Kings Game

Chapter 9 - The living storm (4)

The arena rumbled from the roar of excitement that poured out of the audience. The lower levels shook as people screamed and stomped their feet. The upper levels showered confetti and streamers into the arena. On the Champion's balcony, nobody clapped or cheered. They only looked down on the fighters, watching and waiting.

"We have three exciting games for you today!" The announcer went on. "The first will be a war game. A riveting round of capture the flag. The flags today will be objects, not people-" the audience booed. "-But there are no rules against maiming or killing." The crowd cheered again.

"The second round will be a race over everyone's favorite obstacle course, Hell's Labyrinth. Our architects have been hard at work, adding new twists and surprises for our intrepid champions. Not only will they be forced to dance across fields of burning embers, swing from chains suspended above spike pits, and dodge flaming arrows as they cross a rope bridge; they must now ascend a tower of obsidian, with jagged barbs that will slice through flesh and puncture bone. They must dodge boulders rolling down an oil slicked staircase. They must leap over a lava pit to land on swinging platforms, and so much more."

The announcer paused as the audience rumbled again. People screamed and chanted, "Labyrinth, labyrinth, labyrinth."

Then, when the cheers died down and the arena quieted, the announcer paused, drawing out the moment. "Lastly," he began, "we will see six champions, six fearless warriors whom you know and love, find satisfaction in their disputes. After months of quarreling and feuding, the King's have granted permission for six of their mightiest to draw steel against one another in the name of honor and glory.

"The first duel will be between Anorak, the impaler, and Sumeric, the bone breaker. After two long years we will finally see who has the strongest arm. Next will be Barron the berserker against Timara, the devil of chains. You may all remember the street brawl that took place two months ago-" the crowd erupted into a chorus of boos, "-yes, yes. It was a frustrating day for all of us as Barron threw stone bricks through the streets, injuring many, and Timara whipped her chains down from on high, trying to kill Barron and injuring dozens in the process. We will finally see their blood feud come to an end."

The boos crescendoed into a roar of approval so loud that it vibrated the seats in the stand.

"Last, but certainly not least, you will see Amon the artisan, the man closest to challenging the kings, take on Destra, champion of the great King Vassilis. Will Amon be able to overcome Destra, and be one step closer to challenging the king himself? Or will Destra once more cut down the challenger and protect the throne of his beloved master? We will see the answer painted in blood."

The arena throbbed and pulsated with the screams and cheers of the crowd, the whole structure coming alive like a massive organism, slowly cannibalizing itself in the quest for blood and sport. All around, the air was thick with screams and confetti. All except the champion's balcony which was calm and quiet and pensive. Waiting to see the match unfold.

"Interesting," said Nul.

"What?" asked Roran.

"Barron the berserker is fighting in the first round too." Nul pointed out a short man with thick cables of muscle running from head to toe. He was covered in geometric focus markings, running in hard lines up and down his body. On each fist was a steel gauntlet.

"Are champions not supposed to fight multiple times?" asked Roran.

"They're allowed to, but even the war games are dangerous. He might get injured and have a disadvantage in his duel."

"Are the duels dangerous?"

Nul looked at him, an eyebrow raised. "They're to the death."

"Oh."

"Only fools let themselves get pulled into duels," said Morena. "You'd do well to remember that kid."

"Don't want to pick a fight you can't win?" asked Nul.

"Nope, and neither should you. All the gold and glory in the world won't do you any good when you're dead."

Softly, Nul said, "Some things are worth dying for."

"Dead is dead is dead," said Morena. "Ain't nothing you do in life that matters after that."

Nul didn't respond.

Below them, a group of people in brown uniforms were spreading out through the arena, carrying large sticks and drawing lines and patterns in the dirt.

"Focus markings?" asked Roran. "Are they using magic on the arena itself?"

"Sort of," said Nul, "These are more like glyphs or runes, they facilitate the transfer of living energy into non-living entities. Once imbued with the energy from a living soul, the earth workers can alter the shape and general properties of the dirt below to create new structures and formations."

"Yes, they're using magic on the arena," said Morena.

Nul scowled at him.

Morena waved the look away. "Just shut up and watch, kid; everything will be clear in a second."

Looking again, Roran saw that the team of people had crafted large swirling patterns in the dirt. The patterns spun inwards, turning the entire arena into a single, giant rune. The men in uniforms gestured at the champions on the floor, having them stand in specific locations.

The men in uniforms finished their preparation and fanned out, taking up positions within the rune and becoming a part of the pattern themselves. Then, all of them moving as one, they raised their sticks high into the air and slammed them down into the ground.

Roran had known that magic existed from a young age. As a boy, his mother had told him stories of all the different magic she had seen performed over the years. She told him about the various warlocks and spellcasters out in the world; of the summoners and archmagis that lived in libraries and dungeons, and even of the charlatans and frauds that made the mundane appear magical through trickery.

She'd told him tales of great beasts being conjured out of air, of the elements themselves being wielded like a sword and shield. Of small, scrawny men blessing themselves with the strength to lift boulders and crush stones with their barehand. But none of those stories prepared Roran for what he saw next.

Light filled the arena. Each of the uniformed men became a glowing lantern, blinding light shining up from directly underneath them. The light swirled out, following the etchings in the dirt. It swirled out and around and back in again, the intricate spellwork dancing along the ground and glowing brighter. It became so bright that Roran was forced to avert his eyes.

Then the arena rumbled. Not from cheering this time, but from the earth itself moving. The sand and dirt rose up from the ground in great pillars, expanding and growing. Turning from pillars into walls, and from walls into buildings. The buildings rose higher and higher, multiplying until there was a small city filling the arena.

On either side of the arena was a tall tower, a spinning, glowing orb floating above it. One was colored red, the other blue, marking the teams. From the towers outward, the buildings shrank, creating a steep grade down into the center of the arena, forming a small valley of buildings with plenty of places to hide and sneak through. Next to the orbs were the teams. Six champions each, standing atop their perspective towers.

The announcer cleared his throat and his voice once more filled the arena. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, are you ready to see some combat?"

The crowd cheered.

"Are you ready to see some violence?"

The crowd roared.

"Are you ready to see some blood?"

The crowd erupted, screaming and chanting, "Blood, blood, blood."

"Then let the games begin!"