A Dangerous Game

  New Spring is a curious festival. Upon the streets of Jerrico one may see the most wondrous plays, witness grand parades of fire-breathers, dancers, and jugglers, dine upon fresh-baked honey buns sold for a copper apiece, or drink to one’s content in the countless common rooms of the city’s inns.

  Yet above all these delights stands a ceremony wreathed in spectacle—the Emperor’s annual gladiatorial contest. Curious, how man so inevitably gravitates toward violence, even in celebration.

  — David Jult, “The Watcher,” excerpt from Modern Observations of Empire, 566 I.C.

  Once again, the trumpets blared above the crowd, commanding silence.

  At opposite ends of the inner circle stood two men—ex-convict Calix Carcer and the legendary Biaun Greyblood.

  Carcer wore a blood-red vest over a light coif, the metal glinting beneath his loose chest wrap. A simple black sash cinched his matching crimson trousers, and sandals laced to the knees revealed the intricate tattoos that spiraled up his legs. In his hands, he held a dai-katana, its pommel wrapped with serpent etchings that coiled in silver elegance.

  Across from him stood Biaun Greyblood, clad in garb much like Captain Ogrebane’s—but dyed in absolute black, echoing the shadowed grandeur of the palace itself.

  His long hair was bound in a warrior’s braid, its base fastened with a shining dark bead. In both hands he gripped his massive two-handed claymore, its length still swaddled in cloth, though no less menacing for it. The pommel was a polished blend of silver filigree and bone-wrapped leather, while the quillons jutted outward in sharp angles, ending in diamond-shaped quatrefoils.

  The two bowed first to the emperor’s balcony, then to each other at the blare of the trumpets. Without hesitation, they began to circle—slowly, deliberately, eyes locked.

  Like stalking predators, they moved with measured grace and silent confidence, each wary of the other’s skill, each arrogantly assured of his own.

  Calix struck first. His dai-katana sang through the air, aimed at the knight’s chest, and a split-second later his foot lashed out in an attempt to trip him.

  Biaun sidestepped with fluid ease, allowing both strikes to pass harmlessly.

  He countered with a blistering flurry of arcing swings, his massive claymore moving so swiftly it seemed to spin in complete circles.

  Carcer managed to evade the worst of it, ducking and twisting away, until the knight surged forward with sudden, brutal precision. With one powerful motion, Biaun deflected the katana and, quick as a viper, drove a stiff iron jab into the tattooed man’s cheek.

  The strike stunned him.

  That single second was all Biaun needed.

  With a grunt and a swift step, the knight brought his leg up and slammed it into Carcer’s chest, sending the devilish-looking man crashing to the ground.

  He did not advance.

  Wary of the ex-convict’s skill in close quarters, Biaun held his ground and waited for Carcer to rise. He knew better than to offer a grappler the advantage of proximity.

  Once the solidly built man regained his footing, the knight advanced with a series of precise thrusts—probing from one side, then the other—before sweeping low with his foot in a final attempt to trip him. The sweep missed, but Biaun was ready. As Calix countered, the knight brought his sword over his shoulder in a sharp arc, expertly blocking the return strike.

  Resetting his stance, Biaun met the barrage of liquid-fast blows with a calm resolve, weathering the assault without giving ground.

  When the ex-con paused, breathing hard but measured, Biaun struck. His claymore sliced toward him, and a kick followed with near-perfect timing. The blow staggered Carcer, but it left Biaun no opening to press further; the tattooed man was already in motion.

  The massive katana swept through the air, crashing against the knight’s claymore. Steel rang against steel, and then Calix stepped inside.

  His elbow slammed into Biaun’s chest, and both men toppled.

  The knight reacted instantly.

  Releasing his grip on the sword, Biaun grappled the smaller man by the shoulders. Using his opponent’s own momentum, he twisted hard and hurled him into the ground with a brutal thud. The air whooshed from Carcer’s lungs.

  But the ex-con did not panic.

  He lashed out with a sharp elbow to Biaun’s ribs, freeing one arm and releasing his grip on his katana. Then, twisting like an eel, he slipped to the side, off-balancing the knight.

  With the momentum shifting in his favor, Carcer rolled to the side and shoved off the ground with the last of his strength, staggering upright to his feet, unsteady, but ready.

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  Not allowing his opponent a moment to recover, Biaun swiftly reclaimed his sword and advanced with fury.

  In an instant, the knight became a whirlwind of motion. His massive blade carved the air, each strike sweeping just inches from Carcer’s body, hemming him in with surgical precision.

  The tattooed man danced back and to the side, dodging, parrying, narrowly avoiding blow after blow, but with each movement, the cloth-wrapped blade edged closer.

  Desperation drove him forward.

  Carcer darted back into grappling range, hoping to break the rhythm of the knight’s relentless assault.

  But Biaun was ready.

  With brutal timing, he drove his knee upward, meeting Carcer’s temple with a sickening crack.

  The ex-con dropped instantly, unconscious before he hit the ground.

  The match was over.

  But Biaun did not acknowledge the roar of the crowd. While thousands erupted in cheers, the stern-faced knight turned at once, motioning to Ean still seated at the edge of the arena.

  The burly captain rushed forward, and together the two warriors gently lifted Carcer from the dust of the inner ring.

  “Get a healer, my friend. I fear I had to hit him harder than I would have liked,” Biaun muttered grimly, his expression creased in concern.

  As he worked over the fallen man, blood trickling from Carcer’s temple, the knight’s long braid finally gave way, his dark hair falling in wild strands, half-unraveled by the brutal melee.

  The arena above them had already begun to empty, spectators shuffling toward the exits, buzzing with excitement. Laughter and chatter echoed down the stone corridors as the crowd made their way to the food and ale stands in the adjoining mess hall. Soon, the arena floor would be cleared and staged for the final match of the day.

  But Biaun paid no attention to the noise.

  Soaked in sweat and still kneeling beside his fallen opponent, the knight hovered with quiet urgency over the bloodied form of Calix Carcer.

  The tattooed man moaned softly, his eyes fluttering beneath bruised lids. His breathing was shallow, uneven.

  Then, as if conjured by the rising tension, Eros appeared—his cloak snapping faintly behind him—Grimus and another elven figure trailing close behind.

  Within minutes, a circle of grim faces had gathered around the wounded man. The emperor’s royal wizard, Aehyl, Grimus, and a nearby arena healer all worked quickly, surrounding Carcer where he lay.

  Though none of them spoke the words aloud, the truth was obvious.

  This was more than a simple concussion.

  The healer’s hands trembled as he worked. Blood continued to stream from the jagged wound at Carcer’s temple, and the attempt to close it had barely succeeded.

  Finally, the man stood back, pale and shaken.

  “I cannot knit the cracked skull underneath,” he murmured, voice tight with frustration and fear.

  The gash had only closed slightly. Blood still poured from the wound in thin rivulets, and Carcer's breathing grew shallower with each passing moment.

  As the young priest knelt to try again, it was Grimus who gently laid a hand on his arm, halting him.

  “Please, good sir,” the old druid said kindly, “this man’s wound is clearly beyond your skill. Why not let my young friend try? Her gifts in the healing arts are... quite remarkable.”

  He raised a weathered eyebrow, his tone calm but firm. The priest hesitated, clearly skeptical, but after a moment’s silence, he stepped back with a reluctant nod.

  Aehyl stepped forward with quiet determination and knelt beside the fallen man. Her eyes narrowed in focus.

  Tentatively, she reached out and placed her hands on either side of Carcer’s head, her palms gently pressing at his temples.

  A surge of white energy pulsed from her body, and her head snapped back as if struck by a blow.

  Gasps rippled through those gathered around her. They could feel it, even if they didn’t understand it, the pain of the wound was transferring into her.

  And the wound was not ordinary.

  Aehyl’s senses were immediately flooded with the gravity of his injury. As her hands touched his skin, she began to draw power, gathering as much as her body could contain. She was preparing a buffer, something to keep herself conscious while she worked through the agony.

  But the shielding didn’t hold completely.

  Pain, raw and foreign, surged into her. It raced through her veins like venom—thick, heavy, alien. This was no simple head trauma. This was something else.

  Something darker.

  She had healed many elves in the sacred groves of Crystal-Mist, but nothing—nothing—had prepared her for this.

  Among elves, the healing link was always built on trust. And though she had managed to form the link with Carcer, his deep-seated suspicion and guarded mind turned the connection into a storm of anguish. She pressed on, trembling.

  Then, something shifted.

  She felt a flicker of acknowledgment. Carcer, even in unconsciousness, had recognized her intent. His defenses loosened, like a locked door clicking open just a few tumblers. He granted her partial access to his inner self, and the resistance finally began to ebb.

  The pain didn’t vanish, but it dulled. She could feel the skull knitting itself back together, slowly, achingly. The skin around the wound taking on a healthy flush.

  It was a grueling process, longer than it should have taken, and far more painful than any healing she'd attempted before.

  But when Aehyl’s eyes finally opened, she saw his do the same.

  Carcer blinked up at her, dazed but alert, and touched the faint pink scar at his temple. His fingers trembled.

  The look he gave her was one of disbelief and wonder.

  He understood.

  Without her, he would be dead.

  Rising on trembling legs, the small elf nearly collapsed. She reached out blindly for support, and her hand found the chest of the solemn knight.

  Her eyes met his.

  For a moment, neither moved. His gaze held hers—intense, unreadable—before he quickly looked away. With great care, he removed her delicate hand from his chest and passed her gently into Grimus’s waiting arms.

  The old druid slipped an arm around her back to steady her, his voice quiet as he addressed the others.

  “He will need rest for the remainder of the evening,” Grimus said, nodding toward Carcer, “and I think my young apprentice ought to find a bed as well.”

  “I’m fine,” Aehyl muttered, shaking her head stubbornly as she leaned against him.

  But as Grimus guided her away, Biaun could still hear her fading protests, right up until her knees gave out.

  The old druid caught her before she hit the ground, easing her into his arms with practiced care.

  Moments later, Eros had conjured a softly glowing blue disc beneath Carcer’s still form, and the wounded man floated gently from the arena floor, escorted out with silent reverence.

  Grimus returned to the royal balcony not long after, his strong-willed ward walking beside him, pale but upright.

  The small crowd that had gathered around the fallen fighter had dispersed. Only Biaun and Captain Ogrebane remained near the edge of the inner ring.

  Above them, the audience had finally quieted. The lingering tension gave way to eager anticipation among the clusters of onlookers who still remained. They would return soon enough, drawn back by the promise of the final match.

  An hour later, the trumpets sounded again.

  With a magnificent flourish, the emperor rose to his feet, casting his voice across the coliseum as he announced the combatants.

  As each name echoed through the stone arches, the warriors stepped proudly into the arena. They bowed deeply toward the royal balcony, then turned and offered each other a similar, though noticeably shallower, gesture of respect.