Vahti
“Vahti! What have you done?” His gaze carried the weight of iron. His question like a lash. “You and Cairn disappeared months ago, and this is where I find you?”
“Demecus, please-,”
“Have you killed?” he asked. “Have you taken a life?”
Vahti looked away, the roar of the crowd from the Colosseum filling the air.
“Vahti… No…” The older monk’s expression wasn’t one of disappointment, but of sorrow.
“I did it for Cairn. I never wanted to kill anyone. I wasn’t given a choice. No matter how hard I tried.”
“Vahti, there’s always a choice!” he said. “Our choices, our ability to choose, is one of the Creator’s greatest gifts. What we teach, what we learn about ourselves through the martial disciplines, is meant to strengthen us. Not only in mind and body, but in spirit.”
“Don’t you think I know that, Demecus? I can still see their faces as life drained from their eyes! The sea of regret flowing from them as they fell.” Vahti clenched his chest, fighting back the tears. “But what am I supposed to do? My brother needs me and this is the only answer.”
“No, Vahti, it isn’t,” Demecus replied. “If you have only waited… we found someone willing to teach Cairn.”
As if mocking him, the crowd’s cheers reached a crescendo before dying out. “When..?”
“A month ago,” Demecus replied. “She left military service and detests how the military treats magic-users. When I told her about Cairn’s condition, she eagerly agreed to help him.”
Vahti leaned against the granite pillar, resting his head on his forearm. He could feel his stomach turning over. I’m such a fool. How many more vows must I break before these ends?
“It’s not too late, Vahti,” Demecus said, coming up and placing his right hand on Vahti’s left shoulder. “You can stop this madness and finally get Cairn the help he needs.”
“You don’t understand, Demecus. It’s too late for Cairn. The Arcanum has him.”
“Vahti… no…”
“While you were recovering, a Sorceire learned about him. I don’t know how, but with no other alternative, his proposal was the only path I could see.”
“If only I had been there…”
“But you weren’t, and some were already suggesting sending him there!”
Demecus winced and Vahti his lip. The older monk hadn’t deserved the barb. “I’m sorry, It’s not your fault.”
“Vahti, no matter how harsh the words, we all family here. Regardless of consequence, family forgives even the worst offenses. We are taught to love unconditionally, regardless of flaw or weakness.”
“So what is my consequence?”
The older monk grimaced. “You can’t come home until you stop walking this path and atone. All life is precious, Vahti, and when willfully taken, disrupts The Cycle. If you can get Cairn away from the Arcanum, send word, and we will take him to his new teacher.”
Vahti nodded. “Will you ask her something for me?”
Demecus nodded. “Name it.”
“See what you can learn about Sorceire N’Shay.”
“I will ask,” he replied. “Vahti, a warning.” Demecus undid his tunic, allowing it to fall below his shoulders, and turned his back. “Walking the path of the warrior chips a way at you. Like steel, you grow hard, losing bits of yourself as it shapes you. Take care you don’t forget who you are.”
Vahti’s stared at the tattoo between the older monk’s shoulder blades. Encircled around four chevrons and set in a half circle were two olive branches. It was an officer’s mark.
“How many lives?” Vahti asked.
“I lost count. Between the Feraldiath and ogres of the north, some part of me lost faith in the Absonian ideal,” he replied. “When I first came to the Dorms, I was lost. Honor had earned me everything I wanted, but in here,” Demecus added, touching his chest, “I was empty.”
“I think I understand, and perhaps my being here serves a greater purpose.”
The older monk tilted his head, seemingly curious. “What purpose is this?”
“There is a slave here,” Vahti replied. “I’ve been learning about him. The centurions and hired guards called him ‘The Butcher of Men’. He’s afflicted by something I remember reading about in Hedath.”
“Take care, Vahti, you never finished your formal training with Inscriptions.”
“I know, but I can’t ignore his plight.”
Demecus smiled. “Arridus would be proud. Hurry home Vahti, you are missed.”
*****
Gmork
Gmork took a breath. The gladius felt strange in his hand. The hand axe as well. Arturo had upped the stakes, allowing him to even wear a breastplate and greaves. The Sorceire controlling the thunder drake wasn’t playing around. She had an intensity in her eyes that spoke of her disdain. Obviously, she was once someone of note, now reduced to fighting for money to survive.
She had a mark that cut through the tattoo on her right shoulder. It was a sign the Arcanum had cast her out. The scar ran deep and at an angle. The Sorciere hissed at the drake and it tensed, lightning arcing between the fangs in its mouth.
Remember Gmork. The hatred, the fury you feel can be tempered. Control the flow, don’t let it consume you.
In his mind, Gmork imagined a furnace with a small iron door where one would throw coal or wood inside. The door shook against the pressure building within. The furnace began cracking from the strain, so mentally he slid the small door upward.
Fire burst from the small opening, releasing the pressure. Its heat poured into him, its strength filling him. Gmork released the door, and it slid back in place, but the strength and power of the fire remained. He opened his eyes, a slight smile on his face. The drake seemed so small now, and his mind was clear.
“Oh human, if you thought me a butcher before, but wait when you see me in control.”
Control, Gmork? A harsh rasping voice commented. Control is an illusion.
Gmork shoved the voice aside. It was trying to undermine him. Whatever his ‘other self’ was, Vahti was right. It only has as much power as he gave it. The Sorciere hissed, and the drake charged. Thankfully, she summoned a wingless breed.
The creature moved with serpentine grace, but it was still nothing more than an animal. The Sorciere was allowing it to move without guidance, making the beast predicable and easy to read. It came in craning its neck to snap at him, but Gmork sidestepped and planted his fist against the drake’s lower jaw. The creature reeled, momentarily stunned, and seemingly confused. Whatever rudimentary intelligence the beast possessed gave it enough sense to recognize Gmork wasn’t prey.
Gmork roared, and the crowd echoed him. The drake hissed, backing away cautiously. The Sorceire barked something at the beast in the dragon tongue, and it craned its neck, snapping in her direction.
She clenched her fist, and it went rigid. The woman had taken control like a puppeteer, forcing the drake to turn its attention toward Gmork. The beast inhaled, lightning arcing in its mouth. There were only a few seconds, but Gmork braced himself, eyeing the muscles around its throat.
They tensed, and he dropped to the ground as lightning danced around him, coming within inches of licking his back and fists. The Sorciere screamed in frustration, urging the beast on. It barreled forward and Gmork rolled to his right, nimbly scrambling to his feet.
The drake screeched, craning its neck to bite him. Gmork barely deflected, angling his gladius to block and shoving its head aside. The blade clanged against the beast’s scales upon impact, as if they were made of metal.
Off balance, he followed up with the hand axe, but the blade bounced harmlessly off the drake’s neck. The Sorciere sneered. “Stupid orc. You’d have better luck trying your fists.”
Gmork grinned. “You know, pink skin… You’re right.”
Tossing his weapons aside, he lifted the small furnace door holding back the rage. The flames contained withing filled him, threatening to overtake his reason. My will, not yours, he told himself.
Rushing the drake, Gmork planted his fist into its lower jaw. A loud crunch followed, and it screeched in agony, its jaw completely shattered. The drake lashed out wildly, clipping the breastplate he wore, and shredding it. Gmork let it fall, the heat in his chest building.
Kill it… Conquer it… It is weak.
No, I am not your puppet. I am not like that creature. No one pulls my strings!
Laughter followed. Oh? Then why are you about to snap its neck?
Gmork blinked. The drake was flailing helplessly within his grasp, tongue hanging from its mouth. He gazed into its reptilian eyes and saw only terror as it realized its life was about to end. Horrified, he let it go and creature fled, huddling against the wall to get away from him. Beast or not, it was intelligent enough to know fear.
“Stupid animal!” the Sorciere screamed. “I summoned you! I am your master. Obey me.” She clenched her fist, and it cried out, resisting her.
Gmork turned, the rage inside building. It’s helpless… Yet you torture it. “Release it or die,” he said.
“You. Kill me?” she sneered. “You don’t have it in you, Butcher. I know you don’t slay women.”
Gmork stooped over, picking up the hand axe. “Who says I have to kill you?” he replied, chucking the axe in her direction. She screamed, falling to the ground, and reaching for the nub where her right hand once was.
The crowd exploded, cheering at the spectacle as Gmork walked up to the woman and reached for her severed hand. Taking it, he tossed to the crowd, causing a fight to break out in the stands for possession of it.
“You’ll never cast another spell again,” he said. “Perhaps that will teach you humility. Power does not entitle one to cruelty.”
“I’ll kill you,” she screamed, reaching for the dagger hanging from her belt.
“I’d cauterize that before you die, pink skin.” Gmork walked over to the drake. It was shaking upon his approach. For a creature the size of a horse, it seemed far less fearsome than it was a moment ago. “Shh,” he said. “Its over now.”
The creature relaxed, whimpering slightly. It was sad. Gmork could feel his heart breaking. The Sorciere couldn’t send it away anymore. Arturo would likely kill it, or worse, give it to the Beastmaster below the Colosseum.
As if on cue, the Arena master’s voice rang out over the crowd, silencing them. “What you think?” he said. “The Butcher shows compassion to a beast… Perhaps it takes a beast to understand a beast.” The crowd laughed, and the din began anew.
Inwardly Gmork could feel himself cry. Arturo was going to kill the drake. He stood, walking past the whimpering Sorciere as she bandaged her wrist. He locked eyes with the Arena Master and the crowd went silent.
“I ask for its life to be spared.”
Murmurs arose. Many were shocked, and Gmork realized this was the first time he had ever spoken within the arena. He could tell by their astonishment that where the crows had once only written him off as a monster, now they saw something more.
“You. A slave. Making requests in my theater?”
“I have fought. I have bled. I have nearly died countless times for your entertainment. I have accepted my fate, but never have I asked for anything.”
“And you never will again, Slave. You forfeited your rights a long time ago.”
“I may have nothing, but I still have enough reason and compassion to know when there is nothing to be gained from senseless slaughter.”
“Kill the beast and take him away.”
Jeers of disdain echoed across the Colosseum, followed by shouts of “Life, Life, Life.”
Arturo’s expression hardened. His eyes blazing with anger. “Well, Butcher, it seems the crowd has spoken. The beast lives, for now.”
“Then I propose a pact,” Gmork replied.
“You propose nothing!” Arturo screamed. “You fight to live, that is what you do.”
Gmork smirked. “What say you, humble audience?” he said, turning to the crowd. “A pact to preserve the creature’s life? Something to entertain for later?”
They were quiet at first, but then the chanting began. “Pact, pact, pact,” they shouted.
“Three years and I never thought I would see this day,” Arturo replied. “He really has ruined your value.”
“No,” Gmork replied. “Vahti had made me free.”