by Dante King
I’m going to be fighting in front of all these people, I thought. This is fucking epic!
As Cecilia steered me through the throng, I spotted a strange contraption above us, toward the center of the colosseum. A square of enormous screens, each one joined to the next to form a cube, was rising ponderously into the air. Within a few moments, the enormous Mage-o-tron Battle Broadcaster—as indicated by a rolling line of script along the bottom of each screen—flickered into life. The screens, which must have been about one-hundred feet wide by fifty feet high, were filled with a counter that was ticking down from ten minutes.
09:59…
09:58…
09:57…
For those more traditionally minded spectators, a massive sparkling hourglass had also been conjured above the Mage-o-tron. The golden sand pouring from the top bulb cascaded downward and disappeared just before it touched the heads of the milling crowd.
“So, what, everyone just gathers on the tiered seating and watches the match broadcasted on them?” I asked as Cecila tugged at my hand and got me moving again.
“Not everyone. Some get to see the action with their own eyes rather than the images broadcast on the Mage-o-tron.”
“We’re not fighting in the actual arena?”
“Certainly not,” Cecilia replied, guiding me past a bunch of chattering Wind Elementals, whose breathy language was entirely incomprehensible to me. “The actual battlegrounds are magically constructed outside of the colosseum—the colosseum itself is far too old and full of history to risk being obliterated by errant spells. The woodland and moorland that back the colosseum are where the battles take place. Spectators from outside of the Academy can buy two kinds of tickets; the cheaper ones let you sit in the colosseum and watch the action on the Mage-o-trons, which come with the added bonus of commentary, while the more expensive ones let you sit in the seating around the actual battleground itself. There’s less of these kinds of seats because everyone at the Mazirian Academy is allowed to sit there for free.”
Cecilia steered me into the shadows right at the edge of the colosseum, toward a tunnel that yawned as black as the inside of a wolf’s belly. It reminded me of the entrance from which live gladiators strode out in the days of ancient Rome—and through which dead ones were carted back after the fighting was done.
“This leads through the colosseum to the forest at the back,” Cecilia explained as we were enveloped in darkness.
We walked along, the sounds of the colosseum behind us oddly muted in the stone tunnel. Abruptly, torches sprang into flame one after another and illuminated the dark.
“That’s a sign that spectators who have tickets to the battle arena can start heading through,” Cecilia said. “Come on, darling, move that tight little derriere of yours into a higher gear.”
We hurried down the rest of the passage and emerged in a clearing surrounded by fragrant douglas fir trees.
“Justin Mauler, right on time,” Enwyn Emberskull said, stepping out from the resinous deep blue shadows under the trees.
I turned, smiling. “You sure know how to make a suitably mystic entrance, don’t you?”
Enwyn smiled, brushing a strand of dark hair away from her face and looking at me through her spectacles. “Just remember,” she said, “it's not always the mystic entrances that prove to be the most portentous. Sometimes it’s the arriving of someone intent on doing something as innocuous as purchasing a book that can change your life.”
My grin widened as I recalled the day I had first laid eyes on the gorgeous Goth-looking Enwyn. That had been a game-changing entrance sure enough.
A well-built man, blonde dreadlocks pulled up in a rough warrior’s tail and silver teeth flashing in the light of the waxing moon, stepped up next to Enwyn.
“Master Ironskin,” I greeted him, “how’re things with you?”
My Physical Fitness Training teacher inclined his head. “Not bad. I’m looking forward to seeing you out there today. I don’t think I’m the only one either. I think a lot of people are intrigued to see how a young mage, who has yet to be killed on the practice course, fares in open battle.”
“How do you think I’ll do?” I asked him. Before the Viking-looking mage could reply though, I said, “You know what, let’s not tempt Fate by having you answer that.”
Ironskin grinned his silver smile. “Do well here, and you’ll have a good shot at qualifying for the actual Mage Games in a week. And that means I can share the location of the white staff with you.”
My ears pricked up at this. I had been badgering Ironskin gently over the last few weeks for the location of the white staff, but he had remained good-naturedly reticent.
I opened my mouth to voice a question, but Ironskin held up a callused and scarred hand.
“There are many ears around,” he said. “Particularly today. Arcane Council folks are watching the match. How about you get through today, then take the qualification examinations with your frat house next week, then we can talk more?”
I bit my tongue and nodded. “Fair enough.”
“Good luck out there, both of you,” Ironskin said to me and Cecilia.
Enwyn gave us both a quick hug and then the two of them joined the steadily thickening stream of spectators issuing from the tunnel that led from the colosseum.
Cecilia and I made our way through the trees until we reached what was obviously the battle arena. A huge embankment of raised earth towered suddenly above us as we walked out of the fir trees. It was covered in a sort of frost, which made me think that Earth and Ice magic were responsible for its construction.
The majority of people were heading through a massive arch. To the right of this arch was a smaller, secondary arch where words were written in shimmering green fire: COMPETITOR’S ENTRANCE.
Cecilia and I made our way toward this arch. It was guarded by a team of burly, uniformed dwarves. One of them—a fellow who looked like he’d had his sense of humor surgically removed with a coat-hanger and chisel—stopped us with an upraised hand and a grunt.
“What the ‘ell do you two want?” he said, giving us the old north to south.
I looked down at the rude little shit, both metaphorically and literally. “To live to one-hundred and ten and die in the embrace of a dozen scantily-clad maidens each more skilled in the erotic arts than the last. What the fuck do you want?”
The dwarf colored under his official-looking hat and snarled something in dwarvish. He took a step toward me.
“You must be Grumpy,” I said, holding out my hand. “My name’s Justin Mauler.”
The dwarf was giving me an eyeball so hairy that I could have shaved it and knitted myself quite a toasty pair of socks. When I failed to look scared or impressed, he barked my name over his shoulder and one of the other dwarves ran a finger down a parchment list.
“He’s marked as competing, boss,” said the other dwarf.
Grumpy sniffed as if he couldn’t believe a human booger like me would have the plums to compete in something like this. After eyeballing me for another second, he nodded me through.
“And who are you, miss?” he asked.
“Cecilia Chillgrave,” Cecilia said.
That got Grumpy’s attention. His eyes opened wide, and he gulped. “S-sorry, your ladyship,” he said, “b-b-but I didn’t recognize… I mean to say, I’ll still have to check the list.”
Cecilia regarded the guard for a moment then, with a coolness that gave me a semi, glanced at her jewel-encrusted watch.
“No rush,” she said.
The dwarf jumped as if he’d just received a shot of adrenaline and wrenched the list out of his stunned comrade’s hand. His finger whizzed down the page and halted. “Yes, there y-you are, your ladyship,” he gabbled. “G-g-good luck in the competition.”
Cecilia and I strolled through the archway. As we walked past, I turned back to Grumpy. “That’ll teach you not to be so short with people, won’t it, friend?”
The dwarf said nothing, bu
t you could have branded a cow with the look he gave me.
We emerged from the other end of the archway and into a boxed area filled with about forty comfortable chairs. To our right was a buffet manned by a couple of mild-faced cyclopses. Looking at the two single-eyed humanoids was a little disconcerting, because they were standing quite close together, so they looked like one huge face with a pair of noses and mouths.
In front of us was, as far as I could imagine, the best view in the house. The raised earth and ice embankment, which Cecilia and I had seen when we stepped out of the forest, stretched in a circle to form a crude stadium. This stadium was full of the same rudimentary tiered bench seating as the colosseum, but the seats were padded with luxurious purple cushions.
The stadium was filling up fast. Spectators came frothing through three entrances spaced around the arena, and the roar and babble of their excitement came with them. Soon, the stadium was a cauldron full of noise and emotion, bubbling upward. A few short minutes, and that simmering anticipation and thrilled animation would turn into a full rolling boil.
My eyes shone with the thought of fighting and competing in front of that many people.
“There looks like there’s going to be ten-thousand spectators out there,” I said. “At least.”
Cecilia nodded. “And about five-thousand watching on the Mage-o-tron.”
“I didn’t think there’d be that many.”
“Why not,” Cecilia said, her blue eyes glittering as she soaked in the sight of the audience. “There are about five hundred student mages currently enrolled at the Academy. Think of their friends and families. Then factor in the locals of Nevermoor and their relations and friends.”
“There are five-hundred students?” I gaped.
“Yes, darling. There aren’t ever that many on campus at the same time, of course.” She patted my cheek affectionately. “I keep forgetting that you’re fresh off the turnip wagon, as far as traveling between worlds is concerned.”
I laughed and gave her a gentle dig in the ribs with my elbow. She fell against me. The press of her body felt good as I put a hand to her waist to steady her.
“Now, now, darling,” Cecilia said, “save it for the arena.”
That’s about 450 female mages, I reckoned. That’s a lot of women I could potentially gain spells from. Did I even have enough time in my life to fuck that many women?
I decided I was game to try.
I pointed up at a battalion of little flying globes that were zooming about the stadium, periodically coming to a halt before moving on again. “What are those?” I asked.
“Crystal balls,” Cecilia explained. “They capture and magically relay images of the battle to the Mage-o-trons. They also capture anything that might want to be disputed by competitors later on.”
Before I could ask whether disputes were a common part of the games, the magically enhanced voice of Chaosbane suddenly thundered through the almost packed stadium.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and all those in between,” he said, in his distinctively theatrical tone, ”the Mazirian Academy is delighted—nay honored—to welcome you to Exhibition Match Day!”
A roar rose from the crowd in answer.
“Yes, yes, very good indeed,” Chaosbane said. “The word fan, of course, stems from fanatic, and that is just what I wish you to be this evening!”
Another roar.
There was the sound of Chaosbane having a quick gulp or three of something or other. The crowd laughed as one. Clearly, Chaosbane’s special brand of regal inappropriateness was adored by the public.
“Ah,” he said, failing to suppress a short belch. “Do excuse me. There can be no excuse for dehydration, not today! One can’t run the risk of shriveling up into some sort of fleshy raisin! Speaking of fleshy raisins, may I request a hearty round of applause for our esteemed Arcane Council who have deigned to grace us with, amongst other things, their presence today!”
There was a smattering of polite applause and, of course, a chorus of boos; the standard response by any large sporting crowd to bureaucracy of any sort.
“Quite, quite,” Chaosbane’s voice boomed, “there’s nothing quite like the most elite, wise, and powerful popping by for a visit to inspire those whom they rule over.”
Another chorus of laughter punctuated by jeers.
I couldn’t imagine the Arcane Council, as austere and hard-nosed a bunch of politicians as they sounded, being very pleased with this roasting, but old Reginald Chaosbane seemed to be somewhat of a fan favorite.
“Yes, indeed, I’m sure that your evident admiration for the cream of our society is matched only by your indifference were they to be churned into butter.”
A gale of laughter swept the assembled thousands.
“What’s that?” Chaosbane said, his voice fading a little as if he were talking in an aisle to someone. “Or soured to yoghurt? Well, yoghurt is cultured, and we can’t deny that the Arcane Council doesn’t throw enough fund-raisers and balls to be considered that.”
The crowd howled. The expectation was building into a hysteria. Chaosbane’s jibes were certainly riling up the fans.
“Now,” the Headmaster said, “there are thirty-two brave contestants waiting in the wings—sixteen teams of two—ready to fight and die for your viewing Usually, Exhibition Matches only have the one round, but this one will be special since there are illustrious members of the Arcane Council present. So, there'll be two rounds, twice as many opportunities to impress the sponsors—or twice as many opportunities to show that you really should be pushing scrolls behind a desk somewhere.”
There was some appreciative applause and a few apprehensive murmurs.
“Now, for all those old hands who have seen War Mages at work before, feel free to chat quietly amongst yourselves for a moment while I explain the order of events,” Chaosbane’s voice said. There was the sound of him taking a few more gulps before he continued. “Round one is a simple game of Capture the Flag. There will be two teams and each team will consist of eight pairs. A team wins after having the opposing team’s flag in their own base for a full sixty seconds. A contender may enjoy three total deaths before they can no longer enter the match. When a player dies, they can be regenerated, of course, but the cage doors to the regeneration station will not open for thirty seconds. I repeat, once you have regenerated you will have to wait for thirty more seconds before you can enter the match again. Any spells can be used. Any tactics. Nothing is out of bounds.”
The crowd roared its approval. Banners waved and horns blared.
“The team who wins Capture the Flag will proceed to the bonus round: Monster Slaying. Each of the eight pairs will fight for themselves. Points will be won by killing monster opponents. Points will be deducted for being killed or for killing anyone from competing pairs. The winner, will, of course, get nothing except your admiration...and likely some rather greasy sponsors begging to flog their wares.”
The crowd bellowed like one massive entity, clearly delighted with Chaosbane’s showmanship.
“They sound like they’re baying for blood,” Cecilia said to me.
My stomach gave an excited squirm. I looked around at the other contestants in our segregated area. Some looked nervous. Others determined. A couple looked nauseous.
“No one goes to Nascar not hoping to see a smash,” I said.
Cecilia raised an eyebrow. “An Earth thing?”
“That’s right,” I said. “I just mean that no one comes to this sort of thing hoping to see a bunch of people have a jolly ol’ time. It’s about seeing people fuck each other up. Plain and simple.”
Suddenly, the huge glass partition that separated our competitor’s booth from the stadium went opaque. Where there had been the smooth open grass of the arena, there was now just a wall of white.
“Commence the arena construction!” Chaosbane roared, and the crowd cheered again.
“They’re building the arena on the fly?” I asked, turning to Cecilia.
/> She shook her elegant head. “No, darling. The arena is prefabricated, then called into being by a few spells by those mages who helped construct it. The War Mages aren’t allowed to see it before they enter. It adds the element of surprise, you see.”
While the arena was being built behind the opaque wall, an official looking witch—pointy hat, broomstick, and a feline familiar at her feet—walked into the competitor’s holding pen and cleared her throat.
“The teams for the Capture the Flag round shall be as follows,” she said, pulling a roll of parchment from her voluminous sleeves.
Cecilia and I were paired, along with some mages I didn’t know, with Iowyn and Kryn—two gorgeous Elementals whose acquaintances I had made on my first day—and Arun Lightson and Qildro Feybreaker. I was gutted to hear that the two d-bags from Frat Douche were to be on our team—I’d really been looking forward to taking out those motherfuckers.
Once the teams had been drawn, we assembled on opposite sides of our containment area and huddled in close. Our team had been issued with shirts of deep blue, while the opposing team were bright yellow. I found being in close proximity to Arun and Qildro quite repellent, but my dislike of them was trumped by my desire to get through this opening round.
The haughty High Elf, Arun, instantly tried to take command of the team-talk by expounding on some strategy that he said he’d read about in some ancient warfare tome. I bit my tongue, trying to be the bigger man for at least ten seconds before telling him his strategy was complete balls. However, some intellectual Wood Elf dressed in somber brown tones, with the pointed face of a stoat and twitchy hands, muttered that he’d rather take advice from the back of a popping potion packet than some pig-fucker.