by Vance Moore
Odyssey
( Magic:The Gathering:Odyssey Cycle - 1 )
Vance Moore
Vance Moore
Odyssey
CHAPTER 1
The sun lay sullen to the west. Hovering on the horizon, its rays cast the hills in shadows. The pits lay ahead. Finally he was drawing near after months of travel. Kamahl looked at the heart of the games and saw only a gaping hole of darkness. The twilight prevented him from seeing the city that lay in the hollow. Even as he watched, torches were lit, the dull red light illuminating the site of Kamahl's future triumphs. From mountain obscurity he traveled toward his destiny.
Cabal City was the largest in the continent's interior, but only a few signs of its size were visible from Kamahl's vantage point. He could see just the roofs of a few buildings and the residential quarters' laundry hanging in the still air. The city was held in a huge rocky crater, its sides uneven but highest on the western outskirts. The glow of torches and the streetlights near the great dome of the arena began to color the walls of the buildings as Kamahl moved closer. The flare of both ordinary fire and magic lit the streets, but the dark shadow cast by the crater walls shrouded most of the city in darkness.
The barbarian started down the shallow incline at a slow run. He breathed easily, even with the armor in his pack and the great sword strapped to his back. Skin the color of brass showed no flush of exertion. His smooth beardless features were calm. No sweat dampened his inky hair, and his violet eyes were clear. Living in the mountains had given him good night vision, and he looked through the increasingly dim light to the town's gate. The road began to rise, and he breathed harder as he neared the city limits. The crater walls were notched, and the entrance reminded the barbarian of a pass through mountains, though far smaller in scale than the peaks of his childhood home. Drovers hurried a string of camels into the city, their whips snapping as they moved the animals through the high gate. Merchants from across the continent come to satisfy the tourney crowds, the warrior thought.
Kamahl breathed deeply, the prospect of the games exciting his blood more than the run. Years mastering the fighting arts lay behind him, and now he rushed to show his skills before the wider world. Veteran of many a duel in his home mountains, he wanted more than the championship of an alpine valley. The best fighters on the continent converged on this tourney, and he belonged here.
His stride lengthened as he left the hills, his boots pounding into the road's surface. The guards waved the merchants through, uttering only a few threats to increase the bribes offered. They turned their attention on the jogging figure. His light throwing axes softly rubbed against Kamahl's wallet. He had run for days approaching the contest and lost what little fat he might have had. The strict regime of exercise had refined him down to his essence. He pulled up to the gate without any sign of exertion except his deep breaths.
"Another jack," muttered a guard as he took a firmer hold of his halberd and moved out from the gate, Kamahl frowned, for the soldier used the term for an arena fighter as if it were an insult. He was a champion, and only the obvious inferiority of the speaker prevented a demand for satisfaction. The man looked nervously at a stack of orders. The rest of the troops had withdrawn inside to the guardhouse. Two stout men-at-arms slowly lugged a crossbeam to brace the gate when it closed for the night. The road lead directly into town with only a portcullis to bar the way. The wall was only twelve feet high and the guards served more to collect tolls than defend the city.
"Why have you come to the pits of the Cabal?" intoned a guard who drew away from the gate as if to duck behind the wall.
"I have come into my own," Kamahl said absently, looking to the city beyond. The guard was confused and unconsciously gave way as the massive barbarian came closer. The fighter drew his attention to the minor servant before him. "I will compete in the tourney. Where would I find the Master of the Games?"
The guard blinked at the bald statement but regarding the warrior seemed uncertain how to respond. Shouting broke out on the road behind him, and he turned from the barbarian to the commotion. There were several wagons backed up the causeway leading down to the pit. Kamahl could see soldiers gathered in a clump in front of the waiting vehicles.
"As you can see, the road is backed up due to a wreck." The guard said, drawing a little confidence from the sight of his fellows so far away. "The elevator cable snapped and killed a mule." Kamahl just strode forward, ignoring the guard's outstretched arm.
"No profit from crazy men anyway," the soldier muttered as he stepped away from the barbarian.
The road's decline prevented horses hauling fully loaded wagons into the city. An elevator dropped cargo from the staging area just inside the guardhouse to the bottom of the depression. Once relieved of their loads, merchants could then safely take the horses down the slope. Traffic headed into the city rode the brakes all the way to the flat at the bottom, using the animals just to steer. The elevator had just broken, however, and the snapped cable had beheaded a mule, overturning a wagon and blocking the causeway.
Kamahl drew a dagger, holding its blade against his arm. He used the hilt to prod people out of the way, ignoring angry words. The decapitated beast lay tangled in its traces, its blood pouring down the steep roadway. Kamahl gathered a whisper of power and wrapped it around the dagger's blade. He shoved aside the owner and guardsmen and skimmed his blade along the beast's side with a single stroke. Harness leather and chains parted like air before the blade, singing as tension released. Kamahl shoved the corpse hard with his boot. The barbarian's physical power became plain to the angry guardsmen. The donkey shot down the ramp lubricated by its own blood. The animal hit the railing, wood coming apart in a spray of rotten timbers. The remains of the beast and fence fell to the ground below with a heavy thud. Kamahl withdrew power from the blade and continued down the road, walking just along the bloodied skidway.
"The Cabal pit masters bought that carcass!" bellowed someone. Kamahl's ears picked up the conversation even as he continued away.
"Leave it alone," he heard someone else hiss. "Jacks are all crazy; just consider the meat tenderized."
*****
Fighters from throughout the continent moved in the streets. Kamahl saw races of all descriptions- faerie, human, dwarf, centaur, and others that he could not name. They came to the pits to compete for their own glory and the prizes offered. Everywhere in the land the contest between warriors played out every day, but it was in the pits that jacks of known mettle found opponents worth the sweat of battle. Kamahl came for worthy adversaries and to prove his mastery. Most of his opponents were there for more.
The Cabal had opened up its vaults to supply the prizes. Booty from centuries of collecting and a thousand battlefields was available. Sages and historians were nearly as prevalent as fighters in the city. All converged to see the treasures drawn from the rock deep below the pits. With the fighters and the learned men, an influx of gamblers and enthusiasts filled the avenues. Moving among the throngs worked pickpockets, whores, and sellers of the forbidden. The barbarian sauntered over the cobblestones, seeing unfamiliar sights. Tents stood with ragged and dirty men calling for custom. Though from the sparsely settled mountains, Kamahl was completely civilized in his cynicism. False wonders filled the streets as the hopeful went from stall to stall, determined to find the lucky prize that surely must be hidden in all the chaff.
Torches flared and some burned brightly with magic enhanced lights. Kamahl took a second to feel the warmth of the energy with his mystic senses. Stretching forth his mind and spirit he felt the beat of power and dissonance as contesting magics fractured against each other. It could only be the pits that called to him, and he hurried through the collected throngs to take his place.
*****<
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The crowd roared its approval as two men moved into the arena, the masses calling encouragement. Kamahl had bought entrance with a small nugget of gold from a mountain stream. He imagined the Master of the Games would be in the arena, and the barbarian was determined to find him. The building was huge, seating thousands. The walls leaned inward overhead, evoking the feeling of an underground cavern. Huge torches flared continuously behind reflectors, directing the magic light onto the floor of the stadium. Red and black sand covered the circular fighting area. Inside the wide ring were obstacles and a few obvious trap doors. Despite himself, Kamahl was impressed. For the first time he was in a building that made him feel closed in even though it was several spear-casts across.
The two men on the sand moved together, and Kamahl shook his head. The opponents were hesitant, and the barbarian wondered how any could find such a match interesting. A young man standing close by noticed Kamahl's mild contempt and spoke.
"Do not give up hope just yet, sir," he said, shuffling near.
His clothing was dark and loose, the tailoring and richness of the fabric suggesting a person of means, yet he was young and had no attendants. Kamahl thought him likely to be a lord's servant though he saw no obvious crest or standard to announce his affiliation.
"The name is Chainer," the man said, moving closer. The pair are partners against Lieutenant Kirtar, a champion from the Northern Order."
"Kamahl," the barbarian said, glancing briefly at the youth and then to the stands, "here to win the tourney. Where do I announce myself?"
Chainer's eyebrows raised slightly at the boast, and he smiled. Kamahl turned more of his attention to the young man.
The youth still had a trace of innocence in his face, but already the fighter could see some of the hardness and cynicism that characterized city toughs. The boy's hair was in tight corn-rolls that grew down over his eyes. His only visible weapon was a large, ornamental dagger that he wore at his side. As Kamahl considered him, Chainer's fingertips lightly brushed the hilt in an apparently unconscious gesture.
"You'll want to speak to the Master of the Games then," Chainer said. He pointed across the enclosure to the box seats across the arena. "There's the master now, talking to the Mer ambassador."
The other side of the building held a host of individual boxes, most of which were empty now, these being only the early elimination rounds. Kamahl could see separate floating pods hovering over the boxes, clustered around doors and a narrow platform high on the arena wall.
"Those are only used by high officials and wealthy patrons of the games." Chainer said as he followed Kamahl's eyes. "Usually the Master of the Games oversees from there, but with so much work still to be done, he is holding court where messengers can easily be received and sent."
At the mention of a court, Kamahl turned his eyes down and looked at the official's box. There sat the arena's ruler, rotund and covered in drapes of expensive looking cloth. However, it was his companions that fixed the barbarian's attention. Two figures stood out against the backdrop of aides, guards, and servants. Kamahl's teeth clenched as he considered the Mer seated at the right hand of the Cabal official.
The ambassador looked remarkably human. Kamahl could see two small silver-capped horns against the blue skin. The different skin tone was barely worth mentioning. The barbarian had learned something of the greater world during his years in the mountains. Those born of and allied with the sea were well known for their monstrous and bizarre appearance. The only oddity except for the blue skin was the ambassador's clothes. The wraps of cloth lay plastered against his azure flesh. While Kamahl looked on, a servant slowly poured liquid over the limbs of his master. The ambassador absently presented a leg for additional treatment, never turning from his conversation.
The massive figure off to the side fitted KamahPs idea of what a Mer citizen should look like. A sideboard piled high with food lay open to the box patrons, but only one person took advantage. The barbarian could think of two reasons for the single eater.
First was the dangerous look of the diner. Kamahl was reminded of a giant frog. The hulking figure would have overtopped the barbarian by at least a foot, but until Kamahl compared him with the other patrons of the box, he thought the frog quite short. The amphibian was a mass of muscle, so wide that the mind made the creature shorter than it was. The creature's brilliant blue and yellow skin was dotted with short growths that reminded the barbarian of spikes on a mace. The mouth gaped wide as the frog swallowed an entire leg of lamb with a single gulp.
The second reason that others might forego the repast was the thick slime dripping from the frog creature's webbed hands. The excretions covered the food as the amphibian grabbed up more to eat.
"The ambassador's champion, Turg," Chainer offered, a hint of distaste in his voice. "He competes for the prizes and the ambassador's glory. It is said his race is one of complete savagery. The frog is a testament to the money and time the ambassador has spent training him."
Kamahl looked to the arena floor where the two novices shifted uncertainly. If such as these can compete, he thought, then I should have no trouble. The city man saw his look of dismissal.
"They may not look like much, but those willing to risk certain death are sometimes in short supply." He pointed toward the posted standards and gates. "Whether or not quarter may be offered is posted by where the standards hang and which gates the opponents use. Kirtar always passes through the gate of no quarter. The Master of the Games must be flexible in scheduling opponents for the lieutenant in the opening bouts. Experienced fighters are usually closer to the final round before they chose death matches. The arena also tries to save death matches for the final days of competition lest a capable fighter be killed off too early. You could find a death match easy enough, but to be considered a serious competitor you must be known or impress the officials with your power."
The growing murmurs of the restive crowd drew Kamahl's and Chainer's attentions back to the arena floor. The team of mountain mages was looking more confident now as cries of "forfeit" began to rise from the stands. Their opponent still had not appeared, and Chainer snorted in disgust at the lack of a champion to oppose the pair. The chants stopped as a near naked figure moved onto the field.
"He shows his contempt for the games," Chainer muttered as catcalls rose from the stands. "Trust a member of the Order to belittle the honor of the tourney."
Kamahl was no worshipper of pageantry, so Kirtar's failure to obey the forms did not upset him, but the arrogance that the figure showed as he walked nonchalantly toward the opposing pair put his teeth on edge. An aspirant to the victory circle, Kamahl ached to show Kirtar that he should show respect for the other fighters if not the venue. As the barbarian took in the warrior's pale skin, he became more irritated. Kirtar was a bird warrior.
Centuries before, a race of three peoples had fled from other planes to Dominaria. All were descended from ancestors who could fly, though most had lost their wings. The furthest from their winged forebears were the elen. These giant humanoids stood nine to ten feet tall with massive legs of near solid bone. Slow and ponderous, they provided the muscle for the society, though in war they served only as massed troops with little status.
The raypen lay at the other end of the size spectrum. Dwarf-sized creatures with withered legs ending in prehensile feet, they could still fly with their innate magic. Magical feathers covered their long distorted arms giving them, for short periods of time, the freedom their ancestors had known.
Kirtar's milky skin and massive hands identified him as aven. The warrior caste of a militant people, they had joined the Northern Order en masse. Though not prolific, they rose to many positions of power in the north and many a party riding into the western mountains was led by bird warriors. Mountain societies respected strength, but that respect must be individually earned and honor conferred on the basis of personal achievement. The Order advocated the submission of all to the movement's leaders. Kamahl- by birth, t
raining, and inclination-bowed only to those more powerful. His whole life was dedicated to proving that, now in his prime, no one could order him about with impunity. To give up your will to others, all of whom lacked the power to beat you or claim your respect with their own deeds, grated. Kamahl regarded the bird warrior narrowly as his possible opponent in the tourney walked into battle.
The two mountain mages attacked simultaneously. They separated in a fast shuffle, their movements slowed as they called upon their magic. Neophytes, thought Kamahl.
The one on the left appeared to be a shaman. Furs and small amulets fluttered as he scuttled to one side. The boy's dark skin contrasted with his blond hair. The spell that followed was slow to form. Eventually it congealed into reality as the universe created a creature in response to the youth's wishes. With a roar, a slavering troll stalked toward the bird warrior.
The emaciated monster approached warily, showing a degree of cunning unusual in the breed. The head darted from side to side, pausing to take in great gulps of air. Seemingly satisfied that nothing threatened, it jumped at Kirtar. Kamahl realized the bird warrior had not even bothered to raise power until the monster actually leaped. Golden energy erupted from his skin, coating his head and upper torso. It solidified into armor even as the mouth of the troll opened wide, the teeth and jaws of the monster seeming to leap out of the massive mouth. The beast stooped down to devour the warrior, but the bird warrior's armor did not give at all. Vainly its jaws clenched, and its claws scratched. Like a dog worrying at a pole, the beast tried to throw Kirtar to the side or gnaw through.
Now the other young caster entered the fray. Clad in piecemeal armor, he was shorter than his companion. As if he were his partner's negative, his dark hair contrasted with his pale skin. Spiral tattoos traced out magic sigils on his face and upper arms. He gripped a war hammer with both hands, but he did not use it to assail the bird warrior. Rather, he directed his summoned minions, who entered existence at a run. Dwarf warriors charged Kirtar and the troll.