Domains of the Chosen 02 Bloodlust: Will to Power

by C. P. D. Harris

  In a shadowed corner of the smithy, close to a window and the crisp winter air, Sax ran a sharpening wheel down the blade of his sword. He worked in silence, but it was a companionable sort of quiet.

  Gavin knew that Sax was one of the infamous Blackcloaks, agents and assassins who acted on behalf of The Deliberative in the same fashion that Hearthbound acted for The Chosen, or Warbound acted for the Legions. He surmised that his father crafted weapons for the 'cloaks and that Liam’s wife and Chosen Mordhawk were also involved with the organization. It was dangerous knowledge in some hands, but it seemed trivial to Gavin as he picked up his mug of mead, chilled despite the warmth of the forge, and watched the master smith shape his blade.

  Drinking and listening to the ring of the hammer and the scrape of the sharpening wheel in the company of his father and an old “family friend”, Gavin felt his tensions melt away. The arena and the petty concerns of Domains politics seemed so distant and petty, for now.

  o-----

  He spent many days in the Forge and that little cottage, getting to know his father and himself. It was a slow and delicate process, a new experience for them both, but the bonds they forged were strong.

  o-----

  Gavin found himself alone with Villuriel very rarely. He suspected that she avoided him; it made sense given the complexity of their relationship. She was married to his father, and had killed his mother in the arena. He decided to take the initiative rather than let the silence fester. He waited until he found himself alone with her.

  “I don't have any ill-will towards you Villuriel,” said Gavin. Although he surprised her, he made sure she had room to retreat if she was uncomfortable. “You make my father happy, and I have learned that The Great Games are complex, as well as harsh. I cannot hold my mother's fate against you.”

  Villuriel has been a Gladiatrix once. She did not flinch from this confrontation once it was upon her. Her clear blue eyes met his, evenly. She looked at him for a moment before she spoke. He was so like his father, but she could see some of his mother in him.

  “I am glad to hear this Gavin,” she said. “But there is more to the story of your mother than you know. It was no unlucky accident or the tragic hand of fate that brought her to an end at my feet. I sought revenge.”

  “Go on,” said Gavin. “I understand the desire for revenge.”

  Villuriel nodded. “She killed a friend, called her out and butchered her. Your father tells me she was a kind woman, but she was vicious in the arena. She took Moltar as a patron. Your spear is a replica of her weapon. It is beautiful, but cruel, like she was. I sought her out. I called for Ut Nex. It was a hard fight, but I had the edge, and I killed her. I cut off your mother's head and held it up for the whole world to see.”

  Gavin let out a deep breath. He felt anger, the blind rage brought on by the killing of a loved one; but it was tempered by his knowledge. He could see that Villuriel was not bad person. The arena made fools of them all. Life wasn't as simple as they wanted it to be. He could live with this.

  “I won't hold it against you,” said Gavin.

  She smiled, nervously, relaxing. “Your father sought me out, seeking revenge in turn. We fought. I won't tell you who won, but mercy ended the cycle. I am glad beyond words that you have decided not to take it up again Gavin. You are a good man.”

  Tentatively, they hugged.

  o-----

  Gavin felt little trepidation as he entered Chosen Mordhawk's glass ceiling maze arena once again. This time the landscape within was evergreens and snow. It was warmer than the outdoors, but he could still see his breath.

  It was his third attempt at Master Rank, a required Death-Match. He had, however, faced the Killer's Circle and survived a match with Valaran, arguably the deadliest Gladiator in the Games. He had made peace with his father and the woman who'd killed his mother. He had fought countless beasts and faced death, real and temporary. He felt more than ready for the test.

  Besides, Gavin felt that he was no longer a pawn, at least not on the greater board. He had served his purpose in The Great Games by foiling Valaran, and also by passing the knowledge he had gained from their confrontation on to Sadira. That would likely be his greatest contribution, both to avenging Omodo and to the history of the Domains.

  Gavin's reforged shortsword, freshly runed thanks to his old friend, Runesmith Olga, felt reassuring at his side. It bore both Liam's maker's mark, and Gavin's own mark. He felt great satisfaction with his part in the creation of the blade, a contentment that mirrored his confidence in himself. The fires of the smithy made him think of his life as a Gladiator. He might not like the arena, but neither could he hate it, because it had forged him into the man he had become. He had to love fate, as they said.

  Gavin studied his surroundings as he waited for the match to begin. The theory behind the maze was simple. The crowd, in this case the Chosen and his entourage and Gavin's friends, watched the match through the glass ceiling. They could see all parts of the maze, but they were mostly hidden from view, a major difference from a traditional arena.

  He did not have a large audience; but then again everyone in the Domains was preparing for the Grand Championship. Few people had much of an eye for “other Gladiators” this year. He did note that Mordhawk was entertaining guests for this match; some visitors to the Domains from beyond Marius's Wall.

  The biggest difference between the Chosen's maze and a typical arena was the terrain. Part maze, part forest, it was a far cry from most fighting grounds. Distilled to its essence, this arena was less about crowd reaction and more about testing how the fighters would react to threats that they could not see and the possibility of ambush. Gavin had no idea what he would be facing, but he trusted that The Chosen would be fair. After all, Gavin suspected that Mordhawk was involved with the Blackcloaks, perhaps their liaison with the Council of The Chosen. If such a man wanted Gavin dead, he would very likely just go to sleep one night and never wake.

  Judging from the spacing of the trees and the makeshift passages they formed Gavin could see that his foe or foes would not be exceptionally large. This sort of contest lent itself to careful hunters rather than berserkers. He doubted fighters like Karmal or Valaran would even see the point.

  This time the wooded maze was a little more lively; he heard birdsong, even spotted a few whitewings moving about. Squirrels watched him warily from the trees. He paid them heed; perhaps their movements would give away the position of his foes.

  Snow covered the ground and part of the trees, fresh as if it had fallen the night before. It would be easy to follow tracks. That could work against him.

  The trumpet sounded. Gavin thought he heard a door open, distantly. He moved forward, keeping track of the various passages he took, building a mental map of the arena. He extended his senses, physical and mystical, searching for thought patterns, as well as listening for footfalls and looking for telltale signs of breath.

  A bird suddenly took flight nearby. He cast his thoughts in that direction and strained his senses. He could not make out anything, but his ability to recognize thought patterns at a range could be fooled. Many tainted creatures could foil this form of detection as easily as a strong willed or well-trained person could resist it. Perhaps he had just frightened the bird.

  Another bird took wing, this time to his right. He whirled to face that direction. A distraction! He got a sense of something huge erupting from the snow in the other direction. He threw himself forward. Massive, knife-tooth jaws snapped. Vicious talons plunged into the snow.

  Gavin rolled to his feet. He braced for impact, setting his spear. Something massive and sinuous slammed into him. He got an impression of white fur. Blood splashed as his spear jolted. A dreadful wail assaulted him. He stumbled backwards as his foe kept bulling forward. Its mass and strength were tremendous. His sword, now flying, slashed at it from behind.

  Gavin calmed himself, getting a closer look at his assailant as he backed away.

  Carnitaur!
He had heard of these creatures: favoured familiars of the heretic Druids who lived beyond Marius's Wall. A magical fusion of predatory aspects, Carnitaurs could warp their forms to adapt while fighting.

  The Carnitaur's flesh shifted, flowing away from his barbed spear. His weapon came free, covered in blood. He attacked with a mental blast, giving it pause. A scything limb whipped over his shield. He twisted and the long limb speared the air where his head had been. As he watched, the edge of the limb rippled, becoming bladed. The limb cleaved down, Gavin knelt, raising his shield to take the blow and sweeping the blade of his spear at the beast's feet. Blood splashed, red on the snow. Cat-like talons swept at him while a tail ending in a cruel stinger lanced at him from another direction. He chose the claws. Twisting away from the stinger he felt the beast rip into him. More blood fell on the snow. He shouted.

  Gavin felt fear; he was a cautious man, after all. He drew what he needed from the emotion, and then set it aside.

  The stalwart Gladiator felt his flying sword skip off surprisingly tough armoured plates that suddenly formed on the creature's back. When he attacked with a mental blast, he found that the thing had grown a redundant brain-like structure to absorb his attack. Undaunted, he wove two spells and renewed his attack. The creature shrieked. Then it grew two extra sets of front limbs and came at him, a nightmare of claws, snapping teeth, and scything limbs.

  Blows seemed to come at him from all directions. He judged each attack as he saw it, keeping calm and moving with the flow. Most attacks met his swift moving shield. Some blows he stepped away from, giving ground reluctantly. He moved into some attacks so that his armour absorbed the damage. A few got by. He felt toxins in some of the wounds.

  Gavin realized that his flying sword was meeting with little success. It appeared that the Carnitaur could defend from multiple directions better than most Gladiators. He admired that. Deciding to use terrain to his advantage Gavin sent the sword to chop at a tree towards which the creature was driving him.

  The Carnitaur spat venom at him. Gavin kept his eyes protected. He connected with a deep spear thrust and then followed up with a multi-pronged mental blast. He could adapt as well. The creature shook with rage and pain. Gavin noticed that its wounds were healing at a slower rate. He led it past the tree that his sword had been chopping at, weaving mind-grip around the tree, and pulling it down onto the Carnitaur. The creature reared back to avoid the tree. Gavin leapt forward, stepping onto the fallen tree and putting his weight behind a lunge. His spear reverberated with impact. The creature pulled away from him, a great wound on its chest, seeking a defensive position. Gavin remained where he was, watching it, sensing its magic.

  The trumpets sounded. The beast backed away, eyeing him warily, leaving a trail of fluid. Gavin looked down, seeing his own wounds.

  Gavin felt it then, the old joy of testing himself against a worthy foe without hatred and vengeance spoiling things. Perhaps he would miss the arena, in some small measure.

  o-----

  “I do not understand,” said Beastlord Agravuk. Gavin followed the man easily enough, despite his thick accent. Strange magics swirled around the ambassador. “Was our familiar not a worthy foe? Your legions greatly fear these beasts.”

  The Beastlord was dressed in skins, decorated with horns and talismans and strange runes. His skin was weathered by constant exposure, and covered in swirling tattoos. His eyes were hard and predatory.

  “No, Beastlord, your Carnitaur was certainly a worthy foe,” said Gavin.

  “Then why leave it to fight another day?” said the Beastlord. In the tainted wilds beyond the wall, mercy was a foreign concept. Agravuk never left a foe behind alive or unbroken unless he had to.

  Gavin smiled. He had no idea what he was supposed to convey here. Chosen Mordhawk had simply invited Gavin to dine with him after the match with little preparation beyond an introduction to the ambassador. The Carnitaur had been created by the Beastlord Agravuk. Gavin's test match served as a demonstration of sorts by the Chosen.

  “I...” Gavin said, stalling.

  His eyes darted around for help. Most of the lesser Druids were gathered around Sadira and the Chosen, but their leader seemed extremely interested in Gavin. Sax met his eyes and flicked back to the ambassador: Beastlord Agravuk was Gavin's problem.

  “It seemed like a waste to kill such a worthy foe,” said Gavin. He answered honestly. “I have faced many mighty creatures in the arena. I only kill when I need to now.”

  The Beastlord grunted, a dismissive sound. He would feel contempt for this soft-lander, but he had bested the most powerful familiar Agravuk had ever made, a triumph that few of his own people could claim. Were these people so mighty that they could afford to leave enemies alive? “You should have hunted it down and consumed its power, taken its strength for your own.”

  “I'm not sure that form of magic is known to us Beastlord,” said Gavin.

  “Then why do you spend all your time fighting beasts?” asked Agravuk. “What is the purpose of that? Are you trying to weed out the weak?”

  “That is an element to be sure,” said Gavin. “Perhaps facing some of these creatures is meant to show us our enemies. But we also fight each other. This gives us an opportunity to challenge those who we feel would be unworthy to lead the Domains.”

  “How many arenas do you have?” said the Beastlord.

  “More than a thousand,” said Gavin, “though most of them are fairly small. Few compare to the Grand Arena in Krass.”

  “How big is that?” asked the Beastlord

  “It can seat half-a-million,” said Gavin, with pride.

  “Madness!” said Agravuk. “You expect me to believe that you spend your life fighting in pits and don't know why?”

  “I know why I do it,” said Gavin. “I wanted to earn my freedom. To show my worth.”

  The ambassador continued to bombard him with questions, while Gavin tried to figure out what exactly the Chosen wanted from this encounter.

  o-----

  “Simple enough,” said Chosen Mordhawk after their guests retired. “I wanted you to confuse him.”

  “I'm not sure I follow,” said Gavin.

  “Agravuk has been sent here to gauge our strength,” said the Chosen. “He was elected to the position because he has a predator's sense of weakness. I paraded him through a few towns where people feared him as a wolf amidst the sheep. Then I brought him here to my stronghold and gave him all the resources he needed to create a strong familiar and pit it against you.”

  “So I was supposed to intimidate him?” said Gavin.

  “No, that would not have the desired effect.” said Chosen Mordhawk. “Fear is easy for such men to overcome, uncertainty is not. Agravuk gauged your strength easily enough, but he was confused by your desire to show mercy. He cannot be sure if it is because you are soft or foolish, or if you considered his most powerful beast unworthy of death by your hand. By showing him strength and mercy in one man, I have given him much pause.”

  “Which should help buy you some peace with his people,” said Gavin, thoughtfully.

  “It will give them pause,” said Mordhawk.

  Interlude Seven: Ashes and Dust

  (1150/07/17 AR, The Grand Arena in Krass)

  "The most impressive fight of this Grand Championship, a battle between two war-goddesses each worthy of joining our ranks, set off a chain of events in death, tragedy, and paved the way for a monstrous betrayal. It is an unacceptable waste of potential in a time when our enemies are testing us from all sides. Do we even know why?" Chosen Mazurin.

  "I see no difference between this death and any other. The arena is a hard place. Nor do I see any proof that it was connected with what happened afterwards." Chosen Moltar

  Sadira's eyes widened as it all fell into place. Karmal had worked with Meady Mox to kill her. She felt anger and betrayal, raw and brutal course through her. Karmal grinned, revealing her bloody teeth.

  "You actually believe I would let a
loser like Mox take advantage of me?" she said, throwing her head back and laughing. "I'm not a victim. You're the victim here. I've played you the whole time. Only one of us can win Sadira."

  Sadira felt betrayal's sting, grief flaying her soul. She broke her gaze with Karmal, vision blurring. Karmal smiled, hefting her blade. She saw pain as weakness, Sadira's sadness as an opportunity. After all, in the Arena, to acknowledge pain is to lose. She started forward, but Sadira's quiet voice stopped her. That she could hear those quiet words at all was a testament to the hush that had fallen over the crowd.

  "I see now that the others were right about you," said Sadira. "I felt that there was some little good trapped deep inside. I defended our friendship, our rivalry. I suppose I am a fool."

  Karmal faltered, for there was truth to Sadira's words. But she was too far gone. Admitting to any weakness whatsoever, even perpetrated upon her by someone like Mox, was beyond her. She reflexively destroyed the part of her that yearned to seek solace with her old friend. Sadira did not notice her hesitation.

  "You are a fool indeed," said Karmal. "I've never been your friend. I've always been your better. Now I'm going to kill you. Everyone will know my strength."

  Power is all that matters to me now, thought Karmal; everyone can see the weakness in Sadira. Now is my time.

  Sadira felt the weight of it all settle upon her shoulders. For a moment she considered defeat. It would be a dramatic way to die, but a stupid one. And so instead, she squared her shoulders and willed herself to stand tall. She raised her hand, gesturing to Karmal, new resolve flashing behind the water in her eyes.