over-ruled him,” said diAuran coolly. “I have the writ here if you need to see it.”

  “Grevex is soft,” said Baurtrum. “His kind are a cancer infecting the empire.”

  “Enough,” said diAuran. “I am the ranking officer here. Leave or I will have you removed.”

  Cleothera met the victim's eyes for just a moment as the two of them argued. They were pools of despair, begging for release. She felt bile rising in her throat. She moved forward to help him, but officer Baurtrum moved to block her path.

  Sax stared down Baurtrum's guards. He could not place them as Blackcloaks or Gladiators. They tensed as their master stared at Captain diAuran, their hands resting on their weapons. Sax nodded towards their master; he was already in striking distance of the dwarf.

  “Bah!” said Baurtrum. His predicament was untenable. “This is a waste of time.”

  He turned to leave, jerking away from Mondarvis. As his did so his sleeve appeared to catch on the restraining collar, freeing the heretic to use his magic.

  A sudden intake of power filled the room.

  “YOU DID THIS!” screamed the man. He looked towards Baurtrum.

  They all felt a sudden pressure on their minds. As if someone was aggressively fumbling with the locks on the doors to their innermost consciousness. Baurtrum fell to the ground, further mangling the restraining harness. His two guards drew their swords. Sax whipped out his greatsword and moved forward, gritting his teeth. The pressure increased. Cleothera felt dizzy, but she did her best to help Sax fend off the spell.

  Captain diAuran grunted and drew her sabre. She stepped over Baurtrum and rammed the blade through the heretic's chest. The man convulsed wildly, dancing against the restrains, and then fell back. The pressure eased. Sax sheathed his sword and the guards backed down.

  The guards had to help Baurtrum get to his feet. The dwarf looked sickly pale and appeared to be unconscious. They looked to Captain diAuran. Her face was flush with anger.

  “Get that idiot to a healer,” said the Captain to the guards, ignoring the blood that began to trickle from her nose. “I will be questioning him when he is fixed and the both of you before then. He is under arrest until further notice. Round up the guards on duty as well.”

  o-----

  Cleothera later learned that Baurtrum had attempted to blame them for disr
upting his interrogation of the heretic. He was officially cleared of suspicion in the case some time later.

  Chapter Forty-Two: The Veteran's Masquerade

  1146/09/03 AR, Frostbay

  “You will not see many of the more experienced Masters in a Grand Championship because they have outlived their core fans: those truly dedicated, invested people who have been with the Gladiator since the early parts of their career.” Chosen Giselle

  “The Grand Championships are a young fighter's game. I have no interest in being Chosen now that I have seen the world.” Master Ironwall

  The snow was deep by the time they arrived at Balvuk's Triumph, the site of the Veteran's Masquerade. The town was nestled on one side of a broad valley, high in the mountains, with a spectacular view of the surrounding countryside. Chalets and picturesque hamlets could be seen sprinkled upon the nearby hills and in the valleys below. Even without the big event the ski hills would be packed with winter sports enthusiasts.

  Balvuk's Triumph was founded on the site where Chosen Balvuk killed the great dragon Plazmittrax, earning him the monicker Dragonsbane. Legends said that the Chosen found that the beast's hoard was too large to effectively transport out of the mountains quickly and so a small town sprang up while the treasure was categorized, packed up, and shipped out. The beauty of the ancient place, mountain and hold alike, was such that many who helped in this process chose to stay.

  Some versions of the tale go so far as to claim that the first ski runs were created where the dragon's toxic blood destroyed the trees. Regardless of the truth of this, the natural beauty of the mountain town continued to draw people long after the dragon's hoard was dispersed. The lair itself was now a grand hall that catered to the elite of the Domains.

  o-----

  The Veteran's Masquerade is a formal party that is held every three years. It supposedly began as an attempt by a cunning Gladiatrix to find allies among The Chosen by throwing an elaborate party. It was apparently tremendously successful and other Gladiators followed suit. Eventually these little events coalesced into a much larger masquerade. All Gladiators over rank eight and not yet master rank are invited. The Chosen, the Faction elite, celebrities, and other persons of great importance are also included on the guest list. Gladiators dress in their arena gear, weapons included, while the other guests wear elaborate costumes, hiding or accentuating their features with impressive masks.