The hugely muscled man opposite him appeared to be nothing more than a farmer. He looked worried and sweated profusely, from the heat perhaps, though more likely through fear at the impending battle.
The ageing General did not relish the thought of killing Rathman, though he knew he had no choice. He needed to delay Coinin’s inevitable death match in the hope of finding some way out of this mess. He hoped, no, prayed to Rindor, that somehow Quindil knew they were in grave danger and that they were coming to the rescue.
He decided to string out the match as long as was possible, tire out his opponent and then go in for the kill.
A second horn sounded and signalled that the game had begun, that would end in either victory or death.
Great cheers rippled through the crowd interspersed with cries of betting odds as to who would triumph. Gold changed hands swiftly, each punter eager to fleece the many bookmakers for every gold piece they possessed, and likewise the bookies desired the same.
With a roar, Rathman lumbered forward, vibrating the platform with his massive trunk-sized legs. Jericho held his ground and danced aside at the last moment. Rathman sailed by and collided with a stout arena post.
Jericho stepped back lithely and swished his sword through the air, testing the heft.
Rathman grunted and shook his head, dazed after having struck the post with his oversized forehead. He recovered enough to lunge at Jericho who feigned left and darted right. His success, however, was short-lived, as Rathman, despite being dazed, whipped out an arm full of bulging muscle. It felt immovable to Jericho as his neck struck it. He toppled backwards and landed heavily. He was able to get to his knees quickly and clutched at his throat, desperate to draw breath.
Rathman wasted no time. He stepped behind Jericho and in one powerful motion seized the General by the wrists and lifted him high into the air.
Jericho cried out in pain and shock, his legs kicking fruitlessly in an attempt to escape.
Coinin looked on in horror, quite unable to assist without magic and while flanked by guards. Jericho was helpless. Fear turned to despair. He has led his forces to this fate, and his heart hung heavy.
As if his mind had been read, Len’i nudged him, and he glanced up at the tall Orc, avoiding looking at the sharp teeth permanently on display.
‘Don’t worry, you none,’ said Len’i, ‘we all chose this path. It will be an honour to die alongside these brave men.’
‘But you don’t know them. How can you say that?’ Coinin objected.
‘I don’t have to. They follow you unquestioningly, and that tells me that they fight for something worthwhile. Something worth far more than their own lives. Something good. Besides, who wants to live out their existence in a dark hole of a prison? I’d rather go out fighting.’
A roaring and cheering erupted from the crowd and interrupted the conversation.
Rathman rushed towards the arena barrier with Jericho still held aloft. His aim was to slam the General against a support pole and crush the man with his own weight, though at the last second, Jericho slightly bent his knees and planted his feet firmly against the wooden post. Letting his legs bend further with the momentum, he ran up the pole.
Jericho twisted in the air, sailed over Rathman’s head and landed like a cat behind the hulking mass. Rathman did not stop in time, and again he impacted a solid tree trunk supporting the arena.
Jericho acted immediately and jumped on his opponent’s back, wrapping his arms around the beast’s thick neck. He locked his arms in a chokehold and squeezed with all his strength.
Rathman bucked and twisted trying to shake off Jericho and escape the hold, yet with the lack of oxygen to his brain his efforts soon faltered.
Rathman’s neck relaxed, and Jericho moved the position of his arms. In one swift motion, he snapped the brute’s neck. Rathman collapsed with a shudder that rocked the platform and Jericho fell to the ground fatigued.
He offered a silent prayer to Rindor in forgiveness for taking what was essentially an innocent life, something he always did in these circumstances.
The crowd erupted in jubilant roars. Their king had promised a spectacle and had thus far delivered.
Thunderfist stood in his private box and applauded Jericho. ‘Silence,’ he yelled at the crowd and turned to Jericho. ‘I can see why ya hold the rank of General. Congratulations on yer victory, however, the fight’s not over.’
Two heavyset guards approached Jericho and marched him from the combat area to where Coinin and the others waited. He was forcibly made to sit on a wooden crate. He breathed hard and asked for water, and his guard reluctantly threw a bladder at him. The General caught it and untied a thin twine holding a cork in the opening. He upturned the bladder and drank the warm and slightly salty water greedily.
‘That’s enough,’ his guard ordered and seized the flask.
Jericho licked his wet lips, his mind already beginning to tick over with plans for escape.
‘Coinin Wulf,’ bellowed the King. ‘You’re next.’
Jericho felt suddenly ill at the sound of his Curator’s name being called to battle. He looked up and saw for the first time, not his Curator, but a young and vulnerable boy.
Coinin turned white and shook uncontrollably at the thought of what lay ahead. Yet, before he could step forward, Jericho pushed his way through his guards and stood before the King’s private box. His guards attempted to drag him away, though he shrugged them off with determination.
‘King, I entreat you. He is but a boy. You will be sending a child to his death. It will be a slaughter,’ Jericho called up to him.
The King mockingly considered Jericho’s plea. ‘As much as I’m a merciful King,’ he laughed, as did the crowd, ‘I must decline to spare the boy. He chose this path by infiltrating our camp, and besides, another desires the boy’s life.’
Beside the King, Lordich stood and gestured to the edge of the arena where an armour-clad knight stood upright and unmoving.
‘Meet the object of your demise boy.’ Lordich cackled and rubbed his hands together in glee.
The knight, with armour glinting in the sun, clanked forward and stopped at the centre of the arena.
Coinin’s guard pushed him roughly forward, and the Curator obeyed. He sauntered, a young man with a heavy weight on his shoulders. His breathing quickened, and he sweated profusely.
The crowd grew noisier, their thirst for blood growing with each passing minute.
Thunderfist’s voice once again barked. ‘Choose yer weapons carefully.’
Moments before, a dark wooden chest had been placed in the centre of the ring, and Coinin looked into it to see an array of deadly looking armaments.
He scanned the options quickly and decided most were near as useless to him as either too heavy or too unwieldy. He instead chose a short sword and a buckler to fend off any incoming blows. He had received some battle training from Jericho in the previous months, but, even still, he stood no chance against a warrior in full battle armour.
Despite his fear, the nagging inbuilt stubborn streak he possessed fuelled him to at least die like a man, a warrior and protector of his faith. He would be only the second Curator to die in battle, and he sincerely hoped he would be the last.
He would at least, in death, briefly earn the title he possessed and received some comfort that his brother Marrok would not witness his end.
As he took his position opposite the frighteningly big opponent, he bowed his head to Rindor, a naive mistake, he knew. Jericho had repeatedly instructed him never to let down his guard and take his eyes off his target. He figured since his magic was useless and he was no match for the knight, that a short prayer to Rindor would do no harm.
The arena guards retreated, and a horn sounded, once again signalling that the battle had begun.
Armour clanked, and a two-handed sword swished menacingly close to Coinin’s face. Coinin jumped back and realised that the knight was slower than he, and that gave him a small hope that
he may be able to tire out his opponent and strike at the right moment. With Rindor’s grace, his belief was that somehow he could yet defeat the soldier before him.
How wrong he was; the knight showed a surge of speed. Whoever was inside that suit was young and fit.
Coinin fought off blow after blow and his arm and wrist throbbed agonisingly. The shield, wood with a layer of steel, buckled and was near useless. He fell to his knees and instantly knew that he was a dead man.
The knight thundered towards him. His frame blocked out the sun and cast a long, dark shadow reminiscent of Death’s own so that his attacker was silhouetted against the sun.
Coinin closed his eyes and awaited the inevitable strike. The moment had arrived, and his life flashed before him, pitifully short. He felt oddly sad that he had not achieved more, felt the love of a woman or the pleasure of growing old and watching his grandchildren grow into fine adults.
Odd that he should think such thoughts so soon after Reena’s untimely death. He craved what was forbidden, and it almost engulfed him.
He was snapped back to reality and opened his eye as the armoured foe raised his sword, ready to strike. It shone in the sunlight momentarily blinding him.
‘A blessing,’ he thought. He would not see the killing blow.
For a moment, nothing happened, and Coinin almost wished the knight would hurry up and end it. Instead, he squinted up at the enemy towering over him and watched as the knights head, complete with helmet, sailed through the air. It struck the ground with a clang and rolled to a stop several feet away.
The knight’s body effused blood in a wide arc from the neck before falling backwards with a clatter of metal.
A hooded figure stepped forward through a cloud of dust thrown up into the air by the knight’s body.
‘Get your filthy hands off my brother.’
Marrok dropped his hood and spat upon the body of the knight.
In the distance, Lordich was heard to cry out in anger even over the roars of the crowd.
Marrok smiled at Coinin and offered his hand. ‘Why am I always saving your neck?’
Coinin looked visibly shocked, and with hands that shook, accepted the help up from the dirt. Without a word, he immediately wrapped arms around his older sibling and tears flowed freely.
Marrok forcibly removed himself from Coinin’s grasp. ‘Not now, Coinin,’ he said, whirling at the sound of running feet.
Two guards with drawn swords hastened to greet the new threat with deadly force.
Marrok turned to the other prisoners. ‘Let’s not go down without a fight, General.’
Jericho heard him and nodded, immediately rising from his seat to relieve the guard stood before him of his weapon. He struck the back of the guard’s knee and wrapped an arm around the neck of his victim, plunging the sword deep. He dropped the dead guard and turned to the prisoners around him. ‘If you want to live, do as I say and we will get out of this alive. Hur’al, Len’i, release the prisoners.’
Jericho witnessed several hooded figures making a quick escape from the arena via the entrance gates. Len’i made to go after them. ‘Len’i, leave them, we must set up a defence.’
‘Aye,’ said Len’i and nudged Hur’al. Both he and the human raced away to unlock the cages holding the prisoners.
A minute later, Jericho raised a brow at the bunch of misfits before him. He ran to the weapons chest and kicked open the lid. ‘There are weapons here,’ he yelled. ‘The enemy is that way. Do not let them in here, no matter what.’
He turned around and saw Coinin running towards him earnestly. ‘Curator, I’m so glad you’re safe.’
‘You and me both, General. Listen, I can’t use magic whilst the witch uses her blocking curse, and I’m no use with a sword. Can you take care of her?’
Jericho thought for a moment. A frown creased his brow, and then a smile spread across his face. ‘I might just have a way.’ He handed his sword to Coinin. ‘Look after this will you? I’ll be right back.’
Before his eyes, Jericho shrunk by a foot, and Coinin stepped back as the General’s clothing dropped away. The face of the man distorted and elongated and black fur sprouted to cover the entirety of his body.
He watched transfixed as Jericho transformed into a sleek black leopard, kicked a forepaw free of the confines of his clothing and stretched. The sun glistened from his glossy black coat, and he gave a high-pitched snarl. Hardly a heartbeat passed before the animal bounded away at great speed.
The leopard darted around the prisoners who were assembling near the arena gates in defensive lines, ready to repel the inevitable attack by the King’s forces.
It appeared to Coinin that Thuun had not anticipated the rebellion by his prisoners as evidenced by his sheer panic and energetic arm-waving in his private box.
Coinin felt it before he saw it. The platform below him shuddered, and he knew nothing good was about to happen.
A roar cut above the angry chants and yells of the crowd and silenced them for a moment; then their cries turned to cheers.
Coinin’s stomach dropped to his knees. He knew that sound and dreaded what was coming next.
The second ogre, larger than their original escort, thundered into view, all rage and saliva. The raised walkway leading to the arena was by now filling with guards ready to storm the gates. Fearing the Ogre, they parted as it approached, yet due to its sheer size and the restricted width of the walkway, the going was slow. More than one guard fell to his death or was crushed underfoot to the cheers of the prisoners.
Come on General, Coinin urged silently. Terrified was not too far from the way he was feeling at that moment.
Jericho carefully chose his route and leapt onto a barrel at the side of the arena. Balancing like a circus lion, he used his powerful leopard’s legs to propel himself high. Landing softly upon one of the tree trunk supports holding up the platform, he balanced on all four paws effortlessly and visualised his next leap. It seemed to be a huge gap between the posts, and he hoped he could make it. However, he had no time to contemplate what would happen if he missed his mark.
Something impacted his flank and bit deep. He turned his head and snarled at the pirates below him who were hurling rocks in an effort to unseat him from his perch.
Thankfully, the majority of the pirates were poor shots, and most missiles missed their intended target. He was even more thankful the pirates had no archers to hand. Steeling himself, he crouched low, building muscle energy in his hindquarters, and then leapt. In the blink of an eye he landed on his target, and without a moment’s hesitation, he jumped several more posts until he was directly opposite the King’s box.
Lordich, he saw, bid a hasty retreat through the rear exit. Coward, he thought.
A new obstacle lay before him. Two armoured men wielding long spears guarded Thuun, who looked furious, and rightly so. Whoever had removed the restraints would pay dearly. How dare his prisoners mutiny like this?
Jericho in a flash of creative tactical genius knew what his next move would be.
First, he roared and spat, and Thuun’s guards, as he had hoped, were unnerved and took a step back. This gave him an advantage.
Without warning, the black leopard leapt with a high bound towards the King’s box. As he reached the lip of the parapet, his rear claws gouged into the wood and gave him traction that helped him pounce at the first guard. He spiralled balletically in the air and over the first guard’s spear, his hind paws connecting heavily with the jaw of his target who was sent flying. The guard collided with several horrified onlookers and became entangled with them as the group fell to the ground.
A heartbeat later Jericho barreled into the second guard, and with a growl, wrenched the spear from his grasp with his powerful jaw. The guard panicked and jumped headfirst over the parapet and out of sight.
A flash of red caught Jericho’s keen cat eyes. There in the background was the witch, cowering behind a larger woman. Probably the King’s wife, he thought.
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br /> A single lock of blonde hair that peeked out from under her hood had singled the woman out as his next target. He began to creep slowly towards the witch and then a loud bang, and a shower of splintered wood exploded just above his head. Jericho whirled and saw Thuun furiously trying to reload a single shot weapon.
Thankfully, the King had missed, and that gave him time to yell, or rather snarl, that Thuun was next.
Turning back to the witch, he bounded over to her quickly and with as much efficacy as possible, he lay his heavy paws on her shoulders, almost buckling her legs. With regret, he tore out her throat with his strong jaws and sharp teeth.
Iron-rich blood coursed from the woman’s throat and she collapsed, hands grasping at her wound in a futile attempt to stem the flow.
Jericho despised the taste of blood, not so his animal side, but each death at his hands gnawed at him so much so that he refused to look into the eyes of the woman dying before him, her eyes pleading for an answer as to why.
Jericho padded away to face Thuun next. The King was still busily trying to reload his weapon and did not notice the leopard silently stalking him.
As he reached striking distance, a cry rang out warning the King which stalled Jericho’s advance. Thuun looked up wide-eyed, and although he was formidable against any man thanks to his size and girth, he was uncertain of his chances against a slick, swift leopard.
His hand instinctively reached for his favoured sword, and he realised to his horror that he had left it beside his throne that very morning. His pistol was useless unloaded. His hands had shaken uncontrollably as he attempted to load the gunpowder and it went everywhere apart from its intended target, down the barrel. He flung the weapon at the leopard with frightening force.
The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection Page 65