The Champions

by Jeremy Laszlo

  “How long?” Garret asked.

  “An hour, maybe less,” Ashton answered, already calling upon his blessing.

  *****

  Springing to his feet Garret had spun upon his heel in an attempt to gain his bearings. Somehow he had lost consciousness. Somehow he had made it behind the front lines. Somehow the battle had changed.

  Turning again, nausea overtook him as pain exploded in his arm and side and, glancing to them, it was obvious why. He fought the urge to retch. Hearing a familiar cry, Garret turned to find Ashton upon the ground near where he stood, but in the process, he caught a glimpse of a vision he could have never imagined. Across the field of battle, under a canopy of Borrik’s wings, his brother stood impaled upon a great shaft.

  Though rage, pain, and sorrow threatened to overtake him, Garret knew he would be of no use in his current situation. He turned and addressed Ashton and seconds later stood before his friend, a normal-sized man.

  “I don’t have an hour, Ashton, Seth is hurt!”

  “If they were smaller injuries it would take less time, or if I had help,” Ashton was saying while working to close the hole in Garret’s side.

  Garret thought it over. Time could be running out for his brother; he knew not how many minutes or seconds they had. Though struggling to remain coherent through the pain, Garret pulled away from his friend and did the unthinkable. Reaching down to retrieve a sword from the ground, Garret plunged it into his own shoulder between the ball of his arm and the socket. Twisting the blade he dislocated the arm as blood again poured from the wound. Then with a shove he pushed the blade further through the joint before pulling to one side, nearly severing the arm anew. With another quick hack the deed was finished and the king stood panting, sweat upon his brow, with one less appendage.

  Without explanation Ashton took the meaning. Working fast and dirty he summoned his blessing and closed the wound as quickly as was possible. Garret again exploded in size, a one-armed champion, and took off across the battlefield in a dead run, soldiers from both sides leaping aside in an attempt to avoid being trampled. Garret sought to reach his brother, feeling in his gut as he ran that he was already too late.

  As he neared, with fireballs crashing into his back, Garret watched as Borrik yanked the lifeless Seth off the shaft and bore his limp body to the ground gently. Unlike the last occasion they had fought a battle together, this time Seth’s body remained. Even over the din of the battle, with yells and screams of defiance and pain, Garret heard the anguished scream of his brother’s widow. So mournful was the sound it seemed inhuman, as if a soul fled her body through her throat, its tortured voice joining her own. Garret need not run further; Sara had already told him all he needed to know. Seth had fallen. He was gone. This time he would not return. Garret had lost everyone from his childhood he had ever loved, and even with tears streaming from his giant eyes, as his soul broke from the emotional pain that was too much for anyone to bear, so too did his vision turn red and a menacing chuckle escape from his throat.

  *****

  Borrik stood like a twisted tree over his master’s body, his wings spread above the scene like a canopy above a funeral. Below, within his shadow, a single soul approached the walking god. Her flesh still smoking, yet regenerating rapidly, Sara gazed at the only man she had ever loved. She stood before him and placed her hand upon his cheek. She wished to hug him, but his unnatural posture, leaning back at such an angle, made it impossible. His head having fallen back, mouth agape, it appeared for any who saw that he screamed silently towards the heavens as if in defiance.

  Sara sobbed uncontrollably, her tears washing away a small portion of the blood that covered her.

  “Take him off that damned thing!” Sara shouted.

  She knew Borrik would heed her, though he belonged to her husband. As he was ordered he stepped forward, careful to keep Sara in shadow, and pulled Seth’s limp body up and off the shaft before laying him upon the ground in front of his wife. He did it gently. Slowly. As if they were the only three upon the battlefield. Sara laid her head upon her husband’s chest, unbelieving that he of all people could die so prematurely. She listened intently yet no sound came. Broken, alone, and devastated she took her turn raising her face to the heavens and let go that which sought to escape her. Her anguish freed, she did the only thing she thought possible to bring him back. Pulling back his cowl further to expose his throat, Sara bit deeply into the flesh of the man she loved and drank heavily from his blood. Naturally, through her defect, her own blood would intermingle with his own. Sara thought that perhaps more of her own blood would increase the potential of saving him and bit hard through her own lips before pressing them back to the wound in his neck.

  With nothing left to try she kissed him one last time before returning her head to his chest to listen. A moment passed. She waited. Many more moments, ones that seemed entirely too long and too empty, passed. Still no change. She punched him in the chest, angry that he could leave her, then pulled him close in an embrace, sorry she had struck him.

  “Kill them all, Borrik!” she screamed and above her he leapt into the air, a roaring growl tearing from his throat, happy to do as she had ordered.

  The light returned, and her flesh began to smolder. There was nothing she could do for him now. With tears continuing to stream from her eyes, Sara pulled her helm back over her head. If nothing else she would have vengeance. She cautiously lowered Seth to the ground, daring anyone to touch his body. Standing, she spun to face the enemy who even now dared not venture too near the fallen death mage. Like an animal she hissed at those who opposed her as the shadow appeared over her and the world began to spin.

  *****

  Zorbin climbed down the stout ladder knowing that death awaited him below at the hands of members of his own race. Here was the one place where dwarven honor was forfeit. Here there were no rules except survival of the fittest. Here you were not judged by what you said or did, or by how you responded. Here, all you had to do was survive.

  He stepped off the ladder onto the stone platform and looked around to gain a better understanding of what it was that he faced. Eleven opponents already stood around the giant round platform. Each of them stood upon the symbol of their house. The platform was nearly the size of the capital building above, and the room it stood within was almost the size of the city. This vast chamber was created with the same giant support ribs up the sides of the room. Within it a multitude of terrains, a river, and even a few buildings and cliffs were visible. Zorbin climbed down to the level of his adversaries, taking up his place upon the symbol for the clan Ironfist. These men were the best of their houses, and it was likely each was blessed with something they could use to their advantage. Zorbin had been outcast for many years; his knowledge of each of the houses was outdated. He knew not what he faced, only that time was of the essence.

  Beyond this platform, within the vast chamber that surrounded them, several caches of weapons and supplies were visible from this vantage point. Even here, upon the platform, a handful of items were strewn about the floor to entice the combatants to remain and fight over them.

  From the platform four paths led down to the giant chamber below, one in each direction of the compass. He needed to choose a plan of action before the ceremony started. Looking around he noted that many of his opponents openly scowled at him. None of them thought him their equal, each considering him a traitor to their race. Zorbin ignored the looks and focused upon the weapons and supplies that lay scattered about, calculating who would go for an item of worth, and who would turn and flee down the ramps.

  From above, a trumpet sounded the beginning and each of the dwarves sprang into action. Decided, Zorbin, instead of rushing out to grab a pick he had been eyeballing, turned and ran straight towards his nearest foe, calling upon his blessing as he ran. With a concussive boom Zorbin exploded in size at the same time as he dove bodily into his smaller opponent.

  Though most had fled the platform immediatel
y, some of these perished on the way down the paths they were forced to share with others, and upon the platform only three remained.

  Zorbin collided with his foe and such was the force of the impact of their bodies that the dwarf he hit flew backwards with a crunch and vanished over the side to plummet to his death.

  The remaining dwarf snatched up a battle hammer with a huge metal head. Seeing Zorbin distracted the dwarf decided to attack. Rushing Zorbin the dwarf leapt into the air to bring his full weight to bear with the hammer. As Zorbin righted himself from the collision, in his blessed size, he listened as he rose. Hearing no steps upon the stone platform he stepped aside as he stood. The other dwarf slammed what would normally be a crushing blow into Zorbin’s shoulder, missing his head by mere inches. The blow, though painful, was nearly ineffective. Shaking it off, Zorbin backhanded the dwarf who sprawled away in an attempt to stay upright, blood pouring from his nose.

  Zorbin wondered why he had not summoned a blessing; perhaps he was as yet unblessed. There were only two reasons a clan would send an unblessed man into the coliseum that Zorbin could think of. One, they had no one else willing to risk their life for the position. Or two, they wanted him dead for whatever reason. Otherwise, the only explanation was that the dwarf was indeed blessed, but perhaps in something that did not help in a fight. Perhaps he was a stone carver. No matter.

  Afraid for his life, the dwarf who had dared attack Zorbin whilst his back was turned, now tried to flee the platform by running down one of its ramps to the vast floor below. Zorbin watched him run, and searching about him, picked up a standard pickaxe. Hurling it end over end after his attacker, the pick stuck into the back of the fleeing dwarf’s head. The dwarf staggered forward from the impact, and twisting slowly took three more steps before jerking suddenly and falling off the side of the ramp.

  In the first three minutes, eight of the twelve dwarves were dispatched, most of them falling to their deaths. Zorbin walked about the platform and accounted for the foes that remained. Each of them now rushed towards the stashed weapons, armor, or other supplies. He debated, simply waiting them out atop the platform. From here he could see any approach from an adversary from any direction. None were likely to come up after him until they were the last two, and even then he could not be killed by his final foe. Two had to walk out alive.

  Sadly time was a luxury Zorbin did not have. He could not simply wait and hope they killed each other quickly. If more than one of them decided to dig in and take a defensive stance it could be weeks or even months before one of them finally died due to starvation. Walking about the platform Zorbin collected a piece of chain, a shovel, and a chisel. Looking below, he chose his next adversary from what the dwarf had collected. Only one of the three dwarves carried more weapons than supplies. This would be the most aggressive dwarf. The most competent. The most assured of his ability to kill the others. He would be the biggest challenge, probably with a sizable blessing to boot. Zorbin began to jog down the ramp towards him. He only needed to kill two more, and he would rather not have an aggressive adversary stalking him whilst he stalked another.

  *****

  Though Garret was led by his rage, so empty was his soul that it had nothing to take over. It guided him, spurred him on for kill after kill, but it was not the blind rage he had been lost to on previous occasions. Instead it was a hollow rage, uncaring if he died, that led him into enemy lines, hacking and stomping a path of gore. Though he chuckled, a sound coming deep from his chest, the one-armed king felt no emotion. He simply wanted everything that stood before him dead.

  Neither champion, mage, nor common troop could withstand the King of Valdadore as he carved a path through the enemy lines, and though attacks were flung at him on a regular basis, he failed to notice that they were simply to keep him distracted. Keep him at bay.

  *****

  Borrik could not fight the feral rage that seeped from his every pore. Anger from each one of his troops filtered into his mind too and like the savage warriors they were created to be, what few of them were left unleashed a terror unlike anything else Valdadore could currently muster. Without care for their personal safety, and without fear of harm, the werewolves in their gargantuan blessed bodies fought savagely, biting and clawing their way through the enemy.

  Plummeting from the sky to land upon his foes, Borrik unleashed a pair of fireballs to strike down an enemy mage before setting upon the troops nearest him with blades and teeth. As those around him took to their heels to flee, he again lanced fireballs at their backs before leaping into the sky anew to land elsewhere.

  Images of death and killing filled him all the while and with them came a sense of calm.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sara had never even seen him coming. How could she have? She did not have the vision of the gods that Seth had, nor could she have anticipated Sigrant having such a warrior, if he was even a warrior. All Sara knew was that one moment she stood beside her fallen husband, the next, a man clad in black leather armor appeared, seemingly out of thin air. He grabbed her then, and immediately she felt ill, as if the world had been set to spin rapidly.

  Just a fraction of a second later the world came to a halt again and, opening her eyes, Sara found herself now within enemy lines. The dizziness returned and vanished again. They were further within Sigrant’s lines than before. The man was teleporting them. Sara, when next they appeared, leaned backwards, heavily dragging him with her before shouting “Jump!” to her enchanted boots.

  Caught up in the man’s grasp, the two rocketed backwards in the direction they had come, but before they even crashed back to the ground the world again spun awkwardly. They appeared once more exactly where they had jumped from. Sara tried to break free and found that she was obviously the stronger, but the minute she struck out they teleported again.

  When they landed this final time, the man who had dragged her thus far across dimensions unknown, leapt away from her, and quickly sprinted off in an attempt to avoid her revenge. Thinking to chase him, knowing that with her superior abilities she could easily make up the distance within seconds, Sara bent her knees and shook her head to clear the haze that his many teleportations had left within her mind. Just as she prepared to spring into the air, something immense snatched her up and slammed her bodily into the ground over and over again. The attack did not relent for many long moments, until within her armor her bones broke and joints became dislocated. Sara cried, not because of the pain, though she felt it from each and every fiber of her body, but because she needed to have vengeance.

  They needed to pay for what they had taken from her. Now she felt helpless, broken, and unable to do the only thing that could make her feel better. She needed to kill them, all of them. Sara cried out, a sound that gurgled from her throat, her ribs having punctured her lungs in more than one location. From atop her the weight was removed, though so utterly destroyed was her body she could not turn even a single degree to see what it was that had fallen atop her. Her bones began to knit back together.

  Suddenly, as if she weighed nothing at all, something roughly hefted Sara from the ground and as she was whipped about through the air she saw that now she was within a camp full of tents. She was far behind enemy lines. Abruptly the swinging motion stopped and then, without warning, Sara fell, having been dropped by whatever it was that had carried her. With a sound that was a mix between a splat and a thud, Sara hit a cold surface as metal squeaked upon metal above her. A great slamming sound followed and, peering ahead, Sara looked upon something she had never before even imagined.

  Iron bars as thick as her arms stood before her in a tight row. Between them bright sunlight lanced into the cage she had been dropped into, and beyond the bars a tall, narrow man with black hair and eyes stood looking upon her. A crown sat atop his head. King Sigrant lived.

  “Good afternoon, Princess,” King Robert Sigrant greeted her. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  Sara did not reply. Could not reply. Not yet at
least. She could feel her bones mending, her tendons and ligaments stretching to reattach themselves. She groaned, though not of her own accord. Her shoulder popped back into the socket. Using her one viable arm she pressed down to raise her head off the floor. Pain exploded in her back.

  Flipping back her helm to expose her terrible visage, Sara shrieked at the enemy king, letting her hatred flow from her lips like death to his ears.

  Undeterred, the enemy king slid his hand through the bars, jerking it towards her mouth.

  “We need to speak,” he said simply. “You need to heal and my blood will speed the process. I’ve studied your kind.”

  Sara knew him to be right, but with the power already flowing through her, the small amount of blood he offered would make little difference. Already she was mending at an incredible rate from injuries that should have killed her instantly. Though she realized all this, she reached up with that same good arm and grasped at his wrist, squeezing with all her might. He cried out in agony. Planning to suck him dry, Sara sunk her teeth into his wrist and began to pull hard, creating a perfect seal with her lips.

  Nearly mended, Sara drank heavily for several moments. A few more and he would lose consciousness. Sara sucked hard again drawing more of his life into her mouth. Thinking she would have her vengeance she did not expect what happened next.

  Without so much as an attempt to pull his arm from the cage, Sigrant quickly wrapped a cord around his arm, staunching the flow of blood.

  “Now Kibalt!” King Sigrant screamed, and before his command was even comprehended by Sara, the man who had teleported her here reappeared. With a single blow he severed the king’s arm below the cord. Just then, a group of men rushed out from a nearby tent and gathering about their king they each began to glow. Sara had been duped, and now she realized her mistake.