“Now,” King Lehmann shouted, loud enough to cause an echo throughout the chamber, “I’d like to hear from my knights.”
The moment the boys were addressed they kneeled at the base of stairs leading up to the dais, gazing up at their father. Dawson shot me a sidelong glance and his eyes widened, darting from his knees to my own, and back again.
“Ah, right,” I whispered. I dropped to a knee at Dawson’s side.
The King waved his sons back to their feet and flopped back into his throne, draping one leg over the arm of the chair. “Do you know what day this is, Dawson?”
“Yes,” he replied sheepishly, trailing his eyes along the floor.
“Very good,” the King nodded. “And do you know what’s so special about this particular day?”
“I do,” Dawson muttered. “It’s card day.”
“Sorry,” the King shouted, cupping a hand over his ear. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
“It’s card day,” Dawson repeated a little more forcefully, still aggressively avoiding eye contact.
“That’s correct. It is, indeed, card day. So whatever this is, it had better be exceedingly important. And entertaining.” The King acknowledged me for the first time, vaguely gesturing in my direction. “Who is this blue–haired harlot? Have you brought her here to entertain me?”
“No, Your Majesty,” Drake replied. “This foul–mouthed commoner appeared in the main hall around the time the power went out.”
“Hmm ...” The King stroked his beardless chin, narrowing his eyes as he studied me, much as Dawson had done when I’d arrived.
The situation was getting ridiculous. Could this all be some elaborate hoax? Or a game I had been involuntarily tossed into after Arena Mode had ended? Billionaire media tycoon Cameron Frost was notorious for his over–the–top programming, so it was a distinct possibility: I’d seen a reality show like this before, where an unsuspecting contestant was tricked into believing she was lost in the Australian outback; in truth she was wearing a full–body virtual reality rig. Her life was never in any danger, but the emotional distress caused from the event (and the series of lawsuits that followed) quickly ended the ‘bold, new type of reality program’ that Frost was trying to pioneer. Never one to let the boundaries of good taste get in his way, I wouldn’t be surprised if, buried somewhere in the fine print of the document I had signed prior to entering Arena Mode, there was a clause that allowed for me to be thrown into some perverse game show...although if that were the case, I’m not sure I understood the premise.
“I have no idea who you people are,” I shouted, springing to my feet, “or what the heck I’m doing here, but if you’re going to kill me can you at least tell me what the fudge is going on?” I had to get one of these idiots to break character. Were there hidden cameras spread throughout this castle, watching me at this very moment? If there were, I might put an early end this insanity if I let on that I’d become aware of the situation.
The King held his belly with both hands and bellowed out a jovial laugh; a hearty, Christmas–y laugh that continued until his face reddened. “Are you quite serious, commoner?”
“And what is with all this Medieval Fair crap? You are not a King, this is not a Kingdom, and these kids dressed in Halloween costumes are definitely not knights.” I waved around the room as best I could with my hands still cuffed, screaming until my voice went hoarse. “You got me, Frost! It’s over! Just come out, give me my check and I’ll be on my merry way.”
The King laughed again, so boisterously I thought he’d fall from his throne. “Oh my,” he said breathlessly, wiping a tear from his cheek. “This has been entertaining, boys. You two have outdone yourselves. Now, I need to get back to my game development. Give this servant her clothing back and let her resume her duties.”
“This isn’t a joke,” Drake barked, shoving me back to my knees. “And this foul–mouthed wench is not a servant. She arrived right after our shields went down.”
“Wait,” the King said, rising from his throne. “Our shields are down? When did this occur?”
“Not but ten minutes ago,” Drake said, grabbing a fistful of my hair. “When she arrived.” He jerked my head back, peering down into my eyes. His gaze was painted in darkness, dripping with hatred. If he was an actor, someone should have awarded him the Daytime Emmy right then and there, because I was completely convinced by his performance.
At that moment I truly began to panic – even more so than when I’d been handcuffed; either this was all just an elaborate plan to convince me I was in the middle of some quasi–medieval conflict, or my life truly was in danger.
“So it’s a power surge,” the King said offhandedly, “likely caused by the construction project in the north wing.”
“I already checked,” Drake replied. “It’s not just here. The entire island is exposed.”
The king’s face fell slack. “This was entertaining for a moment,” he said plainly, “but now it’s growing old. And frankly it’s becoming a little boring.”
“Father,” Drake pleaded, “don’t you see what’s happening here? She caused this, and she needs to be punished!”
“Ah, I see.” The King snapped his fingers high above his head. A doorway opened from the wall behind the throne, and a pair of knights in black armor stepped out onto the dais. “Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”
The knights descended the short flight of stairs, grabbed my arms and jerked me to my feet, dragging me away from the dias, back towards the entrance.
“Throw her from the wall,” the King said, gathering his cards from the table. “And when she lands, prop what’s left of her up on a spike so the rest of the commoners can see her.”
“Live simulcast?” Drake asked expectantly, raising his eyebrows.
“Sure,” the king shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
“She deserves a trial,” Dawson announced, stopping the dark knights in their tracks. “Right here, right now. At least a short one.”
The king breathed out an exasperated groan. “That sounds boring,” he replied, shuffling his deck. “You know what’s not boring? This new card game I’ve invented. I don’t have a name for it yet, but it’s magic based. You start by gathering the...well, I won’t get into all the details at the moment, but suffice to say it is not boring. Trials most definitely are.”
“This isn’t the way we do things in Iceland,” Dawson proclaimed, stiffening his posture. The more authoritative tone in his voice must have struck the King’s ear, because it was enough to divert his attention from his cards.
“You dare to lecture me on the way thing are and are not done in Iceland in 2072? This is the year of – ”
“What year did you just say it was?” I interrupted.
“Pardon me?” King Lehmann asked, although it wasn’t with any inflection that would lend itself to politeness.
“You just said it was the year 2072. When I fought in Arena Mode it was 2041. That was thirty years ago.”
My words silenced the room. I waited for what felt like a lifetime while the King glared at me, but not with a sense of anger for my outburst – it was as if he was searching for a memory. And then suddenly a realization sparked in his eyes.
“You!” The King shouted, leaping back to his feet. The cards fell from his fingers, fluttering to the floor. “Arena Mode, 2041. You’re Brynja, the girl who died in the first ten minutes. But somehow you’re here ...” He brought his hand to his chin, once again scratching at the place where a beard would have been located. “But this is vexing. How can you be here if you’re dead?”
It was a question I was asking myself as I replayed the events of the day in my head: being electrocuted by Winston Ramsley, the British swordfighting champion, fading away while Mox cradled me in his arms, and everything else that came before. But that all happened towards the end of Arena Mode, not the beginning. We’d battled our way through countless obstacles and had kicked a significant amount of ass before
I’d been eliminated. “I think you’re remembering this wrong, buttercup. Who do you think killed Sergei Taktarov?” I lifted my handcuffs and pointed to myself with both thumbs, raising my eyebrows.
“Killed him?” Drake sneered, shaking his head. “Wench, I don’t know where you came from or what game you’re playing, but it’s becoming clear that you’re suffering from amnesia...that, or you’re clinically insane.”
“Brynja,” Dawson said, not much louder than a whisper, “Taktarov won the first ever Arena Mode. And he’s still alive.”
Chapter Three
The footage they projected into the air wasn’t a forgery or a clever fabrication. And if it was, it was the best I’d ever seen. It was a video of me, at Arena Mode, time stamped 2041. But somehow it wasn’t me, because what they were showing never actually happened.
It was the morning of the competition: twelve superhumans and one powerless-but-brilliant comic book fanatic with a tumor eating away at his brain – all competing for a ten billion dollar prize. Like every other competitor I leapt from an aircraft, skydiving into the dense Manhattan core, managing to avoid becoming penthouse pizza on the way down. I landed safely in an alley, not yet fully corporeal. That was the easy part.
Part of my power (or curse, as I usually thought of it) leaves me at the mercy of whoever is observing me. I’m a perception: not really birthed into existence until someone observes me. Until then I’m a cluster of atoms, somehow maintaining my thoughts and memories, but not able to manifest a human form. It’s a complete pain in the ass, to say the least. My height, hair color, and even my wardrobe are at the whim of whoever happens to see me first, so the first time I look in the mirror after I take shape can be quite a surprise.
All of that stuff – the skydiving, the alley, the cheerful sunny morning – actually happened. I can remember it like a crystal–clear digital playback running through my head. It was, in a sense, just a few hours ago. The next part is where things get a little screwy.
When I landed, the video version of me was immediately confronted by Fudō Myōō: a competitor concealed beneath a hulking, nine–foot robotic suit. The towering silver behemoth dwarfed me, but I stood my ground. Hard to be intimidated when you can pass through solid objects. What was it going to do to me? So imagine my surprise when I saw it lunge towards ‘me’, faster than I thought a machine the size of an SUV could possibly move...and we collided? The video showed the other me careen into the alley’s wall hard enough crack the brick where my skull made impact. I crumpled to the pavement in a twisted heap before fading away, leaving no trace behind that I’d ever existed. I had just witnessed my own death.
But it wasn’t me. That was a different me in a different time and place – and now I, the real me, was here in a future that didn’t make sense, imprisoned by a kingdom that had no right to exist. And somehow Sergei Taktarov, the most dangerous superhuman on the planet, was alive and well.
My head began to spin. “Being electrocuted...it sent me through time? No...it’s not just that. I didn’t die...why am I dead in your version? Why is that Russian lunatic still alive? We killed him. Mox and I. But I’m dead and he’s not and everything is fudged to hell and back...” I grunted, trying to pry my wrists free of the glowing cuffs, stomping my feet when my stupid attempt failed. “And will someone please just turn off the fudging machine that stops me from swearing!”
“I will do no such thing,” King Lehmann stated. “But this is vexing...you were there, thirty years ago in New York. And now you’re here...and haven’t aged a day.”
“And she looks pretty spry for a corpse,” Dawson added with a tiny grin, drawing an icy glare from his older brother.
“This is a trick,” Drake shouted accusingly. “Don’t believe a word this wench says, father. She rendered our kingdom defenceless and now she’s trying to talk her way out of being executed. Finish her before she causes any more damage.”
“We don’t even know where she came from or what her intentions are,” Dawson said. “Heck, we don’t even know what’s going on outside of Iceland – no one is allowed to enter, and no one ever leaves!”
“And that’s what keeps us safe,” the King reminded him with a gentle wag of his finger. It was as if he was addressing a young child, not a teenage boy. “Our isolation has kept us alive; a million people, thriving for more than a generation.”
“Maybe she has information,” the young knight pleaded, ascending the stairs towards his father. “Let’s see what we can learn from her before we do something we can’t take back.”
“My young boy,” the King said absently, patting his son on the back. “I know all I need to know. Whether she traveled through time or not, she remains a superhuman – plain and simple. What else is there to discuss?”
“We’re wasting time,” Drake interrupted.
“Shields or not,” the King declared, “...our kingdom endures. There is no force so powerful that we can’t fight it off.” And as he continued to expound the virtues of House Lehmann and the strength of its impregnable defences, a flash of light filled the throne room. It was blinding; a blast of pure sunshine that heated our skin, and with it came a woman wrapped in fire.
“They’re here,” Drake cried. He ripped the sword from his hip and charged, but was a second too late.
The tidal wave of flame had already engulfed him.
Chapter Four
When the flaming woman appeared and unleashed her fiery blast, time seemed to slow.
It might have been an adrenaline dump from the panic setting in, or the fact that I’d just seen someone teleport for the first time, but suddenly I was hyper–aware of my surroundings: Dawson froze at my side, eyes shrink–wrapped in terror; King Lehmann lunged to protect his youngest son, shielding him from the blast as they crashed to the floor; the two black knights sprinted towards the exit, screaming as they retreated; and Drake bravely raced towards the intruder, but was overtaken by the swirling vortex of fire.
And then time seemed to catch up with me as I regained my bearings. The flames subsided, leaving behind a dense grey fog that hung in the air. As it dissipated I held my breath, preparing for the worst. I was certain that the charred remains of the young knight would be piled on the floor; nothing more than a blackened suit of armor filled with an unrecognizable husk.
I was wrong.
Drake stood his ground, sword extended, with a helmet fastened securely in place. A transparent dome encircled his face, seemingly unaffected by the blistering heat. I assumed it had materialized with a voice command, much as the blade of his sword had before I was taken into custody.
The flaming woman clapped her hands and pulled them apart, producing a four–foot sword of her own; orange and glowing, sputtering a flurry of crackling embers. Drops of liquid fell from the blade’s tip, sizzling as they splashed onto the floor.
Drake’s upper lip remained stiff, but his eyes widened at the sight. The armor suit was able to withstand her initial heat wave, that much had been established. but something told me that he’d be flambéd with just a single stroke of this menacing new weapon.
The woman rushed forward with a two-handed grip, chopping downward. Drake side–stepped the attack and the blade embedded in the floor, melting the tile into a puddle of lava. She lunged and swung again, forcing Drake to parry. His metallic sword met hers with a clank, denting its blade.
Their swords clashed again and Drake was left holding his hilt; the stump where his blade used to be hissed and oozed, melting onto his gauntlet.
I crawled to the King, where he was still shielding Dawson from the initial heat wave. I shook my bright yellow handcuffs in his face. “Take these off,” I begged. “I can help.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” he scoffed. “My son is the most valiant knight in the realm.”
“He’s going to be the most barbecued corpse in the fudging realm if you don’t let me out of these things,” I shouted.
King Lehmann grabbed a fistful of my shirt, pull
ing me until the tips of our noses smooshed together. “Listen here, wench – ”
And that’s when Dawson reached out and pressed his thumb into the cuffs, silently popping them off my wrists.
The king glared at his son, face reddening. “Dawson? How dare you defy me!”
“You can punish me if we get out of this alive,” the kid replied breathlessly.
I leaped to my feet, massaging my wrists. Dawson stood and snatched the hilt from his belt, pressing it into my palm. I tightened my grip and held it up, not sure what to do with the handle of a sword that didn’t have a blade. “Hey Sir Gallahad, can you make this an actual weapon?”
“Death Dealer,” he shouted, causing the handle to vibrate. I clutched it with both hands and a shimmering ebony blade appeared from nowhere, sheathed in tines of blue energy.
I turned and sprinted towards the battle. Drake had been slashed several times; his armor’s pristine silver hue was now blackened and scarred, exposing the burnt flesh on his shoulder and ribcage. He continued to backpedal as he evaded attacks, but the flaming woman was relentless.
She saw me approach and pivoted, circling her blade towards me. She slashed and hacked, and with each attempt her flaming sword passed through me as if I were a ghost.
“Traitor,” she hissed. “You’re one of us...and you bend the knee to these Neanderthals?”
“Lady, I don’t bend the knee to any guy unless he takes me out to dinner first.”
She swung her sword again and again, teeth grinding, possibly waiting for my ability to falter. It was useless. She was only exhausting herself, hacking blindly at an apparition. When she finally slowed her attack, just for a heartbeat, I became corporeal once again and thrust forward with my dark blade. It impaled her.
She reached down and touched the sword as she teetered, swaying as her flames extinguished. Her eyes rolled to whites and she collapsed.
“Medics,” the King shouted, into the back of his hand, though I didn’t see any type of com. Whatever he spoke into, it triggered the chamber’s far doors to slide open, and a pair of women burst into the throne room with a hovering metal gurney. They tended to the fallen superhuman, extracting Dawson’s black sword from her abdomen.
The Manticore Ascension: A Short Story in the Arena Mode Universe Page 2