Sadira turned, muttering about Flamina under her breath, leading them onto the dark, dirty streets of Dregs. She ignored the finely lit promenade, hoping that some of the locals were foolish enough to take them for easy prey. Cleothera and Lina followed her into the murk, exchanging looks.
In the carriage, Flamina moved to sit beside Gavin.
“I can sense your discomfort, you know,” said the lithe dancer. “I would never act this way around some of the Chosen's companions; dangerous men and women who are more prone to acting on their desires.”
“What makes you think I desire you Flamina?” asked Gavin.
“Your body language,” she said. “You wouldn't be so guiltily uncomfortable if you were uninterested. I've learned to read the signs of desire better than most, and I don't need magic to feel your blood stirring.”
“Then you also know that I won't give in to base desire,” said Gavin. He laughed, shaking his head. He doubted he could explain love to Flamina. It was something you needed to feel.
“I do,” she answered. “But I don't understand it. You cling to notions of monogamy that don't apply to your class. You deny me yourself and you deny me Sadira. And for what?”
“Sadira is free to do what she wants,” said Gavin.
“I don't think you understand her very well in that regard,” said Flamina. “She follows your lead, in love at least. Her people are known for the strength of their desires Gavin. Think of the three of us.”
“That culture died with The Reckoning, for better and for worse,” said Gavin. “Call it greed if you wish, but I have no desire to share my love...”
“Love?” interrupted Flamina. “That not what I'm after...”
The carriage ride was remarkably smooth despite the uneven cobbles and large stretches of muck that passed for roads in Dregs. Gavin decided to change the subject.
“Do you know why Chosen Moltar has sent for me?” said Gavin.
“The Chosen wants to make you an offer,” said Flamina. She pursed her lips. “If he wanted to scare you. he would likely meet with you at Irongrim instead of here; he certainly wouldn't send someone like me to escort you to him.”
“So you're the person who Chosen Moltar sends to put me at ease?” asked Gavin.
Flamina laughed a surprisingly rich sound from such an outwardly delicate frame.
“Something like that,” she said.
o-----
The Killer's Circle was even more decadent from the member's side. The carriage stopped in a fortified courtyard, one of those stately pieces of architecture that seems all the more grand because it is somehow untouched by the squalor in which it resides. Gavin hopped down from the carriage, planting his feet on a rich red carpet that ran towards the building. The member's entrance was more intimate than that of a traditional arena, like a door to a well-appointed manor house. Ten armed footmen, wearing bright uniforms bearing the Chosen's heraldry, stood at attention outside. Gavin noted that the gleaming spike throwers they carried seemed perfectly functional.
As Flamina began to exit the carriage, Gavin turned to help her down.
“How courtly,” said the dancer.
“Courtesy is its own reward,” said Gavin.
Flamina laughed.
“You should worry more about the Chosen's courtesy than mine, Gladiator,” said Flamina.
“You are the Chosen's courtesy, I believe,” said Gavin.
“An interesting observation,” replied Flamina, taking Gavin by the arm and leading him into the building. The guards opened the door at their approach. Gavin noted that they were wary despite their spotless dress uniforms.
Inside, it was as if he had left Dregs for another realm entirely. Beauty, art, refinement, even the air was cleaner.
The entrance foyer was a richly appointed lounge. Polished Obsidian floors, chairs made from rare leathers and rich woods, and works of art depicting graphic scenes of death and violence decorated the rooms. A few well-dressed men and women were scattered about, drinking and conversing. Servants wearing collars and scanty loincloths plied them with wine and delicacies. More than a few of them looked hungrily at Flamina, who greeted the most important of them by name, bestowing her attention like a seal of approval. Gavin was met by frowns, despite his company: he was not popular with the patrons of the Killer's Circle. The pair of them, Gladiator and dancer, moved through the room, leaving murmurs in their wake.
They climbed the wide staircase to the galleries that led to the member's boxes. They passed more guards at the top, Flamina's presence serving as a badge of admittance.
As they passed the guards, Gavin stopped short, his eyes meeting the familiar orbs of Shield-Splitter. His surprise turned to disgust as he realized that it was not his one-time foe, but rather the ogre's head, severed, preserved, and mounted on the wall. He stared at the head for some time. He had no love for the massive ogre, but no Gladiator deserved this kind of treatment. He had last seen Shield-Splitter at Balvuk's Triumph. A gold plaque underneath the head carried a list of the Ogre's victories in the Killer's Circle, including the names of the fighters he had killed, and the name of his killer, Valaran diVolcanus.
Gavin had always yearned to test himself against the Shield-Splitter again. His loss to the Ogre remained one of the low points of his career, but it had also started him on the path towards the Flawless Blade, meeting Sax, and learning self-control. He felt a surge of hatred towards Valaran and the Death-Leagues for robbing him of that opportunity, quickly followed by sadness.
Flamina watched Gavin with undisguised curiosity. She wanted to ask him about his relationship with the dead man, she wanted to delve into his feelings, to enjoy the voyeuristic thrill of another person's sadness. The Domains were too safe and civilized in Flamina's opinion, having lost the edge of the early feudal warrior's culture and settled into a comfortable, modern decadence. Gavin's expression stilled her voice. Sadness for the fallen was alien to this place, fearsomely foreign in fact. The Gladiator closed his eyes, bowing his head in respect, and drew in a deep breath. As he exhaled, the dancer felt an electric thrill pass through her, as if Gavin was channelling despite his restraints; she stepped back involuntarily.
Gavin opened his eyes and looked past his fallen foe. The walls of the upper galleries were lined with heads. Hundreds that he could see, preserved in loving detail. He had thought the Killer's Circle has lost its ability to shock him. The heads proved him wrong. The members of this arena cared nothing for the sport, the honour, the contest, or the striving of the Gladiators in the arena. The Killer's Circle revelled in the trappings of violence like pious men in a holy place; they worshipped victory and brutality, hidden under a veil of tradition and luxury.
“Lead on,” he said coldly, turning to Flamina. “I've grown tired of this place already.”
A thousand barbed rejoinders died on the dancer's lips. Gavin's bright eyes shone with harsh judgement. She turned and led him to Moltar's private box, wanting to be rid of him quickly.
The door to Chosen Moltar's arena box bore the staring eye and armoured fist. To Gavin, the symbol looked more garish than intimidating in wood and gold. Flamina opened the door for Gavin; he noted, with some satisfaction, that she was unusually subdued now.
The Chosen rose as Gavin entered the box. The man was inhumanly large, but otherwise flawlessly proportioned. Moltar reminded Gavin of the statues of old gods and heroes that he had seen in Balvuk's Triumph or the oldest districts of Krass, a sculptor’s idea of the perfect form. In addition to his physical presence Moltar's magical power overwhelmed Gavin's senses, like a hurricane waiting to be unleashed. He met the Chosen's eye briefly before dropping his gaze to perform a deep formal bow. It would be foolish to antagonize one of The Chosen simply for the sake of pride.
“Welcome, Gavin Valcoeur,” said the Chosen. Gavin found the man's voice to be rich and sonorous, but otherwise surprisingly normal coming from a being of such power.
“Thank you, Chosen,” said Gavin. He did not be
tray any surprise that Moltar knew his father's name, choosing to ignore the implicit threat.
“Come, have a seat beside me.” said the Chosen, his voice commanding and compelling. “I would like to watch this match while we speak.”
Gavin took his place next to the Chosen, noticing that his seat was raised so that he was somewhat closer to his host, a concession to hospitality over power. The sheer amount of power cycling through the Chosen, dozens of enchantments and hundreds of runes, weighed on Gavin. It made him feel as if he were trapped in a tiny room deep in the earth with the walls closing in, not a spacious, comfortable private enclosure. He looked out into the arena. His heart sank as he saw fifty men and women, the rabble of Dregs milling about the fighting grounds.
“Do not despair so frivolously, Lionfang,” said Chosen Moltar, his gaze drifting over the evening's victims. “You have no control over what is about to happen, and should not invest so much energy in events you cannot influence.”
Gavin squirmed but said nothing. He had no doubt that this was purposeful.
“I was tempted to have Valaran fight for our amusement, but I felt that might antagonize you.” said the Chosen. “Besides, my foremost pupil has been a little... recalcitrant of late.”
The trumpets rang. The creature that slid into the arena was a living nightmare, some barely comprehensible spawn of The Reckoning. Gavin was repulsed just looking at it. The monster sprang into the fighting grounds impaling a man on a scythe-like limb before ripping him in half. The man's screams grated on Gavin; they ended quickly, but were replaced by a chorus of pain, fear, and death as the creature found new victims.
“Valaran's mother was the sole survivor of one of these events,” said the Chosen. He watched the proceedings carefully, his eyes taking in every detail, but Gavin could detect no emotion from the man as lives ended just strides away. “He grew up here in Dregs, prospering in an environment that is inimical to weakness. His trials gave him strength, although it also left him lacking in refinement. He failed to learn to curb his excesses.”
“He's not your main gambit is he?” asked Gavin. He looked up at the Chosen, trying to shut out the pitiful cries of the doomed. “Not anymore at least.”
The Chosen turned his head. Making eye contact with any Chosen, let alone one of Moltar's reputation, was considered unwise. Only fools draw the attention of the powerful. Gavin met the man's gaze, unflinching, for just a moment, before purposefully looking down. In truth he was glad to look away, the Chosen's gaze was fearsome.
“Perceptive,” said the Chosen. “Although you are childishly overeager to show it. You gain nothing but a moment's pleasure by showing me that you know. Valaran is powerful, but has never been subtle.”
“He makes a great distraction,” said Gavin. He watched a pair of muscled rabblemen, an Orc and a large human try to wrestle the creature down. He silently cheered their efforts, hoping that they would succeed.
“Just so,” said the Chosen. “But I still hoped that he would be more useful at this time. I may have other plans, but I invested a great deal in Valaran nonetheless. I am not fond of wasted effort.”
The two men held the creature for a moment while another struck at it with a crude spear. Gavin found himself cheering them, under his breath. His hope was short lived however. The spear glanced off a thick carapace and one of the men lost his grip on a scything limb. The other man made a valiant effort to hold on but the creature twisted, unnaturally flexible, and slashed. Gavin looked away as the men fell, screaming as they were dismembered. Bile rose in his throat. He noticed a hint of satisfaction on the Chosen's face.
“Valaran is a piece on the field, he has been shaped to fulfil a purpose,” said Valaran. “I do not deny this; yet he now rebels against the idea.”
“Shouldn't he?” said Gavin. “I don't wish to sound petulant Chosen, but he is as you made him.”
“That is true,” said the Chosen, turning to face Gavin. “But I appear to have erred. Now Valaran is a liability, but, even after his recent indiscretions, he remains too popular with my people for me to publicly cut loose.”
Gavin's eyes widened. Was the Chosen delivering Valaran to him?
“I won't cheat,” Gavin blurted.
Moltar's eyes darkened. Gavin could hear the metal arm of the Chosen's seat bend. For a moment Gavin thought that Moltar might kill him, right then and there.
“Without my help, Valaran will kill you,” said the Chosen. “Even though others have prepared you to face him, he is still too strong for you to defeat. Your vengeance will be for nought. Can you imagine what he will be like as a Chosen?”
Gavin looked out at the carnage in the arena, watching the beast stalk the few remaining rabble on the gore choked fighting grounds. He made his decision.
o-----
Gavin thought his capacity for surprise had been exhausted by his meeting with the Chosen. Oddly, when he opened the door to his domicile he found Sadira holding court. She was chatting amiably with Deathcat, a woman who'd sworn to kill her, the pierced and imposing Razorthorn, Cleothera, and Sax. The lanky Ogre nodded to him as he walked in the door, but the others were too wrapped up in conversation.
Lina sat on the floor with two thin girls, holding Sunrise, the peacock Phoenix for them to admire. Their faces lit up with awe as the bird scintillated and shimmered, showering them with sapphire hues.
“I would have killed you,” said Sadira, smiling pleasantly as she spoke to Deathcat. “Bella was my greatest rival, but that was wasted on my younger self. I'm somewhat disappointed that Gavin ran into you before I did. It would have been an epic battle...”
Deathcat laughed. Gavin was not sure what had passed between the two women, but he did not sense any animosity, now. Sadira was quick to forgive, but he was surprised that Deathcat could stand her. Then again, he had just chatted with Chosen Moltar.
“I had this grand plan to draw you out by killing your lover,” said Deathcat. “I resented Gavin for making me watch while Bella died. After he beat me a second time I was forced to confront the fact that he did not leave me alive to make me suffer; he's just weird when it comes to killing. I realized that it was time to live my life for myself. Bella wouldn't have wanted me to waste it.”
“Well, if you're done with the Death-Leagues,” said Sadira. “I could use a new sparring partner to train with. The desert would suit you, I think. The Chosen has some... exciting... friends and vassals. With your record here you could easily earn a place with one of the Factions there; you could even challenge me in the games.”
“And you could get a bit of revenge on Sadira in the training room,” said Gavin, easing down beside his beloved.
“I'm glad you make it back in one piece,” said Cleothera. “What did the Chosen want with you?”
“Nothing good, I'm sure,” said Sax.
“He apparently wanted to enjoy my company for a rabble match,” said Gavin. “Not exactly the best start to our courtship. I saw Shield-Splitter there; his head is mounted at the top of the entrance stairway.”
“I had hoped that detail was apocryphal,” said Razorthorn, shaking her head. “The trophies hanging above the arena are bad enough; the idea of the heads of some of my honoured foes adorning the walls is simply insulting.”
“The members of the Killer's Circle thrive on savagery,” said Gavin. His lip curled as he thought about his time there. He caught himself wondering how the members would feel if they were in the rabble's place. “The Chosen and I have a mutual problem it appears. He offered me his assistance.”
“Should I be plugging my ears?” said Cleothera.
“I refused to do anything against the rules,” said Gavin. “I would hate to give Chosen Moltar the ability to blackmail me. We settled on ensuring that Valaran won't be able to cheat. In return I promised to kill him if I can.”
“Good call,” said Sax. “Wouldn't be the first man to make a deal with that one and end up having your secret weapon fall flat.”
“My
thoughts exactly,” said Gavin, “although the Chosen seemed sincere. I believe he has moved on. It is possible that Valaran was never his main piece in the game.”
“That doesn't sound too bad,” said Sadira. “Aside from the rabble match and the possibility of treachery I mean. You met with the fearsome Chosen Moltar and walked away a free man.”
“He also offered to teach me some spells,” said Gavin. “I'm sorely tempted, but I'd owe Chosen Moltar a favour. I wish I could figure out his angle.”
Sax chuckled. “That's easy. If you beat Valaran you might end up being selected for the Grand Championship. Golden Boy isn't popular with the Faction crowds after what he did to Omodo. Your friend has kept growing in popularity, even after his death. Moltar wants you in his debt, just in case.”
“But it’s not like I would become his ally,” protested Gavin. The very idea made him feel somewhat nauseous; Chosen Moltar stood for nearly everything he disliked about the Domains.
“True, but he knows you are a man of your word, Gavin,” said Cleothera.
“You are very trustworthy,” said Razorthorn. Deathcat nodded in agreement.
“Yes,” agreed Sadira. “I've seen Chosen Giselle do this. She gathers favours from other Chosen and Faction leaders and then calls upon them vote on some project that the debtor wouldn't normally support, but is not vehemently opposed to. When she gathers enough influence of that type that, and plays her cards right, she can shift whole areas of policy to her favour.”
“I'd rather owe Chosen Giselle than Chosen Moltar,” said Gavin.
“You might not think so if Sadira weren't her favourite protégé,” said Cleothera.
“Agreed,” said Sax. “She has softened a bit lately, but Giselle is a sharp player.”
“I have been working my considerable charms upon her,” said Sadira. “I just treat her like one of my sisters.”
“She might not be easygoing when she hears about your late night saunter through the streets of Dregs,” said Sax.
Domains of the Chosen 02 Bloodlust: Will to Power Page 36
