Domains of the Chosen 02 Bloodlust: Will to Power

by C. P. D. Harris

  Gavin thrust low with his flying sword, stabbing at Valaran's feet as he moved in. Valaran kicked out, lightning fast, stomping the sword into the sand. Expecting this, Gavin stepped in and thrust his spear at Valaran's face. Stuck in an awkward position, unwilling to lift his boot from Gavin's flying blade, Valaran was forced to cross his blades to block Gavin's thrust. Anticipating this as well, Gavin whirled to the side, slicing Valaran's bare arm with his shield. He was rewarded with a grunt of pain and a spatter of blood. As Valaran instinctively moved to swing at Gavin, he stepped off the sword, which Gavin sent flying up between his legs. The sudden jab directly to his groin ruined Valaran's arcing dual-bladed slash, allowing Gavin to pivot and take the blows on his shield which even then, sent him sliding back a pace, such was Valaran's power.

  Blood dripped from between Valaran's legs and from his arm. The pain was intense, but as Gavin moved in for the kill the Golden Beast employed his secret weapon. He channelled, drawing on the power of the watching audience and his own will, and twisted the enchantment that Gavin had laid upon his blade. As he did so, he stepped into Gavin's attack, ignoring the searing pain between his legs, ensuring that the smaller man's spear thrust met his armour before it could build to full power. A swipe of his blades drove Gavin back as Valaran twisted the pattern of his mind-grip spell.

  Gavin's magical senses flared. He could feel, almost taste the strands of his weave being turned against themselves. He tried to resist, but Valaran's will was spurred by the vicious crowd and his desire for victory. His own enchantment was slowly but surely being turned against him. His trusty sword, made of a nigh-unbreakable alloy, cracked and warped. The runes, made to last for centuries, twisted and became lifeless as the blade dropped to the sands, smoking like a fallen star. All of this paled to the chaos in the magical realm, a nova of power released explosively, a feat that set even the watching Chosen on edge. Valaran was able to direct most of the backlash caused by the energy spilling forth from the broken runes toward Gavin. The Defender was struck dumb as force akin to powerful mind-blast spell slammed into him.

  Both Gladiators were still. Gavin's magical senses failed him. He could not draw power, nor could he weave. Blood dripped from his ears and his nose, his vision was blurry.

  Valaran was the first to move. Pain lancing up his leg, he took one step, then another toward Gavin, grinning as he watched his enemy shake his head in confusion. Then, he took a third step, his stride lengthening.

  Gavin heard Valaran roar and saw his massive form moving towards him. He tried to channel power, but it slipped through his grasp, like a handful of water. He willed himself back into fighting stance, setting his spear and raising his shield, trying to focus.

  Valaran, sensing weakness, leapt forward. He beat Gavin's war-spear aside with his left hand blade while angling a swift arcing slash at the smaller man's neck. Gavin's training took over, and he moved his shield to deflect the attack, but was still feeling the effects of the backlash and Valaran's twisted magic, and his defence was imperfect. The massive sword hammered straight into Gavin's shield, staggering him. Valaran flicked his other blade into a quick upwards slice that Gavin didn't even see coming. The point caught him just above the hip, slicing through the edge of his belt and leaving a deep, bloody cut on his side. He gave ground, desperate now.

  But Valaran's grin faltered when his own runes failed to flare to life and poison the wound. He realized that he too, was bereft of magic. Banishing his fear of being sundered from his magic, he continued to attack, rage and bloodlust driving him.

  Valaran rained blows on Gavin, pounding at his shield like a battering ram, while seeking to find ways around the smaller fighter's guard. Gavin could only give ground, barely standing up to Valaran's assault. He could sense Sadira's concern. His arm was numb, his ears rang, and his spear felt useless in his hands; blood flowed freely from the wound in his side. Slowly, methodically, his defence was compromised.

  Valaran gained strength from his success, attacking with growing vigour. A blade kissed Gavin's upper arm, moistening his skin with blood. A thrust rang out against his armour, hitting hard enough to crack a rib underneath. A flap of flesh hung loose on his thigh after a quick slice. He was being taken apart.

  “You are going to die,” said Valaran, already relishing his inevitable victory. “I am going to cut you to bits, just like I did with that taintborn Omodo.”

  “Classy,” snarled Gavin. His voice sounded hoarse, and he gulped down air, but mention of Omodo spurred him to answer. “Nice to see that you've become more refined after your suspension!”

  “A punishment set by Factions has no merit in my eyes,” said Valaran, haughty and smirking “I am a true Gladiator, Lord of blood and slaughter, not some petty sportsman.”

  “So you say,” said Gavin. “But I wonder if a true lord of the arena would have associated himself with the likes of Baurtrum.”

  “Filling the stands with my fans is hardly cheating,” said Valaran. His eyes drilled into Gavin's as the two circled. “Is it to be held against me that I am favoured by those with influence and money?”

  “That's hardly the only service that Baurtrum provided,” said Gavin, taunting. “I wonder if you could have beaten Omodo without his help?”

  Valaran roared, his noble features warping, his words reduced to bestial sounds by his own anger. Charging, he did not stop even as Gavin's spear point tore through the flesh under his ribs. With a brutal double overhand chop he drove Gavin to his knees in the sand.

  Gavin's momentary triumph turned to fear as he realized that his gambit had failed. Gavin twisted the barbed spear, but Valaran simply backed up, ripping free, and then came at Gavin again without pause, his rage driving him.

  “I'll show you” shouted Valaran.

  Normally Gavin preferred to have his opponents enraged and stupid, but his magic was still failing and his body too battered to face a berserking Valaran. Every blocked hit sent him reeling while the minor wounds that he dealt to Valaran in return did not slow the Golden giant in the least.

  Gavin lost his spear hand index finger on a poorly timed parry. He quickly shifted his grip to one that favoured the lower digits, watching in horror as the bloody finger spun in the air and landed in the sand as he backed away from Valaran. The Giant did not let up, taking another swing which Gavin caught with his shield. The impact spun Gavin and he heard a guttural grunt of triumph from his nemesis just before he felt the point of a sword drive into his unarmoured back, just below the shoulder blade. He spun, lifted off his feet, and fell to the sand.

  Gavin tasted dirt and blood, and his eyes knew only blackness. He felt a spike of horror: Sadira's. His body did not respond to his commands. The only sound he could hear was Valaran's approaching boot-steps, like the last few grains of sand in the hourglass of Gavin's life landing echoing as they hit. Every muscle ached. Every pore dripped with sweat. His arms were bruised. He bled and he hurt.

  With monumental effort, he rolled over. It seemed to take an eternity. His eyes focused on the sea of corpses above him, a sky of gore in which he might soon be a constellation. Death was upon him. Gavin thought of Omodo and Olek the Heretic. He thought of his father, who lost his mother in the arena, and was now watching his son die. His heart burned for Sadira, for he could feel her fear through their bond.

  Gavin's life flashed before him as he struggled to rise, the necessary act of self-analysis all must face: our own final judgement of ourselves. And as he hovered there, struggling to his knees, drooling blood, caught between acceptance of the inevitability of death, and his boundless love of life, he finally gained his measure. He was a good man, better than he let himself acknowledge. There in the heart of darkness that was the Killer's Circle, as the flame of his life flickered, he finally, truly accepted that he was worthy. Yes he had failed; many times in fact and perhaps worst of all in facing Valaran. And yet Gavin could be proud because he had shown mercy, learned discipline, fought for a better world, loved and was loved.
He had acted fairly and justly when offered an easier path, though the cost of the later might be his life in the case of Moltar's offer. He could not regret his life now. His mind expanded, taking in that last moment, gaining perfect clarity as Valaran's blade descended.

  Then Gavin heard people shouting his name. He felt Sadira's fear through their bond. Heard Ravius and Omodo.

  When the mind is willing but the flesh is spent, most men are done. But when the mind can act of its own accord, more is possible. This is magic.

  Gavin realized that he could still sense Sadira's fear. That meant he must still have some magic. Now, with all his being, Gavin channelled. The lion-headed shield moved, guided not by his battered arm, but rather by will and by weave, angled perfectly to deflect Valaran's descending blade. His next block, intercepting Valaran's second blade, was a textbook shield beat counter, executed with a casual mastery. He wove the same spell into the pattern of his own being, and like a puppet taking up its own strings, he willed himself to move, to lift his body, and he did.

  Lionfang raised his head and met Valaran's incredulous stare. A powerful mind-blast rippled between them sending Valaran reeling back. The crowd was shocked to silence.

  Valaran eyes widened as he watched Gavin animate his own shattered body with a series of mind-grips, blood dripping from his nose and ears. Gavin had recovered his magic, stronger than before. Valaran's rage turned to cold fear. He fumbled for his power. If Gavin had recovered, he must be able to as well. He gave ground to Gavin, searching for power. After a moment Valaran realized that he could feel the members of the Killer's Circle, willing him to win. Like Gavin had, he used this realization to recover. He drew power from the crowd.

  Valaran wove the twisted magic of the Wirn. If he could turn Gavin's enchantments against his own body he would rip him apart. Their wills clashed. Gavin felt a moment of tremendous pressure as Valaran turned his mind-grip spells back onto him, driving the breath from his lungs and squeezing him harder than a Kraken's tentacle, yet he felt no panic. Death had touched him, and he no longer feared. He analyzed the pattern, realizing that he had encountered this magic before. He put those lessons to use, cutting through Valaran's weave with a mighty effort of will. For those who could see pattern, strand, and weave, his efforts were spectacular, a storm of power that only The Chosen could surpass.

  Gavin breathed deeply, tasting the air as if for the first time. He felt pain and weariness, but these were part of life, and not so bad. Others had survived worse. Despite the fact that only his own will and mastery of magic kept him upright, he felt more alive than he had since Omodo had fallen. He heard Sadira's shout of joy echo in the Killer's Circle and he answered it with a smile.

  Gavin raised his bloody three-fingered hand, beckoning Valaran to attack.

  One wonders what this rivalry would have made out of both men, had it not been tainted by hatred. Would they have pushed each other towards new heights of greatness? or would destiny, via the machinations of others, always interfere to bring them to this kind of vicious climax?

  In control of himself now, Valaran moved in. Gavin's magic was strong, but his body was held upwards by magic alone, he Valaran, the Champion, would end this with blade and muscle. The thrill of the fight coursed through him, and he experienced the joy of pure, untainted competition. He drew upon his power again, enhancing his strength and speed, coating his blades in venom, bellowing as he charged.

  Gavin wove a spell, and his broad-bladed war-spear snapped into his ruined hand as Valaran ate the distance between them with long strides.

  They danced. Gavin seemed to drift across the bloodied sand, moving himself with mind-grip when his broken bones and torn muscles faltered. Valaran's golden swords tested his defences, seeking a way past shield and spear. Metal rang out on metal, sparks flying like a blacksmith at work. Feet kicked up clouds of sand. Both combatants lost themselves in the fight. Their world was measured in slashes and parries, thrusts and blocks, sweat and blood, power and will.

  Fatigue clawed at both of them as they gave everything they had to the fight. Neither faltered.

  Valaran broke Gavin's shoulder with a brutal blow to the pauldron. Gavin returned the favour a heartbeat later, taking Valaran's eye with a swift jab of his spear, and then slicing the giant's side with his shield while he reared back. Neither man fell.

  Valaran's sword blurred as he drew on power to gift him with hand-speed that would put a Quickling to shame. Gavin applied the Bulwark technique to his shield, mind-gripping to overcome his broken shoulder. He blocked most of the attacks, but Valaran cut him twice. Poison burned those wounds. But as deadly as Valaran's blades were, Gavin did not fall.

  Valaran, as overwhelming as he was physically, was hard pressed to fend off Gavin's mental assault. The deadly Cogimancer threw spell after spell at him, deftly overcoming Valaran's Wirn-like twisting of his spells. Valaran's will was strong, but even the mightiest fortress wall will suffer from constant bombardment. Blood dripped from the Golden Giant's nose and ears. Nausea, dizziness, and an unendurable migraine was added to the pounding of the mind blasts. But as strong as Gavin's magic was, Valaran did not fall.

  It rained blood and sweat and sparks. The audience watched in grim fascination. Both men reached the point of exhaustion. Perceiving that Valaran was instinctively protecting his remaining eye, Gavin caught him with a series of three perfectly executed thrusts that seemed to blur together into a single attack. The Golden Giant just shrugged these off, roaring back to the attack, unwilling to accept that Gavin was a danger to him.

  The Gladiator in them kept on fighting, bloody and broken, pausing more and more frequently.

  The trumpets sang. The match was over. Neither fighter stopped, their minds bucked the conditioning like an unruly bull throwing a rider. Valaran drove his blades into Gavin's shield pummelling him to his knees. Gavin's spear sliced the edge of Valaran's neck, drawing blood and ripping the leather thong that held Omodo's horn, Valaran's mockery of a favour.

  “HOLD,” shouted Chosen Moltar, his amplified voice was echoed by the spells of a dozen Grey-Robes. Both Gladiators froze, unable to move.

  They stared at each other as the match was put to a vote. The members gave victory to Valaran, but Gavin left the fighting grounds with a smile on his face and Omodo's horn in his hand.

  o----

  They found Gavin unconscious in the arming room, an attendant already working to sustain his life. The hands of Chosen, Vassal, and Gladiatrix worked to heal him. Gavin woke up once and saw Sadira and Ravius standing over him. He smiled again and then fell back into blissful unconsciousness.

  Chapter Sixty: Reforged

  1150/02/13 AR Dun Mordhawk, Gavin's third test for Master rank

  “He returned from the Death-Leagues with a broken body and a broken blade, 'tis true; but bones will heal and blades will be remade. You saw how he lifted his own broken body, It was almost as if that the ancestors themselves had carried him.” Sax

  “I was robbed of satisfaction that day. Spat on by those who once supported me, I still emerged victorious over the man who they trained to kill me. I spit on him, as I once spat on his friend's corpse.” Valaran diVolcanus.

  On the first day of the new year the final ballots for the Grand Championship were cast. Sadira's name topped the list. Karmal earned fourth place with an unbroken string of successes in the Trapholds, a strong tour with the Blues, and even a few pyrotechnic exhibition matches in the Death-Leagues. Azure Dream, and Razorthorn also placed and Gavin later saw Hummingblade, Bull Dangerous, and Warsong on the lists. Sadira was naturally familiar with even more of the competitors; she always sought to make alliances with her peers.

  Valaran earned ninth place, his fearsome reputation diminished by his failure to kill Gavin and tarnished by his universally condemned desecration of Omodo's corpse in his only career loss. The Golden Giant's ranking was the subject of endless rumination and discussion between all fans of The Great Games, from the lowliest armchair Gl
adiator to veteran commentators and Faction power-brokers.

  Gavin was pleasantly surprised when he heard that his name was actually on the initial ballots, a fact conveyed to him by his exuberant lover moments after she triumphantly proclaimed her own status. He was less surprised and not unduly sad when his name was dropped in the second round of choosing. He was not yet of master rank, after all. In truth Gavin was tired of fighting. Dregs had stripped him of any lingering notions of glory and shown him other paths in life. He was looking forward to gaining master status, and leaving the bloodlust behind. The only thing he still wanted from The Great Games was vengeance against Valaran, and he could gain that through Sadira. He taught her everything he could about Valaran's warped magic.

  o-----

  Gavin lifted the blade out of the furnace, the metal glowed orange-white. The scars where the blade was broken were finally no longer visible to him; his sword was whole again, though little more than a flattish rod of rare metals. He could see the blade taking shape though, and was pleased with the progress they were making.

  “Better get on that before it cools, Gavin,” said Liam from behind him.

  Although they rarely called each other father and son, Gavin was pleased by the rapport that had developed between them. Asking Valcoeur to help him reforge his blade was one of Sadira's better ideas. Both men quiet by nature and a shared activity was the best way for them to bond.

  Gavin set the would-be sword down on a pounding anvil, taking up a heavy forge-hammer. He lifted the instrument and brought it down on the edge of the hot metal. He was careful to follow the process that his father had taught him. Small sparks flew as he struck again and again, and the edge imperceptibly took form. Gavin pounded with the hammer until Liam nudged him aside to take over. The Gladiator was a quick study, but he was not even close to his father's skill as a smith. Nonetheless it felt good to help; he would be more invested in this weapon.