by Vance Moore
Pick-axes and hammers rose and then fell. Kirtar rolled to the side; one blow driving through the armor that now encased the warrior's lower legs. The troll howled in delight at the fresh blood, and Kamahl believed the aven would pay the ultimate price for his arrogance. The bird warrior did not freeze, and he reinforced the power of the magic encasing his limbs. Then the lieutenant struck with his bare hands.
The huge fists were encased in energy, and Kamahl could hear the troll's jaws being pulverized. Teeth sprayed across the ground, digging furrows as they buried themselves. The beast screamed with pain, striking out blindly and falling upon a dwarf. The diminutive warrior's sturdy metal armor proved unequal to troll claws. Chunks of flesh and blood fell to the sand as the dwarf was eviscerated. The audience booed loudly as the shaman tried to redirect his beast.
"The pair has lost the crowd," Chainer said, shaking his head sadly. "For allied creatures to fall upon each other is an unforgivable amateur mistake."
Kirtar was on his feet, weaving from side to side as the rest of the dwarf troop tried to take advantage of his reduced mobility. At first, his movements seemed forced, almost stumbling as he retreated. Kamahl watched as the bird warrior grew stronger. The barbarian realized that what wounds the lieutenant received healed even as he fought. The aven's opponents could heal too, and the troll stood up, gore from his mistaken victim covering its face and chest, the dwarf's blood mingling with the flow of foulness from the beast's own wound. The wound diminished as the troll reentered the fray. The deformed jaws moved back into position, and Kamahl could see new teeth glinting in the torchlight.
Kirtar attacked the surrounding dwarves, killing and maiming as the troll reached for him. The lieutenant's fists were swollen balloons of power as golden energy armored the bird warrior's flesh. Heads collapsed under the aven's blows. Shields and weapons shattered as the dwarves struggled to bring the bird warrior down. Kirtar leaped, whether flying or merely by enhanced muscles, Kamahl did not know. He soared through the air toward the dark-haired mountain mage. Kirtar's bent legs absorbed much of the energy of the landing, but the armored youth still fell-a bag of broken bones. The barbarian thought the mage might survive with proper care, then Kirtar batted the man's head with a slap. The new corpse was not decapitated, but the mage's head lolled off one shoulder, leaving no doubt of the man's death.
The troll ran at Kirtar, a high cry of bestial rage sounding as the few remaining dwarves vanished at the death of their master. The shaman coaxed fire from the air, and a few small balls of flame hurtled toward the bird warrior. Most of the spell wasted itself upon the open ground of the arena. The aroma of cooking meat carried everywhere as the fallen mountain mage was devoured by the ill-aimed magic. Burning flesh and charred leather fought with the odors of the food vendors making their rounds of the stands.
A flock of birds soared from the lieutenant's hands. The small castings were brilliant, and Kamahl forced himself to look at them directly. Slightly translucent they rose up into the air, drawing near the upper booths. Patrons fell silent as the small energy spirits turned. The flock dived toward the floor of the arena, converging on everything still alive. Like ghosts, they slipped into bodies as all stood still. Bursts of light shone forth from eyes and open mouths. The troll's rays cast a giant shadow of the bird warrior against the far wall of the arena. The last mountain mage was a fallen star, shafts of light erupting from his skin. All except Kirtar collapsed. There was a moment of silence, and then thunderous applause filled the arena.
*****
"So you think you can compete in the games, do you, my boy?" the Master of the Games said.
Kamahl restrained his irritation with difficulty. The man was fat and festooned in bolts of garish cloth, like some monstrous jester taking his ease at a party instead of entertaining. All of the Cabal members that he had seen were subdued in color and outward demeanor, but the Master of the Games showed a flamboyance of color and style that assaulted the barbarian's eyes.
"You might be powerful enough to compete in the games, but you will have to satisfy me." The official stood with some difficulty and walked toward a room off to the side of the box.
Guards drew themselves to attention only to be patted familiarly by the figure strolling by. Kamahl followed, flanked by another set of guards. Kamahl appeared weaponless. His great sword and axes lay in the entry chamber "as a matter of security." Only his mild amusement at the guards thinking him disarmed prevented him from laying waste to the Cabal's servants. His amusement was passing, and the effrontery of the official made him rethink his participation in the tourney. To allow someone of such low character to stand in judgement of him was nigh unbearable. Kamahl came for the glory of combat against equals. How equal could his opponents be if one such as the official controlled their entry into the games? Kamahl became more and more convinced that he would withdraw beyond the city and challenge the winner of the tourney, that is if the barbarian did not return to the distant mountains instead.
"Only one who is worthy should have a chance at these," the master said, slightly out of breath as he moved to the side of the doorway and gestured over the trove of treasures.
Kamahl heard nothing but the pounding of his own heart for several seconds. A mound of gold, a few jewels, and numerous artifacts filled the center of the room. Mechanical limbs of ancient war machines lay next to charred books. Open scrolls showed letters that the educated barbarian could not even identify much less read. Leaking bags of coin lay against a massive breastplate worn by some forgotten giant. The room contained wealth, history, and shards of power from past wars, but it was a dull metal orb that locked Kamahl's gaze. It lay partially concealed by a fine sword blade, which Kamahl ached to throw away that he might better see this treasure. The rest of the room was filled with dross to the warrior's mind. The orb appeared to be no larger than his fist, yet he was mesmerized by it. His interest grew greater as he thought it responded to him. The light reflected by it seemed to grow brighter. The metal surface hinted at restrained power rather than the dull glint of common metal. Kamahl's line of sight was broken as the Master of the Games entered his field of vision.
"Speechless, eh." The fat man chuckled. "A shy barbarian. An uncommon sight, but one which is still not special enough to have in the ranks of the tourney."
Kamahl's jaws ached as he restrained himself. This corpulent fool was nothing, but now Kamahl burned to enter and win. The metal sphere called to him still. The barbarian thought briefly of just taking the item, but he was a warrior, not a common thief. The official drew breath for another taunt, but Kamahl had heard enough. His hand dipped into his pouch at his belt. He could feel the guards drawing closer. Chainer, who had stayed far back during the entire conversation, came forward. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the young man's concerned face drawing nearer, perhaps to defuse the situation.
Kamahl drew out a single copper coin, worn thin with age and clipped by the truly desperate. The official's already florid face grew darker at the perceived insult of the pitiful bribe, but the barbarian had no intention of trying to buy his way into the tournament with any currency other than his own power. Kamahl's muscles relaxed as he channeled force to his hand. The copper brightened as the patina of age and wear sloughed away from the metal. The coin grew brighter as the guards moved in, their spear points poised to open up Kamahl's back. Like a tourist casting into a wishing well, the barbarian tossed the copper over his shoulder. The stone wall proved no barrier. Like a hot knife through butter, the red-hot coin melted its way through. Shouts of surprise sounded as it exited through the box wall as well. The sound of the cooling slug hitting the arena floor was lost in the confusion of the guards and the white face of the Master of the Games. Looking at the deflated official, the barbarian knew he would have no problems entering the tourney.
CHAPTER 2
"I assure you, my lord, that no such displays of arrogance would be permitted in the palaces of the emperor. Such a boor would be sum
marily executed, especially one who lacked a suitable patron." The merman tried to sound sympathetic and outraged, but it was hard to feel much empathy for the fool who sat in front of him. The Master of the Games came to the fete in high dudgeon and had released a spew of bile, detailing the attack on his honor and dignity. Ambassador Laquatus thought such a pig had no dignity. Moreover, a man of true power either acted or waited to act. The pointless railing grated on the ambassador's nerves.
The merman might be mistaken for human with the exception of his coloring and the small horns that lay half hidden by his hair. Of course, under the sea, his ancestry was much more obvious. At a mental command, his legs transmuted to a great fish's tail. The long couches he favored recalled the decadence of lost civilizations but also allowed him to recline when transformed. Long gilded nail extensions flashed in the subdued light as he spoke and gestured.
"I assure you, Laquatus, that your sympathy and hospitality at the end of this difficult day will not be forgotten." The Cabal official almost gushed as he relaxed and turned to consider the temporary court that the ambassador had established. The merman offered only a nod before looking back upon the revel before him.
The embassy to the Cabal had procured a house that butted up against the bluffs surrounding the city. A huge cavern had been dug out and expanded. In the middle of the excavation, a huge pool was filled with salt water and sea plants carefully transplanted. The ambassador could feel the waves of energy that moved through the water, warming it and sending gouts of mist into the air.
The life in the pool relied on constant infusions of power from the ambassador's mages to live and even flourish. Brilliant coral and anemones lay in the waist deep water, their color and motion suggesting beds of flowers. The soporific compounds they released acted as invisible poisons to the minds of those not rendered immune, yet the revelers in the pool showed no signs of ill health.
The large lagoon was full. Competitors moved in the water, dangerous but temporarily safe to all. Like carnivores after a full meal, they appeared logy. One fighter saluted his host as Laquatus's gazes swept over him. Burly and covered with scars, he waved a prosthetic arm in greeting. The metal arm ended in serrated pincers that rasped together softly as the athlete picked another goblet from the circling waiters. His companion for the evening only cooed appreciatively as the arm gathered her in. For the amount of money the ambassador paid for the escorts, he expected nothing less.
The mechanical limb of the fighter was nothing unusual. Laquatus could see many other examples of grafted limbs and skin. Pit fighting was dangerous, and those lucky and powerful enough to survive often left the floor of the arena with less than they entered. Mechanical parts salvaged from ancient war machines were used along with limbs and hide from exotic beast and fallen warriors.
A few Cabal sponsored fighters circulated as well. Laquatus curbed his pout of distaste. Many of the local champions sported limbs from zombies and the dead. The rotting stench was almost completely covered by the perfumes filling the air, but nothing could curb the disgust many of the guests showed. The Cabal fighters relied on a steady supply of shattered bodies and dismembered fighters to supply them with new parts as the ones they reclaimed eventually failed.
The pit frog Turg lurked in the shadows, crouched behind a miniature reef with only his bulbous eyes showing above the water. The ambassador's champion had stuffed himself to the point of immobility, and Laquatus cursed his personal failure to curb the creature's insane appetite. It was so easy to be lost in Turg's simple pleasures of the flesh. The official noticed Laquatus's lack of attention and cleared his throat loudly.
The merman's manners and style automatically equated him with the nobility in the eyes of his guests. His background in fact was not distinguished, and the human good looks were a strike against him in the Mer kingdom. The emperor and the empress resembled the octopus on their house flag. Their malleable bodies and eight limbs were the standard for the court, and he was far from the current definition of beauty. He was banished to the land like a malformed child hidden from sight. He felt the injustice of his exile and contempt for the land-locked with which he must interact.
Laquatus speared a small fish that swam past. His long finger extensions were often filled with poison at the undersea court, and it amused him to use such deadly devices for harpooning snacks. The small blood slick lightened his mood, and he regarded the boor next to him.
"How terrible you say," Laquatus drawled. "The barbarian destroyed the wall of the vault."
He had of course already received a full report from his spies. Kamahl's casual display hinted that another powerful champion had entered the contest. Perhaps new alliances were in order.
"I am terribly sorry, but I do see Caster Fulla over in the corner alone." He interrupted the official who had continued to drone on like an inconsequential insect. "I would be a poor host indeed if I did not look after all my guests. Why don't you join me in extending greetings?"
"No, no," the official said hurriedly, rising and moving away quickly enough to leave a wake of disturbed water. "I have things that must be done," he tossed over his shoulder.
Laquatus was not surprised at the swift withdrawal. He transformed back to his legged form, his fins absorbed back into his body, and his tail splitting to form the limbs he must use away from the sea. Small fish swirled around his submerged limbs as scales and destroyed flesh temporarily fouled the water. He rose with initial care and waded across the pool.
Turg rose from concealment in response to a mental command and moved toward the ambassador's back. Dealing with dementia casters was often dangerous. Their grip on reality could become quite tenuous as they grew more powerful. Caster Fulla was very powerful indeed.
"Hello, my dear," the ambassador exclaimed. "I am so glad that you accepted my invitation."
The caster turned, and he waited for her eyes to focus back on the present.
Caster Fulla "Braids" appeared a weathered thirty years. Her dark skin and clothing seemed in perpetual shadow, and Laquatus felt a faint increase in tension as she looked on him fully. Her right arm brushed the short sword at her side before extending toward the ambassador. Kissing a woman's hand was a ridiculous piece of theatre most of the time, and it was particularly ridiculous now. Fulla's right arm was misshapen with scars and chunks of missing flesh. Leather and iron bracing showed conspicuously as he lowered his head to the misshapen claw that she must call a hand. He brushed his lips against the tainted flesh and slowly straightened. For her profession, Fulla was really quite comely.
Dementia casters, like many mages, called forth monsters to fight for them and serve their purposes, but even the dark magic of their Cabal brethren was twisted in bizarre ways. The trances that dementia casters fell into seemed to open the dark recesses of the mind, bringing forth hideous monsters. Many only existed in insane dreams before the power called them. Some used drugs to alter their thoughts and perceptions to bring forth ever greater horrors until they lost what remained of their sanity. Then instead of using drugs to free their minds, they engaged in a pharmacological war to retain some connection to reality. Laquatus hoped that such a fragile grip on existence would offer the handhold he needed to twist her into his service.
"It was something to do," Fulla said in a dead tone. The beads woven into her hair clinked together softly as she moved. "But it is only the same party. I've been here a hundred times before and since." Boredom filled her voice, and her eyes were focusing back into her internal world to the ambassador's irritation.
"Surely something must interest you." Laquatus hummed, a low thrum began to pick at his ears as the merman fed instructions to the magic plants and springs feeding the grotto.
The corals released bursts of drugs into the water. The ambassador felt a curious mixture of energy and languor even though he and his personal servants regularly dosed themselves with antidotes. The party seemed to grow quiet as the guests succumbed to the chemicals in the water.
&n
bsp; "I think that we should work together." The ambassador said, crowding closer. "The bouts offer us a chance to realize tremendous profits if we could just cooperate." The merman put his hand on her maimed arm, controlling his expression at the touch of the gnarled flesh.
"I hope we might become something more than partners."
Laquatus breathed more heavily as he tried to suggest seduction. He had less than no interest in the women above the sea, but he had set this hook before. Fulla showed only irritation and broke his grip easily.
"You're boring," she said flatly. "Everything is boring now. I am going back to the Casters' Quarter. At least it is never boring."
Fulla started wading toward the steps leading into the pool. She moved surely and with purpose, showing no sign of being affected by the water. Laquatus realized that, as a dementia caster, she dealt with shifting reality often. The Casters' Quarter that she was headed for was notorious for the monsters and dark passions that gripped its inhabitants. Fulla's being was far too vicious a battlefield for the gentle persuasion of the grotto's waters. Turg, feeling his master's irritation, cut through the partygoers to grab Fulla's arm.
Braids swung around, curling inside the pit frog's arm and breaking his grip. Her sword was in her hand, and Laquatus felt a burst of pain as her blade slapped along the frog's side. The ambassador could feel the bestial rage of his champion surging to dramatic levels, and he tried to force the beast to calm.
Laquatus and the frog were tied together on many levels, feeding off of each other's emotions. The frog supplied a dramatic amount of muscle the ambassador used to cow his enemies, while the merman supplied the intelligence and drive to make Turg more than a savage animal. The pain and snub eroded his control and Turg acted to hold the caster.