The South of Mirvene
Spring, 1341
Age of the Lost Presence
Farious cheered as he saw the participant’s head roll across the sandy turf. Spectators of the coliseum roared, cheering for the hobgoblin swordsman who looked down at his kill—a human who had made a mistake by lunging too far with his rapier. As the corpse collectors—all of them goblins—brought out the wagon to haul the remains of the dead man away, the hobgoblin raised his crudely shaped blade in victory. The crowd responded with a thunderous applause.
“Well, I haven’t seen a match like that in a long time,” Farious grinned taking a sip of wine, one of the perks of having box seats. “What did you think, Moelma?”
The dark elf woman sat in stony silence, her eyes locked on the collectors as they loaded the headless body.
Farious swished his wine uncomfortably. Perhaps she had lost a bet on this particular fight? Farious himself hadn’t bet on the match. He had decided to only bet on one today, which would be coming up next. He wished he had put some money on that hobgoblin, though. What was his name? Inuda? In any case, he was a fighter to behold. The dwarf made a mental note to bet on him the next time he saw his name on the coliseum fight roster.
“It’s all barbaric, isn’t it?” Moelma said, her words a soft whisper. “Killing one another for money? Bureaucrats who can’t even lift a sword taking in coin for another’s murder.”
The dwarf scowled. “What are you talking about? This isn’t murder, Moelma. It’s sport!” He rubbed his hairless chin. “A very entertaining sport I might add.”
“Two centuries ago when the city officials erected this coliseum they claimed it was for sport. There was no killing involved. Wizards would enchant the weapons to not deal death blows. But that’s changed.” Moelma’s violet eyes scanned the crowds filled with men and women of various races of Glomora. “Now these people are blood drunk. No better than vampires.”
Farious gave the elf woman a disdained look. He had always thought elven folk had a stick up their rear, but she was taking it a bit far. So what if people like to see a bit of violence now and then? The combatants came to the coliseum and fought of their own volition. No one was stopping them. Farious sighed and asked the obvious question.
“Why are you here if you feel such a way, Moelma? You’ve come every Coliseum Day since I’ve been around.”
The shadúnae watched the corpse collectors roll the wagon away, one of them pausing briefly to pick up the human’s head and toss it in the wagon. “I have my own reasons,” she said. “And it has nothing to do with the spilling of blood.”
What a sanctimonious wova, Farious thought. He downed another sip of wine.
A voice, magically enhanced by a spell, echoed through the coliseum. “My friends, the hobgoblin Inuda showed great skill in his victory. Now we have another treat for you! One that’s sure to keep you on the edge of your seats! May the combatants step forward!”
Farious grinned. This was the match he had been waiting for. From the Blood Pits on either side of the arena came two figures. From the west pit sauntered a giant of a man. He was bald and shirtless, wielding nothing more than a huge war hammer. “From the north of Mirvene, the warrior who killed himself a hydra, cheer for Beros the Red-Scarred!”
Beros lifted his fists, one clutching his hammer. It was easy to see why he was called Red-Scarred. His well-muscled torso was covered with scars, some very old, others obviously new.
A tumultuous roar rose from the spectators as the warrior grinned, Farious being one of them. He had gambled most of his fortune on Beros—no small amount, and a great risk. However, Farious knew something about the warrior that very few others did, and this secret would secure the swelling of Farious’s coin purse before the match was done.
“Quite the brute of a man,” Moelma commented, steepling her moon-pale hands together.
Farious laughed. “Very much so, compared to the other one.”
The east pit spewed forth a dark shadow. He looked to be somewhere between human and únae—a half-elf. Sable hair hung around a pale, gaunt face, and sickly circles shadowed the undersides of his eyes like dark half-moons. He wore all black despite a hot southern sun shining garishly in the sky. If Farious had to guess based on appearances, the man looked diseased.
The announcer identified the half-elf for the crowd. “From the north of Glomora, we bring you Gal Ravenwing! A man of magical talents, as we understand it.”
“Ah, a wizard of some sort,” Farious said, crossing his arms over his chest. “This will be interesting.” Such a statement didn’t worry him in the least, however. He knew that Beros could easily take down any man, even if he happened to be skilled in magic.
The two combatants walked towards each other, then stopped, a distance of five yards between them. The crowd hushed as it waited for the announcer to begin the match.
“By the by,” Farious said turning towards Moelma. “Who do you think is going to win here?”
Farious blinked. She was gone. The dwarf’s bald head whirled about looking for where she had gone, but there was no sign of her.
He shrugged. “I guess she didn’t want to see any more bloodshed,” he muttered. He took another sip of wine and settled in to watch the battle before him.
***
Beros grinned as he took in the weakling. If a stiff wind blew, the half-elf would fall over into the sand, making it that much easier to crush his skull with his war hammer. He wouldn’t even have to use his special ability.
The crowd was ghost-quiet. Beros loved this…the precious seconds before the start of a match, before both combatants’ feet would spring into action and exchange blows. This was a time of focus, a time of insight—how would he best kill his opponent?
The wizard, Ravenwing, looked apathetically at Beros. If Beros didn’t know better, he’d say that the man looked like he tangled with undeath. Despite the half-elf’s weak appearance, Beros couldn’t be arrogant. Magicians and their arts could deal out any kind of destruction—it was best to be on his guard.
Finally, the announcer’s voice boomed around the coliseum. “BEGIN!”
Beros roared, diving forward and swinging out with his hammer. The key to taking down spellcasters was to kill them before they had time to cast a spell. And despite his large size, Beros was surprisingly quick.
His hammer went out, straight for the half-elf’s head. But it didn’t connect.
The wizard was gone.
A voice whispered from behind him. “You are not fast enough.”
Beros whirled to see Ravenwing, his eyes dark eyes cold, and foreboding. The wizard had two fingers pointed at the warrior.
“Loroda.”
A bolt of red energy pierced through Beros’s torso, like a needle through a piece of fabric. Beros felt himself flying backward, his hammer slipping from his grasp, one thought going through his mind.
How can he be so fast?
***
Moelma had found the entrance to the Blood Pits easily enough. Eyes of combatants looked at her curiously as she slipped through their ranks—obviously, she didn’t belong among the sweat and wounds of the coliseum’s fighters. But this was the quickest way.
“Oi, what are you doing down here?” A red-eyed goblin intercepted the elf woman’s path, a long, curved dagger in his hand. “You’re not allowed down here.”
“Move, fool.” Moelma flicked her fingers and the goblin went flying, crashing into a rack of metal spears. Swords and daggers slipped out of their sheaths as other combatants and coliseum guards closed in around her. As they did so, a violet shadow sprung from Moelma, surrounding her in a powerful aura.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” she asked with a glare.
There was a moment of nervous glances, from the elven sorceress to the goblin dazed on the floor. The crowd parted for the elf.
Moelma continued forward. She had to reach the battle before the match concluded. After a year of visiting these barbaric fights, she had finally found him.
And she couldn’t let him get away.
***
The sky seemed to spin overhead. Spectators shouted. It wasn’t possible. Beros couldn’t believe the wizard had caught him off guard as he did. He struggled to move, his fingers twitching weakly.
He couldn’t lose. His pride wouldn’t allow it.
A shadow covered the sun. Ravenwing. The half-elf knelt, something in his hand. “I’ve been looking for one of your kind for a long time, Beros, Red-Scarred. At first, I wasn’t sure if you were one of them, but after trailing you for several weeks, I now have no doubts.” A dagger blade flashed in the wizard’s hand.
Beros continued to strain, now desperate. His hands were beginning to have feeling in them again.
The dagger cut into the flesh of his wrist. Ravenwing held a vial to the wound, filling it with blood. Beros’s eyes looked at the elf in confusion. What was he doing?
When Ravenwing was finished he held the vial before him. “Now I can study your kind more intimately.”
A flame of rage flickered in Beros’s head. He was going to study his blood? Like he was some sort of oddity? An abomination?
He ground his teeth and felt them start to grow.
***
Moelma emerged from the Blood Pits into the bright light of the fighting arena. She saw Gal standing up from the prone form of the warrior, his fist clasped around something small. She stepped forward.
“Gal!” she shouted.
He turned and looked at her. He was still as sickly as she remembered. Always sick—since he had emerged from the womb.
“Ah. My dear Aunt. It’s been a while.” There was no emotion in his dead eyes. There never had been. “I suppose I’m not terribly surprised you’re here.”
“An arena with the land’s greatest warriors—I knew you would make yourself known eventually.” Moelma stepped forward, her voice pleading. “Let us talk.”
Gal cocked his head. “Why on earth would I talk to you? I have nothing to say.”
“Please, Gal. Come home to Kuma. Come home and we can fix this.”
Gal pocketed the small red object into his tunic. “The time for that is long past, Moelma. I forsook the Moon Plains and all my elf-kindred long ago.” His dark eyes hardened. “You are all dead to me.”
The word stabbed Moelma cruelly. She clutched the silver pendant at her neck, the one that had belonged to her brother. “That’s not fair Gal…”
“Leave, before I kill you.” His hand crackled with purple energy. “You have no idea how much stronger my magic has become.”
Moelma’s eyes widened. “Behind you!”
Gal turned. Beros was back on his feet and changing. Horns sprouted from the man’s brow, red scales glittering along his arms. A tail sprouted from the small of his back, his fingernails black talons. The man-beast leered at the half-elf. “Now you can study me up close and personal.”
“Drakespawn,” Gal said. “You’re not worth worrying about.”
Beros roared, lunging at the wizard, talons curved and sharp. Gal raised his hand still crackling with magical energy. He caught Beros by the throat.
“Die.”
Beros screamed as his body was wreathed in a storm of purple energy. A charred smell washed over all the spectators of the arena as Gal released the dragon-like humanoid and let his corpse fall to the ground.
“A GREAT TURN OF EVENTS!” the announcer said. “BEROS WENT THROUGH A TRANSFORMATION IN ORDER TO TAKE DOWN HIS OPPONENT, BUT STILL RAVENWING WAS ABLE TO TAKE HIM DOWN! COLISEUM, YOU CERTAINLY RECEIVED A TREAT TODAY! GIVE IT UP FOR OUR WINNER!”
Gal turned to look at Moelma. “Goodbye, dear Aunt.”
A flurry of ravens appeared from nowhere, covering Gal like a dark cloak. Their sharp cries echoed around the coliseum, casting a dark gloom over the stands where people watched in awe. Within seconds the birds faded all together, and there was nothing left but black feathers on the sand.
Moelma picked up one of the feathers. She crushed it in her fist, lowering her head. Not for the first time, she had failed to bring Gal home.
She could never forgive herself until she did so.
***
Farious waddled down the hall in a great hurry. He couldn’t believe it! Beros had lost! Even being a drakespawn, the warrior had still lost! And Moelma—what did she have to do with that Ravenwing fellow? Did she know Beros’s secret all along? Had she bet on the half-elf wizard? Was she laughing now at Farious’s failure?
The hairless dwarf turned a corner and cried out. Standing before him was Ulnitus, the coliseum’s bookie.
The dark-skinned man grinned down at Farious. “Mr. Farious, it looks like you have lost. And after you agreed to the Take-All round. I hope you weren’t planning to leave before you paid me.”
“Ulnitus! I was just coming to find you!”
“Well, this is a convenient meeting then, isn’t it? I must say, I never imagined Red-Scarred to be a drakespawn. If I had known that, I would probably have gambled a huge fortune as well. Then again, who would have thought that Ravenwing fellow to be such a powerful mage.”
“Yes…” Farious murmured. “It is quite unfortunate.”
“Well then, I’ll take your gold and we can call it a day,” Ulnitus said.
Farious sweated. “Yes…the thing is…I…”
Ulnitus grinned evilly. “I’m quite aware of your financial circumstances. You bit off more than you can chew, old boy. You do realize what this means?”
Farious said nothing.
Ulnitus patted his shoulder and led the dwarf down the hall. “Well, let us go down to the pits. You’re a bit of a pudgy fellow, so we need to be quick if we’re going to find armor that fits you in time for the next match.” The bookie laughed. “After all, we want you to have some chance of survival.”
Farious found himself unable to laugh.
Image by Nanne Tiggelman from Pixabay