by Reaves, Troy
Father Wallin drew the attention of all the people now present with a booming announcement once the adversaries had settled into their appointed positions. “Now that we are all here, the rules of engagement are as follows!" Father Wallin turned to face the combatants, shouting over the heads of the acolytes below. "First and foremost, this is not a combat to the death! Any combatants who draw blood are required to allow for submission by their foe. Those participants who are wounded must acknowledge their wound and either submit or continue in the melee at their discretion. Those sustaining wounds that draw blood should bring their weapon to their chest before reengaging. Those who determine their wounds are too severe to continue will immediately drop their weapons and proceed to the nearest of the priests that are scattered throughout the arena for healing. The aforementioned priests will collect anyone unable to do so. Any combatants that are knocked to their backs should use proper judgment and leave the combat area if they would not reasonably be able to regain their feet. Once again, you will indicate submission by disarming yourself. Master Firebeard has volunteered his services for evacuation of those combatants rendered unconscious." Father Wallin took a moment to acknowledge the giant smith before continuing to address the waiting combatants. "Use of missile weapons or long range channeling of any kind is strictly forbidden and will result in a forfeiture of payment to those being compensated for their participation. If I find it necessary to disarm or render unconscious any participants, all combat will immediately come to a halt and the offender or offenders will be jailed. Divine powers will be brought to bear without hesitation against anyone choosing to ignore these rules. The acolytes are encouraged to channel divine powers for defense or healing at their discretion and within the limitations of the aforementioned rules. Additional coin has been allotted to reward any hired warriors for exemplary acts of teamwork, and restoring your allies in the arena to combat is encouraged. Please acknowledge your understanding of these rules with a bow, and after a short blessing, we will begin."
The participants bowed as instructed, and a hush fell over the audience as Father Wallin blessed all those assembled. The crowds of people filling the stands sat quietly as coins changed hands, wagering on all manner of possibilities. Who would fall first? Odds were high that one of the acolytes would be mortally wounded while facing such large numbers, and even Boremac was tempted to wager on the strength of that bet. He scribbled a note to one of the arena’s turf accountants, placing a significant sum against the staff-wielding sister. There were few among the onlookers that thought she would survive, let alone get out of the melee without injury. The strength of the two acolytes was known to most of the common residents of Nactium, though Gregor was a complete unknown. The rogue weighted his wager against Sister Noria with a vote of victory for Gregor. The odds makers may not have known his skills, but Boremac had little doubt that the sword wielder would be the last man standing, once the day was done. He recognized the two stave wielders opposing the trio as well, though he had never encountered a pair of the priests before. Their staves gave their affiliation away to one trained in observation. Boremac could not imagine why two brothers of the Order of the Crimson Night would even be here. Perhaps they had come at the invitation of the priest who was overseeing the event. Additional healers would have been welcomed, Boremac reasoned, and he was certain their skills would be necessary against the blade Gregor possessed. They would be the ones to watch.
The two robed figures facing the acolytes had not escaped Master Firebeard's notice. He was impressed with the craftsmanship of their chosen weapons, though they seemed ill suited to priests, and the smith could not imagine why wizards would have numbered among the challengers. The alloy that composed their weapons was not readily discernible at this distance, but Master Firebeard made a mental note to speak with the two men after the melee. It was time to get ready for his part of the event, and Master Firebeard had no doubt he would be busy. Many of the weapons and armor on the field were his work, and Gregor was certain to give the smith much repair work after proving his worth.
He had a fine blade, and was well trained in the martial arts, and yet still he was terrified. It was Sister Noria who took the lead in the trio, instructing her companions to spread out. "Allow enough space for your weapons to swing free. I should be able to protect your backs, so stay close to mine. Remember, they are only men." Sister Noria snickered in spite of the dire situation they faced. "Brother Findal, strike their heads and helmets, but remember to pull your strength. We only want to knock them out, not crush their skulls. Short measured strokes, and for all that is good and pure, do not over-extend. That has always been your weakness!"
Gregor felt strengthened by her faith in their abilities. Her rapid instruction to him bolstered his own faith. "Gregor, remember the shield, and wound the shoulders of your attackers when you can. Disarm their weapon arm and focus on the softer targets. The ones that carry tower shields will no doubt cause you the most trouble, so move away from them to allow Brother Findal or myself to dispatch them. Keep moving in a circle, and do not try to take more than two at once. Ready, and go!"
The trio spaced out as planned, and waited for the twenty warriors to make the first move. The wait was brief. The opposing forces split into three groups of six, taking up position around the three acolytes. It appeared there had been some planning on their part as well, and the group facing Sister Noria moved in first, rapidly closing the space between their weapons and her staff. This was their first mistake. Sister Noria drove the first ones rushing toward her to their knees with rapid twists of her staff. A groan of sympathy escaped Brother Findal, even as he neatly knocked out the two kneeling figures. "That was most unkind, Sister Noria. I know the fury of that strike all too well. Better they are unconscious, I think."
The attackers were a bit more cautious as they more fully took the measure of the acolytes. The men and women still moving toward Sister Noria gestured to the other warriors facing Gregor and Brother Findal. Moments later, the air was filled with the howls of rushing warriors. They must have determined that attacking the holy warriors one at a time was not going to work, and a full attack was the best course of action. This was their second mistake.
Sister Noria barked orders to her brothers, as the men and women encircled them. 'Spread out! Brother Findal, heads! Master Gregor, weapon-bearing shoulders, and keep moving!"
Sister Noria fought with a grace Gregor had never witnessed, and the stands surrounding the arena swelled with the sound of the audience drawing a deep breath as one. She used the staff as an extension of herself, and vaulted behind the remaining four opponents who were charging where she had just been. The ripple of hesitation she caused with this maneuver coursed through all the remaining foes, giving Gregor and Brother Findal the opportunity they needed to strike.
Brother Findal lacked Sister Noria's grace and style, but he more than made up for it with sheer strength. Three of the six that charged him fell to rapid strikes that knocked them backward. Weapons littered the ground from those that Master Firebeard had already carried away, and priests ran out to tend other wounded and unconscious attackers as the melee charged through the inside of the arena. While the other two acolytes were handling their respective groups, Gregor discovered the gift bestowed by his sword; true unhindered penetration. Gregor parried the weapon strikes brought against him, and used the shield to block his undefended side, searching for opportunities to strike. The aggressive pursuers were shocked as Gregor cut the handle of an attacker's mace in half while deflecting the blow of another attacker's great sword. Gregor was overwhelmed, and almost struck down, as he looked at the remaining pieces of the handle in the large man's hand. A great gasp issued from the crowd in the arena, as once more, all eyes seemed to focus on Gregor. He had no time to feel the weight of their attention. The woman wielding the sword that narrowly missed him had lost her footing as the sword completed its arc, and she began to fall toward him. Gregor pointed his sword at her reflexive
ly. The black blade of his weapon passed through her chain mail armor at the shoulder, cutting into her, as momentum carried her forward. Her body temporarily blocked the remaining attackers, and Gregor pushed her off the blade with his shield. Two of his three remaining foes fled as she dropped her weapon and fell to her knees. Bile rose into Gregor's throat as blood streamed through the fingers of the hand his victim had brought up, covering her wound. A pool of blood formed around her, as the priests hurried to her side, preparing regenerative prayers even as they ran across the ground to aid her. The blade had gone all the way through, leaving a large gouge in her shoulder at the front, and a clean tear also pouring out blood at the back. None of the assembled witnesses had ever seen a wounding such as this.
Brother Findal was still engaged in a desperate melee with one seasoned attacker wielding a club and heavy shield. The two men exchanged blows with fevered intensity, each trying to undo the other with the heavy strikes. Sister Nadia had borne her attackers to the ground, delivering stunning blows to each as they struck the hard dirt. She swiftly brought her staff to bear on Brother Findal’s final opponent as her incapacitated victims were dragged out of the arena. Even as she disarmed Brother Findal's attacker she noted that two of the mercenaries who had been advancing toward Brother Findal were now focusing on rapidly shortening the distance between Gregor and themselves. The heavily armored warriors moved to join the remaining opponent already advancing on Gregor. Three hardened fighters formed up as one, creating a wall of tower shields with just room enough between them for the use of their deadly blades, intent upon forcing the young warrior to submit.
Gregor would not submit. He knew he had to end the contest before someone was killed. Gregor let his own shield fall from his hand as he lowered himself into a sprinter's stance. His now freed fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword as he launched himself across the distance between himself and the three men approaching him. There was a pause as if time had stopped. Every person in the arena seemed to be holding their collective breath as they wondered what he could possibly be thinking. They would have been even more astounded if they knew the truth of the matter. Gregor was not thinking at all but acting as he had been trained, and on a much deeper level, he was praying to the power that had saved him so long ago.
Reflexes stopped Gregor short with the mercenaries just within reach of his blade. He pivoted on the tip of his boot with the art of a trained dancer as his blade cut neatly across the tops of the tower shields just at the level of the necks of the men bent on his defeat. Each man in his turn dropped his sword and the remains of their shields, and knelt before Gregor in submission to his prowess. The men then rose as one and lifted their heads to the sky before nodding to Gregor. All three of them bore an open cut that trickled blood down their throats. Gregor bowed his head before genuflecting briefly to honor the combatants that had all performed so well in the rite of combat. The acolytes assumed the trial was over. They were wrong.
***
Boremac watched the melee with interest. Despite his loss when Sister Nadia had not been overcome, the contest held his attention until the last. The rogue would make a healthy donation to the temple when the coins were counted after his finder's fee was taken. Unlike the rest of the audience who were following Gregor's every move, Boremac kept his eyes on the robed figures he had noted earlier. Their movements had escaped notice once the fighting had begun in earnest and the rogue doubted anyone else was paying any attention as the pair positioned themselves behind the large boulder near where Father Wallin perched. He knew shadowy tactics better than anyone, and those two were definitely up to something.
***
Master Firebeard had a secret. He had planned on returning the blade he could not repair to Gregor when this last test was concluded. That wasn't the secret though and the large man practically hopped from one foot to the other with excitement as the last combatants knelt before Gregor. The smith had been commissioned several weeks ago, in anticipation of this final test, to fashion the armor Gregor would wear when knighted. The smith had scoffed at the head priest when Father Oregeth had asked him what payment would be required. “You cannot price the honor bestowed upon me with this commission, good Father. The sweat of this labor is given of love and respect for the man that will wear it and the God that he serves.” The master smith would hear no more talk of payment from the priest at the time and had shooed him out of the shop with a smile while the contest progressed. Here in the arena, Master Firebeard had imagined sunlight glinting off the armor befitting the knight that Gregor would soon become. The twinkle few had ever seen in the smithy's eyes turned into fire brighter than his hair when he was roused from his reverie. His services were still needed within the fighting grounds.
Priests bustled around the arena, directing carts that were collecting the unconscious and tending the wounded. Gregor took in the remnants of the battle, glad that the trial was ended and no one had been mortally wounded. Shock froze him as a robed figure mounted the great boulder where Father Wallin stood. He only had time to take in the danger as the metal staff the man held glowed with a deep crimson light and swept toward the back of Father Wallin's skull. The Father must have seen the fear etched in Gregor's features and he reflexively turned to meet the unseen threat. Father Wallin's flail wrapped around the glowing staff with practiced skill, but his opponent had obviously anticipated the countering maneuver. The staff was pulled away from the priest even as the light surrounding it brightened. The balls and attaching chains of Father Wallin's flail took the brightened glow of the staff they had trapped. Moments later Father Wallin's weapon exploded, throwing him off his perch. The Father's face was covered in weeping wounds, and holes in his chain mail emanated tendrils of smoke where he lay. Brother Findal and Sister Nadia ran quickly to tend their fallen teacher. They dropped to his side, divine light enveloping their hands as they prayed over him. It was all the opportunity the other robed assailant needed as he moved to flank them. His staff was glowing with the same queer crimson light as he touched the unprotected heads of the distracted acolytes almost gently. The effect was immediate as the pair of healers fell at Father Wallin's side, the healing light extinguished even before they came to rest.
Any fear or doubt Gregor had entertained once the strange mages had revealed themselves was gone. Gregor was a fury, moving with purpose toward the attackers, released from his stupor by the assault. The sun’s radiance began to diminish as the priest who struck Father Wallin began to speak rapid, brutal words, raising a hand toward Gregor. “Move further one step and their souls will weigh on yours alone. There is no need for them to die, knave. Give us the broken blade and we will spare them.”
The fledgling holy warrior answered with peace and purpose, seemingly startling both the individuals he now addressed. “The God of Light protects this arena from power-wielders such as you. Any magics you hope to use to escape will unravel even as you think of them. Your threats are in vain. I do not have the blade and would not give it to you if I did. These servants I call kin are all servants to the God of Light as am I, and their souls will be called at his time, and be at peace when they are. There will be no such peace for the two of you. Agony you cannot imagine will be yours to bear for all eternity once I separate your tainted souls from your bodies. Kill them if you must, but know that they are all that stand between you and the bite of my blade.”
The robed figure on the boulder hesitated, absorbing Gregor's words. His mouth formed a sardonic grin, but it was not the man who felled Father Wallin that broke the silence. The silent smith who watched as the exchange unfolded could hold his tongue no longer. “Gregor, they must be spared! I have the broken blade with me now and it is of no use to anyone!” Firebeard's voice trembled with anguish. “Let these fiends take what they have come for and be gone. I cannot bear the weight of the loss of these innocent souls if I have the power to prevent it.”
“So there is wisdom here after all.” The priest turned to addres
s Firebeard directly. “Bring me the blade and they shall be spared.” He turned to sweep his eyes around the arena. “All the other priests will leave now, or the innocent within these great walls will know the fury of the Abyss. Come to me with the blade in your hands." Master Firebeard held out the blade and walked toward the man at the stone. Gregor nodded to the priests scattered throughout the arena and the healers moved out of the center ring through the great doors that had admitted the challengers. The holy warrior's hands tightened on his black sword as the master smith drew near the boulder. His body tensed in preparation to strike down the priest near the bodies of his fallen companions. No one was prepared for what happened next, except Boremac.
The priest watched the large man approach as he was instructed. The plan had worked perfectly and his Master would be pleased. “The people assembled now know the strength we wield. You owe your lives to this humble servant, and you should enjoy each breath you draw from this day. The end is com..." Blood spouted from a ragged hole that appeared in the man's throat, cutting his words short. A long handle protruded from the back of his neck where the balanced dagger had entered. Boremac broke the silence with his words to his brothers and sisters of the Temple that surrounded them, compelled to explain his actions." Someone had to do something. That man was really starting to chafe me."
The remaining priest’s reaction was immediate." So the choice is death!" His body drew into the robes the figure wore and his staff disappeared with it. All that remained was a pile of cloth near the three unconscious bodies. The mortally wounded priest on the boulder knelt with his staff in his hand as he was suffused with crimson light that was so dark it appeared to be black. The sun's rays disappeared and the arena was dropped into twilight. Unlike his companion’s, this figure’s robes ignited, and the staff he held dripped and melted into a molten pool at his knees. A great column of fire burned at the top of the stone, giving birth to a terrible creature Gregor had never seen before.
