by R. Brown
“Hmmmgg.” There was only a brief hesitation as Basilisk considered his words. “You shall escort her to the Gorgos, Antares. We shall see if she is worthy of me. Atop the Gorgos, unbind her wrists and return her sword to her. She will need it,” said Basilisk as he turned to leave. A step later, he waved to a nearby guard. “Untie her ropes and bind her with the cuffs of stone. Give the key to Antares.”
The guard approached, cuffs in hand.
“Come on,” said Ash, taking a step forward. “Let’s not keep the big guy waiting.”
The heavy cuffs were made of iron with inlaid stone, cut from the monument’s stones around her. They were designed for one purpose—to dampen her powers.
Antares and a contingent of Dracs escorted her to a waiting shuttle. Before the door closed—Ash saw Steven get into another nearby ship and lift off.
On the ride, not once did Antares look at her. He was as poised and focused as the other warriors around him.
Ash heard the sound of gurgling bubbles and sloshing water as the ship plunged into the ocean. They were headed to the underwater base, Steven’s home. A squeal reverberated through the hull as they passed through the hydrostatic barrier protecting the base from the enormous pressure.
There was a muted clang as the skids touched down, followed by a pause as the ship waited for the landing bay to pressurize.
When the rear door lowered, Antares and the guards rose. “Go,” said Antares, prodding her with a strong push to the shoulder.
The underwater base was large, but not well appointed—functional and nothing more. “This place could sure use a decorator. Maybe add a little color here and there.”
“Perhaps your blood add color,” said the guard standing next to Antares.
“Or yours,” said Ash. “This place could use a dash of cowardice yellow—unless of course you feel that killing women and children are honorable acts for a warrior.”
If looks could kill, the Draconian’s gaze had committed murder. Unable to hold back, the Draconian guard lashed out at her with a claw.
Antares stepped in, blocking the blow. When the guard tried to take a swing at Antares, he swung the guard around and snapped his arm down, breaking it.
The Drac staggered backward, his wailing roar echoing down the intersecting corridors of the central hub in which they stood.
Antares growled at the attacking guard. “You dare touch what belong Basilisk? You dare challenge me?
“Go, before Basilisk see your shame.”
Antares turned to Ashlyn. “No talk. You be judged by Gorgos. We see you survive.”
Chapter 15
Gorgos
The guards, led by Antares, took her down a dimly lit corridor. At the end, was a stone archway that opened upon a large domed colosseum.
“Go,” said Antares. Stepping out onto the arena floor, Ash saw that there were thousands of seated Draconians in the balcony with more arriving through a myriad of tunnels and causeways. Outside the dome, in the dark water, she could see the running lights of arriving shuttles bringing still more to the event.
The colosseum had a decidedly medieval feel. Aesthetically, if not for the dome, it would have been the antithesis of modern technology, a throwback to some ancient period of Draconian history. The arena floor of packed, yellow sand was splotched with pools of blue, dried blood. The stench was nauseating.
“Judging by the smell, this is one hell of a big litterbox,” said Ash, knowing she would be the only one to appreciate the joke. It was also the most truthful thing she had said since her arrival.
Antares grumbled. “No talk.” He backhanded her across the face—splitting her lip open and sending her sprawling to the ground. The audience responded, stomping their feet and roaring at his chastisement.
Under the noise of the watchful audience as he knelt to lift her up, he whispered, “Be quiet. Watch, listen, learn. Maybe you live.”
Ash rose to her feet and looked at her surroundings, truly paying attention as Antares had told her.
Surrounding the arena floor was a fifteen-foot high wall of white marble, lined with hundreds of weapons and a variety of shields. Centerstage in the middle of the arena stood a six-story, wooden planked, stanchioned structure. From it, hung a dozen platforms of varying sizes and heights. The platforms were connected above and below by climbing ladders made of chain. Between most of the platforms, stairs led to wooden planked, suspension walkways.
It was a place designed for warriors to compete, and if the dried puddles and heavy splatters of blood that stained the wood were any indication of the expected outcome—it was a place where the combatants battled to the death.
Antares told the other guards to wait while he escorted Ashlyn across the sand to the structure. He then ordered her to proceed up the walkway to the top platform.
At the top, “Wow, front row seats. You really shouldn’t have,” said Ash. “Do all the guests of honor get this treatment?”
“I do not like you so much when you talk this way,” said Antares. Tossing her sword aside, it fell to the wooden planks with a clatter. The audience was mesmerized, watching him unshackle her. As he did so, he asked, “Is it true? Is Basilisk one of your kind?”
He glanced quickly up at her. She gave a tiny nod. “Hmmmgg,” as he noticed that her lip had healed.
Brusquely, he gathered the shackles and turned to leave. As he walked away, Ashlyn apologized. “I’m sorry, Antares—but my people do not accept death easily.”
“Nor do mine,” said Antares without turning around to look at her. Alone, atop the structure—Ash estimated it was a hundred and fifty feet to the arena’s wall in any direction. It was impressive.
The stadium filled quickly, the waiting Dracs anxious for the event to begin.
A horn blew. The thousands of gathered Draconians stood, and stomped their feet—the dome vibrating under the rhythmic pulse. One of the large gates of barred steel along the wall swung open, pushed by two guards. From out of the gate, Draconian warriors marched, forming a circle with their back against the wall.
Each was dressed in red leather armor, and wore spiked helmets of steel on their head. They were physically impressive, a foe to be feared.
Ash noted that each warrior had stopped beneath one of three alternating Standards. Each Standard bore the likeness of an animal symbolizing the clan they belonged to.
A horn sounded bringing the stomping of feet to a halt. The warriors on the arena floor turned in unison and chose a weapon from the wall, a few also deciding to take a shield.
Walking to the edge of the platform, Ash put her arms out wide, her gesture meant to encompass all the warriors gathered below and said. “Only thirty-nine? You dishonor me.”
Ash saw that the gate was closed, blocking Antares from leaving.
“What is meaning of this? Open gate,” Antares commanded.
“You wait. Basilisk has ordered it.” The Dracs brought their swords to bear, barring his escape.
Antares turned and looked up at Ashlyn. His face formed a small scowl.
Suddenly, the colosseum grew quiet. Ashlyn turned, following the gaze of those in the audience.
From an upper walkway came Steven. He stopped at the railing of a grand, prestigious balcony—his large throne sitting majestically behind him. The Draconian audience bowed at his entrance. It was obvious that he was revered, even feared—for they cowered, their eyes not wanting to meet his gaze.
In the Draconian tongue, Steven gave a very animated address to those in attendance—stopping often for their applause, which they displayed by the stomping of their feet. On two occasions, Ash heard her name mentioned. And once again, she heard the word, Gorgos.
When Steven was done, he turned his attention to her.
“Antares has said that you are mine to claim for having survived the crucible.
“I see no honor however in staking claim to an event that I did not witness. In fact, your survival calls into question his loyalty. Perhaps he has betrayed that to which he
is sworn.
“We wish to see if your strength is as great as he claims. If so, Antares will live—and I shall lay claim to you. If not, he shall die and what little strength he possesses will be poured out upon the ground, none wanting to partake from the tainted blood of a traitor.
“These warriors represent the three clans that have proven themselves many times in combat, and are the strongest and most skilled of our people. They are the elite. It is they who will give you an honorable death. In return they will receive the honor and glory that comes with such a victory. The one who defeats you will drink your blood, claiming your strength.
“As victor, he will be heralded champion, and have the right to challenge me in battle for the right to sit upon the throne, becoming the new leader of our people. The challenge can only be made by the champion and only from atop the Gorgos, where you now stand. This has been the Draconian way for thousands of generations.
“During battle, you are forbidden from shifting form or using your powers of magic. You may use the sword at your feet for the simple tool that it is and nothing more. If you disobey, the penalty will be—severe.”
Steven raised a fist and from the tunnel behind him, three guards came walking out dragging out three children. The last to appear was Christie.
Ash gasped, at once overjoyed to see them but horrified at the implications. The children’s clothes were soiled, tattered. They were thin, pale, malnourished and bruised. It was obvious that they had spent a year or more in captivity, and that they’d not been treated well. Without her even realizing it, Ash had walked to the edge of the platform, desire pressing her to be near them—her heart aching with desperation to protect them.
Ash gave a low, internalized snarl, distraught that the Keeper’s scans hadn’t picked up their life-signs.
Fearing for their lives, Ash lost focus and control—allowing her subconscious mind to open a doorway. Rumbling dark clouds formed within the dome. A bolt of lightning smacked a support chain on the platform, less than five feet away from her.
“Stop—” ordered Steven. “—or we will kill the boy.”
The Drac holding the boy, pulled a notched, jagged bladed knife from the sheath on his belt and held it out in front of the boy’s chest, expectant of receiving the order to kill his enemy.
“No, you won’t—if you harm the children, I’ll have no reason not to kill all of you!” countered Ash. “It is because of them, that you still live.”
“Hmmmgg, so you knew they were alive—or else you would have destroyed us? Only Antares could have told you. The traitor is discovered. Bind him,” ordered Steven.
The guards behind Antares came toward him, binding him. He didn’t resist. Ash had come to know him and knew he wasn’t a coward. She’d learned that he didn’t accept all the Draconian ways. He’d told her of the dissent among the people for killing those who were innocent and the destruction of worlds that belonged to others.
It was for her that he held back, hopeful that she might prevail. Ash could sense it.
Steven grinned. “If you believe you can destroy me, then attack me.” He put his arms out wide. “What are you waiting for—I invite you to try.”
Ash met the challenge, hurling a stream of fire at Steven. The stream impacted harmlessly into an invisible barrier encasing the combat area.
“Mom!” screamed Christie, kicking and wriggling, trying to get free from the Draconian holding him.
“That was your first mistake, and I am confident it will be your last. Kill the boy!” ordered Steven.
“No!” Ash screamed. “I’ll not use my powers or change form. I give my word.”
Her words came too late as the Draconian holding the young boy, plunged the dagger into his chest—and sank his fangs into his throat, drinking his blood.
Ash collapsed to her knees, her eyes unable to look away from the scene of horror. With her spirit broken, the dark churning clouds overhead evaporated, disappearing almost as quickly as they had come.
The Drac holding the boy drank his fill, before letting his lifeless body fall to the ground. The Drac then lifted his head with pride, showing the gathered Draconians the boy’s blood dripping from his mouth. The audience stomped in approval. Honored, the warrior released a howling, screeching growl that filled the stadium.
The Draconian holding Christie then pulled his knife and held it out before her, ready to do the same.
Christie and the other girl wailed, their terrified eyes pleading for help.
“Some lessons are harder to learn than others,” said Steven, his Draconian form standing tall, proud. “Like I said—you will not shift form or use your abilities or we will kill them.”
“Steven, they killed a child. How, how could you let this happen?” said Ash to him in the meld. “If there is anything left of you, anything left of the man I love—you have to fight them.”
The Draconian leader tilted his head as though he were contemplating and questioning his actions. He then raised his fist, stopping the warrior from taking further action against Christie. The warrior slid his knife back into the sheath hanging from his belt.
Ash was unsure if her words had gotten through to some small part of Steven, but the puzzled look on Steven’s Draconian face, gave her hope. “If that was you, Steven—remember Nikolic and Arsovic. Nikolic and Arsovic, Steven. Try to remember.”
Steven, looking down at the throng of anxious warriors, raised his right hand high in the air. In return they raised their weapons in salute, each wanting to be awarded the honor of first kill. “To you belong the honor and the glory. Today, our ancestors will be avenged. She is the last of her kind and with her death, our enemy will become extinct.”
Those in attendance rose, stomping their feet in applause. Steven reached into a large stone bowl in front of him. Grabbing a Standard, he thrust his hand high into the air, raising it for all to see. “Leviathan.” Ash recognized the image on the green Standard as that of the large creature she had seen on her downward descent through the water toward the city.
In response to the Standard chosen, the thirteen Draconians belonging to clan Leviathan stepped forward, all of them roaring for the honor awarded them.
Steven bowed to those who had been chosen. “May the victor of the Gorgos restore honor to our people, and be championed as the strongest among us.”
Steven dropped the standard into the arena. As soon as it hit the ground he said, “Let the games begin.” Steven took his seat upon the throne.
Ash picked up her sword.
On the arena floor, thousands of tall steel spikes thrusted up through the sand, surrounding the wooden structure. Only a narrow path in front of each member of clan Leviathan, provided safe passage across the sand.
Each of the warriors assumed a readied position, preparing to charge the Gorgos.
A horn sounded. The warriors ran across the sand, each striving to be the first to claim a position atop the highest platform. Even the order in which the attackers would come was a competition, a virtual game of musical chairs. Ash could hear the screeches of disappointment as warriors halted, unable to move higher to platforms that were already claimed.
Seconds later, Ashlyn heard a rattling as a Draconian clambered up the chain lattice that led to her platform. Ash backed up, until she was just inches from the edge. As the hands of the Draconian in front of her took hold of the platform’s edge, Ashlyn’s senses intuitively heightened.
Her perception of time sped, her mind expanding a hundred-fold. Without needing to look, Ash twisted her torso, evading a spear thrown at her from the platform below. As it passed, it grazed her shoulder, cutting her.
The drawing of blood inspired the crowd. Hundreds screeched their disappointment over not seeing the spear take her life. Most however, roared with contentment, wanting to see their enemy meet a much more arduous and torturous death.
Spinning to face the attacker upon her platform, Ash saw that he was just beginning to rise upon his feet.
> Ash swung her sword back and forth, flexing her muscles.
“D4,” spoke a soft, faint voice within Ashlyn’s mind.
“Yes, Steven. D4. Fight your way back. For your children, for me—fight your way back.” Ash had barely said the words to him, when the Drac in front of her charged.
They met in the middle, their swords clashing with a loud twang. The audience roared. The combat had begun.
The two of them circled, Ashlyn deflecting blow after blow, always backing away. The Draconian was large, strong—each blow immensely powerful. Tremors could be felt throughout the dome as the audience cheered their champion to victory, stomping their feet.
With each commanding blow from the Drac, Ashlyn’s shoulders grew lower, her sword barely rising in time to meet the next attack. Seeing her down on one knee, confident of victory, the Drac raised the sword above his head, preparing to make a final, heavy downward strike. It opened him up to her, and rather than trying to deflect the blow as he’d anticipated, Ash came forward, shifting her weight onto her front foot. With the lunge, she thrust her sword into him.
The Drac screeched and staggered a half step back. Ash pulled her sword from him, and spun—swinging it in a full circle, beheading him.
The colosseum went silent.
The members of clan Leviathan let out a shrieking howl, conveying their anger over the loss of one of their own. Ash grabbed the sword in his hand and gave him a kick in the abdomen that toppled him over the edge. His body fell sixty feet, landing on the spikes below.
Ash never heard the moans of those in the stadium, whose eyes were locked upon their fallen friend and champion.
Running to the platform’s edge behind her, in a single swift motion, Ash threw the Draconian sword. The Draconian on the platform below, the same Drac that had thrown the spear at her moments before, was caught unaware. The twirling sword found its way through an open eye-socket in his helmet, killing him instantly—the tip of the blade exiting out the back of his neck. Though dead, his body teetered, as though it were unsure of where to fall. With a thunk, it fell facedown onto the planks.