by Wolfe Locke
Tetraites’ skeletal body was light and nimble, well-suited to the bloody task at hand. He could feel his sharp fangs protruding over his bottom teeth as they salivated.
The vampiric aspect might prove useful. How or when he might have need of it remained to be seen.
He put the sword away back into the spacial ring. The man he once was, Xanthus, would have called for a feast after settling in. He would have emptied wineskin after wineskin over dinner, then spent twelve hours in a drunken slumber surrounded by plush pillows and naked women on a plump feather bed. He would have woken up, still drunk, and immediately demanded a massage from a cowed and fearful slave.
The voice of the Dark Lord interrupted his thoughts. But the undead have no need of food or sleep, and Xanthus was a fool killed by a hero. I expect you to do better.
Tetraites nodded in understanding. The undead don’t need to sleep, do they? He made the most of his time and spent the night trying to access the ice magic Zekant had given him, calling on his power the same way he had done when he was alive.
It didn’t work. Nothing came except morning.
Chapter 3: The Change Within
He was lying on a dais in his red and black palace, heart racing with terror. The sound of screams and running footsteps filled the air. The smell of smoke was everywhere around him. Fires were burning somewhere within the palace. He was hiding from something—but what?
He rolled off the dais and crawled toward the window, belly close to the floor like a worm. Heaving himself up on the ornately carved windowpane, he peered outside. Chaos and carnage met his gaze. Red-helmed troops spread out across the plain beneath the palace, slaughtering his vassals and minions. Destroying every skeleton and walking corpse they came across. Their pace was leisurely. The battle was over, and they were mopping up the last of the enemy. His undead army had been defeated.
Someone banged on the door, and he whimpered, cowering in fear, his mind still heavy and clouded by drink. He collapsed on the floor beside the window. Had someone seen him? His breath sounded too loud in the empty room.
They banged again, more urgently. “Xanthus,” a deep voice said outside. “Come out and face your end like a man.”
Xanthus shook his head frantically. Maybe he could still escape if he just stayed quiet. They might think he had fled. They’d think he was somewhere else. They’d—
He felt another bolt of fear as he heard an ugly splintering noise, the sound of metal cutting into wood. Someone was hacking at the door with an axe.
“It’s over, Xanthus,” the deep voice said again. “There’s no escape.”
Rage filled Xanthus as he reached for the well of power within himself and found it dangerously low. He had spent much of it keeping his army alive, and animated. Though there was very little left. But maybe there was just enough—
The axe had cut a hole in the door, and a red-mailed hand shoved its way through. Pyke Wildwood. The man who was the captain of the Blood of the Phoenix, an elite and battle-hardened band of mercenaries. Wildwood had heard tales of the treasures Xanthus kept in his palace, and his greed had brought him here.
Xanthus gathered his remaining magic, ready to attack—but Wildwood was already on him, a golden scimitar at the ready. He felt a sharp pain as Wildwood’s blade sliced across his throat, then felt the life start to drain out of him.
He clutched at his throat as his precious lifeblood spilled through his fingers. The pain was immense, but the fear was worse. Both the fear of death and what was to come after.
The last thing Xanthus saw as he sank to the floor was Wildwood’s gleeful face. “We’ve got the bastard. Fatter than I thought he was too. So much for the dreaded Necromancer of the West.” Wildwood said. “Let’s move on to the Treasury. I want everything.”
A sudden noise at the door of his cell startled Tetraites out of his reverie. He knew that that had been no vision. He had been remembering his death. He was disgusted at his own cowardice. Pathetic. Xanthus may have possessed powerful magic, but he had had no honor. A powerful worm who crawls on his belly is still a worm. You’d do well to remember that always.
The door swung open, revealing Crixa behind it.
“Time to go,” Crixa said. “Your fight is soon.”
Tetraites got up, and as he passed through the doorway to leave his cell, information came to him unbidden.
Notification: You are now leaving a designated safe area. Anytime you leave your cell, you will be shown your status. This is an aspect of the system that monitors your growth. You will not see this notification again.
Spectral Arena
Name – Tetraites the Conqueror
Specialty – Frost Magic
Race - Skeleton
Current Unlocked Abilities
None.
Current Passive Abilities
Vampiric Aspect - Bloodlust
Strength
9
Magic
3
Stamina
29
Speed
7
The information faded from his mind, and Tetraites followed the creature out across the Training Grounds, trying not to worry. Despite trying all night, he had been unable to summon the ice magic Zekant had given him. Maybe the information about my stats? The number in the magic column was low. I’ll need to find a way to boost it.
Whatever this new power was, it worked very differently from the necromancy he was used to. I’ll need to find a new way to access power.
The Training Grounds had been empty last night, but now they were bustling with life. Spider-monsters moved about performing various tasks. They spoke to each other in a chittering language of their own. It seemed like Crixa was a leader among them—creatures kept running up to him looking for orders.
Crixa led the way to a massive stone elevator at one end of the Grounds. A small wooden ladder provided access to the elevator platform. It was surrounded by creatures that gibbered excitedly when they saw Tetraites approach.
“Up you go,” Crixa said, indicating the stone platform. “May you fight with honor. If you die in the Arena, may you die with honor as well. Do not die too quickly. You are the first, and the master would not be kind to us.”
Tetraites did not plan on dying. I’ll never go back to the pit. If I have to kill every monster or hero, they throw my way to stay out of the pit, I will. It was a promise. He retrieved his helm and armor from the magical dimension within his spatial ring and put them on, making sure to take his time with them despite the creatures’ distress at his slowness. They’re not my masters. Only Zekant is. Tetraites steeled himself for battle and climbed up onto the platform. The memory of his previous life and failures was dismissed from his mind as the prospect of blood started to turn his thoughts towards violence.
Immediately once he was on the platform, the spider-monsters sprung into action. A massive wheel next to the platform was attached to a complex system of pulleys, ropes, and chains. Moving as one shrieking mass, the beasts swarmed the wheel in a twisted ball of limbs and sinew and began to rotate the wheel, sending the elevator upward as a trap door simultaneously opened in the ceiling above it.
As he rose, Tetraites kept a tight grip on his sword and reached out to make sure he could retrieve his Basic Spear from its spacial ring if needed. Whatever he was going to fight when he reached the surface of the Arena, he knew he needed to be able to face it.
Chapter 4: The Goatmen
When the stone platform finally ground to a halt, Tetraites had trouble keeping his jaw from dropping at what he saw. The size of the Arena was staggering. It was easily six times the size of the practice ring in the Training Ground and surrounded by high walls filled with seats. While that astonished him, it was the sky above that drew most of his surprise. It was dark as night, a true void without a single star above.
Above the rows of benches for the masses were spacious boxes for the Lords of Pandemonium to watch the battles in secured comfort.
Ev
ery surface was black—the seats were black marble, and the steps and walls were made of black travertine. Instead of the sawdust of the Training Ground, black sand covered the Arena floor. All around the roof stood statues of various monsters and gods of the Great Empty.
Tetraites had expected to be met by a screaming crowd, but the stands were empty and eerily silent. Maybe Zekant hasn’t created the spectators yet.
The largest and most sumptuous of the viewing boxes was right across from him, high up on the Arena wall. As he watched, a curtain in the back of the box drew aside, and Zekant stepped out. He was clad, as always, in full glacial armor polished to a high sheen.
“Slave,” the Dark Lord’s voice boomed, and Tetraites knelt without thinking. Zekant’s voice carried across the entire arena and with it all the force of a god. “Today marks your first test: your first battle in the Arena. It is your first step on the Path of Graves—and maybe your last. I will see if you have what is required to continue and remake you in my image.”
Tetraites nodded. He knew better than to try to talk to the Dark Lord.
“As you can see,” Zekant continued, “I have not allowed my servants to watch the fight. This is not to save you from humiliation if things go poorly, but because I intend to raise my fighters above them in time. The complacency of familiarity will not breed contempt here. If you lose, I will destroy you personally. If you win, you can expect future battles to look different. My people will be in the stands howling for your blood—or the blood of your enemies.”
Fine, my master. Tetraites didn’t care much what an army of spider-monsters thought of him. Five holes had opened up in the floor of the Arena beneath Zekant’s box. Something was coming up on the elevators. Multiple somethings.
“I expect this first battle to be easy for you,” Zekant said. “I have sent shades of the weakest of my monsters. If you lose to such as these, you have no place here.”
Five horned heads emerged from the floor of the Arena. Their bodies were dark and black like shadow that immediately solidified into a tangible illusion of a body. Satyrs? Are these the shades? Their horns were sheathed in deadly-looking steel.
“These are my goatmen,” the Dark Lord said. “Fight with honor.”
The five satyrs had reached the surface, and now Tetraites could see that their hands and feet were chained.
Ten spider-monsters had ridden the lifts up with them. They were desperately trying to hang on to the chains and hold the goatmen back. Each of the satyrs was about twice Tetraites’ height and foaming at the mouth, near-rabid with their desire to maim and kill. Their upper bodies were manlike, with bulging muscles covered in wiry black hair.
Each of their goat’s hind legs was the width of Tetraites’ skeletal chest, with razor-sharp hooves. Their goat-like human faces were dull and stupid, and their eyes were vacant. Zekant had made them true beasts with no higher purpose than the pursuit of the kill. The satyrs strained in their chains, eager to attack.
Notification: Defeat The Goatmen
Details: Five satyr shades have been prepared as a test of your abilities within the arena. Should you fail, your body will be destroyed, and your spirit cast back into the Gehenna Pit.
Reward: Minor Upgrade
The Dark Lord inclined his head in the smallest of nods, and the servant monsters let go of the chains and scurried backward. Doors opened in the walls of the Arena, and the spider-creatures hurried inside before the satyrs could turn their attention towards them and follow after.
Alone in the Arena, the beasts’ full attention was on Tetraites. The largest satyr bellowed with rage and sprinted toward him, chains dragging behind it. The smaller ones followed. All five were racing toward him at high speed.
Tetraites took a moment to steady himself. All of the satyrs are still wearing chains. That would slow them down, and maybe he could use that to his advantage. The satyrs spread out, and Tetraites noted that two of the satyrs were much smaller than the others. If he took them out first, he might have an easier time with the rest.
He started running toward the smallest one, reveling in his own speed and strength in effortless motion. Xanthus could never have done this. The goatman snarled and turned to face him, baring its broken yellow teeth.
Tetraites feinted with his sword, first left, then right, trying to draw the satyr out and see how it liked to attack. It followed his movements with its steel-covered horns, getting more and more agitated the more he moved. Finally, the beast charged at him with its head down, fully intending to gore him.
Tetraites leaped out of the way as it lurched past him. For all the satyr’s size, it was clumsy and awkward in its movements, leaving much of its body unprotected and telegraphed much of its movement. It turned and stomped its massive hooves, preparing to charge again.
Still, I’d be a fool to let it get too close. Tetraites reached out with his mind and retrieved his spear from its magical storage and held it in his left hand while he held his sword in his right. When the satyr charged, he stabbed upward with the spear as he jumped aside. When the dust cleared, the spear was deeply lodged in the monster’s right pectoral muscle. Blood streaked down the satyr’s chest, and it roared with pain.
I have to get the spear back. Tetraites advanced on the goatman, with his eyes fixed on its horns. It was stronger than him, but lacked even basic animal cunning. The more it bled out, the weaker it would get. Death by a thousand cuts. He feinted right, then sliced left with his sword, opening up a massive gash in the monster’s side. When it twisted away, he grabbed the shaft of his spear and pulled, using the satyr’s weight to lever the weapon out of its body. It came out with a grotesque sucking noise, the head of the spear covered in gore.
The satyr bellowed again and struck out with a massive fist. Tetraites barely avoided having his skull forcibly removed from his body as he twisted out of the way. A close call—but he had his spear back now. He could use it to keep the creature at a distance.
The satyr lowered its head to attack, again, but Tetraites raised his spear threateningly and it backed off. He could see the creature breathing hard as he slowly circled it, holding his spear high. It was definitely feeling the pain from its wounds. Its blood dripped onto the black sand of the Arena floor.
In a flash, Tetraites lunged. The creature contorted its head toward him, but it was too slow. He sunk his spear into the satyr’s gut and twisted. The beast screamed, and Tetraites pulled the weapon out with a jolt and backed off to a safe distance.
He had disemboweled the beast. Its guts spilled out of its belly in a shower of blood and viscera. It looked down at them, baffled, and took a lurching movement toward him before sinking to its knees with a groan.
I’m not done here. Tetraites moved in for the kill, sword out. The mortally wounded satyr tried to grab him, but he evaded its grasp easily. He slid his sword across its throat and watched its eyes go vacant as it slumped to the ground, twitching. Blood pooled around its body. He stepped out of the way and waited for it to die.
A shower of Sols dropped from the sky when the beast finally went still. What the—?! Tetraites ducked as one of them hit him in the back of the head. The coins were scattered around the satyr, glowing with their own internal light. There was no time to gather them now, though. Tetraites had a job to do.
He looked around. The other four satyrs had spread out across the Arena and were watching him with their piggy eyes, waiting for him to be done. Their actions seemed totally irrational—why not all attack him at once? They outnumbered him. Then he realized: Zekant had created them and dictated their behavioral patterns. This was Tetraites’ first test. The Dark Lord was deliberately making it easier for him.
Appreciate this my minion and learn. He moved toward the closest two satyrs. Immediately they moved together and lowered their heads in unison, sensing that they’d attracted his attention. He’d have to take them both on at once.
The smaller of the two charged at him suddenly, chains jangling behind it. Tetraite
s wondered if he could use those chains again to his advantage somehow as he ducked out of the way. The satyr bellowed as it missed its target and turned to charge again. This time, Tetraites was ready. He lashed out with his sword as the beast lurched by, neatly severing its hamstring.
The satyr screamed with pain, and went down, unable to put its weight on one of its legs. It tried to rise, but Tetraites was already on it. He clubbed it in the face with the hilt of his sword when it tried to bite him and its nose broke with an awful crunch. Then he brought his blade down, cleaving its head from its shoulders with one blow. The satyr’s decapitated body quivered as it bled out onto the ground. Two down, three to go.
The larger satyr was being pelted with newly spawned Sols. It bellowed and tried to charge at him, but was suddenly brought up short. The other satyr had fallen on top of its chains. It was trapped by the revenant of its ally.
Tetraites tried to move closer, but a flurry of blows from the remaining satyr drove him off. The creature was furiously trying to pull itself free from the dead creature’s body, but it was stuck fast. Once again Tetraites tried to move in, and once again the goatman attacked, driving him back. It was clear he’d need to try a new strategy.