Odyssey

CHAPTER 4

"Hail the conquering hero!" Seton bellowed, ignoring the catcalls that quickly followed. Kamahl only nodded, as if accepting his due. The centaur snorted as he saw the shadow of a smile on the barbarian's face. The other patients in the hospital could not read the mountain fighter, and their catcalls continued.

Seton had been taken to the hospital to recover from his wounds. Though the druids of the forest were known for their healing skills, the punishment they endured to access those energies reserved them for life-threatening injuries only. Though the poison mold laid the centaur low, Cabal servitors administered an antidote within minutes of the fight's end. Those who survived the games were taken to the healing halls behind the waiting chambers. Kamahl was told to return the next day.

The centaur lay in a shallow pit, his side against a move-able board that allowed him to lie as if on a hillside. Other than a tendency to turn one's head to match up with the patient's orientation, it allowed for ease of access for the nursing staff. It also made conversation more convenient.

The barbarian's eyes swung over some of the patients, and his worries for his friend continued. Amputations were common and many fighters lay as if dead, their stumps leaking blood around the seams of their new limbs. Metal seemed the most common substitute, though mismatched furred limbs suggested other sources. Mold covered the wounds of some. Kamahl watched a caregiver spreading thick mud over the weeping sores of a dwarf whose eyes wandered with pain. The barbarian hoped the Cabal was trying to help instead of preparing a fresh round of victims for rumored rituals. He renewed his vow to avoid injury or at least care for himself.

Seton looked well. His coat was clean, and the patchwork of new fur covered the worst of the stitches. The forest dweller still made few movements, and Kamahl realized the giant was in pain despite his apparent high spirits.

"I am surprised that you have not already escaped," the barbarian quipped awkwardly. He wondered how the centaur stood the enclosed environment.

"I will leave here as soon as her 'majesty' says that I may," the forest dweller said, rolling his eyes. The barbarian turned, seeing an approaching healer. She stood wrapped in armor, and her haughty stare curled his lip. She went past, her robe clinking softly with the sound of chain mail.

"I am surprised to see a representative of the Order here," Kamahl said, turning his eyes away from the martial maid back to his acquaintance.

"As healers, some of the Order's party feel compelled to offer their services here," the centaur replied. "Though we pay a stiff price for their services, being constrained to listen to them rail against the pit fights." The centaur spoke with some amusement, but Kamahl remembered the snubs offered by the lieutenant and now one of his retinue.

"Rather self-serving to urge competitors of their champion to withdraw," the barbarian observed. "I am surprised that you do not tell them so." Kamahl came to win honor and respect. That other fighters would belittle the contests was extremely irritating.

"We all come for our own reasons," the centaur said. He rolled further against the support board. He tripped a lever, and the clink of the mechanism sounded as he brought his side down. "The Order fights to destroy the prizes. I fight so I can meet the Masters of the Games." Seton lowered his voice.

"I am not here on a lark," he said darkly. "What drives me is serious." Seton looked to see if any were listening.

"The forests are violated and their inhabitants stolen to feed the pits." He said softly. "Creatures vanish from under the trees and nothing is done to stop them." The centaur shifted to bring his head closer to Kamahl.

"The forest will not suffer these raids forever. I know that one day the pit system will have to change, or it will fall. The wild will not allow itself to be bled dry."

"I respect your convictions," Kamahl said, keeping his voice even. "But I am not here to become part of your crusade. The pit provides the opponents I need to test myself." He turned and gestured to the crowds of injured.

"I have no wish to be hurt, but it is a risk 1 take to win a place in this world." The barbarian lowered his hands and hooked his thumbs in his belt. His eyes looked inward as he paused. "The mountains became too small. Winning a duel meant that a village or a family gave you your due. Victory is sweet, but the portions were too small." Kamahl shook his head sadly as he thought of his many victories.

"And you think the repast will be so much better in the pits?" Seton said crossly. "You think that the crowd will remember you for longer than your next fight?" The centaur's voice grew louder and other recuperating fighters looked toward the pair.

"I think that it is better we each do as we think best," Kamahl said, his voice growing tight. He did not believe his victory meaningless.

"I apologize, Kamahl," Seton answered. "I should not let my current injuries make me rude." The centaur waved his hand and only lightly groaned at the pain of the movement. "I have you to thank for the all this." He laughed. "But truly, I owe you my life," Seton said seriously. "I was paralyzed and sure I would die when you destroyed the mole. My debt to you is more than gold or words can pay."

Kamahl nodded, accepting the gratitude with same equanimity he had accepted the crowd's adulation.

"I fought for myself, but whatever debt you owe to me can be repaid by your friendship." The barbarian extended his hand, and the two gripped arms, united as they were in the arena.

"Over here, Kamahl," Chainer called.

The barbarian looked to the front of the champions' box. He had returned to the arena to see the Mer champion fight. There was no posted opponent, and the barbarian wondered who would battle the dangerous-looking amphibian.

"The match hasn't started?" he asked, taking a seat next to the Cabal minion. Chainer was eating olives and cheese as he sipped from a cup. The barbarian nodded to a servant who supplied him with a small loaf of bread and a goblet of wine. Kamahl drank, noticing a sour taste and looking toward the servant. Chainer noticed his look.

"Someone delivered lower-quality food to the kitchens stocking the boxes," the young man explained. "They're scrambling to find decent food for the important patrons." He snorted and gestured around as if to comment that the actual pit fighters were obviously low on the list of the powerful. Kamahl drank the wine without further comment, though deep inside the slight rankled.

"It's all maneuvering to embarrass the current Master of the Games." Chainer said, sounding conspiratorial. "Someone is trying to displace him and his connections."

The barbarian listened with little interest.

The crowd stirred excitedly as the fighters' gate opened. Turg strode forth, the massive Mer champion glistening as if his skin had been freshly moistened. The placards naming the opponents were not posted, and Chainer straightened as the frog stalked the empty pit. A concealed gate opened, far from the crowd. With a wild bray, an ass ran into the pit, its hooves flying with wild kicks as it tore around the sides of the arena.

The crowd exploded in laughter as Turg swelled up, his hands closed up in fists. The amphibian shook with rage as the audience continued to laugh. Many of the Cabal servants appeared stunned. The frog ran to intercept the donkey.

"I can't believe someone would try to disrupt the games!" Chainer exclaimed as the Mer champion raced to his ridiculous opponent. "This prank will offend the ambassador and the Master of the Games."

The frog reached the donkey, and it spun and let fly. The sharp hooves laid open the skin, and the laughter increased. Kamahl smiled slightly, though the other fighters' grins showed half-moons of teeth.

Turg darted in and grabbed the ass's skull. He turned, throwing the donkey in a circle. The animal's neck snapped, its body falling limp to the ground. A light smattering of contemptuous applause greeted the amphibian. He kept his grip on the head, and his muscles bunched, rotating the skull and tearing it free. Blood poured onto the sand, splashing up against Turg's legs. He cocked back his arms and hurled his opponent's head up into the crowd. The spells that protected the seats flared, and the lights dimmed as power flowed to intercept the bloody projectile. The skull rotted away, diminished by the forces of accelerated decay until it fell over the seats in a spray of foulness. The sound of retching competed with nervous laughter. The ambassador was standing in his box, outrage visible on his aristocratic features. The Master of the Games gestured wildly to the gatekeepers down in the pit.

"He's sending out another beast," Chainer said, settling back into the seat. "He'll try to write it off as a mistake, but the patriarch will have a head before the end of the day."

A six-legged reptile rushed into the arena, soldiers driving it forth with jabs from tridents. Its legs churned, and it froze in the center, its head turning in quick jerks.

"A Krosan dragonette," Chainer said, clucking his tongue. "A decent fighting animal but not one with stature enough to balance the insult of the ass."

The dragonette saw the amphibian but did not charge. "They need to be driven to battle," Chainer said sadly as the Master of the Games went into a new spat of shouting and arm waving. The gates opened again, and more animals spilled into the arena. Great hounds milled, their foamy jaws hinting at madness as they bit at each other before the sight of the dragonette and the frog set them running.

The six-legged beast tore into the pack as they came close. The reptile jaws snapped at the leg of a dog several times, leaving it a bloody mass. The rest of the pack piled on, but the beast thrashed. Howls of pain echoed in the arena as the dragonette's rough hide stripped fur and flesh away. The amphibian closed, and half the pack turned on him. There was a wave of magic, and the frog seemed to fade. Around each of the hounds the outline of the mer champion appeared, his legs dragging as if hamstrung. The pack fell on each other as the spell turned their instincts against them. A biting, dying circle spun between the frog and the reptile.

The dragonette bled from multiple bites, the blood pulsing down its hide. Its long whip of a tail rose and then lashed into the dogs. A high yelp sounded as the reptile strruck again and again. Each strike left an animal with shattered bones. The cripples were killed in an instant as the other ensorcelled animals fell upon them. Soon only the dragonette, frog, and a single bleeding hound remained. Turg snapped into focus and struck the last dog, his heavy fist destroying the skull. The dragonette lashed its tail, but the amphibian leaped to the side, once more fading as multiple images moved away from its landing place. The dragonette roared in bestial fury, its cry echoing up over the arena walls. Its tongue flickering widely, it stalked one image exclusively, ignoring the others even as several versions of Turg made short rushes against it.

The illusions faded as the mer warrior realized the beast's sense of smell made the illusions useless. Catcalls rose from the benches at the turn of events. The frog crouched, its arms spread wide. Power crackled along its arms, and small streamers of lightning trailed from the tips of the frog's claws. The two monsters leaped at each other, the crowd rising to its feet. The reptile caught the skin of Turg's thigh and lacerated it as hands closed over the beast's eyes. Both the frog and dragonette screamed now, but the cries of the ocean warrior's opponent were full of pain and despair. The calls grew shriller as the six-legged beast tried to escape, its bellows becoming more plaintive and fearful.

Kamahl's magical senses could detect Turg's power forming a circuit between the reptile and the amphibian's own flesh. The frog's own magic made its flesh shake, but the surge of energy increased as the frog cooked its enemy from the inside out. The Mer champion shouted its triumph as it fed off its own pain. The ambassador across the arena shook in sympathy as his champion bellowed in a self-inflicted orgy of pain.

Some of the crowd threw down tokens of appreciation, the valuables reaching the sand floor as the Cabal servants curbed the defensive spells protecting the stands. Turg ripped a hunk of steaming flesh free and swallowed the meat, reaching for another handful as the applause slackened. The mutter of the crowd asking for the next fighter was heard as Cabal minions posted new placards. Then a cry was heard.

Kamahl stood, and the bellow repeated. The echoing call was filled with rage and came over the arena wall. The sound beat against the barbarian's skull as it grew louder. He looked to Chainer, but the youth seemed as confused as any. The barbarian made his way for the exit, pushing his way through the other fighters, the cries continuing unabated. Kamahl slowed as he recognized the sounds. Though louder and far deeper, they were much like those Turg's dead opponent gave forth. Though the dragonette lay dismembered, a response to its dying cries filled the arena and perhaps the rest of the city.