Battleborne

by Dave Willmarth

  The dwarves jumped to their feet and planted their shields, then fired crossbows as Smitty began firing arrows at the still blinded foes. Max continued with his magic assault, casting Rot on the nearest three vulgs with riders still atop their backs. Then he took up his own bow and began firing at the mounts as quickly as possible. Each of his arrows sunk deeply into the unarmored beasts, and he’d killed three before the enemy recovered from the blindness and got moving toward his party again.

  Their initial assault had been extremely effective. Better even than they’d hoped. Three of the riders were dead, two more were down and at least temporarily out of the fight from shrapnel damage. Five vulgs were dead, two more down and bleeding, and the three suffering from Rot were moving slowly, their riders whipping them and shouting, not realizing their mounts were literally falling apart. Of the vulgs still on their feet, each of them had at least one arrow in them, some sporting two or three.

  The dismounted greys were running toward Battleaxe and Dalia, lances in hand, snarling. Max continued firing arrows at vulgs, helping Smitty take down the frontrunners as quickly as they could. When the greys had nearly reached the dwarves, Max cast Confuse on the area directly in front of his tanks, just as he’d done down in the tunnels below Darkholm. And the strategy worked just as well. The front three greys slowed, lowering their weapons. The dwarves stepped forward to shield bash them, then hacked away. Max turned his focus back to oncoming vulgs, wanting to keep those sharp teeth and claws away from his friends.

  Unfortunately for Max, the fourth running grey managed to hurl its lance like a spear before it entered the zone of his AoE spell. The missile soared above the heads of the dwarves, and right into Max’s gut. Its razor sharp steel tip crunched through his chain mail, which was already low on durability after several fights. The weapon punched through Max, sinking deep into his body, the tip bursting out his back.

  Max stumbled and would have fallen onto his back had Smitty not steadied him. Max growled at the now confused dwarf that had thrown the lance before stepping into his spell’s AoE, casting Rot on its head, smiling when it screamed in pain.

  “Damn, boss.” Smitty looked sick as he took in Max’s condition. “The tip is barbed. If I pull that back out of you, it’s gonna take half your guts with it.” He paused to fire two arrows in rapid succession, taking down the last of the still living vulgs.

  Max cast a heal on himself, then grunted, “Use your sword, hack off the tip.”

  Pulling his sword, Smitty looked unsure for a moment, then determined. Grabbing hold of his weapon with both hands, he looked at Max. “Just the tip? That’s what she said!” He winced as the impact with the wooden shaft just behind the spear tip caused the entire shaft to lurch and vibrate. Max screamed in pain, dropping to his knees.

  The first blow didn’t completely sever the lance, but there was no way Smitty was going to hit it again. Instead he dropped his sword and grabbed hold of the lance with both hands, snapping the tip off the shaft, slicing his hand deeply on the sharp steel as he squeezed. The moment it was broken, Max began tugging on the handle in front of him. Smitty moved around and helped, pulling the haft out of his friend as smoothly as possible, then cast a heal on him.

  “Fight!” Max growled, seeing the two dwarves facing five greys. All the greys were wounded, but so were the dwarves. Smitty took up his bow and began firing again.

  Max cast a heal on himself, barely able to remain upright on his knees as the horrible wound in his gut closed. The pain of the healing magic knitting his flesh and organs back together was nearly as bad as the original wound. Leaning back and resting his butt on his heels, he saw one of the greys make an end run around Dalia’s shield. Rather than stab the dwarf in the side, it made straight for its most hated foe.

  Max.

  The grey still held its lance in one hand, and a dagger in the other. It flung the lance at Max, who wasn’t able to do anything but fall to one side in hopes of dodging the missile. He was mostly successful, the tip of the lance tearing a gouge in his arm as it passed. Angry now, Max reached toward the much smaller grey, grabbing its forearm as it tried to stab him with the dagger.

  “Jump!” Max cast the teleport spell on the grey, his gaze focusing on a spot high above the sand. It disappeared in a blink, reappearing thirty feet in the air, screaming as it fell atop one of its comrades, killing them both. The remaining three greys, distracted by the spectacle, were dispatched by Dalia and Battleaxe, with a little help from Smitty.

  The crowd went crazy, some of them laughing at the tactic, but all of them approving. Max healed himself again, then cast a heal on each of the dwarves as they stomped forward, finishing off wounded vulgs and greys. When the last of them died, Max forced himself to his feet, equipped his battle axe, and thrust it into the air. The volume of the cheers increased, and the same chant from the day before began to grow amidst the stomping of feet.

  “Chimera! Chimera!”

  Continuing his new tradition of taking trophies, Max lopped the head off the nearest grey dwarf, then took up one of their lances. Thrusting the tip into the sand so that the lance stood vertical, he then jammed the severed head onto the other end. The crowd didn’t hesitate this time, cheering and stomping as the company recovered their arrows and weapons, and exited the arena.

  Back in their cage, Smitty informed them that he’d put all the points from his last six levels, a total of eighteen, into Wisdom and Intelligence. He’d been able to cast three heals during the fight with the greys, and had enough mana regenerated by the end to cast a fourth. He’d been the only one to level up from that battle, and was rapidly catching up to Max and the others.

  They were just sitting down to their lunch when Gr’tok appeared. He approached slowly, almost reluctantly, and kept his eyes averted. Max immediately knew something was wrong.

  “Did you get robbed after picking up our winnings?”

  Gr’tok’s head snapped up. “What? No, of course not. And you should know I managed to get us in at four to one. Your winnings, minus my share, now equal twenty seven thousand gold.” He took a deep breath, looking ashamed as he continued. “But I fear you will not live to collect any of it.”

  “You know who tomorrow’s opponent is?”

  Gr’tok shook his head. “Not tomorrow. The arena master has decreed that you will fight again in one hour. And no, they have not said who your opponent will be. But their clear disregard for the traditions of the arena, or their personal honor, leads me to believe that it will be an enemy you can not defeat.”

  “You believe the arena master is following orders from the war chief.” Max stated. He already knew the answer. “If we win, will the war chief honor the traditions? Or will he simply keep us here and throw more powerful opponents at us until we die.”

  Gr’tok shook his head. “Even this war chief, as flexible as his morals may be, would not dare to dishonor those who complete the trials. My people would rise up in the name of the gods, and his head would appear on a stake like the one you just left in the sand.”

  “Then we simply need to win the next fight.” Max held his head high, holding the orc’s gaze and doing his best to look confident. Inside, though, his guts were churning. “I’d like you to place another wager for us, if you have time.”

  Gr’tok shook his head. “I cannot wager anywhere near the full amount of your winnings. Even if I had until morning. I can manage maybe five or six thousand in an hour, if I hurry.”

  “And at what odds?”

  “Well, I suppose that part is good news. Word is out that you are being cheated, that you will face an impossible challenge. The odds are back up to six to one.”

  “Then please, bet as much as you can on our behalf. And we’ll see you after the battle.” Max held out a hand, which the commander shook.

  Gr’tok held his grip on Max’s hand for a moment. “Should you survive, I believe I would like to join you in your city. I can not serve a war chief who acts without honor. And I beli
eve many of my people will feel the same.”

  Max was at once both thrilled, and worried. How many orcs was Gr’tok talking about. His kingdom was just a small city, for now.

  “I would be honored to have you, and as many of your people as we can support. Let’s discuss that after we win!” He tried his best to give the commander a convincing grin. Gr’tok saluted and departed at a jog, rushing to place the wagers.

  The four of them sat down and ate as quickly as possible. This meal reflected the arena master’s perfidy as well. Rather than a feast befitting a potential final meal, they were given sandwiches made with stale bread, boar meat and cheese, with water, and slightly overripe fruit.

  Still, Max had eaten much worse in combat zones, and Smitty seemed downright pleased with the fare. “These are tasty! Think we can get some more to go? Maybe grab a quick bite if the fight gets boring?” Max chuckled at his corporal’s attempt to lighten the mood.

  It seemed like no time at all before their escort arrived. Lo’tang led the larger than usual contingent of guards. When he reached the door to their cage and opened it, he snapped a fist to his chest in salute. The twenty guards behind him did the same.

  “We salute you, honored warriors! And we ask your forgiveness, for the injustice being done to you now. We would have departed the arena master’s service immediately, except that we wished to provide you with an honor guard. Know that, should you perish, we will see that you each receive a hero’s burial.”

  Max and the others stood, each of them returning the salute. “Lo’tang, we do not hold you or these others responsible. Your honor is intact, as far as I’m concerned. Should we survive this battle and return home, you will all be welcomed as honored guests in Stormhaven.”

  Max felt a tingle, and a white light swirled around each of the orcs. Their eyes unfocused, and many of them smiled. Red appeared over Max’s shoulder. “As a king, declaring them honored guests just raised their reputation with Stormhaven directly to Honored. No harm done, I suppose, but you need to be more careful with such proclamations in the future. Assuming you don’t end the day as something’s afternoon snack.”

  “Thank you, Chimera King.” Lo’tang bowed his head, and his troops joined him in the show of respect. “I am afraid it’s time.”

  Max and the others stepped out of the cage and the orcs formed a protective ring around them as they made their way through the tunnel. Surprisingly, the full escort stayed with them when they stepped out onto the sand, and when they halted at their usual spot.

  The crowd in the stands were subdued, unsure of what was happening. Every orc knew that this fight was a departure from the traditions of the arena, traditions that they believed were set down by the gods. Max could hear rumblings of displeasure all around.

  The sun beat down on all of them, fighters and spectators alike. The crowd quieted even more as they noticed the honor guards’ persistence, remaining on the hot sand. As one, the twenty one armored orcs raised their swords toward the sun, and shouted.

  “Chimera King!”

  Max got a lump in his throat as Lo’tang gave him a final nod of respect. As the guards sheathed their weapons and turned to depart, the crowd took up the chant.

  “Chimera King! Chimera King!”

  Max could also hear shouts of protest, picking out words like dishonor and punishment here and there. Though the fighting had not yet started, the crowd were already on their feet.

  A moment later there was a roar of protest as the far gate opened, and Max’s final opponent emerged into the sunlight. His stomach lurched and his pulse raced as he cast Identify and read the results.

  Zrebnightlingrir the Necromancer

  Dwarf Lich

  Level 35

  Health: ??

  Battleaxe began cursing loudly, and Dalia gasped in horror. When Max turned to them, she explained. “We dwarves do no’ like to kill our own kind. This one, though. He were banished from Darkholm fer practicing forbidden magic. Took the souls o’ two wee girls in some ritual meant to extend his own life.”

  Battleaxe stopped cursing long enough to growl. “He must die!”

  The dwarf strode confidently out onto the sand, the sunlight seeming to curve around his dark robes, not quite touching him. He carried a short staff with a dark stone embedded in the top end. Behind him walked a dozen dwarves, moving slowly and in unison. As soon as the first of them cleared the tunnel, Dalia wailed.

  “They be kinfolk! Undead dwarves!” Tears formed and fell down her cheeks as she gripped her shield and sword more tightly. “We need to free their souls.”

  Behind Max, Smitty whispered, “If this is anything like the games, they’re going to be hard to kill. Head shots, fire, holy magic, maybe dismemberment?”

  “Why can’t I see his health level?” Max asked.

  Dalia shuddered, taking her eyes off the lich to look at Max, desolation in her eyes. “He be a lich. Able to draw health from his minions, or from gems he might have stored other life forces in. There be no way to know what it’ll take to kill him.”

  Max growled in frustration. “I’m guessing putting his head on a stake will do it! Close your eyes.” He stepped forward and cast Blind on the lich, who was standing near his gate as his minions moved toward their victims. The undead dwarves screeched in response to the bright light, and about half of them began to wander aimlessly. But a raised hand and shouted command from the lich, and they all instantly corrected their course and continued to shuffle forward.

  He tried casting Rot on the dwarf, but couldn’t tell if it had any effect. Next he tried Confuse on the shuffling zombies, and again they began to wander as Smitty fired arrows at their heads. He managed to drop two of them, but his other shots either missed, or struck a throat, chest, or shoulder. Those injuries caused the undead dwarves to rock backward from the impact, but a moment later they continued forward unfazed as the lich commanded them.

  “Damn. This is like my worst nightmare!” Smitty’s voice was higher than usual, and trembling.

  Max ran forward as his two dwarves set their shields and prepared to hold back their undead kinfolk. Dalia was openly sobbing, the idea of having to strike down her own kind nearly more than she could bear, but gritting her teeth with determination. Battleaxe was back to cursing, long and loud.

  The stands had grown mostly quiet, the orcs waiting for something to happen, for the judgement of their gods to be passed down.

  Max, looking over one shoulder at Smitty, handed over his own bow. “Be ready with Spark.” The corporal nodded, glad that he’d taken their advice and increased his mana pool. Max was about to initiate one of their emergency plans.

  Moving up right behind the two dwarves, he said, “I’m going with plan F. No heroics from you two. Retreat as needed.” When both dwarves acknowledged with a nod, Max moved out from behind them, drawing his sword. Running forward toward the slowly approaching undead, he gripped the blade with his left hand, squeezed hard to break the skin, then ran his hand up and down the blade. When he reached the first foe, he swept the blade forward, cutting into its chest but doing no serious damage. As it reached for him, he spun away and hit another undead dwarf, this time with the flat of the blade, doing almost no damage.

  It didn’t matter, Max just kept going. After every second or third target, he would use the sword to reopen the wound on his hand and coat the weapon again. When he’d hit six of the undead, he found himself surrounded. They were closing in on him from all sides. Slicing his hand even more deeply this time, he spun in a circle, flinging blood in every direction. When he’d made two complete turns, he focused on the spot behind the necromancer, and cast Jump on himself.

  In the next moment, two things happened.

  First, Smitty cast Spark on a special arrow he’d pulled from his quiver. The arrow was wrapped in a strip of cloth soaked with a small amount of Max’s blood. Smitty quickly loosed the now flaming arrow, hitting the lead undead minion in the chest, right where Max had struck it. The
troll blood deposited into the wound by Max’s sword flared up, and the dwarf began to burn.

  At the same time, Max appeared behind Zrebnightlingrir and drove his sword through the necromancer’s back. The dwarf screamed in rage, and tried to turn to face Max, but couldn’t, because Max held the sword still. Max waited two seconds, then leaving the sword where it was, stepped back half a dozen paces, and cast Spark himself. His target, the blood-covered sword, lit up like a flare. Fire ravaged the lich from outside and in, his chest lighting up inside.

  Max drew his battle axe and was stepping forward to take the lich’s head when his body froze. He could hear the lich mumbling something as it turned to face him. No matter how hard he struggled, his muscles remained frozen, his joints locked. The necromancer stepped closer, closing the distance between them and fiddling with a ring on its right middle finger.

  When it was in range, Zrebnightlingrir jumped up and slapped Max in the face with that hand. Max felt the sting of a needle before an almost instant feeling of extreme nausea overwhelmed him. Unable to bend over or move in any way, his stomach could not force the rising bile past his esophagus and out of his system. Max wailed soundlessly as he began to suffocate on what was left of the stale sandwiches rising up from his stomach.

  “Fool! Did you honestly believe you had any hope of defeating me?” The lich stared up at Max, a look of disgust on his pale-skinned face. Max glared at him, unable to even move his head. A moment later the lich waved a hand, he felt his face muscles loosening, and he was able to move his mouth. “Answer me!” the lich demanded.

  The feeling returned to Max’s face, then his neck, and his chest. Though his arms and legs still refused to move. Max spewed vomit all over the dwarf, then gasped in a deep lungful of much-needed air. The lich ignored the nastiness that now coated his face and robe, jabbing Max in the belly with his staff. “Answer!”