The Champions (19 page)

Though most had fled the platform immediately, some of these
perished on the way down the paths they were forced to share with others, and
upon the platform only three remained.

Zorbin collided with his foe and such was the force of the
impact of their bodies that the dwarf he hit flew backwards with a crunch and
vanished over the side to plummet to his death.

The remaining dwarf snatched up a battle hammer with a huge
metal head. Seeing Zorbin distracted the dwarf decided to attack. Rushing
Zorbin the dwarf leapt into the air to bring his full weight to bear with the
hammer. As Zorbin righted himself from the collision, in his blessed size, he
listened as he rose. Hearing no steps upon the stone platform he stepped aside
as he stood. The other dwarf slammed what would normally be a crushing blow
into Zorbin’s shoulder, missing his head by mere inches. The blow, though
painful, was nearly ineffective. Shaking it off, Zorbin backhanded the dwarf
who sprawled away in an attempt to stay upright, blood pouring from his nose.

Zorbin wondered why he had not summoned a blessing; perhaps
he was as yet unblessed. There were only two reasons a clan would send an
unblessed man into the coliseum that Zorbin could think of. One, they had no
one else willing to risk their life for the position. Or two, they wanted him
dead for whatever reason. Otherwise, the only explanation was that the dwarf
was indeed blessed, but perhaps in something that did not help in a fight.
Perhaps he was a stone carver. No matter.

Afraid for his life, the dwarf who had dared attack Zorbin
whilst his back was turned, now tried to flee the platform by running down one
of its ramps to the vast floor below. Zorbin watched him run, and searching
about him, picked up a standard pickaxe. Hurling it end over end after his
attacker, the pick stuck into the back of the fleeing dwarf’s head. The dwarf
staggered forward from the impact, and twisting slowly took three more steps
before jerking suddenly and falling off the side of the ramp.

In the first three minutes, eight of the twelve dwarves were
dispatched, most of them falling to their deaths. Zorbin walked about the
platform and accounted for the foes that remained. Each of them now rushed
towards the stashed weapons, armor, or other supplies. He debated, simply
waiting them out atop the platform. From here he could see any approach from an
adversary from any direction. None were likely to come up after him until they
were the last two, and even then he could not be killed by his final foe. Two
had to walk out alive.

Sadly time was a luxury Zorbin did not have. He could not
simply wait and hope they killed each other quickly. If more than one of them
decided to dig in and take a defensive stance it could be weeks or even months
before one of them finally died due to starvation. Walking about the platform
Zorbin collected a piece of chain, a shovel, and a chisel. Looking below, he
chose his next adversary from what the dwarf had collected. Only one of the
three dwarves carried more weapons than supplies. This would be the most
aggressive dwarf. The most competent. The most assured of his ability to kill
the others. He would be the biggest challenge, probably with a sizable blessing
to boot. Zorbin began to jog down the ramp towards him. He only needed to kill
two more, and he would rather not have an aggressive adversary stalking him
whilst he stalked another.

*****

Though Garret was led by his rage, so empty was his soul
that it had nothing to take over. It guided him, spurred him on for kill after
kill, but it was not the blind rage he had been lost to on previous occasions.
Instead it was a hollow rage, uncaring if he died, that led him into enemy
lines, hacking and stomping a path of gore. Though he chuckled, a sound coming
deep from his chest, the one-armed king felt no emotion. He simply wanted
everything that stood before him dead.

Neither champion, mage, nor common troop could withstand the
King of Valdadore as he carved a path through the enemy lines, and though
attacks were flung at him on a regular basis, he failed to notice that they
were simply to keep him distracted. Keep him at bay.

*****

Borrik could not fight the feral rage that seeped from his
every pore. Anger from each one of his troops filtered into his mind too and
like the savage warriors they were created to be, what few of them were left
unleashed a terror unlike anything else Valdadore could currently muster.
Without care for their personal safety, and without fear of harm, the
werewolves in their gargantuan blessed bodies fought savagely, biting and
clawing their way through the enemy.

Plummeting from the sky to land upon his foes, Borrik
unleashed a pair of fireballs to strike down an enemy mage before setting upon
the troops nearest him with blades and teeth. As those around him took to their
heels to flee, he again lanced fireballs at their backs before leaping into the
sky anew to land elsewhere.

Images of death and killing filled him all the while and
with them came a sense of calm.

Sara had never even seen him coming. How could she have? She
did not have the vision of the gods that Seth had, nor could she have
anticipated Sigrant having such a warrior, if he was even a warrior. All Sara
knew was that one moment she stood beside her fallen husband, the next, a man
clad in black leather armor appeared, seemingly out of thin air. He grabbed her
then, and immediately she felt ill, as if the world had been set to spin
rapidly.

Just a fraction of a second later the world came to a halt
again and, opening her eyes, Sara found herself now within enemy lines. The
dizziness returned and vanished again. They were further within Sigrant’s lines
than before. The man was teleporting them. Sara, when next they appeared,
leaned backwards, heavily dragging him with her before shouting “Jump!” to her
enchanted boots.

Caught up in the man’s grasp, the two rocketed backwards in
the direction they had come, but before they even crashed back to the ground
the world again spun awkwardly. They appeared once more exactly where they had
jumped from. Sara tried to break free and found that she was obviously the
stronger, but the minute she struck out they teleported again.

When they landed this final time, the man who had dragged
her thus far across dimensions unknown, leapt away from her, and quickly
sprinted off in an attempt to avoid her revenge. Thinking to chase him, knowing
that with her superior abilities she could easily make up the distance within
seconds, Sara bent her knees and shook her head to clear the haze that his many
teleportations had left within her mind. Just as she prepared to spring into
the air, something immense snatched her up and slammed her bodily into the
ground over and over again. The attack did not relent for many long moments,
until within her armor her bones broke and joints became dislocated. Sara
cried, not because of the pain, though she felt it from each and every fiber of
her body, but because she needed to have vengeance.

They needed to pay for what they had taken from her. Now she
felt helpless, broken, and unable to do the only thing that could make her feel
better. She needed to kill them, all of them. Sara cried out, a sound that
gurgled from her throat, her ribs having punctured her lungs in more than one
location. From atop her the weight was removed, though so utterly destroyed was
her body she could not turn even a single degree to see what it was that had
fallen atop her. Her bones began to knit back together.

Suddenly, as if she weighed nothing at all, something
roughly hefted Sara from the ground and as she was whipped about through the
air she saw that now she was within a camp full of tents. She was far behind
enemy lines. Abruptly the swinging motion stopped and then, without warning,
Sara fell, having been dropped by whatever it was that had carried her. With a
sound that was a mix between a splat and a thud, Sara hit a cold surface as
metal squeaked upon metal above her. A great slamming sound followed and,
peering ahead, Sara looked upon something she had never before even imagined.

Iron bars as thick as her arms stood before her in a tight
row. Between them bright sunlight lanced into the cage she had been dropped
into, and beyond the bars a tall, narrow man with black hair and eyes stood
looking upon her. A crown sat atop his head. King Sigrant lived.

“Good afternoon, Princess,” King Robert Sigrant greeted her.
“It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Sara did not reply. Could not reply. Not yet at least. She
could feel her bones mending, her tendons and ligaments stretching to reattach
themselves. She groaned, though not of her own accord. Her shoulder popped back
into the socket. Using her one viable arm she pressed down to raise her head
off the floor. Pain exploded in her back.

Flipping back her helm to expose her terrible visage, Sara
shrieked at the enemy king, letting her hatred flow from her lips like death to
his ears.

Undeterred, the enemy king slid his hand through the bars,
jerking it towards her mouth.

“We need to speak,” he said simply. “You need to heal and my
blood will speed the process. I’ve studied your kind.”

Sara knew him to be right, but with the power already
flowing through her, the small amount of blood he offered would make little
difference. Already she was mending at an incredible rate from injuries that
should have killed her instantly. Though she realized all this, she reached up
with that same good arm and grasped at his wrist, squeezing with all her might.
He cried out in agony. Planning to suck him dry, Sara sunk her teeth into his
wrist and began to pull hard, creating a perfect seal with her lips.

Nearly mended, Sara drank heavily for several moments. A few
more and he would lose consciousness. Sara sucked hard again drawing more of
his life into her mouth. Thinking she would have her vengeance she did not
expect what happened next.

Without so much as an attempt to pull his arm from the cage,
Sigrant quickly wrapped a cord around his arm, staunching the flow of blood.

“Now Kibalt!” King Sigrant screamed, and before his command
was even comprehended by Sara, the man who had teleported her here reappeared.
With a single blow he severed the king’s arm below the cord. Just then, a group
of men rushed out from a nearby tent and gathering about their king they each
began to glow. Sara had been duped, and now she realized her mistake.

He had told her that her kind had been studied, and now, the
enemy king had found a way to make himself immortal. In less than an hour King
Sigrant returned to the side of her cage to thank her, showing her his restored
arm, sweat upon his brow. She screamed at him in rage, pounding upon the bars
of her cell but he simply smiled at her, understanding and adoration in his
eyes. Already the change was beginning to take him.

The men with Sigrant rushed him off into another nearby
tent. As the flaps were pulled back Sara could see hundreds of naked women
within the tent. Their bodies were pressed so tightly together within the
building, it was already apparent to Sara their intended purpose. King Sigrant
had a feast waiting.

Rising to a sitting position, now that her body was mended,
Sara looked about her cage. Sadly it was very well built with thick iron bars
and a massive locking mechanism of the likes Sara had never seen before. Even
without trying the bars she knew she would not escape the cage unassisted.
There was simply not enough room in the cage to get decent leverage.

Though Sara could hear the sounds of battle, she was far
enough from it that she could not see any portion of the fight. Occasionally,
upon the breeze, she could smell death and taste the blood of those upon the
battlefield, but she knew that Valdadore was being pressed back. Their
champions had dwindled. Seth was gone. His troops had thinned to alarming
levels. Though Sara’s heart was broken and her anger destroyed, having been
used against her, she showed no sign of emotion. There was nothing left now but
pain and allowing it to show would be of no use.

She was trapped without a chance of escape. The only person
who could possibly rescue her was Borrik, and he had no way of knowing where
she was. She knew none would come to her aid.

Sara felt she at least had to try to escape so she could
tell herself that she had made an effort, even if there wasn’t anything to go
back to. Crouching, she sprang upwards and invoked the blessing upon her boots.

Rocketing up to the all-too-near ceiling of her cage, Sara’s
head glanced off the steel top at an unnatural angle as her neck and both
shoulders were crushed by the impact. Without so much as a dent, Sara fell back
to the floor in a twisted heap, waiting patiently for the ability to control
and feel her body once again. Her situation was helpless, and if her inability
to escape were not bad enough alone, a man appeared from between the tents and
came directly to her cage. He quickly harnessed a pair of oxen he had led to it
and began to lead the beasts further away from the battle.

*****

Linaya stood at the edge of the portal cut through the floor
at her feet. Below her, Zorbin had just killed a man by throwing a pickaxe at
him. Though she was disgusted by the murder, she silently cheered the dwarf on.
If he managed to win, they would have the army they needed to march back to
Valdadore and bring aid to their kingdom. Linaya watched anxiously, imagining
what the future might hold in the days to come. Below her, Zorbin jogged down
the ramp opposite the one he had killed the dwarf on. She watched him go,
praying that Gorandor would protect him.

*****

Zorbin made the base of the ramp without opposition and,
glancing around warily, he turned left, in the last direction he had seen the
dwarf he sought. Walking half a mile he climbed a rise to look around and
located the dwarf off in the distance. At first Zorbin did not realize how his
adversary was making such good time across the landscape. After studying what
it was he was looking at for several minutes, he then realized what had made
him analyze the sight in the first place.