by Vance Moore
Kamahl cast only occasional glances toward the exhibition. Finally the signal was given, and the acrobats somersaulted free, leaving the floor clear.
The servant left as two fighters emerged, each wearing colors of arena staff. One was tall and scarred, wearing a steel mask and leather armor. A short flail with two spiked heads swung slowly at his side.
The other opponent leaned on a staff of black wood, a brazier producing smoke in different colors that swept over him. He was short and spindly, dressed only in tattered clothes that ruffled slightly as a gust of wind swept the arena. The servant glanced in from his rounds of the other boxes.
"Does your staff fight or is it just the fishermen?" Kamahl asked, as hoots began to rise up from the audience.
"We are very small compared to the inland arenas, my lord," the servitor said, projecting obsequiousness in the face of perceived disappointment. "The large gladiatorial companies avoid us, the crowds being too small and the gambling syndicates unable to handle serious betting. We must rely on house fighters for the majority of the bouts."
The signal to begin the bout rang, and the waiting dementia caster dug his staff into the soil. The shaft cast a long shadow, though no bright light existed to throw such a pall. From the depths of the shadow came laughter. Then several twisted monsters exited the darkness. Their flesh appeared parched, their hands showing bone as they shuffled about in a gruesome dance.
The masked fighter swung his flail as the tall mage called more creatures from his mind and raised the bones of the dead from the ground. The race of the corpses was impossible to determine because the flesh was in such poor condition.
The dementia caster sawed his staff back and forth, the shadow racing over the ground. The black wave coated the flesh of the risen, drawing the moisture out. Their flesh shriveled as tendons and muscles grew too tenuous to keep the bodies together.
The field cleared as laughing corpses fell on each other and dragged food back to the darkness from which they sprang. Some of the horrific creatures called forth from the dementia caster's mind ignored everything and staggered around the arena. Cries sounded from the gate guards as the dead beat on the barriers keeping them inside. Others turned on the masked fighter who began to fall back. The flail smashed bones, but the twisted dead continued snapping at his heels, their bodies coiling and rebuilding into even more twisted fragments of the short mage's imagination.
A few of the creatures even turned on their creator, advancing on the staff. The shadow it cast began to sweep back and forth, the pall forming a cone in front of the mage. The rebelling monsters fell as their limbs spilled to the ground, their frames melting like frost on a skillet. The masked jack fought harder as more of the laughing closed on him.
Acknowledging defeat the fighter knelt in submission, his mask dipping to the ground. The dementia caster withdrew his staff from the ground and knocked the brazier over. The summoned vanished like nightmares at dawn as the short victor bowed to the applause of the crowd.
*****
The crowd roared in the stands above as workers tried to reassemble the dead. The arena operator and two assistants laid out the bodies of the slain. Some had been dead a very long time, and the smell smashed against the barbarian. Kamahl had left his private box before the next bout to talk to the owners about fighting in their establishment. He found the master hard at work preparing for the next night.
"Make sure you find as many body parts as you can," the promoter told the groundskeeper. The arena owner's pale skin contrasted with the dirt and leather smock he wore. Splotches of blood and caustic burns covered his apron and sections of revealed skin. "There are rumors sweeping the docks, and the sailors are asking for burial at sea again instead of in port." He shooed the servant away and regarded the jack.
"So you wish to join our little family?" The pit boss asked, searching through a pile of limbs for an arm to complete a dead dwarf, preservative fluid dripping from the torn flesh. Kamahl shook his head.
"I wish to compete in the arena against your fighters," he corrected. He looked at the dead being reconstructed for later battles. "Your family appears quite big enough," he said with distaste. The promoter ignored the tone.
"You would be surprised how difficult it is to keep a large enough supply for Enoch and Apel, our necromancers," he said, surrendering in his quest and throwing a random arm in the dwarf's case. "We'll have to bury these tonight in the arena. Apel's zombies always cart off the dead despite how short we are. We used to get sailors, but my brother forgot to alter one's looks. Now it is almost impossible to get them after they die." He moved to the next casket whose contents the barbarian avoided looking at. "The crowds are growing very tired of the same old faces week after week.
"I am offering something new," Kamahl said, stepping around to peer in the mild eyes. "Someone whom your clients have not seen before."
The proprietor waved to his assistants and walked to the back with the barbarian following.
"You understand that we rarely fight to the death here," the official said, hanging his splattered apron on a hook before stepping into an office. "Also, the deal is contingent on my brother's agreement when he comes back from meeting with the bet-mongers."
"I'll not put on a show," Kamahl said, his eyes growing hard. "When I fight, it will be for real. However, I need not kill if your fighters understand that they can surrender when they are overwhelmed."
The owner waved the demand away.
"A jack in a small arena has no use for a champion's airs," he said, drawing forth a piece of paper. "Now, I will need your name for the criers circulating tonight if you plan to fight tomorrow."
The barbarian paused before answering. It would be easiest to give a false name, but an outright lie stuck in his throat.
"Call me the Hammer," he said, sparking the proprietor's interest. "Only by defeating me will someone learn my true name."
The fat man nodded, seeing the possibilities. "You will need to clean your armor, and we must design a suitable emblem…" the owner continued as he led the barbarian away. A host of functionaries followed, all trying to mold Kamahl to their own idea of what a fighter should be. He was brusque in refusing their offers of advice on how to fight and the proper attire to wear. He did allow the armorer to work on his protective gear, which had suffered during his travels.
It seemed only minutes, and he was standing in the center of the arena, the noise of the crowd merging into an unintelligible muttering. The gray cloak was thrown back, his iron shirt dark against his brass skin.
Kamahl swung his hammer, stretching out the kinks in his muscles. His first opponent was Apel, a short dementia caster. Knowing the reputation of such mages, Kamahl wondered if the house fighter would follow the rules. The barbarian believed the short summoner would soon be surrendering, but he must be prepared for a battle to the death. The crowd began to chant as Apel strode into the arena and lowered his equipment to the ground.
The dementia caster stood on the sand, a burning brazier at his side. Apel threw power onto the glowing coals and a heavy cloud of smoke rose, making his features waver and change. The dark mage dug his staff into the ground, and a thin shadow stretched out from the shaft, advancing toward the light behind Kamahl's head rather than away. The familiar shuffling figures of the mirthful dead began to appear, cackling perhaps at the joke of life itself. Kamahl wondered how predictable his opponent would be.
The barbarian called forth his own magic, a field of possibility forming over the sand. He would experiment, use the arena to teach himself new methods of attack and defense. Several cougars surged out of nothingness onto the arena floor, their roars stilling the cries of the crowd. The zombies came on, their laughter continuing even as many were pulled down and savaged by the great cats. If any of the dead were reconstructed corpses, the mountain mage did not envy the morticians' tasks in repairing the bodies.
The dementia caster seemed oblivious to the failure of his forces. Ignoring the feasting
cats, Apel sent more undead onto the arena floor. A tattered wave threatening to overwhelm Kamahl's spell by choking his beasts under a wave of cold flesh. The barbarian concentrated again, the cloud of his summoning stretching wider as he played a little to the crowd.
A flock of mountain sheep stormed onto the sand. They milled for a moment, their waist-high bodies losing themselves in a blur as the fierce rams fought for position. Kamahl nudged them into action with a mental command, and the beasts lowered their tightly curled horns and stormed forward. The rams struck hard, shattering bone and bringing the dead down. Clawed hands and fangs struck at Kamahl's creatures but could not penetrate the dense wool that defeated the cold wind of the mountains and the hot breath of timber wolves.
Apel lifted his staff into the air, his face now agitated as his forces fell to mere sheep. In frustration he speared the oak into the sand. Power poured into the soil. Like cobras rising to strike, dark spears rose from the ground. The shadowy weapons bobbed and weaved before falling on the animals that ground up the dead. The wool that resisted the strength of zombies sundered as the beasts were transfixed. The few remaining cougars expired in yowling pain. The rams fell as mutton, the undead rising up as Apel poured new strength to their shattered bones. The bodies tottered toward the barbarian more twisted and cackling than before, but the upright spears of night were straight as they drifted toward the mountain mage.
Kamahl stepped forward, his brow wrinkling as his will contested once more with the universe. Now hulking figures came onto the arena sands, their roars of displeasure shaking the crowd until the mighty monsters choked off their cries with dead flesh. Their white fur grew stained with blood and gore as they tore apart those coming too close to their master. The yetis discarded limbs as they worked their way back to the dementia caster. The enemy mage's black spears dived to spill life to the ground. But despite the humanoids' bulk, they dodged the dark weapons with ease, their agility honed by the mountain cliffs their kind regularly traveled. They wrung their way up the line of zombies, and Kamahl raised his hammer, waiting for the next attack.
The crowd cried out as the yetis approached the enemy, their bloody hands reaching for the weedy mage. The dementia caster dropped, and his body heaved. Kamahl paused, holding his minions in case his opponent was surrendering, uncertain with all the particulars of this arena.
A wave of corrupting flesh seemed to spew from the underworld. The zombies Apel called forth vanished, disappearing or devoured by his newest creation. The mass lunged for the approaching yetis, lifting itself into the air and spreading out in a great sheet of corruption. The mountain apes disappeared under the dark spell as the mound fell with a thunderous retort. The impact ruptured coffins buried in the dirt. Bodies lolled on the ground and were swallowed by the spreading wave.
The crowd called for Kamahl's defeat, cheering for their favorite. The barbarian was done with calling monster and readied his hammer. The iron head fell as the first tendrils reached him. The maul struck the ground, a shattering concussion setting the sand rolling, flinging back the formless flesh. The jack took a step forward as his hammer thundered again. The magic concussion splattered the corruption back, the waves of power shaking the stands. The strength of his attack diminished as Kamahl controlled his power.
He cleaved a path with reverberating blows, working his way across the arena until he stood before Apel. The power assaulted the mage's bones, and he leaned on his staff, too unsteady to remain upright without the support. The barbarian raised his hammer and paused to allow the dementia caster to forfeit. The necromancer bowed his head in defeat.
Cheers sounded as Kamahl nodded magnanimously and offered his hand in a show of sportsmanship. The barbarian turned and bowed to the proprietors in their box and the crowd in the stands. The fighter started for the exit and the alehouse, anxious to wash the stench of the dead from his frame.
*****
The serving girl scooped meat onto the barbarian's trencher, and the gravy started to sink into the bread. Kamahl took a bite, and the juices tasted delicious as he washed the meal down with ale.
The other customers regarded him warmly, despite his defeat of the local fighter. The novelty of a new opponent gave him a popularity he had not received in Cabal City. The hill tavern was full, as new patron came to view the stranger. His deliberate air of mystery was another draw. So far, Kamahl had given no name except that of his new weapon. The ivory and iron creation lay across the table as enthusiasts walked slowly by, caressing it with their eyes.
The dementia caster's defeat and the adulation of the crowd pleased the barbarian. His battle had been the climax of the night. It had been a short bill with only the duel between an unknown and the local champion bringing any crowd. The enthusiasm and respect was heady, but Kamahl remembered this was only single step in his quest for the orb. A group crowded closer to his table, and he looked up. Three young men dressed in armor and carrying brand-new weapons coughed for his attention. None of their gear showed wear, and most appeared of indifferent quality.
Two of them were dark, their skins rough from exposure to the weather. They were fit but were uncomfortable with their weapons. The middle boy was tall and thin, with muscle showing but lacking the calluses of his companions. He wore his clothes and elegant boots well enough. However, he seemed no more at ease with the sword at his hip than his companions.
The barbarian wondered if they were working up the nerve to challenge him or pick a fight to show their own bravery. Many jacks reveled in such fights but not Kamahl. "You have a question?" he growled, his irritation deepening his voice. They jumped back, then two pushed the center of their trio forward.
"If you please, sir," the blond said hesitantly, his hands falling to his belt, "we wondered if you might be available for students seeking instruction."
Kamahl laughed shortly, the boys' faces reddening. His mirth was more at his own expense than the youngsters', but the adolescents were wound too tightly for any hint of humor. They started to withdraw, but the barbarian called them back.
"Your pardon, sirs," Kamahl apologized. "I expected a different question. Please join me." The three drew up stools and sat down. The serving wench brought more tankards at the barbarian's wave.
"I am Girter, son of a chandler," the blond boy said, giving a seated bow. "These are my friends Wasel and Birten. Their father owns two fishing boats. We hope to learn magic from you," he added bluntly
"Why me?" the mountain mage asked. "Surely there are others willing to teach, fighters from the arena perhaps." He took a sip as he thought. To be a fighting master was a serious relationship in the mountains. He had spent years working with his mentor and could not see himself in such a role for now. But he remembered his own stumbling steps in search of magic. Perhaps he could help the boys.
"We want you to teach us because there are few willing to teach. Apel and Enoch will both take students, but we feel uneasy with calling on the dead. Besides, you are the first in quite some time to beat either of them," Girter said, his friends nodding in agreement.
"I do not know my own plans," Kamahl said, playing for time. "I will offer my opinions on the available teachers. I have skill, but you need a master rather than a fighter. I leave soon, in any case. It depends on what I learn about the trade caravans."
"My father is completely familiar with them," Girter exclaimed, flushing with pleasure now, rather than rage.
"Our father sometimes hauls out cargo from the caravans to the freight ships waiting in the bay," one of the brothers chimed in. "Though there isn't much call for his services anymore."
"Yes," said Girter with a frown, reclaiming the conversation. "The number of wagons hauling cargo to the coast plummeted when the Order became more active. They stop caravans across the continent, searching for a stolen artifact."
"They say that an agent for the Cabal stole a magic sword belonging to the head of the Order. She had her throat cut in her sleep." One of the dark- haired boys – the barbaria
n thought it Wasel – spoke with a certain amount of relish.
"I heard an ambassador from the emperor's court and his fighting frog stole it during an animal attack on the captain," his brother Birten said, determined to speak at least once.
"They even say a metal-skinned barbarian killed the captain and her lieutenant and stole away a great treasure," Girter confessed, glancing toward Kamahl. His friends looked nervously at the mountain fighter, who smiled back.
"I never had the pleasure of meeting the captain.,"
The three youths laughed uproariously as if Kamahl told a great jest.
"I am, however, interested in occurrences inland. Perhaps I will return that way. I also might travel by ship, so I would appreciate any news of the empire. Please join me, and we will talk more."
Kamahl watched them wave for the waitress and wondered how many rumors and false trails battled with the truth. Perhaps he would stay in Borben a while, finding news sources from the empire. One thing was certain-further travel was pointless without more information.
CHAPTER 23
"Shall we come to order?" Laquatus called as the generals gathered around the table. The delicate murals on the throne room walls twinkled like submerged stars, the emperor's image looming over his councilors and servants. In the continent's dead buildings, the ambassador could take the image down or cover it. However, in the sea, the palace itself would bleed the image through any barrier. Besides, Laquatus could not decide the fate of the emperor's face, not just yet.
Already he had turned the throne room into the command center. From here he directed the action against the supposed rebels and agents of the queen. Aboshan had retired to his rooms in disarray. There he spent his time in debauchery with occasional bouts when he planned paranoid purges. Increasingly, the court relied on Laquatus to deal with the day to day running of the palace. Many decisions, formerly the exclusive domain of the emperor, were decided by him. Best of all, he was able to blame the bolder and bloody moves on the now-isolated ruler.