Suddenly the Wirn on his right flitted forward, slashing at his face; its partner waited for him to commit his shield to block the first attack before lunging at him, cruel barbs of its long bladed pole-arm seeking his flesh. Anticipating this tactic, he twisted to avoid the attack, nearly stumbling against the resistance put up by the thick muck.
"So ungainly he is, sister," said one of his attackers, a male by the size of its horns and breadth of shoulder.
"Show no pity, brother. He is a Lost one; I can feel his power even in this blighted realm," responded the other. "It beckons me; I will feast on his strength and pass it on to the Weerde..."
Gavin attacked, but his lunge caught only air; parry, thrust, metal ringing off his shield, the Graceful, deadly movements of the Wirn, muck sucking at his feet, cruel blades, and blood running from his side. How did it get there? The unwanted intruding sensation of their magic grew; he was reminded of the tainted images of the Manticore. Were the two somehow related? And what exactly did the Wirn mean by lost one? he wondered as he readied himself for another exchange, bloodied and wary.
Sadira, guided by instinct and driven by fury, gathered her strength while her opponent moved in. She channelled power, weaving her grasping roots spell. Green plant tendrils erupted out of the sandy marsh under her opponent, grasping at the feet of the Wirn. The Gladiatrix powered forward, thrusting an obsidian blade before her, hoping to take advantage of this. The Wirn knocked her first blade aside with a deft motion, but Sadira twisted sideways, bringing the other blade up in a short savage underhand cut. Her opponent tried to counter but the roots binding her legs held firm. The sword rent the Wirn's armour. Blood, unnaturally red, arced behind her sword as it whirled back to the attack. She aimed her third cut at the creature's neck, but the Wirn managed to catch her blade with a parry, stumbling out of reach, reeling from the strength of her blow. Again the mud hampered Sadira, preventing her from closing quickly while the Wirn was still off balance. Now the creature motioned with its hand, spoke in a language that grated on Sadira's ears, and the grasping roots that still clung to it from Sadira's spell warped and burst, falling away. The twisting of her magic made the Gladiatrix feel somehow violated, as if she could feel the touch of the Wirn through the warped pattern of her spell.
The Wirn looked at her, with cold black eyes."Lost one, touch me not with your aberrations!" the exile spat. "In my land you would be enslaved, and your power would be taken for the Weerde before your destruction as an abomination." Then it attacked, ignoring the ragged, bleeding wound in its side. Sadira channelled power into a spray of thorns spell, hoping to catch it off-guard. But as she released the spell the Wirn spoke a word that she could sense with her gift but not hear at all, and twisted her magic. A ripple of her own warped power engulfed Sadira. She felt her skin blister and her bones begin to twist before, with a supreme effort of will, she overcame the Wirn's strange power. The terrible pain the attack caused her merely fuelled her rage.
Elsewhere, Gavin was desperately defending, his every effort now turned toward keeping his two darting, deadly assailants at bay. If he could hold them off long enough for Sadira to finish her opponent, they would make short work of these two. But the Wirn moved quickly, purposefully, in perfect harmony with each other. They were wearing him down, cut by cut. He blocked a rapid series of swift thrusts and graceful slashes, but took a spear-point in his leg just above the knee. Blood dribbled into the muck as he batted the spear away. Channelling power into a mental assault, Gavin wove the pattern of a destructive spell, and grasped for the mind of the nearest Wirn. Instead of the target he was seeking, however, he was once again drawn in by the strange warped pattern he had sensed earlier. As the creature's shocking mind-scape engulfed him, he struggled against nausea; the alien taint of their magic felt as if he was immersing himself in rot and offal. Young Gifted were warned repeatedly of the dangers of exposing themselves to tainted magic; this was a dangerous manoeuvre.
Meanwhile Sadira and her opponent struggled, blades ringing. The Wirn was fast and graceful, unhindered by the sandy marsh. But a small smile formed on the Gladiatrix's lips as she realized that her opponent's small wound had not yet closed. She had an advantage over the Wirn in sheer vitality. She could outlast the creature; use her superior toughness to win. She channelled power into a pattern that would accelerate her own regeneration. Then Sadira threw herself forward with reckless abandon, attacking like a berserker. She whirled her blades into furious wild strokes, all but ignoring the Wirn's counter-attacks. The creature's wicked lance ripped into her unarmoured torso, but she expected this and welcomed the pain, screaming as she brought her twin swords down hard, cleaving through steel and bone, cutting deep into its shoulders. Glorious scarlet spattered in the muck and Sadira screamed again, triumphantly, sensing victory. Her opponent desperately turned to flee, arms now hanging useless, as Sadira ripped the lance from her own belly, and threw it into the creatures back causing it to stumble and fall. Then she leapt, like a great hunting cat bringing down a doomed herd animal, bearing the Wirn down into the muck. The audience shouted with glee.
Gavin's mind reeled. He was now fighting on two different planes, desperately defending himself from the physical attacks of his foes while struggling to avoid being engulfed by the Wirn's tainted power. Their magic was hard for him to grasp, like blindly groping for slippery fish in dark waters, yet he stubbornly kept on. He could feel their power nibbling at his own, warping his patterns, and he sought desperately to take control before they devoured his magic and turned it against him. The more he sensed it, the more it reminded him of the mad Manticore he had fought against in Camp Valorous, which had assaulted his mind with abhorrent images and corrupt impulses, turning his thoughts against him. He remembered sensing something behind the Manticore's madness, and wondered what he would find at the heart of it all.
"NOOO!" shrieked the Wirn, becoming more frenzied as he gained the upper hand. They drove Gavin to his knees with a storm of desperate, powerful blows. The Wirn assaulted him with their magic as well, blistering his skin, but they could not turn enough of his own power against him and he shrugged off their spells. He tried to grasp what they were doing, make sense of the patterns. He knew that their power was somehow warping his own and turning it against him. And then, quite suddenly, he had a moment of insight, pure and clear, into the nature of their magic. He channelled...
The Wirn were using a form of enchantment that linked their minds, allowing them to fight with perfect coordination. His new understanding allowed him to read their patterns. He found the pattern of the spell to be remarkably similar to that used by Gladiators and soldiers of the Domains to organize, albeit tainted. He followed the pattern quickly, joining their mind-link and attacking them through it. A Gladiator would have simply dropped the spell and resisted his attack, but the Wirn relied on their ability to devour and twist the magic of others and lacked the control of the Gifted. They reeled under his assault, staggering back. The tables were turned and they could not defend themselves against the Gladiator now. As he attacked he sensed another presence on the link, something vast and primal, that reminded him of his encounter with the Manticore. He tried to make sense of this thing; he sensed an overwhelming hunger that could never be satisfied, but it was like staring into the sun. He had seen enough; he knew the Wirn had no true magic of their own. He righted himself and wove his power.
It was easy enough. As exiles outside of the tainted lands, his opponent's connection to the source of their power was tenuous at best. The most difficult part now was overcoming the revulsion he felt. With a supreme effort of will, he held his nausea at bay. He did not want to lose, to fail Sadira, and he did not want the Wirn to feed his magic to that thing, that hunger, he had sensed. Slowly, he unravelled the strands of the spell-weave that connected them to their power. His magic twisted theirs, or rather from Gavin's perspective he removed the taint, purifying the pattern. The hungry presence faded as he did so; he had sundered the Wirn f
rom their dark communion. The Wirn, shocked, cut off from the voice of their "God", which they had carried all their lives, even in exile, dropped their weapons and began to scream and claw at their faces. The presence of the Weerde, which they had felt all their lives, was gone and they were alone in the lands of the Chosen. Without the Weerde, they had no magic.
Sadira's opponent had stopped his struggle under the muck, choked and drowned even before Gavin disrupted the Wirn's magic. She let go of him with reluctance, awakened to the rest of the fight by the keening of the other two. She spitefully slammed one of her blades into the drowned corpse, just to be sure, feeling the pleasure of vengeful conquest as blood bubbled up from the muck. Then she stood, gathering her fell weapons, cloaking herself in hatred, and stalked toward her remaining foes.
As he stopped channelling, Gavin felt as if he had awakened from a drugged haze. He needed time to process what he had sensed. The Wirn devoured magic like a vampire drinks blood, warping it and twisting it to their own purposes as they did so. But some of the power they absorbed went elsewhere. Images and alien sights fluttered through his mind. He heard the twin shrieks of his opponents, louder and louder, and felt the grim pain of his own wounds, an anchor to reality. He could barely lift his shield, but the Wirn were frozen in place.
"Abomination, monster, Lost One, what have you done? We have lost the Weerde!" sobbed the female of the pair before despair, absolute and overwhelming, ate away the last of her reason. He thought he saw tears in those alien eyes. Her weapon, so recently poised to taste his flesh, was now sagging, limp in her grasp. Her male comrade just stood immobile at her side, his terrible black eyes set in a sightless expression of horror and loss, fingers digging into his own flesh; his moan of despair was chilling. The Wirn seemed to wither, cut off now from the power that sustained them. Neither of them moved as Sadira closed. They whimpered, cried, and shrieked, held captive by their own private horror. Gavin just stared at them dumbly, aware of the profound suffering on their alien faces. He pitied them then, briefly, for he realized that he had severed them from something that was as beautiful to them as it was aberrant to him. Turning away, he looked to Sadira approaching, her face alight with righteous wrath. She was cruel as she ended them, and the crowd shouted in approval, but Gavin could sense the relief of the Wirn as Sadira destroyed their bodies.
-----o
Gavin did not rest easy that night; what he had seen in the minds of the Wirn disturbed him deeply. As creatures born of the taint of the Reckoning the Wirn saw any attempt to cure the lasting effects of wild magic and return the world to its old state as absolutely evil. They worshipped the taint of the Reckoning and drew their power from communing with it as if it were somehow alive. They ate magic, twisting it to their own purposes, and feeding their hungry "god", the Weerde. Perhaps if they twisted enough magic the Weerde would awaken and walk the world, a living avatar of their power. The Chosen and the Gifted of the Domains, who sought to undo the damage of the Reckoning were seen as corrupters, the Lost Ones. In the eyes of the Wirn, they were the tainted ones.
The name Lost Ones, however, implied that there were some Gifted who were not lost in the eyes of the Wirn. Gavin wondered if some of the Gifted worked alongside the Wirn, using their magic to feed this "Weerde". It was a dark thought. The idea of rogue Gifted, true Heretics, who had absolute freedom to develop and use their magic as they willed, and they used it to help the Wirn, seeking to destroy the Domains and subvert nature itself was quite disturbing. It challenged his views on the harshness of the laws that governed magic.
Alien thoughts haunted him and he dreamt of a heresy, Manticores, and the taunting face of Valaran diVolcanus.
Chapter Thirty-One: Laurels and Thorns
1144/11/24 AR, Scorpion's Oasis. Faction Score: Reds 3348 points, Blues 3262 points
"All the glory in the world couldn't fill a cup." Chosen Marius*
As their final match in Scorpion's Oasis approached, Gavin felt a mixture of sorrow and unease. He and Sadira would soon be parted. She was joining the Faction Games in Brightsand Halls as one of Chosen Giselle's handpicked fighters. It was a great honour, and he was happy for Sadira; this had been her life's desire. But being separated from her was going to be painful for him, and he knew she felt the same. This is what they had to do though; nothing could change that.
His encounter with the Wirn had brought back his nightmares. Diving into their collective unconscious, and encountering the Weerde, had given him a fresh perspective on the horrors that the Gifted and other magical beings were capable of perpetrating. He had always seen magic as a tool, not inherently good or evil, but the powers of the Wirn were warped and vile and they sought to bring about another Reckoning. Worse yet, he had a feeling that some of the Gifted were helping them. This revelation had shaken him to the core. Perhaps the laws of the Domains were needed after all. Perhaps magic was a great danger, and the arena was truly the only way to weed out the Gifted who were tainted and corrupt. He could no longer say no to this view with the absolute certainty he had once felt. He could see both sides now.
Perhaps the strange magic of the noble Heretic, Olek Agvarson, could have given birth to a second Reckoning. Perhaps he would have ended up as a slave to the Weerde or even a willing accomplice. Maybe his brutal execution at Gavin's hands truly was for the greater good. Who knows what poor Olek could have become. The thought of this made him uneasy.
Sadira was not the only person he was losing. His friends, the only family he had ever had, were splitting up. He had hoped, vainly, foolishly, but nobly, that they would all be invited to join Sadira at Brightsand Halls, if not as a one of the Chosen's personal fighters, then as members of the Red Faction that fought in the city's arena. This hope had been dashed on the rocks; despite the team's superb performance at the Oasis, only Sadira and Karmal had been invited to Brightsand Halls. Vintia was staying at the Oasis. Ravius was being coy about his plans. Gavin was unsure of his own future now. Perhaps he would take Sax up on his offer and venture into the North. He could seek his fortune in the Free Leagues and meet with the reclusive smith who had created his spear. Although he had given Sadira his word that he would try to win his way back to her side, and would do his utmost to see it through, he did not have much hope.
In truth Gavin was no longer even sure he wanted to be a Gladiator. He had chosen this path because of his love for magic and his desire to live free, rebelling at the idea of becoming a vassal, being cut off from some part of his powers. He was uncertain if he had ever really believed he could become a Chosen, or now, even if he wanted to become one. Initially, the position meant the achievement of freedom, but after seeing inside the minds of some of the enemies of the Domains, both within and without, he was no longer sure he was up to the challenge.
The best part of his life, his time with Sadira, was being taken away. The Chosen had summoned his lover, called her to a lofty position, and the two of them were powerless to resist. In reality, Gavin really did not even wish to interfere. He had come to realize that he could ruin Sadira's future, using her love for him to drag her down and thwart her destiny, and he did not want to be in a position where he would be tempted to do such a thing. Occasionally, he wished he had been born in a land far away, another time with different circumstances. He realized that this was a self-indulgent thought, but he could not help it.
-----o
For her part, Sadira felt frustration. She preferred to confront her problems directly, to use her limitless energy, iron will, or sheer force of personality to batter down any obstacle that she came up against. She loved meeting a challenge head on, blades drawn, but it seemed that few of her new difficulties could be confronted in this way anymore. She needed patience now.
Chosen Giselle had come to Scorpion's Oasis just after her match with the Wirn. Her arrival was first heralded by whispered rumours which quickly set everyone in the town to speculation. Sadira did not quite understand the distinction between Chosen Giselle secretly attend
ing a party, and arriving in an official capacity, but she was quite aware of the woman's desire to make a grand entrance this time. An army of skilled vassals and expert servants followed in the wake of the rumours, opening up the Chosen's impressive palace in the Oasis and making all the required arrangements for her stay. It seemed a little ostentatious to Sadira, but she realized that in some sense this was being done because of her; she did say to Giselle that she wanted to come to her in glory, after all.
Next, the Chosen herself travelled to the city in a stately procession that had taken an entire day to cover the short distance between Brightsand Halls and the Oasis. She had entered the city in a golden war chariot, dressed in her fighting gear from her time as a Gladiatrix. Sadira later heard that the eager crowds had strewn rose petals along the path for Giselle, a breathtaking extravagance in a desert land where such flowers had to be grown with magic. Sadira had decided not to watch, preferring to train with her team instead. She would have plenty of time for Giselle in the months ahead but only a precious few days left with her friends. She would miss them all.
Chosen Giselle sent a request upon arriving, asking that Sadira attend her at her palace, along with Karmal, on the second evening after her entrance into the town. It was pleasantly worded, sent in a magically sealed perfumed envelope, but even the most flippant of requests from a Chosen is like a general's command, and Sadira did not really think it wise to antagonize her, much as she wished to. Karmal was ecstatic; she knew she was going to Brightsand Halls already, but an invitation from the Chosen was a sign that she would join Sadira as one of the Chosen's favoured fighters.
The two Gladiatrices were given a royal welcome by the Chosen Giselle herself. Sadira found the woman who would soon be her patron much more personable this time. They spent the afternoon in private conversation about the arena and Brightsand Halls. It was a dream come true for Sadira, who had idolized the graceful Chosen in her youth, but made bittersweet by Gavin's absence. Later Giselle offered, personally, to advance her training in the master levels of war-dance. The offer was made over dinner in front of several important personages, a public overture that brought Sadira tremendous honour. She could see envy in the eyes of many seated there, including her friend Karmal and her sometime teacher Tiber. Part of her wanted to refuse; she wanted to enjoy what time she had left with Gavin before they parted, but she did not, and much of her time in those last days at Scorpion's Oasis were spent training with the Chosen.
Bloodlust: A Gladiator's Tale Page 49
