The First Champion

by Sandell Wall

  Mazareem groaned when he realized they had thousands of steps to climb to reach Morricant’s tower. By the time they made it to the top, he had almost lost consciousness. He did not have the strength to hold his head up. The pattern on the stone floor beneath his useless feet changed, and Mazareem heard a door open and shut. They had arrived at their destination.

  The seplica carried Mazareem across the floor of Morricant’s tower, weaving between the curiosities that she collected there. Mazareem glimpsed strange objects out of the corner of his vision as they passed, but he was too preoccupied by the ordeal to come to catalog his observations. Morricant had found a way to hurt him. And there was nothing he could do to stop her.

  Soon, they entered the prison cell. Mazareem’s dark blood still stained the floor. His seplica escorts turned him to face the door and went to work securing his arms with the ropes that hung from the ceiling. When they were finished, he hung suspended in the air with his arms outstretched. The tips of his toes rested on the stone beneath him.

  Their task complete, the seplica left him there. They had not once spoken to him. Mazareem listened to their footsteps recede, each footfall echoing in the cavernous room. Where was Morricant? He tried to force his head to rise, but after a few minutes of straining, he gave up.

  So this was what defeat tasted like. Mazareem’s soul overflowed with bitterness. He cursed the day of his birth; he bemoaned the fate that had denied him his rightful reward at every turn. He should be the immortal one. Morricant was Abimelech’s enemy, and Mazareem had delivered her head on a silver platter.

  What could he have done differently? How could circumstances have been manipulated to produce a different outcome? These questions tormented Mazareem. He had spent the majority of his long life observing history and trying to chart the ebb and flow of power so that he was always on the winning side.

  Mazareem had done everything right, and still he suffered. It had always been clear to him that he was caught in a battle between Abimelech and Rowen, and Mazareem had sought to exploit this to his benefit. But now that their millennia-long struggle was coming to a head, it was obvious that they were playing a game Mazareem did not understand.

  Why did Abimelech hide in plain sight outside Northmark while the champions flitted between realms? Why did the great tyrant not involve himself directly, when Rowen was so close to finally consolidating his power in the physical world?

  Mazareem knew he was not Abimelech’s only agent. He was not even the most powerful hunter that Mazareem’s master could have sent after the champions. And yet, Abimelech seemed content to send Mazareem alone. It was almost as if the dragon lord wanted Rowen to succeed.

  And why would Rowen deprive his own champions of their powers here in the realm of Vaul? Because that was the only possibility that made sense to Mazareem. If the champions had lost their powers, it was Rowen’s doing, not Abimelech’s.

  The answers to these questions were not forthcoming, but Morricant was. One second, Mazareem was alone with his thoughts, the next, Morricant stood in front of him. Stretched to his full height as he was, Mazareem was able to look down at her face. Morricant looked him over once and pursed her lips.

  “My, don’t you look pitiful,” Morricant said. “I can’t work on you like this. You’re no good to me if you pass out.”

  Morricant padded out of the cell on bare feet. Mazareem heard her rummaging around somewhere in the shadows beyond the iron bars. Minutes later, she returned with a small glass bottle in her hand.

  “Drink this,” Morricant said. “It’ll revive you for a time. You won’t want to miss what I have planned.”

  Mazareem was too weary to resist, and Morricant would not have let him anyway. He cracked his dry lips and swallowed the concoction that Morricant poured into his mouth. The effect was immediate. Strength returned to Mazareem’s limbs, and his thoughts cleared. He felt better than he had in a long time.

  Morricant observed his reaction to the potion with approval. “That’s more like it,” she said. “I like you better when you’ve got some fight in you.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll find my patience and good-humor are all but gone,” Mazareem said. “Torture me if you must. Kill me if you wish. But I tire of this game. Do you worst and leave me in peace.”

  “My worst, you say?” Morricant said. A slow smile spread across her face, and her eyes shone in the ethereal blue light that clung to her. “You’re right. Bringing you back here only to scratch you with the dragon claw again is rather unimaginative. And I certainly don’t want my guests getting bored. So I decided we’d try something different this time.”

  Morricant left the cell again. She came back carrying a large glass jar. Inside this jar was the largest, most terrifying centipede Mazareem had ever seen. Its coiled, segmented body lay perfectly still. Only its long, questing antenna moved against the smooth glass.

  “Initially, I had planned on returning you to Abimelech broken and useless,” Morricant said. “But I think I can do better than that. This cuddly little creature is one of the many wonderful products of the Ravening. I haven’t decided what to call it yet. Abimelech cursed this realm with the miasma to prepare the way for his spawn. A miasma-ridden world is one where dragons can thrive. But he never anticipated being cut off from Vaul for a thousand years, and he never guessed what I’d be capable of in his absence.”

  Morricant unscrewed the lid of the jar while she talked. The centipede remained docile.

  “I’ve learned to… guide the corrupting nature of the Ravening,” Morricant said. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the miasma is magical in nature, and the effect it has on living flesh is unpredictable.”

  “I sensed an intelligence behind it from the beginning,” Mazareem said. “That was you?”

  “How I influence it doesn’t matter. It’s the outcome that’s relevant to us right now. Through much trial and error, I’ve been able to ensure that the miasma produces mutations to fight dragonkind. Why do you think none of Abimelech’s dragon spawn will dare step foot in Vaul? Because I’ve turned their own corruption against them. We killed the last of his bastard crossbreeds hundreds of years ago.”

  Morricant reached a hand into the jar and coaxed the centipede to crawl out. A hundred spiny legs clawed at her flesh as the insect straightened out to its full length. The thing was as long as Morricant’s arm.

  “This marvelous creature has been instrumental in keeping the dragon spawn out of Vaul,” Morricant said. “It craves dragon’s blood, and its venom can bring an adolescent dragon to its knees. They hunt in swarms and come upon their prey while it sleeps. But that’s not the best part. It can also live as a parasite, embedded in the flesh of its host. And when it encounters a dragon or their ilk, it claws its way out and attacks in an enraged frenzy.

  “I should tell you, though, that it's not naturally inclined to a parasitic relationship. They must be… coaxed. Here, let me demonstrate.”

  Morricant held out a hand, palm open wide. A ribbon unfurled from the ceiling. It carried the dragon’s claw, which it unwrapped and placed gently in Morricant’s waiting hand. She slowly circled Mazareem until she was behind him. The centipede was content to sit on her outstretched arm.

  Mazareem felt Morricant’s fingertip trace down the length of his spine. She was mapping out where she planned to make an incision.

  “It wasn’t easy, figuring out how to make this work,” Morricant said as she inspected Mazareem’s back. “The Orcassian slave population dropped sharply during my experimentation. But I needed a way to ensure that dragon spawn couldn’t infiltrate my cities undetected, and this creature proved to be the answer. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You won’t remember any of it.”

  Morricant’s finger withdrew, and an instant later, the sharp point of the dragon claw dug into Mazareem’s flesh. His entire body went rigid. She drew the claw from the nape of his neck down to his waist. Mazareem felt his skin flap open, and Morricant forced the gap wider with her fin
gers. He hissed through bared teeth.

  “Still with me?” Morricant asked. “Good. I was worried I’d got the dosage on the stimulant wrong. Now, this next part is going to really hurt.”

  At first, Mazareem thought she was stabbing him with needles. But when those needles dove into the open wound on his back, he realized what was happening. The needles were the legs of the centipede, and it was clawing its way into his body.

  Mazareem thrashed against his restraints. He howled in agony. A hundred piercing legs latched onto the tiny bones of his spine. The centipede pressed itself against the outer curvature of his back, its chitinous segments fitting into gaps in Mazareem’s spinal column.

  The insect's jaws stabbed deep into Mazareem’s flesh at the base of his neck, and an instant later, he felt nothing.

  Chapter 37

  KAISER WAS SICK OF being caged. He stalked back and forth behind the wooden slats of the pen he and Brant had been secured in. After besting the cocky swordsman, the two of them had been locked up and forgotten for the rest of that day, the following night, and the better part of this morning. Since the first hint of sunlight, Kaiser had been watching as the other recent arrivals were taken down into the fighting pits and put through their paces. So far, no one had come to collect Kaiser and Brant to give them the same treatment.

  “You clearly didn’t make a good first impression,” Brant said. He was sitting at the rear of the cage, his back resting against the wall.

  “They’ll come for us,” Kaiser said. He fingered the red cloth tied around his right bicep. “This place obviously wants fighters, and they won’t find better than us. They’re just making us sweat because of the stunt I pulled.”

  “And when they do?” Brant said. “We’ve got our necks on the chopping block here. I don’t want to die in a fighting pit any more than I wanted to be killed in the Ravening.”

  “They’re not going to let us die. Not yet, at least. I’m no stranger to the arena, and this camp looks just like the combat schools we have back in Northmark. With this much activity, and this many fresh bodies, they’re preparing for some grand event. As long as we prove that we’re capable, we’re valuable until then.”

  “I thought we’d already demonstrated that.”

  Kaiser shook his head. “That initial test was to make sure we weren’t completely incompetent,” he said. “They’ll want to see if we can fight as a group, and they’ll probably give some token instructions on how to fight as a unit. This sort of combat is designed to entertain. They’ll be trying to balance the teams to give the crowd the best spectacle.”

  “If they don’t bring us food, I’ll give them a spectacle they won’t soon forget,” Brant grumbled.

  “Quiet,” Kaiser said. “Someone’s coming.”

  At last, a man approached their cage. It was the young swordsman that Kaiser had thrashed the day before. The man still wore his sleeveless tunic, but now he sported a bandage around his wounded hand. One look at the man’s scowling face told Kaiser that their scuffle had not been forgotten or forgiven.

  The man unlocked the door to the pen and swung it open. He stepped aside and gestured for Kaiser and Brant to exit the cage and follow him. No other guards accompanied him. This might be a testament to the man’s ego, but Kaiser suspected instead that it was an indication of the futility of trying to fight their way out of the camp.

  “On your feet,” Kaiser said to Brant. “It’s finally our turn. Be ready for anything. I expect our friend here has some special treatment in mind.”

  Kaiser and Brant followed the swordsman towards the fighting pits. These pits were round holes about the depth of a man and wide enough that two combatants had room enough to fight. The steeply sloped sides ensured that neither fighter could easily escape without help. Overseers watched from above as men sparred with wooden practice weapons.

  To Kaiser’s trained eye, the camp looked like an experienced operation. Veterans of the arena, obvious with their scars, hard bodies, and relaxed confidence, mingled with the raw recruits. Together with the aid of the overseers, they would whip these untrained men into a halfway decent fighting force in a matter of days. At the very least, they would prepare the doomed slaves to die standing.

  Instead of leading Kaiser and Brant to an empty pit, the swordsman weaved through the holes in the earth and made his way towards the outer wall of the city that made up one side of the camp. Here, they found a pit bigger than all the others. A miniature arena had been dug out of the dirt, the half-circle of tiered wooden seats facing the dark stone fortifications of Orcassus.

  The swordsman led them down an earthen ramp between the seats. At the base of this ramp, a sturdy iron gate opened onto the arena floor. Kaiser inspected the gate as they passed through it. It looked like it could withstand a battering ram.

  “This thing could stop a besieging army in its tracks,” Kaiser said to Brant, who walked close beside him. “What are they so worried might escape?”

  “It might have something to do with that,” Brant said. He nodded towards the far side of the arena.

  Embedded in the outer wall of the city was a giant, circular door. It appeared to be forged from polished bronze. Even from where he stood, at least two hundred paces away, Kaiser could see that the metal was covered in elaborate symbols and alien script.

  Kaiser and Brant were ordered to halt after venturing ten paces into the arena. The swordsman left them standing there without further instruction. He walked back through the massive gate and secured it behind him.

  Alarmed now, Kaiser turned in place to survey the earthworks below the arena seats. The dirt walls were twice his height and studded with jagged pieces of metal and broken wood. In a typical arena, such gruesome decorations were to be used as improvised weapons by the combatants. But Kaiser sensed that here, they were fortifications designed to prevent something from scaling the walls and escaping.

  “I think we might be in trouble,” Kaiser said.

  The swordsman appeared again, standing at the top of the nearest earthen wall. The smug look on his face made Kaiser want to pummel him a second time. Kaiser scanned the seats. A few other men were present. He recognized the overseer from yesterday, but the man made no move to intervene in what was happening.

  Movement brought Kaiser’s gaze back to the swordsman. The man tossed two battered short swords down to the arena floor. These were not practice blades—steel clanged against steel as the weapons clattered in the dirt. Kaiser retrieved the swords and handed one to Brant. He tested the sharpness of the one he held. It was honed to a killing edge.

  “They can’t expect us to fight each other,” Brant said. “This is insane!”

  “I don’t think that’s the plan,” Kaiser said. “We need to—”

  Kaiser’s words were cut off by a dull rumble. It was the sound of massive gears turning. The floor of the arena trembled beneath his feet, and Kaiser and Brant whirled to face the great brass door. Next to the wall, a man was standing on a wooden platform. He was straining at a crank that slowly turned as he worked.

  In response to the man’s efforts, the brass portal slowly opened. It rotated like a wheel, turning on its edge until it slid into a recess in the stone and disappeared. Behind it, a solid wall of miasma roiled. In the gap left by the bronze disk, the mist flowed into the arena. It dissipated quickly in the clean air, but its tendrils reached far enough to pool around Kaiser’s and Brant’s feet.

  “Stay close to me,” Kaiser said. “We can kill whatever comes through that door as long as we work together.”

  Brant stepped sideways to stand close on Kaiser’s left. The short sword looked flimsy in the big man’s hand, and he held it awkwardly in front of him.

  “I’m no good with a blade,” Brant said. “I could end this right now without it.”

  Kaiser shook his head. “We need to keep our powers secret until the last possible moment.”

  They waited, swords up, muscles tense. Kaiser kept his weight on the balls of his
feet, ready for anything. Nothing happened. The mist swirled, but no monster appeared. After a few moments, Kaiser relaxed his battle-readiness.

  On the wall behind them, the swordsman shouted something in his foreign tongue. The man on the platform barked a short response and ducked out of sight. When he came back into view, he was hauling a hunk of raw meat as big as a man’s torso. With a mighty heave, the man tossed the meat into the dirt in front of the brass gate.

  Kaiser eyed the mound of bloody flesh. His eyes flicked up to the swirling mist and back down. Again, nothing happened. The meat attracted only a few buzzing flies.

  “If I’d paid for this show, I’d be asking for a refund right about now,” Brant said.

  “They seem awful certain something’s out there,” Kaiser said.

  Long minutes crawled past, and Kaiser started to think that this might be a joke at their expense. He was just about to say so when a shadow appeared in the miasma on the other side of the round door. Kaiser covered his brow with a hand, trying to block out the sunlight for a better look. It had to be some sort of trick of the light, because the silhouette was gargantuan.

  Kaiser’s jaw went slack when a single white hand reached out of the mist and plucked the meat from the dirt. It had five fingers, like a human, but the size of it stunned Kaiser. The creature it belonged to would have no trouble hoisting a man into the air with a single fist. And each thick finger was tipped with wicked-looking claws.

  “Holy mother—that thing’s huge!” Brant said.

  Brant was not alone in his reaction. Up on the wall, the swordsman shouted in alarm. The man on the platform, who had been climbing down, scrambled back up and started heaving on the crank. Inside the wall, gears lurched, and the brass portal started to roll shut.