havenstone
First Post
Master of the Arena
DESPITE NURAK’S ADVICE to put off any further rescue plans until his return, Atrix and Darren can’t resist a bit of advance scouting. They head to the Grand Arena in the northwest of the city to look for Lucian, remembering that he had been sold to a noblewoman to be her “champion” in the slave fights there.
They discover that in the weeks since their sale, Lucian has acquired a new nickname – the White Death – and a reputation as an unbeatable gladiator. Given that most of the fights in the Arena are between guard-slaves who have never fought in an actual battle, it is not entirely surprising that the Caragond sellsword has done so well. However, the Path of Chance, which runs the gambling at the Arena, is setting ever longer odds on his continued victory. Apparently the Masters of the Arena are uncomfortable with this slave from a defeated but unconquered nation trouncing everything they throw at him, and have begun to stack the fights.
For Atrix and Darren, these long odds are an opportunity. They bet the remaining gold from Nurak’s purse on Lucian, hoping to win enough money to redeem him from his mistress before he has to face something he can’t handle.
Over the next week, Lucian has to face two condemned Lakshari thieves; a lion, armed with only a spear; two massive gladiators from the restive jungle province of Theilash; and, unarmed, a black-skinned wrestler from the swamp peninsula of Hsaidar. Each fight comes a little closer to killing him. Each time, Atrix and Darren win more gold by raising their bets when Lucian looks closest to defeat.
THE ARENA MASTERS then declare that Archmaster Nyenju wishes to test his newly molded clay warrior against the White Death. Atrix and Darren feel an instinctive dread at the mention of the Radiant Path arts – how can Lucian possibly survive the kind of sorcery that destroyed the entire Army of the North? When placing their bets – “The White Death, of course” – Darren leans in to mutter in the gambling-master’s ear. “We’ve won so much on him – he’s a good investment. Do you know how much his mistress is asking for him? We can offer the five hundred gold you’ve been keeping for us.”
“She’ll never let him go for less than a thousand, the way he’s been fighting,” the gnarled Xaimani says with a grin. “And I think he may be serving in ways that go beyond the arena. So even if you keep your gold after this battle: good luck.”
A fiercely smiling Lucian emerges to deafening cheers from all sides of the arena. When the crowd’s roar dies down, the wizard Nyenju rises from the Arena Masters’ dais and cries out a dramatic incantation. A hulking clay golem stalks out into the center of the ring. It has been sculpted to look like a Xaimani Legionnaire, and when it raises its enormous fists, Lucian’s crude leather armor and helm seem preposterously fragile.
At first the young Caragond fights defensively, using all his speed to stay out of the golem’s reach and all his strength to deflect its strikes. Twice, the clay warrior lands a devastating body blow, sending Lucian flying into the dust. The second time, the Northern slave is sluggish to rise, and the golem dives in for the kill – but Lucian twists abruptly aside, his adversary’s fists hammer into the earth, and Lucian brings his mace up into its shoulder, knocking off its arm. Then he goes on the attack, striking again and again while keeping himself on the golem’s armless side.
Minutes pass, with the human fighter growing visibly tired while the clay warrior moves with the same inexorable speed and force despite its battering. At last, it catches Lucian under its arm and pulls him in with a crushing grip. Lucian howls and buries his mace in the golem’s head with the last of his strength. Then he goes limp, twitching into unconsciousness. The whole crowd holds its breath, waiting for the White Death to be pulped; several silent seconds pass before they realize the motionless golem, not the gladiator, has lost the fight.
THIS IS CLEARLY a victory too far for the Masters of the Arena. When the pandemonium subsides and Lucian has been carried away for healing, they declare that the White Death’s next fight will be against the Lakshari staff master Ganrad. A thrilled murmur surges around the arena. To their dismay, Atrix and Darren learn that Ganrad is one of the most experienced free gladiators ever to fight in Tziwan. Pitting a slave against him is a death sentence, especially since Lucian has never been that good with quarterstaves. Darren confirms despondently that their winnings to date – just over nine hundred gold – will not be enough to buy Lucian away from his Niyonari mistress.
On the morning of the fight, Atrix quick-talks his way into the lower halls of the Arena and finds Lucian surrounded by impressed arena guards as he practices combat stances with the quarterstaff. The muscular Caragond looks up at Atrix and blinks. Then he looks away again, smiling. “They all say he’s sure to kill me today – I hear the odds are four to one in his favor. What do you think, Chramic?”
“Slave, you look like you’ve never held a staff before,” Atrix says mockingly. “Really, if that’s the best you can do, you might as well just break it.”
Lucian pauses, then nods slowly. “Well, at least you’re honest.” The remains of the previous gladiators are brought into the hall, and the crowd begins calling for him. “If it comes to that, I will. Thanks.”
Darren bets all the gold they have on Lucian to win, while the lithe Lakshari warrior Ganrad descends to the Arena floor. Atrix watches with bated breath from the lower halls, one hand on his peace-knotted sword hilt.
The two gladiators bow to each other. Barely have they straightened when Ganrad lashes out with unearthly speed, landing near-crippling blows on Lucian’s arms and ribs. While the young Caragond desperately brings up his staff to block, the staffmaster spins around his defenses and plants the butt end of his weapon between Lucian’s eyes.
Bleeding and already near collapse, Lucian backs off, plants his foot in mid-staff, and snaps it into two long, straight fragments. At the same time, the overconfident Ganrad swings at Lucian’s kneecaps and misses critically [natural 1], breaking his own weapon against the ground. He looks up, appalled. Lucian’s bloodied face stretches into a feral grin. Thirty seconds of brilliant swordplay later, the Lakshari drops with a smashed skull, and Lucian flings both halves of his staff up into the stands to thunderous applause.
A TALL XAIMANI with a weathered face and steel-gray hair rises from his box and stalks toward the Masters of the Arena. Darren, demanding confirmation of their winnings from the near hysterical gambing-master, hears the same name whispered on a hundred lips: “Swordmaster Xeros.” This is the head of the Sword Path, highest general of the Xaimani legions and Protector of the Empire.
Xeros reaches the grand dais and speaks, his voice unnaturally amplified to drown out the tumult. “The White Death has earned his name once again this day. He need defend his life no more. By order of the Sword Path, he is permanently retired from the Arena.” He sounds decidedly unamused; such a display of swordsmanship from a slave, even with sticks, verges on a violation of the Imperial Order.
Lucian bows, never losing his grin, and begins limping out of the Arena. Atrix looks around and sees that the middle-aged Niyonari noblewoman who bought his friend has just entered the hall. He walks over to her and bows. “Great lady, your champion has brought you glory today which will not soon be forgotten.”
Lucian’s mistress looks pained. “No, it will not be forgotten. He can fight no more in this place, and his skill in these last two battles has brought great shame upon the Arena Masters. Out in Tziwan, there will be many seeking to take him by surprise and kill him – friends of Ganrad of the Staff, now, and perhaps even the servants of ar-ayan Xeros.” From the anguish in her voice, it is clear that her concern for Lucian has grown beyond mere proprietary interest.
Atrix seizes the moment. “Lady: I fear you are right. The spite of the shamed Xaimani will pursue your champion wherever you go. It would be a grievous waste to see such a warrior slain by cowardly dogs. I pray you will consider selling him swiftly and in secret to one who could take him far away from them.”
The Niyonari lady stares at Atrix, deeply torn. “Do you say that you could keep him safe, Chramic?”
“My friend and I will protect him, I promise you – and be kind, generous masters to him.” Atrix leans in and drops his voice. “I can not tell you the secrets of our trade, but we came to the Arena in search of a slave of courage and skill to be our bodyguard on an errand of great glory and reward. We will travel far from Tziwan, bringing him with us, to places even Swordmaster Xeros’ hand does not reach.”
“You are not a tool of the Arena Masters?”
“Lady: I swear to you, I am not.” Atrix looks up to see Darren enter, brandishing their notes of credit from the Path of Chance. “To us, a champion and guard of this skill is worth nineteen hundred gold. Will you let us take him away to further glory – before those who hate him have a chance to find him?”
THEY LEAVE THE Arena by a small side gate, wrapping Lucian in a cloak to hide him from curious eyes. Hours later, when they’re satisfied that they’ve shaken off any pursuers, they return to their inn, dye his skin, and sear the brand off his shoulder.
“We’ll find a new inn tomorrow – and each day after that, for a while,” Darren says quietly. “You’re easier to scry for than we are, if any of your new enemies come hunting for you. Best to leave them as confusing a trail as possible.”
“As you command, masters,” Lucian says wryly. He lies back on his pallet, looking haggard from his unhealed wounds but still smiling. “You know, back in the North, a Jendae woman once told me to beware of family, because I would die in the service of my cousin. I’ve always done my best not to serve any master for too long. I don’t suppose either of you is secretly related to me?”
“Of course not,” Atrix laughs.
DESPITE NURAK’S ADVICE to put off any further rescue plans until his return, Atrix and Darren can’t resist a bit of advance scouting. They head to the Grand Arena in the northwest of the city to look for Lucian, remembering that he had been sold to a noblewoman to be her “champion” in the slave fights there.
They discover that in the weeks since their sale, Lucian has acquired a new nickname – the White Death – and a reputation as an unbeatable gladiator. Given that most of the fights in the Arena are between guard-slaves who have never fought in an actual battle, it is not entirely surprising that the Caragond sellsword has done so well. However, the Path of Chance, which runs the gambling at the Arena, is setting ever longer odds on his continued victory. Apparently the Masters of the Arena are uncomfortable with this slave from a defeated but unconquered nation trouncing everything they throw at him, and have begun to stack the fights.
For Atrix and Darren, these long odds are an opportunity. They bet the remaining gold from Nurak’s purse on Lucian, hoping to win enough money to redeem him from his mistress before he has to face something he can’t handle.
Over the next week, Lucian has to face two condemned Lakshari thieves; a lion, armed with only a spear; two massive gladiators from the restive jungle province of Theilash; and, unarmed, a black-skinned wrestler from the swamp peninsula of Hsaidar. Each fight comes a little closer to killing him. Each time, Atrix and Darren win more gold by raising their bets when Lucian looks closest to defeat.
THE ARENA MASTERS then declare that Archmaster Nyenju wishes to test his newly molded clay warrior against the White Death. Atrix and Darren feel an instinctive dread at the mention of the Radiant Path arts – how can Lucian possibly survive the kind of sorcery that destroyed the entire Army of the North? When placing their bets – “The White Death, of course” – Darren leans in to mutter in the gambling-master’s ear. “We’ve won so much on him – he’s a good investment. Do you know how much his mistress is asking for him? We can offer the five hundred gold you’ve been keeping for us.”
“She’ll never let him go for less than a thousand, the way he’s been fighting,” the gnarled Xaimani says with a grin. “And I think he may be serving in ways that go beyond the arena. So even if you keep your gold after this battle: good luck.”
A fiercely smiling Lucian emerges to deafening cheers from all sides of the arena. When the crowd’s roar dies down, the wizard Nyenju rises from the Arena Masters’ dais and cries out a dramatic incantation. A hulking clay golem stalks out into the center of the ring. It has been sculpted to look like a Xaimani Legionnaire, and when it raises its enormous fists, Lucian’s crude leather armor and helm seem preposterously fragile.
At first the young Caragond fights defensively, using all his speed to stay out of the golem’s reach and all his strength to deflect its strikes. Twice, the clay warrior lands a devastating body blow, sending Lucian flying into the dust. The second time, the Northern slave is sluggish to rise, and the golem dives in for the kill – but Lucian twists abruptly aside, his adversary’s fists hammer into the earth, and Lucian brings his mace up into its shoulder, knocking off its arm. Then he goes on the attack, striking again and again while keeping himself on the golem’s armless side.
Minutes pass, with the human fighter growing visibly tired while the clay warrior moves with the same inexorable speed and force despite its battering. At last, it catches Lucian under its arm and pulls him in with a crushing grip. Lucian howls and buries his mace in the golem’s head with the last of his strength. Then he goes limp, twitching into unconsciousness. The whole crowd holds its breath, waiting for the White Death to be pulped; several silent seconds pass before they realize the motionless golem, not the gladiator, has lost the fight.
THIS IS CLEARLY a victory too far for the Masters of the Arena. When the pandemonium subsides and Lucian has been carried away for healing, they declare that the White Death’s next fight will be against the Lakshari staff master Ganrad. A thrilled murmur surges around the arena. To their dismay, Atrix and Darren learn that Ganrad is one of the most experienced free gladiators ever to fight in Tziwan. Pitting a slave against him is a death sentence, especially since Lucian has never been that good with quarterstaves. Darren confirms despondently that their winnings to date – just over nine hundred gold – will not be enough to buy Lucian away from his Niyonari mistress.
On the morning of the fight, Atrix quick-talks his way into the lower halls of the Arena and finds Lucian surrounded by impressed arena guards as he practices combat stances with the quarterstaff. The muscular Caragond looks up at Atrix and blinks. Then he looks away again, smiling. “They all say he’s sure to kill me today – I hear the odds are four to one in his favor. What do you think, Chramic?”
“Slave, you look like you’ve never held a staff before,” Atrix says mockingly. “Really, if that’s the best you can do, you might as well just break it.”
Lucian pauses, then nods slowly. “Well, at least you’re honest.” The remains of the previous gladiators are brought into the hall, and the crowd begins calling for him. “If it comes to that, I will. Thanks.”
Darren bets all the gold they have on Lucian to win, while the lithe Lakshari warrior Ganrad descends to the Arena floor. Atrix watches with bated breath from the lower halls, one hand on his peace-knotted sword hilt.
The two gladiators bow to each other. Barely have they straightened when Ganrad lashes out with unearthly speed, landing near-crippling blows on Lucian’s arms and ribs. While the young Caragond desperately brings up his staff to block, the staffmaster spins around his defenses and plants the butt end of his weapon between Lucian’s eyes.
Bleeding and already near collapse, Lucian backs off, plants his foot in mid-staff, and snaps it into two long, straight fragments. At the same time, the overconfident Ganrad swings at Lucian’s kneecaps and misses critically [natural 1], breaking his own weapon against the ground. He looks up, appalled. Lucian’s bloodied face stretches into a feral grin. Thirty seconds of brilliant swordplay later, the Lakshari drops with a smashed skull, and Lucian flings both halves of his staff up into the stands to thunderous applause.
A TALL XAIMANI with a weathered face and steel-gray hair rises from his box and stalks toward the Masters of the Arena. Darren, demanding confirmation of their winnings from the near hysterical gambing-master, hears the same name whispered on a hundred lips: “Swordmaster Xeros.” This is the head of the Sword Path, highest general of the Xaimani legions and Protector of the Empire.
Xeros reaches the grand dais and speaks, his voice unnaturally amplified to drown out the tumult. “The White Death has earned his name once again this day. He need defend his life no more. By order of the Sword Path, he is permanently retired from the Arena.” He sounds decidedly unamused; such a display of swordsmanship from a slave, even with sticks, verges on a violation of the Imperial Order.
Lucian bows, never losing his grin, and begins limping out of the Arena. Atrix looks around and sees that the middle-aged Niyonari noblewoman who bought his friend has just entered the hall. He walks over to her and bows. “Great lady, your champion has brought you glory today which will not soon be forgotten.”
Lucian’s mistress looks pained. “No, it will not be forgotten. He can fight no more in this place, and his skill in these last two battles has brought great shame upon the Arena Masters. Out in Tziwan, there will be many seeking to take him by surprise and kill him – friends of Ganrad of the Staff, now, and perhaps even the servants of ar-ayan Xeros.” From the anguish in her voice, it is clear that her concern for Lucian has grown beyond mere proprietary interest.
Atrix seizes the moment. “Lady: I fear you are right. The spite of the shamed Xaimani will pursue your champion wherever you go. It would be a grievous waste to see such a warrior slain by cowardly dogs. I pray you will consider selling him swiftly and in secret to one who could take him far away from them.”
The Niyonari lady stares at Atrix, deeply torn. “Do you say that you could keep him safe, Chramic?”
“My friend and I will protect him, I promise you – and be kind, generous masters to him.” Atrix leans in and drops his voice. “I can not tell you the secrets of our trade, but we came to the Arena in search of a slave of courage and skill to be our bodyguard on an errand of great glory and reward. We will travel far from Tziwan, bringing him with us, to places even Swordmaster Xeros’ hand does not reach.”
“You are not a tool of the Arena Masters?”
“Lady: I swear to you, I am not.” Atrix looks up to see Darren enter, brandishing their notes of credit from the Path of Chance. “To us, a champion and guard of this skill is worth nineteen hundred gold. Will you let us take him away to further glory – before those who hate him have a chance to find him?”
THEY LEAVE THE Arena by a small side gate, wrapping Lucian in a cloak to hide him from curious eyes. Hours later, when they’re satisfied that they’ve shaken off any pursuers, they return to their inn, dye his skin, and sear the brand off his shoulder.
“We’ll find a new inn tomorrow – and each day after that, for a while,” Darren says quietly. “You’re easier to scry for than we are, if any of your new enemies come hunting for you. Best to leave them as confusing a trail as possible.”
“As you command, masters,” Lucian says wryly. He lies back on his pallet, looking haggard from his unhealed wounds but still smiling. “You know, back in the North, a Jendae woman once told me to beware of family, because I would die in the service of my cousin. I’ve always done my best not to serve any master for too long. I don’t suppose either of you is secretly related to me?”
“Of course not,” Atrix laughs.
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