The First Champion

by Sandell Wall

  At the bottom of the stairs, Lacrael reached for the door handle. Her hand trembled, and she paused to let the tremor pass. She had banished all thoughts of Niad’s death from her mind, but her heart refused to be suppressed. It felt like it had shattered into a thousand tiny shards in her chest. Clenching her shaking hand into a fist, she pushed through the door.

  Outside, the sun had slipped beneath the city’s skyline, and darkness was creeping quickly through the streets. A steady stream of servants and slaves were passing in and out of the slavers’ gate, and Lacrael realized that she had finally encountered a bit of good fortune. This was the hour before nightfall when the invisible denizens of Orcassus carried out their last, most degrading chores. If she was lucky, no one would remark on a solitary tomb keeper making her way through the busy streets.

  Lacrael squared her shoulders, lifted her head high, and tried to walk with the casual confidence of a real tomb keeper. When the line of slaves parted before her, she almost stopped in her tracks. She admonished herself under her breath. It was so easy to forget who she was pretending to be. Lacrael recovered from her surprise and strode through the midst of the downcast servants. None of them dared lift their face toward her.

  There was not a chance that the tomb keepers watching the gate had not marked Elise’s entrance. Lacrael hoped they had not committed the other woman’s face to memory. To her relief, the attention of the guards was outside the gate. The amount of incoming foot traffic demanded constant vigilance on their part. Lacrael did not know who might try to infiltrate the slavers’ compound, but the guards at the gate were certainly intent on preventing it from happening.

  Without slowing her stride, Lacrael walked right through the gate and into the city proper. By the time the guards noticed her, she was already beyond them. Her shoulders tensed, half expecting them to demand that she halt, but no shout came. When she turned the first street corner and moved out of sight of the gate, Lacrael breathed easier. She had survived the first test.

  Lacrael had spent enough time wandering Orcassus that the convoluted network of narrow streets was starting to feel familiar. She set out for the fighters’ camp, and she made good progress, walking with the surety of someone who knew exactly where she was going. Traveling directly from the slavers’ compound, the route she walked took her along the perimeter of the city rather than through the middle. She quickly left the residential areas behind, which meant the streets were soon empty of servants and slaves.

  After a few blocks, Lacrael walked completely alone. Her metal-shod feet rang like gunshots with every step, and she started to worry that her presence was too conspicuous. Here and there, the curtain in a lit window twitched as someone glanced out to watch Lacrael march past. But no one appeared to challenge her.

  By the time she reached the long street that terminated in the low gate to the fighters’ camp, only the faintest traces of the sun’s orange fire lit the western horizon. Lacrael navigated by torchlight now, and those were few and far between in this deserted section of the city. She moved from one tiny pocket of light to the next. And where the flickering torchlight did not touch, Lacrael hurried through pools of deep shadow.

  At last, Lacrael stood outside the crude stone walls of the fighters’ camp. The last time she had been here, the huts and squat buildings outside the camp had been brimming with activity. Now, they were dark and silent. She wondered at this for a moment, before realizing that the camp followers must have moved to the arena for tomorrow’s festivities. Alarmed, Lacrael stepped close to the gate and peered through it into the camp beyond. If no one had remained behind to let her in, her mission would be thwarted before it began.

  No one moved on the other side of the gate. Lacrael scanned the tents and crude shacks for any signs of life—she saw none. Next to her head, a rusted bell hung from the wall by the gate. Forcing herself to remain calm, Lacrael rang the bell thrice and held her breath as she listened for a response. When none came, she rang the bell again, harder this time.

  “Lay off, damn you,” a surly voice said from the other side of the gate. “I’m coming as fast as I can.”

  Lacrael almost shouted for joy at the sound of the voice. A stooped figure carrying a lantern appeared from a tent in the camp and shuffled towards her. Lacrael adopted the most severe, serious face she knew how to make.

  With agonizing slowness, a hunchbacked old man limped to stand opposite Lacrael on the other side of the gate. He raised his lantern up and squinted through the bars at her.

  “What’s this, then?” the man said. “Who’re you, and what’re you doing here? They’ve all gone to the arena already, if that’s why you’ve come.”

  Lacrael opened her mouth to make up some excuse, but before she uttered the words, she thought better of it. She was pretending to be a tomb keeper. Why not act like one?

  “I’m not going to explain myself to you,” Lacrael said, pitching her voice low so that it was almost a growl. “Open this gate at once, or I’ll put you in the arena with the rest of your filthy friends.”

  The old man took a step back in surprise. In his frail hand, the lantern trembled.

  “Now, now, there’s no need for that,” the old man said. “If you want to wander an abandoned camp, be my guest.”

  With his free hand, the old man pulled a keyring from his belt. After a few seconds of jangling keys, he finally found the one he was looking for and put it in the lock. He gave it a hard turn, pulled the gate open enough for Lacrael to slip through, and waited patiently for her to enter.

  Lacrael pushed her way through the gate. Once she was inside, the old man closed the door and secured it behind her.

  “Just find me when you’re ready to leave,” the old man said.

  Returning the keyring to his waist, the old man turned and tottered back the way he had come. Lacrael thought about demanding the key from the man but decided against it. If everything went according to plan, she would be able to blast her way out when it was time to escape. And if things did not… well, then getting out of here would not matter.

  According to Kaiser, the door to outside the city was set in the outer wall. In the now almost complete darkness, Lacrael could no longer see the towering fortifications of Orcassus, but she knew they were looming above her like a cliff face of dark stone. She started through the camp in the direction of the city walls.

  At least, that was what she tried to do. After a few minutes of exploration, she had to stop to try and get her bearings. Lacrael wished she had taken the old man’s torch. She was wandering aimlessly in the dark. Thankfully, as she stumbled around the unfamiliar camp, the moon rose in the night sky. Still low in its orbit, the illumination it provided was scant, but it was enough for Lacrael to find her way.

  Just as Kaiser had said, Lacrael found the small arena built up against the city wall. She descended the earthen steps and soon stood on the hard-packed dirt of the arena floor. At the far end of the open space, Lacrael spotted her goal. The door, if it could be called that, rose above her at least three times her height. The great bronze disk gleamed faintly in the moonlight.

  “How am I supposed to open that?” Lacrael muttered to herself.

  Lacrael walked up to the edge of the portal. It was covered in a strange script that spiraled outwards from the center. With a gauntleted hand, she caressed the metal. Although she could not feel it, she imagined it was cool to the touch. Lacrael craned her neck back as she looked up, trying to find the mechanism that would open the odd door. She spied a system of ropes and pulleys that she traced back to a nearby platform.

  There was no way to reach the platform from within the arena, so Lacrael climbed back up the stairs and circled around the pit. The platform was accessed by a flimsy ladder, which creaked and swayed under Lacrael’s armored bulk. She was sure it would collapse beneath her. But it did not, and she pulled herself up onto the wooden deck.

  The rickety scaffolding had been built around a giant crank set in the outer wall. Next to t
his crank, Lacrael found a stack of unlit torches, a box containing glass-lensed goggles, and a barrel filled with manual fire strikers. The torches and goggles reminded her of those Hexia had carried.

  This thought prompted Lacrael to slip off her leather backpack. She had been operating under the assumption that Elise had been carrying the mask and filtering system that would allow her to survive in the miasma. Now was the time to check. Without that gear, Lacrael would not last more than a few minutes outside the bronze door.

  To Lacrael’s relief, she found the mask resting on the top of the pack. She pulled it out, unwinding the tubes that connected it to the backpack. Beneath the mask, the fungus that filtered the miasma glistened. Lacrael could not resist touching it. The spongy mass recoiled slightly from her finger.

  Lacrael resealed the pack and positioned it back on her shoulders. She took a moment to secure the mask properly on her face. When she drew a breath, her senses were almost overwhelmed by the musty smell of the fungus. This filtration system was much stronger than the one Lacrael had worn during the crossing with Hexia.

  Deciding that the torches and goggles must be here for a reason, Lacrael grabbed one of each. The goggles notched neatly into the top of her mask, and when she looked through the blue-tinted lenses, she was surprised to find that they enhanced her night sight. Perhaps they would allow her to see better in the choking confines of the miasma too.

  She tested one of the manual fire strikers. Squeezing the device in her hand, one metal prong struck the tiny flint on the end and produced a nice spark. The torches must be extremely flammable if that pitiful spark was enough to ignite them. Lacrael set both aside and inspected the crank. It looked ancient, and when she put her hands around the handle, it did not budge.

  Lacrael put all her weight against the lever. She grunted, digging in with her toes, trying to force the crank to move. Nothing happened. Lacrael released the lever and took a step back. She lunged forward, throwing everything she had into the effort. To her astonishment, she only succeeded in bruising her palms.

  Of all the reasons to fail, not being able to turn a stupid lever was not one Lacrael had anticipated. Furious with herself, she knelt to inspect the mechanism again, hoping that she had missed something. To her chagrin, she found a metal pin beneath the crank that held it in place and prevented it from being rotated.

  Glad no one was around to observe her error, Lacrael removed the pin and tried again. This time, the crank turned on the first try. It still did not move easily, but Lacrael had no trouble operating it. Feeling foolish, she gave it a few turns and then stopped to check on the door. She only wanted to open it enough for her to get through.

  The bronze disk had rotated a few feet into the recess that held it. Lacrael decided to give the crank one more turn and then stopped. That should be enough room for her to slip through. Now came the matter of ensuring the portal stayed open. Lacrael did not want to be trapped outside the walls, and while she was confident she could blow open the gate to the camp, she suspected this ancient bronze portal would be far harder to crack.

  Her silly mistake with the crank pin gave her an idea. Lacrael turned the crank until the holes were lined up again, and she slid the pin back into place. This done, she slipped off her gauntlets and placed her bare hands around the metal that held the pin. She had not tried to melt metal since her powers weakened.

  Lacrael closed her eyes and touched the fire within her. The flame had dwindled to almost nothing, but it still responded when she called. Heat flowed through her fingers and into the metal casing that held the crank. Sweat beaded on her brow as she tried to harness every scrap of power she could summon. She demanded that the metal conform to her desire. She willed it.

  The metal softened and then became malleable beneath her fingers. She twisted both ends of the pin downward at sharp angles. Lacrael held onto the heat until she was confident that the pin could not be removed without great effort and the proper tools. At last, she pulled her fingers away from the soft iron and released her power. She felt exhausted from the effort. Molding metal used to be such a simple thing for her. Now, it was the pinnacle of her abilities.

  After giving the metal a few minutes to cool, Lacrael gave the crank a test push. It defied her as before, and she was certain that no one would be able to open or close the door while she was outside. Reassured that at least the way behind her would remain open, Lacrael gathered the torch and striker and climbed down the ladder of the platform.

  Back in the arena, she approached the bronze door. It was ajar just enough for Lacrael to turn sideways and slip through. Miasma spilled through the crack and pooled on the ground, the smoky tendrils seemingly illuminated from within by the moonlight.

  Lacrael checked her mask and goggles one last time. She glanced up at the moon and said a silent prayer to the high king. He would deliver them. He had to. Holding onto that thought for courage, she wedged her way into the opening. Her pack caught briefly on the bronze frame, but she was able to force her way through. On the other side, she found darkness.

  Surprised by the complete loss of visibility, Lacrael turned towards the opening behind her. The crack in the door shone like a sliver of light in the void. There was no way she would get any further without the torch. Lacrael held the striker over the torch, and the flame exploded into existence with the first spark.

  The torch burned so brilliantly that Lacrael jerked it away from her face. She thought she would be blinded, but through some clever trick, the lenses in her goggles clouded and the flame did not hurt her eyes. So that was what the goggles were for.

  Lacrael held the torch over her head and inspected her surroundings. The greasy flame beat the miasma back about twenty feet in all directions, revealing a hostile terrain of jagged rock and gray sand. She was standing in a small canyon, the walls of which were taller than she could reach.

  How far out was she supposed to venture? Mazareem had said to look for crystalized miasma, but Lacrael had no idea how or where to find it. And she dare not range too far from the door. It would be far too easy to get lost out here, and the torch would not last forever.

  Lacrael decided to follow the canyon. She could not get lost as long as she stayed between its walls. It narrowed and then widened as she walked, and Lacrael searched in vain for any signs of crystals on the purplish rock.

  A few minutes after losing sight of the door, Lacrael was growing nervous. The miasma surrounded her on all sides, swirling angrily against the barrier of light. Only the flame of the treated torch kept it at bay. The canyon showed no signs of ending, and Lacrael toyed with the idea of returning to the city walls to come up with a better plan. She felt exposed out here.

  Twenty more steps, Lacrael told herself. Twenty more steps, and if she did not find anything, she would turn around. On step number eleven, Lacrael thought she heard something above the canyon walls on the right. She stopped and waited to see if the noise came again. When it did not, Lacrael chided herself for jumping at shadows. She had probably only imagined it.

  On step number seventeen, the wall of miasma on Lacrael’s right quivered like something had just passed by near to it. Lacrael went on high alert. She had certainly not imagined that. Three more steps seemed pointless now, and Lacrael turned on her heel to beat a hasty retreat.

  Before she took another step, something huge exploded out of the miasma. Lacrael caught a glimpse of white flesh, powerful limbs, and the bizarre image of a sword embedded in a heavily muscled thigh and then the thing was on her. She lunged for the sword on her hip—it ignited with a snap-hiss as she pulled it from the scabbard.

  The monster ignored the flaming weapon. A massive hand smacked into Lacrael and sent her sprawling. Sword and torch went flying. Lacrael found herself hard up against the canyon wall, and the beast was on top of her in an instant.

  Lacrael got her legs up just in time to stop the creature from tearing into her with its jagged teeth. The thing was at least five times her size. With her armo
red feet planted squarely on the beast’s chest, Lacrael pushed against its weight with all her might. It pressed against her, trying to crush her with its bulk. Only her armor kept Lacrael’s spine from snapping like a twig. The monster could not swipe at her with its claws without letting her up.

  Screaming in pain, Lacrael scrabbled for anything she could get her hands on. Her fingers closed around the hilt of the dagger at her waist. Before the monster decided to back off and tear her apart, Lacrael snatched up Elise’s blade and plunged it into the beast’s left eye. Six inches of steel sunk in up to the hilt, and the creature roared in fury. It reared back on its legs, clawing at the metal thorn embedded in its face.

  As soon as the terrible weight vanished, Lacrael jumped to her feet. She sprinted hard along the canyon wall. In the attack, she had gotten turned around. She had no idea which way she was going. Without the torch to keep it at bay, Lacrael plunged into the wall of miasma. Behind her, the monster still howled.

  Lacrael kept her hand on the canyon wall to guide her. She was blind without the torch. The howling stopped—Lacrael picked up her pace. A few seconds later, she heard the sounds of the creature coming towards her. It moved fast, far faster than she did.

  She had nothing to fight it with. All of her weapons were back there on the sand. Lacrael gritted her teeth and forced herself into a dead run. Her lungs burned, and she gagged on the strange stench of the fungus in her pack.

  Despite her reckless flight, the sounds of the monster only got closer. Lacrael despaired. If that thing survived a knife in the eye, there was nothing else she could do to stop it. Just as she was about to give up, the canyon wall disappeared beneath her hand. Lacrael stumbled at the unexpected loss of her support.

  Frantic to find her anchor in the darkness again, Lacrael flailed her arms in search of the stone. Her gauntleted hands slammed into the wall—it was still right in front of her. What her hand had fallen into was a small hole in the rock.