The feeling left Vegard almost as quickly as it came. He lost the momentary reprieve from the blurring glyphs. He wasn’t even sure there was a reprieve. What had he sensed? If he had sensed anything at all. The warlock’s fingers tingled and there was a taste on his tongue. Fear. He smiled. Well, that was new, he thought.
The smell of horse dung filled Vegard’s nostrils. They were in the stables. The animals vacated for the event. “You are going to make me wait like a stock beast?” Vegard laughed. “May I get an apple and a salt lick, too, in the meantime?”
The procession had been a quiet one since Vegard had ‘seen’ around him. Or, thought he’d seen around him. He still couldn’t be sure if it was an actuality or a hallucination brought on by the dizziness and exhaustion. Maybe bad goat’s milk? He thought.
The creaking of hinges were heard and Vegard was shoved into what seemed to be a small wooden box. It stood upright and was little more than an undersized closet. “What is this?” He yelled, slamming his shoulder into the solid structure.
“Just a holding cell. This where all you fighters is going to be.” One of the guards explained.
“Great.” Vegard balked. “Ya mind taking the blindfold off, then?”
“Your blindfold will stay put!” Uretta interjected. “Lord Jogen will not risk you harming one of his guests today.”
“So I’m to fight blind and shackled!? A wonderful gimp I will be. Hopefully not too many were vying for my victory.”
“The shackles will be removed before the fight. The blindfold will be yours to discard at that time.” Elder Uretta scooted closer to the wooden cage that held Vegard. Her breath was strong and sour. “Your cage has wheels. You slaves will be rolled to the arena and shoved in. We will not lose another guard to you animals. Not while our lord is the host.” She hissed. With that she turned and strutted away. Vegard imagined that her head and chin were held high as she righteously made her way.
Now, I suppose I wait.
As the hours passed more fighters were brought into the stable area. From the sounds of it, Vegard wasn’t the only combatant being detained in a small coffin. There were men weeping, screaming, bashing at their holding cell.
One man tore through his cage like it was made of paper. He roared and began to thrash at one guard after another. Eventually being detained by what sounded like ten or so men. Vegard heard someone groan as they limped away, “goddamned, berserkers…”
“Berserkers? Ugh, this day keeps getting better and better…” Vegard muttered in his cage. Almost as if in prayer to that cruel goddess.
“Keep it down in there, warlock! You’ll get your chance!” Someone yelled from outside.
“Come in here and make me keep it down, you limp bastard!” He yelled back, hoping he could entice a little stupidity before he had to fight. No one took the bait.
The festival continued going on throughout the day. Music played, food was eaten, drinks were consumed, and Vegard was ready to swallow his own tongue out of mere boredom. Apparently there was some type of basket or collections on the front of all the cells. Villagers came and dropped tickets into one basket or the next. Vegard assumed it was a betting station. Fighters were taken two at a time. Wheeled away to the arena, wherever in the hells they had it set up.
The winners were brought back, cleaned up, and placed back in their holding cells. The losers did not return. Vegard wondered how hungry these mountain lords were for blood. Were these matches to the death? Would they even leave their precious hovels to watch anything less?
Vegard was jolted as his cell began to rock back and forth, the wooden wheels creaking beside it. “Is it my go?” He asked without a forthcoming answer. His cart made its way through the outer layer of the festival and into a more exclusive part of the village. The cart bumped along. An announcer was heard echoing through what seemed to be the town square.
The cart jostled to a stop. “Put your back against the crate, warlock.” Vegard complied. A small compartment slid open by his waist, his shackles were undone, and then the compartment slid back closed. With hands free Vegard scrambled to rip the leather strap from his head. He couldn’t have gotten the leather headband off quick enough.
Through the cracks and spaces in his cell Vegard peered out at what he was dealing with. A larger bell shaped dome had been erected in the town square. Benches lined the streets where once there were food carts and vendors.
A raised dais was situated in front of the main town hall. The VIP section, Vegard noted. There sat the mountain lords along with Vegard’s master, Jogen Herald. They sat behind a table, every inch covered in food and drink. Jogen was definitely playing his part as host with stark abundance. Scantily clad serving girls and boys walked up and down the several tiered dais. Lords gawked or grabbed. Even lords with one or two girls already would shoot out a greedy hand as if grabbing at another stuffed roll.
The ladies behaved no better than their male counterparts. Some stroked the faces of youngins they came across. Others were stuffing their rosy cheeks with roasted meats or glazed sweets. Every last one of them looked well into their cups. And yet they kept consuming.
“The noble ones I’m meant to entertain.” Vegard snorted. His eyes had become accustomed to finding the warding glyphs. Ever present and never forgotten. Jogen was not a dimwitted man. He would not risk looking a fool in front of the Yessriel mountain lords.
“That last fight…” The announcer yelled with his trained, booming voice, “was not for the faint of heart, yes!?” Vegard glimpsed a body being dragged across the square away from the arena. “Ump’Or will move on to the next round!” There were wild cheers. Apparently a fan favorite. “Alas, poor Kelser will move on, as well. To Storrhale with the gods!” He bellowed. The crowd laughed and clapped their sausage fingers together. “If the gods accept slaves, that is.” More laughter.
Vegard fumed. The part of diminutive servant never had comfortably settled on his shoulder. He imagined mounting the dais and force feeding these rich lords the goblets they drank from.
“For our next match, it will please the lords and ladies, no doubt, to move to the specialty rounds!” There was a collective hush. “Lord Jogen Herald, our most gracious host.” Jogen stood and bowed to the audience from his opulent seat. “Our host presents us with the first of his special stock. A breed rarely seen in the fighting pits. Wielders of the dark arts. Drinkers of the eternal life energies. Denizens from the shadowy people of Mrkyr Brodir. Lord Jogen presents: Pral Vegard Orlo…the warlock!”
Vegard was pushed forward by a board shoved through the back of his cart. The front opened simultaneously and the warlock fell forward on hands and knees inside the sandy pit. The cage clamped shut behind him.
The audience began to “oh” and “ah” at his arrival as if he were some exotic beast they had only read about. Besides his long, knotted braid, he didn’t see an extra appendage sprouting from him that made him any different in appearance to the audience gathered around. Not like he was an elf, or troll, or giant. Just a man. A man with a shadowed past and an even less distinct future.
Vegard dusted himself off and gestured something unseemly to the crowd. They hissed and booed in response. He was already hated. Might as well give them a valid reason for such feelings.
“And his opponent, presented to us by the great Lord Evenstock.” Another lord stood and bowed. Such hard work raising slaves, Vegard twitched.
“From the wilds of Westharp and the warriors of the Bloo’Kaor tribe, I am proud to present, Jorlag BloodAxe…the Berserker!”
Blood axe!? Berserker!? This has got to be a joke…
Vegard’s opponent was shoved in much like himself, except without the lack of grace Vegard had shown. It must’ve taken twice as many men to shove this feral beast into the battle arena. Jorlag BloodAxe stomped a few steps forward. He looked like a stout horse stacked atop another stouter, hairier horse. If there was a man under all that fur and muscle, Vegard could su
rely not see it.
BloodAxe made Yef’Er seem an underdeveloped child by comparison. The berserker had fresh cuts and stitches. He was spotted with minor wounds all over his form. This must have been the one who tore himself from his cage before.
“The soul-drinker versus the feral-blood! Nowhere in all of Vlero will anyone see a match quite like what we have for you today!” The announcer continued. “But for a unique match such as this we must have a setting just as grand.”
The world as Vegard realized it began to dim. The audience faded to nothing. The bars to the pits faded away replaced by the waning sun and orange skies. Grass poked out from between the warlock’s padded feet and a sprawling forest opened up behind him.
Vegard stood on a cliffside overlooking a most beautiful fjord; crisp blue rivers running to the mouth of a great expanse of a wonderful ocean view.
The grandeur of the setting almost pulled Vegard from the reality of his dire situation.
I am still in a cage, fighting for my life. He twisted about looking for his adversary. This is all an illusion. Must have one of those damned mages setting the stage.
The idea that his very life was on the line whilst for the entertainment of a few rich lords stabbed at the warlock’s mind. The injustices of these nobles seemed to know no bounds.
The berserker was nowhere to be seen. Vegard cast his eyes upon the wooden forest behind him. The thickness of the woods obscured anything that might be lurking within. He remained motionless in the tall grass. It would be a death sentence to enclose himself amongst the tight formation of trees. Hand to hand combat with a berserker was always ill advised.
There! Hidden in the foliage, a pair of eyes watched the warlock. Deep predatory, yellow eyes glared back, watching Vegard’s every move.
Lock eyes with a warlock, Vegard smiled. I’ll end this game quickly. Leave these fat lords wanting. He reached out with his eyes towards the stalking predator. He meant to violently tear the soul from this beast before it could bring its powers to bear.
But he felt nothing. As if pulling at empty space. The eyes darted from cover and a large mountain cat revealed itself. It regarded the warlock before continuing its journey through the backdrop of this farce.
Another illusion… Vegard shook his concentration back just in time.
He rolled to the right, escaping death by a moment.
Jorlag, in all his great mass, hefted a broadsword from the crater of land he had left behind. It was a crude weapon, thick and flat, yet appeared an oversized dagger in the large barbarian’s hands.
The berserker looked larger up close, which Vegard didn’t think was possible. His hair was wild and dreadlocked, his muscles bulged like that of a bear’s, and fire red tattoos flared as if burning from a hidden hearth deep within the man. He was raging.
He has a sword, as well, Vegard sighed. For unarmed slave fighting, the warlock couldn’t help but scoff at the regularity of his very armed opponents, as of late.
The berserker exploded into action. The move as deft and agile as a wild cat. Jorlag swung the broadsword across and across again. Each swing an untamed haymaker meant to cleave his opponent in half.
From Vegard’s past experience in battle, berserkers were an ‘all or nothing’ style of fighter. It tended not to matter the weapon the warrior wielded—they were going to swing it like a club. It was even said to give a berserker a spear was to watch them beat men to death with a fanciful stick.
Even without grace, this Jorlag would overpower Vegard very soon. Each pivot, each roll just enraged the mighty berserker further. Spittle ran freely from the man’s mouth and each swing came down with that much more force.
Jorlag roared to the heavens and missed another potentially fatal swing with his sword. Vegard rolled to the side. But this time the barbarian shot out with his free hand and snagged Vegard by his knotted braid. He wrapped it about his wrist and pulled Vegard violently to the ground. The impact was enough to draw the breath from the warlock’s lungs.
He stared up at the beast just in time to see the pointed end of a sword come piercing downward.
Vegard pivoted to the left, the sword embedding itself deep within the earth. He twisted upward and back to his feet bringing the momentum of a hefty fist to the bridge of the berserker’s nose.
It was enough to jolt the man backwards.
The warlock reached out with his powers then. A true connection finally made. The soul of this one raged and whipped about wildly. Trying to grasp at it was like tugging at the tail of a tornado.
Still, he concentrated and snagged what he could. Jorlag’s eyes opened wide at the sudden intrusion but Vegard was the quicker. He pulled what he could and torched the soul where it lay. Jorlag howled as his energy cooked within his body. The pain circumventing any natural defenses this monster was used to having.
Vegard couldn’t do this for long. He needed to feed if he was to have any power to work with. He switched his stance around and began to pull from the barbarian; leeching inch by inch of this man’s seemingly endless supply of strength.
The tattoos on the berserker flared and then began to fade. His energy slowly being stripped from his visceral form.
Jorlag shook his great mane desperately and launched himself into a charge, slamming Vegard in the chest and sending them booth reeling backwards into a fantastic roll over the cliffside.
How this was happening, Vegard had no clue. How far would this illusion take them? Would the body die if the mind believed this fall to be true? It was a lot to take in under the circumstances. The two warriors tumbled down the cliffside, skipping off jagged rocks, and breaking free from one another.
The decent ended in a thunderous splash has Vegard was submerged under the frigid waters of the deep river below.
He kicked his legs frantically as his body searched for the illusory surface of the rushing water. Vegard crested the top and gasped for air he assumed was already within his lungs. If it wasn’t for the sheer exhaustion he might have thought he looked like quite the ass to the audience cheering for his death.
Vegard looked around for the berserker who was nowhere in sight before swimming to the close embankment.
He pulled himself from the rushing waters, coughing as he flopped down on the pebble beach. His body felt torn to shreds. Whatever fall he had taken, there were very real wounds his body had to contend with. Vegard set the little bit of siphoned energy he had to work healing his wounds and mending open cuts.
Warlocks were a versatile bunch if they had the energy to manipulate. Vegard could burn souls where they lay, siphon their energy for strength, or use it to fix any bodily harm.
The river roared on in the background. The eyes of many curious animals watched from the trees above. The eyes reminding Vegard of the unseen audience that was watching him fight for his life.
His anger mounted. He closed his eyes and began to concentrate. The berserker’s energy was still inside him. Vegard wielded the force and peered out with it. A shadowed shockwave went out from where the warlock stood. All around him became arbitrary. He was blind to all except where his energy touched.
Come out, barbarian! Come and tangle with death! The energy snaked its away around through the terrain, it swam in the waters coursing by Vegard’s feet; searching. There! Vegard locked onto the hidden opponent under the water. He released all he had siphoned and sent the energy burning within the man once more.
Jorlag burst from the depths of the river. Water erupted high as if a giant boulder had been dropped from the sky. The dark energy burned within the berserker. Black smoke plumed from the man’s skin as Vegard torched his living soul.
Jorlag screamed and wavered, like any man would, but continued to stalk forward. His tattoos flared brightly as rage pulsed through him, giving him strength.
The vampire’s touch came again. Vegard began to drain, desperately attempting to fell the man before the monster was upon him. But the more he took the m
ore the rage created more, and more, and more. An endless wave of energy fueled by anger, fueled by bloodlust.
He hadn’t noticed the sword in the berserker’s hand until it was too late. But how!? Vegard soul-torched Jorlag one last time just as he felt the pointed tip of the blade pierce through his tattered wool tunic and exit out his back.
Neither combatant made a sound as they stood in their lethal embrace. Finally, Vegard stumbled and fell backwards on the rocky bank of the river. The sword protruding from his body. He feebly reached up and pulled the iron blade from his body. With a grunt he dropped the weapon to his side. Jorlag, the berserker, collapsed next to him, eyes shut, tattoos fluttering away like a snuffed candle wick.
“There ya go, big guy…sleep…” Vegard whispered. He wanted to take the sword and drive it into the man’s scalp just to be sure, but couldn’t manage the movement. He was bleeding heavily from what he knew to be a very mortal wound. He blinked heavily, his body was getting colder by the second, although not quite as cold as when Flaro had stripped him of his soul. The berserker’s energy still coursed within him, flickering like a distant fire.
He blinked again and with it the rushing waters and picturesque fjord vanished in an instant, replaced by the large domed cage and sandbox floor.
The aftermath of the combat could be seen throughout the arena. Craters of sand were formed where he and Jorlag must have wrestled and ‘fallen’ from the cliffside.
He could hear the cage doors opening and the scuffling of guards or priests entering. Through the slits of his eyes he could see them dragging Jorlag to his feet and leading him to one side of the arena. Vegard felt someone elevate his body and begin wrapping a cloth around his midsection.
“Not much we can do for it.”
“Get em to Elder Uretta, quickly! Where’s the head wrap!?”
A Forgotten Soul: The Vegard Orlo Saga Page 4