The Undying God (13 page)

“No!” he screeched. “That wretched
thief! He stole Hrioshango’s happiness! Hrioshango will inflict a
thousand tortures on him until his happiness is restored!” He broke
into a run through the market, pushing people aside and running
toward the gates.

Not far from the markets, elite hunters
took up hiding in an alley, scoping out the area for the darkling.
An archer perched on a roof overlooking the streets. There would be
no avoiding his line of fire. Others hid within abandoned buildings
like trapdoor spiders ready to spring at the slightest provocation.
One of the abductors signaled with her hands, indicating their
approaching prey.

Hrioshango entered the dim side street,
searching for Arxu and Nishka. He wasn’t entirely sure how he would
retrieve the magicked cloak. He could possibly steal something
precious from Arxu and use it as a bargaining chip. If that didn’t
work, he could always resort to force. Yes, Hrioshango concluded
that murder would be the most reliable method.

A bolt lanced through the air toward
his face. In an impossible feat that only a chaos magician could
achieve, he evaded the missile. The poisoned bolt struck a wall and
shattered on stone.

A door to a shady building burst open,
and an expressionless warrior emerged. He towered well over six
feet tall, his robust frame overshadowing any mere human. While
Hrioshango was transfixed by the sight of the henchman, the archer
lined up another shot. He squeezed the trigger and the bolt zoomed
along its trajectory. Hrioshango spun around and thrust his hands
toward it. The archer wasn’t sure what the darkling did, but the
poisoned bolt didn’t impale him.

Suddenly, the crossbowman spun to his
left as the same bolt lanced toward him. It was impossible, the
bolt could not have returned to him, nonetheless from that angle.
His amazement was not the least bit diminished when the missile
rammed into his sternum. The most exquisite poison-induced delirium
flooded through his brain. He didn’t even register the pain when he
splayed against the streets.

Hrioshango turned around as the
gargantuan man bore down upon him. To his left, an exotic woman
with platinum blonde hair came into focus. Her arms were
embellished in body art, a weaving pattern of black ink that
overdosed the visual senses.

A chain was wrapped comfortably around
her wrist, ending in several hooked blades and barbs. Hrioshango
had never seen anyone successfully wield a chain whip. Somehow, he
suspected she would surprise him. Venexa swung the chain over her
head and lashed out.

He leaped to avoid the length of blades
as it recoiled. His opponent looked delighted by his defensive
maneuvers.

The chain completed another loop in the
air and lashed out without warning. Hrioshango barely even saw her
arm recoil. He braced his sword as the bladed chain entangled
around it. Venexa jerked hard and tore the blade from his clutches.
He wasn’t immediately aware of the pain shooting through his hands
because he was still reeling from shock. He tried to call on his
chaos powers but nothing occurred. Out of options, he darted toward
the stairs running alongside a merchant’s house.

Venexa smiled at the minor setback. The
sight of fleeing prey always brought supreme satisfaction. She
swung her chain whip and snagged a statue overlooking the alley.
She beckoned the larger man and he obediently hoisted her up. He
swung his arms and propelled her forward.

She dexterously raced along the side of
the building with the chain providing firm anchorage. She swung in
an arc and rose higher and faster to the top, accelerating in
momentum. She swiftly leaped above the roof as the darkling crested
the stairs.

Hrioshango spun around and saw the
airborne woman descend. Her arm recoiled and the bladed chain
slithered through the air like a serpent to strike its quarry.
Hrioshango saw no more.

Chapter 13

Hrioshango awoke in a daze, his head
throbbing from pain. He was completely immobilized, unable to move
any digit or limb. He could perceive nothing, only blackness, as
though a magickal attack rendered him blind before unconsciousness.
The only thing that told him he was still alive was
sound.

Muffled voices enveloped him, a
boisterous congregation of noise; tones of rage, elation,
excitement, and joy. No less than several thousand people could
produce such a discordant symphony of emotions. The noise reached
epic proportions, drowning out the background, even drowning out
the sound of his beating heart. He was fairly certain this pumping
organ verged on an explosion.

“The darkling has awakened...” a nearby
voice observed. It belonged to a female, her tone confident and
cruel. A scream resounded from the distance, ensnaring Hrioshango’s
attention.

“Battlemaster Venexa, what do you
intend to do with it? Its powers are immense. It could destroy the
entire arena—”

“No. The magickal resonance of the past
empire lingers intensely here. The darkling’s powers will react
unpredictably if they respond at all. It will summon forth magick
at its own risk.”

“Bizarre... I’ve never heard of a
darkling that mastered magick.”

“It has
not
mastered magick.
Darklings are incapable of mastering a craft that relies on
intelligence. It is an oddity and no more.” Hrioshango squirmed
with fury. He would make her regret every racial remark she
uttered. Suddenly, he registered the moniker the man bestowed
her.

Battlemaster.

Hrioshango realized with dismay where
he was.

His mind spun as he recalled the
stories he heard of the arena during his brief interlude in the
city. Supposedly during the climax of the games, great beasts were
unleashed on several combatants, and in the center of the arid
sands resided a jawless mouth. A massive circle of fangs would form
there, wide enough to entrap and devour beasts.

“Battlemaster, I understand that Rafael
was imprisoned and executed not long ago. Why?”

“He betrayed me. The fool planned to
inform the kings of the siege machine. My network of informants
discovered that he was afraid I had gone too far. I was only doing
as he asked by reassembling the construct. Apparently, he thinks
I’m a megalomaniac bent on laying ruin to the city.” Venexa paused
and scrutinized the outlying sands. “Besides, he’s not dead. He’s
squirming out there now, dying slowly. But it will end very
soon.”

Hrioshango couldn’t help but wonder why
they attempted to kill him during his capture. Surely, this
battlemaster understood that the crossbow bolts, had they not
missed, would have torn his head from his shoulders? He suspected
they were evaluating him for the arena. He had been judged worthy
of the blood sports, exceeding the normal expectations of
darklings, but he felt no pride in his achievement.

The mantle of darkness lifted from his
vision. Before him loomed a sprawling wasteland of sand. The
amphitheater could seat thousands of spectators among the ascended
seats, a magnificent structure elevated above the dangers below. He
was confined within a narrow passageway where bars separated him
from the battlegrounds. The guards and battlemaster surely lurked
behind him.

With rising fear, Hrioshango eyed the
sand, patches of which were visibly darker than the rest. He
wondered how many lives ended in this enclosed space, how much
blood had stained this land. However, he did not despair over the
lives lost. He only considered his.

He spotted something protruding from
the center of the arena he hadn’t noticed before. A human arm
outstretched from the sands. It feebly grasped for the world above,
the limb attached slowly sinking as death bestowed its
mercy.

The earth encompassing the victim
subtly shifted. Hrioshango tried to retract himself from the arena,
to force himself backward. Something alive was moving beneath the
sands.

Whispers replaced the crowd’s
screaming.

Hrioshango could scarcely breathe. An
ear-rending call bellowed forth, reverberating through the stones;
a gout of sand spiraled upwards from the center, whipping
passionately into the skies.

A chasm seemed to fade into existence,
parting the arena like a great canyon. Curved fangs protruded from
the edges of the abyss, a pit wherein a pulsing, dark membrane
vividly shown—the inner lining of a gigantic canal belonging to a
creature of unimaginable origins. Hrioshango could only stare
helplessly in horror.

On the outskirts of the sands, cells
similar to Hrioshango’s opened and something immense strode forth.
It lumbered on four thick legs and its head possessed enormous
ears. The elephantine creature boasted four trunks that coalesced
around a massive beak. These creatures were said to be guardians of
ancient ruins in the deserts south.

Hrioshango’s attention drifted at the
sound of another creature, a Zzirith. It had also been retrieved
from the arid deserts of Murabdihabas. The Zzirith resembled a
horse with a massive scorpion tail. Furthermore, its entire body
was covered in a black exoskeleton, a thick carapace resistant to
most weapons. Its only vulnerable spot was its fleshy belly. Eight
black eyes glinted on its head, roaming over anything that moved,
assessing potential prey.

Scuttling on three pairs of horse legs,
its cloven hooves thundered against the ground. Hrioshango watched
as five more emerged and circled the vast pit.

A man with blades on his armored
forearms was led into the sands with a chain around his neck.
Imposing pauldrons towered above his head like blackened tusks
mounted upon his shoulders. He was bald all but for a thin strip of
dark red hair running from his forehead to the base of his skull.
His grim citrine eyes showed no mercy. Perhaps most foreboding of
all were the two scars engraved across his left profile.

He did not wear the expression of a
helpless man condemned to death. He bore the nonchalant face of one
who had reconciled with his fate. No vestige of dread shown in his
eyes, yet his resentment was obvious.

Three armor-clad men gripped the chain
around the slave’s throat. He showed no resistance whatsoever; he
merely stared into the distance. Someone in the audience tried to
spit upon the slave, but he failed to reach his mark. The slave
denied the obnoxious crowd the pleasure of his attention. Across
the arena, latticed iron bars lifted. Nearly a dozen humans charged
into the battlegrounds, flailing weapons and screaming at the tops
of their lungs. A gong bellowed and the slave was released. He
stood idly bye as beasts were unleashed.

One of the warriors recklessly charged
the elephantine creature, which seemed equally as frightened as
angry. It snatched up the man with a trunk and flung him aside.
Another warrior persisted and thrust a polearm into its belly. The
abomination bellowed and seized him with one of its trunks. The
beast lifted the man toward its mouth and the sharpened beak opened
wide. The crowd screamed in satisfaction.

All the while, the slave observed the
spectacle, expressing no will to fight, not for something this
shameful. The crowd roared above in excitement; men, women, and
children devouring the violence with ecstatic frenzy. Ambassadors
gleefully thrust coins into one another’s hands, gambling on the
lives of beasts and men.

Hrioshango could see children in the
tiered seats, shouting in elation. At that moment, he had never
been more disturbed in his life.

Other faces among the crowd twisted
horrendously with laughter, reveling at the less fortunate lives
engaged in death. They only wished to see suffering.

The slave’s primal instincts roared to
life and he barely had time to evade the Zzirith. He managed to
spin aside and hook his arms around its muscled neck. The beast
faltered as they entangled, collapsing to the ground.

He dodged the stinging tail and
thrashed in his efforts to fight back. He could feel muscles
straining in his arms as he railed against the ferocious beast. A
hoof slammed between his shoulders as the horse-like aberration
pounced, several hundred pounds pinning him against the sand. The
slave roared in fury as the barbed tail dove to impale his brain
from above.

Hrioshango could faintly feel his
magick like residue churning in his blood. He slowly regained
control over his body, one limb at a time. He shut his eyes and
concentrated on his power. He attempted to teleport from the arena
and transport to a distant location. Colors began to swerve before
his eyes, darkness ensued, and the voices of his captors cried out
in dismay. He realized at once he had erred.

Hrioshango teleported within the exact
same space that the Zzirith occupied, effectively displacing it and
tearing a brief rift in space. Hrioshango instantaneously
teleported away, and in his place was an explosion of matter,
presumably the creature.

His opponent literally exploded into
fragments, and the pieces halted within a field of space as if the
particles struck a wall; suddenly, the parts recombined and
imploded into oblivion.

The slave leaped to his feet, having
evaded death by only a split second. He gawked at the darkling that
accidentally entered the arena. The crowd howled with excitement.
Hrioshango spun around to survey the arena, shocked at this new and
horrid development.