Domains of the Chosen 02 Bloodlust: Will to Power

by C. P. D. Harris

  While Vintia's thoughts were often on her friends, they were also on her childhood home on the farmlands of the Promise, and of her ailing parents. She would earn a commendation quickly on this expedition, and as a soldier she would be eligible to inherit her parent's land when they were too old to carry on working it. They had no other children to rely on.

  She kept thinking that she should write a letter to her friends.

  o-----

  Ravius was at a loss. He had no trouble making acquaintances, and finding lovers, but his real friends were dead and gone now. Over a long, blurred tour of the taverns of Krass he thought about seeking out Gavin and apologizing. But he couldn't bring himself to watch Valaran slaughter another of his friends. Instead he drowned himself in wine and women. He disappeared, leaving only rumours.

  o-----

  Karmal trained, plotted, and engaged in petty intrigue. She provided endless criticisms and personal details of Sadira's life to the more sordid gossip mongers and arena publications. Gaius Gerald White became one of her most influential patrons and introduced her to many of the great and powerful. Her new allies provided her with the best trainers, vassals that satisfied her every desire, and the means to make herself a Champion.

  She looked forward to ridding herself of Sadira and becoming the next Chosen.

  o-----

  Valaran nursed his anger during his suspension. Faction rules had delivered a victory to the taintborn, unfairly, considering Valaran was the only one left alive at the end of the fight. It was his first and only loss, a hard enough blow to an ambitious man like Valaran, even without the exile from the arena added to it.

  His allies had used him to kill Omodo, and now his “patrons” seemed to care very little that Valaran's hard-won reputation had been tarnished in the process. In fact, they saw it as a failure on his part, a lapse in self-control. Moltar demonstrated his displeasure over his failings, painfully, to his onetime student.

  Baurtrum's death meant that Valaran would no longer be able rely on a friendly Grey-Robe to bend the rules. The Dwarf had been useful; it was a shame that he had been caught. On the other hand now that Baurtrum was dead, Valaran was no longer beholden to any bargains they had made.

  And so Valaran nursed his hatred, growing to resent even those who had supported him. What was truly galling in his mind was how much support Omodo gained after his death. Valaran had crushed the Armodon, cut him down, utterly humiliated, and yet his fame still grew. It was unfair. The arena crowds were mostly listless scum who were easily swayed by pitiful creatures like Omodo. They had no idea how much he, Valaran had suffered, and to what lengths he had gone to just to win.

  Valaran's thoughts festered, he came to feel that the people were just jealous of his success, and that The Chosen, even Moltar and his allies, feared his greatness. Instead of looking inward for answers, he blamed others and began to plot against them.

  o-----

  Cleothera recovered from her ordeal. She received a commendation from The Deliberative, but refused further promotion. Instead she stayed with Gavin, learning what she could about Valaran to aid her friend.

  o-----

  Gavin fell into step with the monastic regimen of the Flawless Blade School, attending morning training with the rest of the students. They were a mixed group, men and women, Gifted and Ungifted, but despite their differences, they acted in harmony. Morning training consisted of trying to make one thousand perfect strikes. Most of the students used swords, metal or wooden, runed or plain, but no one looked down on Gavin when he chose to use his spear.

  Gavin knew their training ritual from the techniques that Sax had taught him. The beginning was similar to any Kata, to repeat a basic motion until it became reflexive. However speed and power were less of an issue than absolute precision. Each strike had to be flawless or the count was reset to zero. Few students reached the full count of one thousand before the time allotted for training ended. Senior students and masters of the school watched, but did not offer comments unless asked. When a student felt he or she was ready to advance they would perform their thousand strikes for the masters, who would judge each strike individually.

  It sounded easy enough, but Gavin often found his mind wandering, usually around the three-hundredth strike. This was not unusual. As a Gladiator these attacks were so rote that he did not need to pay any attention to go through the motions. However, as his mind wandered, to Omodo, to Valaran, to Ravius or Sadira, the observers would always take note. He could not tell if they noticed minute flaws that he could not discern creeping into his technique, or if they could simply perceive his wavering focus in spite of his flawless physical motions.

  Even when he exerted himself to the fullest he rarely made it past seven-hundred without his thoughts wandering. He simply had too much on his mind.

  In the afternoon, if Sax was available, he and Gavin would fight. Gavin invariably lost these bouts. At first he simply became more determined, treating it like an arena match where he could often overcome his opponents through sheer determination and defensive endurance. This had little effect on Sax, who simply attacked calmly and methodically until he found a weak-spot in Gavin's defences. He managed to find a weak-spot every time.

  Gavin became frustrated, and this did not improve his performance, no more than anger did in his encounter with Shield-Splitter when he had first trained with Sax.

  He began to analyze himself, spending long periods in introspection, wondering what was holding him back.

  o-----

  Active Gladiators are usually required to fight in at least one match per year, mostly to encourage them to move on to other pursuits when they have lost their taste for competition instead of simply inhabiting the arena circuit with all of the benefits of an active fighter and none of the effort. There are extenuating circumstances, many of them formulated for the convenience of agents of the Grey-Robes or The Chosen who disguise themselves as Gladiators; Gavin did not qualify for any of these.

  Almost a year after Omodo's death, he fought again. His match took place in Bullstock, the Flatland’s cattle town where he had first fought to join the Free Leagues. He stood in the big, open arena, which often served as a show-pen for cattle, reminiscing about the bull baiting match he had won here with Ravius. The smiling skirmisher had developed a fondness for testing his skills against the Bulls. Gavin had half expected to find his old friend in the town's Gladiators quarter, and he found himself looking expectantly up every time someone laughed at a bawdy joke. But it was never Ravius. Gavin wasn't sure what he would say if he did encounter his old friend, what would overcome that painful hopelessness that had burdened Ravius after Omodo's death. He could not allow himself to resent Ravius for not wanting to watch him fight Valaran. He knew he had to try; the brave Armodon would not want his remaining friends to fall apart.

  Gavin had just regained Sadira, having impressed Chosen Giselle, only to lose his two best friends. Even Vintia was gone, leaving only letters as the Bright Company moved beyond link range. It was enough to make one believe in ill fate.

  Gavin was roused from his reverie by the arrival of Cleothera in the announcer's enclosure. He met her pale eyes, smiling a little. She had decided to stay at his side, openly helping him prepare for his inevitable confrontation with Valaran. While not a fighter, she had keen insight into Cogimancy and great knowledge of the Golden Giant. He wondered what she had given up to help. Perhaps she too wanted vengeance for Omodo. Once, Gavin would have sought something to lash out against, some representative of the forces that acted on him. But now he understood that even killing Valaran would not bring Omodo back, nor would anger change the demands of the great institutions of the Domains.

  This match was a simple monster battle. Although Gavin found it difficult to find excitement on the fighting ground after such a long absence, some part of him grasped that this was an opportunity. The Flawless Blade School taught that greatness is built on simple foundations. Perhaps he could make something of t
his fight. He needed to focus, to lose himself in the challenge.

  Gavin breathed in, following the techniques taught to all Gladiators, something that he had re-learned from Sax and the Flawless Blade teachings. He breathed out, letting his pain over the death of Omodo leave his conscious mind as the breath was expelled from his body. A year's distance helped somewhat, as did the reassuring feeling of his bond with Sadira. He breathed in, sensing the arena around him, the restlessness of the crowd. He breathed out, letting go of Karmal and Ravius, absent friends and betrayals on the horizon. He breathed in, feeling the power of his own body, muscles sculpted by endless training and manipulation of his own pattern, bursting with energy, ready to move.

  The trumpets sounded. Gavin breathed out again. He exhaled Valaran, hated enemy, cancerous rival, blight upon his life. He breathed in, sensing the currents of magic, the runes on his weapons, the subtle power of the emotions of the crowd, even the faint pattern of the magical affliction that drove the charging Beastmen into a permanently rabid state.

  The first of the armoured Beastmen, a horned cyclopean with a mouth full of shark-like teeth, roared as it sprang towards him. He breathed out breathing out, letting go of all of his conscious thoughts and desires, his love for Sadira, his need to find his lost family, his anger, his sadness, almost everything. He breathed in, finding his focus drawing upon the pure power of Lionfang, the indomitable Gladiator, as he did so. He breathed out, bursting into motion and weaving his spells.

  The dominant beastman, One-Eye, her nose filled with the scent of the Gladiator's flesh, her ears catching the beats of his heart, her single eye fixed on his seemingly fragile body, swiped her talons at Gavin as he deftly gave ground. She snarled in frustration as he ducked her swing. The need to rend and rip filled her. Her pack closed in around him. It would feel good to share his blood with them.

  One-Eye leapt again, trying to overpower the little bloodsack with her massive bulk. Gavin met her with his silver disc, surprisingly strong for such as small being. His bladed stick lashed out as he shoved her away, tripping Long-Tusk. Eyes-Like-A-Hawk darted in and clawed the Gladiator's back, The smell of blood filled One-Eye, driving her like a whip. She lunged at Gavin but his sharp spear foiled her yet again.

  Runt, the smallest of them, suddenly stopped fighting. One-Eye could sense his confusion. The need to kill, to feel the insides of this man of silver and sweet flesh, outweighed any curiosity on her part. Runt was weak. Long-Tusk stopped though, snarling at Runt, challenging. Runt quailed, running away like prey.

  The air moved, and Eyes-Like-A-Hawk moved with it, as if she had been thrown. She skidded in the sand and came to her feet behind One-Eye, who continued slashing and biting at the silver man. After missing several swipes, she stepped forward, grabbing at him, but he ducked and stepped around her. He was too swift, as if he knew how she would attack before she did! One-Eye expected to die then, to feel the bite of his metal on the back of her neck. She would have killed in his place. Nothing came.

  She whirled. There was a silence now, a quiet where there had been many voices before. Long-Tusk and Eyes-Like-A-Hawk stood, sniffing, backing away from the Man-in-Metal. Runt cowered in a corner, looking fearfully at her. Something was wrong. She gathered her strength, growling, scenting blood, getting ready to leap. But her single eye met Gavin's, and she felt something move inside her head.

  One-Eye's rage faded. Man-in-Metal, leader of her pack stood before her. They were in a strange place, standing on sand with walls of stone all around them. There was a small trickle of blood on Man-in-Metal's shoulder. One-Eye approached him, breathing in his confidence, showing her respect. She ran her tongue along Gavin's cut, cleaning it carefully. He made an odd sound, like a long-croak.

  o-----

  Gavin held the rage of the Beastmen back until the trumpets sounded. It required immense effort, of will, of weaving, and of power to do so. He was equal to the task. It seemed that he could only disrupt the pattern of their anger temporarily though, this disappointed him.

  The crowd watched him, stunned. The people of Bullstock were famed for their animal husbandry. None of them had ever seen the Beastmen act like this before.

  o-----

  Gavin learned later that they killed his Beastmen, euthanizing them even though they returned to normal after his power disruption ended. Cleothera informed him of this misdeed. He felt a small twinge of anger and a deep sadness on hearing this. The arena was not to be denied its tithe of blood, it seemed.

  Chapter Fifty-Three: Moonlight Garden

  1149/01/13AR Dregs, Supplicants Arena

  “Some men gain most from experiencing the outer world; others gain mastery by exploring their own minds.” Chosen Mazurin

  “Only in understanding ourselves can we begin to understand our enemies.” Flawless Blade saying.

  The night before he won his first training duel with Sax, Gavin wandered the grounds of the Flawless Blade monastery. A full moon with a great chorus of stars set the pure white snow aglow, giving every carefully sculpted stone and manicured tree a ghostly halo. He breathed deeply, enjoying the cold purity of the air, watching his breath as it was carried away by the wind and dispersed.

  The monastery grounds were full of hidden gardens, small areas where students could contemplate or engage in private conversation. Gavin loved the silence of these artful little areas, peaceful and isolated, yet connected to the realms of nature and man by their design. He had spotted a new one during daylight hours, and sought it out by moonlight, in the mood for exploration.

  He heard a wolf howl in the distance, and thought he heard a pack answer far away. The howl brought his thoughts round to Sax and Chosen Mordhawk, quiet hunters both. Sax was a Blackcloak, a sort of assassin and enforcer who worked for The Deliberative. Gavin was fairly certain Chosen Mordhawk oversaw the Blackcloaks for The Chosen. They reminded him of wolves.

  His thoughts danced and strayed, turning inevitably to Sadira. The moon reminded him of her, the pale luminosity of her skin the same full roundness in her curves. He had just enjoyed a short time with her in Brightsand Halls, a tempestuous few days that left him dazed and thirsting for more.

  As Gavin approached the hidden garden, he caught sight of a great white razorbeak owl on the wing A magnificent specimen, startlingly large, navigating the night sky. He followed its path, seeing that it stalked a horned jack nibbling a bush next to a stone bench near the stairs that led down into the crevice that held his garden, a hundred yards away.

  Gavin paused, watching the owl and the jack. The owl drifted on the wind, seemingly lazy, but filled with lethal purpose. The jack, some instinct warning it, paused and sniffed the air. Gavin froze. He could have moved, and through his frantic gestures startled the jack into running safely, but he did not. The owl struck, plummeting silently and suddenly. The jack saw and turned to flee, but it was too late and the night-flier was upon it, killing it quickly, and bearing the body away into the sky. It left a head and a splash of blood in the snow to greet Gavin as he walked to the garden's entrance. Gavin stared at the red stain, thinking of omens. He smirked, amused at the idea. If blood carried omens, the Gladiators would be oracles.

  The Gladiator descended fifteen steps, beautifully carved into the shape of animals, leaving the cold and dark behind as the crevasse swallowed him. He paused for a moment before a step carved like a rabbit, skipping over it and offering a silent apology to the jack. Sheltered from wind and snow, warmed by a hot spring, the garden sported an array of brightly coloured mosses and mushrooms. Like most plants in the monastery these were lovingly tended, almost groomed, like favoured pets. Torchlight provided illumination; the soft dancing flames gave off a warm glow. Light crystals were more efficient, but some places simply looked better under fire-light.

  The garden was part of a series of linked spaces formed from various cracks in the rock, ranged to lead to a central space. He saw movement in that room beyond the garden's edge, two figures, the polished steel of their we
apons glinting in the light. There was, however, no cause for alarm, for while they were locked in combat; their movements were slow, seeming glacial. The central room that they occupied was a rock garden, raked into a pattern of concentric circles, sheltered from the wind, but open to the sky. A strange fighting ground. Fat snowflakes drifted down as the two warriors went through the motions of their dance, slowly cutting the air, shifting their feet, twisting, striking, dodging with infinitely subdued motions. Gavin watched the pair, in shadow with moonlight glittering on steel and snow, as they moved.

  o-----

  Sax looked up at the barbed spear blade, point resting in the space where his throat met his jaw, and grinned.

  “Didn't see that one coming,” he said. “You win. Well done.”

  Sax couldn't quite put a finger on it, but Gavin seemed to be more attentive, sharper this fight. His movements were crisp and flowed into each other gracefully. The clear-eyed defender anticipated his full series of attacks better than before, and did not fall for any of the simple tricks and feints with which Sax often beat him.

  “Your final attack was quite good,” said Sax. “How did you know it would work?”

  “I didn't,” said Gavin. The Flawless Blade trained him to perfect his own technique, which also allowed him to perceive even the smallest flaws in his opponent's technique. “Your training teaches you to seek balance above all else. So I figured if I trapped your weapon and shifted it just so, I could hook your leg with my foot without you noticing.”

  Sax chuckled. “Balance is supposed to be metaphorical, but I can't fault your results. Good timing on the follow up blast; it ended any chance I might have had of righting myself”