Games of Blood

Comfortably seated, Hildraft and Surya watched as the massive arena slowly filled. Sack had wandered off, either to start some sort of trouble nearby, place some quiet bets, or perhaps keep his fingers practiced - such a crowd was a temptation beyond belief for a skilled cutpurse.

The atmosphere in the arena grew more and more electric. The early events began; displays of skill in chariot-driving (obselete militarily, but much admired in the Empire as a part of their noble history), archery, acrobatics and magic. Then the real business got underway; the combats.

The programme listing included matched pairs combats (Salpurnius was fighting in one of these), a set battle (purporting to re-enact the famous Battle of Lylanque, where the last army of a barbarian people called the Eäril was slaughtered almost to a man and their culture extinguished by the conquering Empire), something billed as a "freak match, between a stalwart Dwarf warrior and a shining Elven bowman". Finally, there would be the Free Melee, wherein any free secutorus who had won his single combat might enter at will, and into which the owners of hapless slave secutorii might enter them - will he, nil he. The only rules in the Free Melee were: no magical equipment; no active magic enhancement; no fighting before the signal. Other than that, it was every man for himself, with only one survivor to claim the prize - 10,000 sestertii and (for a slave) freedom.

Hildraft's eyebrows raised significantly over the idea of a dwarf as part of a "freak" show, but he subsided for the moment, waiting to see what transpired.

The early single combats got under way, pairs of matched fighters battling to the death in the warm July sunshine. To the two northerners, it felt somewhat strange; not unfamiliar with battle, it nevertheless felt peculiar to sit, with a drink, safe and comfortable, and watch two fellow warriors fight and die, simply for entertainment. Yet, the almost hysterical enthusiasm of the local crowd was infectious, as they cheered (or booed) chosen fighters. Too, if a secutorus put up a good fight, but lost, the Master of the Games would sometimes appeal to the crowd, who would indicate with roars of approval or opprobrium whether the man should be spared.

Then it was time for the match their mysterious informant had suggested they take an interest in. The slave-secutorus Leshan entered first, clearly an experienced hand; plain breastplate and greaves, light helmet, small shield and workmanlike soldier's malen shortsword. Then Salpurnius followed him into the arena, blinking and looking around as if he'd never seen the spectacle before. He made an umprepossessing sight. Under average height, not heavily muscled, he wore no armour at all, just plain sandals on his feet and a short tunic. For weapons, he carried just two simple straight-bladed daggers, hardly more than kitchen implements. They separated as they walked into the arena, Lashan limbering up carefully, swinging his sword with skillful-looking movements; Salpurnius stood still, seeming almost vague, uncertain. Conversations they could hear around them showed that Leshan was indeed a veteran of the arenas, wheras Salpurnius was an unknown, never seen in the arena before today.

Hildraft and Surya folded their arms, and glanced glumly at each other. Their money seemed lost for sure on this one. Sharing this feeling, several of the bookmakers around the arena looked smug; bets laid here weren't going to break their banks. The rest of the crowd looked almost disinterested; this wasn't looking like an entertaining fight.

The signal to begin was given, and the pair started to move. Leshan circled dangerously, his sword flickering, testing the freeman's guard. Salpurnius remained still, other than to face his opponent as he revolved, and it was clear his lack of response was throwing off Leshan's feeling-out movements.

After a few seconds, the swordsman appeared to lose patience with his probings, and moved forwards, shield raised, closing with his unresponsive foe, and drew his weapon back to strike.

Then Salpurnius moved. With blinding speed, he uncoiled like a striking snake, his two short blades flashing in the sun. Gore fountained as the knives crisscrossed the more experienced secutorus' body, and three separate mortal wounds appeared simultaneously; slashes across the throat and guts, and a stab through the ribs that surely found the heart.

The audience responded to that with the most sincere of all applause - a great gasp. Then there was silence.

The body of Leshan toppled backwards to crash to the sand and lie still as Salpurnius turned away, shaking the blood from his weapons. The crimson droplets fell towards the sand... and stopped.

Surya and Hildraft looked at each other in alarm, and then around themselves. The blood-drops were frozen above the sand... the smoke from the incense below the Gods' statues was still... a bird, high in the sky above the open top of the structure, could have been nailed to the sky. All the spectators around them were utterly motionless. All save one.

A seat near them, one they could swear had been empty, was now occupied; as their eyes fell on it, the occupant turned and stood up.

He was a dwarf. Not merely a dwarf, however. This dwarf somehow exuded more dwarvishness than any other dwarf they had ever met, kings included. He was no taller than Hildraft, but somewhat stockier, and had a wise, magisterial face and a grey beard. His armour - breastplate, helmet, vambraces & greaves - was all made of mithril and glitterd preternaturally.

His eyes moved across them, lingering on Hildraft and his Axe, and he inclined his head slightly. "Greetings," he says, his deep voice resonating. "I am Niotanv.". At the touch of his voice, the Axe of Glass blazed with light for a moment, as if in greeting.

Hildraft felt a flash of true awe. Niotanv! Speaker of the Red Curse, forger of the Axe of Glass, first Disciple of Kord. Three thousand years ago, he had been Kord's right hand, and more dwarven legends than could be easily counted were woven around him.

Surya nudged him. "He's after your job," he pointed out. Hildraft shook his head. "No;" he said, "maybe, one day, I may be able to do his."

Niotanv smiled slightly. "I see that my creation has not forgotten me," he said to Hildraft. Then, generally: "I have come at Kord's bidding with tidings for you, and a task - one not unconnected with your current endeavours."

"Kord has met with the other Gods to consider their response to the possible return of Cain. All present, excepting Abbathor and Yurtrus, agreed that his release was not to be desired. Clearly, only the Primal Weapons can be powerful enough to free him. Ancorir is safely bestowed, thanks to yourselves; but Zero-One remains a danger, and it remains in danger."

"Working together, the Gods have created a safe place for it to be stored, one which cannot be broken into by any lesser power than that of the combined Gods; The Hallows. Once there, Zero-One will be safe forever, and Cain will remain imprisoned. His Children will remain a minor nuisance, within the scope of mortals to restrain and defeat, rather than displacing utterly the various sentient beings who worship the Gods."

"However it must be got there. This will be your task. Journey to Avernus; secure the weapon Zero-One, and return to the Prime Material Plane - where you will use this." He handed Hildraft a peculiarly-shaped object, clearly made from the same glowing blue pseudoglass as the Axe of Glass. "This is the Glarith Key," he says. "It can open a Gate to the Hallows from the Prime Material - and only from there. Once you have deposited the sword in its' final resting place, use the Key to return to your home, and destroy it immediately. This is most important; if it is not done, those seeking the weapon will seek it out, and sooner or later Zero-One will be back to threaten us all. The Axe of Glass will be able to destroy the Key when the time comes."

He stopped talking and looked expectantly at the two, clearly expecting questions. He was not disappointed.

Surya suggested the possibility that "Niotanv" might not be who he said he was, might in fact be working for the opposition. The dwarf smiled slightly and snapped his fingers. Surya and Hildraft sagged, suddenly feeling reduced, weaker, as the effects of the Blessing of Kord disappeared. Another click and they were returned. His doubts dispelled, the Tellaran turned to the concept of reward for their services. "You're a dwarf," he said, "you know what it is to want gold!" Niotanv shook his head. "Once I was a mortal dwarf, and knew the lust for gold; but as I grew in wisdom, I came to realize that there was more satisfaction in service than in wealth - something that you yourself will be coming to understand," he finished to Hildraft. There was a moment's pause; after which Hildraft and Surya knew that, whatever his other powers, the Speaker of the Red Curse was not a mind reader.

Surya asked if the Blessing could be enhanced, but Niotanv shook his head. "You need no further aid from our Lord," he said confidently, "your collected powers are enough for the tasks ahead." He implied, however, that success in the labours ahead would result in the permanent retention of the Blessing.

Hildraft requested humbly that he be granted training as an Emissary of Kord one day, whether or not he was technically qualified (most Emissaries were required to have served as paladins first). He also asked what Niotanv could tell them of the armoured bears.

"The panserbørnë?" he replied; "they are ancient and powerful, holders of an ancient trust. Treat them with respect!" Hildraft asked if Niotanv could advise them how to approach the bears safely. "Secure an introduction from a mutual friend," was the answer. The pair nodded. Elverandil....

Hildraft eyed the Disciple's magnificent harness, and managed to indicate a desire for it without appearing too covetous; after all, it really rather went with the Axe... Niotanv shook his head sadly. "I am dead, my friends," he said simply, without apparent emotion - having had two thousand years to get used to being dead. "This you see is the spirit of my armour, rather than the material metal of its' reality. I left the armour - and the Axe - behind when my life ended. I honestly do not know where it is now, somewhere in the world I suppose. I hope it is borne with honour."

Niotanv stood, and smiled in beneditction at the two. "Good luck, my brothers," he said with sincerity. Then he was gone, and the stilled time caught itself up in a rush.

The bird flew on; the smoke swirled; the blood drops splashed to the sand; the crowd cheered. Surya and Hildraft looked at each other. Here they went again.

Shaking off the effects of their visitation, Surya went off to find the bookmaker with whom he'd wagered on Salpurnius. The man saw him coming (unspuprising) and tried to close his stall and leave, but Surya bore down on him and presented his ticket. The man groaned. "How did such a no-hoper manage to win that fight? " he grumbled. "Are you sure you didn't use some sort of barbarian magic on him?" Surya drew a sword and held it casually at waist height. "We can go out to the arena ourselves and settle that if you like," he offered. The Erlyid turned a pale grey colour and began counting out 100-sestertius pieces. When he'd finished, he looked ruefully up at the Tellaran, and said, "Do me a favour - don't place any more bets?" Surya laughed, and walked away, heading back to his seat.

The single combats were nearly over when he got back, and it was clear that the best fighters had been saved to last. The pair were very impressed by the martial skills of the secutorii fighting now, and most of the losers who survived were granted their lives by the crowd, in reward for a good, exciting show. Finally the last pair fought, both famous "names" in the arena, and the winner was cheered to the echo. Then the stage was cleared for the exhibitions.

The set battle was clearly a stacked deck for the "Imperial Absutum" [Legion]; they outnumbered the "Eäril" nearly two to one and were better equipped. None the less, the battle was furiously contested, with significant casualties on each side. Again, Surya and Hildraft felt the strangeness of sitting in comfort, sipping good wine, watching a pitched battle fought solely for the entertainment of an audience, who cheered and clapped and - oddest of all - sometimes talked and paid less attention - while men strove and slew and died.

Next was the "freak match"; and Hildraft's hackles rose again. However, his fears were groundless, as the "elf" and "dwarf" fighters who strode into the arena were clearly nothing of the kind; rather a tall, slender human secutorus and s short, stocky one, dressed in what the Empire clearly believed to be the typical wargear of the Elder Race and the Khuzdul. The "elf" wore light leather armour stitched with florid designs stamped from thin steel, and patterened with leaved; he carried a long bow and a slender rapier. The "dwarf" wore a fur-trimmed leather tunic and leggings with heavy plates of iron bolted to it and a conical steel helmet on his head; a long black "beard" of goats' hair was glued to his face. He was armed with a small round shield and a short-helved battleaxe.

Battle was joined almost immediately, the "elf" loosing several arrows at his opponent as they closed. The exhibition archers who'd shot earlier in the Games would have laid him flat on his back within ten paces, but either there was some arrangement in place or the "elf" was a woeful shot, for few of his shafts fell close to the "dwarf" and those were caught neatly on the latter's shield. As they closed, the "elf" dropped his bow and drew his sword.

Circling and slashing, the two made the encounter last longer than it would have in a "real" battle - no battle between an axeman and a swordsman could ever last long - and Surya became aware that the crowd were almost unable to decide who to support. The dwarves had turned their back on the Erlyid after their alliance with the exiled orcs, and the elves had actually sent troops to fight against the empire when the province of Nhased revolted a hundred years ago. A victory for neither would be especially popular, and the Tellaran wondered what the point of the encounter was.

In moments, it was all over. Encumbered by his heavy armour and equipment - which a true dwarf would have carried without trouble - the "dwarf" secutorus slowed, and stumbled. The "elf" drove his rapier accurately home, piercing his foe's chest and at least one lung. The "dwarf" dropped to his knees and then pitched forward onto his face. To muted cheers, the "elf" left the sand.

And so the final event approached; the Free Melee. As was traditional, herald-slaves walked around the edge of the arena, calling up the offer for any member of the audience who wished to wager his life in the great struggle. This was a traditional part of the proceedings; but no-one expected anyone to actually accept; that sort of thing belonged back in the old days. Perhaps sparked by his earlier suggestion to the bookmaker, Surya suddenly stood up and yelled down to the slave that he would enter the Melee.

He walked down the steps through a sea of astounded faces, to the slave who was struck dumb with amazement. Gathering his wits, he led the Tellaran down into the bowels of the massive arena building to prepare him for the ordeal ahead.

There were only three rules in the Free Melee; no magical enhancments or running spells; no enchanted armour, weapons or other equipment; and no one to start fighting before the given signal. This last was enforced by an entire Exard [hundred] of absutus archers, instructed to slay any who started fighting too soon.

Surya had left his own gear with the dwarf up in the stands; now he rummaged among the rag-bag of equipment made available to the less well-provided for slave secutorii, eventually unearthing two sapentium cavalry swords, tolerably similar to his own northern longswords, a rectangular amvincia soldier's shield, and a suit of Stryran-made mail armour. Arming himself, he followed the slave through the arena gate. As he did so, he noticed the arch of the entranceway; ancient, pitted stones, radiating what even a mage of his limited training could feel was a magical energy. A detector for forbidden magical enhancements, he realized. And then he stepped onto the sand.

In an instant, he had passed from the dim coolness of the approach tunnel into the full glare of the July sunshine, standing on warm sand on a circular space three hundred feet across. This was enclosed by walls ten feet high, rimmed with spikes; and above those was row upon row, tier upon tier of stone seats, packed with humanity, ten or twenty thousand people yelling and cheering and focussing their attention on the small space below. The effect was overpowering, and for a moment the tall Tellaran stumbled, struck speechless.

Recovering with an effort, he looked around him, getting his bearings. Around a hundred and fifty combatants were standing in various attitudes around the arena, all attempting the impossible feat of keeping an simultaneous eye on all the others. Ripples of movement washed across the arena as slight changes in one man's stance led to adjustments from others, and so on. This went on for several minutes, until - suddenly - a harsh whistle sounded from the Master's box.

The carnage and confusion of those first few seconds was incredible. Surya was used to pitched battles, and smaller fights , but never had he been in anything like this, where everybody was fighting everybody else. Blades flashed, blood flew, shouts and yells rang out, and the audience went berserk. The waves of noise from the stands blotted out most of what was happening in the arena, removing another of the cues Surya would normally use to navigate a battle, and for those first few desperate minutes, he was stretched to the very limits of his skill simply to remain alive.

Then, with no apparent transition, there was space around him, and he could draw breath. Looking around, he saw around fifteen survivors, each like himself alone in a cleared space of slain bodies, dripping blades testifing to their superior abilites. He glanced at his sword; blood was there too, though he'd no memory of killing anyone.

Breath regained, the survivors began to manoeuvre for position, each trying to blindside the others, a deadly game of cat and mouse. Surya saw one come to its' sharp end as three fighters converged into a flurry that left but one survivor. He snatched a moment to drop his shield and draw his second sword. Then he was caught up himself.

A tall, heavily built man wearing primitive plaids in a barbarian pattern he'd never seen before charged at him, brandishing a broadsword. Surya set himself, caught the attack on his shield, and sliced the top off his head like an egg. Almost immediately, three more closed in around him; a young-looking warrior with an enormous flanged mace, a fighter equipped with weapons peculiar to the arena - a trident and net - and an almost-naked man with a heavy, crested full-face helmet and a malen shortsword - a Remenatus.

Sidestepping frantically to keep them all in view, Surya attacked the netman, judging that being caught in the mesh of his net would end everything. He wounded him badly, and was just about to finish him when the Remenatus stepped in and killed the man, then backslashed, striking Surya on the side of the head. The Tellaran staggered, desperately trying to keep his eyes cleared, and managed by pure chance to break the Remenatus' right arm. He backed off, changing his sword to his left.

The massive mace whistled over Surya's head as he cut low, pressing his advantage, and disabled the Remenatus by slashing up his left arm as well. The fellow dodged desperately, horror on his face as he realised that he was incapable of attack in a slay-or-die combat. Taking advantage, Surya stabbed, slaying him outright, and took the mace-man on the backstroke, beheading him.

Gasping he looked up, just in time to see the sole remaining secutorus down his last foe, and turn to face him. He swallowed; he'd seen this man fight in the singles; he was Valerin, a veteran of the arena and a previous winner of the High Melee. He wished futilely for his healing stone, and rolled his shoulders to settle his armour as the Erlyid approached. As they closed, each on some whim raised his sword in a salute of respect to a worthy foe.

Valerin was armoured down his right-hand side, and carried a malen shortsword and small shield. His movements as he engaged the Tellaran bespoke considerable experience, and Surya gritted his teeth. The crowd had now fallen silent, captivated by the epic struggle taking place. Weapons flashed, and both men took wounds; more blood runneled down Surya's face and his ears began to sing. Circling, twisting, feinting, the pair danced through the scattered corpses littering the arena floor, sure-footed and deadly, evenly matched. Then, in a flash, it was over. Valerin stumbled for a heartbeat, and one of Surya's blades crashed down on the top of his head, splitting his skull, and felling him instantly.

Turning to face the Imperial box, Surya lifted his gored swords towards Crixus and bellowed "Happy birthday!". The crowd erupted.

An hour later, sitting in the stands with Hildraft and sipping a cup of the Prince's excellent wine - a present to the winner - Surya, his wounds erased by the priest's magic, relaxed and idly chaffed the dwarf for not putting a bet on his comrade, though with the three hundred-odd thousand from the bet on Salpurnius, and the ten from the Free Melee, they weren't really out of pocket.

The next morning, both awoke with slight headaches. At first they suspected the wine, but they hadn't really indulged that much. Moreover, Hildraft felt it more strongly than Surya. The feeling grew through the morning, and gradually they realized that what they were feeling was a tension resonating through the arcanosphere - the field of universal magic that permeated everything and was drawn on by the wielders of sorcery.

As the day wore on, the feeling of pressure grew, like gathering stormclouds. Somewhere, someone was working magic on a scale none of the companions had ever experienced before. Finally, just as the pressure reached screaming pitch, there was a brief instant - the gap between two heartbeats - when all the magic vanished. For just that briefest instant, each of them felt their spells fall away from them, their magical equipment fail, their arcane abilities disappear. Then came the shockwave; a rush or surge through the arcanosphere, bringing back with it their powers, but bearing a resonance of some massive magical happening somewhere. The wave rolled over the city from north to south, and Greygil, looking out of the window at the time, said he could pick out the magically trained people on the streets by the way they bent like reeds as the wave washed over them.

Then it was gone, and normalcy returned.

When he'd recovered, Hildraft lifted his symbol of Kord, and worked a Divination, asking what had just happened. As he touched the edge of Kord's being that responded to such requests, he sensed the edge of a maelstrom of similar queries pouring in to the God's attention - clearly the effects had been felt over a very wide area. His answer came back, though, clear and straightforward.

The companions looked at each other. "Skufruss..." said Hildraft.