Domains of the Chosen 02 Bloodlust: Will to Power

by C. P. D. Harris

  “I'll do my best.” said Cleothera. “But I'm not a fighter.”

  “Then don't fight,” said Omodo. “You are smart and resourceful. And remember The Keystone isn't going to be heavily guarded during a Deathmatch.”

  “Promise me you won't die?” said Cleothera.

  “I'll be fine,” said Omodo. “I promise.”

  o-----

  Valaran watched as the Armodon entered the arena. A satisfied grin played across his face as loud jeers greeted his opponent, drowning out any applause. The rest of the audience murmured, a dissatisfied sound reminiscent of angry hornets; an intimidating welcome.

  If the hostility of the audience bothered the stoic Armodon, he did not show it. Perhaps this will be a worthy fight, thought Valaran, a chance to show my dominance against a serious opponent.

  Unlike that of most Gladiators Omodo's armour was plain, devoid of any markings beyond his clan mark and a small faction favour. Even the runes that enchanted the thick plates were simple and functional, more like a soldier's kit than a Gladiator's in that respect. His war-maul was plain as well, though impressive because of its sheer size. Valaran wondered if this was an affectation on the part of the Armodon, some attempt to appeal to the common man by avoiding ostentation.

  It hardly mattered. Hammerhorn was a simplistic brute who had no business in the Arena with the great Valaran diVolcanus. He was here to kill him and deal a fatal blow to the upstart Green Faction. It was just a service he was performing for his patron as far as Valaran was concerned. Still, killing the friend of his rival would certainly be the highlight of this backwater tournament.

  o-----

  As Valaran strode onto the fighting grounds, the crowd broke into thunderous applause. Omodo chuckled. The Golds were so genteel; real fans, even the Blues would have broken into lively cheers.

  Valaran certainly cut an impressive figure. He was nearly as tall a Omodo himself, monstrously large even for a Gladiator. He moved with predatory ease despite his bulk. His golden armour shone warmly in the sun. The breastplate was carved to mimic the muscular features of the warrior underneath. His swords were golden coloured as well, the straight blades of each weapon were over five feet in length, tapering in the middle and then thickening into a heavy slashing tip with a teardrop shaped point.

  Valaran smiled as he saluted the crowd, all perfect white teeth and luminous blue eyes. He turned to Omodo.

  o-----

  Even Valaran had to admit that the Armodon was intimidating up close. He was big, of course, but many Gladiators increased in size over their careers. Some of The Chosen were as giants among men. Omodo was big, but mere stature was of no concern to Valaran. Ruby Colossus had been bigger, but Valaran had cut her down to size. But there was a solidity to Omodo, Valaran decided, something that made him seem bigger. The beast was ugly, like all his kind, but his eyes seemed so human. They met Valaran's gaze without flinching, measuring him calmly, and Valaran felt his anger and indignation grow.

  Scattered jeers from the Gold-dominated crowd may as well have been blades being turned by thick armoured plates.

  “It seems you've over-estimated your support,” said Valaran.

  “Clever move of you to buy up all the seats so quickly,” said Omodo. His voice was calm and even. “I must commend the organizational skills required to do so. Then again, you've had nearly fifty matches to perfect it I guess.”

  “Can I help it if my fans are more enthusiastic than most?” said Valaran in response. He realized that his tone sounded petulant and he forced himself to smile and speak calmly. “Can I help it if they actually have the money to back it up? Tournament seats are expensive for a Faction like yours.”

  A chant began among some of the Golds. “Greens ain't got no gold, Greens ain't got no gold.”

  A single shout of Hammerhorn cut through the din, before being overwhelmed by boos.

  “I'm sure we could fill a few more seats had we actually been given the chance,” said Omodo. A wry grin appeared on his face. With sudden insight Valaran realized why the Armodon intimidated him; the beast did not seem afraid at all.

  “You know I'm going to kill you,” said Valaran. Few Gladiators faced him willingly these days; he had to resort to blind draw matches or coercion to find opponents. It galled him that this ugly unnatural beast-race freak would not give him the fear he deserved. “You won't leave this arena alive.”

  “The possibility had occurred to me,” said Omodo. “But I might kill you as well. I wonder if your Golds will show you mercy if I manage to humble you, Valaran?”

  “Watch your mouth, beast,” warned Valaran. The crowd was quieting now, listening intently. “You should never have decided to set foot on the sands with me!”

  “I am a Gladiator Valaran, just like you,” said Omodo. His voice was loud and steady. His eyes were bright and focused. No one jeered. “Our kind has very few options beyond that first, vital choice to fight in the arena. Despite all of our power, all of our potential, our lives are confined, and our path is narrow. My path led me here. Now I have only two options left to me. I can walk away and live; I can face you, knowing that you might kill me. I choose to face you to set an example for others.”

  “I will kill you,” spat Valaran. “Your Faction will fall apart.”

  A single fan shouted affirmation “Yeaaaaah!” The sound was ugly in Valaran's ears.

  Omodo chuckled and then continued. “I know you wouldn’t face me unless you were absolutely confident of victory, Valaran. You have more tricks up your sleeve which you think will guarantee victory, I'm sure.”

  “I abide by the rules, beast,” snarled Valaran. “Watch your tongue.”

  “Some of the worst abuses are perfectly legal,” said Omodo. His voice boomed. “My people know this. Exploitation is what we call it. We had to fight for full citizenship in the Domains. Others called us unnatural because we are the product of magic. Those hateful bastards used all the rules against us, used every dirty trick they could to keep us down. Funny thing, others encouraged this view because as long as we weren't full citizens we were a cheap source of labour. Exploitation. But we struggled and we won. We faced lynchings, beatings, and worse. People died. But we fought on, in the arena, on the fields, and on the streets. Others saw our plight and determination and they joined us, slowly at first, but surely. The common people of this land empathize with others who stand up against injustice. And so I took that second choice. No matter how much you've stacked the odds in your favour, we are on the fighting grounds now and I have a chance to win if my courage holds. I choose to face you Valaran. I like to think of it as justice versus exploitation. My side will always win in the end, even if I fall.”

  “You think you know suffering, beast?” said Valaran. His eyes were wide. “I was born in the breeding pits under Irongrim. I learned that success was the only way to avoid pain before I could walk. You don't know me.”

  “If this is true, then I'm sorry for you,” said Omodo. There was truth in his tone, and that sympathy made the bile rise in Valaran's throat.

  It was all Valaran could do to stop himself from swinging. In his mind compassion was next to contempt. He clenched his jaw and held himself still. He needed to invoke Ut Nex first or his master's plans would be ruined. He turned to the announcer's box. He was reassured when he saw Baurtrum next to the Grey-Robe who was officiating the match. The Dwarf nodded, imperceptibly.

  Although he had prepared a long speech for this moment, a flowery and passionate appeal to arena traditions long past, he did not bother to use it. He just wanted to kill this worthless taintborn.

  “Under the rules governing this tournament, I CALL FOR UT NEX,” Valaran shouted. There were cheers from the audience.

  “I accept,” responded Omodo.

  Valaran grinned, but before he could say anything Omodo raised his voice. “But I too, have a provision. Under the rules governing this tournament, I call for Ars Certamen In return for accepting Ut Nex. The contest will resolve
itself at three points per knockdown, as per Faction rules and provisions.”

  Baurtrum began frantically conferring with the Grey-Robe next to him.

  “Feel free to back down,” said Omodo. He grinned back at Valaran. “A forfeit won't look so bad on your record Valaran. Better than a loss at least.”

  “I ACCEPT,” shouted Valaran.

  “Done,” said the Arena Master. “Ut Nex has been invoked. You must sever your attunement to The Keystone now. Failure to do so will be considered a forfeit.” The ward screen flickered red and Omodo felt his attunement to The Keystone as if it were nearby.

  “Last chance, beastbred,” jeered Valaran.

  Omodo broke his tether to The Keystone without a word. He felt a slight tremor of fear. It was a Deathmatch now. He wanted to live. The red glow of the ward screen faded. Valaran did not hesitate, attacking immediately. The trumpets sounded.

  Omodo was immediately put on guard by Valaran's speed. He did not expect someone nearly as large as himself to move that fast, at least not without the aid of a powerful enchantment. Rather than parry the attacks he stepped back and swung his war-maul. So swift was Valaran that one of the tips of long blades grazed Omodo's side nonetheless, slicing through the Armodon's thick hide with contemptuous ease. Valaran ducked under the war-maul. Then he thrust before Omodo could back-swing, scoring another small cut.

  “Carve us a piece Valaran!” someone yelled. Omodo shut out the rest of the jeers. He needed to focus.

  “I am going to make you beg for death, Armodon,” said the Golden Gladiator.

  “Better hit harder, then,” replied Omodo, using the reprieve to weave a stoneskin enchantment. “Unless you intend to bore me to submission with your banter.”

  Valaran snorted. “The beast has wit!”

  Before Omodo could retort Valaran stepped in launching a series of slashes and thrusts with his golden blades. Truly ambidextrous, he was able to aim his swords attacks independently. He attacked from two multiples angles and varied intervals. It was a hurricane of sharp edges and golden points. Omodo took several hits on his armour and two quick cuts. Thinking quickly he swung his war-maul, forcing Valaran to dodge. But he recovered and lunged. Anticipating this Omodo sidestepped and swatted at Valaran with the haft of his weapon. The attack hit Valaran's armour, hard enough to knock him off the Rhythm of his next strike.

  To Valaran's disappointment his touches on this last exchange were small cuts at best. He wanted to see rivers of blood, but the Armodon's stoneskin spell and thick hide were unusually effective in conjunction with heavy armour.

  They repeated the exchange again and again. Each time Valaran cut the Armodon and the audience would cheer. On the third pass however, his confidence was shattered when the clever Omodo anticipated his movements once again, smashing him with the butt of his mar-maul. Had Valaran not been wearing his Golden mask he would have lost teeth, perhaps broken his jaw. He staggered back, barely avoiding a quick scythe-like swipe of the maul's vicious back-spike. The taste of blood in his mouth brought his patron, Moltar's, disapproving face flashing into Valaran's mind.

  Taking the offensive, Omodo swept forward swinging his war-maul in broad arcs, back and forth. He repeated the motions to keep Valaran moving, giving himself a respite from the swordsman's attacks. Most warriors would have tired quickly from swinging such a massive weapon, but stalwart Omodo had practised this very same set of motions endlessly over the years. His arms were steady, his feet were sure, and his mind was focused on keeping Valaran on the defensive.

  Valaran did not have the reach to get around Omodo's steady advance, nor did he want to bring his most potent magics to bear so soon. He needed to let the crowd peak first. In truth he also wanted to make the Armodon bleed, to show his dominance to the world.

  The two Gladiators danced around the arena, Valaran keeping out of the lethal arc of Omodo's Maul, giving ground and making the occasional quick thrust. He scored two minor hits, enough to draw blood but little more. Both times he barely escaped being hit in return. After the second hit Omodo renewed his stoneskin spell. The crowd cheered and jeered. Valaran decided it was time.

  Keeping out of the Armodon's way, Valaran channelled power into several spells. The first spells were mostly distractions, designed to throw off any Gladiator reading his weaves. His swords began to drip venom and his muscles began to swell, useful enchantments both, but hardly pivotal. Then, when he judged that the Armodon was most vulnerable, he used his real talent. He reached out, twisting the pattern of Omodo's stoneskin spell.

  Omodo felt his own enchantment turned against him, perverted by Valaran's interference. His movements slowed as his skin became petrified in places, taking on the negative aspects of stone now. He stumbled, overbalanced, horrified at having his own power tainted thus.

  Valaran did not waste any time. He swept forward as the Armodon's attack faltered. He thrust his left hand sword into the beast's broad belly. He felt a jarring impact, and then the blade slid into flesh. He stepped past, turning, twisting and ripping his sword through Omodo's vitals, turning and slashing downwards, slicing into the back of the Armodon's leg with his other blade, hobbling him.

  Omodo felt the cold metal tear into his vitals, the brutal attack aggravated by magic and flesh-eating venom. The pain roared through him and it was all he could do to stay focused. Part of him knew that this wound would be the end of him. He could feel the crowd, so hateful, like all the old nightmares of unfriendly audiences that used to plague him. He could hear their jeers. He was done. Valaran was too canny an opponent to lose to him now. Lesser men would have fallen, but brave Omodo rebelled against this end. He wanted to live, to stand strong in the sun another day. Pain ripped through him as Valaran's second blade bit into his leg. He fought to stay focused, shouting as he whirled.

  Valaran's glee was interrupted by an armoured elbow slamming into his head. The impact sent him crashing to the ground. He lay there in the sand for a heartbeat, unsure of what had happened. Did his attack not gut the beast? Instinct screamed warning to him. He barely had time to roll out of the way before the colossal head of the Armodon's war-maul slammed into the sands. He kept rolling, coming to his feet out of reach.

  Blood dripped from the horrendous gash in Omodo's vitals. He staggered but remained upright despite his severed hamstring. Valaran could see his innards. He could smell the blood and offal. He could feel the frenzy of the crowd. Disembowelment was a killing wound in a match like this, especially with the poison fouling the wound. And yet, Omodo still stood, radiating calm in the face of horrible pain and certain death. Valaran knew pain; agony beyond words had accompanied his every failure training under Moltar. He knew the cold spectre of death that accompanied his Master's displeasure. It galled him to see the Armodon defiant still. He knew how this kind pain and humiliation in front of a hostile crowd could render even the most stalwart of Gladiators.

  And then, in the face of everything the Armodon chuckled. His laughter was laboured, even tortured; but he laughed nonetheless.

  “What?” said Valaran.

  “Listen,” said Omodo.

  Valaran strained his ears. He heard the jeers and murmurs of his Golds. Their hate invigorated him, stoked by the forbidden magic that Baurtrum had used to bind them to him. But then, above their hateful sounds he heard something else.

  o-----

  The streets of Dun Loryn were a sea of cheering now. Gavin, Ravius, and the other Greens, denied their chance to cheer their Omodo in the arena, had filled the streets early on. They could hear the hate-filled jeers of Valaran's partisans inside. It galled them.

  One of the pages, her voice cracking, tears in her eyes, shouted out “HAMMERHORN!” in defiance. The ragged shout shook Gavin, Ravius, and the others from their pained silence. They began to shout as well. Soon all the Greens on the streets and in their camp took up the refrain.

  And others did as well.

  Among the Reds and the Oranges, some of whom had lost friends to the
Golden monster, the shout was taken up. Among the folk of Dun Loryn, those who had measured Valaran and Omodo through the eyeglass of hospitality; the shout was taken up. Among the Blues, many of whom had to endure the bullying of their arrogant ally or simply enjoyed the company of the amiable Armodon; the shout was taken up.

  “HAMMERHORN! HAMMERHORN! HAMMERHORN!”

  o-----

  “HAMMERHORN!” The shout echoed through the bowels of the arena, the old dungeons and cisterns of Dun Loryn. Cleothera passed into one of The Keystone rooms. There was a page attending the stone, but since she was a Grey-Robe he paid her no mind. The stone was not in use; Ut Nex would have severed any connection to The Keystone. She touched the stone as she passed; send a pulse of power through it. The stone flashed and the page looked up from his book. Cleothera, now attuned to the stone, smiled at the young man and he looked down, suddenly feeling awkward. She left the room, hurrying up to the private boxes. This stone was the nearest one to Baurtrum's position.

  “HAMMERHORN,” She realized the cheering was coming from outside the arena. It sounded as if the whole world was shouting for her friend. She took the stairs quickly, heading to find and confront Baurtrum.

  Cleothera had to stop several times to gather herself. She wished she had Gavin or Sax, or even Captain diAuran with her. Confronting a potentially deadly criminal by herself was not her style. She needed to do something though. Omodo was counting on her.

  She passed a few people on her way to Baurtrum's box. She could sense no magic from within, but she guessed it was warded. It was also locked, but she had anticipated that and pilfered a key. She slid the key into the lock. She hesitated for just a moment, her heart leaping into the her throat. Omodo's counting on me, she thought, steeling herself and thrusting open the door.

  The room was swimming in power. The dwarf stood at the centre of the maelstrom, a small runed orb grasped in his hands. Cleothera took it all in with a glance. As far as she could tell Baurtrum was strengthening Valaran's connection to the audience. The orb increased his power dramatically. She realized he was using a subtler version of the spell that the Heretic Mondarvis had supposedly used to dominate men and women and turn them into murderous thralls. All of this ran through her mind as she ran towards Baurtrum and kicked at the orb in his hands.