Gavin needed better focus to counter Ravenblade's speed and precision. He wove a spell that sharpened his senses and enhanced his concentration. He found it easier to anticipate the attacks as the whole world seemed to close in, shrinking to just the two Gladiators.
Ravenblade, sensing the opportunity that this afforded him, let loose with a Razorwind spell. Gavin felt the pressure change and threw himself to the side, shield up-front. Blades of compressed elemental air swarmed around him. He batted some of these out of the air with his shield, twisting to avoid the rest, feeling them brush by him, some of them kissing his flesh. He felt blood flowing from several fresh wounds, and realized that he had yet to even attack his opponent, let alone wound him.
Ravenblade leapt, seeking to take advantage of Gavin's dodge. He wove a burst of hurricane wind to lift him and throw him past Gavin at blinding speed. His blade flicked out as he flew past, cutting into Gavin's flesh, and splashing blood onto the sand. A small smile crossed his lips as the crowd roared in response to his attack. He turned back to Lionfang.
Gavin stood up, bleeding and embarrassed. Ravenblade's attack had cut his upper leg. He winced. He had not expected that kind of attack. He needed to slow things down. As Ravenblade turned, coiling, Gavin threw tremendous power behind a massive mental blast.
Ravenblade sensed the attack coming and steeled his will to resist it. He felt enormous pressure build up inside his head, as if his brain were in an iron vice being wound tighter and tighter. It was too much. Blacking out, Ravenblade lost focus for a heartbeat. Not like this, he thought, struggling to regain control of his body. He saw someone running at him, caught the glint of metal on a weapon. He needed to move.
Gavin saw the spark return to Ravenblade's eyes as he thrust his spear. The other Gladiator seemed to fall backwards, folding at the waist. The spear-point passed over him, nicking his stomach, leaving a line of blood. Before Gavin could follow up a boot came up between his legs, hard, thundering into his balls. He staggered back. The crowd roared with laughter. Ravenblade picked up his thin-bladed sword but, still dizzy from Gavin's blast, he did not attack. He shook his head. A steady stream of blood ran from his nose. Gavin took a moment as well, catching his wind. He was pretty sure that the kick had crushed one of his testicles. “Thank the ancestors for magical healing,” he thought. He kept an eye on Ravenblade's sword.
“That is an interesting blade,” said Gavin. He stayed focused, ready for attack, looking for a weakness.
“It is my own design,” said Ravenblade. His voice was melodic in Gavin's ears and he wondered again at the exact nature of his opponent. Gladiators at this level often transcended far beyond their mortal roots. “It combines a pre-Reckoning Jiu sword with a Tavalon fencing blade, perfect for my style.”
“You're quite lethal with it,” said Gavin. His eyes met his opponent's watching for a sign of impending attack.
“You're... not what I expected,” said Ravenblade. He looked for an opening, hoping that Lionfang would lose concentration while talking. “Is it true that you don't kill?”
“It's more complicated than that,” said Gavin. “I try to avoid it. I won't kill just because the crowd...”
Trying to take advantage of Gavin's speech, Ravenblade swept forward, lightning quick, aiming a deft slash at Lionfang's throat. He wove Razor-wind spell as he swung, but it was pulled apart thread by thread as he wove it. Lionfang lifted his shield to ward off the blow and then swung his spear, slashing with the broad bladed head. Ravenblade leapt straight up, over the spear. In mid jump, he wove a gust of wind, giving himself forward momentum, slashing at his enemy's face as he rocketed past.
Gavin tried another mental blast. Ravenblade shrugged this one off, mostly. He landed and turned in a fluid motion charging back towards Gavin, who now rushed forward, throwing his spear at Ravenblade to break the other's momentum, weaving a spell, and drawing his trusty short sword.
Ravenblade ducked the spear, shifting just a little. As he came together with Lionfang, he slashed low with his sword and high with his dagger. Lionfang caught him sword to sword, but was too slow to block Ravenblade's dagger. The short blade skipped off a pauldron, but bit into flesh on its way down. Ravenblade kicked up, boosting himself upward with a gust of hurricane wind, flipping over Lionfang, who was still moving forward. He slashed, catching his opponent on the back. Gavin felt the wound, the sting and blood. Ravenblade moved in for the kill as Lionfang arched in pain, but suddenly, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. His mystic senses screamed a warning. The spear!
Gavin righted himself as Ravenblade parried his mind-grip wielded spear, swatting it to the ground. He took a deep breath, thinking about his father watching his mother's last fight. Had she even known the end when she met it? A stray thought..., he put it away, exhaling as Ravenblade closed in. Gavin let the swiftly moving bladesman take the lead.
Ravenblade came in low, trying to lure Lionfang into thrusting at him. The canny defender did not take the bait. Ravenblade launched into a flurry of thrusts and slashes with both of his weapons, which were met with sword and shield, until the spear came at him again. Ravenblade leapt over it this time, but was forced to jump away as he landed to avoid a lunge from Gavin. As he took to the air he felt another mental blast crash into him. Lionfang's will overcame his this time. He bit his lip, trying to remain conscious. It did not seem fair to him that Lionfang could keep two enchantments up, one of them a flying spear, no less, and still batter him with spells. He needed to end the fight quickly; he would not last the full match this way.
The two Gladiators faced each other, twenty paces apart. Gavin could see that Ravenblade wanted to end it. While it was true Ravenblade had scored more hits and would win if it came down to a crowd decision, Gavin was tougher and wearing him down with spells. Blood does not always tell in a fight. Keeping his spear hovering a few feet above his head, Gavin readied himself. They moved in on each other, slowly at first, gaining speed with each step. Gavin flung the spear forward, getting ready to lunge in its wake.
This time, Ravenblade was ready and he caught the flying spear with his dagger, pushing it off course. He faked moving right and then swerved to the left, cutting under Gavin's shield while ducking the short sword. He felt the impact of his thin bladed sword, the splash of blood on his hands, the grunt of pain from Lionfang. Then, he realized with horror that it was not enough, Lionfang's body was not going slack. The tough defender's retaliatory shield slash seemed almost unhurried in its flawless execution. Ravenblade desperately tried to twist out of the way. He was swift and flexible, but Lionfang's every move was perfect in plan and form, leaving him no room to escape. He could almost admire the attack. The razor edge of Gavin's shield chopped into his arm, taking it off at the middle elbow. The crushing impact of Gavin's follow up slam knocked him to the ground, even before the pain registered.
Ravenblade stared numbly at the stump of his sword arm. He could sense Lionfang's spear hovering above him, ready to plunge into his neck. He looked up at his adversary, expecting to see rage and death.
Gavin met his gaze coolly. Blood trickled from his neck where Ravenblade's thrust had taken him. He felt calm. He ignored the crowd.
“Do you yield?” Gavin asked. He didn't want to kill.
“I do,” said Ravenblade. He hated himself for the thin thread of hope that he felt. The desire to live welled up within him.
“I accept,” said Gavin. “Make haste to the healers, I'd hate to see you lose that arm.”
“I...” Ravenblade shook his head. Pain and fatigue were catching up to him.
“You were a worthy foe, Ravenblade.” said Gavin. “Let it rest at that.”
Gavin turned to Baron Bones. He lifted his shield in salute. The Baron shook his head and shrugged. Gavin quit the field, bloody and victorious with the jeers of the crowd following him.
Chapter Fifty-Seven: Standoff
1149/07/17 AR Dregs, Killer's Circle.
“The Killer's Circle is
a private club where the elite of the Domains can watch the most vicious Gladiators slaughter each other. It is more of a cross between an abattoir and an art gallery than an arena; the decor says it all.” Amoura Vogue, Socialite
“There are many paths to enlightenment. Some of these converge with physical arts that a Gladiator, or even a Chosen, might find attractive.” Chosen Mazurin, On Exotic Schools
The Killer's Circle arena in Dregs surprised Gavin. None of the descriptions or rumours that he had heard about the Domains most notorious house of slaughter captured the essence of the place. The arena was much smaller than the supplicant's arena, seating perhaps a thousand spectators, all in luxurious private boxes. The arena itself was made from blocks of black stone, with tall fluted obsidian columns spaced five paces apart, with bases carved like screaming skulls and capitals carved into the likeness of grinning Gladiators. The fighting grounds were small, perhaps half the size of a standard venue. The sand seemed a little whiter that traditional, almost as if it had been bleached or perhaps carefully sorted for the purest colour. The entrances were ornately framed and all of the accessories were tasteful, gold, silver, black lace and burgundy velvet. Gavin imagined that it looked very much like the inside of well-appointed mansion.
The ceiling of the arena, however, was a forest of corpses hanging on chains, the remains of those who had been killed in the arena, like a grotesque mockery of a butcher's cold room. Rabble, Monsters, and Gladiators hung there, some whole, many in pieces; a constellation of gore. Gavin had been warned about it, but the sight still filled his throat with bile. If he failed, his body would join that ocean of quivering meat. It was no wonder that Valaran had been so disrespectful to Omodo's corpse given that this was the league he frequented. Gavin looked away quickly, lest he begin to take in details better left unexamined, wounds and faces. What threw him most was the smell. Despite the forest of decaying corpses thirty feet above his head, not to mention the foul air of the city of Dregs, the Killer's Circle smelled like crushed roses with a hint of strong, dark coffee and wine. The juxtaposition of savagery and decadence unsettled him; there was no pretence of sport here.
The Killer's Circle was one of the only Arenas in the Domains that sold private boxes for a full year, or more. Only the Grand Arena in Krass, and the biggest of the Faction arenas could draw that level of support. The Killer's Arena was smaller and more exclusive than any of these. Despite the excessive cost, these boxes always sold out immediately. Those who purchased the boxes could use them as they wished, inviting friends or even selling unused seats on a match by match basis, speculating for profit. The elite of the Domains, those who favoured the Death-Leagues at least, would war with each other, trading and dealing, to get the best boxes. It was an exclusive club, and many of those who bought in did so to conduct business, and make contacts with the elite who frequented the killer's arena.
The announcer and Arena Master for the Killer's Circle, who was referred to as a “hostess” was a stunningly beautiful woman who introduced herself as Mistress Chloe diSilk. Her smooth, refined voice and formal silk gown made her seem more like a woman overseeing a grand party at a stately manor in Krass than a Deathmatch in Dregs.
“Welcome Lionfang,” she said, the tone of her exquisite voice was cold, very much odds with her message. They did not want him here. “What brings you to the Killer's Circle?”
Gavin smiled and bowed. A little showmanship wouldn't hurt. He had been too standoffish with Baron Bones and the rabble had paid the price.
“I've come to put Valaran diVolcanus, the Champion of this League, in his proper place,” he said.
“And where might that be, dearest Lionfang?” she said, her voice warming. He had to admit that silken tone was exciting.
Gavin pointed to the corpses dangling from the ceiling. The audience muttered. Mistress Chloe's crimson lips curved into a vicious smile. She reminded him of Sadira then, who often smiled like that before battle; predatory, yet vital.
“Very nice. Dearest Valaran is somewhat out of practice due to his suspension. A serious challenge will do him good,” she said. Her voice seemed to lengthen. “You will, of course, have to prove yourself against a couple of our other killers first.”
“That's what I'm here for, Mistress,” said Gavin, inclining his head respectfully.
“I must say, Lionfang,” she drawled. “You do know how to talk to a woman.”
“Thank you,” he said. “It is very kind of you to say so.”
“You must extend my compliments to Mrs. Lacivia,” said Mistress Chloe. “I love a well-trained man.”
The audience laughed.
Gavin smiled.
“I'm sure you will have a chance to tell her yourself,” said Gavin.
“I see,” said Mistress Chloe. “I would love that. Red Scorpion is absolutely delightful; the only bright spot the otherwise pedestrian Faction Leagues. But, we digress; the members of the Killer's Circle are here to enjoy bloodshed, not listen to us prattle on.”
Gavin nodded.
“Your opponent is a relative newcomer to the Killer's Circle, but she has racked up quite a few trophies already,” said Mistress Chloe. “Her style is exceptionally brutal. Watching her completely dismember Greylock Grim before executing him this Fifthmonth is a memory that I shall cherish for some time. Mind you, it did cause quite an argument among the staff. They weren't sure what part of him we should hang from the trophy chains, you see. She is also well known among our patrons for her will to survive, having fought nearly an entire match with her jaw ripped off and a foot missing on her first appearance in the Circle. I have to say, I am excited to see her again. Audience?”
There were nods and murmurs of assent from the figures in the boxes. They acted far more subdued and better mannered than any crowd Gavin had fought in front of, even the bored southern decadents of Scorpion's Oasis. Nonetheless Gavin could still feel their hate very clearly, a dark pool of malevolence deep enough to drown in. He would not wish to try to draw power from such a group. They did not want him here. They would put him up against someone they expected to kill him.
The trumpets sounded a brassy flourish that was somewhat longer and more elaborate than Gavin was used to.
A muscled, athletic Ogress strode into the arena. At first Gavin could not make sense of her armour. As she strode across the fighting grounds he realized that he was seeing segmented metal plates, each individually pierced into her flesh. He saw blood around some of the blades, which cut into the Gladiatrix as she moved. The blood ran into clever channels on the plates, forming a decorative pattern that signalled some skill in blood magic. Her expression was at odds with the obvious discomfort of such a form of protection, serene and watchful. Gavin felt a thrill of recognition. His opponent was the only true Disciple of Pain that the arena had produced in fifty years.
“Welcome Razorthorn,” said Mistress Chloe. “You look sharp today.”
All Gladiators are taught to endure pain. The Disciples of Pain go far beyond this; they believe in embracing pain, both theirs and that of others, as a path to purity and enlightenment. The subject themselves to ever increasing acts of disciplined self-torture until the pain brings them to a state that is both meditative, but active. Few are even interested in subjecting themselves to the rigours of this terrible discipline, but those who can master it are feared and revered.
Razorthorn came to a halt ten paces from Gavin. She regarded him calmly, her jade coloured eyes bright and clear. Save for a top-knot, her wheat coloured hair was shaved clean. Her innate Gladiator's healing ensured that her skin would constantly try to seal the wounds caused by her strange armour, cutting itself afresh on the edged plates over and over. Every movement, and every breath cut her. Gavin could sense pain, but no distress; in fact she seemed exceptionally calm.
Razorthorn was a good head and half taller than Gavin, powerful and lean. Her embedded plates looked to be the equivalent of heavier armour. The craft put into this suit was exquisite, and int
imate; it did not seem to be designed for shock value despite its brutal nature. It would protect Razorthorn while providing her with a constant source of pain to fuel her strange arts. The Gladiatrix's weapons were two thick cylindrical rods, covered in sharp edged square studs. Each of these rods was topped with several strands of fine barbed chains; a brutal scourge that could strip flesh from bone in a single lash. Her secondary weapons, a pair of sharp sickles, dangled from rings piercing her hips,
Crimson dripped from the blades, a constant trickle. Despite the blood, Razorthorn was remarkably clean, and took obvious pride in her ornate weapons and appearance.
“I am honoured to meet you on the fighting grounds, Razorthorn,” said Gavin. She was a formidable opponent, but at least she was unlikely to cheat. In their own way, the Disciples of Pain were trustworthy: they cared only for the enlightenment they sought. “To face you will be a true test of my skills.”
Razorthorn smiled and she dipped her head in respect.
“I am honoured in return, Lionfang,” said Razorthorn. “Your presence in a place like this intrigues me. I regret that I cannot show you the mercy you have shown others. I would rather you live to grow strong from the suffering I must inflict. Sadly, my goals will not allow me to ignore the wishes of the members of the Killer's Circle.”
“We all have our stories, colliding briefly, violently on these sands,” said Gavin. “I give mercy, but I do not expect it here.”
Domains of the Chosen 02 Bloodlust: Will to Power Page 33
