Rise of the Champions

by Nicholas Joslin

  “You loathsome monster!” Jarult growled as he climbed atop the shoulder.

  He ran at the golem’s head, barely dodging the foe’s other arm swinging and missing him. Filled with adrenaline, he dove off the shoulder and into the air, screaming at the monster. His aim was true as his weapons plunged into the beast’s eyes. Screaming with rage at those who would seek to destroy his people, Jarult hacked violently at the golem's face. Before the golem could swipe him off, Jarult struck a fatal blow.

  The golem wailed in desperation, then began to stumble on its stubby legs. It wavered like a tree in a heavy storm, finally losing its power to live. It took a few more steps, knocking over nearby warriors of both sides before it finally slipped in a muddy patch and collapsed backwards.

  Jarult braced himself against the golem as it slammed to the ground, catching a few unlucky Horrors under its large body. He laughed in triumph, and a few nearby warriors cheered as they saw his victory. However, it was short lived, as more Highrock warriors were running towards him. As his troops clashed with the enemy, death began to consume the area. Both the living and the afflicted fell, causing the ground to be littered with both bodies and equipment. Jarult ignored the carnage, knowing he could do nothing beyond fight. As he glanced back towards Valon, he was glad to see gold light shimmering in the sky; the spell was working but needed more time.

  “Keep fighting! Narsho, Forud, Ancient! Fight in the name of the Allied Clans! For everyone you love!” Jarult called out, looking to any of his troops that could hear him.

  This time, less of the fighters yelled out in response, their morale slowly weakening against an endless force. They might have had magic and skill on their side, but the numbers and savage fighting of their enemy were wearing them down. Not only that, but as each of the living fell, they returned as an enemy.

  The battle raged, and Jarult cut down Horror, Highrock, and turned allies, each kill reducing his will to fight by a miniscule amount. He didn’t consciously realize it, but fighting such a horrible, vicious enemy and seeing his allies turned against him was damaging to his mind.

  Time flowed sickeningly slow as Jarult fought, practically losing himself to the battle. There were immense casualties on both sides, and many of his allies had been lost by the time the last flesh golem fell. While more of them hadn’t appeared, smaller Horrors of all shapes and sizes ran from the woods, their numbers limitless, though they didn’t form as much of a threat as the afflicted Highrock, who were dangerous with their blood-coated weaponry.

  Jarult couldn’t stop his sanity from being tested as he watched the fallen bodies of his comrades warp and twist into such gruesome enemies; as he gazed across the great battle in front of him, he recognized one of the fallen as their loyal gate guard. It was the same guard that first met with Seer Mordou. On that night, they had laughed as they sent the Seer off, thinking the man was nothing more than a lunatic from a clan of fools. As Jarult felt his heart sink at the sight of the afflicted young man, he was filled with doubt, wondering if it was partially his fault for ignoring the Seer like the others.

  His mind was soon interrupted by a throwing axe just barely missing his head. A surge of adrenaline shocking him, he looked to see Lorag barreling towards him, cutting down two warriors and a mage in the process. The Champion had already been muscular, but the strange affliction given to them warped his body to be almost double the size he had been. Now, the afflicted Champion had become a being of pure, gnarled hatred. Jarult withdrew his shield from his back, ready for true combat.

  “Narsho dog!” Lorag yelled sweeping his greataxe low and taking down a nearby Forud warrior as he ran.

  Jarult bashed his battleaxe against his shield, staring into the menacing red eyes of Lorag. He waited, letting his foe come to him. He watched as Lorag brought his greataxe over his head, putting his unnatural strength behind the upcoming swing.

  Jarult held up his shield to deflect the blow, not expecting such a hard hit. As the greataxe connected harshly with his shield, it struck hard enough to split it in two. The force of the blow sent a violent vibration up his arm, and Jarult dropped the broken shield. He quickly took a step back, realizing his enemy was too strong to parry safely.

  As Lorag swung his large greataxe with ease, Jarult found it difficult to keep dodging. He was becoming fatigued and knew the afflicted Champion could likely continue on without issue. This wasn’t a fight he could prolong, as only he tired like a normal human.

  “You’re weak, Narsho!” Lorag bellowed arrogantly, swinging his axe cruelly at Jarult.

  “You inhuman fiend!” Jarult snapped back, barely jumping out of the way of the attacks.

  “What I am now is better than a mere human,” Lorag yelled, his eyes red with unholy magic.

  Jarult went on the offensive, using all he had to keep Lorag on his toes. He repeatedly swung his battleaxe, Lorag parrying it with his large greataxe or simply letting it hit into his armor and unnaturally thick, purplish skin. Then, with one harsh swing, Jarult lodged his axe into the Champion’s gut; instead of keeling over in pain, Lorag looked even more motivated.

  “That almost tickles,” Lorag grinned viciously.

  Jarult cursed to himself, his confidence wavering. As the two locked eyes, they both paced from side to side, each hoping the other would make a move. Jarult knew the only way to stop Lorag would be to deliver a death blow. That was easier said than done.

  Lorag faked toward Jarult and laughed cruelly as Jarult flinched. He was toying with Jarult, like an arrogant predator fooling around with its prey before he consumed it. To Jarult, however, this was his enemy’s weakness—his arrogance would be his downfall.

  “You have no honor! Your ancestors would be ashamed that you call yourself Highrock!” Jarult taunted, beating his chest once with his free hand.

  “You dare tell me I have no honor, Narsho?” Lorag snapped, grasping his greataxe and rushing toward Jarult.

  Watching his foe charge him, Jarult readied himself. Tarry blood still coated Lorag’s axe, almost hardened at this point. He briefly looked at the battle around him, his troops falling to their foes. Jarult realized he had to end this now.

  Lorag swung deadly, sweeping strikes toward Jarult, each filled with more malice than the last. Jarult dodged the first few, waiting for an opening. Then, as Lorag overextended one slash, Jarult made his move. He leapt towards the man, intent on beating the greataxe back. Unfortunately, Lorag’s unnatural strength truly showed itself as he swung back the other direction at an inhuman speed.

  Lorag stumbled to stop himself from running into the axe, but it was too late. The topmost part of the greataxe’s blade cut through his metal breastplate and slightly into his flesh, though it did not stop the brave guard captain, who then lurched forward and continued his assault.

  This time, Lorag couldn’t bring his hands in front of him in time to stop his foe. He yelled in anger as he realized his blunder. Jarult grabbed his battle axe with both hands, screaming loudly as he stared into the eyes of his foe, then, using every ounce of strength he had, he brought his axe down into the center of Lorag’s warped face in one clean, mighty motion.

  Lorag cried out in an unnatural, wretched manner as he dropped his greataxe and stumbled back a few steps. His grotesque arms slowly reached up toward the weapon lodged in his face, but it was far too late for the afflicted Highrock Champion now, as his tarry blood slowly oozed from the wound. Lorag’s hands fell back to his side, and he sunk to his knees. He tried to say something unintelligible before collapsing onto his back, his wretched soul finally free from his corrupted body.

  Jarult said nothing as he ripped his weapon from his opponent’s face, blood spraying forth from the grievous wound. Ignoring the chaos, he looked down at his own wound, noticing the black blood of the greataxe had been smeared on the punctured breastplate. He knew unless Valon could save him, he was a dead man walking; however, despite this grim realization, Jarult found himself filled with the will to fight. Now, he
could fight recklessly and with everything he had, knowing his fate was likely sealed.

  Jarult roared at the heavens, letting the chaos of battle overtake him. In his rage, he cut down Horrors and Highrock with ease, moving across the battlefield like a dangerous predator. For some reason, the enemies didn’t detect him as easily. He aided his own troops, helping them double team foes and slow down the enemy. Still, more Horrors came, and his warriors and mages alike fell to the enemy, and it was only when his mages fell that the battle took a sharp decline in their favor. As the first Ancient Clan mage was reborn in unholy, festering darkness, an aura so vile permeated through the air that even non-mages could sense it. Jarult watched in shock as the risen mage lifted his arm and shot forth a blast of red, sizzling energy.

  Jarult didn’t even have time to warn the target and watched in horror as the man was struck harshly by the bolt of magic. He toppled over, a clear hole burnt through his armor and cloth down to his skin, which now bubbled horribly. He cried out in pain, unable to move.

  “By the gods…” Jarult murmured, looking to a nearby mage.

  “Mages! Target our risen comrades!” the mage near him shouted, realizing the same threat.

  While Jarult continued to fight, it appeared the enemy had also realized the risen mages’ potential. As a result, the Horrors and afflicted Highrock targeted the mages even more ferociously, desperately charging through the Narsho, Forud, and Linta warriors to get to them.

  As the Allied Clan was slowly pushed back toward the village, it appeared their defense was shattering, but as Jarult looked toward the golden energy that was now just behind him, it seemed the spell was almost complete. They just needed to hold them off a little longer.

  “Keep fighting! We are almost there!” Jarult yelled loudly.

  As he yelled, Jarult felt a moment of weakness overtake him. He stumbled behind the fighting line and almost fell to the ground, catching himself on a knee. His chest burned terribly, and his head felt increasingly cloudy. He forced himself to stand, but noticed he felt a strange presence around him.

  “Join us, Jarult,” a deep voice whispered from far away.

  Jarult turned in fear, not knowing what he was experiencing. The voice carried a power to it and sounded like it came from all directions simultaneously. He took his helmet off and wiped a pool of sweat from his forehead, suddenly feeling ill. Then the voice spoke again, his chest burning awfully at the same time.

  “We need you, Guard Captain,” the voice said slightly louder.

  Jarult wiped his eyes, desperately looking around. He hoped to see someone standing by him, something that meant he wouldn’t become whatever was befalling him. However, the only thing he saw were partially transparent greenish red strands connecting all the enemies.

  He stared in a confused stupor, seeing that they all connected into one larger strand that led off to the east. He had never seen anything like it, and simply watched it with intrigue as the battle around him started to vanish. Just as he went to take a step toward it all, he was pulled back, an arm under both of his own.

  Jarult tried to struggle, to break free of his captors. He looked to either side, seeing pale white, dark-eyed people taking him. He tried to wriggle free, but it was no good. Then, he looked back to see a flaming wall of terrible golden energy. The sight instilled fear in him, and he tried desperately to flail free, but it was no good, and his abductors dragged him through the magical barrier.

  The flame seared his mind for a moment, but then quickly stopped. He blinked his eyes and realized he was back within the barrier, surrounded by his warriors and mages. He looked to see his captors were a Narsho man and Forud woman, who let go of him as he found strength to stand; as he did, he found his chest still hurt, and his own blood oozed from the wound.

  Just before Jarult was Valon, holding a silver staff at the center of the great barrier. Valon turned and made eye contact with him, realizing the man was dying. Jarult stumbled forward but found his strength rapidly declining. He fell to the ground, beginning to succumb to his wounds.

  ***

  Valon instinctively leaned toward Jarult but knew he couldn’t let go of the staff. As he felt the great holy magic flow through him, he realized he was merely a conduit of a greater power, and that if he left now, the barrier would collapse and the Horrors and afflicted Highrock that now stood outside it would break through.

  “Get to the ships! Now!” Valon yelled to the surviving warriors and mages. “Prepare to purge any wounded that may become afflicted if I cannot heal them in time!”

  They seemed hesitant, especially at the idea of killing their wounded comrades. However, the brave fighters had just seen what would become of the wounded, and knew it was their only choice. As they all ran toward the docks, Valon looked back to Jarult.

  “We … did it,” Jarult coughed, slowly looking up from the ground at Valon.

  “Just hold on, Jarult! Once they leave, I can drop this barrier and help you,” Valon said, realizing the impossibility of his words.

  Then, just as the humanity inside of him panicked, a brief burst of farsight struck into his mind. He knew he would not die here but did not see how he would escape. Moments like these frustrated him greatly, as he could see the end of the road, just not how to get there. Then, as he tried to think of a plan, he noticed a handful of Ancient Clan mages walking through the gate toward him. Among them were his parents.

  “My son! We must go!” Valon’s father yelled, running to him.

  “I cannot go, Father! I must channel this spell to keep the barrier up!” Valon replied.

  “But how will you escape?” Valon’s mother asked with great worry in her eyes.

  “I will manage. Please, take Jarult and go,” Valon urged, knowing even his parents could do nothing for the dying man.

  “But we do not have your holy power, my son. We cannot save him or any of the other wounded,” Valon’s father said.

  Valon’s grip on the staff slightly loosened, knowing his father was right. He tried to come up with a plan, anything he could do to escape. Surely, there had to be something he could do. Alas, he knew in his heart that someone had to be here to channel the spell—he had to be here.

  “I cannot leave. If I let go of this staff, the barrier will collapse. This staff is a sort of amplifier of magic, not a source of it. Please, you all must go,” Valon urged his parents and other mages before him.

  There was a moment of silence as Valon’s parents looked at each other, as if making a decision. Valon watched in confusion, not knowing what they were doing. Then his father stepped forward, a look of peace in his eyes.

  “I will take your place, Valon,” Valon’s father declared.

  “What? No, Father! I cannot let you!” Valon replied, his heart sinking at the thought.

  “Yes, my son. You may be the Seer of our clan, but I am still your father. I will take your place so you may lead your people and save the wounded!” Valon’s father insisted, stepping forward and grabbing hold of Hy’ria’s staff.

  As his father took it, Valon felt the burden of flowing magic lessen. He watched as part of it flowed through his father, the old man having to brace himself against its power. Watching this, Valon realized this was how it was supposed to happen, which caused sorrow to quickly envelop him. This was how they would succeed.

  “Yes, Father … I will do as you ask,” Valon choked, tearing up as he let go of the silver staff.

  Valon felt the holy magic sever its connection from him and instead use his father. His father winced in pain as the power burst through him. Still, he smiled, looking at his son with nothing but love and pride.

  Valon’s mother quickly ran to her husband, embracing and kissing him. She held her head against his, keeping her goodbye brief. She turned away, knowing her husband was making the ultimate sacrifice.

  Valon, too, hugged his father, embracing him for the final time. His mind spun with things he wanted to say but knew they didn’t have the time. His fa
ther would not last forever, and when he did fall the afflicted enemies would run rampant through the village, desperately searching for their enemies. Valon couldn’t stop tears running down his face as he hugged his father, but finally had to let go; he had much to do and would keep his goodbye short, knowing it would only hurt more to prolong it.

  “I love you so much … I couldn’t be any prouder to call you my father,” Valon spoke mournfully, backing away from his father.

  “Indeed, my son. and I am proud of the man you’ve become. I will love you and your mother forever … Now go, lead our people to their new home,” Valon’s father replied, keeping his tone of courage.

  Valon simply nodded, knowing he had to leave. He couldn’t help but notice the horde of Horrors and afflicted Highrock staring at him from the other side of the barrier. If they dared to cross now, they would likely be incinerated alive in a second. They had no choice but to wait. He knew their rage would build, and his father would be the only target left. He shook his head, trying to fight the guilt that had already found him. He had no other choice now.

  Turning his attention to Jarult, he knelt and touched the man’s breastplate. He could feel the corruption growing inside him, and quickly projected a flash of holy magic into the man. This would at least hold him over until they were aboard the ship. Then he could take his time to cure the man and whoever else was stable enough.

  Valon slowly picked up the loyal guard captain, who was now unconscious. He looked to his mother and the other mages, who gazed somberly toward his father. As they noticed their Seer, they quickly began to walk toward the port, knowing the time had come.

  “We must go,” Valon said to his mother.

  “I know…” Valon’s mother began to cry, looking as sad as she was proud.

  Valon followed his mother toward the port where only one ship remained, the others out at sea at a safe distance. With Jarult in his arms, Valon felt the literal weight of his people on him, though it was not as damning a burden as he thought; now he was filled with newfound power as well as the wisdom of his former master. Now, Valon felt he could accomplish anything.