Rise of the Champions

by Nicholas Joslin

  “I see,” Titus simply responded.

  Anna was surprised at Titus’s brief response. It seemed he was actually listening to her for once. Then again, Titus was a very combat-focused man. She could say anything about fighting and he would listen. While it didn’t make for great conversation in times of peace, she knew his one-track mind and fierce courage would benefit them in the fight to come.

  As they continued, part of her mind began to wander. She hadn’t actually seen Fredrik die. While she had already mourned his loss, she now wondered if he was truly gone. Nothing was impossible, and perhaps he had found a way out of the situation. It was only because she would be there tomorrow that she thought such things. Had she not been returning, she would’ve considered him gone. While she was smart enough to not get her hopes up, the smallest flicker of hope did still exist within her heart.

  As they reached a plateau adjacent to the mountain she and Fredrik had stood on when they first looked down upon the ruins, the group quickly set up camp. Their small tents and good-sized campfire were now nestled between the large trees of the plateau. As darkness came, the bright stars of the night sky watched over them.

  The raptor made a delicious meal, however the wounded man Bernol opted to eat his previously packed cured meat ration instead. As Anna bit into the rare raptor meat, she looked at the others sitting around the fire. They seemed quiet, as if the reality—and accompanying dangers—of their situation was now dawning; they were going to be fighting a fierce enemy the following day. She had made sure they knew what they were getting themselves into, but Anna knew there was a world of difference between describing a situation and being in the middle of it.

  After they finished eating, Anna told the rest of the warriors what she had told Titus earlier. As she explained the Horrors, she could see the smallest glimpses of fear within the eyes of those listening. However, she didn’t want to leave out any details, as the last thing she wanted was for them to freeze up when they entered combat. Describing the Horrors in thorough detail now would benefit them all later.

  After she finished her small speech on what was to come, she asked if any of them had questions for her. Unsurprisingly, they did not, and began conversing with themselves out of nervousness and to distract their minds.

  Anna left their campsite and walked to the edge of the plateau not too far away. She stared over the Cursed Lands, wondering what other secrets it held. There wasn’t one fire or any other light in her entire view, which was quite something given the distance. Now, the only light she saw was their own fire and the stars above.

  She almost didn’t hear Titus as he approached, turning quickly as he heard him step closely behind her. He looked embarrassed for startling her, but then continued walking forward to stand next to her.

  “I believe everyone will be ready to fight tomorrow. However, I won’t be able to get your description of the Horrors out of my head tonight,” Titus chuckled.

  “Oh, just wait until you see them. I haven’t been able to sleep well since it happened,” Anna replied with a half-hearted, almost desperate laugh.

  There was a moment of awkward silence, neither knowing what else to say. Anna didn’t feel like trying to keep a conversation going if there wasn’t one but didn’t want to be rude. After all, they would fight side by side tomorrow. She knew the bonds that could form in combat.

  “This plateau is a fine spot for camp. Did you stay here on your trip out?” Titus asked.

  “No, we passed it as we climbed up the mountain,” Anna replied, pointing to the barely visible silhouette of the small mountain nearby. “It was on that mountain top we saw the ruins in the distance.”

  “Ah, so we are close then?” Titus asked with subtle nervousness.

  “Somewhat. Since climbing the mountain is unnecessary, we will need to go around it. Then, at our speed, probably two or three hours walk. At least, that’s how far the ruins are. Whether or not we run into those Horrors beforehand is impossible to know,” Anna answered.

  “I see. Well, then I guess I shall prepare and get a good night’s rest. Goodnight, Anna,” Titus said with a small nod.

  “Goodnight,” Anna replied.

  Anna watched as the Champion walked back towards camp, his walk looking less confident than it typically did. She wondered if maybe Titus was worried about the fight tomorrow. She hoped he was, as the Horrors were like no enemy she had faced. She was lucky to have escaped, and had it not been for Fredrik’s brave sacrifice, she would be dead.

  She looked back over the Cursed Lands, shrouded in darkness from a cloudy, almost moonless night sky. Her mind raced with thoughts of Fredrik, the Horrors, and what tomorrow would bring. She sighed, knowing it wouldn’t help to overthink things.

  Anna turned and walked back toward the camp, trying to stop thinking of Fredrik. If she let emotion overcome her tomorrow, she could pay the price in combat. She needed to remain focused and thought back of her training as a child.

  Wanting to be a scout from a young age, the chieftain had let her tag along with other scouts when she was only nine. From then on, she had trained hard. Her entire clan was her family, and she had been raised by random people at various times. Since her father and uncle had died in battle before she was born and her mother had died in childbirth, the Narsho Clan as a whole was her family.

  With a deep breath, Anna focused her mind. The best way she could repay her clan was to successfully complete her mission. As a scout, it was up to her to lead the way for her warriors. This wasn’t the time to think of the past, no matter how recent it had been.

  With this newfound focus, Anna found it easy to sleep well that night. Unbeknownst to her, this would be the final night she would sleep well.

  Chapter 6

  A foul spray of saliva hit Prince Mace directly on the face as the warrior in front of him barbarically screamed at him. Moments like these were when the prince realized he had no choice but to fight. He held his two swords in front of him, waiting for the Narsho warrior to make the first move.

  Watching the hate in his enemy’s eyes, Prince Mace easily parried the first blows of his opponent. He continued staring into his foe’s eyes, which he saw constantly glance to the raging battle around them. While the prince knew awareness was important, this Narsho warrior seemed to be borderline distracted. For Prince Mace, this was a good thing.

  The next time his foe glanced away, Prince Mace lunged forward with his offhand sword, an attack meant to misdirect his Narsho foe. It worked, and the entirety of the man’s defense went into deflecting the sword. However, by doing so, the unskilled warrior couldn’t react to Mace’s other sword, which was thrust directly through his chainmail and into his chest.

  Prince Mace felt the small rush of victory as the warrior fell before him, the fatal wound pumping blood from beneath the chainmail. While the prince didn’t enjoy killing, he did enjoy the art of swordsmanship. It was that appreciation that allowed him to become the fighter he now was, as he didn’t have the fury the other warriors seemed to possess. He would have been just as satisfied to win without killing his opponent.

  Prince Mace looked to see his father smashing their ancestral mace down on a wounded Narsho, hatred bursting from his eyes. The finely made weapon was more an artifact than a weapon and had been created by their ancestor and aptly named after him. He knew it was a sign of vanity and pride that his father carried the weapon. Plus, he didn’t often fight directly in battle due to his weakness but was always ready to finish off any enemies that still drew breath. While his father didn’t have great physical strength, his anger made him stronger in the worst of ways.

  Looking around, it appeared their ambush on the outpost had been a success. This outpost had been the closest to the Narsho village, and they had figured it made sense to attack it. Now any Narsho runner from their main village would waste their time coming here. With the other outposts being farther away, they would have enough time to strike the village before any backup could arrive.
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  As Prince Mace approached his father, he heard the soft rustling of something behind him. Not only that, but his father began pointing behind him, his face still seething with rage. As he turned, Prince Mace saw a Narsho woman trying her best to sneak away from the receding chaos.

  Knowing she could warn her people, Prince Mace sprinted after her. She turned to see she had been spotted and began to run. However, she tripped over a large tree root and was sent hurtling down to the forest floor. He quickly approached, swords at the ready.

  She turned over to face him, backing away on the ground for a moment before realizing she had been caught. She firmly gripped a dagger in one hand and a small piece of parchment in the other. There was no fierce determination in her eyes, only fear.

  “Finish her!” Chief King Mace yelled as he walked toward his son.

  The woman lay shaking on the ground, the dagger held in front of her. Prince Mace watched as she held it in a death grip, knowing her fate. The prince held his sword to her throat, feeling nausea grow in his stomach.

  This wasn’t who he was. Armed or not, man or woman, Prince Mace did not enjoy killing. No, he enjoyed the swordplay and that was it. The killing was done out of basic survival and a necessity to his people. Unfortunately, he’d have to do it once more.

  “I’m sorry,” Prince Mace whispered to the woman, his voice filled with sorrow.

  The prince wasted no time in killing the woman, delivering a clean slice through the Narsho’s neck. He flinched as he did, feeling acid rise in his throat. When he was young, he used to throw up in this sort of situation. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, he had become desensitized to it.

  “Good work, Son. If she had made it back our attack would’ve been lost,” Chief King Mace lauded, removing his winged metal helmet and holding it at his waist.

  “Thank you,” Prince Mace replied, not wanting to gloat over such an easy kill.

  “Warriors! Grab this corpse and put it with the others!” Chief King Mace yelled, turning to the men back in the camp.

  Prince Mace passed his father and headed back towards the camp. Soon, the body of the woman he killed would be placed on the fire their warriors were now constructing. It was another part of his father’s obsession. In their tradition, all clansmen were to be buried upon death, that way their body would be reclaimed by the land and their soul would be put at rest. To burn their bodies was to disrespect them, to send their soul to the Dark Depths. While Prince Mace was skeptical of the existence of the terrible realm of Folm, it seemed his father believed with passion.

  As he entered the now torn apart camp, he realized they had lost two warriors in the fight. Fortunately, they had brought most of their warriors with them. Over seven hundred men and women lingered around the camp now, readying themselves for the large battle to come. Still, Prince Mace estimated that the Narsho clan had a similar number of troops around their large village.

  In fact, given they had been fighting since the fall of the Great Clan, the two actually had similar populations and warrior counts. Prince Mace remembered hearing their own clan’s last estimate was almost two thousand five hundred clanspeople, and the Narsho was close in size. Because of their constant fighting, they had lower populations than the Forud and Linta clans. If war ever broke out against them, they’d be far too outnumbered.

  There was so much to consider that nobody else seemed to worry about. In times like this Prince Mace wished he could shut it out easier, but he couldn’t. Someday he would be able to do something about it, but until then he would have to wait. As he thought in silence, he didn’t hear his father approach him.

  “Son, you should look happier in front of the warriors. Any victory is a good one,” Chief King Mace urged, patting his son on the shoulder.

  “My apologies, Father; I’m just deep in thought,” Prince Mace replied.

  “Thought? About what?” Chief King Mace asked, his tone suggesting the question was more of a formality.

  “Nothing important; forgive me,” Prince Mace replied, turning to look at his father.

  “That is alright, just make sure to have a clear head for the battle ahead. We shall camp here all day tomorrow to rest, then the following day we shall attack. With any luck, our people will finally get our revenge,” Chief King Mace replied, almost salivating at the thought.

  “Of course, Father.”

  “Good. Now, I will go deliver a speech to our brave men and women. I urge you to stand amongst the crowd and make your presence known. While you may fight well with that, well, with that fancy dual-wielding technique the old weapons master taught you before he died, not everyone sees your skill in battle,” Chief King Mace suggested, then walked away from his son.

  Prince Mace didn’t respond, only following his father toward the center of the camp. The fire pit had already been dug and began to roar. Bodies of the deceased were thrown in with reckless abandon, except the Highrock warriors of course, who were getting a proper burial just outside of the outpost.

  After the warriors formed a huge circle around the fire and their chief king, Prince Mace put on a confident face and stood next to his father. As his father began to speak, he zoned out once more. He knew his father would only speak of their strength, their history, and to fight hard against the Narsho. While his words were somewhat hollow, his passion and determination were not. It was those qualities that filled his warriors with a similar righteous zeal.

  Fierce roars of the warriors echoed out as his father spoke. Prince Mace even felt it difficult to not get worked up. Between the violent flame lashing out as more bodies were tossed into it, and his father’s passion, even the prince felt a sense of pride run through him. It was moments like this that he wondered if his father was right, and that their war was just and should be finished. However, the prince knew it was merely the heat of the moment, and once he returned to logic he would think differently.

  Of course, a large feast took place after the speech. More campfires were made, parts of the ground were cleared, and it began. Ale flowed and the warriors of the Highrock cheered with vigor and anticipation. While the prince didn’t particularly feel like he fit in, he still took part in the celebrations, more for his father’s sake. If nothing else, he had to keep up an appearance; part of him knew if he was to succeed his father he would want to do so with good relations with his people. After all, not everyone appreciated the ancient bloodline of the Highrock clan. Prince Mace often worried what would happen when that day came. His father had three advisors, none of whom the prince had a close relationship with. Whether they truly liked his father or feared his wrath was uncertain, but if anyone would try to steal control it would be them.

  Prince Mace was dragged out of his own mind by someone calling his name. He looked around for a moment, seeing who could’ve called him. Eyes were on him, and finally he realized it was General Klon standing across the fire.

  “Prince Mace! Have you had too much to drink?” General Klon asked with a cheeky grin.

  “Of course not; I was thinking about the fight to come,” Prince Mace replied.

  “I only wanted to applaud you on your swordsmanship,” General Klon continued, his tone borderline snide. “Your elaborate dual wielding is something to behold.”

  “Why, thank you,” the prince replied slowly. “Trov, the old weapons master, taught me everything he knew before he died.” Prince Mace took a drink of his ale to further calm his increasingly agitated nerves.

  “Ah, it must be nice. And to think some people consider it a crutch for a man that cannot fight with a single sword or axe alone. How foolish they are,” General Klon rambled.

  Prince Mace felt a mix of embarrassment and anger. It seemed the general was the one who had imbibed too much golden ale. Prince Mace closed his eyes briefly, trying to calm his frayed mind. He was sick of feeling like an outsider in his own clan, like he hadn’t earned their approval or trust. Having spent most of his time with Trov made him spend less training with his clan. Of
course, that wasn’t the only reason. Trov had been a severely outspoken clansman who wanted the war with the Narsho to end. Prince Mace had been largely influenced by him, and as he thought of his old mentor, he opened his eyes, feeling a fire ignite within him.

  “I’d hardly call it a crutch. If anything, it can only be achieved by a proper swordsman who can handle such an artform,” Prince Mace responded, finishing his ale and standing.

  The nearby warriors watched in anticipation as the two glared at each other, only the crackling of the fire disrupting the silence. Prince Mace saw the general was surprised by his reaction but wasn’t ready to quit.

  “Ah, an artform, that is a good way of calling it. After all, art is something made by those who lack the will and skill to fight, and those who have too much free time on their hands. I suppose if one’s expectation of skill was low enough, they could be talked into wasting their time on such an art,” General Klon replied with a mocking chuckle.

  Some of the warriors around him laughed, others looked on with confusion and bewilderment. It seemed the day of someone challenging the prince had already come, just in a different form and objective. However, Prince Mace was not in the mood to surrender.

  “Enough of this!” King Mace yelled from nearby, looking away from his advisors.

  “No, Father! If General Klon wants to speak, who are we to stop him? Even if what he says is unintelligible and a waste of our time, the good general should be allowed to speak,” Prince Mace yelled, looking from his father to the general.

  “Now his true colors show. You are painted in arrogance, boy! Covered in it! You think you’re better than all of us because you have the blood of the Mace line!” General Klon yelled, pointing at Prince Mace.

  “Again, you are wrong, General. I don’t care for the bloodline; while it’s a part of me, I rarely consider it. No, I care for the future of our people. I am focused on making the Highrock clan great. If you have a problem with me, let us settle it here and now!” Prince Mace challenged, stomping hard onto the dirt beneath them.