Vance Moore - Odyssey

”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.