Bloodlust: A Gladiator's Tale (Domains of the Chosen Book One)

by C. P. D. Harris

  Gavin's wounds felt better within minutes as Mishka massaged and mended them using powerful magics. He murmured thanks to the quiet healer as he stood up, testing his leg. She smiled at him, but said nothing. She was not a talkative person, he had learned in his time training here, a trait they both shared.

  "Good as new," he said, smiling back. Mishka was not thoroughly convinced, knowing that the stoic nature of many Gladiators kept them from admitting their pain, and kept him still as she examined the wound as he moved his leg. After a few moments she nodded to him and glided away, disappearing again behind the wooden screen. He wondered what she did back there.

  "Well Ravius, are you ready to go?" Gavin looked to his friend.

  Ravius nodded. "Yes, I'd be happy to get going, little brother. I want to introduce you to a friend of mine before your fight." He did not mention the injury having learned better than to voice his concern to the prickly Gavin.

  "Let's be off then," responded Gavin. After the praise he had received for his last fight, his eagerness to prove himself had only increased. It was like the thrill of victory fed him, filling some void deep within, but leaving him ever hungry for more. He needed to win, to prove himself worthy. He put aside all thoughts about his failure to block the bolts, promising himself to do better next time, and moved to the entrance to the Dojo.

  As he reached the edge of the framed sand fighting ground, he turned gracefully and bowed low to Master Ironwall; the inscrutable dwarf was already facing him and mirrored Gavin's bow exactly. Ravius bowed a moment after, showing his respect as the two Gladiators gathered their belongings and left the Dojo.

  "Master, I shall see you tomorrow," called Gavin as he left, bowing again.

  "I hope so boy." His deeply hooded eyes met Gavin's. "Do not take this match lightly; a Death-match is always a serious affair... If you need to skip training for a few days afterwards I will not hold this against you, my student"

  -----o

  "A full Deathmatch… Impressive!" said Omodo, voice booming. Ravius's friend was an Armodon, a rhino-man, and he towered above Gavin. His large snout and thick horn made him look even bigger and more strange. Gavin had rarely seen an Armodon up close before, even in training, and found it hard to conceal his fascination. "It’s not against another Gladiator is it?"

  "No. The match is against a traitor, a Heretic actually... a man who tried to hide his Gift." Ravius broke in excitedly.

  Gavin was inwardly pleased that others could be excited on his behalf.... was this a taste of the life of a great Gladiator? "He chose trial by combat. I chose to make it a full Deathmatch. It seems unfair for him to risk everything without me risking something as well. I did not think the Deliberative would sanction the change. Deathmatches have fallen out of favour, but they approved it without comment."

  In the Domains all those who possess the Gift must become either Vassals or Gladiators, it having been decided after the Reckoning that the powers of the Gift were far too dangerous to allow anyone but the Chosen to practise them freely. The traitor in question had manifested his powers early in life, but his tribe had helped him avoid the tests until he was an adult. Officers of the Deliberative apparently discovered him as he was trying to escape the Domains into the wilds, defending himself against marauders with wild, illegal magic. Heretic was the word used to describe those who used magic without restraint, violating the Covenant, the most important laws of the Domains.

  Gavin's friend at the office of the registrar, the enthusiastic and efficient Quickling Sinti, had helped him set up this match; and it was approved due to his excellent performance in his last fight; his career was off to a good start.

  The traitor had chosen Trial by Combat, hoping that he could beat Gavin and thus keep his magic and his life. It was a foolish, desperate move, but Gavin could sympathize; he would not want to live if he could not keep his magic. That was why he had chosen to become a Gladiator.

  "I like your sense of fairness, friend Gavin," said the Armodon. "I look forward to getting to know you better after the match. Ravius has quite the celebration planned, if you are still up for it afterwards."

  "Way to be reassuring, little brother," said Ravius to Omodo, shaking his head. "Of course Gavin will make short work of this foolish Heretic. The traitor may have magic like us, but I doubt he knows how to hold a sword properly, much less fight like we can!"

  Omodo's relaxed attitude and familiar manner with Ravius soon disarmed Gavin and the three Gladiators exchanged rumours about Heretics, a favourite subject among all denizens of the Domains. Omodo insisted on watching the match so he could cheer for Gavin. Ravius was somewhat drunk when the three of them left the Quirky Quickling, no mean feat for a Gladiator whose regenerative powers would quickly neutralize any toxins. They had to guide him as they headed to the Pits for Gavin's match; with the talkative skirmisher stopping to pay his compliments to every woman he passed. It was a wonder he did not offend some proud Gladiatrix.

  "I'm just trying to get them to come cheer for you, little brother," said Ravius as they hurried him along.

  "Any support is good support," Omodo intoned, invoking an ancient fighter's maxim, with relish and reverence. The Gladiator friends of arena novices are often their most ardent supporters and loudest fans.

  Gavin felt more than ready to take on the heretic. This match would bring him great glory. He was sure it would be an important stepping stone on his path to becoming a champion. He would prove himself worthy.

  -----o

  Before the fight began the Heretic was led into the small arena in chains by a half dozen grey-robed Officers of the Deliberative. One of their grim number stepped into the centre of the fighting grounds, reading out the charges against the traitor from a long classical scroll. It was a lengthy address, formulaic and full of adjective-laden ceremonial condemnations. Gavin was not interested in the speech, but it did give him some extra time to prepare. Omodo and Ravius had already left to take their places in the stands, leaving him alone in the arming room.

  As he began to check the straps on his lion-headed breastplate, he noticed a slip of paper, a letter of some sort, sitting on one of the smooth stone benches in the far corner of the room. He frowned; the attendants were usually quite diligent about cleaning up after each fight. Curious as always, he moved to examine the letter. The seal looked official. His name was on the envelope.

  He set his spear down and picked up the letter, almost dropping it when he realized the seal was adorned with the scales of justice, heraldic device of the Deliberative. He checked the name on the envelope again, not wanting to be caught reading private material meant for the eyes of another, especially if the Deliberative was involved. As he did so, his finger brushed the seal and the red wax disintegrated in a burst of power. Apparently the seal was keyed to his mystical pattern; he read quickly, devouring the contents.

  Honoured Gladiator Gavin Orphanus

  The Deliberative thanks you for your service in this matter.

  The Heretic you are about to face must be defeated at all costs, but we would prefer the traditional appeal to the crowd if possible. The people must be allowed to show their will freely in dealing with this dangerous and wrong-headed man if possible. Their thumbs thrust downwards in condemnation will send a strong message to others of his kind, prompting them to seek the mercy of the Deliberative.

  This particular Heretic uses an aberrant, but powerful form of magic. His spells will be nothing like you have ever seen in your training. You will need to be on guard against his invocations early on, but do not fear; his powers may be strong, but they are also unpredictable and they tire him quickly. Endure his initial onslaught and you will surely beat him. He does not have any real combat training, so once you get past his magic, he will be at your mercy.

  Do your duty and you will be justly rewarded, Ordo Grevex, HOD.

  The attendant knocked as he finished, signalling Gavin. He read the letter once more and then walked quickly toward the Gladiator's en
trance. He was intent on the fight now, and did not even notice the letter disintegrating once it left his hands. The trumpet sounded and he broke unto a jog, ducking under the half-raised portcullis as he entered the arena.

  His opponent stood to one side of the arena, head held high despite his gauntness and tired appearance. The man's dark, defiant eyes never left the Grey-Robes, not even flickering toward Gavin. A neatly trimmed beard shot with grey covered the man's angular jaw. His thick black iron chains seemed to be far too large for his frail looking body. Gavin smirked, thinking that this supposedly dangerous heretic looked more than a little harmless as he turned raising his weapon to salute the audience. The man made Gavin look like a brute, towering and muscular, in comparison; If not for the letter's warning he'd have a hard time taking this skinny captive seriously.

  Gavin's brow furrowed as he realized that the stranger was covered in faded tattoos winding their way around his arms, his hairless head, and his spindly legs; northern tribal designs Gavin thought. Tattoos were temporary decorations to most of the Gifted; the regenerative powers of a Gladiator would reject the ink within a few days. The heretic's tattoos set Gavin on edge; were they a sign that the man had never trained his body to draw on his magic to regenerate or was this something else?

  "Do you accept that death may claim you, Gladiator?" The Officer of the Deliberative presiding over the fight addressed him from the gallery above, following the familiar formalities required for any Deathmatch.

  "I fear not death, only dishonour," Gavin responded. This was a traditional answer, his favourite during training, and it fell from his lips automatically. His voice rang out loud and confidant, augmented so that all could hear his reply.

  "The Heretic has chosen his path as well. If he survives, he will be allowed to live and will keep his magic. All is in order and will be displayed for public review," intoned the Officer, stepping back. "This Deathmatch is sanctioned!"

  The trumpet sounded again. As the sound died away, the runed restraints fell from the traitor. The man turned his eyes toward the Gladiator. Gavin met the stranger's gaze. He noticed that the heretic made no move to draw his own weapon. The traitor paused, utterly still, and yet somehow still in motion. A chill went down Gavin's spine as he realized that the man's tattoos were writhing, moving of their own accord. This was a form of magic he had never encountered. A small smile, half-snarl, appeared on the Heretic's face and his eyes seemed to glow as he channelled power.

  Gavin raised his shield and moved forward quickly, yet warily. He suddenly wished he had purchased a warding enchantment for his armour, something to better protect him against hostile spells. He had petulantly put it off, mostly because Ravius kept lecturing him about how to spend his victory coins. How foolish his behaviour seemed now.

  The traitor's body remained still, while his tattoos began to move faster, becoming more distinct against his pale skin. Gavin could feel the man channelling power but could not make out any pattern being woven for a spell. Perhaps the tattoos are the pattern, he thought. The point of the sword they had given the traitor remained stuck in the sand. The man opened his mouth, inky patterns descending from his head, waving back and forth in the air beside his mouth like midnight black snakes. Gavin tensed.

  "YOU SEND THIS PUP AGAINST ME?" The traitor's voice was impossibly loud. Gavin’s ears popped; he felt his bones vibrate. Even the audience winced a little in shock despite the barrier enchantments protecting them from its full force. "YOU SEND A CHILD TO DO YOUR UGLY DEEDS?"

  The traitor raised his hands and Gavin could feel the immense power of his magic, the very air seeming pregnant with the power at the gaunt man's command.

  "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!" This shocking boom of the traitor's wordless scream was accompanied by flailing black tattoo tentacles erupting from the man's arms and spiralling through the air toward Gavin. He blocked most of them with his lion-headed shield, hoping the Mithril would foil the unknown magic he faced.

  One of these whirling tentacles, a barbed scourge of inky blackness, brushed against the Gladiator's side. His skin flayed instantly and explosively under its caress, flesh twisting as if trying to escape from the rest of his body. Gavin sank to his knees with a grunt, only his extensive training keeping the pain and nausea from overwhelming him. The crowd gasped. The traitor shook his head disdainfully.

  "A DOG LIKE THIS CAN NEVER DEFEAT A FREE MAN!" the Heretic shouted at the crowd voice thundering. They jeered him, in return, calling him traitor and worse.

  "I am no dog, traitor!" growled Gavin in return, gritting his teeth as he willed himself to stand.

  "And yet here you are, performing for your master's approval!" The heretic, gestured theatrically to the audience and the Grey-Robes. In his other hand tattoos coalesced into an inky black ball which he tossed at Gavin. The Gladiator reacted by diving to one side.

  The projectile fragmented as it struck the sand, sending shards of darkness spraying in all directions. Several of these struck Gavin, causing the Gladiator's skin to twist and muscles to rupture with even the lightest touch. He cursed, rolling away from the next lethal projectile.

  "I am sorry that I have to kill you to win my freedom, Gladiator," said the Heretic, drawing power for a fresh assault as Gavin rolled to his feet. "I just want to be free. You were foolish to risk your life unnecessarily. I hope the crowd shows you mercy."

  "I'm not done yet," snarled Gavin. He was suffering from several horrific-looking wounds where the Heretic's strange spells had touched him. The pain was abominable, but his training had taught him to cope with such things; he could still move freely and he was not losing a great deal of blood. Perhaps the Heretic did not understand just how tough Gladiators were, having not benefited from the same mystical training that Gavin took for granted. His wounds were slowly closing of their own accord; he limped toward his foe, exaggerating his weakness.

  The man's eyes measured him. The crowd jeered and cheered. The Heretic raised his hands again, channelling power into a single tattoo which elongated and grew into a nightmarish appendage, a monstrous barbed whip of ink and magic. The Heretic swung this at the Gladiator, controlling yards of pulsing inky darkness with a flick of his wrist. Gavin ducked behind his shield, felt the impact, found himself knocked sprawling across the white sands by the brutal force of the blow. He rolled instinctively to the side after impact as the appendage smashed into the ground where he had come to rest.

  Gavin staggered to his feet, expecting another savage assault. He tensed, but the man did not attack. A true fighter would have taken advantage of Gavin's momentary weakness. Then he noticed a little drop of blood fall from the man's nose. Was the Heretic harming himself with the energies he used? The letter in Gavin's arming room did mention that the man would weaken quickly. The Heretic channelled again, glowing as he gathered immense power for his next attack. His writhing tattoos were forming into a more complex arcane pattern now.

  Gavin did not think he could withstand this next spell. He was close enough to charge now, and the traitor had committed to a big spell. Bad mistake, he thought. He grit his teeth against the pain in his side and surged forward channelling power into his own spells.

  His mental attacks glanced off the traitor's mystical defences, like arrows off a stout shield, but they distracted the man long enough for Gavin to get close. The Heretic was shocked at the Gladiator's speed and he realized he had misjudged.

  The Heretic bent every ounce of his defiant will into finishing his spell. Gavin pushed himself forward with the unyielding discipline of a trained athlete. The air seemed to ripple, as if it was ready to burst from the sheer amount of power flowing around the Heretic. Gavin felt the sand shift beneath his boots as he launched himself forward, heard the sounds of his own shouts mingle with those of his opponent, saw the man's eyes widen as he pounced.

  Gavin rammed into his opponent at full speed; the traitor, much thinner than the muscular Gladiator, fell back. His complex spell unravelled. Gavin bulled forw
ard relentlessly, bellowing a war-cry and slamming the Heretic into the hard stone wall with a second shove from his thick metallic shield.

  Gavin kept up the pressure after the impact, pinning the man against the wall with his shield. He could feel the man's bones grinding and snapping as he put all of his weight and strength into it. For all the Heretic's mystical power he lacked Gavin's physical conditioning and magic-enhanced strength; he was unable to free himself from this kind of close quarter assault.

  But before the Gladiator could fully triumph, black tattoo-tentacles felt their way around the edges of Gavin's shield. He felt the sickening touch of one of them on his leg, flaying the flesh of his calf to bloody ribbons. Shouting in pain and fury, Gavin thrust his spear over his shield plunging it into the struggling man's shoulder. The Heretic grunted, but did not scream, as the brutal barbed blade of the grim war-spear ripped through his flesh, rending muscle and breaking bone.

  The man's struggles grew feeble as blood fountained from the wound. His magic tattoos ceased writhing and faded. His fists battered uselessly against the Gladiator. Gavin could see the weariness in the traitor's desperate eyes, and yet the man refused to yield. The bladed edge of Gavin's shield was just underneath his opponent's chin; he doubted the Heretic even realized how close the lethal edge was to his neck.

  Gavin considered ending the man's life right then; despite the man's irritating bluster he'd shown great courage for someone who was obviously not trained to fight. Perhaps he deserved a quick and merciful end. He doubted the Heretic would appreciate the honour of being executed like a Gladiator. Yet the letter from the Deliberative had asked Gavin to seek the people's thumbs, the vaunted appeal to the crowd, if possible. The Gladiator had no desire to displease the Deliberative. They could make life very hard for him. He also had his own fame to consider; he did not want to risk disappointing his audience. He decided to seek the judgement of the spectators, who would never show mercy to a Heretic, and then execute the man.