Forgotten Magic (Magic Underground Anthologies Book 3)

by Melinda Kucsera

  “Dro-less! Dro-less! Dro-less!” The chant brought Urk’s mind back to the here and now. He’d been so distracted by the wrongness of the place that he had missed the details of the match the announcer explained.

  “At least he’s popular,” said Urk as the brass doors at the arena’s southern end opened to allow the gladiators onto the field. His son was armed with a claymore and a short spear—and friends? A few other gladiators hovered near Droless, but they lacked the kind of animosity people should have who were competing for their lives. They didn’t just look fearful but they looked ‘wronged’. Borden had looked like that, after he’d been betrayed by the Baron of Wings. “You spoke of politics, Eihn?”

  Eihn nodded, following the minotaur’s gaze. “Sometime back they stopped using execution almost entirely and started using the Blood Toll instead.”

  “Probably makes them a lot of money,” said Al’rashal before sucking her teeth.

  “Yeah, but that’s not the interesting part,” continued Eihn.

  “The gladiators look ready!” roared the announcer to the cheers of the crowd. “But are they ready for this?”

  One of the northern doors opened and a single figure strode onto the field, dressed in the kind of finery one would never wear to a battle. A confused hush settled on the crowd. Then from the darkness behind him came four towering creatures.

  “Zarut!”

  “Are those really—?” gasped Eihn as the four creatures lumbered forward. They seemed a cross between insects and fish. They stood about eight feet tall and possessed four arms—two long, with massive orange claws that contrasted their pale green bodies, and two much shorter ones. Their eyes were bulbous, yellow, and segmented, and tendrils hung from where their mouths would have been. The resplendent man lifted his arms and a shimmering globe of power surrounded him, then he pointed and the zarut stomped forward.

  Urk nodded. The first time the zarut had attacked they’d razed the human empire, fractured the moon, and hollowed out the continent, creating the Silver Sea. “We fought one before, in service to the Baron of Wings—and nearly died.”

  “Then Droless—” began Eihn.

  “—Has a chance,” finished Al. “The one we fought had zarut weapons and armor. These don’t have either, and they’re moving like sleepwalkers.”

  Urk nodded. If he tried he could probably see the threads of magic connecting the mage to his thralls, but the jerky movements and dull reactions were enough to tell him they were enslaved. “Interesting, you said—about the games?”

  Eihn nodded, regaining his composure, as a zarut made a lazy swipe at one of the gladiators and sent him flying end over end. The man hit the ground and screamed, a limb broken or twisted out of place. The zarut lumbered over, ignoring the sword swipes and spear jabs that barely drew its blue blood, lifted the man into the air, and tore him in half. “Yeah,” Eihn said with a gulp. “Then the laws changed. A lot of crimes that were just fines or time became Blood Toll.”

  Urk nodded. He heard but he was paying more attention to Droless. His son was racing between the zarut, jabbing at them with spear and sword, trying to draw their attention and keep them off balance. The creatures barely had the focus to keep track of him. It was a good strategy but a tiring one. “Anything more?”

  “I had to do more digging”—Eihn’s words fell away as one of the zarut threw a discarded shield decapitating one of the gladiators.

  Droless turned and charged, barreling into one of the zarut just above its hip and sending it tumbling to the ground. The crowd cheered, and even from here Urkjorman could see his son’s smile. You’ll need more than that.

  Droless spun in place, bringing his claymore about in a strike aimed for the creature’s elongated neck, but it lifted an arm to block it. With its opposite limb it punched Droless in the torso. Urk winced as his son crashed to the ground and slid along the sand. The zarut pursued and lifted its leg for a stomp, but Droless brought up his spear and it impaled its foot with the weapon. The spear snapped as the foot came down, but the stab had pushed the foot off course so it missed Droless by inches. The creature kicked with its other foot and sent Droless tumbling away again.

  Al’s ears twitched. “Don’t apologize—get up.”

  Droless got to his feet before the other zarut could grasp him, and he limped away.

  One of the zarut fell to its knees, a dozen or more cuts and stabs to its legs finally having their toll. The mage, largely ignored, pointed in the direction of the injured zarut and it lifted its smaller arms and opened its hands. Immediately one of the gladiators convulsed in pain. From this distance it was almost impossible to see, but Urk knew the creature was using long hair-like filaments to deliver a poison that caused paralysis and death. “And your digging revealed—?” he asked.

  “The Glass Guild,” answered Eihn as Droless picked up a second sword and with both blades cut into the injured leg of the zarut that had almost killed him. Eihn continued: “Or rather, every guild but the Glass Guild has seen most of its senior members convicted of something that put them in the arena.”

  A zarut swiped at Droless and the kintaur blocked but the blow still sent him staggering backward. This time he didn’t lose his footing but did spit blood onto the floor.

  “I don’t know,” whispered Al. “Just—”

  “Why doesn’t he don the mantle?” asked Eihn.

  “Too costly,” answered Urk. “It will grant strength but rob wisdom. He needs wisdom now.”

  Droless raced in close, blocked a strike from a zarut, and severed one of its smaller arms. A gladiator that had been violently convulsing stilled and two others dragged him away. From here Urk couldn’t tell if the gladiator would live, but removing the creatures’ smaller arms would go a long way toward their survival. “The mage.”

  “He can’t reach the mage,” responded Al.

  “The mage speaks,” said Urk. “The zarut must listen.”

  “The mage,” repeated Al. “The zarut need to hear him.”

  Droless hopped back—just evading another lashing strike from a zarut—then turned and raced toward two of the gladiators facing a zarut and picked them up. He lifted them from the ground as easily as a grown man might carry a pair of children. The other gladiators shouted something, likely swears, as he abandoned them and cast the two to the ground several yards away. He raced back to the other gladiators and did it again with them.

  “Oh, what’s this now?” boomed the announcer. “Is Droless trying to save his friends, or just keeping the kills for himself?”

  The mage seemed to laugh, and the next time Droless picked up a pair of gladiators, the mage sent one of the zarut chasing the kintaur and dispatched two others after the four Droless had already moved away. The fourth zarut, the most injured one, stayed near the mage, lashing out at the six remaining gladiators encircling it.

  Instead of dropping the gladiators to the ground, Droless turned in place and hurled the smaller of the two gladiators at the zarut chasing them. The crowd gasped as the small woman collided with the zarut’s face. It reeled, legs still pushing forward as its head snapped back, as though the body had not yet realized what had happened. Blood, blue and bright, erupted from the side of the creature’s long neck. At last it seemed to realize it was injured and reached up for the figure affixed to its face, but by then Droless and the other gladiators were right there. The kintaur rammed the zarut’s trailing leg, sending the creature over, and the second gladiator brought an ax down onto its skull. It tried to rise and Droless added his swords to the blades of the others and the creature stopped moving.

  Urkjorman punched the air as the crowd cheered.

  “Blood! Blood! Blood!” began the chant.

  Droless picked up the two gladiators and put them both on his back, then raced toward one of the other zarut. The gladiators there were simply keeping the creature at bay, but with the addition of Droless and two more they were able to easily move about, surrounding it. Blood flowed from a dozen c
uts on the creature’s long limbs and slowed it even more than did their magical enslavement. The creature hit the ground, to another explosive cheer from the crowd.

  The mage seemed to notice at last. He pointed at the third zarut, and the fourth began lumbering towards it, dragging its speared foot as the mage jogged alongside, urging the creature to move faster. Then Droless charged in, barreling through the gladiators and past the zarut to collide with the mage. A flash like a bolt of lightning erupted in the arena and left violet threads of magic washing over Droless’s body, but the mage had been cast back. The mage’s spherical shield held, but he was rolling across the arena like a toy cast aside by some uncaring child.

  The fourth zarut reached the third at the same time as did the rest of the gladiators. It stomped about, swinging its arms wide, but the gladiators held back, picking their strikes with care and focusing more on staying alive than on killing—as though they were afraid, or waiting.

  Urk turned his gaze to Droless, who was stumbling, stunned, in the general direction of the melee. The mage’s roll was beginning to slow and it would not be long until he regained control.

  Urk leaned forward, willing Droless to come to his senses faster. Come on, come on.

  The mage came to a stop and looked about. He took a moment to untangle his robes, then started running.

  Come on, Son.

  The mage was fast approaching and Droless at last seemed to know where he was, but only barely. One of the zarut picked up a gladiator and slammed him to the earth with such force that the breaking of bones could be heard across the arena.

  “Dro-less,” chanted Urk, stamping his hoof in time with the syllables.

  “Dro-less,” repeated Al, stamping her hooves in time.

  “Dro-less,” said Eihn, clapping with the beat.

  “Dro-less! Dro-less! Dro-less!” called the crowd. As though thunder was shouting his name.

  Droless turned, roared, and charged. At last he had donned the Red Mantle and closed on the zarut. He struck the first with such force he shattered its leg and sent the creature over backwards, then the kintaur carried through and leaped to collide with the second and bring it down as well. The crowd’s roar was so loud that it rose past hearing and became a physical force that shook the stadium. Blood erupted into the air as Droless drove his swords deep into the zarut beneath him. It grasped him with all four arms but the kintaur pulled, tearing the creature’s body open even as it tried to crush the life from him. With another shower of blood, Droless’s blades came away along with the zarut’s head.

  Droless turned to the other zarut, but it was already dead, the other nine gladiators having brought it down while he wrestled with the fourth. He roared, and the crowd cheered.

  “The Blood Toll is paid!” boomed the announcer barely above the cries of the crowd.

  The gladiators retired to cheers and chants of “Dro-less! Dro-less! Dro-less!”

  Chapter Eight

  Visitation

  “Droless!” called someone from the darkness.

  Droless groaned. His body was a network of bruises, cuts, and lacerations that sent pain racing through his body with every breath. For a moment he had found a position where he could breathe without suffering, and looking up at the sound of his name had sent fire racing down his spine. But that wasn’t why he groaned.

  “You have a visitor!”

  That was why. He looked to the left—was that west? It was hard to tell down here, but from the left came a harsh amber light.

  “Droless?”

  “Yah,” he responded, barely above a whisper. “I heard.”

  He didn’t have to go, he told himself, even as he strode toward the bars. He could just wait in the dark and eventually the guard would escort his visitor away. But could he live with himself if he did that? Could he live with himself if he kept running? His eyes adjusted, and the towering silhouette before him resolved into Urkjorman. He took a breath to speak, but he couldn’t find the words.

  Urk looked down on him, one eye a gleaming crystal sphere, the other a dark pit, both judging and finding him wanting. Droless pulled his shoulders back and stood up straight, trying to ignore the pain the posture sent crawling through him. “What?”

  Urk sighed and turned to look away, as though he could see through the ceiling to the sky above. Droless recognized the habit—it meant “God help me.”

  The minotaur’s gaze fell on him again. “You fought hard.”

  Not well, not good, not smart, just “hard.” “I always do, or did you forget?”

  “I—”

  The silence was so uncomfortable the guard looked away.

  “I,” Urk began again, “don’t want you to die, but you brought yourself to this.”

  “Brought myself? I was brought here in chains—”

  “Don’t hide from your deeds!” Urkjorman roared as he beat his arm against the bars.

  The guard stumbled in shock and fumbled for his sword, but neither Urk nor Droless cared. “Your actions brought you here,” his father said.

  “Then you should be happy I’m where I belong.”

  Urk sighed. “You don’t belong here.”

  I do, thought Droless. “What did you expect of me, Father? I am the man you made me!”

  “You are the man you made yourself!”

  “And you despise that man!”

  The silence was answer enough.

  “I didn’t teach you how to don the Red Mantle so you would be some savage,” chastised his father.

  “You wish I didn’t have it? Just as I don’t have my armor, my coin or my ax.”

  “Your armor and coin await you, should you live. But Muraheim returned the ax to me.”

  “That’s mine.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “You would take everything from me.”

  “I would give everything to you! If only you would—”

  “Be the man you want me to be?”

  “The man you could be, who you should be. The one…”

  You raised, Droless finished, though neither could say it aloud.

  Urk looked at the near wall. “You almost died today.”

  “I lived.”

  “You have many matches yet, if you are to pay the Blood Toll.”

  “Sounds fun,” Droless said with smile.

  “They will take your life.”

  “That’s the point.”

  “Do you want to die?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Urk snorted. “Of course it matters! I can’t help you if you don’t want to live.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  Urk’s gaze turned from the wall to Droless. “No, you do not.”

  Droless didn’t understand.

  “You need, to remember who you are,” his father said. “And today you did, for a time.”

  “I am not who you think I am.”

  “You are not who you think you are.”

  Droless turned from the bars. “Tell Eihn I’m happy he visited, and tell Mom, thank you.”

  “Time to go,” said the guard with a bit of apprehension in his voice.

  For a moment it looked as if Urkjorman would not leave, but eventually he turned and started lumbering toward the exit.

  “I’ll”—began Droless as he disappeared into the dark—“never be the man you are, Father.”

  “Son, I never wanted you to be.”

  Chapter Nine

  Darkness to Night

  The sound of steel grinding on stone drew Droless back to wakefulness. He looked around, his eyes straining to make out walls and figures as he struggled to remember where he was. Then it came back to him. How long had he been sleeping, how long had it been since the last match? Days? Probably. Most of his wounds had become scars so it must have been some time. Then came the lights—guards with a sword in one hand and a torch in the other, moving through the warren and pointing at the prisoners they wanted. Droless didn’t wait to be found. They’d been fed tw
ice since his last match, so he was overdue.

  “Droless,” one said, pointing to him.

  “I know the way,” answered the kintaur, taking his time as he walked into the well-lit corridors to let his eyes adjust.

  “Right,” said another guard, pointing to the equipment room.

  Droless shrugged—that happened more often now. When he entered the room he noticed first the large number of tired prisoners, then the glut of weapons and even armor, which was usually not provided. He picked up a sword and whistled as he examined the edge. It was razor sharp.

  It was rare for so many of them to be offered so much equipment. It wouldn’t take many prisoners, even malnourished and tired, to overpower the guard here and cause a riot. Whatever they were set to face must be incredibly dangerous. He turned his gaze to the iron reinforced door to the interior. He could probably charge through that. If he did, would others follow? Probably, they could kill some guard and likely make it outside, and then—? They wouldn’t make it out of the city. He would make it out of the city but the rest would die.

  Do I care?

  A man to his right offered a spear and Droless, hesitantly took it and headed toward the doorway that led to the arena floor.

  The heavy brass door was cold, and there was no chanting nor stomping this time. What kind of battle will it be?

  The door began to peel open and Droless lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the light of the sun, but it never came. Outside it was almost as dim as within.

  “No, no, no,” stammered a man to Droless’s right. “Night match.”

  Droless strode forward, wrapped in the shockingly cold air of the evening and looked up at a sky half washed with stars and half obscured with cloud. The fragments of the moon shone through the clouds near the southern horizon.