Domains of the Chosen 02 Bloodlust: Will to Power

by C. P. D. Harris

  “How would she know?” said Sadira.

  “She likely has at least one of her Hearthbound shadowing you,” said Cleothera.

  “Two,” said Sax. “I watched them disable a spring-claw crew before they could fire on you.”

  “I did sense someone acting on the periphery of the brawl,” said Lina.

  “Brawl?” said Gavin. “You were in a fight.”

  “I thought it was Sax,” said Sadira.

  “Wait... wait,” said Gavin. “I want to hear the whole story here.”

  “Sadira beat up our pimp!” said Dolly, one of the girls sitting with Lina, with savage gusto. Gavin guessed that she was twelve.

  “We're with her now,” said Candy, the other of the strange pair.

  Sadira began the story of how she had met two child prostitutes while wandering and ended up waging a small battle in the streets of Dregs with the vicious gang that the girls “worked” for. Even stoic Razorthorn and Sax smiled at Gavin's stunned expression as her tale unfolded.

  o-----

  “He's good with both hands,” said Sax.

  “You mean ambidextrous?” asked Gavin.

  “No, I mean he's good with both hands,” said Sax. “He's definitely right handed, but he's still a better swordsman than you with his left hand.”

  “That's not very reassuring,” said Gavin.

  Sax snorted.

  “You're up against the wall here Gavin,” said Sax. “I would hesitate to try my luck against Valaran in a fair fight. He's a killer: fast, strong, skilled. Tough enough to take a hit from Omodo and get up again. He'll hammer you while looking for an opening and kill you the moment your guard falters.”

  In Gavin's mind he pictured Valaran sweeping in, attacking ferociously and relentlessly. The speed of his attacks would make it hard to set a defence. If Gavin met any of these attacks without perfectly angled defence, Valaran's sheer power would reverberate through his weapon or shield, staggering him.

  “Did you find anything out about his magic?” said Gavin. He has some idea of Valaran's skills from Cleothera and descriptions of his fights, but not enough.

  “No,” said Sax, scowling and shaking his head. “The paperwork is missing. Baurtrum must have stolen it. No one I have access to knows anything about his casting. I'd expect something off-path, but not outright forbidden. You've fought heretics.”

  “Do you think Baurtrum might have passed some of his knowledge on to Valaran?” asked Gavin.

  “Possibly,” said Sax. “We've been watching him, but our agents in Volcanus have a rough time. I don't expect he will be able to use that kind of Domination spell during combat. It would be more efficient just to fry you with a fireball or whatever he uses.”

  “I think I can handle him in that regard,” said Gavin. “I am getting pretty good with magic.”

  “True,” said Sax. Gavin smiled at the grudging compliment. “I also happen to know that he hasn't fought a defender since early training. They don't get many of you guys in the Death-Leagues.”

  “That should help, at least initially,” said Gavin.

  “You should be able to wear him down though,” said Sax. “Time limits were instituted because of Defenders, not to lower fatality rates. They seem to have forgotten that around here. You'll be able to draw it out longer than a regular match.”

  Gavin nodded. Valaran was big; moving that kind of bulk around at speed no doubt required a lot of energy; endurance was an advantage that he often used. But if things went poorly, Gavin would also have to last that much longer for the trumpets to save him.

  “There is one thing though,” said Sax, his voice quiet. “If I was an enemy of Valaran, or his patrons, and I knew of a Gladiator who was set to collide with him... well, I would make damn sure that fighter learned what he needed to get the job done.”

  Gavin nodded eyes wide. He knew what Sax was saying. The implications of his simple statement were deep, and set his mind to racing.

  “But all of that is just talk,” said Sax. “He has his advantages and you have yours; to win you will need to find a way to make yours count. At this level it really all comes down to will.”

  o-----

  Alone in his arming room, Gavin sat with his face in his hands. He was about to face Valaran diVolcanus, a man who had killed every person ever to faced him in the arena. He tried to centre himself, but failed. Valaran wanted Sadira. Valaran had killed Omodo. Ravius, his friend, who knew him better than most, had left Gavin's side because he feared that Valaran would kill Gavin. Few people knew Gavin better than Ravius. His hands shook. Fear twisted in his gut.

  Valaran as a Chosen would drown the Domains in blood. He understood that now. The Great Games were an integral part of the machinery of the Empire. It went deeper than just a cynical way of conditioning the people to accept their new leader. Dregs had taught him that. When a Chosen was elevated, their supporters would be elevated as well. That elation, that ephemeral energy, was the secret fuel that allowed the engines of the Domains to survive in a hostile world and even overcome its own decadence. The coming victory would set the tone until the next Grand Championship, and echo for decades afterwards.

  He could feel it. The Domains were ripe for change. The promise of victory was in the air. The crowds were nastier. The frontiers were restless. Plots were hatching. He had even heard of pilgrimages to Omodo's grave. The smell of blood and heroes was as thick as the stinking mists of Dregs, outside the Killer's Circle.

  If a man like Valaran won, that release would be bloody and ugly. The Domains would become a little more like Dregs. Moltar knew this. The members of the Killer's Circle certainly did. Gavin also knew it. He felt sick.

  Maybe that's what people wanted, the chance to attain greater heights no matter what the cost to others or the chance of failure and ruin. A return to the mythic struggle of all against all, even if it destroyed everything in the end. Another, greater Reckoning perhaps.

  Gavin felt like as if he was standing against a tsunami, putting himself in the way of a blood tide that he could never hope to stop. The people wanted the release that only blood and death and brutal victory would give them; who was Gavin to stand in the way of that?

  He could give them Sadira though: she could be savage and cruel, but also lively and forgiving. She was skilled at finding allies in strange places. Somehow she had made amends with Deathcat and rescued two of the children of Dregs from a life of prostitution. She was like a wild predator, a hawk on the wing, while Valaran was like some Reckoning-tainted monstrosity, supernaturally powerful but impure and unbalanced. Nature versus corruption. Sadira would give the people of the Domains the release they craved, but it would be tempered by her wild will. Valaran was like the infection caused by lancing a blister with a dirty blade, promising absolution but delivering only temporary ease while spreading corruption with endless, periodic discharge.

  Finding no peace in his thoughts, Gavin picked up his shield and spear and began to work his way through a series of katas. He found some solace in the rigorous repetition of the forms and was limber and sweating lightly by the time his ready call came.

  o-----

  Gavin entered the arena wearing his normal attire and two faction bands, one green and one red. He knew how much the members of the Killer's Circle hated the Factions. He hoped that his wearing of Faction colours in their sacred arena would convey just how much they disgusted him. He also wore Sadira's favour, a small badge showing a Lion and a Scorpion entwined.

  As always the force of the member's disapproval, mostly in the form of glares and murmurs, hit Gavin immediately. It seemed worse than the rabid screaming in the Supplicant's Arena. He wondered if the wards contained enchantments that heightened his sense of the member's emotions.

  “Welcome again, Lionfang,” said Mistress Chloe. “I see that a few of your friends have come to watch you today. I see the lovely Sadira Lacivia, better known as Red Scorpion, and your father it appears. Welcome to the Killer's Circle. It is an h
onour. I can't imagine what you all paid to get a seat for this match.”

  Gavin felt a surge of joy. His father had come, despite being adamant about not wanting to watch another Deathmatch. Villuriel sat beside him. How odd to have his mother's killer rooting for him; odder still that he was grateful for it. As he struggled with his father's unexpected presence, cheers broke out from several boxes around the arena.

  He looked around. Sadira was with her sisters, and his family. Lina and Cleothera stood in another box with a dozen green-clad fighters, Sax. And then, Gavin felt his heart leap as he saw Ravius sitting next to two wizened Armodons. His old friend looked miserable, but he had come nonetheless. Gavin smiled. Ravius raised his hand in salute. And they filled the deathly air of the Killer's Circle with sounds of encouragement that were foreign to the tongues of its usual patrons. Gavin felt his heart swell.

  Mistress Chloe did not betray any surprise initially, but when Chosen Giselle, with a stunning entourage including Amoura Vogue and several other noted figures arrived, she was at a loss for words. The Chosen wore her old armour, looking ready to leap down into the arena herself. Amoura Vogue wore a gown of such simple elegance that it put many of the other contrivances that other women wore to shame.

  There was a collective hiss from the members of the Killer's Circle as Giselle appeared.

  “Chosen Giselle,” said Mistress Chloe, smoothly recovering from her shock. “Welcome to the Killer's Circle. Your presence here is a pleasant surprise and the greatest of honours.”

  The Chosen nodded her acknowledgement, but did not sit. The place of honour at her right side remained empty. A dark haired man who moved with a hunter's grace emerged from the shadows. Chosen Mordhawk, in his Gladiator's regalia took his place at her side. Then Giselle smiled.

  Mistress Chloe made it her business to know who would be attending each match. After all, the members could sell their seats for a tremendous profit for exciting matches. When a Chosen arrived the Arena Mistress wanted to be able to greet them properly and personally, preferably before the entertainment began. She sensed that this was a momentous event, one of those plays that The Chosen made, coming to fruition. She looked around; if Mordhawk and Giselle had surprised her, there might be others in the audience.

  Chosen Moltar drew back the screen on his own private box. He often watched, but rarely let his presence be seen. He wore his pre-Reckoning battle armour, black and gold; a suit of intricate full plate covered in runes. He threw a salute to Chosen Giselle and Chosen Mordhawk, who bowed deeply to him in turn: it was his Domain, after all. He had only known of their arrival hours before the match, but this did not surprise him. The final moves of long played gambits were falling into place. In truth, the hard-hearted lord of Volcanus took great pleasure in moments like these. The culmination and chaos of old plans unfolding always enthralled him.

  Moltar was somewhat disappointed that his occasional ally, Mordhawk had turned against him in this, but he had to admit that the master of the Blackcloaks was likely correct in his assessment of Valaran. Perhaps he was also correct in his assessment of Gavin, though Moltar felt the boy was foolishly noble for refusing all but the smallest assistance against the Golden Beast. Perhaps his own reputation was working against him with the young Gladiator.

  On the other hand Moltar thought it was possible that Gavin had others helping him. There was always Marius, his old pupil and rival. He found himself searching the boxes and faces, looking for the man. Just as he was about to give up, some instinct drew his eyes to Suriam Regs, a wealthy far isles trader who'd been a member of the Killer's Circle for two years. Suriam. Marius. How crude. He raised two fingers to his forehead in salute. To his delight the trader met his eyes and returned the salute. Moltar could not help but smile as the last piece fell into place; another well-played game coming to an end.

  Gavin fidgeted while the drama unfolded, forgotten on the sands as The Chosen revealed themselves. He knew their presence would add significance to this event, and he was heartened by the show of support. He felt an outpouring of love for Sadira, who must have spent months gathering his friends, buying boxes from private members, and convincing his father and Ravius to come. A tear rolled down his cheek while a smile tugged on the corners of his mouth.

  Trumpets blared and Valaran marched onto the fighting grounds.

  The Golden Giant did not elicit any cheers, but Gavin could sense the cultured approval of the members. They might not be Chosen, but they were all powerful and influential and they loved Valaran, or at least loved the ruthless power and victor's prestige that he represented.

  Valaran's ornate golden armour, his noble features and perfect physique, his grace and the two massive blades that he carried with ease drew the attention of most observers. Gavin's eyes were drawn to a piece of ivory, a bit of horn, dangling from a leather thong on one of the swords. Anger shot through him.

  “Welcome Champion,” said Mistress Chloe. “The Killer's Circle has awaited your return to Great Game with trepidation.”

  Valaran bowed deeply to Chosen Moltar, acknowledging his patron above all others, he then nodded his head to the lovely Arena Mistress. He could feel Sadira's eyes upon him. He pictured himself hacking Gavin's head from his shoulders and holding it up before her; she would regret spurning him as her lover's blood fed the sands. Bitch.

  Gavin spat on the sand as Valaran halted five paces away. It was a crude gesture, one he usually felt was beneath a Gladiator, but in this case, he could not help it. He struggled with anger over the insult to his dead friend. Gavin wanted to kill Valaran then, to wallow in his blood. He took a long breath trying to regain his composure. Blind rage would not help him here.

  The two Gladiators stared at each other, snarling and full of hate. To the audience it appeared that both were poised on the edge of action, eager for the fight. In truth, they were both almost paralysed by their hatred of the other. To Gavin, Valaran was a butcher who'd cheated his way to a brutal victory over Omodo and countless others, hiding behind an image of heroic populism that had thankfully been torn away. To Valaran, Gavin was a bitter enemy, a man who had despoiled the only woman worthy of him, tarnished his image, and then dared to challenge him in his own arena.

  “Well, if it isn't the man of mercy,” said Valaran as the silence grew unbearable. He instantly regretted the words, wishing he had said something more intimidating or momentous.

  “Not today,” said Gavin. “If I win, you won't be leaving this arena. I'm sure they have a place of honour reserved for your head Valaran. Champion's row or some other petty little Killer's Circle tradition. You pissed on my friend's dying body. You are an animal, a disgrace, a piece of shit from a Dregs gutter come to life. I will relish your last breath as if it were my own.”

  Valaran was taken aback by Gavin's vehemence. His eyes widened and his hands tightened around the hilts of his blades until they hurt. He took a step forward before he caught himself. Then he shook his head, laughing.

  “So quick to drop your pretences,” said Valaran. “You're not any better than the rest of us. There are no good men in the arena; only winners and losers.”

  “I showed mercy to the others; it felt right,” said Gavin. “You are the one who hides behind his image, not me. I do what I think is right. I did not kill the fighters I beat here because I had no quarrel with any of them. I'm tired of killing just because other people wish it. My only concern here is with you, Valaran. I will put you down like the rabid monstrosity the monstrosity that everyone can now see that you have become, and I will take Omodo's horn back.”

  “Look at him,” said Valaran, gesturing at Gavin, voice dripping with disdain. “Like an ant threatening a God. They won't suspend me for anything I do in this arena, dog. I am going to beat you worse than I beat your taintborn friend. I will feed you your own balls while you beg to die.”

  “Let's see how well you do without Baurtrum in your corner,” said Gavin, smirking.

  “I DO NOT CHEAT,” roared Vala
ran, exploding into action.

  So swift was Valaran that his sword rang out against Gavin's shield even before the trumpet sounded. Gavin stepped back rather than try to parry the second weapon. The sword split the air in front of his face. He felt the wind of its passing like a sudden gust. Valaran reined himself in, realizing that he had nearly left himself open to a deadly counter-thrust.

  Both men began channelling.

  Valaran stalked forward. His great golden blades carved glittering arcs. Gavin met him carefully, wary of the Golden Giant's strength and speed. Sparks flew as a blade scraped his shield, a hard blow despite his expert defence. He staggered back a step. Valaran moved smoothly into an underhanded thrust, using the little imbalance caused by the hit to perfect advantage. It was all Gavin could do to sidestep the darting blade, sucking in his belly and thrusting his hips back. Valaran followed up with a short forehand slash with his other sword. Gavin was left with few options and had to throw himself away from the attack, ducking down as he did so. Valaran moved in for the kill swinging both blades inward in a pincering motion.

  Valaran's assault faltered as Gavin threw sand in his face and then rolled away. Temporarily blinded the Golden Giant's attack faltered. He backed off, sweeping his swords in front of him defensively, knowing Gavin would attack. Gavin's thrust was knocked to the side.

  “Oldest trick in the arena,” said the stalwart defender.

  “You won't feel so clever when you're drowning in your own blood,” growled Valaran. His face was red with anger and embarrassment. He should have seen that coming: was he rusty after so many months sidelined without a real match? Anger spurred him forward. He had to prove his dominance here.

  Gavin wove a pattern, taking his sword up with his mind-grip spell. He would need every advantage he had against the golden beast.

  Valaran drew upon the dark emotions of his supporters, their bloodlust, their hate, their fears, wrapping them about him like a cloak. Gavin sensed him weaving, a type of magic unknown to him. The strands were warped, almost like those of the Wirn. He felt out his opponent's magic carefully, looking for weaknesses in the weave that would be easy to disrupt, certain that he could gain an advantage over the Golden Giant in the realm of weave and pattern, once he identified Valaran's strange magic.