Champion of the Titan Games

by Brandon Mull

  “But I can go in and out?” Seth asked.

  “Unless you sign on as an active combatant,” the troll said.

  Seth turned to Virgil. “See you later.”

  “If you’re certain . . .” Virgil hedged.

  “Don’t wait up,” Seth said.

  “I’ll be here when you’re done,” Virgil promised. “Southwest below-ground access gate.”

  Seth gave Virgil a little salute, then patted the troll on the arm. “Keep up the good work.”

  The troll elbowed Seth roughly. “Hands off.”

  “You’re worried about me?” Seth asked. “Keep your eyes on the goatman.”

  “He’s a comedian,” Virgil said with an uncertain smile.

  The troll sneered. “The best comedy leans on truth.”

  Seth hurried through the checkpoint. As the hall curved away from the gate, sloping downward, it rapidly became bleak and bare. Gone were the food stands, statues, fountains, and architectural flourishes. The floor grew uneven, and Seth noticed cracks and water stains on the stony walls.

  The arena crowd roared, the exuberance now above and behind him. A new fight must have started, because he had not heard the audience respond with such enthusiasm to any of the other entertainment.

  Natural light faded, and the passage branched. Seth took the steeper way and soon found stairs that wound downward. He came out into a torchlit corridor where a minotaur with his arm in a sling stood in close conversation with a warty brown ogre. Both stopped talking and turned to face Seth. The minotaur exhaled sharply.

  Seth walked by them, avoiding eye contact. From far above, he heard the noise of the crowd surge again, too distant to carry much volume. Louder, from up ahead, Seth heard overlapping conversations, punctuated by laughter.

  The corridor emptied into a dining area full of benches and long tables. Behind a counter, a quartet of cooks attended to grills laden with meat and bubbling stewpots. The powerfully built diners must have been gladiators, though none wore armor or carried weapons. Some were dressed in simple tunics, others in shirts and pants, mostly browns and grays. The homespun clothes were of such similar style that Seth assumed they were provided by whoever ran the coliseum.

  A large hand clapped down on Seth’s shoulder. “Aren’t you a tad young to dine here?”

  Seth looked up at a handsome man, clean-shaven, middle-aged, with intense brown eyes, a slightly receding hairline, and a cleft chin. “I participate in the Games.”

  “I can tell,” the man said. “But not as a combatant here in the Titan Games. Have you come to enlist?”

  Some warriors at a nearby table chuckled at the question.

  “Still deciding,” Seth said.

  “Give it a few years,” the man said. “We’re always looking for able candidates.”

  “Are you a gladiator?” Seth asked.

  “In another life, perhaps,” the man said. “I’m Fenrick, one of the trainers.” He gently hit Seth on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “Maybe we’ll work together one day.”

  “Boy!” a woman at a nearby table called. “Come here.”

  She was a plain woman with a sparkle of mischief in her gaze. Of average height and slender build, she didn’t seem suited for the kind of combat Seth had watched from the stands. He approached her table. Beside her, a thickset guy with an orange beard watched him curiously.

  “What brings you down here?” she asked.

  “Snooping around,” Seth said. “Trying to figure out the Games.”

  The guy with the orange beard laughed. “Why not start young?”

  “Because he’ll die young,” the woman said.

  The guy waved away her words. “The boy isn’t here to fight. He’s scouting. What’s your name, lad?”

  “Seth.”

  “I’m Per and this is Rianne,” he said. “We don’t often hear casual words from Fenrick.”

  “Is he mean?” Seth asked.

  “Stern,” Rianne said. “He’s the best trainer here. He wants us all to live, so he makes life exhausting.”

  “You can’t all live,” Seth said.

  “Those who train with him fare better than most,” Per said. “But who are we kidding? Nobody makes it to a hundred games.”

  “I will,” Rianne said.

  “She says after seven victories,” Per scoffed.

  Rianne glanced at Seth. “You have free run down here?”

  “So far,” Seth said. “I’m a participant in the Games.”

  “Where did you start?” Per asked.

  “Stormguard Castle,” Seth said.

  “I heard that contest finally ended,” Per said.

  “I was part of that,” Seth replied.

  “Who won?” Rianna asked around a bite of potatoes. “Shouldn’t one of you have the Wizenstone?”

  “The game ended with a player sending the Wizenstone away,” Seth said.

  Per grimaced. “Must have made everyone crazy to come so close.”

  “I lost my memories,” Seth said.

  “All of them?” Per asked.

  “My whole identity,” Seth said. “Up until that point, at least.”

  Per gave a soft whistle. “He’s not so different from us. The kid’s a veteran.”

  “Did you lose your memories too?” Seth asked.

  “Some of them,” Per said. “Do you know how it works with combatants?”

  “Not really,” Seth said.

  “Don’t spill too much,” Rianne said. “He belongs topside.”

  “He’s a player,” Per said. “We can talk freely to other contestants.”

  “You want to do favors for a competitor?” Rianne asked.

  “I’ve stopped worrying about winning,” Per said.

  “You’re here for information?” Rianne asked.

  “All I can get,” Seth said.

  “Be careful about sharing what I tell you,” Per said. “Humbuggle will get wind if you spill secrets to nonplayers.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Seth promised.

  “Watch what you divulge,” Rianne muttered to Per.

  “What’s it matter if we help the kid?” Per asked. “Somebody else will fill him in if we don’t. And they may not shoot straight.”

  “Why do you disappear right before you die?” Seth asked.

  “See,” Per said. “He’s asking the right questions.”

  “It’s all part of the agreement to join the Games,” Rianne said. “We can get injured, but before death takes us, we vanish. We go into hibernation and heal. And eventually we fight again.”

  “You fight over and over?” Seth asked.

  Per wiped his lips on his sleeve. “Until somebody wins, everyone who ever signed up for these Games remains part of the Games.”

  “How often are you recycled?” Seth asked.

  “Hard to say,” Rianne said. “We don’t keep all of our memories. We get assigned new personas for the arena. Did you ever wonder why so many gladiators wear masks or helms that disguise them?”

  “We keep a sense of who we are,” Per said. “More or less. But each time we come back, the previous attempts become a haze.”

  “Do you know how long you’ve been here?” Seth asked.

  Per shrugged. “I don’t know how many times I’ve lost. More than once, I think. Maybe twice. Maybe dozens of times.”

  “I hope not,” Rianne said with disgust.

  “Do you remember what year it was when you started?” Seth asked.

  “Hazy,” Per said. “I know I lived in Norway. I know I had two sisters. I don’t know what year I came here.”

  “Those kinds of details slip away,” Rianne said. “It’s the same for all of us.”

  “Except for new volunteers on their first run,” Per said. “Their memorie
s are fine until after the first loss.”

  “Nobody ever really dies here,” Seth said.

  “Unless somebody jumps into the arena,” Per said. “If those impulsive wannabes die in their first fight, they die for good. If not, they have to make the same arrangement as the rest of us.”

  “These Games have gone on for centuries,” Seth said.

  Per looked at him with wide eyes, nodding. “You’re telling me. The fuzzy memories are probably a mercy.”

  “How well do you two know each other?” Seth asked. “Do you remember one another? From previous attempts.”

  Per scrunched his brow. “She and I have had this conversation.”

  “Per feels familiar,” Rianne said. “But who knows?”

  “We may have never been active in the Games at the same time,” Per said.

  “Or we could have crossed paths a lot,” Rianne said.

  “You fight until you die,” Seth said. “And then you do it again.”

  Rianne raised a finger. “Unless we win.”

  “Do you guys age?” Seth asked.

  “I don’t know,” Per said.

  “Hard to be sure without memories,” Rianne said.

  “What if you quit?” Seth asked. “Like, refuse to fight?”

  “They’ll send us out there anyway,” Rianne said. “There is no end to it.”

  “The closest a combatant can get to an end is becoming a trainer,” Per said. “If gladiators do well enough, they are sometimes given that option.”

  “Fenrick was a gladiator?” Seth asked.

  “Rumor has it he was one of the best,” Per said. “Long ago he had a run where he made it to ninety.”

  “Some say rumors are more trustworthy than memories,” Rianne said.

  “We don’t all get vanquished at once,” Per said. “So gossip becomes a form of group memory.”

  “But after some time goes by, who could contradict a false rumor?” Seth asked.

  “The boy has a point,” Per murmured.

  “Actual memories have some real advantages,” Rianne said.

  “Any rumors I should know?” Seth asked. “Where should I look to figure out the Games?”

  Per smiled sadly. “Our rumors are mostly stories about one another. We’re not working this like a puzzle, as some do. We’re trying to fight our way to the top.”

  Rianne looked at Seth with sympathy. “Kid, the winner won’t be us, and, no offense, it won’t be you, either. If you know what’s good for you, walk away while you can. These Games are a bottomless pit. Once you slip, you fall forever.”

  “I can’t give up,” Seth said. “Where can I go to learn more?”

  “Talk to the trainers,” Rianne said. “They have had longer stretches to learn things.” She looked pointedly at where Fenrick sat eating alone. “Fenrick was civil to you. Ask him.”

  “But don’t be surprised if he rebukes you,” Per added.

  “Okay,” Seth said. “Thanks for the tips.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Per said.

  “Make your own luck,” Rianne advised.

  Crossing to where Fenrick sat, Seth claimed a spot on the bench across from him. The trainer was spooning bites from a bowl of chowder. Fenrick looked up. “How can I help you, Son?”

  “I’m searching for info about the Games,” Seth said.

  “I figured as much,” Fenrick said. “We don’t get many participants down here who are not enrolled in the fighting. We’ve had one or two others recently. Even if you ignore the fighting, it isn’t safe down here. Some people come in looking for secrets and don’t come out.”

  “What happens to them?” Seth asked.

  Fenrick took a bite of chowder. “I don’t know. But they head down to the depths where the gladiators and the trainers are forbidden to venture.”

  “Where is that?” Seth asked.

  “They seldom return,” Fenrick said.

  “I’m not going to learn what I need without taking some risks,” Seth said.

  “Why would a boy your age care so much about the Wizenstone?” Fenrick asked.

  “It’s not the stone I care about,” Seth said. “Humbuggle took my memories. I need them back.”

  “Only the new fighters among us have their memories,” Fenrick said. “You have your freedom. Go make new memories.”

  “It’s not like I forgot a few fights,” Seth said. “He took my whole identity.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Fenrick said. “Some remember more than others. I don’t know my identity either.”

  “You used to fight?” Seth asked.

  “I suspect so,” Fenrick said.

  “I heard you were good,” Seth said.

  “You have to be good to become a trainer,” Fenrick said.

  “I heard you almost won,” Seth said.

  “Rumors,” Fenrick said with a snort.

  “How long have you been a trainer?” Seth asked.

  “A long time,” Fenrick said.

  “Long enough to see the same fighters come back after losing?”

  “From time to time,” Fenrick said. “The gaps tend to be long. There is a large pool to draw from.”

  “Don’t you want these Games to end?” Seth asked.

  “I surely do,” Fenrick said. “Look, you’re persistent, so you’ll find out sooner or later.” He pointed to a door. “You want to go where the action is? Head through there. Turn left, and descend the stairs. None of us can go down there. There are invisible barriers. But you can. Have a look if you must. But consider walking away.”

  “I won’t quit,” Seth said.

  “Then down you go,” Fenrick said. “You’ve been warned. You can eat here first if you wish.”

  “I just had food,” Seth said. “Thanks.”

  Fenrick gave Seth a long stare. “When these gladiators lose, they come back. Where you’re going, there are no second chances. I admire your determination.”

  “Can you go back into the Games?” Seth asked.

  “If I gave up my rights as a trainer, I could,” Fenrick said. “I’d rather watch and wait. Help the others.”

  Seth glanced at the door. “Does anyone return from down the stairs?”

  “Sometimes,” Fenrick said. “A few officials of the Games go down there routinely. Barruze. Humbuggle occasionally.”

  “Humbuggle comes here?” Seth asked.

  “Now and then,” Fenrick said. “He’s unpredictable.”

  “Who is Barruze?” Seth asked.

  “You really are new here,” Fenrick said. “The troll who announces the Games.”

  “Gotcha,” Seth said.

  “Well, stay on your toes,” Fenrick said. “Whether you remember or not, you paid a price for access here. Don’t squander the opportunity.”

  Leaving the dining area behind, Seth went through the indicated door and turned left like Fenrick had suggested. He found a stairway and started down, stepping quietly to match the silence around him. The illumination now derived from crystals in sconces on the walls rather than from torches.

  Seth searched inside himself for his power and reached out to feel for any undead, but sensed nothing. Then he switched his approach, crouching as he walked, keeping to the shadows, willing himself toward invisibility.

  The bottom of the stairs led into a chamber where an ogre with gray, droopy skin tilted his wooden chair onto two legs, his feet propped up on a table. Three archways led out of the room. Skirting the edge of the chamber, Seth took the first archway he reached. The ogre never glanced his way.

  Seth proceeded down a gloomy corridor. The masonry looked more ancient than up above, with no mortar between the rough-hewn and sometimes ill-fitted stones. At a junction where the passage forked, Seth heard footsteps coming his way from one branch, and he
slouched against the wall in the deepest shadows he could find.

  A striking woman strode into view, tall and lissome, with long green hair and penetrating eyes. She wore leather armor and was missing an arm.

  “I see you, shadow walker,” she said.

  Seth stepped away from the wall.

  The woman gave a little gasp. “Seth Sorenson. What a surprise.”

  “Do I know you?” Seth asked.

  Her smile spread slowly. “Am I that forgettable?”

  “My memory isn’t so good lately,” Seth said.

  “We’re old acquaintances,” the woman said smoothly. “I’m Lydia. I know your sister.”

  “Do you work here?” Seth asked.

  The woman glanced around and shivered in disgust. “Thankfully, no. I assume you’re playing in the Games.”

  “Trying,” Seth said. “You too?”

  “Seems like one dead end after another,” she said. “Have you learned anything beneficial?”

  “I wish,” Seth said. “I’m new here. I barely learned how the Games work for the gladiators.”

  Lydia nodded. “I’m not faring much better. Want to hunt together?”

  Something was off. The first expression on her face when she saw him had been panic, not relief. And now she was behaving too at ease. It smelled like an act.

  “Why the green hair?” Seth asked.

  “It’s my favorite color,” Lydia said.

  “What’s Kendra’s favorite color?” Seth asked.

  She hesitated. “I never asked.”

  Though he couldn’t remember what colors Kendra preferred, the hesitation told him a lot. “How do you know her again?”

  Lydia fumbled for an answer, then scowled and bared her teeth. “I’ve tasted her!”

  Seth was surprised by her vehemence. “Who are you?”

  She drew a dagger. “One who has had enough of you!”

  She lunged at Seth, stabbing, and he sprang aside. She nimbly kept after him, slashing, and he backed into the wall. The surprise contact left him flat-footed, and Lydia surged forward, the dagger plunging for his chest. An instant before the tip would have pierced him, the knife disintegrated, as did her arm up past the elbow.

  Lydia’s jaw dropped open, and she staggered back, staring in horror at what remained of her arm. There was no open wound—the fleshy stump looked like it could have been that way for years.