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Chapter Thirty-Five
"Ser Calisto Blackmoor ordered the change to the field," Ser Makidon said to Skellhaundar in the early morning light.
It was disappointments like these that kept Skellhaundar from advancing Makidon to the gold spurs. You should have told me what Calisto was up to last night, and I don't care if you woke me up to do so. Calisto knows this is my project and seeks to embarrass me before the whole country, Skellhaundar thought. He glanced at the good-looking brown-eyed second lieutenant and swallowed his anger. Taleta's tears, how can you be mad at that? What the boy lacks in common sense he more than makes up for with his tongue.
Skellhaundar surveyed the field before him with distaste, digging his heel into the dirt. Already, it had been years since some commoner had won a pair of spurs and been knighted, and now Calisto had done everything he could to make the first event of the Blood Bowl even more difficult, if not outright deadly.
Originally a mile sprint on a track here in the Arena of the Flayed Man, it had now been doubled in length and included difficult terrain that would challenge the most dexterous and strong warriors. Makidon told him that Calisto himself had toiled the field, carrying in thousand pound boulders (to no doubt demonstrate his significant undead strength) and set them on the racetrack by the dozens. Skellhaundar learned that mule teams had worked for two days to dig trenches and potholes to catch unwary feet, and razor grass had been transplanted to rip flesh from unprotected legs. One half mile stretch now went through waist-deep mud, the only way across was to use carefully positioned balance beams each sixty feet long resting atop poles planted in the track. Then there was a salmon ladder some fourteen feet high, requiring men with upper body strength and the skill to swing their bodies back and forth to leap upward one rung at a time using only a horizontal pole. As if this weren't enough, the contestants were expected to leap from the top of that thing into a sandy pit. If that didn't break a few ankles, then nothing would. The final trek of the first challenge was a sprint to the finish on the normal uneven ground, frozen because of the wintry weather.
"I want it changed back," Skellhaundar said to Makidon. "See that it gets done."
"There's no time, ser. Men are already showing up for the first event," Makidon said, his voice warbling a bit.
Skellhaundar considered canceling, but he looked up at his luxury box where he normally watched the games and saw Calisto there, staring down at him with those eerie glowing eyes. I will not give you the satisfaction, Skellhaundar thought.
He turned to Makidon and said, "Make sure the men showing up to participate know that the track has been changed. Allow any that wish to withdraw to do so. We'll see more blood than usual today," Skellhaundar said. Then he walked off the course to find something to eat before the games started.
"Ser, will you be heading to your luxury box as usual?" Makidon asked.
Skellhaundar turned and pointed his finger up at Calisto. "I don't think so. It's a bit chilly up there. I think I might take the opportunity to meet the brave men vying for glory today. It'll be a special lot that agrees to any of this."
Outside the Arena of the Flayed Man, Skellhaundar found a food vendor selling fresh cinnamon rolls and paid for one. He sat at a table alone, chewing on his food and drinking thick coffee from a mug. He observed the crowds of gamblers and jeerers hopping in line right as the gates opened.
They are always the first...harpies among men. They look over my contestants risking life and limb at the south gate and place odds on everything from how many minutes it takes for the first man to finish to how many men will die that day, Skellhaundar thought. If I ever end these competitions, I'll make sure to round up the lot of them and feed them to our dogs.
To no one's surprise, Skellhaundar found the whole business of betting on men disgusting. Men received glory for winning battles, not participating in games. The fact that so much money changed hands regarding a man's fate cheapened the heart of what Skellhaundar thought these games were about: finding someone worthy to wear the spurs of a Timeron knight.
I wonder if the Valion knights have such contests, Skellhaundar thought. I should ask Ephram next time I knock some teeth out of his skull. Idly, Skellhaundar's fingers toyed with a small velvet bag that hung around his neck. Inside were the molars from Ephram's mouth, teeth he'd knocked out last night for the sheer pleasure of it. As far as he knew, there was no other Darkglory in the service of Noremost that had such a treasure: the teeth from an actual Crimson Guard of Thomas.
He finished the last bite of his cinnamon roll and walked back into the arena to inspect the contestants on the field, sipping at his thick coffee which steamed inside his mug.
There were two hundred men milling about the beginning of the race. At a glance, half of them looked like something the cat dragged in for breakfast in the morning. Skellhaundar lifted his visor and whistled. "Men! Line up against the wall there," Skellhaundar ordered, pointing to the left of where they'd walked afield through an old iron gate directly under the stands. It led into the gladiator pits, where all contestants donned armor before spilling blood.
"Look at your sorry lot," Skellhaundar said, marching down the line as the men fell in. He saw recruits of every size, short, fat, tall, and gangly. He focused on one cyclotitan warrior wearing a steel-plaited lorikon and mail coat and paired with open-toed sandals. "Do you see that razor grass on the track there? Do you know what it does, soldier?"
The golden-skinned muscular warrior swallowed. "I am legionnaire trained, ser."
"Legionnaire trained," Skellhaundar scoffed walking up to the cyclotitan. He thought it a trick of the light, but Skellhaundar only came to the man's chin. "You're a big one, ain't you?" he asked.
"Yes, ser," the man said.
"Well it doesn't matter what training you have, soldier, because that razor glass will shred flesh like my knife can shred papyrus. And you're wearin' a fuckin' skirt and flip flops like you're someone's nursemaid. You aren't equipped for this challenge. Go home," Skellhaundar said, anger thick in his voice.
The seven-and-a-half-foot tall man nodded, and tears wet his cheeks. As commanded, he stepped out of formation and left the floor of the arena.
Skellhaundar looked at the next guy in line, a man that only came to his shoulder. He had on a pot that had been beaten into a helmet-like shape and wore hard-boiled leather armor wrapped around his legs, ankles, and chest. Skellhaundar fingered it, getting a waft of garlic mixed in with a solid dose of unwashed armpit. The man's long black beard bristled in the sunlight.
"Do you know what this is made of?" Skellhaundar asked, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Leather, milord?" the man asked.
"Are you askin' or are you tellin' me? Which is it?" Skellhaundar asked, tapping his boot.
"It's leather, milord," the man stated.
"Leather! Exactly! And just what is leather made from?" Skellhaundar asked again.
This time several voices answered. "It's made of the flesh of dead animals, ser!"
"The flesh of dead animals. Imagine that," Skellhaundar remarked. "And what did I fuckin' just tell that cyclotitan legionnaire?"
"You told him to leave, ser!" a single voice said. It rang loud and clear in the morning air. "You told him to leave because razor grass shreds flesh. All flesh, ser! It grows only on the Plains of Lice, found to the south and east of Than Jarat in Tar-Meneldur."
Skellhaundar stood there a moment, staring down the man in the boiled armor. But he was curious as to the identity of the speaker too, and it distracted the general. His own men would be hard-pressed to name the origin of razor grass. However, the ill-fitted recruit (sweating profusely) finally broke rank and ran for the exit, nearly tripping over his cloth shoes.
"Than Jarat in Tar-Meneldur indeed!" Skellhaundar said. He looked over the soldiers and saw many of them heading for the exit now, all in boiled leather armor. Just as good, Skellhaundar thought. My men already spend enough time here cleaning up the dead.
"Who said that about razor grass?" Skellhaundar called out. Let's take a look at this smartass.
"I did, ser," a recruit said, taking a step forward.
The man in question stood about six-foot-two, and was several inches taller than every shabbily dressed recruit around him. Skellhaundar sucked in his breath because he was not expecting to see a lean and trim human in this assembly, much less donned from head to foot in black corobidian armor that looked every bit like it belonged on a Timeron knight, but was specifically made for this unknown warrior. As Skellhaundar got closer, the general realized he had a fine specimen of man on his hands. This soldier was clearly lithe and strong, narrow of waist and long of limb. Skellhaundar admired the exquisite workmanship and embellishments on the armored suit: gold chasing over the knuckles on the gauntlets, a gorgeous black helm with fierce demonic faces burnished into the surface, and raised moons and stars all over the black metal. On this man's feet were a pair of black boots, tightened into place by six straps a piece and fastened with highly polished golden buckles. If he dressed correctly, he'd have metal sabatons underneath to protect his feet when the razor grass shredded those boots to ribbons.
Skellhaundar stopped in front of the man, reached out, and then raised the soldier's visor. Much to his surprise, he beheld the most incredible face he had ever seen. Here was a youth with fine porcelain white skin spotted here and there with faint freckles, and eyes bluer than the heart of the ocean.
Taleta's Tears...he's a fuckin' puppy! He doesn't look more than sixteen...maybe seventeen.
The young man returned Skellhaundar's gaze with fierce determination. Skellhaundar couldn't see the boy's hair, because it was hidden by the black chainmail hood. But the dense white-blond eyelashes and white-blond eyebrows gave him a hint as to the color of hair that would be found all over this boy's body. Most delicious of all, the boy's nose was high-bridged and narrow, the kind found in only the pure blood houses of ancient Noremost. It reminded Skellhaundar of a beak on a predatory bird, and it suited the angular planes of this boy's fine cheekbone structure the same as perfection made flesh.
"I'm the speaker, ser," the boy said, in a gravelly baritone.
Skellhaundar let the visor drop in place mostly because looking at such beauty made his fingers tremble. So his eyes fell to the boy's tabard. It was a Timeron knight's tabard, and he found himself lusting after what might be concealed underneath. The cloth draping sure hinted at it, rising with the boy's breath so that the hint of pectorals and abdominal muscles shaped the way the sleeveless jerkin hung on this tight teenaged body. Skellhaundar stepped to the side, admiring the swale of the cuirass as it met the butt tasset, giving this boy a symmetry that he'd not seen in a decade of recruits. Hell, there's no knight I have working for me now that looks this good in armor, he thought.
"Is there something wrong, ser?" the long-legged teenaged boy asked him.
"Not at all," Skellhaundar said. "I'm admiring your armor, soldier. Where did you get it?"
"My father was a retired Timeron knight and moved to Dhesiria following the Pyricene Wars. This is his armor," the boy said.
Behind his helmet, Skellhaundar licked his lips at how the armor hugged the boy's attractive hip bones. "What's your name, soldier?" Skellhaundar asked.
"I'm called Kian, Ser. Kian Brittain of House Brittain," the boy said.
"I'm not familiar with House Brittain," Skellhaundar said. "Is it a Noremarian house?"
"No, ser," Kian said, still standing at attention. "House Brittain is a member of the Dhesirian merchant consortium. When I turned eighteen, my mother insisted that I leave to make my way in the world. She gave me this armor, as alas, my father no longer needs it having been killed by a Valion coward."
This made Skellhaundar grin. He clapped Kian on the shoulder and said, "All valions are cowards. I have one in my dungeon right now that I'll let you have a swing at if you make it through this. I have high expectations for you, Kian of House Brittain. If you pass the test today, you'll be the first in years to do so. But from the looks of you, I think you've got what's necessary to make it through." He leaned into Kian so that the boy could hear him whisper, "There's no way you're eighteen, but I understand the need to become a man before conventional wisdom says you're ready. Kian, if you pass this test, I personally will gift you your spurs in a ceremony known as the Tongue of Taleta. I promise you this honor, so give it your all."
Kian replied, "I look forward to it, ser."
Then Skellhaundar moved on from Kian to look at the other remaining recruits. But for the rest of that morning, he thought of nothing else except how he wanted to see that young man naked and sweaty, bent over so that he could ream his asshole out with his tongue and fingers in preparation for a proper breeding. He just hoped Kian would let him do it. Skellhaundar's personal code did not allow rape of another knight. That would never happen under his watch. Sex had to be consensual among peers.
It's a fuckin' crime against nature that boys should look so good, Skellhaundar thought.
Having a change of heart, Skellhaundar joined Calisto in his luxury box, but to be fair there was a bit of a quickness to his step. On the field, Makidon prepared the recruits for the first challenge of the morning in which they'd compete in the armor that they wore.
"I see you trimmed down the ranks of our prospective recruits by almost half. What are there, only a hundred thirty or so left?" Calisto asked as Skellhaundar joined him at the rail where they could look down on the field.
Skellhaundar's eyes immediately settled on Kian, who (after stretching) crouched at the starting line, the long line of his body in a running stance while the others stared at him like he was nuts. Some of them, however, copied his bearing not realizing that it was probably the best way to start a race with any serious intent.
"They were ill-prepared for the razor grass. I just made sure to convince them of that," Skellhaundar remarked.
"You did us a disservice," Calisto chided him, flicking a few maggots from his fingers over the rail. "Blood being spilt is one of the most entertaining sights for old warriors."
"Not this warrior," Skellhaundar said.
"I don't get you," Calisto replied. "I love the sight of fresh blood. I even crave it. Yet you seem repulsed by it. Why?"
"Calisto, I like victory. Oftentimes the sight of blood means that victory is at hand. But blood for lust's sake is a fool's errand. I appreciate the men that I lead. I don't want to see them harmed unnecessarily. They've earned the respect that comes from being an elite soldier and everyday they're out on patrol or serving on the front line of our many wars, they risk dying. Young men are a treasure that burns brighter than yellow gleams in solid gold. Let's not waste our treasure because of appetite."
Calisto scoffed. "You've grown soft, Skellhaundar. Next time I see the Night's Daughter I'll tell her how soft you've become."
"You do that," Skellhaundar said. "And Calisto, next time you change my field here at the Arena of the Flayed Man will be the last time you draw breath."
At this threat, Calisto tightened his grip on the rail. "You think you could defeat me?" Calisto asked. "I'm five-hundred years old, Skellhaundar, and have dealt with more powerful foes than you."
"I know precisely who and what you are, Calisto. And despite what everyone thinks, you can be killed. You know it, and so do I. This is my project. I call the shots here, and your attempts to make the field more difficult will not matter one whit after today."
"After today?" Calisto asked. "Do you actually think someone in that pack of slobs has a chance to succeed?"
"I do," Skellhaundar said. "So much so that I promised him that I'd perform the Tongue of Taleta on him when he earns his golden spurs."
Calisto laughed. "Who is it then? Point out this champion among the garbage so I can enjoy this contest too."
"You'll see soon enough. Quiet now, the first challenge is about to begin," Skellhaundar said.
Beyond the flags flapping in the wind (displaying the insignia of the Flayed Man) Ser Makidon Oberon walked in front of the contestants of this morning's Blood Bowl with a gleaming trumpet in hand, and a gorgeous cloak. Blue on the inside and black on the outside, it fluttered about his heels. His silver spurs on the black boots he wore virtually gleamed in first dawn. The track (some one hundred feet wide) circled the inside of the enormous stadium which stood at half-capacity this early in the morning. But Skellhaundar felt that once word spread on the street about Kian Brittain, people would start to notice.
It would be hard-pressed to find another group of people outside the Zandans that worship athletic beauty to their extent, Skellhaundar thought. Shallow and vain are two words that describe a Zandan to a tee.
"Get ready!" Makidon called out, lifting his visor. "The race starts as soon as my trumpet blows. Any that manage to cross the finish line will advance to the next competition in the maze below these grounds. You will be timed. Get set!" Makidon lifted the trumpet to his lips and blew.
All of the men rushed forward on the track, but one outdistanced all of them by about a body length per second: Kian Brittain. By about the fifth second, this incredible athlete had already put thirty feet between him and the next best contender: a tall wood elf with hair the color of alizarin crimson.
"That lad is phenomenally fast!" Calisto exclaimed. "He's doing that in full Timeron regalia. Taleta's Tears I haven't laid eyes on a suit like that in ages. What he's wearing is almost as old as me, and it must have cost his family a fortune to assemble. I'll bet that's your man, isn't it?"
Skellhaundar said nothing.
Calisto chuckled and said, "I'd have to agree; he's gone the extra mile to show he belongs with us by dressing like our best. But does he have the athletic chops to survive? That is the real question, but I bet he gets killed. Shame really, because the outline of his body stirs my loins."
"Care to make a wager?" Skellhaundar asked.
"On whether he lives or whether he gets spurred?"
"On whether he gets spurred."
"Depends on the stakes," Calisto said, voice as smug as an undead could muster.
"I'll let you fuck any one of my men you choose with that atrocious prick of yours. But you can't kill him...just fuck him. One knight that serves me. I promise I'll order him to submit to your vile raping," Skellhaundar said. "You get that if Kian Brittain doesn't get spurred today."
"And what if he does? Then what are you asking for me to give up?" Calisto asked.
"You swear off sex for ten years," Skellhaundar said. "No living thing needs to experience your horrendous touch or needs couch with you for an entire decade. Those are my terms."
"You know I've lusted for one of your men, but you're not bringing enough to the table," Calisto declared. "I want more, or there's no bet. Here are my terms. I get one of your men, and I get to fuck him as much as I like. I get to damage him as much as I want, even if it rips his intestines out of his bloody ass. Whatever's left, I'll return to you in a basket. Oh, and you get to be in the next room the entire time listening to his screams. That's what I want, Skellhaundar. That's what I want from you. And just so you know, I'm going to choose Makidon Oberon. Raping him to death is how a good day starts."
This made Skellhaundar tense up. Skellhaundar liked the young Makidon more than he cared to admit, but the bet (if he won) would remove the threat of the death knight harming young beautiful boys for an entire decade. "Agreed," he said. "You have a deal, Calisto."
"You're truly stupid if you think someone can get spurred today," Calisto replied, sitting down in his chair. "I can't wait to taste Makidon's pussy. I bet his blood will taste like fresh copper on my tongue."
"The fact that you can taste anything shocks me," Skellhaundar replied.
Down on the field, Kian leapt from a full run onto the narrow rails crossing the mud pits. Still sprinting, he raced across the wooden length with such grace it looked like he was flying. A full ten seconds behind him came the next contestant, the elf with crimson hair, who hopped onto the wooden balance beam with dexterity common to his race (but not even in the same league as Kian). As more men showed up, a full half of them fell into the mud. As for the elf, he seemed to be the only other recruit that could cross the beams with any kind of speed whatsoever. However, he only did so at a fast walk and not a full sprint like Kian managed to do.
As Kian hit the end of one beam, there was a six-foot gap before the next and Kian leapt that, landing with a cat's grace to continue on as if unfazed.
"How's he doing that?" Calisto asked. "Your man's as surefooted as a squirrel on a wire. I swear he's cheating."
"All contestants are checked for magic at the door. You know as well as I that they must leave any magical equipment behind. What you're seeing is his natural ability," Skellhaundar said, gripping the rail. Don't fall, Kian. That's it. Keep your balance, Skellhaundar thought. The entire time he watched, Skellhaundar felt a rise in his groin that made his armor uncomfortable. Look at how his body moves, Skellhaundar thought. And the armor is certainly suggestive. I can see his thighs and calves strain along with his glutes. Incredible.
Kian blazed through the half-mile course over the mud pits in just under two minutes. He leapt from that onto the track which had many holes, boulders, hills, and areas of quicksand. Kian soared from boulder to boulder, pushing off with his feet, sometimes hopping as much as two body lengths to land and spring forth again. By comparison, his nearest competition, the elf, was still only halfway across the mud pits.
At the end of the obstacle course, Kian plunged into the field of razor grass. Like Skellhaundar said, it pretty much shredded Kian's boots within a few hundred feet. The waist high grass also damaged Kian's tabard along the hem, but the razor thin blades waving in the breeze just threw sparks off his corobidian armor. As the youth ran, he trampled a path that would make it easier for those following him to pass, but not by so much that (if they weren't properly protected) they could avoid grievous wounds.
By the time Kian reached the end of the grass, the elf reached the beginning of the obstacle course. About a dozen other men were halfway across the mud pits by now, and another twenty had just reached the first rail across the mud.
Skellhaundar watched as Kian gripped the pole in his hands and started up the salmon ladder. The blond teen hoisted his blade-thin body upward, one rung at a time he swung himself back and forth, and then he forced a jump to the next set of hooks at just the right moment. When he got to the top of the fourteen-foot-tall columns, he pulled himself up and balanced on the highest point before jumping. Kian executed a double flip in mid-air and stuck the landing perfectly in the sand pit. At that point, the arena broke out in cheers. Then he sprinted onto the frozen racetrack for the last mile finish.
"He's breathtaking," Calisto said. "I bet that boy doesn't have an ounce of fat on him. He's like a gazelle and a monkey all in one."
"That's a rather strange image, but yes," Skellhaundar replied.
Kian crossed the finish line under thunderous roars from the stands. His time? Under seven minutes. Then he slowed to a walk, shaking his legs and arms, flinging sweat from his gauntlets, and wicking it from his face, and he just stared back at the field trying to catch his breath. There was nothing left of the boots he'd worn, but Skellhaundar was pleased to see that Kian did indeed wear a full plate mail set complete with corobidian sabatons to protect his feet.
"He's white," Calisto said. "I love that ivory skin. What color are his eyes? I can't tell from this distance."
"He has blond hair and cerulean eyes," Skellhaundar said.
Calisto growled. "Cerulean? How poetic. That's an unusual combination in these parts. Where did you say he was from? And how blond?"
"White blond," Skellhaundar replied, looking over his shoulder.
The death knight hissed. "That's very rare."
"It's exceptional," Skellhaundar said, "I've never seen it occur naturally. Impressed yet?"
"Very," Calisto said. "I wonder if it's dyed that way."
Skellhaundar frowned at Calisto and looked back on the field.
The elf finally reached the razor grass and was moving forward through it but screaming in pain as the waving reeds slashed at skin on his body left unprotected by the armor he wore. After a few minutes, more and more contestants arrived only to suffer the same fate. All the while Calisto cackled and kicked his feet in glee.
The response from the crowd in the arena was one of horror, followed by gasps and a few "boos."
Skellhaundar called down to Makidon, "Rescue the ones that cannot go any farther. See if you can spare them an amputation or two."
"Yes, my lord," Makidon said. Then the soldier took off his tabard and cloak and gave these (along with his sword) to a squire. He called for several other knights to do the same, and then the group of them waded into the razor grass to rescue those that had not perished in the bladed weeds. As the armored men moved into this transplanted pasture of moving stalks, sparks showered forth from their armor while blood rained forth from men who succumbed to their wounds.
After thirty minutes, only forty others managed to cross the finish line and many of them were so bloody it was questionable if they could continue. The elf was among them.
"Only a third of your prospective recruits made it to the end," Calisto said. "That's got to sting, Skellhaundar. You'd best send in the healers."
Skellhaundar didn't even bother with a reply.
It took a half hour for the field to be cleared. During this time, magic mirrors were moved into place in front of the crowd. All in all there were ten of them, and each was flexible and unrolled from tubes carted out in a horse-drawn chariot. Mounted on poles, the reflective surfaces sparked with magical energy that belonged to the cleric school of divination. Clerics from the church of Taleta gathered before the mirrors and cast the spell that would allow them to see through special sensors in an underground maze. Everything in front of the sensor would be broadcast to everyone in the stands. And with five minutes before the next event started, Skellhaundar was pleased that the stadium was almost at capacity. People were talking about Kian, and he could hear them mentioning Brittain's contestant number over and over. He imagined that there were a lot of people in gambling halls throughout the city right now placing wagers both for and against Kian on surviving the mayhem in the Maze of Monsters.
The mirror in front of the stands in which Skellhaundar and Calisto stood gazing down upon the field, illuminated with a view of the labyrinthine corridors underneath the arena floor. Forty separate trap doors placed around the arena (and played out evenly across the board) opened with a grinding noise. There were no stairs or ladder, just a drop of some thirty feet to a floor of sand. The walls were made of huge granite blocks and had a steep incline.
All of the men left in this event wore mail armor, and this is how Skellhaundar felt it should be.
Perhaps Calisto hit upon a stroke of brilliance with the razor grass. No one in hide, leather, or incomplete suits is left, Skellhaundar thought.
As his eyes swept the field, Skellhaundar counted a dozen suits of ring mail, twice that number in full chain mail suits and the rest wore half plate, although much of it had been cobbled together and didn't look nice. Kian's was the only suit of full plate (worth a small fortune to any armorer) and Skellhaundar's chest swelled with pride in thinking that he might get to knight that boy by the end of the day. Each contestant had a weapon of some kind. Skellhaundar spotted nets, swords, spears, and bows. Kian was the only one with a short sword and shield. As the other men rappelled into the maze, Kian strapped his shield to his back and slid down the incline with his hands raking the walls for a controlled descent. The speed at which he struck bottom looked too fast to Skellhaundar, but the boy's agility in the descent was incredible to watch, because he shifted his feet and hands in minute ways to ensure he landed precisely where he wanted to land.
"He's like a cat," Calisto said, "hold them upside down and they still land on their feet when you let them go."
A cloud of dust settled around Kian's boots, the image distorted around the edges because of a "fish-eye" effect produced by the magical sensors in his part of the maze. The boy crouched there a moment and then moved forward with trepidation. As he walked, Skellhaundar noted that Kian chose a path close to the wall where there could be found (here and there) pieces of granite blocks sticking up out of the sand. Kian hopped from stone to stone, sometimes leaping as much as six feet to find purchase on only a few inches of real estate. The result was that he didn't leave any footprints in the sand.
"Hah! Two men are dead from poisonous widows!" Calisto yelled, smacking his own thigh with an open palm. The dull ring of metal on metal clanged loudly in the chamber.
But Skellhaundar continued to watch Kian.
The boy proceeded cautiously, crouched over and listening. Up ahead came the sound of battle, and he waited until the sounds stopped to proceed. Kian turned a corner and then another, and came upon three large black spiders turned over and with blood spilling from their corpses onto the sand. Near them was the body of one contestant, skin necrotic and covered in boils from a single poisonous sting. Skellhaundar watched Kian kneel next to the spider's mandibles, pull out a jar, and skillfully harvest poison from its fangs. He immediately anointed his sword along the edge. Kian did so with incredible skill, and Skellhaundar had no doubt that the boy had been given extensive training in the handling of deadly poison.
Where did he learn to do that? Skellhaundar thought.
In the next minute, Kian was off, hopping from spider to spider with the light touch of a feather, hardly moving the bodies at all as he landed. Then he leapt to a small outcropping of rock in one of six possible paths. He looked to the ground, checked, and then looked down the corridor awash in shadows broken only by areas where sunlight cascaded in from entryways far above.
He's tracking someone. Skellhaundar's eyes flicked to another portion of the magic viewing mirror to see if he could figure out who it was. He's trailing the elf with crimson hair who looks to be headed into the lair of the summer onibaba. Interesting.
The summer onibaba was a prisoner from the mystic east. The creature was ten feet tall, and ogre-kin, but much more intelligent. With orange hair and orange skin, the summer onibaba drew magical powers from a mythical object called the Thunderstone. More specifically, it was a piece of the Thunderstone carved by their god, Surtr, who broke a gem of incalculable value into four shards. The summer onibaba drew its power from one of those shards: the summer prism. This allowed it to call upon the powers of fire, and made it a formidable foe despite the fact that they typically wielded enormous iron clubs in battle called kanabo. This particular summer onibaba had two of those, and it was an expert at fighting with both. The only way to proceed through its chamber was to get the key that hung around its neck and open the door that led deeper into the Maze of Monsters.
Skellhaundar's eyes returned to Kian who deliberately left the track of the elf to take another passage that led in the same general direction. This one bore the summer onibaba's footprints, and Kian knelt down carefully to measure them with his hands: two lengths exactly. It made the boy shake his head, but Skellhaundar couldn't see the boy's face as it was hidden behind the gorgeous black helm.
"He's the only one that's doing that," Calisto remarked. "Look at how carefully he moves."
Skellhaundar just nodded, fascinated.
Kian hopped to several more rocks and then came to the chamber where the summer onibaba paced around on the floor, one leg tethered to a huge hook in the ground and dragging a chain behind that looked about three-hundred feet long. Kian left his shield in the sand and then used his belt to tie his short sword to his forearm. Then the boy found small footholds and imperfections in the rock with his metal-encased fingers. With incredible strength and agility, the boy did what Skellhaundar thought was impossible in Timeron knight armor: he scrambled up to a corner where the walls of the corridor joined the wall and ceiling of the monster's lair (at a height of about fourteen feet) all without making a sound. Once in place, he virtually disappeared in shadow.
"What devilry is this?" Calisto asked. "Is the boy a warrior or an assassin?"
"That's an interesting question," Skellhaundar asked.
From an adjacent corridor, the elf came into view carrying a bow. Not nearly as careful as Kian, the elf almost immediately attracted the attention of the summer onibaba, which turned its head and roared. The elf raised his bow and fired off an arrow which struck the huge giant kin in the center of his chest and bounced off the leathery hide.
"Elf will burn for attacking Hralgar!" the onibaba roared, attacking with both iron clubs. As he leapt into the air, orbs of fire appeared around the onibaba, circling like the wind of a tornado.
That's when Kian attacked, launching himself forward and down, he leapt like a missile at just the right angle to bring his sword into contact with the ogre's exposed legs. Kian struck furiously with the blade, and it managed to cut through the tough leather and hide and hamstring the monster. Skellhaundar's eyes flew wide as he saw Kian's powerful shoulder and arm muscles flex on the skin of his armor. Skellhaundar had experience fighting these ogres, and the general knew the kind of strength that was needed to cut through the hide of such a foe—it was the same needed to sunder an elephant's thigh bone with one blow. The summer onibaba landed and almost immediately fell over, howling in pain.
The elf looked shocked and narrowly avoided blasts of fire that missed his head by a few inches. Still, the heat from those blasts singed the ends of his crimson hair and melted the granite where they struck.
"Let's work together!" Kian called out.
Teamwork? Here? Skellhaundar thought. Incredible. I've never seen this.
"This boy is doing things that we've never seen," Calisto said. "The very heart of Timeron ideology is teamwork, and he's showing us that strength now. It's like it all comes naturally to him."
"Why should I help you?" the elf asked, face long and drawn. "You are my competition."
"Because the last event is also a team event," Kian said. "None of us stand a chance if there are too few of us to go on."
The elf thought about this and agreed. By this time, the summer onibaba managed to gain his footing on his one good leg, and he swung at Kian angrily with both iron kanabo. Kian ducked under one and tumbled back to where his shield lay and snatched it off the ground. The elf fired off two more arrows but to no effect. The onibaba, furious, lashed out with a blistering heat aura that forced the elf to shield his face with his hands even from thirty feet away. Skellhaundar saw the skin on the elf's face redden and blister. Kian ducked behind his shield and was saved from the heat, although it left his shield glowing.
How is he going to get past that? Skellhaundar thought.
And then he saw the blackness creeping up through the veins on the onibaba's leg. The creature howled and fell down as the poison that Kian had coated his blade with started to travel through the giant ogre, killing him. In a few more seconds, the monster fell face forward into the sand as dead as Skellhaundar's ancestors. Within a minute, the aura had cooled enough that the sand stopped glowing.
Kian stood up from behind his shield, none the worse for wear, although the front face of his shield glowed with heat. Kian dropped it in the sand to cool off and then strode forward into the chamber to grab the key around the monster's neck.
"How did you kill it?" the elf asked, hands and face blistered from heat.
"Poison," Kian said, anointing his blade once more with another dose from the spiders.
"You have no honor when you fight," the elf said.
"And you do," Kian replied, "which is why you're burnt and I'm not. Look, this isn't a contest of honor. It's a contest of survival. You can have honor later, after you get out of here. How badly are you hurt?"
"I'll manage," the elf said, wrapping his hands in cloth. "The pain is inconsequential. Timeron knights don't show pain."
Kian retrieved his shield, which was quickly returning to normal temperature and strode over to the door atop a thin veneer of glass, fingering the key (and its chain) in his hand much like a child plays at a yo-yo. "Tell me when you're ready for me to open this," Kian said, inspecting the huge iron door. It was emblazoned with demons ripping apart jackals, and the whole of it looked hammered from black iron. The center of it was occupied with a large keyhole that looked to match the exact dimensions of the thing Kian held in his hands.
"I'm ready," the elf said.
Kian took a step forward on the crunchy ground and then stopped. "This isn't the door. It's some kind of trap."
"How can you tell?" the elf said, joining him. When he stood next to Kian, the elf came up a few inches short.
"The base of the door here wasn't heated from the blast, yet it was only ten feet away. There's a fine crust of glass where the sand was melted all the way to about an inch from this door. To our eyes, it looks like iron. But trust me, it would have been glowing. As is, the door is not even warm," Kian said. "Hold on a second."
Kian walked over to the onibaba, grabbed it by the arm, and pulled its five-hundred pound bulk across the sand with only one hand. Skellhaundar admired the strain in Kian's muscles, how they stood out on his armor as he effortlessly pulled the corpse into a position in front of the door.
"Stand back," Kian said. The elf did so. Then Kian kicked the corpse into the door. When it rolled over and came into contact with it, the whole thing froze solid into a block of ice.
"By the gods of the Symardiearre," the elf swore.
"Yeah...whatever that means," Kian replied through the helmet.
"So where's the door if it's not this one?" the elf asked.
Kian looked around the chamber. Aside from the ways they both took to find this place, there was the obvious iron door, a third corridor, and then the hook and chain that tethered the onibaba in place. Kian seemed to be staring at that when he got an idea and walked directly toward it. He got down on his hands and knees, digging out the hook which was attacked to a metal cylinder about a foot thick.
"The boy's brilliant at sniffing out deception," Calisto said.
"Indeed," Skellhaundar replied.
Kian dug for about a minute and discovered another keyhole in the buried iron post. He placed the key inside that and the iron door that froze the onibaba solid moved out of the way with a grinding noise. At that point, a scream resounded from somewhere else in the dungeon, making Kian turn his head.
Skellhaundar flicked his eyes to various other contestants and saw a large man run through by the stinger of a giant scorpion, blood spouting from his lips and his eyes bulging from his head. The scorpion flicked the dead man against a wall where some other man-sized scorpions ripped him apart with their pincers.
"That sounded blood-curdling," Kian said to the elf.
"So it turned out that the door was the way after all," the elf replied, fingering his bow and peering into the gloom beyond the door.
"But if we'd used the keyhole in the center of the door, we'd both be dead," Kian replied.
The elf stepped cautiously past the portal and Kian followed and Skellhaundar, for the first time in ages, called for the slave that serviced this box to bring refreshments. This edition of the "Maze of Monsters" was proving to be particularly interesting indeed.
The complete novel is now available to read at http://slckismet.blogspot.com/p/discussion-board-for.html under the label "The Orb of Winter" if you care to read ahead.
Are there any artists out there willing to draw some pics for my story? If so, please email me. There is an "Orb of Winter" map now in both the NEWS section of my website and in the FORUMS of my website.
If you go to my website directly from this posting, you will want to begin with "CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX."