by Levi Samuel
They erupted at his gesture, shouting their praise.
The portcullis clanked open on the far side of the arena. Krenin turned to see who he'd be fighting. It was always a surprise. If he could prepare it'd make the whole process much smoother, but as it were, they never knew until they took the sands. The gate stood wide open yet nobody passed.
The crowd grew restless, booing the absence of his opponent.
He had to do something. They were growing restless. Raising his axes once again, Krenin shouted, letting his words silence their chants. “Seems the mighty Krenin too scary for him. He hide in cell, pissing himself! These, the little things in life worth fighting for!”
Receiving his boasts, the crowd roared louder than ever. It was short lived. A massive quake echoed through the stands shaking the very ground beneath them. Locked in silent anticipation they stared intently at the large opening on the far side.
Krenin turned to face the monster slowly making its way onto the sands. How such a beast could even fit in the tunnels was a mystery in of itself. He could hear his heartbeat thundering away inside him. Not so much as a gasp could be heard from the spectators. Only the echoing footsteps of the approaching behemoth sounded. He'd never seen one of its type before. It was twice the size of the largest orc and drug what looked to be a huge club that may as well have been the lower section of a tree. Even the thick ridges along the sides and head reminded him of tree roots.
Processing the sight, Krenin saw the crowd in the corner of his eye. They returned to their usual, primitive selves though he couldn't hear them. Only the beat of the drum in his chest and the earth-shattering foot falls were audible. He was frozen in the sight. How could such a creature exist? He'd been told of all manner of beasts, many of which he'd never seen. But this one, this creature, it was something familiar but unknown. Memories flashed, recalling a specific book Ravion had been looking through. Krenin hadn't paid much attention at the time, but what he saw looked just like this massive beast. It was a mountain troll if memory served. Though what he saw in the picture was somewhat different. It had flesh of stone, where as this one had dark green skin and layers of moss for hair. If region named them it stood to reason, this was a forest troll.
Will to live growing, Krenin gripped his weapons, feeling his knuckles pop around the leather wrapped bindings. Taking a deep breath he prepared himself for the fight of his life.
The troll spotted the small orc in the center of the arena. As if it awoke its brutish nature, the beast let out an earth-shattering roar, drowning the echo of the crowd. Raising the tree-like club it charged.
Krenin let his rage grow, feeling each thundering quake barrel toward him. The sand hopped from the massive weight impacting it. His heart pounded in-time to the rhythmic beat. Watching the behemoth, Krenin waited for the perfect moment. Now! He broke position and charged straight toward the beast, releasing his own battle cry.
The thick club cut through the air as if it were moving in slow motion. A single impact was likely to kill him. The huge, wooden cudgel slammed down.
Krenin jumped just before it connected. He felt the wind from the impact rush around him. His feet landed atop the massive club, balancing ever so slightly. Refusing to wait a moment longer he charged up the weapon and jumped, bringing his axes around.
Chunks of blood-damped sand flew into the air. The troll saw the tiny orc in the air headed straight toward him. Bringing his hand up, it swatted the pest away, knocking him from the sky like a bee in search of pollen. The sharp edges of the chopping blades bit into his arm, shooting pain through his body. Anger on the rise, the troll ripped his weapon from the sand.
Krenin crashed into the sand. He had to have drawn blood, but it was too soon to tell. The swat came out of nowhere. Jumping to his feet, knowing he didn't have much time, Krenin searched for the creature. Fortune favored him. He was behind it. Heaving his axes he brought them down, sinking the blades into the troll's back. Bright-green blood erupted from the wounds, coating his weapons. Ripping them free, the back spray splattered across his face. The florescent spray was in deep contrast to his darker complexion.
The troll howled in pain, spinning around to find the tiny orc. Raising his club he reared back to crush the pest.
It moved much faster than he'd expected. Momentarily frozen at the sight, Krenin tried to move but couldn't. He was too close. Regaining control of his body the half-orc lunged, hoping to avoid the blow as best he could. The trunk-like club caught him in the side and launched him from his feet. Krenin felt the air rush from him. He couldn't breathe. Flying through the air his body popped painfully. No doubt his ribs were broken. He landed roughly on the arena floor, momentum carrying him through the wet sand. Every part of him hurt, but it told him he was still alive. Though if he didn't get up he wouldn't be much longer. Forcing himself to his feet, Krenin spit the sand from his mouth and exhaled in short, rapid breaths trying to control himself. Adrenaline pumping, the damage hadn’t fully registered. It would keep him going a while longer, but it did little for the pain. His muscles tensed and his bones cracked. Taking his first deep breath, Krenin forced his eyes to remain open. Turning to find the troll, he spotted his axes lying in the sand where he’d been standing.
The troll watched the little orc fall to his back several steps away. To his surprise, it got back to its feet. Roaring his anger, the forest troll spat his twisted words at the orc. “Pu kcab teg dna tih Rakuu's ekat ot elba cro ynit woh?”
Krenin forced the pain aside. Clearing his head of all distractions he recited Malakai’s words. “A distracted mind is a dead mind.” He had to get his weapons if he was going to survive. “Don't know what you say and don't care. You going to die!”
The troll approached the defiant orc, raising his club to finish the job. There was no way he could withstand another hit.
Krenin felt the shadow engulf him long before the brute reached striking distance. He glared at the ugly, green head silhouetted in bright sunlight. It made it difficult to see anything, but it was better than being completely blinded. Watching the club raise, ready to deliver its final blow, Krenin readied himself.
The crowd fell silent, awaiting the fate of the half-breed. He'd done so much to bring them entertainment. It would be a shame for him to fall. But that was the life of a gladiator. Some would win big from his death, others would go into debt. It was orcish politics in the north. Had the lesser races known the true extent of their ambitions there was no way they'd think them nothing but muscled brutes.
Waiting for the right moment, Krenin kept his eyes on the beast. He might die, but that day would not be this one. The club rocketed toward his head. Diving between the troll's legs, he ignored his pain at all cost. Throwing every ounce of strength into a single blow Krenin slammed his shoulder into the creature's crotch. The club slammed down, showering sand atop of them both.
Rakuu cried out in pain. Dropping the club, he grabbed himself, hoping to dull the throbbing ache.
The axes were too far away. There was no doubt of that. Searching for option, Krenin spotted the embedded club. He couldn't lift it even on his best day. Out of choices he spun around and jumped on the troll's back throwing his arms around it's midsection as best he could. His arms weren't quite long enough to lock his grip, but perhaps he could hold on long enough to do some damage. Squeezing as hard as he could, Krenin felt several pops in his insides. An unbearable pain exploded in his side. He couldn't tell if it was more of ribs breaking or the already broken ones resetting. It didn't matter. It hurt. Holding his breath to keep from passing out, he squeezed. He had to weaken the beast if he was going to survive.
Feeling the orc latch onto him, Rakuu forced his composure. He wasn't sure how he was going to get him off. He was just at that spot that always itched, but was just out of reach. And there was no way grab his arms. Troll joints were too stiff to bend that far. He could try to fling him off or he could crush him under his weight. But squishing him was dangerous. The tiny orc ha
d already proven it was faster. And there was no telling what kind of tricks it would try to play if they were on the ground. A decision made, Rakuu flailed about, trying to throw the orc off of him. It was no use. He was attached too well. Howling his frustration, a rush of anxiety flooded him with the unwanted growth.
Krenin strained to keep his hold. He was growing tired and his grip was slipping. If the beast kept spinning, he was going to fall. Running out of time he scanned for his axes. They were close, but still out of reach. Out of options he buried his face in the creature's arm pit. The stench made him want to vomit, but it was nothing compared to what he was about to do. Opening his mouth, he bit into the soft flesh of its underarm, ripping his head from side to side. Bright green blood erupted in his mouth, filling it as he tore a chunk of flesh away. It tasted nearly as bad as it smelled. Spitting the meat and fat to the sand, an oily film clung to his mouth.
Unable to get away, the troll roared in pain. He couldn’t sooth the hole in his arm, not while the orc had ahold of him. Lost in panic, Rakuu charged toward the side wall. If he could smash him against it, he’d be free. Anxiety urging him, Rakuu tripped over the thick, wooden club and slammed face first into the sand.
Feeling gravity shift, Krenin saw his chance. Letting go, he rolled away from the troll, letting him fall in solitude. Rushing over, he snatched up his axes and spun around hoping he could finish the beast before it could rise.
Rakuu rolled to his side to sooth his underarm. He could feel the edge of the torn area at the tips of his calloused fingers. Careful to keep sand out of the wound, he pushed against the blood-soaked ground to pick himself up.
Krenin charged. Jumping as high as he could, the keen edges ready to strike deep. Landing on the troll’s back, it buckled under the unexpected weight. Letting loose, Krenin swung hard, burying blades of death into the beast's neck.
A sharp pain cut into the base of his skull. Rakuu tried throwing his attacker from him, but it was too late. The second axe found its mark. All strength fled him and he collapsed in the tingling numb.
Krenin stood atop the dying troll. His fists were locked around the submerged axes. The first was embedded in its spine, the second stuck between the vertebrae passing straight through the flesh and bone. The troll's head fell from its shoulders, bouncing on the sand before coming to rest a few feet away. A pool of bright green ichor leaked out, soaking into the already moist ground.
The crowd erupted in cheers, amazed by the battle they’d just witnessed.
Krenin plucked his embedded axe free and tried to raise them in victory. They were so heavy. Exhausted and full of pain, he felt them slip from his grip. The heads sank into the churned sand. Abandoning them, he weakly marched toward the portcullis. He needed rest, and gods willing, a healer.
A gentle breeze caressed the waist-high stalks of dancing, brown wheat. It was a calming roar, one that went unnoticed unless listened for. Agonizing screams echoed through the crack in the air, filling the open plainlands with their despair. A shimmering orange tear appeared, ripping apart the fabric of reality. It widened, allowing room for a single figure to pass.
Perrimen stumbled through the magic vortex, tripping against the tall grass. Pulling himself up he pushed through, clenching the mask sealed against his face. “How could I have failed? It wasn't my fault. I couldn't stop it!” A trampled path followed in his wake. Struggling against the latched appendage the voices echoed their retort, taunting his already fragile sanity. You failed! He’s coming! Why didn’t you stop him?
Unable to take the abuse, Perrimen dug his fingers beneath the edge, hoping to dislodge the source of his torment. His head throbbed against the echoing chorus, refusing to abandon him. His nails cut into his jaw line, but he found the nearly seamless edge. Forcing every ounce of will into a single cognitive purpose, the aged wizard pried it from his skin. “It wasn’t— my— fault!”
The golden shroud peeled away, growing easier in passing moment. The voices silenced, leaving him to himself. The red and blue tendrils atop his head shriveled and disappeared. His brown duster faded away leaving the tattered robes of white and gold in its place. Tightening his hand into a fist, Perrimen forced his body to obey for the first time in as long as he could remember. Free of the controlling power he felt a vulnerability in himself. One he'd never noticed before. He was a weak old man. While his years of study trained him in the arcane arts, making him one of the most power magi in Dalmoura, it was a candle compared to the sunlight the mask provided.
Dropping to his knees, he stared into the reflected sunlight feeling the rays upon his face. The relevance was not lost on him. Perrimen tensed, accepting the sudden freedom bestowed upon his broken mind. It was a blessing and a curse. To be free meant responsibility, which in itself was a prison. The truth was there was no such thing as true freedom. Only shades of an illusion. True freedom was true chaos. The question became how much was it worth? He glanced at the wicked kris tucked into his waistline. Drawing the blade he could feel the darkness within, begging, pleading, asking to be used. Were he inexperienced in resisting such temptations he had no doubt the blade would have claimed him as its next victim. Stuffing the weapon back in the sash he exhaled, letting his stress fade away. The wind embraced him, gently caressing his face. A shadow in the back of his mind demanded attention. Acknowledging its presence, the realization of his actions hit him. “He’s coming! I need to let the tower know.”
Sighing deeply, Perrimen pushed himself up, decided in his future. Turning west, he pressed the mask against his face, letting it thrust its freedom upon him once again. The golden, expressionless cover enveloped his head completely, locking itself to him. The red and blue tendrils sprung with force, resuming their ever-seeking dance. His clothing shifted, reverting back into the brown, leather duster, covering clothing he couldn’t see, but clearly felt. He knew what needed to be done, but he couldn't do it like this. As if his thought were command, the duster morphed, taking a fluid like appearance. His gold and white robes returned, though not the tarnished and stained one he'd been wearing. These were long and elegant, seemingly new. The power flowed through them like a sheet of water in constant flux around his body. The mask and cap faded into him, revealing his round, freshly shaven face, and shoulder-length hair, groomed and sun-faded brown. His receded hairline left a slight peak in the center of his aged face, though the years of his youth returned.
Knowing where he needed to go, the wizard took a single step toward his destination. The orange crack appeared and, as quickly as he'd arrived, he was gone.
Stepping from the swirling energies, Perrimen marched through the arched doorway ignoring the guards posted on either side. Passing through the reception hall, he didn't bother looking at the decor. It hadn't changed in centuries. Such admirations belonged to apprentices and visitors. Ignoring the receptionist, he stepped into the teleportation shaft and pictured the destination in his mind. The magic swirled around him. Turning around, Perrimen marched into an expansive chamber filled with tomes and scrolls as far as the eye could see.
“Perrimen?” Uirial asked, rushing over to take his brother’s hand.
“I've come to warn you. The corruption has been released. It's already begun to spread into the realm. The tower will not be around much longer.”
Uirial paused, studying his brother's face. He'd been gone over a decade, yet his youth had reversed. Something was different about him, but it was clearly him. The fact he'd been able to enter the chamber without summons was proof enough. “Brother, tell me. How’d you come by this knowledge? When last we spoke, your mind was broken from the weight of the crown.”
“I’m not here to talk about my time as baron!” Perrimen snapped, slamming his fist down on a pile of books. It was no wonder The Tower’s reputation had diminished over the years. They always over analyzed everything instead of taking immediate action. “Something must be done. I can feel the tendrils lashing out, wrapping themselves around the base stones. You must act!�
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The magnis looked his aged brother up and down. “You don’t feel like yourself. But I’ve learned enough to know when to take your advice and when to turn cheek. I will do as you ask.” Uirial placed his hand against his brother's shoulder, giving him a reassuring pat. “I'll look into the oculus. Perhaps I'll be able to find this corruption before it sets in. He released the elder mage and turned toward the shaft. Spinning around, he took in his brother’s sight once again. “Perrimen, I'm glad you're back. This place hasn't been the same without you.” Uirial disappeared in the swirling tunnel.
Wasting no time, Perrimen pulled the hidden dagger and laid it upon the table. Running his hand over the wavy edge he closed his eyes, focusing his energies. An image came to him. An image of a man familiar, yet concealed. “He's in Krondar!” Snatching the dagger, he stuffed it away, allowing the dark torrent to surround him. Energies spinning, Perrimen vanished.
Chapter IV
Chosen Regrets
The air was warm with a musky scent. Though he'd been in it so long he couldn't note the difference anymore. Exhausted and out of breath Gareth opened his eyes, looking up at the ceiling overhead. Several chisel marks told the story of when the tunnel had been carved. Tiny droplets of water had eroded it in places leaving long jagged columns hanging down, threatening him. The slightest tremor could dislodge any one of them, spearing into his body. Shaking the thoughts of doom from his mind, Gareth took a deep breath, feeling the compressed clay beneath him. Summoning his strength, he rolled over and pushed himself up.
Crawling to the underground pond, Gareth scooped the dark water into his hands. Staring at the reflection looking back at him, he hated the visage. It was him, he knew that much, but he was dark and twisted. The vile beasts he'd sworn to exterminate stared back at him. Not just one, but all of them. He was haunted by their corruption. Closing his eyes, Gareth forced the image from his mind. Bringing the collected water to his mouth he sucked it in, washing the dry, gravely film away. The cool liquid soothed his throat, pouring down his esophagus. He felt it hit his stomach like an explosion. Pain shot through him, convulsing his innards. Instinctively he clenched his midsection, hoping to somehow control the fluctuating pain inside him. He hadn't even felt the impact of falling over. Curled up, cradling himself, the hunger pains began to fade.