by Corey Soreff
They both finally reached the middle, and by now the announcer had realized that he was being beat to the punch. He decided to skip the pillow talk and go right to the “FIGHT!” He said it at the perfect time too. Grymmbeard launched himself into the air, simultaneously pulling his axe from his back and lifting it over his head as he soared towards his opponent.
Bravan stopped short and dropped into a defensive stance, with his gauntlets crossed before him in an X pattern. Grymmbeard came crashing down on top of him, his axe smashing down against his hands. Between the power of the dwarf, the quality of the axe, and the momentum of the fall, by all rights those gauntlets should have been destroyed then and there. But Grymmbeard was surprised when his axe seemed to bounce right off, sending painful vibrations down his arms. He staggered backwards momentarily, but quickly regained his balance and planted his feet firmly on the ground in a fighting stance. Grymmbeard narrowed his eyes, then burst into laughter.
“Bahaha! Stonefist indeed!” Grymmbeard yelled.
Bravan grinned widely at his fellow dwarf, then lunged forward, putting all his weight into a right cross. The powerful punch caught Grymmbeard in the chest, hurling him backwards and leaving him clutching himself in pain. Grymmbeard’s friendly demeanor disappeared. Not only were the gauntlets hard as hell, but there seemed to be more force behind the blow then there should have been. Enchanted, eh? He wondered. A dwarf playing with magic!
Bravan shrugged. “Sorry brother, but I know of ye, and I simply can’t be holding me punches!” He charged forward again, attempting another right cross, this time at the face. But it didn’t work so smoothly the second time.
Grymmbeard ducked and weaved to the side, avoiding the blow. “I’ve already seen that punch, it won’t work again!” As he screamed, he countered the blow with a vicious head butt to Bravan’s forehead. Bravan clutched his head and noticed his hand was covered in blood, then caught the butt of Grymmbeard’s axe to his nose and was forced back a few steps. More blood poured down, from his nose now, and he stared ahead at his opponent realizing this was going to be the tough fight he had guessed it was going to be. After all, they didn’t let just anyone into the Crimson Blade.
“Wow!” Grymmbeard yelled. It was the first time the young dwarf had been allowed to go hunting with his father. “A grizzly bear, in one blow! You’re amazing, father!”
The burly dwarf placed his foot down firmly on the bear’s back, and hoisted his battle axe out of the creature’s neck. The humongous bear lay motionless, dead the moment the axe touched his spine. He looked back at his son and smiled. “Bears be tough son, but they ain’t too good at thinkin’!” He held the axe in front of him and started wiping off the blood. “And someday, you’ll kill bears with this here axe too. I daresay you’ll cut down some ogres too! After all, you’re me son.”
Grymmbeard’s eyes shined in admiration. “I can’t wait!”
Grymmbeard tightened his grip on the handle of his axe, and once again he leaped into the air at his opponent.
Bravak laughed. “This again?” He repeated the same blocking maneuver as before, his arms crossed in front of him.
Memories of his father flowed through his mind as he came down at his enemy. The axe came sweeping down in a fast, powerful motion, once again connecting with the gauntlets. But this time he was not immediately repelled. It seemed as if every fiber of his being was fighting to push that axe forward, to break Bravak’s guard with sheer force and willpower. Grymmbeard briefly felt as if there was another set of hands helping him swing that axe, brushing up against his own, and he pushed even harder. Screaming in fury, the axe did indeed break Bravak’s guard. In fact, it cut cleanly through it.
Bravak Stonefist looked down at his arms in disbelief…what was left of his arms. His hands and wrists, along with the gauntlets, had been severed from his arms and laid on the dirt.
Grymmbeard stared down his opponent. “Yer fancy gloves might work against normal dwarves, and normal axes. But I ain’t no normal dwarf, and this ain’t no normal axe. Every swing of me axe, me father swings with me! Sorry ‘bout the hands.” Grymmbeard began walking back towards his gate.
Blood rained down from Bravak’s wrists, staining the ground, and then the dwarf collapsed. A medical team rushed out, retrieving the unconscious dwarf…and his hands.
Jarec’s gaze rested across the cave at the dark shrouded figure within. His mark. To better fill the Crimson Blade’s coffers, they picked up as many difficult jobs as they could, resulting in many solo contracts. After all, there was hardly a risk, they were the best. At least that’s what Jarec always told himself. Thinking things like All the strongest men of Adanantus are in our ranks, and nobody outside the Crimson Blade can defeat any one of us. This might have seemed ignorant to anyone else, if it hadn’t been so true. Jarec couldn’t remember his last strong mark. Most of the serial killers or tyrants these days preyed on the weak. But the Crimson Blade only preyed on the strong.
However, this was no ordinary man he faced this time. Hell, it wasn’t a man at all. This was a drow assassin. Drow were raised from birth to be exceptional warriors, and he had never fought a drow. They didn’t often come to Adanantus, since they were despised and discriminated against for their reputation. If this was Ginin’s contract he would have crept up on the drow in the shadows and ended him silently with surprise. But Jarec was a warrior. He stood facing the drow in the open, scimitars at his side.
“Ruk’til the Nightstalker?” Jarec asked as a courtesy, for what other drow could he happen upon?
“Yes, human?” The drow’s lips curled into a vicious smile. “What can I do for you?”
“For starters, you can die,” Jarec said calmly. “Apparently you assassinated someone you shouldn’t have, and now the Crimson Blade has taken a contract on your head.”
A purple glow emitted from behind the drow, and he drew two scimitars that were pulsating with magic. Jarec grinned. “It seems we have the same taste in weapons. I’ll be taking those.” He bolted forward, scimitars in hand.
“The Crimson Blade, eh?” Ruk’til asked as Jarec charged at him. “How interesting, considering I just took a contract on Eucibous Dan’anti.”
Jarec had to stop himself from falling to the ground in laughter. “Good luck!”
Ruk’til dropped quickly into a fighting stance, and Jarec arrived a moment later with a flurry of swings. The drow parried the blows with incredible skill and ease, merely rolling his enemy’s blades away with his own. He was no stranger to combat, and he knew that it was a waste of time to keep parrying; he had to change the pace. Ruk’til spun around quickly and shot his right leg into Jarec’s stomach, pushing him backwards. He didn’t waste any time, dashing forward instantly and creating his own hurricane of blades. Jarec showed his own skill, also parrying the attacks, which seemed absurdly heavy given the drow’s small frame.
Then the assassin jumped into the air, spinning his body several times while at the same time swinging those magnificent blades. Jarec knew that parrying attacks from such an angle that had so much momentum would be difficult, so he ducked and slid underneath the drow, coming up from behind him as he landed. The drow turned and brought down his blades, slashing at Jarec’s head. Blood splashed onto Ruk’til’s blades, and a clean gash could be seen enveloping Jarec’s face from his left eye, going down through his nose and lips.
Jarec was stunned. Not only did his face feel like it was on fire, but he could no longer move. It seemed as if all the energy in his body had been instantly leeched from him. He tumbled to the ground, devoid of stamina. Then he smiled. It’s a good thing I hit him first, he thought.
As the drow was turning, Jarec had also attacked. Holding his blades crossed before him, he had snapped them inward like scissors, sinking into the drow’s ribs and stomach.
Jarec lay on the ground staring at the Drow, who was in disbelief fighting to stay on his two feet. Then his intestines billowed out of his stomach, and he fell face first onto the cold
stone.
Jarec closed his eyes. I might as well take a nap, I’ll get my new swords later.
Jarec stood in the arena, basking in the crowd’s excitement. Two scimitars giving off a purple radiance were buckled at his side, and he focused his eyes on the…thing opposite from him. Jarec spit on the ground and yelled over. “No wonder you had such an ugly name, you’re an Orc!”
Ugthar scowled but didn’t respond. The human would learn his manners soon enough. Apparently he didn’t know the horrors of fighting a shaman, especially a bloodthirsty Orc shaman.
“Begin!” The announcer yelled.
Jarec drew his swords and waited.
The shaman growled and mumbled some words. He snapped his hand forward and a bolt of lightning shot forth.
Jarec held his scimitars in front of him, and the lightning bolt collided with them…then disappeared. They seemed to briefly glow brighter, and then settled again. “Your tricks won’t work, shaman. Come fight me like a man, or the beast that you are.”
Ugthar screamed in rage and began weaving complicated magic. “I’ll show you a beast!” His muscles rippled and veins bulged. His eyes looked like they would burst. Then the orc began to…get bigger? His entire form began to shift, and what looked like wings emerged from his back. His face expanded forward becoming a long maw, and his teeth grew into gigantic razors. His body arched forward as he began to stand on four legs, giant claws digging into the dirt.
Jarec sighed. “Great.” The orc had shapeshifted into a dragon. “Damn magic users.” He didn’t intend to wait to see how powerful this dragon could be. Jarec began sprinting towards the creature in haste, eager to attack first.
Ugthar saw the little human approaching him and he opened his mouth, roaring while a pillar of flame burst from his throat.
Jarec saw it coming, and frantically sidestepped to avoid being turned to ash. But he didn’t slow down. Immediately after sidestepping, he again dashed forward as the flames soared past him. Then he ducked low and came up under the dragon’s head, spinning his scimitars in deadly combinations at the dragon’s throat, where the scales weren’t as thick. He found it difficult to score any deep wounds, but he didn’t need deep wounds. Small drips of blood could be seen, and that meant he at least scratched the thing. And a scratch was all he needed.
Ugthar was confused and worried. He could barely even feel any wounds; the attacks could not have done much damage. But yet he felt dizzy, and couldn’t move.
Jarec was calmer now, and he slowly walked around to face the dragon eye to eye. He smiled at Ugthar and petted him on the nose. “You had a better chance as an orc, perhaps you could have hit me with a spell eventually.” He held up one of his scimitars. “See that glow? Ever wonder what the enchantment was? Of course not, because you’re a stupid orc.” Jarec laughed and turned around, heading back to the gate.
The announcer was momentarily confused. “Wait! The fight is not ov…”
He was stopped mid sentence when the dragon fell, its head smashing off the ground.
Ugthar sighed, and then the dragon became an orc once more.
“Winner, Jarec!” The announcer yelled.
Bookies were beginning to sweat with worry. They made their money on the people who lost bets, but everyone was betting on the mercenaries of the Crimson Blade. Would they ever lose?
Chapter Twelve
The Strongest
“And just why exactly do you need to see the boss, ay Brat?” The guard at the door stared down at the runt before him, a boy that couldn’t be older than ten. And the child was asking to see the leader of the “Black Daggers”, a mercenary guild known for its cruelty. “If ya have a letter or summin, just hand it over.”
The boy shook his head and repeated himself. “I need to see the boss.”
“The nerve!” The guard swung a backhand at the boy, intending to slap him across the head for his stupidity. But the blow didn’t connect.
The child calmly ducked under the swing and stood back on his feet, staring the doorman in the eyes. “I will see the boss.”
“Son, this had better be important. My men tell me that you have shown much spirit to see me. My men have killed children for less.” The guild leader, who called himself Snake, sat in a luxurious cushioned chair surrounded by beautiful women.
“Give me your toughest contract.” The boy said with conviction.
Snake laughed. He sometimes saw these foolish peasant boys that aspired to be assassins. Usually they were picked on their whole lives, and wanted to be strong. But he had never seen one ask for a contract flat out, let alone the toughest one. “So I send you to your death, then your father comes after me, and I have his blood on my hands too. I don’t think so, kid.”
If Eucibous was angry, it didn’t show. He kept his cool and bent his neck to each side, cracking the bones within. “You won’t have to worry about that. My father was murdered when I was eight. You have nothing to lose, either I take it and die or I succeed and only take ten percent of the sum you’re being paid for the mark. You won’t need to pay the standard fifty-fifty split with one of your men.”
Snake was amused. “You got guts kid, but I can’t exactly have the town patrol thinking that I recruit children to work for me, it costs me enough as it is to keep them off my back.”
“I work for no man. I work for myself. I kill your mark, you give me some coin, but I won’t answer to you.” The boy’s eyes showed a determination Snake never even saw in adults working for him. He could either die, or succeed and grow to be useful…or dangerous.
“I like the fire in your eyes, kid. But you’re just too young. Whaddya say I apprentice you to a decent assassin and in the meantime you pay your debt working in the thieve’s guild?” Snake was a horrible person; he killed women and children without a second thought constantly. But he wasn’t stupid; he could see when someone with potential came before him. In another five years the kid might be able to start taking contracts, he’d mold him well.
The boy clenched a fist and his face shimmered with rage. “I did not come here to be insulted. If you won’t give me a mark, another guild will.” He turned and walked towards the door.
Snake sighed. A shame, he could have been something. He motioned to one of his guards, and the man drew his short sword and approached the child. “Sorr..” The man began to say, but was surprised instead.
The kid became a blur for a moment, shifting his weight and sidestepping immaculately to the guard’s side. Then he spun, shifting his weight again and putting everything he had into a quick side kick to the brute’s kneecap. He might be young, but it didn’t take much pressure to break a knee; the kid expertly put his entire body weight into that shot.
The man buckled and dropped to one knee on the ground, but before he could register what had happened and react, a spinning back kick blasted into his chin. He slammed against the ground, dazed. As he regained his composure and fought the pain in his leg, he began to push himself up, attempting to stand. But before he could do so, a small dagger flicked silently into his throat, and he slumped to the floor. The kid had been checked for weapons, but apparently the guards weren’t too thorough since it was just a boy. He had a hidden throwing knife in his sleeves.
All the men present were speechless. “What’s your name, son?” Snake asked.
The kid pulled his knife from the guard’s neck, wiping it and returning it to the hidden sheath on his wrist. He turned and looked Snake in the eyes. “Eucibous. Eucibous Dan’anti.”
Snake raised an eyebrow. An elven surname. Interesting. “Eucibous, eh? You can retrieve your contract at the front desk.”
The crowd’s cheering erupted like thunder. Boots slammed against the ground in unison, sounding as if an army was marching. Bookies were overwhelmed with wagers, almost all of which were on the legendary Crimson Blade himself. They were forced to give incredibly biased odds so that they wouldn’t lose too much if Eucibous won.
Eucibous stepped out into the arena
, with men and women who had never seen him in their lives cheering for him. He was famous. Or infamous, it didn’t really matter. The people were here to see blood. He looked at his opponent, a paladin named Argan. Ranked highly, no doubt, given the value of the armor he wore. A stunning set of silver platemail reflected the sun’s rays, the superior craftsmanship evident in its design. Eucibous yawned.
Sig Argan fumed. He was a commander in the Knights of Darnillus, and his opponent was yawning at him. He gripped his blade tightly in aggravation. The man’s not invincible. The legends of him wiping out legions must be exaggerated. I can do this.
“BEGIN!” The announcer yelled.
Sir Argan glared across the arena in his opponent’s eyes…then all went dark.
Argan could barely see a thing, but from what he could see, he definitely wasn’t in the arena. “What the…?” He stood in a dark desert wasteland, surrounded by jagged rocks and sweltering heat. The only reason he could see at all was due to some mysterious crimson red light showering the area, still dark, but bright enough to know his surroundings. Then he saw the eyes. Countless sets of red eyes began opening, one by one, all around him. Some down crooked paths to his side, some on the rocks above, some still approaching from afar. He heard growls, and could not tell what type of beast made such a sound…until one of them stepped closer. It resembled a small hyena or wild dog, except…different. Horns protruded from its head and the teeth were massive. Its tail was adorned with spikes, lashing back and forth. It was an incredibly frightening creature, with a look and feel of pure evil. The eyes bore into his soul, shaking the very fibers of his being. If he was to fight this one demon hound, he would be likely to win. But he looked around him, and there were hundreds of eyes. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”