“I am pleased that you two can enjoy such a lovely chat,” said Mistress Chloe. “However, your banter is somewhat tame for a performance in this arena. I think we would all rather get to the part where you just kill each other...”
The trumpets sounded. Razorthorn moved without hesitation. She was graceful and quick despite her size. Her weapons must have weighted close to forty pounds apiece, but she hefted them easily. apiece Gavin met her with shield raised and spear set to receive her charge. She began to weave a spell as she closed. Razorthorn's first swing beat Gavin's spear to one side. Gavin managed to twist the haft and cut her arm, at the same time trying to unweave and counter the spell she was putting together. Their wills clashed, but Razorthorn's concentration proved too difficult to overcome. Her mental strength was honed by constant agony. A primal surge, fuelled by blood magic, rippled through Razorthorn as she slammed her second weapon into Gavin's shield.
The shock of the blow ran up Gavin's arm. Razorthorn attack was a shield-beater, not meant to hit him directly but instead to exert force through his shield. It also caused the barbed chains at the end of the club to flick over the rim and slash into Gavin's face. He jerked away, turning his face to protect his eyes. The scourge flayed his cheek and temple, though, leaving blood flowing freely down the side of his face. Pain rippled through him, far more than such a wound should cause, no doubt the result of weapon runes. Pain was Razorthorn's speciality; perhaps she fed off his agony as well? At least his eyes were clear of blood. The crowd applauded.
Rather than take a second series of attacks, Gavin shoved forward, battering Razorthorn with his shield. She was stronger than him but he had greater leverage from his position, and years of experience using leverage against larger foes. He pushed her back, hitting her with a mental blast spell. She shrugged it off, her will like a stone wall. He thrust, but she parried his spear and then slammed his shield with her rod again, sending the chains whirling around the rim. This time Gavin shifted so that his pauldron bore the brunt of her scourge.
Gavin pushed Razorthorn again. This time when he rammed her with his shield, she set herself and shouldered into his attack, countering his momentum and halting him. She brought her size and strength to bear. The face of his shield clinked against the armour plates on her shoulder, grinding them painfully. He swept her legs with his spear, but she rolled back gracefully as she fell, coming to her feet in time to deflect his follow up thrust over her head and then slam his shield with her other rod. His mental blast was shrugged off yet again.
Gavin realized that he needed a better plan. Razorthorn was proving very resistant to his magic. Her strength of will was enormous. Although he was certain he could get a mind-vice spell on her, he was equally sure than the pain caused by such a spell would be meaningless or possibly even make her stronger. Her approach to victory seemed to be based on wearing him down. He had seen her use only a little Druidic magic thus far, which made him wary.
Gavin gave ground as Razorthorn's heavy rods battered his shield over and over. Her blows were powerful, but measured and methodical. The chains on the ends of her weapons bit into him several times, but he was now wary enough to avoid serious damage. The blood these little wounds caused drew a smattering of applause from the audience and the occasional sound of approval from Madame Chloe.
While concentrating on defence, Gavin wove a subtle spell. Full of guile, he disguised his weaving by dividing his attention again and attacking with a mental blast. Razorthorn steeled her will against the blast, and did not notice Gavin's second spell. It took hold of her and began slowing her down, a sort of lethargy coming over her. So artful was Gavin's weaving that she did not immediately take notice.
Razorthorn continued to draw power and hold some minor spells in reserve. Gavin didn't trust his ability to interfere with her casting. He wove his mind-grip spell to take hold of his sword while he held her at bay. One of the brutal rods swung in low while he did this. Gavin parried by thrusting his spear into the sand in its path. His shield blocked her second weapon, striking from another angle. The clamour of metal on metal rang out. The hit pummelled him even through the shield, forcing him to shift his balance. Then Razorthorn levelled a surprise snap kick at his knee. Gavin felt the impact and his leg nearly buckled. She stepped back and raised her rods for a power attack, eyes bright. As if wielded by an unseen hand, his sword whipped free of its sheath. As Razorthorn brought her rods down, letting loose a mighty war-scream, Gavin sent the sword flying into her face, hoping to foil her attack while he marshaled his strength and regained his balance.
Razorthorn, though, had been holding a spell in reserve to deal with Gavin's now infamous uses of his Telekinesis spell. She kept attacking with her left club, slamming Gavin's shield and driving him back, while raising the right to deflect the sword. To her surprise, the sword evaded her parry, slicing her forehead and then bouncing off the plate set into her cheekbone. She whirled and knocked the blade to the ground, releasing the readied spell. Green plant tendrils rippled from the ground, drawing the blade down and holding it.
“Nicely done!” said Gavin, panting and bloody.
Razorthorn nodded and launched herself at him. He felt a sharp spike of pain coming from his smashed knee each time she slammed his shield with her weapons. He swept his spear in a short horizontal arc under his shield as she came in for her third swing, catching her off guard and cutting into her abdomen. She grunted and paused.
“Nicely done!” she responded, resolute and wary.
It was surprise that had caused Razorthorn to falter. Gavin's skill was deceptive; he had barely shifted to hide his swipe with his shield. That kind of mastery impressed her. Many fighters in the Killer's Circle faced her with brute power, unsurpassed speed, or exotic disciplines.
Razorthorn started forward cautiously whirling her clubs as they clashed. Gavin met her with shield and spear. A jab caught her on the shoulder. The impact of her rod staggered him before he could follow up. As he jabbed again she leaned in to it catching his spear. The barbs caught her flesh and held them both together. Gavin pulled desperately. The spear tore free along with a great gout of flesh. Razorthorn let out a sharp shout and brought both her rods down at once. Gavin could not dodge now and he put his shield in the way. The impact wrenched his shield arm from its socket and he was driven to his knees, one of them popping as it was driven into the sand. Chains flew over the rim of his shield, digging into his back. Desperately, he jabbed Razorthorn's leg. This drove her back, but it was not enough. He thrust his war-spear out again, trying to keep her back while he stood, but she batted it aside and strode in bringing those hateful rods down again.
Gavin's shield arm was still mostly out of action, dislocated and burning with pain. He did the only thing he could. As she swung he leapt forward, crashing into the larger Gladiatrix at knee level. He hit the wall of muscle, feeling the blades of her armour cut into him, but his attack drove her back a step and prevented her from caving in his skull. He channelled desperately, trying to think of a spell that would save him without having to test itself against her formidable will.
Razorthorn sensed the build-up of power. She sent Gavin reeling back with a kick. Gavin wove two spells, but she trusted her ability to weather anything he could hit her with. She marshaled her will to resist as she moved in for the kill. She knew that this was when he was most dangerous. The first spell, a strong mental blast, filled her mind with pressure, causing exquisite pain. But pain was the crux of her resolve, and so it only spurred her to strike harder. She smashed her ornate metal clubs down, feeling a surge of triumph as they brushed past his guard as his second spell went off. Then she stumbled, off balance, as her weapons met no resistance at all when they hit him, smashing instead into the sand.
Gavin rolled away and came to his feet as Razorthorn's weapons passed through his phantom image. His knee threatened to buckle but he kept steady. Razorthorn had not yet registered what happened, but moved to defend herself out of reflex.
Gavin kept it simple. Razorthorn felt something cold and jagged cut into her throat and come to rest.
“Yield,” said Gavin.
“You think a blade at my throat is enough to stop me?” said Razorthorn. Her eyes were clear and fierce.
“This is a Yezaven war-spear, forged by my father's hand,” said Gavin. “It will not fail me. Without a Keystone, the wound I leave on your neck will be fatal. It does not have to be this way.”
“I might die, but I will still kill you before I bleed to death,” said Razorthorn. She tightened her grip on her weapons. “You are in poor condition.”
Gavin could sense the anticipation of the crowd. She was right; he could barely stand. The members wanted death; a double kill would be a thing of glory for them. He looked into Razorthorn's eyes and saw iron resolve there. A warrior's pride was a prickly thing; he needed to be cautious.
“What you say is true, but I am in a better position,” he said. “I won't kill you unless I have to. I offer you life. Yield.”
Razorthorn felt a flash of anger, but pain allowed her to focus. “I will not yield.”
“If you move or cast a spell I rip your throat out,” he said.
“And a heartbeat after you do I will cave your skull in,” she said. “Your body is about to give in. I can feel your pain. I will not yield.”
“Nor will I,” he said. “You cannot attack me and live with my spear at your throat.”
Their eyes locked. Neither moved. Looking deep, they took each other's measure. Each was forced to acknowledge that they were at the mercy of the other, despite their ability to kill the other. Other Gladiators would have taken their chances or tried guile, but these two were creatures of reason. They could feel the audience urging them to kill each other, but neither of them was so easily swayed.
“Double forfeit?” said Gavin. By being the first to suggest this, he took a greater measure of any dishonour that would befall them. He cared little for the crowd here.
Razorthorn considered. Her warrior's instinct cried out for the kill; she was a hero! She could do it. And yet the calm inflicted upon her by the pain of her blades and Gavin's spear spoke differently. She was mortal, despite her warrior's instinct. She played the scene out in her mind and knew that they would both die, seven times out of ten. She noted the resolve in Gavin's eyes, his fell spear at her throat. His skill was surprising. The odds were not in her favour.
“I am forced to admit that it is a better choice than both of us dying here,” said Razorthorn. “I will agree, on the condition that you meet with me after the match. Perhaps you can be of use to me.”
“As long as I get to clean up first” said Gavin. “I will agree.”
“Agreed.”
“...Interesting,” said Mistress Chloe. “Well, I was hoping you would kill each other, but I suppose this does make more sense. Double forfeit it is. An unusual match, but not exactly to our member's tastes. Fortunately, we anticipated this and we have a rabble match as a chaser.”
o-----
Gavin found Razorthorn waiting for him after he left the baths. Razorthorn's grim-armour had been replaced by a loose fitting robe of sorts. This too was contrived to torment the wearer, but not to the same degree. It looked a little easier to sit down in, for one. As he examined it he noticed the blood from a cut flow into a cunning channel on her bustier, forming a decorative pattern. It reminded him of the blood drinking runes that Silver Rose had used.
“Have you ever considered learning the Bloodthirster discipline?” he asked her, still examining her clothing, the hooks, and blades. “No offence intended, but you do bleed a fair bit.”
“I have,” said Razorthorn. “It would be challenging to seek true balance with the blood thirst tugging at me. Perhaps once I feel I have mastered the Path of Pain, I will seek such a challenge.”
“Ah,” said Gavin. “True enough. I don't know much about the Disciples of Pain. Truth be told I expected you would fight more like Berserker.”
“The Path of Pain is about self-control through ordeal, not power through pain,” said Razorthorn. “It has less to do with masochism than people think. I do not gain pleasure from pain, merely focus. I will explain it to you on the way...”
“Way to where?” asked Gavin.
“The training grounds,” said Razorthorn. “I should enjoy a rematch.”
Gavin laughed. He felt tired and his knee still hurt.
“Well if that's the price I have to pay for life and lore, so be it,” he said.
“It is part of the price,” said Razorthorn. “The other is this; you have ruined my chances for useful advancement in the Death-Leagues. You know Red Scorpion. I wish to see if she would be willing to intercede with Chosen Giselle on my behalf. I find Southern climes suddenly appealing.”
Gavin laughed. It was a simple request. He knew Sadira would be eager to meet the Ogress merely for the exotic discipline she practised.
“Done!” said Gavin. “You have my word as a Gladiator. The desert air will be quite an improvement over Dregs, I'm sure. Now tell me more about your blades. I found your mental strength impressive. How does the pain help?”
They walked. Gavin listened to Razorthorn as she explained her art, fascinated. He was curious about her. For her part Razorthorn respected Gavin, for she saw that, like her, he was out of place in the Death-Leagues, seeking truths of his own. Razorthorn realized that Gavin's confrontation with Valaran was only the catalyst for his true journey.
They met the next day to train again and he eventually introduced her to Lina and Cleothera, and later, as promised, to Sadira.
Chapter Fifty-Eight: Ancient History
1149/08/30 AR Dregs, Killer's Circle.
“Vengeance is the afterglow of victory.” Chosen Gorixus
“We get so caught up in our own narratives that we often forget that we are characters in other people's lives.” Blessed Ezuis, Ancestral Fragments
“You haven't been leaving for Deliberative business as much lately,” said Gavin. “How come?”
“I'd hate to leave my favourite Gladiator unsupervised in a place like Dregs,” replied Cleothera.
“I have Lina here to hold my hand,” said Gavin.
Cleothera rolled her eyes. Lina favoured him with a smirk. They were lounging in his quarters, eating at a small table. Dregs was not a place where one travelled to dine; the smell of the outside air ruined most people's appetites.
“You're a poor substitute for Ravius in wit, little brother,” said Cleothera; she continued before Gavin could protest. “After the Baurtrum affair, I was offered a promotion. I declined. You must know that. There isn't much more to it.”
“I hope you didn't decline on my account,” said Gavin. He hated the idea of his friend ruining her career just to help him.
Lina snickered into her crystal wine-glass. Cleothera rolled her eyes again.
“Did I say something?” asked Gavin, genuinely puzzled at their reaction.
“You aren't the cause of everyone's problems, Gavin,” asserted Cleothera. “I know how you worry about Ravius, and how you may feel about Valaran and Omodo, but your decisions are rarely the true root of other people's troubles.”
“Most of us get into enough trouble on our own!!” quipped Lina.
“Fair enough,” said Gavin. “I have been told that I tend to be quick to blame myself.”
“Quickling swift,” said Lina, smiling. “Fastest martyr in the North.”
“I think the wine is going to your head, Miss diVolcanus,” said Gavin.
“That's the idea,” said Lina. She refilled her glass for emphasis. “As the locals say: it's the best way to stave off the Dregs.”
“Nice,” said Gavin. He turned back to Cleothera. “Why did you decided to stay, Cleo?”
“I got a taste of the bigger leagues, and decided it wasn't for me,” said Cleothera. “Blackcloaks and Heretics make for great stories, but I could do without them.”
“Was it your confrontation with Baurtr
um?” he asked. “I thought you handled that well, despite the ugly ending. It can't be easy facing a fall like that.”
“Coming from a Gladiator who's been gutted by his own teacher and crushed by a giant...” she said, smirking. He raised his brow, persisting in his line of enquiry. She looked away, distant for a moment. “I would be lying to you if I said that those few minutes, lying there, broken... wondering if that bastard would send his thralls to finish me... well, I still dream about that.”
“It was very brave, Cleo,” said Lina, eyes bright.
“Had I known, really known, how much it would hurt, I'm not sure I could have done it,” said Cleothera. “I'm not a Gladiatrix. I fear pain. I don't know if I would do it again. But that's not the worst of it. When we went to interrogate Mondarvis, the heretic that was connected to Baurtrum, Captain diAuran told me I might have to force myself into his mind. Deep, mind-rape deep, if I needed to. I was actually relieved that we killed him before that could happen. It was then that I realized that I don't want to be part of nightmare spells and nerve centre overloads. I know how to do those things now, but I never want to be called on to use them. I don't want to live in the shadows. I'm afraid I'll end up corrupted like Baurtrum. So when it was over, I quietly stepped away. They've been decent about it, although Captain diAuran was angry... I think Sax has some pull with them.”
“You want no part of that world,” said Gavin, nodding, “even if it ends your ambitions. Once I might have thought you weak for making that decision. I remember looking at some of the older Gladiators when I was fresh out of training as if they were failures, not good enough to be Champions. Now I know different. I wish I could apologize to them for my foolish thoughts. I've come to believe master level was set at fifty matches just to make sure a Gladiator has time to mature before we get to do anything meaningful, like teaching or becoming Warbound.”
“It does seem likely,” said Cleothera. “But I'd guess the original reason is long buried by the tradition now.”
Domains of the Chosen 02 Bloodlust: Will to Power Page 34
