Blood Immortal

by Paul Centeno

  “You’re right,” responded Earamathras. “Not all of them are evil. One had, by a miracle it seems, defected.”

  “She is standing behind the emperor,” said Varkagorsa.

  Aarian gazed ahead at the statue of Xen. “I know for a fact that it would be impossible for Xen to be corrupt. I felt her eternal light within the dream, saving me from Izabaldo’s grasp. And also, Lord Taveric, with the blessing of Xen, sacrificed himself to greatly wound a demon that my companions and I had fought in Grisfall.”

  “Xen is the one and only immortal you can trust,” said Earamathras.

  “Impossible,” said Aarian, shaking his head. “That simply can’t be. Thay’tal of courage? Daela’han of love and compassion? Zartos of the fiery sun? U’cleria of wisdom and endurance? That’s impossible! I mean, Gar’kon I can understand. But—”

  “Ah,” interjected Earamathras. “Gar’kon you can understand? It has always been hard to trust the dark elves. But the truth is that if the others were in fact possessed, it no longer matters what race they are, or, to be more precise, were. They are demons now.”

  “I refuse to believe this,” said Aarian. “There are only Nine eternal Spirits, and they are a blessing. If we seek their guidance, we shall receive salvation.”

  “There are many other spirits,” said Varkagorsa. “You have witnessed this yourself. How do explain the banshee that nearly killed you? And how about that lich you told me about while we traveled here? Súrion, was it? Yes, there are many more spirits. But the problem is they’re all damned. We can only have faith in the One.”

  “Xen can’t possibly be the only noble Spirit,” said Aarian, still shaking his head.

  “See?” said Varkagorsa, looking at the emperor. “He’s a closed-minded fool. I knew that I made a terrible mistake bringing him here, thinking he was the Dralekar.”

  “And can somebody please tell me what this Dralekar is?” demanded Aarian.

  “Varka,” began Earamathras, giving the orc a long look, “have you been teasing Prince Aarian with the prophecy before putting him to the test?”

  “I swear in your name that I haven’t revealed anything,” replied the warlord.

  “Calm down, Varka,” said Earamathras, his chuckle like an earthquake. “I’m not going to bite you.” He then turned to Aarian and added, “Dralekar is a title from a primordial prophecy—a premonition and revelation I experienced during the epoch when Xen haunted my mind before being banished: the legendary Dralekar, vanquisher of demons. He would be a mortal possessed by the demon king. Then, cursed with the blood and immortality of the demonic spirit, Dralekar would suffer greatly until becoming the master of the demon. With blood immortal, the Dralekar would rise with a legion none would ever forget and put a swift end to the demons once and for all.”

  Aarian laughed wildly. “My goodness,” he said with an astonished expression. “That is quite a fairytale. And you think that’s me?”

  “Not anymore,” said Varkagorsa, frowning.

  “How about you, mighty emperor?” asked Aarian. “Do you actually believe I am the one who can fulfill this prophecy of yours?”

  “No,” said Earamathras firmly. “Though there is no doubt of you being possessed by a demon, it is probably not very powerful. Otherwise it would’ve indubitably taken over you by now.”

  “Indubitably,” said Aarian, laughing loudly again. “That is a fancy word. You speak Vlydyonian well.”

  “Furthermore,” boomed the dragon, his eyes squinting and darkening at the prince, “even if you were somehow able to survive our trial, it would mean that the demon is extraordinarily powerful.”

  “Which translates to your demise,” said Varkagorsa. “How about we just put him out of his misery and execute him now?”

  “I warned you not to interrupt me again, Varka,” said the emperor, gritting his teeth and showing his fangs to the orc who prostrated in forgiveness. “Anyway,” continued Earamathras lightheartedly, “As the warlord said, a demon so immensely powerful would never allow you to master it, thus killing you. But,” —the dragon sighed heavily—“As I said before to the warlord, judging or making assumptions is not our way.”

  “Give me a break,” said Aarian, giving the dragon his back. “Varkagorsa brought me all the way here because he was superstitious. This enchanted fortress may be impressive; however, it’s full of savages with an emperor who has lost his mind in anecdotes made for whelps such as yourself—no offense.”

  “I want to decapitate him for such heresy,” said Varkagorsa, unsheathing his katana and bringing it along the prince’s throat.

  “Sheathe your sword, Warlord,” said Earamathras, strangely calm.

  Varkagorsa gnashed his teeth, spittle landing on Aarian’s face, and then lowered his weapon, sheathing it.

  “No offense taken, Prince Aarian,” said Earamathras. “I don’t blame you for feeling this way. Such resentment is natural. You want to desperately believe that the spirituality you were raised with is the cosmic truth. Believe you me, this is how most people think. I also understand that there are many who need to see in order to believe.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” inquired Aarian, irked.

  Without responding, Earamathras raised his elongated tail and whirled it toward Aarian who gasped. The wind alone created by the swirl of the moving tail pushed him back a few feet. Then the tail struck him, shattering his breastplate and sending him all the way down to the first floor of the coliseum. Aarian screamed louder than a banshee while tossed down like a rag doll. Seconds later, he smashed onto the concrete and broke his back.

  “We shall see this through to the end,” said the dragon. “Warlord Varkagorsa, blow the horn and bring our citizens here. They have a trial to witness.”

  “At once, Your Imperial Majesty,” he said, dashing off.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHALLENGE OF TITANS

  Darkness surrounded Aarian as he lay on the ground. He could hear something burning around him. In fact, it felt to him as though the flame was ubiquitous, spreading throughout the cosmos like the immortal Spirits whom he decided to keep believing in. Even though his eyes were wide open, he couldn’t see anything. Yet, in due time, a faint light appeared afar. The light was calling out to him; however, he wasn’t able to move.

  The noise of the flame grew, becoming more intense. He felt a tingly sensation all around his crippled, paralyzed body. Moments later he started regaining his sight, a blurry vision of hazy smoke. By the time he was finally able to see, fire engulfed him. The light began to diminish. He shrieked in agony, his bloodcurdling face melting. The weak voice he’d heard before was fading away as he screamed. He managed to stand as fourth-degree burns formed on his skin. Limping forward, Aarian found himself in a realm of hellfire. Then, one final time, the serene voice in the light called out to him louder:

  “Come to the light, Prince Aarian.”

  Aarian broke into a run. He wasn’t sure how he was able to move or even sprint, but he stopped thinking and simply dashed toward the light as fast as he could. The cackle of Izabaldo was within earshot, the demon’s shadow covering his own and expanding as if it had become his now.

  “Hiding is futile,” said Izabaldo, his voice echoing. “You belong to me. The mark on your neck is our pact.”

  “Get away from me!” shouted Aarian, reaching the light.

  That instant, a bright radiance enveloped him. He fell to the ground, disoriented. The fire dissipated, as with the demon. Aarian tried to catch his breath, steadily regaining his composure. He was so sick of running and being afraid, but what was he supposed to do? At least being here made him feel safe. The light strengthened, strangely making him drowsy. At that point, he gave out a sigh and attempted to rest. Closing his eyes, he let the radiance embrace him and heal his crippled body.

  After what seemed to him like an hour of sleeping, he awoke at the bottom of the massive arena. Opening his eyes, he found himself on the floor facing a wild audience of orcs a
nd trolls roaring viciously at him. To his surprise, he was able to move and get up after falling down from such an unbelievably high floor. Earamathras gazed at the prince from his nest with an astounded expression. As for Varkagorsa, he looked impressed but figured the demon within Aarian would eventually kill him.

  In the meantime, Aarian stood firm and stared at the crowd, trying to figure out what was happening.

  “Let the Challenge of Titans commence!” boomed the emperor.

  “Gallant swarm of Warenyth,” began Warlord Varkagorsa, “I present you Prince Aarian of Vlydyn, the last living humyn in existence!” The crowd cheered at his notable announcement, anxious to see a glorious battle. “His first combatant is a being of might and tenacity: Xar’jax the Mutilator!”

  Just then, the northern gate opened, and in came an eleven-foot-tall troll wielding an axe as large as he. Aarian, eyes widened, unsheathed his sleek katana and backed away. He glanced around, checking to see if there were any exits he could escape from but found none. The snooty green-skinned troll with a long crooked nose and rings pierced all over his sucked-in, grotesque face stomped toward Aarian, carelessly swinging his battleaxe back and forth while he advanced in a sluggish manner.

  Aarian was so used to being able to defend himself with a shield. Yet this time he didn’t have one. The only thing he had was a weighty two-handed katana. Holding it wasn’t easy, but he didn’t have much of a choice. Swallowing heavily, he strode forth and swerved aside as the hulking troll swung his axe down with all his might. Grunting, he struck the concrete that shook and cracked, chipping a piece of his sharp edge.

  Swiftly maneuvering behind his opponent, Aarian slit his leg, severing a ligament. The troll yelped, kneeling in pain. When he unwillingly lowered himself, Aarian swiped his katana across the troll’s neck, slitting his throat. Not even bothering to look at the gurgling troll, Aarian sheathed his weapon and waved his hands to stop this madness. This, however, only incensed the crowd. They grumbled and booed at him with ferocious expressions.

  “Unbelievable,” said Aarian to himself. “They’re all savages.”

  “Fear not, valiant legion,” intervened the warlord, trying to calm them from killing the prince themselves. “We have another vicious warrior, or should I say warriors, who are ready to crush this flimsy insect of a humyn.”

  “Can you cut me some slack?” asked Aarian. “I’m not a one-man army.”

  Thousands of orcs and trolls ignored his plea. Many of them jeered at him while others cheered at Varkagorsa’s words. There were even a few who sniggered, wondering why they had to watch such a scrawny boy fight.

  “Yorgaza and Gerebarga, squash this petty man from existence,” commanded the warlord menacingly.

  The southern gateway opened, making Aarian curious to turn and look. At that moment, he saw a two-headed ogre enter the arena. The beasts’ saggy body stood about fourteen-feet tall. If a dozen pregnant women combined their bellies, they still wouldn’t be able to compete with the two-headed ogre’s. Yorgaza and Gerebarga were also replete with muscles. One of their biceps was virtually the size of their chest.

  Aarian couldn’t decide which face was more grotesque. Most intimidating, however, were the wooden clubs they held. A single hit would probably crush his entire body. Yet he refused to back away in fear, unsheathing his katana.

  “Me bash him hard,” said Yorgaza, cross-eyed.

  “No, me bash him first,” replied Gerebarga, snickering while raising his thick club high, eager to whack Aarian multiple times.

  “Try hitting me once, you two-headed freak,” said Aarian, lifting the katana.

  After taunting the ogre, he charged toward it like a madman and hastily slid between their legs. Upon doing so, he jabbed his blade into their left ankle. Yorgaza shrieked in pain, tilting to the side. Gerebarga was so angry at him that he walloped his twin head in the face with his club, breaking Yorgaza’s nose. Blood gushed down his nostrils as he attempted to attack Gerebarga. Fighting each other, they soon fell to the floor.

  “This is sad,” said Aarian, hurling his sword into the ogre’s chest.

  The two heads stopped yammering, their body twitching for a few seconds. Silence fell briefly as the prince reached for his sword, yanking it out of the corpse.

  “Do not worry yet, glorious legion,” said the warlord. “Next is a band of heroes we have always treasured. Thanks to them, the chilling and vicious harpies of Niratredam have fled our kingdom forever.” At that point the crowd shouted for joy as though they knew who the fighters were. “Here comes Swarm of Fangs!”

  “More like Swarm of Fools,” said Aarian.

  He glanced at the western gateway where a pack of six werewolves galloped toward him on their four limbs. His heart instantaneously raced. Staggering, he didn’t know what to do. He was completely outnumbered and had to fight against ferocious beasts that could easily tear him apart.

  Closing his eyes, Aarian remembered what Dargain had taught him—the importance of alacrity. Dargain was somehow always able to evade Scar or just about anyone for that matter. In fact, the only reason why he had died was because of foul magic. Otherwise, Saldovin Keldoran would’ve been long dead. Aarian didn’t want to look. He pretended to be blindfolded, listening to the movements and growls.

  Aarian promptly dodged to the left and right, ducked, leapt backwards, rolled to the side, flipped forward, and pirouetted while sweeping his katana in an arc formation. In seconds he evaded numerous attacks by the werewolves, one of which was split diagonally. This got the crowd’s attention. They started to hush and take Aarian a bit more seriously, including Varkagorsa who knew not even he could’ve performed such moves. Feeling more confident, the prince opened his eyes.

  “Who’s next?” taunted Aarian, keeping his katana leveled with his chest. “Why hold back on me? I’m just a flimsy humyn.”

  The werewolves snarled and gnashed their teeth, yearning to sink their fangs into him and tear off his limbs. They wildly pursued him again. One even tried pouncing on him. Yet he slid beneath it, slicing the werewolf in half from head to groin.

  Swiftly rising to his feet, he parried three werewolves’ attacks and then riposted, severing a snout. The beast yelped horrifically, fell to the floor, and bled to death. Meanwhile, the others continued to swipe their claws at Aarian who deflected them with his curved, slender katana. He only withdrew tactically—not out of fear. Then, when Aarian saw an opportunity, he twirled to the side and decapitated one. Charging forward, he attacked another beast that stood on its hind legs, amputating one of its limbs and gutting it. Pulling out his katana, he stood still while the beast croaked.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the last werewolf rapidly approaching him. He waited for it to draw closer and make a move first so he could parry and riposte. When it leapt to attack, however, it swiftly retracted on purpose, fooling him, and then struck his left thigh with its sharp paw. Without waiting another second, it leapt onto him and sank its fangs into his neck, precisely where the nine-pointed star had been etched. Aarian screamed in pain, dropping his sleek sword by accident.

  The werewolf hauled the prince left to right with its snout, biting harder. Blood squirted from the wound, Aarian shrieking. When the beast finally released him, it stood on its hind legs in a hunched position, growling at him with utter hatred. That instant, the gray beast twitched and convulsed. It soon howled in agony, lighting up in flames that scorched it until only bones lay on the ground.

  The crowd, flabbergasted by what had just happened, sat quietly. In the meantime, Aarian tried to stand on his feet. He, too, witnessed the strange demise of the last werewolf. And he had a feeling why this occurred. Though relieved to be alive, he gritted his teeth in fury and used the katana to snip a piece of flesh off his neck. By doing this, he removed the rune that he’d carved on himself in the citadel of Fal’shar.

  “I am done with you!” he exclaimed, stepping on the frayed skin.

  “It seems we have a talented swordsm
an in our arena today,” said Varkagorsa, ignoring what Aarian had done. “This means we are privileged to see more carnage.” This immediately excited the legion before him. “I now introduce a brute of absolute power who even I’d shudder to face. I give you: Cyclone the Eradicator!”

  The southern and largest gate opened. Aarian, putting pressure on his neck wound in an attempt to prevent more bleeding, feebly turned to gaze upon the creature that thumped into the coliseum. Violent tremors occurred with each step it took. At first the being standing thirty-six feet high was a bestial silhouette. Aarian could only make out hooves. Then, with another stride forward, Aarian discovered what the beast was—a colossal cyclops. An immense horn stood upon its scalp, its rigid and bumpy chest and arms perfectly shaped. And its legs were covered with brown fur. When its single eye spotted Aarian, it pounded its massive chest, giving out a deafening roar, and stomped toward its prey.

  “Now this is something I haven’t imagined fighting,” murmured Aarian to himself, sweat pouring down his haggard face.

  He quickly broke into a run, reaching a corner where a pillar stood. He tried to climb its chains to get on higher ground while the cyclops approached. By the time he scaled a few links, however, the giant was already upon him. It grabbed him with its coarse hand and hurled him like a ball across the arena. He slammed threw a stone column opposite the cyclops, its rubble crumbling over him.

  Despite how much Aarian wanted to move, feeling like every bone broke in his body, he couldn’t even budge a muscle. Something must have surely been fractured, he conceded. Though groaning in agonizing pain, he didn’t fall unconscious. He wanted to rise back up to his feet and fight the damn creature. Yet how could he battle against such a titan? The cyclops merely took three steps forward and was already upon him.