The Champions (18 page)

Linaya watched in confusion, unsure exactly what had just
transpired. Zorbin simply nodded to the king of the dwarves before walking to
the edge of the precipice. Looking down through the hole, he then turned his
gaze back to Linaya who stood, unsure of what she should do.

“Gumbi will see to it that you are given a room and your
needs are met over the days to come. It is time for me to heed the call of my
people, and repay a debt I have stolen from them. I hope to see you again.”

Without another word Zorbin turned and, grasping the ladder,
he swung over the edge of the hole and quickly climbed below the surface of the
room. Seconds later the dwarves yanked the ladder back up and out of the hole
only to return it to the shadows. Linaya, still not realizing what had
happened, spun upon her heel to face Gumbi, a million questions fighting to
form upon her lips.

Her confusion evident, before she could even formulate a
proper question, the king turned to her with the information she so desperately
needed.

“Lady Linaya, it is my pleasure to meet you and hear your
request for aide. At this time however, it saddens me to tell you that I will
not be marching out my armies on any more campaigns.”

Linaya’s heart fell into her stomach. He knew why she had
come. Already he had denied a request she had not even had the chance to voice.
Silently she wondered, as the king began to speak again, if pleading her case
or perhaps begging would avail her anything.

“You see, Lady Linaya, I am too old for such things, and it
is a king’s duty to lead his troops into battle. That is why, as in the days to
come, you will be able to observe below us; a new king is being chosen to lead
the dwarven nation.”

Realization began to dawn upon Linaya. The debt Drummit had
owed had not been money. He had been sworn into the coliseum to compete to lead
the dwarven nation, but before he could arrive he had died. Now it was Zorbin
who was representing Clan Ironfist in the battle to rule the dwarves. Linaya
gasped. Her hopes and dreams for success had literally just been tossed down a
hole in the floor to fight their way back out. Linaya remembered Zorbin’s
explanation. Twelve entered the chamber, and only two would come out. One would
rule, and the other would submit to rulership. That was the way of the dwarves.

Linaya was momentarily distraught. Their plans were in
ruins! It wasn’t until her gaze met Gumbi’s that she saw the dwarf wink with a
wry grin. He had known. If Gumbi had known then surely Zorbin had as well, but
when had they realized? How long had they known?

There were a great deal of questions swirling in Linaya’s
head, and it became apparent that the only real answers lay below. Zorbin was
now her only hope. Only he could reverse the king’s ruling not to help the human
kingdom, but only if he won the submission of a peer after defeating the rest.
Only time would reveal the outcome of this battle. All Linaya could do now was
wait and watch what transpired below. Zorbin had told her that this could take
minutes or months. Valdadore didn’t have months.

*****

Ashton struggled with his power, bending it to his will. No
matter how hard he focused, the skilled healer could not achieve that which his
patient required. His friend, the king, though on the mend, was still far from
being healed. A great hole lay upon his ribcage, exposing the muscle, flesh,
and bone beneath. Beyond that, upon the opposite side of his body, an entirely
new arm had been created, but as of yet had not been covered in flesh. Ashton
could not make the flesh grow, try as he might.

In Garret’s blessed form his skin was metal, or at least
metallic, and Ashton could not force it to grow and expand to cover the exposed
muscle and sinew. If the king awoke now, he would likely go into shock from the
pain, or perhaps simply pass out again with so many exposed nerves.

If Ashton could get him to wake, and make him relinquish his
blessing, at least for an hour, he could then complete what he had started, but
now it was unlikely. Something upon the battlefield had changed abruptly.
Whatever it was, it had lent courage to the attackers for now they pushed
forward driving the Valdadorians back. The great wolf troops that Seth had
created barked and growled, snarling in the distance like a pack of mad dogs.
Sigrant’s mages pressed the attack on all fronts, throwing magic at anything
that stood to oppose their forces. Ashton reached into the king with his
blessing. He needed the king to wake.

Already the soldiers around Ashton were falling back. It was
a slow process, but even so it was inevitable. Speeding the recovery of his one
time traveling companion, Ashton pressed on until he felt Garret begin to stir.
As he released his blessing momentarily his white glow subsided as pleasure and
joy washed through him, sending a shudder up his spine. He spasmed for a
second, a grin on his lips, as he refocused on his patient.

If Ashton had thought himself prepared for Garret, he had
been mistaken, for as the king’s eyes flashed open he snarled in rage and
sprang to his feet looking for his sword. Then the pain hit him. Like a man run
through the gut, the king uttered a blood-curdling, painful roar as the nerves
in his side and arm awoke, sending unbearable pain to wrack his body.

Screaming, Ashton got Garret’s attention, and just as the
king’s pained face turned to meet his own, he spotted something across the
battlefield and indescribable anger consumed his features, as shock and
unconsciousness tried to take him.

“Fix my arm, Ashton!” the king yelled, the agony and rage
evident in his booming voice. “Now!”

“I can’t while you are blessed!”

The king became unsubstantial for a second and with a pop he
shrank considerably.

“How long?” Garret asked.

“An hour, maybe less,” Ashton answered, already calling upon
his blessing.

*****

Springing to his feet Garret had spun upon his heel in an
attempt to gain his bearings. Somehow he had lost consciousness. Somehow he had
made it behind the front lines. Somehow the battle had changed.

Turning again, nausea overtook him as pain exploded in his
arm and side and, glancing to them, it was obvious why. He fought the urge to
retch. Hearing a familiar cry, Garret turned to find Ashton upon the ground
near where he stood, but in the process, he caught a glimpse of a vision he
could have never imagined. Across the field of battle, under a canopy of
Borrik’s wings, his brother stood impaled upon a great shaft.

Though rage, pain, and sorrow threatened to overtake him,
Garret knew he would be of no use in his current situation. He turned and
addressed Ashton and seconds later stood before his friend, a normal-sized man.

“I don’t have an hour, Ashton, Seth is hurt!”

“If they were smaller injuries it would take less time, or
if I had help,” Ashton was saying while working to close the hole in Garret’s
side.

Garret thought it over. Time could be running out for his
brother; he knew not how many minutes or seconds they had. Though struggling to
remain coherent through the pain, Garret pulled away from his friend and did
the unthinkable. Reaching down to retrieve a sword from the ground, Garret
plunged it into his own shoulder between the ball of his arm and the socket.
Twisting the blade he dislocated the arm as blood again poured from the wound.
Then with a shove he pushed the blade further through the joint before pulling
to one side, nearly severing the arm anew. With another quick hack the deed was
finished and the king stood panting, sweat upon his brow, with one less
appendage.

Without explanation Ashton took the meaning. Working fast
and dirty he summoned his blessing and closed the wound as quickly as was
possible. Garret again exploded in size, a one-armed champion, and took off
across the battlefield in a dead run, soldiers from both sides leaping aside in
an attempt to avoid being trampled. Garret sought to reach his brother, feeling
in his gut as he ran that he was already too late.

As he neared, with fireballs crashing into his back, Garret
watched as Borrik yanked the lifeless Seth off the shaft and bore his limp body
to the ground gently. Unlike the last occasion they had fought a battle
together, this time Seth’s body remained. Even over the din of the battle, with
yells and screams of defiance and pain, Garret heard the anguished scream of
his brother’s widow. So mournful was the sound it seemed inhuman, as if a soul
fled her body through her throat, its tortured voice joining her own. Garret
need not run further; Sara had already told him all he needed to know. Seth had
fallen. He was gone. This time he would not return. Garret had lost everyone
from his childhood he had ever loved, and even with tears streaming from his
giant eyes, as his soul broke from the emotional pain that was too much for
anyone to bear, so too did his vision turn red and a menacing chuckle escape
from his throat.

*****

Borrik stood like a twisted tree over his master’s body, his
wings spread above the scene like a canopy above a funeral. Below, within his
shadow, a single soul approached the walking god. Her flesh still smoking, yet
regenerating rapidly, Sara gazed at the only man she had ever loved. She stood
before him and placed her hand upon his cheek. She wished to hug him, but his
unnatural posture, leaning back at such an angle, made it impossible. His head
having fallen back, mouth agape, it appeared for any who saw that he screamed
silently towards the heavens as if in defiance.

Sara sobbed uncontrollably, her tears washing away a small
portion of the blood that covered her.

“Take him off that damned thing!” Sara shouted.

She knew Borrik would heed her, though he belonged to her
husband. As he was ordered he stepped forward, careful to keep Sara in shadow,
and pulled Seth’s limp body up and off the shaft before laying him upon the
ground in front of his wife. He did it gently. Slowly. As if they were the only
three upon the battlefield. Sara laid her head upon her husband’s chest,
unbelieving that he of all people could die so prematurely. She listened
intently yet no sound came. Broken, alone, and devastated she took her turn
raising her face to the heavens and let go that which sought to escape her. Her
anguish freed, she did the only thing she thought possible to bring him back.
Pulling back his cowl further to expose his throat, Sara bit deeply into the
flesh of the man she loved and drank heavily from his blood. Naturally, through
her defect, her own blood would intermingle with his own. Sara thought that
perhaps more of her own blood would increase the potential of saving him and
bit hard through her own lips before pressing them back to the wound in his
neck.

With nothing left to try she kissed him one last time before
returning her head to his chest to listen. A moment passed. She waited. Many
more moments, ones that seemed entirely too long and too empty, passed. Still
no change. She punched him in the chest, angry that he could leave her, then
pulled him close in an embrace, sorry she had struck him.

“Kill them all, Borrik!” she screamed and above her he leapt
into the air, a roaring growl tearing from his throat, happy to do as she had
ordered.

The light returned, and her flesh began to smolder. There
was nothing she could do for him now. With tears continuing to stream from her
eyes, Sara pulled her helm back over her head. If nothing else she would have
vengeance. She cautiously lowered Seth to the ground, daring anyone to touch
his body. Standing, she spun to face the enemy who even now dared not venture
too near the fallen death mage. Like an animal she hissed at those who opposed
her as the shadow appeared over her and the world began to spin.

*****

Zorbin climbed down the stout ladder knowing that death
awaited him below at the hands of members of his own race. Here was the one
place where dwarven honor was forfeit. Here there were no rules except survival
of the fittest. Here you were not judged by what you said or did, or by how you
responded. Here, all you had to do was survive.

He stepped off the ladder onto the stone platform and looked
around to gain a better understanding of what it was that he faced. Eleven
opponents already stood around the giant round platform. Each of them stood
upon the symbol of their house. The platform was nearly the size of the capital
building above, and the room it stood within was almost the size of the city.
This vast chamber was created with the same giant support ribs up the sides of
the room. Within it a multitude of terrains, a river, and even a few buildings
and cliffs were visible. Zorbin climbed down to the level of his adversaries,
taking up his place upon the symbol for the clan Ironfist. These men were the
best of their houses, and it was likely each was blessed with something they
could use to their advantage. Zorbin had been outcast for many years; his
knowledge of each of the houses was outdated. He knew not what he faced, only
that time was of the essence.

Beyond this platform, within the vast chamber that
surrounded them, several caches of weapons and supplies were visible from this
vantage point. Even here, upon the platform, a handful of items were strewn
about the floor to entice the combatants to remain and fight over them.

From the platform four paths led down to the giant chamber
below, one in each direction of the compass. He needed to choose a plan of
action before the ceremony started. Looking around he noted that many of his
opponents openly scowled at him. None of them thought him their equal, each
considering him a traitor to their race. Zorbin ignored the looks and focused
upon the weapons and supplies that lay scattered about, calculating who would
go for an item of worth, and who would turn and flee down the ramps.

From above, a trumpet sounded the beginning and each of the
dwarves sprang into action. Decided, Zorbin, instead of rushing out to grab a
pick he had been eyeballing, turned and ran straight towards his nearest foe,
calling upon his blessing as he ran. With a concussive boom Zorbin exploded in
size at the same time as he dove bodily into his smaller opponent.