He could remember, the redebonwood of his home, the Rhintaphril Dome of Drathdanis that preserved the skies of the otherworld in all their splendour. He could remember, the long years of his adolescence. The martial training, the magical schooling. Once it became apparent it was all a joke – that the archmages of his kind ruled in every field, and that it had always been so, curse the Leafkeepers! – he’d abandoned Etherium’s mirror, the glades and gloom, in favour of this. The grime and glory of Mund. Sure, the place was packed with archmages, but humans had a disdain for mages that wasn’t evident amongst his own kind. Here he could stand out. The arena of heroes. A place he could be someone, a man with a fearsome reputation, despite the fact he could never quite master the subtleties of elementalism, mesmerism, restoration and the rest… For him it had always been the sword and shield, the two-handed axe.
He looked down at his weapon, rolled its haft between his thumb and fingers and released it, flicking so that it spun briefly in the air, catching it again, re-familiarising himself with its weight, the best spots to place his hands. He practised with it every day, but it never hurt, especially after it’d been re-spellbound with new effects.
The axe’s metal-core shaft was a little over three feet long, designed to be wielded with hands spread as well as hands together, black leather-bound grips dotted along its length. The head was overlarge and looked far too heavy for someone with Abathorn’s slender frame to swing more than two or three times a minute – but the eldersteel was lighter than oak, its edges sharper than diamond. Edges plural: whilst there was a single primary blade, it sprouted a mass of jagged, almost random-looking points and curves, cleverly designed for both maximum intimidation and maximum cutting-power. It was an elf-axe, designed to funnel flesh and tear apart bone, capable of slicing through men like they were already ghosts on the air.
And that was before the thunder-spells had been bound to it, before the dark storm-cloud was set to linger about the head. The magic set little arcs of lightning crackling between the tips of its hooks and along the arc of the main chopping-crescent. It would strike with the hurricane-force, bowl over his opponent with every blow that landed against Ovax’s weapon or invisible shield.
The invisible shields… they were a new-fangled invention. Isiol, Abathorn’s manager, had promised him he wouldn’t have to wear one – he had no need of it – but he knew he’d be equipped with one all the same, just like last time. A buckler, a disc of wood and steel no more than twelve inches across, strapped to his forearm.
It was stupid. They never made him use a buckler before they’d invested in invisible ones. Now they insisted. ‘Makes the crowd go wild!’ ‘Is he gonna die, or isn’t he?’ Abathorn understood the point – the mystery in the moment, the anticipation, whether the seemingly lethal blow might be turned aside by the unseen barrier – but he saw it as a step too far on the slipperiest of slopes. What was next – invisible weapons? Invisible opponents?
He watched awhile longer, noting every minute mistake of positioning, every overly-zealous step and swing; then he went back to his room to take a cup of chilled water from the scantily-clad serving-girl. He sat down on his couch and let her work out some of the kinks in his neck muscles, closing his eyes, entering the meditative trance familiar to all true-blood elves.
The leaves upon the trees that do not fall.
The wind about the leaves that does not falter.
The starlight in the wind that does not fracture.
The wings riding the starlight that –
He heard the trumpets, ringing clear across the arena. He stood, thanking the girl quietly and returning along the short corridor to the gate, to hear the announcement.
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Hodan Finchalain, the director of today’s games, was at the front of the central balcony reserved for the most-esteemed of the guests: Lords and Ladies of the Arrealbord and those few guildsmen and geniuses who rivalled them in influence. The director held up his hand, the pink gems of his rings flashing in the sunset’s glowering illumination.
“People of Mund, rejoice! For now upon the day’s long-awaited Apex we have a firm favourite of these stands! An axe-thirster unparalleled! A deft blade unlike any other! He has been called the Bloody Thorn, the Crimson Killer, the Head-Taker! We here who know him best, call him what we have since the day he first walked these sands! The Red Elf! Yes, ladies and gentlemen! We welcome Abathorn, the Red Elf, and invite him once more to walk the path of death!”
The chains behind the walls rattled as they were pulled, and the gate drew back. He stepped out into the ruddy brilliance and swung his axe overhead. The mild breeze caught his ponytail, whipping his sparkling ruby mane about.
He roared, an incoherent sound. The crowd roared in response.
The Thorn inside him came to life.
Mages ran forward from a side gate to outfit him with his invisible shield, his complement of augmentation-spells. He stood there like a statue, gazing at Ovax’s gate, feeling the enhancements trickle into meat of muscle and marrow of bone. He growled, narrow chest heaving.
“Aaaand his opponent. You all know who it is. You’ve all heard his name whispered about the city these last weeks! Here he is – graciously stepping in for the absent Ovax – the Wanderer, the Dragonslayer, the Mystery Man… it’s Phanar of N’Lem!”
The crowd roared, maybe even more loudly than they had for him.
“What?” Abathorn barked.
“Didn’t they tell you?” one of the assistants said with something of a grin. “Ovax is ill. Upset stomach.” The young mage started fastening the invisible bucker to his left arm. “Nothin’ we’ve come up with is shifting it.”
“Nerves, I reckon,” another assistant said, wearing a similar grin as she dusted Abathorn with some silvery powder. “Ain’t got nothin’ fer that.”
The gladiator just smiled in wry amusement.
Of course it’s nerves.
“Your manager’s supposed to have filled you in… Can’t believe they got Phanar at the last minute, can you? I hear the bookies are having a square day.”
“Har-har. I heard a while back that he was angling for a career in the games.” The mage tested the buckler’s fastenings. “But jumping right to the front of the queue like that –”
“He knew Feychilde, and Killstop.” The mage winked knowingly as she stowed her magic dust. “Last I heard, they’d left the city on a secret mission to kill a dragon fer him…”
“Don’t be daft. You heard Everseer.”
“Yeah, like that was actually her.”
“Come off it, Mur. We’ve been over this twice already…”
Abathorn let the magic-users’ conversation slip into the background, focussing his thoughts on his opponent. He could castigate Isiol later, laugh about Ovax’s cowardice later too. For now, he had to concentrate.
He could see Phanar out there on the sands opposite him, being ministered to by his own group of assistants, his invisible shield being fitted to his arm. Abathorn’s elven eyes made the fifty yards between them more like twenty, allowing him an opportunity to study this new foe.
They’d both been augmented with druidry in terms of their size, stature: the Dragonslayer was almost as tall as the elf, at a little over ten feet at the shoulder. He had a frame like Ovax’s, only narrower at the hips, and his physique was hidden by a long, belted gambeson. His raven hair was tied back, like Abathorn’s, and his gaze was cool, calm, despite the burning darkness in his eyes. That gaze went piercing right back at Abathorn, as though he weren’t the only one gifted with elvensight.
Here was a true warrior, he knew. An adventurer with the killer-instinct. A man used to getting his hands dirty with dragon’s blood.
But did he know what it was to be a gladiator? To get his hands dirty with men’s blood? To focus that killer-instinct, not at a fearsome monster, but at an honourable fighter like himself? No. No, he did not.
Abathorn smiled, resolved that this change of opponent would prove to be a pleasant surprise.
Phanar was about to get the shock of his life. And it could well be his last.
What will they call me when I’m done? the elf wondered. Dragonslayerslayer?
Ismethyl power my hand. Let my axe fall cleanly. Let the steel drink deep, and be satiated.
“Shall the cupped hand be raised – or more than a few cups of blood?” Finchalain’s gem-studded rings gleamed again as he shook his fist, bellowing the words from the high balcony. “What shall the gods make of meeting of Slayer and Killer? You alone shall watch with living eyes this climactic showdown! Let the Apex begin!”
The vast ring of Mundians cheered and brayed and howled. The mage-assistants hurriedly withdrew. And Abathorn took a long step towards his target.
* * *