Artorian's Archives Omnibus

by Dennis Vanderkerken

  A line of ranked contestants prepared themselves, lining up without needing to be called. Cutting short the winning streak of a rookie was both profitable and prestigious. Not that they knew that second word, but preferential treatment was a big deal in Ziggurat. “Number seventy-four, Hestiroth the Forbidden One!”

  A steam cloud wheezed onto the arena floor, forming into a bathrobe-clad human. Artorian nodded approvingly: the bathrobe was a nice touch. Cozy and snug. Artorian couldn’t say he complained about the effort toward finding comfort, but then his attention shifted to his priorities. Steam? Fire and water affinity, then. Did the higher affinity of steam play a role here? That this was combat was no reason to stop learning, and he was fairly certain that this Essence combination was safe for the taking.

  Hestiroth surrounded himself with a seven-foot cloud of steam the second the countdown began. Artorian saw him as if the steam wasn’t even present, including the steam clone in the shape of Hestiroth’s body. Was that meant as a distraction, or could it do damage? No reason to deviate from the tests!

  *Fhwop*.

  The bathrobe clad man unsheathed a curved scimitar. His plan had been to circle the armor and strike under the arm. That tended to be a weak point for full plate, as he had fought armored foes before. Still, he wasn’t prepared for his fog field to just… pop out of existence. He stood there on his tiptoes, awkwardly balanced as he’d been mid-step. He fueled the effect again, but nothing happened even though he lost Essence. Then he felt dread, and tried to stop channeling his Essence into his steam-body technique.

  Hestiroth, much like Typhon, had begun as a D-rank four. He was at F-rank nine by the time Artorian’s count dropped to three. One needed exponentially more Essence each rank, even if it didn’t feel like it did. Artorian didn’t bother to stop counting, as there was no need to drain this man dry. The amount of Essence in each F-rank was paltry to a C-ranker. “Zero.”

  *Crack*.

  Uferiel broke another wooden slat in two, and smugly threw the remains over his shoulder. He gleefully called out another victim as he advanced the count by at least ten, but skewed towards the people he wanted to see fail. “Number sixty-four, Nentendoh the Three-Pronged.”

  Nen was another human, this one clad in dark half plate. He paused as he walked up the stairs. Artorian was surprised to see the man’s hand stop at the exact spot where he’d placed the membrane of his Presence. The D-rank six man didn’t seem to be able to tell what the membrane was, but the academic took a mental note that it was in fact noticeable. Nen looked over his shoulder after passing through, worried about the effect he couldn’t figure out.

  “Neat trick. Been watching for a while. Can it stop all fancy effects? I’m not powerless without mine.” Nen placed his hands together and pulled them apart with noticeable effort as a bolt of lightning formed with crackling thunder between his palms. Artorian went through the motions, and hit his first snag. Lightning? So it should be all air Essence if he remembered correctly? Though there was an earth affinity at play here. Drat! Not safe for absorption.

  Instead, he just pressed his hind foot into the rock ground and disappeared during his forward lunge, only to reappear as his palm connected with Nen’s chin, transferring the force and momentum into bone and sinew that was in no way prepared for it. *Snap*!

  Nen’s body remained in place, but his head did not. One needed a functional neck with a proper spinal connection for that; the man no longer qualified. His Essence fizzled into nothingness, and his body collapsed into a pile. Artorian dejectedly scooted it out of the ring with his foot, not wanting to touch the bloody corpse.

  Uferiel craned to his right to watch the body hit the mud. Breaking another wooden stick in twain, he spoke his mind before really thinking about it. “Do you usually go through men this fast?”

  Artorian shrugged, crossing his arms as he silently wished he’d done different tests on Nen. Perhaps he could have stopped the interaction of Essence, rather than absorb it? Could he negate or twist effects in his space, rather than just eat them? The thought of a meal weighed heavy on his mind as he replied. “Does one feast on a scrawny appetizer when they can see the main course?”

  Uferiel shivered and announced the next contestant. Mr. Fringe was tearing through his hit list! “Number fifty-five, Zorah the Wall.”

  The ground shuddered as a four-hundred-pound hog of a man walked with laden steps into the arena. He wore an extra two hundred pounds in armor, making him by far the heaviest of the contenders thus far. He too stopped at the membrane, but he flicked it. Ow! Artorian winced. What the heck? The membrane could feel? That was news to him.

  Zorah’s voice was heavy and thick, the gruff rumble of a man used to eating meat every day. “A technique as a field? Pointless if it doesn’t do anything except sit there. Your winning streak ends with me, metal boy. Zorah the Wall stops all newcomers.”

  The crowd chanted a song as the hulk rose a hand to greet them. He smiled at the hollering crowd with a row of exposed, sharpened teeth. Artorian thunked his hand to the bottom of his helm, having attempted to stroke his beard. All four basic affinities were present? Why was it that multi-affinity users were both incredibly rare, and yet bumped into him at a rate that just about made them seem common?

  Zorah’s equipment creaked, becoming covered in a wooden residue that thickened before hardening. Only his eyes remained visible, while the rest of him looked like it was part of a palisade. Oh, using higher nature Essence to armor oneself up by fostering wood growth on predesignated locations? Neat! Shame about the glaring weak spot. He was thankful Ember’s gifted armor didn’t have that problem.

  Zorah roared out his challenge. “Zorah is going to flatten you!”

  A beam of condensed light flashed from the tip of Artorian’s armored finger. It lasted a fraction of a second, less time than lightning remained visible when it clapped in the distance. The starlight blast was a fine line, and the hole in the back of Zorah’s head was all the proof Artorian needed that it was very effective against cultivators who forgot to invest into Essence shielding. Really, it was important. They should do it. The man had even been C-rank one. Had. Not a surprise when four affinities were involved.

  *Thud*.

  The crowd was still half-chanting by the time Zorah’s lifeless body hit the arena floor. The noise died down slowly, not sure what they’d seen. Light moved awfully fast. Another wooden nameslate broke into pieces as with another dejected ‘I don’t want to touch this’ foot-nudge, the fighter was ‘helped’ off from the dais.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Grand Vizier Amon, unflatteringly called ‘the nope rope’, coiled around his lesser throne in the top of the Ziggurat. The Queen had seen fit to bless him with an artful form for his many years of faithful service, and merely sitting on the throne was no longer possible.

  The fifty-foot-long crystal cobrafied man still had arms, yet his legs were a thing of the past. He now shifted with true serpentine motion. His vermillion scale-coated body pressed what used to be his human spine against the cushioning of the throne, and golden hued rings coated him in an interlocking hook pattern. Amon’s fingers steepled in their usual fashion.

  Observing the heaving messenger collapsed on the floor before him, he sipped the air with a thistle forked tongue. His cobra hood stirred, inflated lightly, but comfortably eased back into place; there really wasn’t a reason to be upset. The messenger had run for dear life to deliver his task as swiftly as possible. So the mortal was a little out of breath… how could he blame the limited for their limitations?

  Uncaring of the plights of lessers, the Vizier glanced out of the large stone openings to regard the ever-growing fields of people. The unceasing death was pleasing. The cobra indulged in the gathered infernal Essence for a moment as an opal the size of a pearl drew energies from the region up to the apex of the Ziggurat. The best fresh breath was one steeped in power.

  The messenger had their back patted by a figure with a lime-green glo
w oozing from its skeletal mouth. This small action pulled Amon from his musings; it didn’t seem to matter how many moths he crushed to dust. They came endlessly, and no amount of security could keep them from finding an audience with him. He’d stopped trying, even if he had no use for their favors.

  The messenger regained enough breath to speak, forming the proper bow with assistance. “My… my Vizier! I bring urgent news.”

  Of course it was urgent. Nobody ran for their life to deliver something mundane. Amon reminded himself that his superior mind couldn’t be matched by his servants. Their sluggishness… it was to be forgiven. Again, they were doing their best. Like ants. His scaled hand rolled on his wrist, beckoning the servant to continue.

  Hastily and with some panic, the messenger relayed his words. “In the last wave of refugees, an unmatched warrior has arisen! He tears through the blood games as I speak, and has already breached the ranked listing!”

  Amon wasn’t impressed. Many warriors entered the ranked list only to fail after a few days of climbing. There was nothing special here. His slithering voice softly whistled as he worked the words out of his reformatted serpentine mouth. It was so much more difficult to speak without lips. “Inssssufficient… merely a temporary shock to my system. In a few more days, the games will settle as they always have.”

  The messenger’s panic increased, and his gaze pleaded with the quiet onlookers in the room. The guests lounging about did not speak, they had not been addressed nor given permission. They would not help him today. “My… my all-knowing Vizier. The warrior has not been in the games for even an hour! He breaches the thirties as I relay this message, and has sustained not a single scratch of damage. Nor does he seem winded! He has declared a challenge to the top two on the leaderboard, and the survival rate against him has been…”

  The messenger ceased and bowed as the Vizier’s finger steeple broke from formation. This was not news that pleased his master, and he abyss well knew it. The slithering voice snapped out with expected sharpness. “My system, undermined by a single paltry servant? It shall not be so. Who has survived thus far?”

  Rising upon being addressed with a question, the sweating messenger attended the command. “Fuego, my Vizier. The man conceded and was allowed to leave the arena by the warrior. All others have fallen… in less than ten seconds.”

  Now Amon’s interest was piqued. A serpentine eyebrow lifted, or what could be mistaken as one. It was difficult to tell on a scaled face that held the barest semblance of a human pattern, yet was for the majority, cobra. “This nuisance will either be added to my fold, or removed outright. Emerald Eyes, fetch your brother and see to this whelp.

  “Nothing is unharmed after an hour in the games, and if it were a person on the caliber of our Queen, they would not have bothered with it to garner my attention. It displeases me that this has become my problem. If the nuisance is judged worthy, send him up to see me so we may add another to our fold. Otherwise… the usual.”

  Tychus stood, eleven feet tall and built like a volcanic castle. He sported more muscle than most rich people had coin. After bowing cordially to the Vizier, his heavy, thumping footfalls left the hallowed Ziggurat halls. The messenger didn’t quite understand how the massive man managed that effect on a stone floor, but didn't have the luxury to find out. A massive mouth snatched him up before he even had the chance to scream. A convenient snack for the Vizier!

  Tychus had to duck in a few places to not scrape the top of his head against the stone pathways. It hurt! He had to hurry, his brother wasn’t in the Ziggurat, and he had to play fetch before rushing back to the blood games. Where Tychus was bound to the Vizier, Grimaldus was tied to ‘The Mistress’. Their bonds had different connections and connotations, based on the differences in their abilities. After all, who in power doesn’t want a pet necromancer these days? Was it in style?

  Tychus jumped twenty feet and decided not to think about it anymore. His impact on the ground thundered for only a moment before he took off at speed. While the Vizier oversaw local operations in the Ziggurat, The Mistress preferred her quiet gilded mansion, staffed with her personalized art projects. Her faux-Elves. The hefty man from the Fringe shuddered at the thought. Why did anyone like the idea of being disfigured for someone else's enjoyment? He couldn’t get it through his skull, but to its credit, his skull was very thick.

  Why someone would want a mansion half hanging from the side of a cliff was also something Tychus didn’t quite understand. Perhaps only because he’d flipped a bench by sitting on the end of it, launching the person beside him. One who had mysteriously found his head smashed through the ceiling. That had been a good day at the tavern, back when they had a tavern. Every day, something else was being torn from anything resembling a structure by the sheer amount of people venting anger or needing a floor.

  *Caw*!

  The oversized infernal corvid made its presence known with its usual impatient impunity. Its beak flicked left and right as it hopped about on a gnarled perch, head tilting at the swiftly approaching…

  *Fwumph*.

  The corvid screeched and flew out of the way as the figure barreled past its perch, kicking up enough wind as it went to send the corvid skyward. It landed, now on a slightly more crooked perch.

  The vast and lavish pristine structure opened its doors as Tychus slowed. Luxurious paintings and ostentatious drapery lined alabaster walls, and there was to be no running in the halls. Numerous beast furs lay underfoot, muting his heavy footfalls as he turned corridors. When he found the one with suits of polished and posed armor lining the walls, he knew he was in the right place; or would be when he reached the end of this endless hall.

  Full plated guards barred the double-set elephant-tall doors, their grip tight on crossed halberds tugging weapons out of the way on Tychus’s swift approach. One could tell when another was in a hurry. After the guard hammered a fist against the reflective bronze, chains clinked and the grunts of a dozen men were heard as they once again saw to their task. Mechanisms in the wall creaked to life, and the pathway opened inward.

  Tychus was ready for the heady scent of lavender bursting from the throne room. It was awful and overpowering. He was also allergic, and it made him sneeze mightily. Lit braziers filled the busy room, illuminating the expansive space as a golden figure worked her slender touch over an unrecognizable mass of flesh that used to be someone’s face.

  The massive man skidded to a halt, petals under his feet making him slip just an inch before bowing. “My Queen.”

  No amount of being in a hurry made one demand time from the Mistress. She would address you on her terms. Luckily for the son of the Fringe, she was impatient today, displeased with her current sculpture. “Speak…”

  Tychus remained bowed, and servants adorned in a great number of gold bracelets made way. “My Queen, my Vizier has summoned my brother and I to the blood games, we are to quell an upstart.”

  Her dismissive hand gesture sent him from the room. Tychus had learned it was better to go willingly, even if he hadn’t received an answer. Some people were just… different. He didn’t understand what made The Mistress so different, only that she was impossibly more powerful than the Vizier was, and the Vizier could floor him and his brother. He knew that lesson well, they’d tried plenty of times. He’d treated them like amusing ragdolls, and the ceilings were still stained by their bloody defeats.

  The Mistress clicked her tongue, fist pressed against the underside of her chin. She really wasn’t making any headway on this sculpture. Honestly, how hard could sculpting a crocodile head onto a person be?

  “Emerald Eyes, see to your brother… Your Queen does not wish to be disturbed for any reason until my doors open.”

  An unremarkable man rose and bowed. Seemingly mediocre and common in every way, save for his lime green eyes, Grimaldus cordially performed the required bow and stepped from the throne room silently and at a hastened pace. Passing the elephant doors, he said nothing until they clanged
to a close.

  He didn’t need to inform the halberd wielders, who crossed weapons to bar entry. They’d somehow heard their Queen regardless of where she was. Grimaldus’s flat face broke into a sly smile as he saw his brother waiting for him with crossed arms, sporting an equally mischievous smile. “Brother…”

  Tychus belted out a laugh, and bumped fists with his brother. The bump turned into an elaborate set of playful hand movements. Neither of them had ever properly grown up. Tychus slapped a hand on Grim’s back, who coughed and stumbled forward. “Ty! You’re still far stronger than me! Do take care.”

  The walking castle had done it on purpose, so his brotherly grin hadn’t died in the slightest. “Is it not usually the other way around? You always protect me, big brother.”

  Grimaldus laughed out loud, though it was practically a whisper in comparison to his massive brother’s bellowing. He playfully poked his kin in the ribs as they trotted into a swift walk. “Oh, I am the big brother today? What happened to all your bluster last week?”

  Tychus grumbled, mumbling while looking away as he tried really hard to pretend he wasn’t disgustingly ticklish. “Was the infernal talking. Hush. You already know what we’re doing?”

  A playful, deep sigh left his stretching brother, who was beyond pleased to have any reason to get out of the mansion. Constant cultivation made him so horribly sore. “I’ve been stuck in the pit, only got out this morning. I’ve missed the entire week since our last chat, and you weren’t exactly yourself.”

  Tychus was glad to be outside as fresher air met them. He sneezed hard, nose beet red from all of the lavender petals that had attacked it. A hidden handkerchief came to the rescue, and the big man was glad for it. His speech sounded muted with his nose so stuffed up. “Some upstart is making a mess out of the games, got into the thirties in about an hour. Likely higher now, but we should make it in time in case he cracks his way up the ten’s. Nine tends to give people a run for their copper. Odd thing is that the challenger asked for both of us, at the same time.”