The First Champion

by Sandell Wall

  “My fate may be very different from the one you envision for me. Either way, I’ve never thought of trying to escape it.”

  “I’m here to make sure it goes the way my master wants it. She was very specific concerning you.”

  Pynel reached into the pouch that hung at her side. She withdrew a black iron torc, the ends of which had been hammered to form two wicked claws. On the inside of the torc, three needle-like spikes protruded from the metal towards the center. It looked like a device meant for torture.

  “You’ll wear this or I’ll kill you where you stand,” Pynel said. She held out the torc for Mazareem to take.

  Mazareem contemplated the grisly necklace. He had no doubts as to its purpose. He had used such devices before to collar rogue magi. It would cut him off from the spirit plane, rendering his magic useless. The pain it would inflict would be inconsequential. Without the ability to weave a spell, he would be next to helpless. As long as he wore that torc, his escape portal would not work.

  Here was the moment of no return. In his pocket, Mazareem touched the chip of stone that would trigger the portal and yank him out of this realm. Pynel stared at him, her patience clearly running thin.

  At last, Mazareem reached out and took the torc from her. He had to see this through, if for no other reason than to see the face of the woman who had been erased from his memory one last time.

  Carefully, Mazareem eased the iron torc around his neck. He positioned it as best he could and then pressed the spikes down into his flesh. Pynel watched in eager anticipation of his pain, but Mazareem disappointed her by showing no signs of distress. The metal prongs bit deep, and he felt a numbing cold seep into him.

  He was cut off now. The source of his magic was beyond his reach. Pynel gave him a humorless smile, revealing her perfect white teeth.

  “You belong to me now,” she said. “We’ll replace your honor guard. Don’t ever try to leave my sight.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Mazareem said. “Now if you don’t mind, could you get me something to eat? You know I’m not undead, and you’ve been instructed to deliver me to Orcassus. I’ll need to eat to survive the journey.”

  Pynel frowned, but she could not argue with his reasoning.

  “I need human blood,” Mazareem said. “I don’t care how you get it, but without it, I won’t survive.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Pynel said.

  She moved to the door to speak with her two soldiers who had taken up station outside.

  Mazareem sat in a chair to wait. He had not removed his hand from his pocket where his fingers caressed the stone chip. He was in uncharted territory here. His gamble might still pay off, but he was starting to think he no longer cared for the odds.

  Chapter 10

  SAREDON STARED AT HIS opponent from behind his raised blade. The other boy eyed Saredon’s defense, looking for an opening to attack. His opponent had a name: Barek. Their weapons were wooden and blunted, but Saredon’s body hurt from the blows he had not been able to avoid. Like Saredon, Barek wore thin leather armor and no helmet.

  Sweat streamed down Saredon’s face. His breath came quick, yet he still only drew air through his nose. Barek was obviously winded, with his mouth open and chest heaving. This was a good sign that the contest was almost over, if Saredon could just survive a little longer. The other boy was older and bigger, but not nearly as well trained as Saredon. Still, Saredon kept his guard up. Barek had an ugly reputation for fighting dirty.

  Snarling, Barek lunged forward, his wooden sword arcing through the air in a vicious overhead chop. Saredon parried the blow, felt the shock of it travel through his tired arms, and let the hostile blade slide harmlessly away. Barek anticipated the parry, driving forward to slam a fist into Saredon’s mouth. Blood spurted around Saredon’s teeth—he staggered backwards a step.

  Barek pressed the advantage, trying to use his superior size and strength to force Saredon to his knees. The rules of the duel had been abandoned—Barek was trying to win before he ran out of stamina. Barek’s foot lashed out at Saredon’s knee. Saredon saw it coming and sidestepped the blow. When his kick floundered in the air, Barek lost his balance for a brief instant. Saredon pounced on the opening.

  He backhanded Barek hard across the face. Saredon felt a crunch as the other boy’s nose collapsed—he did not let up. Anger coursed through Saredon. Barek should fight by the rules. Now, Saredon was going to teach him a lesson. His wooden sword was a blur as he went on the offensive.

  To his credit, Barek did not drop his sword even as blood poured from his broken nose. He tried to ward off Saredon’s flurry of attacks, but it was a hopeless defense. The sound of their clashing swords rang loud off the walls of the courtyard. Barek backpedaled before the relentless assault.

  Barek faded fast. After retreating across the entire fighting circle, he ran out of energy. His sword slowed, and he no longer had the speed to keep Saredon’s blade away. Saredon’s next strike struck Barek square in the temple, and the boy dropped like a felled tree.

  The fight ended so suddenly that Saredon stood over Barek in shock. He had expected to meet the unyielding resistance of Barek’s wooden sword, not the sickening crack of the other boy’s skull. His rage vanished in an instant, and the blood streaming from Barek’s face registered in Saredon’s mind. He let his training sword drop from the fighting stance. He felt terrible. His anger had taken control, and he had hurt Barek. It did not matter to him that the other boy would have done the same, if given the chance.

  “You let that drag on far longer than you should have,” a harsh voice said from behind Saredon.

  Instructor Grippen stepped around Saredon to inspect Barek’s unmoving body. The instructor walked with his hands clasped behind his back. Dressed in a simple black uniform, his lean frame and careful movements gave the impression of fragility, but Saredon knew from experience that Grippen was anything but.

  Grippen raised a hand to indicate that Barek should be tended to. This done, he turned to appraise Saredon. Saredon forced himself not to flinch from the instructor’s penetrating gaze.

  “Will he be okay?” Saredon said.

  Grippen frowned.

  “That’s none of your concern,” Grippen said.

  In response to Grippen’s unspoken command, two trainees appeared to collect Barek. One grabbed beneath his arms, and the other took hold of his feet, and together, they carried the unconscious boy from the training area. Saredon could not look away until they had disappeared from sight.

  “Whether he lives or dies is of no consequence,” Grippen said. “All that matters is he lost, and you won.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” Saredon said. “Not badly, at least. I just wanted to teach him a lesson.”

  “Your father would be disappointed in you,” Grippen said. “Your attitude is not one of a reaver. A reaver is justice incarnate. He has no room for mercy or compassion in his heart. I warn you: you fight well, but if that ability is not coupled with an uncompromising will, you won’t pass your final test.”

  Saredon clamped his mouth shut and endured Grippen’s ire in silence. It would only make it worse if he spoke. Grippen’s warnings were becoming more insistent the closer the final test came. The instructor finished speaking and waited to see if Saredon would respond.

  “At least you’ve learned to keep your mouth shut,” Grippen said when Saredon did not speak. “You’re dismissed. You may break your fast before your next class.”

  Saredon saluted smartly, turned on his heel, and marched away in perfect form. To do anything less would invite Grippen’s wrath and probably cost him breakfast. Saredon made for the archway that Barek had been carried through. On the other side was a large room where students equipped themselves to enter the fighting circle in the courtyard beyond. Once out of Grippen’s sight, he stopped and began removing the leather training armor.

  When the armor had been returned to its rack, Saredon donned the carefully folded training uniform
he had left on the bench. Any wrinkle or blemish in the simple black cloth would earn him a day of hard physical labor, which after experiencing once, he had no desire to repeat. After getting dressed, Saredon hung his wooden sword on the wall next to an armory’s worth of training weapons.

  The room was empty for the moment, and Saredon took the opportunity to pause and collect his thoughts. He should go immediately to the mess hall, but time alone was so rare here that he could not bring himself to leave the solitude behind. If Grippen walked in, Saredon would pretend to be stretching his sore muscles.

  Saredon’s eyes were wet with unshed tears. He swiped angrily at his face. Grippen knew how to hurt him without lifting a finger, and the instructor never passed up an opportunity to remind Saredon of this.

  For three months, Saredon had struggled under Grippen’s merciless tutelage. His mother had insisted that it was time for him to start training as a candidate for reaver’s school, and she had turned him over to Grippen’s care. To his growing sadness, Saredon almost never saw his mother anymore.

  Grippen spoke of Kaiser often, and the message was clear: Saredon’s father was aware of his training and watched from afar. This one truth was what kept Saredon going. It was obvious in Saredon’s mind that his father had been preparing him for this. He had been learning to fight with a practice sword since he could first stand. All of his training, all of his education, had made him perfectly suited for Grippen’s tests.

  Saredon had regained his lost muscle in a matter of weeks, and his hands had soon remembered how to wield a sword. He stood head and shoulders above the other trainees in ability and knowledge. As the son of a reaver, this was to be expected, and he knew that everyone else thought it a foregone conclusion that he would pass the final test and enter reaver training.

  And yet, Grippen was never pleased with Saredon’s efforts. The instructor wanted something from him, some sign of commitment that Saredon did not know how to give. Grippen called him weak and soft, despite his performance in the fighting circle. Saredon had yet to lose a contest, but with every victory, Grippen only seemed angrier.

  Saredon had given up trying to understand the moods of his instructor. He desperately wanted to see his father. Kaiser would applaud his victories. According to Grippen, the final test was close, and succeed or fail, Saredon would be free of the terrible man.

  A noise from the hallway outside the room convinced Saredon that he had lingered too long. He put his thoughts aside as best he could. Grippen was not the only instructor here, and without fail, every one of them had an uncanny ability to sense emotional turmoil in the trainees. Saredon was expected to appear as unfeeling as lifeless stone. He found this far more difficult than crossing swords with Barek.

  Adopting what he hoped was an implacable mask of indifference, Saredon stepped into the hallway and left the blessed isolation of the training armory behind. He had not seen the streets of Northmark since entering the lower warrens of Tarragon Cathedral. The only time he saw the sky was when fighting in the courtyard he had left Grippen standing in.

  But he had quickly learned that the cloistered world beneath the cathedral was a city unto itself. The winding tunnels and underground caverns seemed to stretch for miles. The limits to which the trainees could explore were strictly defined, but within those boundaries Saredon had found a variety of shops, a blacksmith, and even a tavern.

  Every establishment carried an inventory relevant to the needs of Abimelech's priestesses, and Saredon had never seen money change hands. The black-robed priestesses simply entered a shop, collected what they needed, and walked out. It seemed very strange to Saredon.

  During the first week of training, Grippen had made it clear that anyone who thought to steal from these shops would not only be expelled from the class never to return, but they would also have one of their hands chopped off. The thought horrified Saredon, and he made sure to give the strange storefronts a wide berth.

  Saredon hurried past one of these stores, hugging the wall to avoid a small crowd of priestesses who were gathered to inspect the goods on display. He had almost made it to the corner of the next hallway when a gentle, feminine voice called out his name.

  “Saredon!” the voice called.

  He knew that voice. Saredon stopped and turned towards the gathered priestesses. One of them had separated herself from the others and was walking towards him. It was the woman who had greeted him when he first arrived at the cathedral. Since that day, she had attended to him when his mother could not. Other than Mariel, she was one of the few people who had shown him genuine kindness in this place.

  “I won’t keep you from your training,” the woman said. “I only wanted to tell you that your mother thinks of you often and wishes you the best. She wants to see you again, but she’s terribly busy. She told me to tell you that she’ll visit you very soon.”

  Saredon gulped. He did not know the woman’s name, and he had never dared to ask. She was so beautiful that it made his heart ache. In contrast to Grippen’s nastiness, she seemed like a goddess. At the thought of Grippen, Saredon cast a hurried glance up and down the corridor, worried that the man might appear and discover him loitering where he should not be.

  The woman smiled at Saredon’s consternation.

  “I don’t mean to keep you,” she said. “You may go about your duties.”

  Uncertain how he should respond, Saredon ducked his head in respect and scrambled around the corner. His thoughts were full of the kind priestess as he made his way towards the mess hall. She always seemed to appear when he was at his lowest. Grippen would tear into him, and then he would bump into her, and her gentle words would salve his hurt. Just that brief encounter had lifted his spirits. If being a reaver meant defending a priestess like her, Saredon could see this through.

  After two more turns and a long hallway, Saredon finally reached the mess hall. The large, vaulted room was filled with long, wooden tables. The stone walls lacked windows or decoration. To Saredon, it felt more like a cave than a room. It could fit several hundred people easily. Right now, half the seats were occupied with students like Saredon who were breaking their fast.

  No one looked up at his entrance, but he knew everyone was aware of his presence. A trainee never failed to note a new arrival. The instructors seemed to relish sneaking into a room and taking the unaware by surprise.

  Saredon walked down the middle aisle between the tables. At the far end of the hall, a large cauldron bubbled over a low fire. Due to his early contest, he was late for this meal. The pot was almost empty when he dipped the ladle inside. He filled a wooden bowl without looking at the stew. It did not matter what it contained. He was hungry enough to chew leather.

  Bowl and spoon in hand, Saredon made his way to his usual spot. Because none of the others could best him in single combat, Saredon enjoyed the small luxury of picking his seat in the mess hall. He sat with his back to the wall facing the door. His heart quickened when he saw that Thyria was sitting next to his seat.

  Friendship between trainees was next to impossible; the instructors made sure of that. But Saredon had found a sort of unspoken kinship with Thyria. She was around his age, with blonde hair that had been cut short. If a lesson required cooperation, the two of them always worked together. Once Saredon had picked a seat in the mess hall, Thyria had found a way to ensure it was known that hers was next to his. The instructors were certain to have noticed, but so far, they had not intervened.

  Thyria excelled at every facet of their training, excluding the most important one: physical combat. She struggled to master the sword, and she paid for it.

  Saredon sat down next to her. He winced at the sight of her face. Thryia sported a nasty bruise that spread from the right side of her mouth up to her ear. She did not look at him.

  “Who gave that to you?” Saredon whispered, doing his best to keep his mouth from moving.

  Thyria did not respond. Instead, she focused on the bowl sitting on the table in front of her. The
students near them pretended not to notice that Saredon had broken the strict rule of silence in the mess hall.

  “Thyria?” Saredon tried again.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Thyria hissed. “Shut up and eat your food.”

  Saredon clamped his mouth shut. Thryia’s outburst had been too loud. He glanced around the room to make sure they were safe. A few other children were staring in their direction with wide eyes, but no adults had been present to overhear. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  On the table in front of every seat, a metal goblet waited. At Saredon’s place, the goblet was still full. He eyed the dark liquid with distaste. The blood of Abimelech. The trainees were supposed to drink it with every meal. Saredon’s mother had reassured him that it was okay to do so, that she had been wrong to reject it for so long, but it still felt tainted to him.

  There was no denying that the potent drink filled him with energy, allowing him to push beyond his normal limits. But it also stoked the fires of his anger. It ignited passions within him that Saredon did not know how to control. He snuck a peek at Thyria’s goblet. As he suspected, it was empty.

  Her words still stung, but he knew it was not really her that had uttered them. Under the influence of Abimelech’s blood, Thryia turned bitter and mean. She would apologize later, if she had the opportunity.

  Disappointed, Saredon tucked into his stew. Every morning, he looked forward to sitting next to Thyria and exchanging a few hushed words before they both drank the blood. Today, he had been denied that small joy.

  While he ate, Saredon tried to figure out who might have given Thyria her bruise. He would be sure to repay it in kind. So far, despite her constant failure in the fighting ring, Thyria had not been expelled from training. In fact, other than the few students who had suffered injury, none of them had been dismissed yet.

  A day did not go by that Grippen did not remind them that rejection was the consequence of failure, and yet, every morning, they were all still here. Why keep on those students who clearly would not make the cut? Would the culling only come at the final test? That seemed like a waste to Saredon.