Thunderbolts!
25
Magnolia’s gaze swept right over his. She turned her head to look again, but he turned away.
I can’t believe this!
The last three Riskers he would ever want to see again stood several feet away, and there was no mistaking them. Commander Shaw, the father, was a lean but well-knit man with firm, angular features and a strong jaw. His long brown hair had begun to gray, and his eyes could pierce stone.
Dirklen and Magnolia were twins, each with flowing locks of wavy blond hair and eyes like a bright-blue sky. They stood out in their black armor and carried an air of command about them.
The last time Grey Cloak had seen Commander Shaw, he’d been killed in Monarch City. And Grey Cloak had gotten the upper hand on Dirklen and Magnolia and shoved them through the Time Mural into the world called Bish. He’d thought he’d rid himself of his nemeses forever, yet there they were, in the flesh, but a decade younger than the last time he’d seen them.
He counted on his fingers. The twins should only be a few years older than he was now. He wasn’t exactly sure. Either way, they hadn’t seen him in the better part of a decade.
I can’t let them see my face. It’s too much of a risk, and Magnolia’s big blue eyes are always probing.
Grey Cloak moved slowly down the row. A firm hand planted itself on his knee and pushed him down.
“Why, Grey Cloak, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Tula said. She wore a hooded cloak that covered her eyes and a woolen gray scarf wrapped around her neck. “What’s the hurry? You’ll miss the show.”
“I don’t have time to explain. I need to move elsewhere.”
She hooked his arm and held him fast with surprising strength. “I wouldn’t go anywhere. They’re watching you.”
He fought the urge to turn. “Who’s watching me?”
“The boy and the girl. Well, mostly the girl. She seems very preoccupied with… everything.” Tula leaned on his shoulder. “Put your arm around me. Make it look like you’re keeping me warm.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Oh, comfort an old woman, will you?”
He gave her an uncomfortable look but put his arm around her waist. “How old are you?”
“Old enough to be your mother.”
“More like my grandmother.”
Tula elbowed him. “You should know better than to tease a woman about her age. That’s a fine way to show your gratitude.”
He arched a brow. “Gratitude for what?”
“Need you ask?” Tula gave him a disappointed look. “Who do you think put the telepathy potion in Hercullon’s water?”
“You did that? How? We had the potion.”
“No, you thought you had the potion. I kept it. I knew Hercullon wouldn’t budge and consume a magic potion. He’d cut off his sword arm first.” She smiled. “It wouldn’t be the first time a barbarian has done that.”
Grey Cloak smirked. “You’re a clever fox. I’ll give you that. No wonder those guards were already unconscious. Why did you do it?”
“I might be a thief, but I like to be on the right side of matters. I don’t want to see Ice Vale fall any more than you do. That’s bad for everyone. So, I helped see things along.”
“I guess we’re even,” he said.
“Is that so?”
“Certainly, we freed you, and you repaid us.” He moved his hand away from her back. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think this is where we part ways. The farther I get from prying eyes, the better.”
She nodded. “If you say so. But it’s going to appear odd that you give up your seat right before the battle begins.”
“I’ll take my chances. Besides, shouldn’t you be avoiding Sandal’s prying eyes? After all, you tried to steal her jewels.”
“True.” Tula glanced behind her. “But I think she’s more preoccupied with you than me.”
The crowd came to their feet when the arena master entered the ring. He climbed to the top of the highest rock and spread his arms.
“Go now,” she ordered. “They’re making introductions.”
“No need to tell me twice.” Grey Cloak stooped and shoved his way through the surging crowd and up the aisles. He moved to the upper-level seats and found a spot out of sight from Hercullon’s box and his guests. He took a breath. “Does it ever get easy?”
Streak snaked his head out a hair. “I don’t think so. Oh, look, dragons. We really are in trouble, aren’t we?”
“I don’t think we could live any other way.”
The arena master pushed his arms downward. He was a robust man, more fat than muscle, wearing woolen robes dyed the color of blood and trimmed with animal fur. He spoke with a strong voice that carried from the bottom level all the way to the top and around the ring. The crowd in the stands didn’t hesitate to repeat what he said. “Today marks the passing of the Five. Five years ago, our champion, Hercullon Culpepper, battled Zulamax the Dreadful to a bitter but victorious end!”
The crowd erupted in a chorus of thunderous cheers. They pumped their fists in the air, screaming and shouting at the top of their lungs. “Hercullon! Hercullon! Hercullon!”
Hercullon stood, thrust his arm in the air, and resumed his seat.
The hard-eyed Wolves from the Rocks remained seated, like a pack of wolves waiting for their alpha to tell them to attack.
“Today,” the arena master said, “a new era is in the fold. The Wolves from the Rocks have a new champion, Mad Wolf the Berserker!”
Without hesitation the people of Ice Vale booed, hissed, and gave their thumbs down.
The arena master lifted his voice. “But Ice Vale has a new champion of its own. A young warrior of great renown whom we’ve come to fondly know as the White Ice Slayer!”
Cheers, whistles, and applause filled the stadium.
“Champions!” the arena master called out. “Come forth! Let the Contest begin!”
26
Dyphestive couldn’t believe his ears. The crowd roared like a crashing waterfall. He stood at the gate, stripped down to his trousers, his mask in hand, and watched the metal door split open. He took a deep breath.
One step at a time, he wandered toward the opening. The two guardians posted at the gate gazed upon him.
“Victory or death,” one said.
“You’re the champion of us all,” said the other.
Holding the mask in his crushing grip, he lifted it before his face and stared into its haunting eyes. “I have a feeling I’m going to need Iron Bones today.” He pulled the mask over his head and adjusted it. A coldness fell over his body. He walked into the sunlight and stood before the howling crowd.
“I give you your champion, people of Ice Vale!” the arena master hollered. “He slays giants, ettins, some say he even slays dragons! The future lies in his fists. Our lives rest on his broad shoulders. Will you be victorious, White Ice Slayer?”
Dyphestive moved deeper into the arena and climbed the rocks piled on the south end. He didn’t see any sign of Mad Wolf, but Hercullon, his family, and his guests sat in the box in the stands behind him. He noted Commander Shaw, Dirklen, and Magnolia, who looked upon him with mild amusement. He saw no sign of Grey Cloak.
The arena master lifted his arms high and dropped them suddenly, quieting the crowd. “I see your eyes searching the gate, waiting to see the challenger, a warrior of great renown in the Rocks, a fighter that has never failed. Where are you, Mad Wolf the Berserker?”
People leaned over the arena wall, on one another’s backs and shoulders, craning their necks toward the northern entrance. Silence fell over the stadium.
The grinding of metal hinges sounded as the guardians pulled the north gate open. They remained safely on the other side of the gate facing the shadows in the tunnel. Mad Wolf the Berserker eased out of the tunnel. The silence was broken by the whispers and gasps of the crowd as their jaws dropped.
Mad Wolf stood every bit of seven feet tall, broad shouldered and d
eep chested. The seasoned man wore a long fur cloak with wolves’ heads on the shoulders and leather bracers. He had nasty pink scars on his albino skin. His wild hair, covering his ears and stopping at his neck, was as black as coal. His big eyes were like wildfires. His flat nose flared. Cords of muscles twitched in his arms and legs as he moved like a great cat and stood upon the icy rocks in bare feet.
The Wolves from the Rocks started to chant and cheer as Mad Wolf removed his cloak and slung it to the ground. He crouched down, lifted his face to the sky, and bayed like a wolf. His brethren joined him. The sound grew louder, and the dragons roared in return.
Dyphestive glanced back at Hercullon. The man’s brow furrowed, and his fists clenched the arms of his chair. He gave the older barbarian a nod and remembered what the king had taught him.
Weapons lay among the rocks, hidden and buried in the dirt, covered by the snow. They were made of stone, wood, and crude metal. In many cases, Hercullon had been forced to kill a man by crushing his neck with his bare hands. No one could leave without the other being dead.
The arena master announced, “Let the contest begin!” He jumped down from the rocks, rolled forward, bounced to his feet, and ran inside the southern chamber tunnel.
The gates closed and were secured with chains, leaving Dyphestive and Mad Wolf the Berserker alone in the arena.
Dyphestive clenched and relaxed his fingers, waiting. Let the barbarian come to me.
Mad Wolf hopped down from his perch on the rocks and disappeared among the heaps of stone. He howled, and his voice echoed throughout the stadium.
Dyphestive searched the grounds from behind his mask. He saw his frosty breath before his eyes. Even if the barbarian was a natural, he found it hard to believe the man could kill him with his bare hands. He knew it would take more than that to defeat him. He would need a weapon of some sort.
The crowd gasped and pointed at Mad Wolf whenever he appeared in the odd channels made from the rocks below. Dyphestive heard digging and more savage grunts and howls coming from the savage man.
“Booo!” the people screamed. “Booo!”
Someone threw an ice ball at Dyphestive and hit him in the side of the face. “Get down there and fight!”
The citizens of Ice Vale came unhinged. They screamed and shouted at the top of their lungs and launched more ice balls at Dyphestive. He brushed himself off.
Mad Wolf climbed up the rock behind him and pounced on his back. The savage put him in a headlock, drove him to his knees, and squeezed his head like a melon.
The barbarians came to their feet, howling like savages.
27
Grey Cloak couldn’t believe his eyes. Mad Wolf scrambled up the rocks like he’d been fired from a crossbow. Both men tumbled off the stone, hit the ground, and vanished behind the rocks.
Anvils!
“That’s one big man,” Streak commented. “I’ve never seen a man so large move so fast before. Dyphestive is slow by comparison.”
“Don’t say that.” Grey Cloak pushed his way through the crowd, closer to the arena. A feeling of dread had overcome him the moment Mad Wolf had appeared. He was an older, seasoned man, covered in scars and brawn, who moved with the ease of a jungle cat. If he were truly a natural, Dyphestive might be in for more than he’d bargained for. “I need to help.”
“You can’t go in there. It will ruin everything. Have faith in Dyphestive. He can take it,” Streak offered.
Grey Cloak made it to a spot where he could glimpse Dyphestive being choked to death. Mad Wolf was on top of Dyphestive, his fingers locked on the younger man’s neck, and he squeezed with all his might. Blue veins rose in his white arms. Dyphestive punched Mad Wolf in the jaw, snapping the man’s head sideways. Mad Wolf grinned and spit out a tooth.
The audience jumped out of their seats.
“Fight him, brother!” Grey Cloak shouted.
Dyphestive exploded into action. He hammered his fists into Mad Wolf’s jaw in a club-like fashion. Mad Wolf sprang away. With blood dripping out of his mouth, he made a frightening howl. He reached down and picked up a boulder half his size. He hefted it onto his shoulders like a bundle of straw.
“Move, Dyphestive!” Grey Cloak didn’t know if his brother could hear a thing.
The crowd screamed incoherently. Dyphestive rubbed his neck and coughed inside of his mask.
“Move!”
Dyphestive turned in time to see Mad Wolf bringing down the rock. He rolled away from the rock, avoiding it by inches. Mad Wolf hurdled over the stone in a single leap. He whaled on Dyphestive like a drum. His fists smacked into flesh with one hard blow after another.
The crowd could hear it all.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
Dyphestive collapsed chest-first on the ground. Mad Wolf kicked his ribs several times. The barbarian reached down and picked up the stone again, raised it far over his head, and prepared to deliver the final blow. The crowd gasped. The barbarians roared in triumph.
Grey Cloak screamed, “Noooo!”
Dyphestive groaned. Mad Wolf had stunned him with speed and raw power and had made a punching bag out of him. Every blow rocked his innards. He felt every bit of it.
Shake it off. He’d been through the Flaming Fence before. The Doom Riders had put him through it. Shake it off! He started to see red. You’ve been through worse.
He rolled over in time to catch the stone crashing down on his chest. “Aaaargh!”
Mad Wolf flexed his muscles and howled in triumph. He roared along with the barbarian crowd. The people from the township deflated into their seats. The barbarians stood on their seats beating their chests and letting out wild shouts.
Enough. With one arm, Dyphestive shoved the boulder off his chest. He sat up, bloodied and bruised, like a man rising from the dead.
Everyone in the stands fell silent. Mad Wolf’s howling ceased. He turned toward Dyphestive and tilted his head. His nostrils flared. He dashed into the rocks and disappeared.
“Brother!” Grey Cloak shouted from the stands. He stood on the edge of the arena’s wall with his hands cupped to his mouth. “How are you holding up?”
“I survived the first assault, but he’s fast and as strong as a bull.” Dyphestive adjusted his mask.
“Can you handle it?”
“I don’t have a choice.” Dyphestive checked the footprints in the snow and gave chase at a slow pace.
With renewed energy, the citizens of the township started chanting, “Slay the Wolf! Slay the Wolf! Slay the Wolf!”
Dyphestive had no intentions of slaying anyone, but if it came to a matter of survival, he wouldn’t have a choice. Mad Wolf had almost choked him to death once. He’d felt his vision dim. It stirred his fear and warmed his blood.
I’m not going to let that happen again.
He spotted a patch in the ground where the dirt had been dug out underneath the snow. An impression of a weapon was left in the empty spot.
Horseshoes.
Mad Wolf came out of nowhere and busted Dyphestive in the back of the head with a club made of stone. The club snapped in half.
Dyphestive stumbled forward with stars in his eyes. He felt a blade drive into the flesh behind his shoulder blade. “Gah!” He twisted around and snared Mad Wolf by the hair on his head. He yanked the man backward and punched him as hard as he could in the ribs.
The wind went out of Mad Wolf. His body doubled over, and he howled no more. He took punch after punch that Dyphestive unleashed with fury. Drops of blood fed the snow. Mad Wolf fell as hard as Dyphestive hit and lay face-first on the ground.
The masses in the arena hollered at the top of their lungs, “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!”
Dyphestive shook his head. “No.”
28
“Booooo!”
“Booooo!”
“Booooo!”
The people in the stands made their intentions clear. They wanted Mad Wolf dead. Dyphestive wouldn’t kill a man in cold blood. He’d pummeled the ba
rbarian into submission. Victory had been achieved.
From the stands, Hercullon shook his head. His hard stare pierced Dyphestive, the message clear in his eyes. Finish him.
Mad Wolf might have been down, but he wasn’t out. He stood. His dark eyes blazed like wildfires. His muscular chest heaved. He slavered and spit blood.
“The berserker is cut loose!” someone in the crowd shouted.
Dyphestive stepped toward the towering man and watched the blue veins rise under his skin like worms. Mad Wolf charged. Dyphestive braced for impact. Their bodies collided, hard muscle smacking together.
Dyphestive was lifted into the air and thrown. His back crashed into the rocks. “Guh!”
A flurry of punches and kicks followed, overwhelming him. Mad Wolf beat the daylights out of him. He grappled the barbarian’s arms. Mad Wolf pulled free and hammered Dyphestive’s face with his fist.
Whap! Whap! Whap!
Mad Wolf gripped him in a powerful chokehold and bit his ear.
“Aaaargh! Get off me!” Dyphestive planted a boot in the man’s gut and sent him flying. Warm blood ran down his face. His blood ran hot. He was in a fight with a natural-born killer that was as wild as an animal. He lifted his fists and beckoned to the barbarian. “Bring it, dog!”
Mad Wolf rushed him like a tornado. The bigger and quicker man scooped Dyphestive up and tossed him across the arena. He pounced on Dyphestive’s back and beat him in the head with a rock.
Dyphestive twisted underneath Mad Wolf and seized the man’s wrists.
The barbarian headbutted him. Whack! Whack! Whack! Cartilage cracked. Fresh blood fed the snow. Mad Wolf beat Dyphestive with relentless fury. He grabbed Dyphestive by the leg and dragged him across the arena, making a messy path in the snow.
Everyone in the stands howled with bloodlust. They screamed for more.
It took everything Dyphestive had in him to fend off the furious assault. Mad Wolf had bitten his ear half off through the mask. His nose was busted and there was no telling what else. He hurt all over. He fought on, punching back and kicking, only to be overwhelmed again.
Barbarian Backlash: Dragon Wars - Book 14 of 20: An Epic Sword and Sorcery Fantasy Adventure Series Page 9
