Ambrosia

by Aaron Lee Yeager

  The announcer raised his staff. “Ladies, gentlemen, and others, the Arsenal of Ferranus!”

  ~

  Up in the skybox, Storgen picked at the buffet table as Philiastra bandaged his burns.

  “Ferranus is at a real disadvantage using a human for a champion,” she mentioned. It took a second for her to realize what she had just said in mixed company. “Oh, sorry. No offense.”

  Storgen shrugged and threw a few grapes into his mouth. “How could I not take offense? It’s an offensive thing to say.”

  Philiastra stuck her cute little green tongue out at him, and he did the same to her.

  “Why is their hair silver like that?” Storgen wondered, snatching up a slice of papaya.

  “It’s a side effect when a mortal drinks ambrosia.”

  “Ah.”

  Pops lavished his attention over the doll, checking it for any imperfections. “Doesn’t it bother you when he eats fruit like that right in front of you?”

  “Hmm?” Philiastra looked up as Storgen took a bite of papaya. “Oh, because I’m a forest nymph? Nah, fruits are fine. Plants want you to eat those, that’s how they spread their seeds, that’s why they make them all bright and shiny to catch the attention of you big hairless monkeys. Vegetables on the other hand…that’s murder.”

  Storgen threw his head back over to Pops, who was still fawning over the doll. “Pops, aren’t you going to watch?”

  “Watch? Nah. Champions don’t interest me. My only love is for true heroes.”

  Philiastra furrowed her brow. “We’re about to watch two of the most powerful mortals in the twelve seas, and all you want to do is pine over a doll of some imaginary hero?”

  Pops tugged on his white beard. “They’re not imaginary, they’re mythical.”

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “Give it a rest, will ya, Phili?” Storgen cautioned.

  “No, I won’t give it a rest. He’s sick, and you are enabling him. Look, Pops, there never was a Lady of the White Lotus, okay? It’s just some story a lonely bard made up because he never had a girlfriend.”

  “Scrupulously,” Pops affirmed. “She’s better than a real life girl.”

  “Better?”

  Pops delicately cradled the doll in his hands. “Look, mythical heroes are symbols, they're perfect, flawless...”

  “And not real.”

  “Scrupulously.”

  “Stop saying that. I don’t know what it means.”

  “It means ‘exactly,’” Storgen commented as he tossed a grape in his mouth.

  Pops turned on his haunches. “Yes, better. Real women get raging mood swings, they poop, they sweat…”

  “We do not!”

  “You don't poop?”

  “I meant sweat. Women don't sweat, we get…misty.”

  “Yeah, you glow,” Storgen chuckled.

  “But she does poop.”

  Philiastra blushed with embarrassment. “Stop saying that!!!”

  ~

  Down on the field, Ambera held out her golden hand. “I fight with my scythe.”

  The main gate opened and Erolina stepped out into the light. The roar of the crowd was pulsing and blinding, but she strode through it calmly, as if she were doing nothing more than taking a stroll in the park, seemingly oblivious to the fifty thousand pairs of eyes looking at her from all sides.

  When some of the men began to whistle, she added a little extra swing to her hips, mincing before them and enjoying immensely their reaction to her beauty.

  The announcer raised his staff. “Ladies, gentlemen, and others, the Scythe of Ambera!”

  The two champions met at the center of the field and crossed their weapons.

  “That’s some mighty long hair you’ve got there, amazon,” Arsenal growled. “Has it really been that long since you fought in a real duel?”

  Erolina hungrily licked her bottom lip. “If you want it, come and claim it.”

  “Prove your worth,” the announcer demanded, and each champion produced their priceless talisman of solid gold. Erolina’s bore the symbol of the fox, Arsenal’s bore the symbol of the dragon.

  They ceremonially withdrew their weapons, then turned away from one another and marched in synchrony, each to their god. The crowd grew quieter, buzzing with anticipation.

  ~

  Up in the skybox, Storgen leaned forward so fast he nearly knocked the plate off his lap.

  “It’s her. The one I met at the stockade.”

  “Humph.” Philiastra closed up the apothecary kit and stowed it away.

  Storgen pulled a lever on the wall, and gears spun to life, their view zooming in to get a real good close-up of Erolina. As she stood before Ambera, she removed her scythe. Through it was almost twice as tall as a human, it seemed almost weightless in her hands. With powerful slashes, she spun it in her hands, around her neck, across her chest, around her waist. Faster and faster, she was like a swirling dervish of blade and steel. Her body began to spin as well, kicking out with long powerful legs and solid armored fists, all the while perfectly balanced, as if she were herself a living gyroscope. Expertly, she slowed her pace, the scythe finally coming to a rest in her hands as she took a knee and presented it to the goddess.

  Storgen could only look on-slack jawed. “She’s amazing.”

  “Oh sure, if you like violent she-gorillas.”

  Surprised, Storgen turned to look at her. Philiastra was throwing him daggers with her eyes.

  “Why are you scowling at me?”

  She turned away and folded her arms. “I’m not scowling.”

  ~

  Down on the field, Ambera removed her sacred flask as she stood over her champion.

  “I pledge my service to my goddess, till death or dismissal,” Erolina said flatly.

  Ambera smiled, her fingernail growling long as she dipped it into the golden contents of her flask. “And for your service, I grant you ten minutes of immortality, my Scythe.”

  “More than I need.”

  The tiniest drop was placed on her waiting tongue, and a ripple of silver washed over Erolina’s entire being. She stood up and readied her weapon, Ferranus and Arsenal completing a similar ceremony at the far end.

  The announcer threw a lever, and the entire elevated field came to life, mechanisms opening the pillar like a blossoming flower. Several terrain options rose up, then were folded back in again. Desert, mountain, riverbed, seashore, until finally the wheels stopped turning and settled on one at random. Broken temple ruins rose up between the two champions, broken columns and caved-in rooftops, shattered fountains and barren aqueducts.

  The gods took their seats, and the entire colosseum grew completely silent.

  The two champions donned their helmets, their eyes cold and focused, their muscles tense like a drawn bowstring.

  The announcer waited, drawing out the moment, savoring the drama.

  “Begin!”

  Erolina was off like a shot, sprinting across the plaza and into the ruins, her long silver ponytail trailing behind her. Without breaking stride, she swung her scythe, releasing a blade of crimson energy that soared out, decapitating the top of the temple tower clean off, and sending tons of stone crashing down into the temple grounds.

  Arsenal was met by a rushing dust cloud as he ran into the temple. The sounds of the crowds were drowned out by the falling stone and settling rock. The deeper he penetrated, the harder it was to see. Finally, he closed his eyes entirely, listening for any aberrant sound, any misplaced scratch or rustle, which might betray his opponent’s whereabouts. Bumping into a rotting rosebush, he backed up and put his back to a prayer wall, listening intently.

  The wall above him exploded from within, the force of the impact scattering the masonry and dispelling the dust cloud. Arsenal snapped his head up just in time to see Erolina in the air above him. Quick as thought, she slashed her weapon three times, sending a trio of crimson blasts down to where he stood.

  The attacks hit and the bas
e of the wall exploded, enveloping everything in a fresh ploom of debris.

  Erolina landed with a smug satisfaction on her face, the crowd screaming with excitement. “Ambera! Ambera!” Again and again they cheered. Ambera herself stood up and threw a flirty wink at the loudest of her supporters.

  As the dust settled, it revealed a large crater. But in the spot where Arsenal had stood, there was now a perfect sphere of flowing metal. The metal flowed like liquid, forming again into the pair of blades as Arsenal spun them in his grip, completely unharmed.

  “You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?” he asked confidently.

  “I’d be disappointed if it was.”

  With a mighty war cry, Erolina lifted up her scythe and slammed it into the ground, releasing a wave of destruction that lashed out at her opponent, uprooting stone, rock, and mortar.

  His blades bent and became razor sharp boomerangs. He crossed his arms then flung them free, cartwheeling away from her wave as it hit the temple cellar, shattering the altar and collapsing the roof of the annex.

  She back flipped, the first boomerang passing just inches above her face, then flipped to the side and sliced at the second. Her strike connected, but the blade simply passed through the metal as if it were made of water.

  He charged at her, the boomerangs returning to his hands and flowing together into a single large greatsword.

  She countercharged, and the audience roared as the two collided. He slashed at her midsection, and the air crackled from the energy of it. She blocked effortlessly, positioning herself for a counterstrike, but his blade flowed around her weapon, passing through it and biting deeply into her armor. She was thrown into the air by the force of the blow, but no sooner had she left the ground than Arsenal stretched his sword into a metal whip, wrapping around her ankle and flinging her in the opposite direction.

  Erolina was slammed into a fountain with a crash that made many spectators groan to see it. The crowd cheered for Ferranus, and the god of the forge reached into a waiting chest and threw out a few token beta level gifts to his followers in the stands.

  “Your heavy armor slows you down,” Arsenal taunted. He tried to take a step forward, but then winced with pain. Looking down, he found a throwing knife imbedded deep into his thigh.

  The rubble stirred and Erolina painfully stood up, blood spilling from the wound in her side.

  “And your light armor makes you vulnerable,” she returned, a drop of blood trickling down her face.

  He reached down and pulled the dagger free. Already, the flesh was turning black from the poison on the blade. “Well, we’ll fix that then.”

  His greatsword grew thinner, the extra material flowing up his arms and coating his skin. His entire body became encased in metal from head to toe. As he stepped forward, a loose piece of masonry broke free from the destroyed annex, harmlessly bouncing off his head with a metal ping.

  She held her ground. “That’s an interesting toy you’ve got there. I’m not sure what it’s made out of, but I’m willing to wager that it’s still metal.”

  With a twist of the shaft, the crimson energy on the blade of her scythe faded away, and was replaced with white-hot tines of lightning flowing over its surface.

  The two warriors charged again, but when their weapons met, Arsenal hollered in pain as the electricity flowed through his blade and into his body.

  He took a step back, his body trembling in shock, but had no time to counter. Erolina pressed the attack, slicing at his neck, leaping vertically to split him in half, somersaulting forward and slashing across his ankles, twirling aloft on one toe and slicing up across his chest. It was a dance of blades, her weapon and body spinning with deadly grace and lethal beauty. At times it looked like he was being attacked by three people at once. Arsenal was completely overwhelmed. Every time he blocked, shock after dreadful shock of lightning hammered into his body. His pace slowed, his feet stumbled, his weapon grew loose in his grip.

  He took a kick to the head, a slice across the chest, a backhand to the face, a half-strike to the gut. With an elegant flick of her head, her ponytail whipped around, the morning star at the end cracking him across the cheek, then again beneath the chin, throwing his head back.

  His knees shaking, he fell back on his haunches. Erolina spun her scythe above her head, ready to deliver the killing blow, her red eyes sparkling with battle lust.

  Ferranus sat forward in his throne in concern, knocking his wine goblet to the ground. Ambera lounged back and stretched disinterestedly.

  As Erolina struck, Arsenal screamed in rage, his metal skin extending out in thousands of needles in every direction. An explosion like a metal anemone picked Erolina off her feet, her armor pierced in a dozen places as she was slammed through a wall and crashed into the courtyard beyond.

  The metal needles retracted, and Arsenal sprouted a huge set of metallic wings, lifting himself aloft and flying high into the air. The audience watched as he rose up completely beyond the boundaries of the colosseum, perching upon the uttermost flagpole like a mercurial hawk.

  His wings formed into a great warbow, and when he pulled back the string, a bolt of dark energy appeared knocked and ready to fire.

  When he loosed the arrow, it shrieked through the air like a dying animal. Erolina managed to jump free in time, and the shot detonated with a titanic shockwave, ripping the stone to shreds and sending debris raining in all directions. Erolina slashed her scythe, releasing a blade of energy, but it dissipated long before it could reach her distant target.

  Arsenal began firing rapidly, his shots tracing down like dark lighting from the heavens. Erolina jumped left as a statue exploded where she had just been standing, sprinted clear of a bolt that obliterated an aqueduct, and when she ran inside the remains of an architrave, it was hammered to pieces and nearly came down on top of her before she could jump free.

  Now in the center of the courtyard, she dug in her heels and readied her weapon. When the next flurry of shots rained down, she was a blur of motion, blocking each shot and deflecting it away. Her weapon seemed a storm of iron, a dazzling cloud of flashing edge and sparking steel as deflected shots slammed into the buildings around her, setting all the wooden components alight. Many of the bolts deflected back up into the air, and the crowd oohed at the impromptu display.

  Finally, she found the angle that she needed, and a dark bolt shot straight back at her opponent. The followers of Ambera cheered, but to their dismay, the shot passed right though Arsenal without affecting him.

  Ferranus grabbed a newly filled goblet and laughed mightily. Arsenal bowed dramatically for his god, then began an even fiercer barrage, blast after blast shredding the temple as Erolina sprinted, rolled, and leapt for her life amid the fire and hailstorm.

  ~

  Inside the skybox, Storgen and Philiastra watched as Arsenal mercilessly rained down black death into the temple ruins below.

  “Ha! He’s got her now,” Storgen said, slapping his knee. “He’s out of range of her attacks. He can stay up there indefinitely, raining blows down until she is defeated.”

  “Feels like cheating to me,” Philiastra grumbled.

  “Cheating? How can it be cheating? Cheating implies he is breaking the rules. What rule is he breaking?”

  “He’s breaking the rules of honor.”

  “Honor? Pffffft. You know what honor will buy you? Honor and four drachmas will buy you a pita platter on Freya’s Day. Honor is worthless. The only thing that matters in a fight is winning.”

  “Hmmmph, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You humans are so ilnoble, you know that?”

  “Ignoble, not ilnoble.”

  “Shut up.”

  ~

  Out on the field, there was so much fire and fume from the destruction, that Arsenal had lost track of his target. Breathing heavily, he held the bowstring to his cheek, awaiting his chance.

  “Come on out, amazon. We all must fall, sometime.”

  The audience
became aware of a wisp of wind, delicate at first, but gradually growing in intensity. The dust and fire amid the temple began to pull inward, drawn towards a point within the rubble.

  The breeze became stronger, snatching away fliers and the occasional hat. Flames were pulled off the burning structures, becoming a whirlpool of flame condensing down into a bright point in the center. As Arsenal took aim, the wind became a gale, sucking in all the dust and heat. Ice began to crystalize on the stony surfaces as all the ambient heat was drawn in, the point of light growing brighter and brighter.

  There in the center of the whirlwind, Erolina stood, her outstretched hand pulling together all the energy into a bright focused point of blue fire.

  “You know,” she said, her voice caught up in the wind as her hair whipped about. “I kind of feel bad for the next guy I mate with, because all this anger? Yeah, it's totally going to come out in the bedroom.”

  Arsenal fired but it was too late. Erolina thrust her hand down and released a jet of fire, rocketing herself up into the air. She rose up on a column of flame until she was lost in the glare of the sun, then fired a second jet, blasting herself straight towards her enemy. Arsenal reformed his wings just in time to counter her.

  When they clashed, it was like a crack of thunder, the clouds parting from the shockwave, the spectators shielding their faces from the percussion of the blast. They rocketed to the far end and collided again, jets of flame and strikes of silver wing catching the light for just a heartbeat, then they were gone again, only to clash again down near the ground with the force of a thunderclap.

  It was like watching rockets detonate in the air. The explosions of their battle erupted all above the colosseum. No mortal could follow them with their eyes, instead they could only comprehend a pattern of flashes and strikes in the air, as if they were witnessing a thunderstorm of steel and fire.

  ~

  Up in the skybox, Philiastra threw up her hands triumphantly. “Ha! See? What did I tell you? A human champion can only use magical gifts, but any other race will have their own magic in addition to what they are given by their god.”