Judgment mtg-3

by Will McDermott

  "Aye, lad," replied Balthor. "Talon plays this game well. I'm sure he'll be picking all your fights if ye let him."

  "No matter. I will win every battle Talon throws at me, and then I will tear him apart like a rag doll in front of his precious Elite Eight." Kamahl sheathed his sword and stalked off to the arena.

  Kamahl surveyed the arena. It was set in Balthor's obstacle course, but most of the walls and stone tunnels had been removed to provide a large open space for the battles. A few obstacles remained in strategic points around the arena to provide cover or higher ground. The walls of the Judgment course were lined with warriors and villagers who had come to watch the spectacle.

  Murk was a tall, lanky warrior with a shock of black, spiky hair on top of his head and what he obviously thought was a severe looking goatee on his chin. He jumped and wove around one comer of the arena as Kamahl entered, tossing taunts at the much larger barbarian.

  "Big Kamahl and his monster sword. You gonna throw your weight around, big man? Well, if you want to hit me, you'll have to catch me first."

  "If all you can do is bounce and bray, little man, this will be a short battle," replied Kamahl. Then looking up at Talon, who stood in the watch tower, he said, "Is this the best you could get to face me today, Talon?"

  Goaded into making the first move by the man he had just tried to taunt, Murk brought both hands up in front of him and created a ball of red and blue flame between his hands, which then sped away from the young mage toward Kamahl.

  Kamahl unsheathed his sword and brought its tip up in front of him, concentrating on the razor-sharp edge. As the ball of fire reached the larger barbarian, it split in two on the sword as if sliced by the blade. The two smaller fireballs whisked past either side of Kamahl's face and hit the wall behind the barbarian in small explosions.

  "Speed is not what wins a battle. Power is," said Kamahl as he began to stalk around the arena toward the younger, smaller warrior. "Try that one again, and I'll show you how powerful this sword really is." The Mirari pulsed with energy as Kamahl spun the blade over and over between his hands.

  Murk continued to dance and weave, moving in the opposite direction around the arena, never letting Kamahl get any closer as he prepared his next spell. The young mage stopped for just a moment to let loose another barb and a spell.

  "You lumber around the arena like an elephant on its way to its final resting place, old man. Let's see you parry this attack." With that, Murk raised both hands above his head, spread his fingers, and whipped his hands down toward Kamahl.

  Kamahl heard the sizzle of heat above him. Looking up, he saw a torrent of lava cascading over an invisible precipice. Kamahl dived forward, trying to roll out of the way of the lava fall, but the leading edge of the cascading molten rock washed over his lower legs, burning right through the barbarian's boots and singing his calves and ankles.

  Spinning around, Kamahl kicked off his boots, which landed in the river of lava that now poured toward him on the ground. The boots melted down into the red-hot liquid adding a puff of smoke to the steam rising from the lava. Kamahl pushed himself away but was too slow to escape on all fours and wasn't sure if his legs would hold him if he tried to stand and run.

  Instead, Kamahl pointed his sword toward the river of lava that threatened to overtake him. Suddenly, a wide spray of lightning leaped from the tip of his sword, hitting the ground in front of the lava and opening up a crack that expanded to over a foot in width. The lava flowed harmlessly into the crack until the spell's mana expired.

  Testing his singed legs, Kamahl stood, grimacing at the pain that shot up his body from the charred flesh. Turning back to find Murk, Kamahl saw that the younger barbarian had moved around the arena again to remain opposite him.

  "I thought you were going to show me the power of your sword?" taunted Murk. "All I see is a hole in the ground where your boots once were."

  Kamahl chuckled to himself. The youngster obviously relied on his speed to keep him out of trouble, his mouth to push opponents into rash decisions, and his spells to win battles. That's why he didn't advance while I was down, thought Kamahl. He has no defense against physical attacks except his feet. Well, his speed might prolong the fight, but his wit was lost on Kamahl, who had heard and uttered much worse while fighting beside Chainer in the pits. Perhaps it was time to show Murk the true power of his sword.

  "Let's get this over with, shall we?" he said and pointed his sword at Murk. Flames erupted from the tip of the sword, and Kamahl heard Balthor gasp behind him. But the barbarian had no intention of incinerating this pitiful warrior. He just needed to change the rules and scare the poor little man. As the flames jetted toward Murk, Kamahl jerked his sword around in a circle, sending a wave down the length of the line of fire, creating a ring of flames ten feet across encircling the young mage.

  Still feeding fire into the ring, Kamahl slowly walked over to the imprisoned barbarian, barely feeling the pain in his legs as the power of the Mirari washed over him. By the time Kamahl reached the firewall, he was bathed in a blue-white light coming from the orb, and the crowd gasped as he walked right through the flames.

  "Yield, little man. There's nowhere to run now," growled Kamahl as he stalked Murk around the much smaller arena, sword raised and ready to strike.

  "Never!" yelled Murk as he raised his hand and shot a beam of white-hot fire across the circle that erupted when it hit Kamahl's chest, obscuring the large barbarian's vision as white flames danced all around him. But when Murk's spell dissipated, Kamahl still stood, his sword raised, his eyes glowering bright red at his foe.

  Murk cast yet another spell, but Kamahl just walked toward the mage, slowly, letting the blast wash over him. Then he struck the brash, young barbarian in the head with the flat of his blade.

  "Yield!"

  Sprawled on the ground with the huge Kamahl standing over him, Murk gasped for air, hyperventilating from fear and unable to utter a word. As Kamahl's chest heaved up and down ready to strike again, he heard Talon's voice over the roar of the flames.

  "He yields, Kamahl. You are the victor. Stand down."

  The two warriors remained right where they were for a moment longer before Kamahl lowered his sword and stepped back through the wall of flames to the center of the arena. As the fire died down, Murk was helped from the field by two of his village brethren. Kamahl no longer glowed, but his face was still flushed from the heat of the fight, and his chest still heaved with lust for battle.

  "Who's next?" he shouted. "Who will challenge me now? Are you ready to face me yet, Talon, or will you send another one of your lieutenants to battle for you?"

  Before Kamahl could rail at his fellow tribesman anymore, Balthor ran into the arena and grabbed his pupil's arm.

  "Kamahl," he hissed. "Lad, get a grip on yourself. Ye cannot alienate the very man ye must win over to your side."

  Pulling the large barbarian around to face him, Balthor looked Kamahl in the eyes and said, "Maybe your sister was right boy. Perhaps ye should rest a little before the next battle. I'm sure they'll send someone more worthy next. This was just a test. Don't fail on the first test, lad."

  The fires had dimmed a little in Kamahl's eyes, but he still shook his head. "No. We don't have time to wait. Laquatas's forces could attack at any time. I must press on. At least let me face one worthy challenger before this day is done. If I am to win their respect, I must battle the best of them, not some young fool who should never have been in the same arena with me."

  "All right. One more battle today and that's all. Ye need some rest, lad, or ye'll lose it for sure. Let's see who they send this time. If it's not a member of the Elite Eight, heads will roll I assure ye."

  *****

  "This is the place, mistress," hissed Leer as he and Braids looked down on a small village that consisted of nothing more than a couple two-story wood houses, several smaller thatch-roofed huts, and a granary-three silos and a shabby warehouse. "If that Order man was telling the truth." />
  "Zombies can't lie," replied Braids. "Not to me, anyway. Besides, your own nose confirmed his story. Kamahl was here. Let's go find out why."

  "But the merman said the barbarian went home to the mountains," said Leer, who had become much more talkative since Braids had named him. "Why waste time in the plains?"

  "Because the merman is a liar, and the First sent us out to find the truth," said Braids. "Now, let's go find some townsfolk to talk to us about our barbarian friend."

  "Yes, mistress," said Leer. "I have sent Barrel, Nod, Soot, and Grim on ahead to deal with the locals."

  "You've named the boys?" asked Braids as the two made their way back to the wheel ruts that passed for a road down to the village.

  "They asked for names, mistress, so you can speak to them as well," replied Leer. "No one ever spoke to us before, except to give us orders."

  "Well, I see the world a bit differently than most," said Braids, blushing. "No one speaks to me all that much either. Now, let's get into town before the boys kill everybody. I'm a little tired of talking to zombies."

  Barrel, Nod, Soot, and Grim had already swept through the two large buildings-the cooper's house and the tavern-and had split up to enter the smaller hovels that surrounded them. Braids and Leer headed for the granary to check out the ramshackle warehouse.

  Inside were three burly men sitting on large crates and smoking cigars. In the corner of the room sat a fourth man behind a desk with a leather-bound book open in front of him.

  "What in the depths is that?" gasped one of the cigar-smoking workers when Leer barged into the room, tearing the door from its hinges and tossing it aside like so much kindling.

  "Your destiny, my good young man," said Braids as she stepped in behind Leer and allowed her dementia space to settle over her eyes. "Handle them, Leer," she said, pointing to the workers, "and leave him to me."

  As Braids walked toward the back of the room, the three workers dropped off their crates and came toward Leer.

  "Look, beastie," said brave one, "we don't want no trouble, so take your ugly face and your uglier wife and leave."

  With that the talker took a swing at Leer, which hit the snake assassin full in the chest and knocked him back about a foot. The other two circled around the snake and cheered on their friend.

  "What are you doing in my granary?" asked the owner as the cloud-covered dementia summoner strode toward him. "What do you want?"

  "Information about a big barbarian man," said Braids as she wound a black cloud of dementia space around her hand behind her back. "Now don't flinch, or this will hurt even more." Braids whipped her hand forward and flung the cloud at the little man like a hand full of pebbles.

  Getting no reaction to his first punch, the leader jabbed at Leer again, this time with his lit cigar clenched between his knuckles. Leer quickly stepped to the side and grabbed the large man's wrist as it passed, adding his own arm strength to pull the man off balance and ram the cigar-burning punch into the face of the worker behind him.

  The force of the blow crushed the second man's nose and broke several fingers in the attacker's hand. Still holding the attacker's wrist as the man screamed in pain, Leer lifted the large worker off the ground, grabbed the man's head with his other hand, opened his jaws, and chomped down on the exposed neck. With deadly venom coursing through his veins, the brave worker went limp in Leer's grip.

  As the dementia cloud reached the owner, it broke apart into tiny bits that circled the man's head like a cloud of gnats surrounding an open flame at night, diving periodically to pierce the man's skin, ears, and eyes. He shook his head and flailed his arms at the cloud, but the agitated particles merely descended faster and began eating away at the flesh on his hands.

  "Just let my little babies do their work and you won't suffer… much," said Braids as she waited for the cloud to finish penetrating the man's brain.

  Leer turned toward the worker with the broken nose, grabbed the man's face, and curled his claws around the back of the worker's head. With a quick, violent flip of his wrist, Leer snapped the man's neck and dropped him to the floor like a rag doll. Before Leer could grab the third worker the man turned and fled toward the door, but he stopped suddenly and then backed up with Orim's claws skewered through his body.

  "We need him alive?" asked Grim.

  "No," replied Leer.

  "Good thing," stated Grim.

  The cloud had completely disappeared from around the owner's head, and the man was no longer struggling. The tiny dementia creatures had bored into his brain and begun taking control.

  "Now, about the barbarian," said Braids, sitting on the man's desk and leafing through his ledger. "What can you tell me about his recent visit?"

  *****

  "Thank you for seeing us on short notice, First," said Llawan, "and for accommodating our special needs."

  "My home is your home, Empress," said the First, smiling. "If we cannot accommodate our allies we risk turning them into enemies."

  "We were worried you would strap us to your chair when we asked Veza to set up this meeting."

  "Believe me," said the First as he paced around the tank where Llawan swam in the middle of his meeting room, "the chair-and this tank-are as much for the protection of my visitors as they are for my own. Now, what may I do for you today?"

  "We are concerned that the traitor Laquatas will obtain the Mirari," said Llawan, jetting to the back of the tank as the First rounded the corner.

  "Which is why 1 have sent my most powerful dementia summoner and five of this world's most fearsome killers to track down the rogue barbarian and retrieve that which belongs to the Cabal," replied the First.

  "We believe you underestimate the former ambassador," countered Llawan. "Laquatas deals in lies. Even when he tells the truth, it is based on some underlying lie. You may believe that mistress Braids and her snake-headed assassins are working for you. But in the end, they can do nothing but play their part in Laquatas's plot, for he has scripted it for them."

  "You know much about Cabal business, Empress," said the First as he ran his hand along the outside of the tank, etching the glass with his acidic touch. "I am impressed."

  The Empress swiveled around and sent a jet of ink over the tank to stream down perfectly over the First's scratches, diluting the acid. "We make it our business to follow closely the dealings of Laquatas," she said, "For example, did you know that he has somehow mobilized Order forces, which will attempt to steal the orb from your assassins before they can return with it?"

  "I do keep my eye on local politics as well as troop movements, Empress," replied the First, returning to the front of the tank. "I do not believe even a garrison of Order troops could stop Braids."

  "We do not share your optimism," said Llawan. "We would feel more secure about the Mirari and about our business dealings with the Cabal if you sent extra troops into the lowlands surrounding the Pardic Mountains to help Braids deal with the traitor's Order forces."

  "Are you threatening the Cabal, Empress?" asked the First. "I hear those naval trade routes have become quite lucrative for the Cabal, have they not?"

  The First stroked his chin thoughtfully and smiled broadly at the empress. "Yes, I believe I can spare some Cabal forces to aid in the recovery of the Mirari. I believe that would be a prudent business decision. Would any of your forces be available as well, Empress?"

  "Our forces?" asked Llawan. "How would mer forces come to your aid in the middle of Otaria?"

  The First walked slowly and steadily up to the tank, stopping a fraction of an inch from the glass. "Why, via your network of underground tunnels of course. Had you forgotten?"

  Llawan stoically faced the gaze and proximity of the First, insulated by the glass and the seawater from the pungent odor that had made Veza ill, but she blanched at the mention of the tunnels.

  Quickly recovering her royal demeanor she said, "Now it is our turn to be impressed. Unfortunately, we cannot spare any of our forces for this venture.
They are needed elsewhere. That is why we have come to our friends in the Cabal for help."

  "And you shall have it, Empress," said the First, backing up to his normal position at the head of the room. "You shall have it."

  *****

  Balthor looked up at the crowd and called out, "Kamahl will take one more challenge today. Let's not make a mockery out of this tournament by having another mismatch. Who here feels worthy of facing the greatest Pardic warrior of all time?"

  Kamahl saw Talon nod to someone off to his right, and Joha, a devout follower of Fiers and the spiritual leader of the Elite Eight, dropped off the wall and strode over to take his place opposite Kamahl.

  "Face me, Kamahl, and may the strength of Fiers flow through us both."

  As Balthor left the arena again, Kamahl focused on his new opponent. Joha was taller than Murk and almost as broad as Kamahl. He strode across the arena with the confidence gained from many successful battles. In his right hand he carried a lead-tipped staff made of ironwood. His short, tightly curled hair shone with sweat in the light of sun, which was now close to its zenith.

  Joha twirled his staff in front of him and sidestepped around the arena as Kamahl prowled around opposite him, his sword held low in front of him. Neither warrior spoke as both concentrated on the movements of the other, waiting for the twitch that would indicate an imminent attack.

  Kamahl had never fought Joha, but he had seen some of his early battles when the spiritual warrior had first challenged the Elite Eight. Like Murk, Joha liked to stay at range and pummel his opponents with fire and lightning. Unlike Murk, Joha had considerable power, a decent intellect, and little speed. As they prowled around each other, Kamahl tried to imperceptibly narrow the circle of their prowling and guide Joha toward one of the few remaining walls in the course.

  But Joha must have deduced his strategy, for just as Kamahl rushed the slower warrior in an attempt to trap him against the wall, Joha sprinted in the opposite direction and let loose with a blast of fire from the end of his staff toward the very wall Kamahl was rushing toward. Unable to halt his momentum, the large barbarian slammed into the suddenly molten wall, burning the flesh on his palms, chest, and legs when he hit.