Domains of the Chosen 02 Bloodlust: Will to Power

by C. P. D. Harris

  “Yield, and I'll let you live,” he said. “Do you yield? Nod if you can.”

  Choker somehow managed to nod. He wondered if this was some sick trick on Gavin's part, toying with him before ending it. Gavin nodded then turned to lift his spear in salute to the crowd.

  And oh how they jeered and booed him, screaming insults.

  Baron Bones bounded to his feet.

  “What's this?” he said, incredulous. “Mercy? Here? Who the fuck do you think you are, boy? This is the Death-Leagues.”

  Gavin shrugged. “Choker fought well. He deserves to live.”

  “Then why not put it to a show of thumbs.”

  “Because I don't care what the audience thinks,” said Gavin. “Is this not Dregs? I'm not here to further my ambitions. I'm not here for fame or riches. I'm not even here to satisfy my Bloodlust. I came to kill Valaran; no one else needs to die.”

  “YOU NEED TO DIE YOU FUCKING SLAGFUCKER!” shouted a porcine man, frenzied with righteous indignation. “I PAID TO SEE DEATH!”

  Others hissed and booed, spat and cursed.

  “This is...,” Baron Bones looked around nervously. “Can he even do this?”

  “Of course I can,” said Gavin. “I came, I conquered, I showed mercy...”

  Chapter Fifty-Five: Rabble

  1149/06/10AR Dregs, Supplicants Arena, Gavin's test match for Master Rank

  “That a place like Dregs is allowed to exist in the Domains speaks volumes of how little we have advanced as a society.” Chosen Brighthoof

  “If Dregs is so bad then why does it attract so many immigrants from the Domains of my neighbours?” Chosen Moltar

  “No wonder Valaran is such an arse-hole,” said Sadira. “This place really lives up to its name.”

  “This is one of the nicer areas of Dregs, actually,” said Lina.

  “Ugh, really?” said Sadira. “They should change the name to Shits.”

  “That might be aspirational in this case,” quipped Lina.

  Gavin, Cleothera, Sadira and Lina were travelling along 'the promenade. a raised walkway built from wood and iron, made to keep those who used it out of the toxic slush and excremental muck of the regular roads. The promenade also hid those who used it from the “rabble” on the roads below them with painted screens; less than successfully in some places where accidents or vandalism exposed the walkers to the outside world. The air was clearer as well, partly due to the screens and partly due to minor enchantments in the bridge. The promenade was a cut above any form of transportation in Dregs, saving perhaps the rare steam carriage or pleasure barge. Few people could, however, afford the expense of using it, however.

  Sadira's nose curled. She had seen the poor areas in Brightsand Halls and heard many stories of the infamous slums of Krass, shameful areas of destitution and desperation, but there was no comparison between any of those and Dregs. Young girls and boys, barely out of childhood working as prostitutes. Crews of rough looking men with hard eyes, idle; waiting for work or picking out victims she could not tell. Solitary figures, bundled in inadequate protection made of thick rags and leather, picking through the poisonous pools and heaps of trash washed up from the spillover from the factories upriver. And of course, the endless lines of slump-shouldered labourers picking their way through the mud of the roads, eyes bereft of any light. She hated it.

  “Did you say this is where your brother ended up?” said Sadira, turning to Lina.

  Gavin cringed. It was not a question he would have asked, but that sort of fearless curiosity was a quality he often admired in Sadira.

  “Yes, my eldest brother,” said Lina. She looked down. Sadira put her arm around the smaller woman's shoulder. “He became addicted to petty flower. Ran away from home. Last we heard he was here.”

  “We should look for him!” said Sadira.

  Cleothera shared a glance with Gavin, who shrugged.

  “I used some of the money you gave me for my family to help them look for him, Sadira,” said Lina quietly. “If he's still... here, then it seems he does not want to be found. Thank you, though.”

  o-----

  Sadira was there to show her support for Gavin, whose second try at his Master Rank was coming up. He failed this one as well, but none of them were unhappy with his performance.

  o-----

  “And now, courtesy of supplicant Lionfang,” said Baron Bones. “We have something we rarely get to see here in Dregs.”

  “FUCK YOU LIONFART!” shouted one of the fans.

  “I HOPE I SEE YOUR NUTS IN THE SAND TODAY!” came another voice.

  “BLEED, BLEED, DIE!”

  “GET OUT OF DREGS, LOSER!”

  Gavin idly wondered if they were using some form of enchantment to enhance the volume of the fan's voices, the way they often used magic to carry the Gladiator's voice to the audience.

  “Today we will be witness to a Ranking Match,” Baron Bones continued. “You see, despite having survived two matches here, dear Lionfang is not even a master ranked Gladiator. I'm sure that the extra rune allowance and training would be helpful when facing his nemesis, Valaran diVolcanus.”

  The Baron paused.

  “HUZZAH LIONFANG!” A familiar voice cut through the jeering. Gavin scanned the seating for Sadira. He didn't see her. She whooped again. He honed in on the sound. She was in the lowly standing section, in her arena garb, surrounded by a crowd of Dregs citizenry who seemed rather shocked to see her in their midst, flanked by Lina and Cleothera, yelling encouragement at him.

  “MEET YOU IN THE BATHS AFTER THE MATCH, HONEYTONGUE,” Sadira yelled. Her voice echoed through the arena. Gavin covered his face with his palm.

  “Honeytongue! Well that's something we don't hear very often in Dregs,” said Baron Bones, causing another ripple of laughter.

  Gavin, recovered from his embarrassment. He looked over to Sadira and smiled. She was endlessly supportive, and he found it heartening that she was willing to expose herself to the roughest part of the audience for him. He bowed in her direction.

  The crowd shouted a few lewd suggestions. Gavin shook his head. Sadira laughed, already exchanging jokes with the men and women around her.

  Baron Bones sighed. Lionfang might not be so bad for the Death-Leagues after all.

  “Well. Demonstrations of affection and appetite aside,” the skeletal announcer said. “Lets us get down to the fight. We have something special for your test match, Lionfang: a rabble fight. The rules are simple. Thirty of Dregs finest are given weapons and armour. If any of the rabble survives five minutes in the arena they win a decade's wage. If the rabble somehow manage to bring down our Lionfang, here the survivors will divide his weight in gold.”

  A few jeers and calls for blood came from the crowd.

  “As always there are a few surprises amidst the rabble, just to keep our Gladiator on his toes. We shall see how far his mission of mercy goes this match. Now without further ado, hailing from the streets and gutters of our fine city, you will know them by their stench and their love of money and blood: THE RABBLE!”

  Doors opened around the arena and an assortment of men walked in, looking around. The crowd booed and shouted insults at the motley, hard-eyed crew and a few of the rabble spat colourful insults and threats back at them. After a few minutes the thirty men formed a loose circle around Gavin.

  Gavin evaluated the men. A mix of races. Only two women among them, hard and lean as the rest. They wore little armour and carried a mix of armaments, mostly bladed weapons. They all looked like they knew how to use what they carried. Gavin could sense a few magical weapons among them.

  The fight seemed ridiculously uneven to Gavin. Thirty men, trained to fight in good order could constitute a serious threat to him. These people did not have any chance, beyond overwhelming him.

  The lone trumpet sounded.

  The rabble closed around him, moving in cautiously.

  Gavin smiled.

  “You all want to make an easy year's wage?” he asked. He
began to gather power. “I don't feel the need to kill anyone today.”

  “There are thirty of us.”

  “You're worth a lot more dead.”

  “KILL HIM YOU SLAGFUCKERS!” shouted someone in the crowd.

  The circle tightened. Hard eyes gauged the Gladiator. Gavin shifted, letting them get a good look at his viciously barbed spear. He figured that the ones behind him would attack first, with one breaking into a rush. He guessed that most of these rabble matches, fought against Monsters or Gladiators, started off with a great melee and ended up with the Gladiator hunting down stragglers, like the convict matches of old.

  Gavin heard a swift movement from behind him. The inner edge of the circle started rushing him. A few of them broke into shouts, working themselves up to face him. Gavin wove a mind-grip spell, grabbing the nearest person behind him, a target not even trained to resist magic given the ease of his attack. Gavin tossed the person backwards into the mob as he surged forward, shield first into the rabble in front of him.

  The Gladiator's speed surprised them, and several shied away, eyes wide with fear. The closest rabbleman, an Ogre, muscular, but lean with malnourishment, had reached the point of no return and kept charging. He swung his axe while trying to avoid Gavin's shield slam. Gavin caught the haft of the axe with his spear and ploughed into the Ogre with his shield, sending the him flying back into the mob. Gavin kept moving, pushing into the rabble, using his superior strength and speed to bull them over. He swatted at them with the haft of his spear sending those he hit sprawling. Breaking through their ranks, he turned, deflecting the attacks of those chasing him and then throwing them back with shield and a telekinetic pulse. He nicked a few with his spear blade, drawing blood and grunts of pain. They scattered before him, like dogs before a lion.

  Sadira, watching from the standing section, amidst the lowly, shook her head. She would never have thought not to kill the rabble. They had known what they were getting into. Still, she accepted Gavin's desire to avoid bloodshed. It did seem like an interesting challenge: to use spell and blade against a large number of fairly fragile and poorly trained rabble, intent on slaying you, without killing any of them. The idea fascinated her. It would a be a great match to showcase her control and pure swordsmanship, but she doubted Chosen Giselle would let her try.

  Through her shared bond with Gavin, at this proximity, she could almost feel the fight. It excited her. She felt each surge of adrenaline, and had to grip the iron bars to keep herself from moving. Gavin's desire to protect came through as well, an endearing trait in her mind. She was glad to see that he was putting his passion on display. Perhaps Dregs would be good for him. He certainly stood out from the other fighters here. Perhaps he would be good for Dregs, as well.

  Cleothera shivered. She could sense the odd magic emanating from Sadira, a very subtle channel of sorts that passed through the barrier. She knew that Gladiators could connect a channel to the energy of their audience, at times. Sadira was very good at this. She also knew that The Deliberative suspected that Valaran, perhaps others, could abuse this connection. Yet the connection between Sadira and Gavin was different. Interesting. She decided to keep what she saw secret, out of loyalty to her friends. Only someone intimately familiar with their patterns would even notice it.

  Gavin met the first of the three rabble wielding the odd magic blades, blocking the man's sword with his shield, and then sweeping the legs out from under his attacker with the haft of his spear. He barely avoided a thrust from the second and had to give ground before a slash from the third. Stepping in after the arcing blade swung wide, he slammed his shield into the third's face, knocking him down and out cold.

  He turned to face the other two. Their enchanted weapons minded him of pre-Reckoning tales of the berserker blades, weapons that turned whole armies of normal men into ruthless killing machines. Disarming the bladesmen would make this fight easier. He needed to be quick though; the remaining rabble were losing their fear of him again.

  The two remaining bladesmen moved in swiftly, but they failed to coordinate their attacks. Gavin blocked one sword and sidestepped the second, hooking an attacker's leg with his foot, kicking out and sending him sprawling. One of the rabble found his courage while Gavin tangled with the remaining sword-bearer. Gavin twisted, smashing this new attacker with his shield, while smashing his spear down on the other sword-bearer's shoulder. Both men fell. He moved quickly, knocking their weapons away. The Rabble kept back, watching him with hard eyes.

  Sadira whooped. She could feel Gavin's satisfaction as the rabble backed off. She interpreted his mood as an expression of dominance. She enjoyed asserting herself in the arena, and wanted Gavin to as well.

  Gavin kept his eyes on the rabble, who watched him warily in return. None of them moved towards him. Several moments passed in stalemate. He felt good. The crowd jeered.

  “FIGHT!”

  “WE WANT BLOOD.”

  “KILL SOMETHING SLAGFUCKERS.”

  Baron Bones stepped forward.

  “How impressive Lionfang,” said the Baron. “You appear to have tamed the rabble. Well done.”

  “Thank you,” said Gavin. He was wary of the Baron's compliment, but decided to take it at face value.

  “Most welcome, sir,” said Baron Bones. “However, I feel that you are giving our crowd the wrong impression. The rabble won't fight you because you have proven to them that you are a hard target and yet you will not chase them down and butcher them. By wounding some of them you have shown that you are quite capable of dealing death should you choose to do so. Indeed an astute observer must realize that it is easier for you to kill in this situation than to hold back. Thus our fine rabble calculate that it is very much in their self-interest to take the easy path and make some money rather than face death for what is now, very obviously, a long-shot reward. It’s not like you are showing them their own better nature. You are merely appealing to their sense of rational self-interest. They just need the right incentive, and this place will turn into a bloodbath...”

  Gavin tightened his grip on his spear, drawing power to him. He realized that he could, very clearly, feel Sadira nearby. Her presence reassured him.

  The Baron smiled. The crowd shouted for blood. The rabble looked at each other warily. Some of the wounded ones were starting to succumb.

  “I propose a little experiment,” said the Baron. His voice was flat, the flamboyant tones dropped. “I will add, from my own purse, an additional sum, one thousand silver Krassics per rabble killed before the match ends. This sum will be shared by every rabbleman still alive at the end of the match.”

  A thousand silver Krassics was a princely sum. The other rabblemen were not nearly as dangerous as a Gladiator, nor had they proven their intent. The rabble immediately started looking at each other, calculating. Weakness was measured and weighed. Alliances were made with nods and glances. Positions shifted.

  Gavin stood still. He could sense the awful thoughts taking form, written on faces and in darting eyes, and he had no idea what he could do.

  Then the Baron spoke again.

  “I'd start with the wounded and weaponless; our dear Lionfang has done most of the work for you,” the Baron's cultured voice came like a contented purr. “It's easy money...”

  Gavin was fast, but he was not quick enough to stop the slaughter. Shouting in protest, he pushed forward trying to reach the closest wounded, a grey-bearded man. Before he had even taken two steps the man's arms and legs were drawn and held. Blades were plunged into the wounded greybeard's chest. He twisted and screamed, wild-eyed. Gavin shouted. The man's struggles ended with a choking gurgle as his beard was pulled up and a blade opened his throat.

  Despair gripped Gavin as he watched the light in the man's eyes fade, knowing he could do nothing, that the wound he had caused had been the man's death sentence. He heard screams and shouts, curses and death-rattles from all around. Above that he heard the roar of the crowd as they shouted encouragement and cheered
each splash of blood on the sand. For a heartbeat, he could not move and it seemed as if the hateful, desperate nature of the Death-Leagues would swallow him, drowning him like some unfortunate scavenger sucked into the toxic swamps of Dregs. Lost amidst the wrath and ruin, he started to hate the rabblemen and felt a rising desire to kill them all.

  Sadira snarled. She could sense Gavin's distress and growing anger. She couldn't do anything and her shouts of encouragement were lost amidst the noise of the crowd. She wanted to make her way to smug Baron Bones in his announcer's box and throw the skull-masked arena master into the struggling rabblemen. That would be a worthy bloodletting.

  A sound reached Gavin's ears, waking him from his reverie, a cry for help, calling him to action. He saw a large group of the rabblemen had cornered the two women and a man. Their arms were covered in cuts from warding off the blows of a dozen assailants. They were shouting for help, his help. Spurred by his protective nature, he shook off despair and ploughed through the chaos towards them.

  An Ogre with a gory cleaver stepped in as one of the women fell to her knees, clutching a belly would. The other woman and the man placed themselves in front of her, trying to push the Ogre away. Hands grabbed at them. Gavin threw his spear, binding with a mind-grip spell, pushing it further. The cleaver rose, but the Ogre dropped his weapon, stumbling, as the spear hit him in the back, bursting through his chest. He looked down at the barbed blade blossoming from him and then fell down.

  Gavin scattered the remaining rabblemen attacking the small group, stunning them with mind blast spells and using his supernatural strength to power through them. He turned, his back exposed to the small group, facing down the remainder of the bloody rabble. His eyes blazed and he roared. He reclaimed his fell spear, bloody, and brandished it with menace. The rest of the rabble shied, fearful of his wrath. They turned on each other instead, knowing that there was more profit in that, than trying to win past the fearsome Gladiator.