Dark Tournament_A Romantic Fantasy Adventure_Touched Saga Spin-Off

by Elisa S. Amore

  Kreeshna made her entrance into the grottos, a small army of Mizhyas following her. I started when I saw Stella among them. Our eyes met but she stayed in her place. I didn’t dare imagine what kind of compromises the Witch had forced her into to get her to submit. And now Kreeshna was using her to get me to behave. Stella was a warrior, more courageous than all the she-warriors in the room, maybe in the whole Castle. No one could take that away from her.

  Stella was ordered to step forward and undress Kreeshna. What an insult, making Stella deliver her own boyfriend to her. I cast her a regretful glance as the Witch joined me in the pool.

  At an order from Kreeshna, the other Mizhyas left the grottos. All of them except Stella. When the Witch disappeared beneath the golden surface it was as though Stella and I were alone in that room full of enemies, our gazes bound to each other as our bodies were frozen in that moment. So close and yet so out of reach.

  The surface rippled and Kreeshna emerged, her face like a golden mask. She moved closer to me. The gold glimmered as it trickled down her chocolate-colored skin. She rested her golden breasts against my chest and her magnetic gaze hypnotized me.

  The Witch smiled. “I’ve waited for you for centuries, my worthy Champion.”

  I balled my hands into fists, my muscles quivering with rage at the thought that Stella was there, that the Witch was forcing her to watch us. I stared at Stella, ignoring Kreeshna’s hands as they caressed me. Stella’s eyes were aflame, haunted by a touch of sadness she couldn’t hold back.

  The hiss of a serpent seemed to slow time and all at once I found myself hopelessly attracted to Kreeshna, overpowered by a dark spell I couldn’t resist. The Witch bit her lip and a crimson droplet slid down her chin and into the air, splashing onto the golden surface.

  Kreeshna brought her face close to mine and it was as though I had never desired anything else in my whole life. Suddenly I craved her blood, wanted it inside me. I moved my lips closer and my tongue obeyed that summons, touching the scarlet liquid. An explosion set my brain on fire, canceling every thought other than Kreeshna, my queen. It was for her that I had to fight, for her that I had to win . . . or die. I drew her to me and our tongues met, kindling my desire. Her lips throbbed, inviting me to take more. I sucked her lymphe, losing all control as the bewitching liquid went to my head like the most powerful of poisons.

  Kreeshna’s voice filled my mind. The Witch was already inside me. My strength will be your strength. Receive my blood within you and let it guide you in battle. Gahl sum keht. Forge your glory, my Champion. Make me the Black Queen or die for me. She was speaking in Kahatmunì, the Witches’ ancient tongue, but now I was able to understand it.

  “Kaahmì,” I replied, without even realizing it. I am at your command.

  The Witch pulled away and stepped out of the golden liquid, loosening her grip on my mind. When I looked up, Stella was there, her once-proud face now devastated. She had seen everything.

  Thick golden droplets slid down Kreeshna’s body, returning to the pool. She stood there, her back to me, completely naked, as a maidservant who had come unobtrusively into the room draped a black mantle over her.

  On Earth I had been a Reaper Angel. Down here I was a prisoner. The Witch tilted her head, a cunning smile on her lips, proud of her first victory. She had triumphed over Stella and me.

  19

  The Dark Ceremony

  The disappointment I’d seen in Stella’s eyes was killing me. Didn’t she know I had been out of my mind? Kreeshna’s blood had bewitched me. Its very scent had captivated my every thought, leaving me her prisoner. It was a spell, a lie. True power was the connection between me and Stella. Even Kreeshna knew that. All it took was meeting Stella’s eyes to remember what I was fighting for. Her heartbroken expression had wiped away every trace of Kreeshna from my mind.

  For a second Kahlena, the warrior, had let her armor fall away, showing me the real Stella, the one who still loved me. Kreeshna wanted to break the bond between us, but I wasn’t going to let her. I would do battle for the Witch, but my only queen would be Stella.

  At a certain point all the Witches left the Spa and the Mizhyas positioned me, completely naked, in front of a wall. I glanced to my left where not far away stood another Champion. I could see two or three of them, standing in the same position as me, but then the wall curved, hiding the others further along the circle. The wall trembled and it felt as though we were ascending, like in an elevator, but actually we weren’t moving—it was the Castle that was moving around us. Within seconds other walls had descended, separating us. I found myself inside a room before a massive door. Looking around, I saw it was a gymnasium, one of the several located around the Arena. Each of the Champions must have ended up in his own.

  Something tickled my skin. I stared at my hands as armor formed over me. The veins in my arms bulged as black carbonado covered them like a three-dimensional tattoo. The horn blew and the huge door opened onto the Arena.

  The audience burst into cheers as all nine Champions made their entrance onto the battlefield, each emerging from his own door: muscles ready, skin oiled, and black armor glittering, just like me. Unlike the Opalion, in which we battled barefoot and shirtless, for the Dark Tournament we were granted greater protection. My arms were sheathed from wrists to elbows, leaving my upper arms bare, and a breastplate protected my chest. My thighs were covered, and a sturdy black cup protected my package. We were all the same, like perfect toy soldiers. Each of us wore a long black mantle and our faces were hidden behind masks of black and silver jewels fused together with metal spikes. I scrutinized my opponents. Only one of us would be left standing. And it had to be me.

  I clenched my fists and scanned the stands for Stella, but didn’t see her.

  The Arena was a perfect amphitheater. In the stands were the Damned, Souls of every kind, who had no doubt been placing bets. When the horn blew a second time, everyone fell silent and sat down. The sound of drumbeats filled the silence like the beating of a thousand hearts. From a hidden area, a small group of Mizhyas made their entrance into the Arena. Other instruments joined the macabre orchestra and the she-warriors began to perform a tribal dance. I couldn’t see whether Stella was among them. Their faces were painted black. They moved as swiftly as panthers, alternating battle moves and perfectly coordinated dance steps. Dark wraiths swirled around them or blocked their way, maneuvered by the Witches’ black magic. The spectators clapped to the rhythm of the drums, excited by the dance, which promised sex and death. The music grew louder and louder, the drumbeats faster and faster. I realized there were nine Mizhyas in all, just like us, and that they were enacting a theatrical performance of the Tournament.

  The sound suddenly stopped and all the Mizhyas fell to the ground. All except one.

  It was then that I recognized her, right there in the center. The only Mizhya still standing. Her eyes found mine across the Arena, penetrating the mask I wore. Not being able to touch her was excruciating, but even more painful was the disappointment I still saw in her eyes that now glared at me bitterly, burning like a sword stabbing me full in the chest. Didn’t she know I was prepared to die for her?

  Our gazes remained locked until the symbol of the Witches caught fire all around her. The flames rose and everyone looked up. The sound of thunder joined the drumbeats as the Witches rode into the Arena on their winged steeds.

  The Sauruses flew in a circle, spurred on by an ominous war cry. They landed in the center of the Arena, encircling the Mizhyas. A massive throng of butterflies darkened the sky and swooped straight down toward the Witches, splitting into separate swarms. Within seconds, each swarm had arranged itself into the shape of a magnificent chariot for each of the Witches. As the Sauruses reared up, the crowds rose to their feet to applaud the spectacle they had just witnessed.

  Each steed marched toward one of the Champions, pulling its chariot behind. Kreeshna had a regal air as she headed toward me, her cat’s eyes piercing the night. She wore a helm
et and a steampunk gown that made her look both sexy and regal. For the first time, she really did seem like a Black Queen. All of them did . . . and all laid claim to the title.

  She stopped her Saurus beside me and her voice filled my head. “It’s time for you to rise above the rest, Champion. Prove you’re worthy and you’ll have what you deserve.” I climbed into the chariot and she smiled at me. The devil’s smile.

  Once all the Champions were in their vehicles, the Sauruses marched around the Arena.

  I didn’t know which was worse: the Witches showing off their Champions, flaunting us to the crowds like trophies, or the bloodthirsty Damned who couldn’t wait to witness our massacre. I would have killed them all if Kreeshna had only asked me to. I would battle for myself and for Stella.

  I tried to spot her but she wasn’t on the central platform any more. In its place, the dais of honor had appeared and on it was Sophìa, the Empress of the Underworld. It came as no surprise to me that she wasn’t taking part in the Games. I was more and more convinced that this was all a ploy to give the rest of her Sisterhood the illusion of power. She was the devil incarnate, after all. Why should she care about a title earned in a tournament? Competition among the Sisterhood, on the other hand, was always fierce. And Sophìa stoked it. The Tournament was proof of that, given that she would allow one of them to call herself “queen.”

  It was pathetic.

  Besides, someone had to arbitrate the match, especially when the people competing against each other were unscrupulous harpies. The Dark Tournament had its rules, though. Each Witch could enhance her Champion’s strength with the lymphe she granted him. However, she couldn’t help him accomplish his tasks. Not directly, at least. Each of them could hinder her Champion’s adversaries, though, giving her own Champion an advantage.

  The Witches never missed a chance to show us they were the ones controlling the Games. I’d imagined they would make us guide their steeds while they enjoyed the presentation from their chariots, letting themselves be paraded around like goddesses, but I was wrong.

  “My beloved Damned,” the Empress began. The Sauruses halted, shoulder to shoulder, and the entire crowd rose to their feet before Sophìa. The Witches descended from their steeds. “Many of you have come to watch the Opalion Games for centuries, but that is not why we are here today.” The Empress was speaking in an ancient dialect. Some might not even have understood her, but they were all mesmerized by her dark allure. Sophìa was lethal, and everything about her made that clear, from her piercing lapis lazuli gaze to the tiny black diamonds adorning the silver tips of her pointy headdress. Not to mention the small black serpent coiled around her forearm that hissed with every word. “Today,” she went on, “we are here to celebrate a special event that takes place but once every thousand years.”

  “I seen me a Dark Tournament once before!” someone cried from the crowd. Another small group called out, vying for the Empress’s attention. Some Souls had been in Hell for so long they had already witnessed the rare event. The Soul who had interrupted Sophìa screamed and doubled over, afflicted by unspeakable pain. He raised a beseeching hand and his eyes bulged out of their orbits before he burst into a cloud of ash. The crowd froze and no one dared make another sound.

  The Empress smiled and took a step forward. “Once was enough for him.” The crowds laughed obediently. “May the Sisterhood present the Champions who will compete in the Dark Tournament!” The chariots beneath us exploded into a massive swarm again, carrying us to the Witches’ sides. Then the butterflies flew toward the Empress. They danced around her as she delighted in the sight of them. At the Castle, Sophìa was known for her obsession with her black butterflies. When she disappeared for long periods of time, she would inevitably be in her garden of Devil’s Stramonium, the black flower the Witches fed their Dakor. It was there, they said, that she sorted through the souls of the Damned, assigning them their fitting punishment before spitting them out into Hell.

  Something emerged from the ground: black thrones positioned at equal intervals around the Arena.

  All ten of the Witches were present at the Games, but Sophìa was the only one not taking part with her own Champion. Actually, since I’d been there I’d never seen him fight in an Opalion. The events he competed in must be few and far between.

  The tallest of the Witches presented her contender. Her image was projected onto a temporary screen in the center of the Arena, like a giant hologram. She was beautiful, with light brown skin, golden eyes, and a long ponytail as black as ebony. “My name is Bathsheeva. For the Dark Tournament I offer my Champion: Amihr.” His mantle burst into a swirl of butterflies and his mask dissolved, revealing his face. He too had dark skin, bulging muscles, and the look of someone prepared to kill. The audience applauded as he accompanied her to one of the thrones where he bowed at her feet in a final display of subjugation.

  The Witches thought they were goddesses. I hated humoring them in their belief.

  “I am Anya,” said the Witch with brown hair and green eyes. “The warrior Faustian will battle for me.” The mask vanished and the face of my friend Faust appeared.

  Shit. I was sorry to have to fight against him. I would have no choice but to kill him.

  “Camelia is my name.” When she stepped forward, the next Witch’s hair changed from pink to blue. “Cheer for my Champion, Misha.” The crowd did so, excited by the sight of the huge Russian, or maybe impressed by his mistress’s little trick. They were doubtless betting on him.

  Each Witch came forward in turn and then went to sit on her throne.

  It was Kreeshna’s turn. I raised one hand, my palm turned upward to receive hers, and walked her to her place, almost stopping in my tracks when I saw Stella beside the throne. As I watched, a helmet formed over Kreeshna’s head. It wasn’t an actual helmet, since it didn’t cover her whole skull; it looked more like a pair of high-tech earphones. It was easy to guess what they were for: to isolate the thoughts of each Witch from those of her Sisters so they wouldn’t be able to spy on each other’s minds and discover their next moves. The earphones were connected by a butterfly-shaped diadem at the brow. The devices emanated a light and, seconds later, projected a hologram of the Arena onto the Witches’ laps. That would probably let them follow our moves from close up and control the Game, blending reality and illusion. I had seen something like it in the room where the Mizhyas had taken me to Kreeshna.

  I glanced at the other Witches. Their eyes had also lit up and lengthened into slits, revealing the Dakor lurking within them. I noticed that none of them had a Mizhya at their side. Their she-warriors were lined up behind the thrones. Kreeshna definitely wanted to remind me of what I was fighting for. She didn’t want me to lose sight of my motivation, as she would call it. She herself cared only about the crown, as black as her heart of stone.

  She was right: I had never really cared about winning an Opalion. Now, though, I couldn’t afford to lose. Even if it meant subjecting myself to their treacherous rules. Like the others before me, I kissed the back of her hand but didn’t deign even to look the Witch in the face. Instead, my eyes burned into Stella’s. She turned away, denying me that last farewell. I hated that her last memory of me was my kiss with Kreeshna. I didn’t want her to hate me for that accursed kiss.

  Shouts and cheers distracted me from my thoughts as the last Witch presented her Champion. It was Devina, Sophìa’s Specter, second only to the devil herself. Everyone at the Castle feared her, maybe even her Sisters. Her red hair pierced the twilight, her amber eyes were like fire. “I am Devina, Specter of the Empress. Hail, one and all, the Champion who will battle for me: Assin!” The man’s mask disappeared and my blood ran cold when I recognized him. His face was branded on my brain like an indelible mark. It was him, the bastard who had sent me to Hell. I clenched my fists at my sides when our eyes met and he smiled. Soon enough I would shove that smirk down his throat.

  The Empress spread her hands. Upon her command, a cluster of butterflies
formed themselves into a black crown on her palms, its points as sharp as the tips of a black diamond.

  “Applaud the nine Champions who will challenge each other in the Dark Tournament. They are exceptional warriors one and all, selected and trained to excel in the arts of battle. Today they will be called upon to demonstrate the finest qualities required of a soldier. Only the most valiant will overcome the trials. They will brave three levels of grueling challenges in order to fight in the final round. In the first level they must accomplish various missions in order to qualify for the subsequent levels. Only six will advance to the second level, which will consist of hand-to-hand combat among the Champions who have qualified. They will be divided into two teams according to their scores. The two Champions who remain will fight to the death. There is a reason it is called the Dark Tournament. Unlike the Opalion, in which our Champions do not truly risk their lives, in this Tournament the Witches who reach the final round will risk everything, since only one of the final two Champions will succeed. The other will be cast into Oblivion, eternal death.”

  Hearing this, the entire audience let out a cry of dismay. It was common knowledge that the Subterraneans couldn’t die. Only Oblivion could undermine their immortality and annihilate them forever.

  “It is a pity that one of the strongest and most courageous, one who has come so close to the ultimate victory, must die,” the Empress went on, “but these are the things one does for glory. At times our deepest desires are also our downfall, is it not so?” The audience laughed, careful not to anger the Empress. “No Witch is allowed to help her Champion directly, but each may interact with the Arena, creating physical or mental traps and obstacles to hinder the other competitors.”