Domains of the Chosen 02 Bloodlust: Will to Power

by C. P. D. Harris

  “Thank you Master,” said Gavin. He smiled. “Shall we have another go?”

  “No,” said Sax. “I want some time to analyze my loss, to see what I can learn. I have another task for you: I think you are ready for the thousand cuts test Gavin. More than ready. If you can pass it today, I will consider my part of your oath to Sadira concluded.”

  o-----

  Still clear minded, Gavin passed the test with ease. He took each cut on its own, never thinking about the cut behind him or the cut still in front of him. Instead of emptying his mind, he split his focus, concentrating on his spear-work while still allowing his mind to wander.

  Lunge, thrust, cut down left, cut up right.

  He had heard a rumour that Ravius was dead; killed in a brutal match in an illegal Death-League. Gavin did not believe it. If he were so intent on suicide, Ravius would have gone after Valaran himself. He simply preferred to disappear, rather than watch Gavin fight Valaran, for fear that his friend might meet the same fate as Omodo.

  Lunge, thrust, cut down left, cut up right.

  His oath to Sadira had held. Their bond was still strange to him; he always had a sense of her now. He sought her out in his mind between cuts. She was enjoying a massage after a fight, talking with Lina. He could almost hear what she said, and feel the vassals hands on her skin.

  Lunge, thrust, cut down left, cut up right.

  Cleothera smiled more often now. He was pleased she had chosen to stay with them.

  Lunge, thrust, cut down left, cut up right.

  Sax was a Blackcloak. Mordhawk was connected to them.

  Lunge, thrust, cut down left, cut up right.

  Valcoeur was Gavin's father. He must be.

  Lunge, thrust, cut down left, cut up right.

  Valaran was a disgrace now. Many of his former allies had turned on him, not wanting to be tainted by scandal. He would have to face Gavin soon enough.

  Lunge, thrust, cut down left, cut up right.

  Gavin would be ready.

  Lunge, thrust, cut down left, cut up right.

  He drifted...

  Lunge, thrust, cut down left, cut up right.

  He thought of his father.

  Lunge, thrust, cut down left, cut up right.

  Gavin noticed an imperfection in his stance. He corrected it.

  Lunge, thrust, cut down left, cut up right.

  Had the watching masters not noticed? Strange...

  Lunge, thrust, cut down left, cut up right.

  He had beaten Sax. Seen a Flaw in the Master's movements.

  Lunge, thrust, cut down left, cut up right.

  If Sax wasn't perfect, how could he, Gavin, be?

  Lunge, thrust, cut down left, cut up right.

  Understanding flowed through him. No one was perfect. The Flawless Blade was an ideal to strive towards; a deeper understanding of the value of self-improvement. Small things, the grip of a blade, the shifting of the feet, the breath, the balance. These could turn a fight just as well as blood-drinking, Ironskin enchantments, or a flashy feint.

  Lunge, thrust, cut down left, cut up right.

  Being worthy in the eyes of others should never have been Gavin's goal. Lunge, thrust, cut down left, cut up right.

  Being worthy in his own eyes, would be closer, but still fell short.

  Lunge, thrust, cut down right, cut up left.

  The key was not in the finding, it was always in the seeking. Such is the lesson of small perfections.

  Lunge, thrust, cut down left, cut up left, flourish right.

  o-----

  Gavin's final challenge was to seek out the smith Liam Valcoeur, whose weapon he bore and who appeared to be his father. Sadira, knowing her man, arrived to support him in this endeavour, though she suspected she would not need to prod him this time.

  In fact, she and Cleothera had already met with the smith, circumventing even watchful Sax, having arranged a meeting through Rune-smith Olga from Dreadwood. There was no doubt that he was Gavin's father; the physical similarity was obvious. The smith was hospitable, but gently rebuked the two women, telling them that his tale was for his son to seek.

  And so one day, in the last month of winter, Gavin found himself at that small house again. Smoke still rose from the forge but now the sturdy windows were frosted and icicles hung from the gutters. He stared at it for a while, just long enough for Cleothera and Sadira to bristle with impatience. He grinned and then he approached the door and knocked.

  A tall, straight-backed Light-Elf woman answered the door. She regarded him for a moment and then smiled.

  “You must be Gavin,” she said. “Sari... Sax sent word to expect you. Please come in and sit down. I am Villuriel. Liam will be in shortly.”

  Gavin introduced Sadira and Cleothera, noting that the woman did not betray any surprise at his companions. Elves usually had a stronger reaction to meeting another of their race for the first time. He looked pointedly at Sadira, who smiled coyly. He rolled his eyes.

  Villuriel served tea and wine while Cleothera and Sadira complimented the household decor. Sadira was quite taken with the carved weapon racks. Cleothera liked the lace drapes.

  A man about Gavin's height, entered the kitchen, adjoined to sitting room. He crossed to a basin, washing his hands and face. Villuriel crossed to meet him, saying a few words in a hushed tone. I am sitting in a cottage in the middle of nowhere. With my father, whom I've never met, thought Gavin, he looks so much like me, it is undeniable.

  Valcoeur walked into the room, sudden and tense. Gavin looked up at him, rising slowly from the chair. The face before him was cast from the same mold as his own. The eyes were darker; a few small details spoke of different experiences. His father had a little more Krassian blood in him perhaps. But there was no mistaking that the same blood ran in their veins.

  “Father,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Valcoeur.

  “Why?” said Gavin.

  “Because of the way your mother died,” said Valcoeur, his gaze dropped away from Gavin.

  “What do you mean?” said Gavin. He felt odd; this was not at all like he imagined it would be.

  Valcoeur sighed. He looked at Villuriel who regarded him with deep sympathy in her clear blue eyes.

  “Girls, why don't we give them some privacy,” she said. And so they left, and Gavin was alone with his father.

  o-----

  “Villuriel killed your mother?” said Sadira, later after they had eaten dinner and take their leave.

  “Yes,” said Gavin. “I can see how he would have trouble telling that tale to a brash young Gladiator.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “I don't know,” said Gavin. “After hearing the tale I'm not sure I can fault anyone. The arena is a passionate and poisonous place. I need to think about it.”

  “Did Liam send you the spear on purpose?” asked Cleothera.

  “He set it in my way,” said Gavin. For some reason it gave him a feeling of deep satisfaction just to know that. His father had indeed been watching over him. “It is patterned after the spear my mother once used in the arena.”

  o-----

  The ash plains of Volcanus were an inhospitable place even before The Reckoning, a barren land of rocky wastelands, ash-choked deserts, and toxic sludge. That The Reckoning brought life to this blasted landscape is a mixed blessing, the most grotesque of miracles. The twisted vegetation is as predatory as the spike hounds that now haunt the deep wastes, feeding off of Fermantulas and Ash-Behemoths.

  The nameless things that haunt the ruins that Moltar has yet to reclaim are even worse, but one has to wonder if they are products of the twisted magics of the old wars, or survivors of the storms. Those who brave the ruins and live, dragging plunder or exotic fodder for The Great Games, are well-rewarded. Few return, however.

  Yet there are places so miserable and poisonous in Volcanus that only civilized beings make their homes there. Dregs is the worst of these. Here the worst of Mount Irongrim's
excretions mix with the spew of the colossal foundries that lie at its feet.

  Dregs is where the rejects, whores, and broken leavings of this Domain's industry live. They scavenge the toxic flows and offer services that even Chosen Moltar cannot officially support. It is a grim place, where life is cheap and everyone seeks fortune and a way out, hopefully before the poisonous air leaches too much life from them.

  Dregs is notable for two things. The first is the Dreg's Market. Here the flow scavengers and those who brave the ruins and live sell their best wares. Black marketeers, illegal slavers, and smugglers from all over the Domains come here to trade. Anything can be had for the right price, it is said. Vast profits are made, of which the lord of the Domain is rumoured to take a small cut in exchange for leaving the market “unregulated”.

  The second feature of note is the Death Leagues, which some say are to are to Gladiators as the lost souls of the Dregs are to regular folk, and this is undoubtedly true. There are fighters too savage for modern Games-fans, or too broken and desperate, or simply mad. These call the Death Leagues home, fighting for the people of the Dregs, who appreciate only brutality and victory.

  Every fight in the Death Leagues is a Deathmatch. The fans are not nearly as merciful as those in the rest of the Domains. Many Gladiators breath their last here, tasting the foul air of this cesspit as their last defeat. And yet there is opportunity amidst the carnage. Winning even a few fights in the Death Leagues will gain respect for those with unenviable records, often enough to revive a fighter's career.

  The true patrons of the Death Leagues are jaded and wealthy, betting vast sums on their favourites. Winning such a patron is a sure path for one who has alienated the Factions or wishes to avoid them. And for those mad few who can prosper amidst the carnage, who can become the champion of the Death Leagues, a place among the Grand Champions is always assured.

  It is to the Dregs that Gavin came, to this toxic cesspit of greed, poison, and desperation, seeking out Valaran to fulfil the last of his oath and avenge his fallen brother.

  o-----

  The lower arena in the Death Leagues, called the supplicants arena, is notable for the standing area where the first few thousand spectators to line up for each match can watch for free. The standing area is built on the same level as the fighting grounds and those who watch do so from behind thick iron bars, giving a Gladiator standing on the sands the impression of a being in a cell.

  Gavin looked at the people watching him from behind those bars. In their features he read despair, viciousness, bloodlust, and perhaps a little defiance. The paid seats were filled with wealthier looking individuals. Many of these wore Valaran's colours: they wanted to see Gavin humbled.

  Cleothera had arranged the match. Sadira had sent Lina, brave little Lina, to keep Gavin company in her homeland. His lover could not come to this match, but he doubted she even considered his death a possibility. She was more confident in him that he was in himself. The thought brought a smile to his face.

  To join the Death Leagues a Gladiator had to face the supplicant's test. It was a monster fight, but a difficult one. Just enough of the supplicants were ripped apart to make it interesting to the jaded crowds of Dregs.

  A tall, cadaverously thin man, immaculately dressed in worn silks and wearing a half-mask carved from a skull stood up in the announcer's box as Gavin finished his salute. Baron Bones was both the mascot and the announcer of the Supplicant's Arena. He spoke slowly, his voice deep, his diction distinguished and boisterous.

  “Good day, gentle folk,” he said. The audience laughed and cheered.

  “We have a new supplicant today,” said the Baron, looking at Gavin with a practised smirk. “A veteran Gladiator comes here to face one of our Own. Shall we let him fight one of our Gladiators?”

  “Make him bleed!”

  “KILL HIM!”

  “Feed him to the worms!”

  “Send in the hounds!”

  The audience jeered for a few moments, until the Baron cut them off with a wave of his hand. Gavin was impressed at the silence that fell when he commanded it.

  “The Death Leagues are the last bastion of the True Games in the Domains. We hold to the old ways, Gladiator. If you want to face one of ours, you will have to prove your worth first. There is no Keystone here. You know you face death. Are you ready, boy?”

  “I am, Baron,” said Gavin.

  “Let us see if your courage matches your word, honoured Gladiator,” said the Baron. The trumpets rang.

  In the standing section, viewers crowded against the bars expectantly, while behind them, in the higher levels, others sat on the edge of their seats. It took a moment for Gavin to realize that they were waiting with anticipation for the monster or monsters he would be fighting. Cleothera had said they captured ancient beasts from the ruins, some of which could be very strong.

  He breathed in, trying not to conjure up phantom mismatches in his mind. There was no sense in worrying until he saw what he was going to fight.

  A warbling roar caught his attention; a large door opposite the Gladiator's entrance dropped open. A creature from nightmare stepped out of the shadows. The crowd cheered gleefully as it regarded him with four beady black eyes.

  The creature's body was large and muscular, like an ogre's. Its skin was a patchwork of scales and smooth, pale flesh that glistened wetly in the harsh light of the arena. Its forearms were over-sized and ended in curved talons the size of a dirk, obsidian in colour. Four tentacles, each ending in a cruel hook, undulated around its mouth, a vicious looking orifice that combined the worst elements of beak and maw.

  Gavin did not need to look at its pattern to see that it was a creature of tainted magic, the kind that was rare, but not unheard of, within the borders of the Domains. The lines of its magical being were twisted and warped, writhing and strange; like the Chaos storms he had seen. It smelled like rotten fish and spoiled fruit.

  “Gladiator, meet Vondo the Flayer,” said the Baron. Although his voice carried above the din of the crowd, it did not seem any louder or less formal. “Once a citizen of Dregs he was condemned to stew in a tainted zone for his crimes. At least we finally made something useful out of him. You will be the third Gladiator that this beast has faced. Welcome to the Death-Leagues, Lionfang”

  Gavin could hardly believe that such a creature might have once been a human, ogre, or something else he might recognize. He was disgusted by the idea of exposing a criminal to a pocket of tainted magic left over from The Reckoning. Was such a thing even lawful? He had been warned about the Death-Leagues, but confronting the gruesome truth face to face was hard.

  The monster-that-had-once-been-a-man reared back, its chest inflating like a balloon. As it reached the apex of its thoracic expansion its head snapped forward, expelling black slime at him. Remembering the lingering stench of Kraken's ink Gavin opted to duck rather than block it with his shield. A few droplets of the stuff brushed against his skin as the mass flew past. Where it touched him, painful tumorous growths, like rotten pimples, erupted.

  Indignant disgust at this offence spurred Gavin to attack. A mental blast spell rippled into the creature. It proved less resistant to direct magical assault than Gavin expected. The Flayer was tenacious though, and recovered quickly. But Gavin was already upon it, charging in and sliding forward with a short jab. His spear plunged into its side. Thick burgundy fluid flowed from the wound as he twisted the haft and pulled the spearhead out, tearing chunks of bloody flesh with it. The Flayer warbled angrily and stepped forward to grab at Gavin, who pushed against it with his shield to keep it back. His bloody spear jabbed in again and again, but despite the obvious damage the creature only grew more frenzied, almost eager.

  As the Flayer grappled with Gavin's shield, uncaring of the razor edge, its tentacles flowed around him, low and undulating, catching him unawares with their surprising, elastic reach. He felt their hooks bite into his unarmoured back and heard the crowd shout with glee as they penetrated, dra
wing blood.

  “Oh my,” said Baron Bones. He smiled, expectantly. “We know what happens next.”

  Gavin felt the hooks wiggle under his skin and begin to pull. Their strength was horrifying. His vicious spear attacks and mental blasts were not slowing the Flayer down quickly enough.

  “FLAY HIM! FLAY HIM!” screamed the crowd.

  “UNWORTHY! WEAK!” taunted others.

  Gavin let go of his spear to draw his shortsword. The Flayer caught his hand and pulled him in, foul beaked maw snapping. The hooks began to peel the flesh from his back, and Gavin grunted in agony. Resisting the grip of the beast's tentacles only made the hooks dig deeper into his back. So instead, Gavin stepped in, slicing the Flayer's chest with the razor edge of his shield. He struggled to keep calm, shouting in pain and revulsion. Then he saw an opportunity.

  “THIS IS HOW WE DO IT IN DREGS” shouted a woman's voice.

  The Flayer cared little for pain; indeed it seemed to delight in its own agony nearly as much as his. Perhaps the man inside wanted death. Intent on the attack, it continued to ignored Gavin's shield. As it pulled him in, the Gladiator dropped low, feeling the tear of the hooks as he did so. The beak snapped, inches from his face. Nearly crouching now, Gavin surged upwards with all his strength, slashing with the edge of his shield. The Flayer, which had been pulling him towards its maw, was caught off guard by the Gladiator's sudden reversal in momentum. With both his strength and the creature's tentacles pulling him in his shield slash was superbly powerful. Blood splashed on him.

  Many in the crowd, which understandably thought that the Flayer had overcome Gavin and pulled him into its maw, roared in delight and shouted insults. When the blood splashed on the sands they roared even louder. When a tentacle fell to the sand the cheering became somewhat muted and confused. Gavin began to hear a few voices cheering him. Then he could feel the change; people were rooting for him. He felt a surge of triumph as the creature slumped, and he started to lift it off him.