Return of the Wizard King

by Chad Corrie

  “Perlosa, be merciful,” the captain stammered before hurrying and joining the rest of the chaos on the deck. Even as they managed to flee the Midgard’s attack, many of the crew quickly jumped back from the eroded railing before an enormous webbed claw knocked them overboard.

  “Change our heading due east!” the captain bellowed.

  Another shudder ran through the side of the ship, sending water crashing up and over the vessel. The force of the wave knocked the crewmen about—the captain among them—but many of them managed to grab on to rigging or railings, preventing them from being washed overboard. Rowan would have fallen to the deck himself if not for the grace of Panthora, which somehow kept his feet in place. While the sailors regained their footing and attempted to lay in the new course, the Midgard remained fixed in its position, looming over the deck. Under such a dreadful presence all on board scattered like mice before a cat.

  “Where’s that boy knight?” the captain huffed while righting himself. The question was a cold slap across Rowan’s face and made him blush with shame. He’d been standing there the whole time, doing nothing to help his fellow Nordicans—fellow humans—in their time of need. He was a knight now and needed to do better.

  He raised his sword and charged into the fray, his eyes on the Midgard’s neck towering above the starboard railing of the ship. As he approached, a sailor took a swing and cut deep into the linnorm’s flesh, birthing a thin, red river. Those who saw it began to rejoice. But even as the crew took some courage from the act, a crimson burst rained across the deck. So quick was the occurrence many turned their heads to and fro in confusion before realizing the Midgard had struck.

  The bold crewman who’d wounded the linnorm was now absent from their midst. A heartbeat later all grasped his fate as they spied a set of helpless feet dangling between the Midgard’s teeth. These too vanished with the backward flip of its head that helped its meal slide down its throat. The crew grew ashen and still. Rowan stopped in his tracks, his momentary bravery failing.

  The captain urged Rowan on. “Have at him!”

  “What can I do against such a beast?” Rowan asked himself just as much as the captain.

  “You’re a Knight of Valkoria,” the captain snapped back. “You’re supposed to be better than ten strong men.”

  Another hiss crackled through the air. More screams arose from the men as the Midgard’s acidic breath claimed more lives. Rowan could smell the searing fumes—like burned meat—and feel traces of the linnorm’s breath gnawing at his own face and hands, stinging his eyes and making his scalp itch and tingle. He closed his eyes, shutting out the chaos around him. But it wasn’t going to get any easier the longer he stood in place.

  Taking a deep breath, he raised his sword with a war cry and charged. The linnorm lunged at this new threat, attempting to swallow the young knight whole, as it had its previous attacker. He saw the jaws rush for him. He anticipated the strike and somersaulted low and to the right as the mouth snapped with an echoing clap inches away from his side.

  Returning to his feet, he swung his blade and brought it down upon the linnorm’s head. He managed to sever a vein, causing a spout of blood to erupt from the wound. The cheers of his fellow Nordicans increased his nerve, allowing him to delve into reserves of courage he never knew he had.

  The Midgard howled in pain and reared its head just as Rowan attempted a second blow. The attack fell short as the linnorm raised its head and neck out of range. Rowan could no longer reach the Midgard, but some other crew members, who had now rushed forward, were within striking distance. Their weapons birthed new wounds, frustrating the creature. Rowan quickly joined their efforts, and soon blood flowed freely from the linnorm’s neck and head. The crew’s combined efforts had severely weakened it. All that was needed was one more solid strike.

  Rowan swung in a wild, slashing arc so fiercely that he lost his footing on the blood-coated deck and fell with a wet thud. Despite this, the linnorm suddenly sank into the water with a cascading splash of foam and watery blood, flooding the deck and rocking the vessel. No one dared breathe. When they were convinced the menace had finally gone, the men all gave a great shout while Rowan bent his knee in thanks to Panthora. After his prayers, he looked around the vessel, trying to survey the damage. Scattered about the deck were the wounded, lying on their backs like freshly caught fish. They stared blindly into the sky as their flesh slowly bubbled like a simmering stew.

  The captain hollered orders with his clean sword and unmarred flesh plain for all to see. As he shouted, sailors scurried about at different tasks, trying to salvage the ship and keep it seaworthy. Rigging was replaced and pieces of wood from below deck were brought up and nailed into the gaps. Others set about the gruesome task of swabbing the now purplish blood and still smoldering acid from the deck, which had collected into a few small puddles. The rest worked on retrieving the handful of sailors who had been swept overboard.

  As he took in the frenzied aftermath, Rowan heard the deep moaning of a wounded crewman near his foot. The man’s eyes and nose had melted like lard in a fire, leaving behind an unsettling visage. The crewman’s hand clenched at the air as if grasping for the remains of his life. Rowan could glimpse bone and muscle beneath the ruined flesh; tangled cobwebs of veins fell and rose like roots over the sinewy hills of his cheeks and neck.

  The fallen sailor grabbed on to Rowan’s foot with a death grip. “Kill me,” he spat out from bloody lips. Rowan looked on the wreck of the man, his mind torn between respect for human life, as the knighthood taught, and the honor of a mercy killing, embraced by Nordicans in dire situations. But what was his duty? Where was his allegiance? He wasn’t a Nordican like these were, at least not anymore. He was Panthora’s and she was his. But weren’t these still humans—his very own people even . . . And didn’t he owe them some basic duties as well? He wasn’t ready for this. Yet something in him told him he was ready, and this was as prepared as he’d ever be.

  He shook his foot free from the dying man’s grasp and briskly fled to his cabin. He needed to be away from the moans of the dying, and the stench of acid and blood. Let another deal with the matter. He was sure they’d make the right choice. Right now he just needed to think.

  Chapter 4

  The smallest of sparks can be stoked

  into the greatest of fires.

  —The Solarium

  Dugan gritted his teeth as the cestus’ sharp sting plowed fresh rows across his bruised cheek. Above his left eye a fresh cut trickled down his face, a crimson creek mingling with his streaming sweat to burn and blur his vision. Except for the breechcloth he was naked. The two wide flaps of dark brown fabric covered most of his thighs like a skirt, descending about a hand’s breadth from the knee. His cell was spartan and small, windowless with a lone torch for light and an imposing door with a small viewing window he noticed was getting some good use.

  “You belong to Gilthanius now,” the elf before him said in accented Telboros. “And that means you’ll have to perform better than expected if you want to keep your life.” The remark was followed by another punch to the face.

  Dugan was chained to the wall behind him. The links connected to the chafing shackles on his ankles and wrists allowed him some slack, but that slack was made much shorter by the two elven men holding him at each wrist. The elves were members of the guard assigned to keep order, protect, and maintain the arena. As such, each wore a leather cuirass with matching metal bracers and greaves, while their captain, an elf named Balus, had opted for a simple brown tunic, pants, and boots.

  The middle-aged, black-haired Balus was taking delight in Dugan’s beating, having donned his spiked gloves with dark glee when he and the guards with him first entered Dugan’s cell. At his arrival, Balus had beaten Dugan worse than a stubborn mule. Dugan’s tan face was now a massive patchwork of bruised and broken flesh. His body was splattered with blood and more bruises. But even though his frame had been nearly broken and his blond, shoulder-length hai
r was matted with gore and sweat, his green eyes still held a defiant glare.

  Elves closely resembled Telborians in physical appearance, save for their pointed ears and inability to grow facial hair. Each had dark brown to dark blond hair and green, brown, or blue eyes. If they covered their ears, they could easily pass for humans. Growing up, Dugan had heard old stories about how there might be more than just one race of elves—like there was more than one race of humans. If that were true, neither he nor those who told him such tales had ever seen them. Probably for the best, given his experience with the Elyellium.

  “And so you won’t forget your place,” Balus continued, cruelly eyeing Dugan, “we’re going to give you a small reminder.” The comment earned him a round of laughter from the elves beside him.

  It was then he noticed the smell of searing metal. It grew more intense as Balus stepped away and was replaced by a stooped elf who smiled at Dugan with an almost toothless maw. He’d the look of one who lived his life close to a forge. He was covered in a light dusting of soot with wrinkles that had transformed into grimy black lines. He also held something else, but Dugan couldn’t see it clearly. The two guards pulled him into a rigid stance.

  A few heartbeats later, he felt the pain of another blow. The sound of searing flesh filled the room. The elderly elf smiled as the screaming agony of a blistering rod jabbed into Dugan’s left shoulder, clawing its way into his skin and burning deep into muscle. He cried out in fury. In his agonized struggles he nearly succeeded at freeing himself. Balus saw this and threw a fist at Dugan’s jaw, but Dugan jerked his head to one side. Instead of making impact with his ruined cheek, the elf’s hand collided with the stone wall behind him with an audible crunch.

  “Tripton’s bow!” Balus howled, trying to open his broken hand. “I’ll see to it you’re treated worse than the hounds!” He stormed out of the cell, leaving Dugan to ponder the dizzying pain swirling about his head. The bent old elf turned slowly, inspecting the brand he’d just placed. Once satisfied, he too departed.

  This left Dugan alone with the two guards, who still held him fast at the wrists. They let go at the same time, both making a sprint for the sturdy oaken cell door. He let out a howl of anger and pain as he lunged after them, but was stopped by the sudden jerk of his chains before they slammed the door and barred it with a drop of a heavy iron latch.

  The iron fetters and chains groaned against Dugan’s pulls for release. Laughing, the two guards looked in again through the viewing window at the helpless animal in his cage. So easy to control. So easy to maintain . . . from behind closed doors. Dugan cringed in pain as he stretched his right hand over to delicately inspect the branding. Examining his fingers, he noted how they were coated with a sticky brown liquid.

  He drew in a deep breath, but quickly bent over in pain and spasms as he began to cough. This fit lasted for a good while. When it subsided, he noticed a small puddle of blood had chilled on the cobblestone between his feet. The immediate danger having passed, his adrenaline started to wear off, and the full gravity of his beating was revealed in ever greater detail with each passing heartbeat.

  Licking his split, bloodstained lips, Dugan whispered, “I won’t be broken.” Raising his voice, he repeated, “I won’t be broken.” Then, snarling with the rising rage inside him, he growled, “I’ll have my revenge!” To add strength to his words, he hit himself hard on his burned shoulder. The pain was like lightning coursing through his being, causing him to scream as blackness overtook him.

  As he came to, light and sound rushed into Dugan’s waking mind like a raging river. He became aware of the thunderous cheering and shouts of the elves in the stands above, the sun glaring down at him, and the white sand surrounding him. Behind him he could feel the hard, gray stone of the arena’s inner wall. The oval-shaped barrier encased the only world he’d come to know besides his cell and the twisted passages worming their way under the sandy ground where he sat.

  “Dugan?” A voice flitted into his consciousness. A medium-brown face came into his field of vision. This was Laka, a Celetor with whom he’d been fighting for the better part of five years. Laka’s amber eyes held some concern, which Dugan rapidly realized was for him.

  “You all right?” Laka put a hand on Dugan’s shoulder. He spoke Telboros, the chosen language of many of the other gladiators, though they were a mix of various races. Dugan tried to move but stopped as a pain flashed in the back of his skull. “Whoa, there,” Laka cautioned. “You hit the wall pretty hard.”

  It was then that memory returned. He’d been fighting with Laka and four other gladiators against some ogres. Three, if he wasn’t mistaken. They’d put up quite a fight—Dugan being thrown against the wall by the final one before he finished the ogre off. In truth, it was a small miracle he wasn’t more wounded than he was. The small cuts and bruises he’d received in the fight were minor, and even the banging his head had taken didn’t seem too great an injury. Soon enough, they’d mend, and join the myriad of scars, bite marks, and various other wounds crisscrossing his body.

  Today’s games were for the glory of Founding Day, the day the Elyellium Empire was said to have been birthed by the great Aerotripton. Why they celebrated the formation of an empire when they professed to be a republic, Dugan didn’t know. All that mattered was that the twenty-second day of Endaris was an important day for the elves, which called for games—and for Dugan and the rest of the gladiators to shed blood.

  “They dead?” Dugan, by Laka’s aid, rose to his feet.

  “Yeah.” Laka let him go once he was certain he could stand. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.” Like Dugan, he wore chain mail on his left arm—a sleeve attached to a segmented pauldron held in place by a thick leather strap lashed diagonally down his chest and back. A skirt crafted of metal-studded leather strips swayed from his belt, with a set of leather boots fitted with bronze greaves completing the rest of his attire.

  “How you holding up?” Dugan noticed the cuts and scrapes across Laka’s frame, focusing on a small but grim gash on his left thigh.

  “I’ve had worse.” The Celetor smiled.

  “The day isn’t over yet.” Dugan took stock of the carnage around him.

  Scattered like shards of pottery lay the other four gladiators who’d been fighting with them just moments ago. Now they watered the sand with their blood while their spirits departed for Mortis. In some ways Dugan almost envied them. He’d be a liar if he said he hadn’t had thoughts of joining them and all the others who’d fallen before them once he got a sword in hand. But then when he did it just didn’t feel right. In time he understood what he really wanted was something more than just release from this place. He wanted satisfaction, revenge before departing. But the longer he lived, the more he realized just how elusive that satisfaction had become.

  Each of the fallen gladiators wore the same armor as Dugan and Laka down to the identical round shields emblazoned with the eagle crest of Colloni—the very same mark burned into each of the gladiators’ left shoulders. Two of them were Telborian, one an elf, and the other another Celetor, although one who hailed from a different region than Laka, as evidenced by his dark brown skin and short curly hair. Laka wore his straight black locks in a more shaggy mass about his head.

  Sprawled amid the wreck of life were the three ogres they’d just killed. Ogres always reminded him of large apes, which sometimes found their way into the arena as well, along with a whole host of beasts. Their seven-foot frames, well-muscled bodies, and black, hairy hides only added to this resemblance. While their light brown flesh and faces held some similarities to apes, they were more human than anything else, save for their pointed ears and sharp canine teeth. Dugan had seen ogres with darker skin and brown hair and various mixtures in between, but all were deadly in combat—even more so with chain mail shirts, long swords, and shields, as these three had.

  “Keep your eyes on the gates,” Dugan instructed Laka while seeing if there was anything he could salvage from t
he dead. Wiping sweat from his eyes and forehead, he ignored the great crowds around him shouting and screaming in alternating breaths for both his death and his becoming the instrument of another’s. He’d learned to push such noise far from him, focusing on the most important thing facing him each time he entered the arena: survival.

  “What do you think it’ll be this time?” Laka adjusted his grip on his shield and gladius. “I think they’re running low on ogres.”

  “Just something more to kill,” Dugan said, retrieving two gladii from the fallen.

  “Always with your humor.” Laka again sought to make merry between them. It was the Celetor’s way—like many before him—trying to find something bright in the dark world that had ensnared them. Dugan knew better. He’d seen more than a score of men like Laka come and go since being forced to fight for the elves’ amusement. Soon enough Laka would be dead. Just like he would.

  “They should be announcing it soon.” Dugan tossed Laka one of the blades, keeping the other to add to the one that waited alongside his shield—both of which he’d dropped upon impact with the arena wall. After retrieving them, Dugan shoved the second blade in his belt and spied out the emperor’s box on his right.

  Stationed above the wall’s oval curve, the emperor’s special viewing area was a sight to behold. Made of carved white marble with twin elven soldiers doubling as columns holding up the overhanging roof, it was adorned with golden-lipped ledges over which a red silk banner flowed. Upon the banner was the crest of the great city of Remolos, capital of the Elven Republic of Colloni: a golden eagle with spread wings and white nimbus behind its right-turned head.