by Vance Moore
"At last!" Fulla exalted. "Something interesting in this sewer."
Laquatus paused in his attempts to restrain his champion. A sewer! He was sick of insults from these land-bound simpletons. Turg attacked as the ambassador's pique weakened his hold. The frog skin grew mottled as the amphibian forced more foulness into the water. Turg leaped to the side, plowing into a crowd and sending a spray across the pool.
The ambassador could feel the fresh chemical assault against his senses. Colors seemed to strobe as the mind-altering chemicals fought his will for control of his vision. Fulla's eyes seemed to gleam as she went into a trance. The screams of the other guests began to waver as well as Turg's indirect attack merged with the suggestive chemicals of the pool. Laquatus could see an escort flailing at hallucinations.
"Close the doors!" he screamed to the servants at the gate.
The guards slammed the decorative doors shut as one pit fighter ran for the exit. A huge minotaur, it lowered its head and charged. The expensive facade cracked over the armor beneath as the giant humanoid went down, blood flowing from its nose and ears. Other guests began to stumble out of the pool.
Turg erupted from the water beside Fulla. His skin was silvery, and he was almost impossible to see. Like the octopus and cuttlefish of the ocean, the frog could blend against many backgrounds. Fulla was a veteran of the pits, and her skewed mind edited out the madness surrounding her. The frog's attack met a summoned creature that threw the combatants apart as if a bomb had exploded.
The eel that wrapped itself around the frog showed bones and frayed flesh. Turg spun to throw it off, but its weeping skin seemed to glue the creature to the frog. The amphibian's wild gyrations threw gobs of rotting meat across the chamber, which rained down on the guests and struggling servants. The ambassador could see blackjacks plied freely by his mercenaries as they struggled to contain the growing riot. Only their fight with imaginary demons prevented a total bloodbath as pit fighters went down under the swinging sacks of lead shot. Laquatus felt Turg's pain as the eel struck again and again, pumping venom into the humanoid's frame. The frog tore off portions of its own hide but hurled the writhing eel away into a group of musicians the ambassador had hired for the evening.
"Enough!" Laquatus snarled.
A bolt of energy erupted from his hands, and a ribbon of power connected the merman to the eel. Flesh boiled under the attack, and the popping of exploding bones could be heard over the cacophony of screams and curses filling the chamber. The hired servants trembled, and their bones cracked as the overflow of energy created a circle of death. Laquatus ignored them as he destroyed the last of the eel. Their cooked bodies fell beneath the waters as the ambassador cut off the stream of power.
Fulla gaily laughed from the side of the grotto, her knees drawn up like a little girl's. "A wonderful party!" she yelled as she toed a drifting corpse away. "You must invite me again." Laquatus heard his teeth grinding as he restrained himself and the amphibian warrior who crept behind her, his fists raised high.
*****
"I will send over a supply of the oysters you so enjoyed," Laquatus said, his eyes locked with the confused merchant's. "I am sure a regular shipment can be arranged within the month." The eyes slowly cleared, and the man looked down at himself. He was dressed in waves of sea silk, the draped cloth more appropriate on a young maiden than a stocky man of fifty.
"Thank you for the loan," he mumbled. "I can't believe that I fell in the punchbowl and ruined my clothes. I promise to pay for any damage."
His eyes were clearing, and he looked at the outside of the embassy gate. The ambassador could see him trying to remember what exactly he had done. The merman sent another tendril of deceit into the man's mind, reinforcing images of drunken debauchery.
"Keep the cloth as my gift. I only regret that I ran out of clothes for the other guests." Laquatus forced out an indulgent chuckle. "A party without a little damage is hardly worth going to. I am sure everything will be shipshape by morning."
His jaw clenched as he shook the man's hand and sent him on his way with an escort. His mind drifted back to the grotto. The decomposing eel had killed off the coral and filled the cavern with an indescribably foul odor. The dead were packed into sealed barrels which must be disposed of immediately. Worse, the entire cavern must be rebuilt into a completely new environment. Laquatus was sure the false memories he implanted in the survivors would withstand most reminders of the violent episode, but it made no sense to tempt fate. The expense would be tremendous, but he could afford no flashbacks by guests at future affairs. His face grew forbidding as the last guest left his sight.
He started back to the cavern, but near the entrance he drifted off to the side. The pulse of energy he directed at the tapestry activated the quiescent spell, and he drifted through the wall. He could feel the defensive spells slamming back into place as he stepped into the small room.
Laquatus was alone with his thoughts, his ties to Turg cut. The amphibian was sleeping off the exertions of the fight and the pain Laquatus had inflicted on him to prevent the amphibian from killing the dementia caster. Fulla had proved entirely resistant to the merman's attempt to change her memories. Only the full attention of the Cabal – should such a powerful figure die – had prevented Laquatus from ordering a full scale attack to kill her. She was completely insane, but she showed no agitation and seemed in good spirits when she left. However, she was a chink in Laquatus's armor of deceit and must be dealt with in the near future. Perhaps the pits would prove particularly dangerous in the next few weeks.
The room was crudely mined and showed none of the fine workmanship that formed the rest of the embassy. Its construction had been long and laborious as Laquatus procured a stream of disposable workmen. He was forced to install the winch and thick trapdoor in the center of the room himself, with only Turg providing the muscle to ship the equipment. The merman cranked the heavy cover up, the rust falling like red snow. The remnants of some long destroyed fortress gate, its metal shielded the swirling pool of energy beneath. Without a double system of safeguards, magic users throughout the city might sense the power of the portal. It was vital that he keep his true strength hidden as long as possible. Laquatus removed his ambassadorial robes; glad to strip himself of the rags that landsmen expected him to wear. He dived into the pool.
The shock of hitting the icy water surprised him as always, and his entire frame shivered for a few seconds before he could take stock of his new surroundings. The darkness of the environment glistened with the bioluminescence of various creatures. Many of them came from the depths of the ocean and had been transferred to the deepwater caves underlying much of the continent. The shimmering pool of light that he dived into was replicated as a glowing vertical portal. The magic bridged a gap of nearly a thousand feet. Here, unknown to the city above, an army gathered to sally forth in the name of the
Mer Empire. Laquatus floated blissfully for a moment, relishing the fact that only the emperor carried more rank than the ambassador in these caves. Above he played the exiled noble, but here he was the state.
"My lord," a quiet voice seemed to whisper behind him, the tones swirling through the water. "You were not expected for some time."
Laquatus turned in the water, careful to show no surprise. A small humanoid moved from the darkness of an overhang. Long whiskers twitched, searching the waters for scent and movement. Its body was small and its limbs spindly. For a moment, it appeared harmless as it moved into the light. Then the ambassador again saw the cruel claws on its hands and feet. Their sheer size always startled him, but it was the head that was most disquieting. Huge and stuffed with glassy spearlike teeth, the mouth beckoned his gaze. There in the center danced a tongue, endlessly undulating and shifting color. Blank eyes without pupils looked blindly at him as the creature swam closer. Laquatus tore his eyes away and looked to the side. The tresias and its people were common in the underwater caves and formed a substantial portion of the ambassador's guard. Capta
in Satas was a loyal officer, perfect for command of the subterranean force, but his appearance was a constant source of revulsion to those who swam the sunlit seas.
"Events on the surface may require action sooner than anticipated," the ambassador answered. "We will need more soldiers stationed for assault on command." The tresias's tongue shifted faster though there was no other sign of agitation.
"My people are slow to trust and slower to travel; we will need soldiers from the empire." Satas signaled to an aide.
The warrior who swam over resembled a giant octopus caught in the process of becoming a man. The tentacles and its great bag of a head floated and moved freely in the water, but signs of an underlying structure of bone and horn peaked through. "You will carry the ambassador's words to the emperor."
The soldier left in a jet of water, his body sliding through a narrow crevice in the side of the cave. The ambassador hoped that more cephalids and other soft- body troops would be available. With malleable bodies, they could move easily through the caves and take the shortest routes. The advantages of such a heritage and its beauty made him jealous as he watched the trailing tentacles disappear. That the emperor should be blessed with such a form while the ambassador should look so… human.
"How have the tunneling crews fared?" he asked Satas, focusing on the unsightly captain to occupy his thoughts.
The engineers of the empire were continually opening new routes in the natural caves that underlay the entire continent. Connecting the largest underground rivers would allow for the rapid movement of the large bodies of troops and the giant warriors from the open seas, but the secret ways were twisted and full of dead ends. The mapping and connection of suitable caverns was a meticulous and slow process.
"Weeks before the way clears," Satas said, drifting back to the wall. "However, two more mages have mastered the door spell." The tresias moved suddenly, his whiskers whipping as he struck at a blind crayfish swimming out of a small crevice. "When more soldiers arrive we can open enough portals to flood the city with troops," he whispered and devoured the tender morsel alive.
CHAPTER 3
"I will need the winnings before the matches end tonight." Kamahl said seriously, maneuvering through the crowds around the arena. Chainer crowded closer, raising his voice to be heard.
"Why not tomorrow?" the young man asked, slapping a youth whose fingers reached for his purse. The gesture was casual, but the boy fell down under the feet of the crowd. Kamahl could hear slurred cursing growing fainter as they moved toward the preparation rooms.
"The price of my lodging is due tonight and I dislike arguments about money," the barbarian responded.
His massive metal gauntlet nudged a too eager fighter who tried to enter ahead of the pair. A cool stare by Kamahl forced the warrior back into the milling crowd as they entered the fetid air of the common preparation hall.
The barbarian entered the city with enough money for normal times, but the tourney had inflated the prices of food and lodging far above what he expected. The last of the fighter's funds were totally expended in placing a bet on the matches today.
"What will you do if you lose?" Chainer asked with concern. The young Cabal employee had warned Kamahl of the dire straits that the destitute could be forced into. The pits devoured a steady supply of the indigent to perform jobs too disgusting and dangerous for workers with any means. There were darker rumors that Kamahl heard hints of, but Chainer had not commented on them. "You are in a multiple party match. The other fighters could combine against you."
"I never considered losing," Kamahl said. He smiled and motioned the Cabal employee to leave and place the bet they discussed. "I also failed to consider a Phyrexian invasion destroying the city."
The barbarian chuckled slightly as he moved to prepare. Losing in the preliminaries, before the champions even entered the lists? He laughed at the implausibility of it as he moved toward the entrance of the arena.
The screaming and cheering crowd was a continuous background noise, overridden as the last competitors staggered in and were carried from the field. One lizard man lay on a stretcher, laid open like a butchered animal. His hands grasped the wooden poles with desperate strength, and Kamahl could see the life ebbing from the grip in time with the pulses of blood. The fighter expired as he was ferried past.
"A shame to die so badly," a deep voice commented. Kamahl turned and could see only a wall of fur.
He stepped back, his eyes rising to look at the speaker's visage. A centaur looked down on him, smiling with his lips closed in apparent friendliness.
He was huge, towering over the other competitors waiting for their matches. He stood at least half again as high as the barbarian. His features were simian with glimpses of fangs showing as he breathed through his mouth. The lower body was catlike though in sheer size it reminded Kamahl of a dray house. The fur over the body looked short and coarse. The barbarian could see the play of huge muscles under its hide as the creature shifted. The gigantic club in the centaur's hands was a mass of wood and banded iron. A small granite boulder capped the end, and the warrior lowered it to the floor as he offered a hand in greeting.
"I am Seton, from the Krosan Forest."
The barbarian gripped the massive hand, showing no hesitation or fear even as he felt the power in that grasp.
"Kamahl is my name," he answered. The barbarian gestured to the dead competitor being carried out. "Death comes to all. The lizard man lost and defeat often exacts the ultimate price." The centaur squeezed hard but seeing no response released Kamahl's hand.
"Defeat is often terrible, but the lizard man was the victor of the round."
The centaur held his weapon tightly, twisting his hands as he watched Cabal servants clearing the arena of corpses and raking in fresh sand. The smell of old blood and rot wafted in through the lower entrances to the fighting area. Kamahl dropped his pack to a bench along the wall. Other fighters, some almost green with fear and dreadful anticipation, made room. The barbarian undid his cloak and put it in his pack. A massive armored belt went around his waist as he moved his purse and nonessential items into the pack.
"A victory that leaves you dead is no victory," the barbarian opinioned, moving his massive sword from his back. The sword was a remnant of a massive artifact from the invasion. The fighter he had defeated swore it was part of Urza's staff, but Kamahl had his doubts. Still, the double-edged great sword channeled power exceptionally well. Its only flaw was the lack of a good stabbing point. "Better yet is to leave even your enemy alive to grant you homage and spread word of his defeat. Dead bodies feed only crows."
"Dead bodies do much more in the hands of the Cabal." Seton spat to the side, the spittle running down the wall and across the Cabal symbols on this side of the doors. "Unless you have made special arrangements, the necromancers will raise your corpse or feed it to their monsters." "If you fall, I will make sure that you don't end up depending on their tender mercies," Kamahl answered, his confidence such that he felt compelled to relieve the other's mind. "Why do you care what happens to me?" the centaur demanded, anger displacing the worry in his tone. "Do you make some claim for me?"
Kamahl was calm as he sealed his pack and kicked it under a bench. The Cabal servant overseeing the room caught the barbarian's eye, and he pointed to his gear with a forbidding expression. Power flowed from Kamahl's hand and danced over the wire interwoven with the cloth of the pack. The centaur was almost snarling as Kamahl finally turned his attention back to Seton.
"I came to fight the best," Kamahl replied, checking the fit of his armor. "I want to beat the best. Victory would be less pure if my opponents worried about what would happen to them after they lost."
The centaur swelled at the sheer arrogance and effrontery of the barbarian and then exploding in laughter.
"You are confident, hero," Seton laughed. "If you fight one tenth as well as you boast you will walk away with every prize."
Kamahl only smiled slightly then straightened.
The gatekeeper posted three tiles. One of them was the crossed axe and sword that Kamahl was assigned upon entering the games. Another was the Cabal house tile, stating that the Cabal would have a representative in the fight. The last tile showed a branch gripped by a hand. The barbarian watched Seton move toward the arena and knew the forest warrior was now his opponent. The centaur pushed through the thin screen of fighters in front of the door.
"Both against the Cabal fighter first, Kamahl," the centaur called to him. "After the undead are dispatched, you and I can discuss who should be the winner."
Seton spun his massive club like a light baton, sending others scrambling away as the small boulder seemed to whistle through the air. The barbarian smiled and nodded, moving up to stand by the mighty forest dweller. He showed no concern as the club began to spin even more wildly as they were directed into the arena. The crowd noise heightened, and Seton put on a show for the crowd. Kamahl attracted little notice, as he preferred to save his energy for the fight. The Cabal opponent entered from the opposite side, heading for a platform. A dark and tattered pennant drooped limply from a metal flagstaff.
The barbarian remembered Chainer's recitation of arena practice and how it echoed the ceremonial fighting practiced in the mountains. The Cabal fighter was fair game during combat, but the simple act of taking the flag would expel the house fighter from the match. The rule allowed overmatched house fighters to retreat and lose a flag rather than their lives. Several matches Kamahl saw earlier in the week involved the Cabal fighter losing to a stolen flag as they were overwhelmed and forced to protect themselves first and foremost. One novice Cabal fighter pulled the flag himself as he was overwhelmed. The fighter lived, but the shame of his cowardly act would undoubtedly make his life a living hell. The contestants not with the Cabal had no flag to lose. Only total defeat or humiliating surrender awaited them should a Cabal fighter prove superior. The barbarian heard many complain that the Cabal lost flags more often than lives, but he planned to win, so not having an alternate way to be defeated did not bother him.