“Rise and shine, pit-dog! Almost fighting time.” The guard rattled a metal rod against the cage bars, creating a cacophony of clanging, before sliding a small tray through a feeding slot with his foot. The tray held on it three things. A thimble sized cup of water, a small bowl of parritch, which looked gritty and unappetising, and the third, and most important thing. A tiny splinter of wood. It was about half the length of the nail on Balen's pinkie finger. It wasn't enough.
“Hey, what's this? It's even smaller than yesterday's! I won yesterday; shouldn't I get a bigger piece?” Balen shook the cage bars angrily at the guard and eyed the ugly man’s wooden buttons with longing.
“Not how it works, sunshine. They want to know how little you need to draw from. It’s not your job to question things. Just fight, and don't die, and fight tomorrow, and don't die then. If you impress them enough, they'll give you a proper job to do... Maybe.” The guard picked his nose absently and turned to kick a feeding tray into another of the cages nearby.
Balen turned back to sit and eat his meagre breakfast. He picked up the tiny sliver of wood between his fingers first and felt the trickle of power filling him. It definitely wasn't enough. Shrugging away the aches from sleeping on the cold floor, he unwrapped the cloth from around his wrist and placed the splinter there against his bark coloured skin, wrapping the bindings back around his wrist, holding the wood in place. He took the tiny cup of water and drank a sip before eating his parritch. Unfortunately, his cutlery was metal, and the bowl and tray were some kind of earthenware. No chance of drawing from those.
Balen thought maybe he could find something wooden in or around the structure of the stadium. The day before, he had not needed it, as he had been given a chunk of wood as long as his finger to draw on, but that had been taken from him after the fight. Maybe he could jump to the beams holding the structure up? He remembered the walls and ceiling being clad in some kind of strange material, but maybe he could break through it.
Too many unknown factors. Would his opponent be given only a tiny sliver of their element, too? Or would they have more to draw on? Would they be in the same stadium as yesterday? Or a different fighting pit? Would they be given weapons or fight barehanded? Would he be fighting a veteran pit fighter or some of the fresh blood he had heard brought into the cells the night before?
Balen finished eating, but his stomach protested the small offering. He even licked the bowl and the cup to be sure he didn't miss a single drop. He then shuffled in his cage to the side closest to the small window in the dirt wall, and reached out from between the bars as far as he could, until his fingertips just touched the sliver of sunlight that was beaming in through the small space.
He felt an instant relief. His stomach stopped complaining, and he felt a little more energy filling him. He felt the accompanying warmth in his wrist from the trickle of power he was able to pull through the wood, and the sunlight suffused his body, healing him of the hunger, aches and stiffness from being trapped in a cage for so many days.
A scraping clang accompanied the door to the cells being swung open, and three Channelers came to stand before Balen's cage. They all wore the uniform of Adeon's army, decorated in various places with pieces of what could be assumed were their attuned elements. The two Metal Channelers, both had wire wrapped around their limbs, weaving into the fabric to touch their skin. There was also a Fire Channeler. A slender built youth with a sly look. Around his biceps he wore cloth wraps, which had been doused in oil and set aflame. Wrist wicks, they called those. Balen had met others who used similar. One of the Metals coughed loudly, to get the guard's attention, and looked at Balen's outstretched arm with one eyebrow cocked. He spoke to the Metal stood next to him, “This one is clever. He could be useful. I will watch his fight today. If he impresses me, there could be more he could be doing for Lord Adeon's cause than being part of this little experiment.”
The guard slouched over towards the cage, keys rattling in his knobbly fingers as he looked for the correct one. He slid it into the lock, and turned it three times to open the cage door. “D’you want manacles for him, Sir?”
The Channeler scoffed at this suggestion, indicating with a look that he doubted that three fully powered up Channelers would have any problem dealing with one Channeler who only had a sliver to draw from. “I'll assume that was an attempt at a joke. Very droll. Now, excuse us. We shall take this one to the stadium. It should be an interesting fight today I think.”
Balen scuttled out of the cage door and stood before the Channelers, not looking any of them directly in the eye. Feeling a little emboldened by what had seemed like praise from the Metal who seemed to be the superior, he asked, “The one I'm facing today, what kind of Channeler is it? Uhm... Metal Master? Sir?”
The Channeler shook his head, with what he presumably thought was a patient expression, “It's just Sir to you. We don't use those titles. They were given to us by those who would use them as a leash to control us. We reject them entirely. To answer your question, you will not be facing a Channeler today. We have found one of those foreign witches and we want to test her prowess, as well as yours. We know precious little about their Magic and how it works but our Lord is keen to make use of the power.”
“I'm fighting a woman?” Balen was a little shocked at the prospect. So far, all the fights had been divided by the genders, men fighting men, women fighting women, this way nobody ever felt that they had to hold back.
“Oh, don't you worry, she's nothing like any woman I've met. I only hope you last long enough out there for me to get a good glimpse of your skills. There will be more wood in the stadium for you, so you will be able to draw a decent amount of power at least.”
Balen frowned, confusion clear on his face. Last long enough? The fights were to the death! Hadn't the Channeler said he wanted to use him for something else after the fight? But if he expected him to lose against this foreign witch, how could he be any use? Balen shrugged off the confusion, wanting to focus more on the imminent fight. He couldn't allow his mind to wander and think of other things. Now was the time to focus on survival.
The Channelers led Balen through the dark corridors of the fortress, towards the fighting pits. The anticipation of the fight was building in Balen as he wondered where the fight would be held this time. There were multiple pits, each designed in a way to hinder specific elements from being drawn. There was a pit that had a floor and walls entirely made of metal, presumably to block Earth Channelers from either drawing power or burrowing beneath the ground, which was a favourite tactic of theirs. There was another fighting ring that was designed to dampen both fire and air - this one was sunken into the ground and filled with water. There were cage bars lowered over the pool that trapped the combatants inside with only enough space at the top of the pool to gasp a quick breath of air, or to hold one hand with whatever flame the Fire Channeler had been given above the water.
A Foreign Witch. What powers did they have? Balen couldn't remember much of what little he had heard from the tales of them. They rarely left their country, and were known for being a secretive people. Ingsmyrans... He had never met anyone from Ingsmyr, but he had heard that everyone there had magic. They were witches, though some more powerful than others.
Balen felt a tingle up his spine as they drew nearer to the last of the fighting pits. He had not fought in this one before. His escort of Channelers drew to a halt before the huge metal door, and waited as a guard drew the bolts to let them open it up. Balen saw the inside of the room and his eyes widened. He felt a sudden longing to go into the room, so strong that he barely noticed the figure slumped in one of the corners.
The entire room was made of wood. Walls, floors, everything. There was the usual viewing platform set high up in one of the walls, with cage bars protecting the one who always watched the fights. Balen must have moved as though to enter the room because the Metal Channeler who seemed to be in charge began to chuckle, “I wouldn't be so eager to go in there if I were you. But we shall see how you fare with all that wood. It is good that you are barefooted, yes?”
The Channelers stepped to one side, ushering Balen into the large wooden fighting hall. He barely noticed the sound of the door shutting and the lock sliding into place as he instantly drew on the power from the wood under his feet. Warmth. Light. Power. Oneness. He felt whole once again. He trailed his fingers over one of the walls, drawing in as much strength as he could hold without overwhelming himself. There were no windows in the room, no way to draw sustenance from the light here, but he hardly felt that he needed it. His body had been starved of the Power, after being given so little wood to draw from for so long. Now, he felt it rush into him like a strong river current. He felt himself almost get pulled under and overwhelmed by it, but he turned his attention now to his opponent, keeping his focus there lest he get so distracted that he allowed her to surprise him.
She was not a large individual, and she was strange to behold. She had deathly pale skin and her long, thick hair was a bright honey yellow. She seemed to be combing the top layers of it out with her fingers, and on further inspection, it seemed as though she had already woven the bottom half of it into an intricate style. Her hands moved quickly now, and Balen was mesmerised by how quickly she braided the top half of her hair. He wondered at how swiftly her hands moved, they were almost as fast as a Channeler. Balen was struck by a feeling of doubt. Should he wait for her to finish putting her hair up before they fight, or should he just get it over with and kill the poor woman? If it were his mother, she'd want to at least look nice at the end. Don't think about her like that. He should just attack. But look at her, she's just a tiny little thing... Size doesn't mean anything. She could be strong. Let her finish her hair first... No, how her hair looked didn't matter if she was going to die anyway.
Balen tried to move forwards to strike at the woman, but felt his feet strangely numb to his commands. It was almost as though a Mystic held him still. The sensation was like that of running through syrup, becoming thicker the harder he pushed against it. He bent to place both his palms against the wooden slats that made up the floor in the room, and drew on more of the power. He would not be controlled. He would not be held. He would survive. Eyes blazing with the power, Balen lunged for the small huddled woman, fist raised, ready to end the woman as quickly and painlessly as he possibly could.
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A booming crack resounded through the fighting hall. Balen's limp body was flung against the metal door head first, so hard that it rattled the hinges. The witch didn't move, except to comb her fingers through the style she had just woven into her hair, allowing the yellow strands to fall back loose around her shoulders. A trickle of blood welled in Balen's nostrils and pooled on the floor. He writhed for a few painful moments, and then was still, the spark of life faded from his hazel eyes.
“Is it enough? Will you now give me what I seek? Or are there more you first wish for me to kill?” The Witch had a small voice, but was sure of herself. She directed her question at the viewing platform. There were several figures there, watching what they had called a 'fight'. Though Balen had had an impressive willpower to continue to resist her magic for so long, the talents the foreign witch possessed were clearly far beyond his.
A slow steady clap echoed from somewhere on the balcony overlooking the fight. It was accompanied by a low laugh. A tall, thin figure dressed in loose, flowing robes stepped into view on the balcony, his face sharp and sneering, “The Braid of Inversion, if I am not mistaken? Remarkable. I am afraid that you will have to be our guest here for a little longer, my dear. There is just one other thing we need you to do, as payment for the weave pattern. I want you to create a tapestry. The materials for this will be delivered soon, but until then, we will be holding onto it.” He waved his hands to a guard, “Fear not, it will not be long before you have what you so desire. Now, you will be escorted back to your apartments... If you are in need of anything specific... food, water, wine, a hot bath... Just ask one of the servants outside of your rooms, and they will answer your whims.”
The guard swung open the door to the fighting room and shoved the lifeless body of Balen aside with his foot. He stood to one side as the Witch came to the door, seeming to almost glide towards him. “Err... follow me if you will, madam.”
There was a slow tapping, the sound of Balen's blood dripping onto the wooden floor. The back of his head was a mess of shattered skull and bloody flesh. The slow tapping was met by another sound. The soft, slow footsteps of those who had been watching from the balcony. Five figures climbed down the steps to the hall outside the fighting room, and two of them entered the large wooden room to stand over the corpse of the young Channeler laid in a heap near the entrance. The tall man was accompanied by a sickly looking Erimosian woman. Her eyes were red from crying, and her hair seemed to have chunks missing, as though she had been tearing it from her scalp at the roots.
“Well, now, you know what to do. We want this one back. Do it.” The tall man's voice was treacle-sweet, but the sweetness was a thin veil for the malice that radiated from him. Perfume to disguise a foul odour. He waved his long fingers over the still form of Balen, and waited expectantly, his face twisted in a cruel smile.
The woman let out a little sob, and knelt down beside the corpse of the young man. She exuded exhaustion, and her hands trembled as they reached for the Channeler's damaged head. Unsteady breaths wrenched through her as she called upon her power. The power of the Gods. The power of True Sight. The power of Resurrection. Her screams echoed through the hall as the power seared through her and into the corpse before her.
The lifeless body shook, as though Balen were a puppet being dangled on a string. His deathly skin seemed to become renewed with life, and his eyes sprung open in a shocked expression. Balen heaved a dry and scratching breath, and rolled onto his hands and knees, coughing and sputtering. He lifted his head to look at the stranger who had been touching his head and on seeing the spiral mark on her cheek, gasped, before averting his eyes instinctively. It was a Goddess! A Goddess had touched him! “What... Happened...? Where's the witch?” He croaked, his throat somehow feeling dry.
“You died...” The Goddess spoke in no more than a whisper, sounding sad and resigned. She crossed her arms in front of her, and hunched her shoulders, as though trying to make herself look small. She slowly swayed backwards and forwards, as though she wanted to run but was forcing herself to stand still. She was a prisoner. Of course. A power like Resurrection was too useful to give up. Balen felt pity for the Goddess, though he tried to keep himself from feeling it. They knew what you were thinking, after all. Who was he, a lowly Channeler to feel pity for her, a Goddess? And yet she was pitiable. She looked weak. Tired. Resigned to her fate.
The tall man led her out of the wooden room, and the three Channelers entered after they left. The young Fire Channeler grabbed him by the arms, pulling him to his feet. He leaned over Balen's shoulder, and hissed into his ear “Don't try anything clever, kindling. I'll set the place alight and you with it. Just you step out of the room nice and slow. Good lad. There. Good pit dog.” Balen felt his arms heat up uncomfortably under the rough fingers of the Fire Channeler. He played along and did as he was told. He'd rather not be burnt to a crisp. He remembered being in the Channeler Academy and seeing Fire Channelers raise their body temperature so high that they could melt metal with their hands. Wood Channelers didn't heal well from being burned, no matter how much wood they drew on.
Balen allowed himself to be shoved out of the room, and as soon as he stepped outside, the full oneness of the power left him. Only a trickle remained, beading into his wrist and hand. Barely even enough for him to notice, by comparison. He was led back down the corridors to the cells, and crawled back into his cage without question or resistance. The Metal Channeler who had spoken to him before stepped forward to speak to him.
“I must admit, I was expecting something more from you. Though I believe you to have some promise. You were able to resist her mind attacks, were you not?” The Channeler said, “I will be watching your progress more closely. I may have a use for you. Don't disappoint me.”
The Channelers left the prison room, leaving Balen alone with just his thoughts and the two other Wood Channelers in their own cages for company. They huddled with their backs to him, clearly not feeling talkative. Balen turned his back on them, and looked at the precious thing in his hand. He had managed to scratch a sliver of wood from the floor after the Goddess had resurrected him, and he had kept it secretly in his hand. When they took away the splinter he had been given in the morning, he would still have this little piece of precious wood to draw on. He just needed to hide it somehow. They'd search him, for sure, and probably his cage. So that was out.
He was struck with an idea that could work. He sat cross-legged, and pulled his foot towards himself, so that he could see his nails. He tried not to make any noise or sudden movements, as the guard was dozing off in his chair. Balen didn't want him to wake and see what he was doing. He placed the sharp point of the fragment of wood between his toenail and the skin, pressing hard until it pierced his toe, and the toothpick sized sliver slid under his nail. It hurt, and of course, he could not draw power from it while it was inside his flesh, but at least it was safe there. He drew as much power as he could through the tiny splinter tied against his wrist, to try and heal the flesh of his toe as quickly as he could around his secret stash of precious wood.
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She couldn’t quite make out the details of the seven figures, but their hazy silhouettes were definitely drawing closer. She looked in every direction, but in each one there stood one of the shadowy forms. The heat haze rose in waves from the sand, which stretched out as far as she could see. There was no way to run. Even if she tried to run or hide, they would see her from miles away in this desert. They were getting closer.
Lysette awoke to Granny shaking her gently. “You were having a bad dream my Little Duck. There, now. I'll go pop the kettle on and make some tea. You'll feel right as rain before long.” Granny gave the blankets covering Lysette a gentle pat, and shuffled through the door humming to herself.
Another dream. Would it ever end? Why couldn't she ever be blessed with deep, dreamless sleep? Lysette shook herself. There was no use worrying about it now that she was awake. She had things to be getting on with. She threw off the blankets and dressed hastily before walking through to the kitchen, where Granny stood, pouring steaming tea into three mugs.
“Oh... Do we have a visitor, Granny? Or are you extra thirsty this morning?”
Granny frowned, “Hm? Ah, yes, one of the village elders is here, I think he’s come about that sickness everyone seems to be talking about. You heard what happened over in Rannell? Four people died. I’d bet he's worried about that happening here, hmm. Those poor people...”
“Oh, Granny, I'm sure it won't get so bad here. After all, Ardenne has you to look after it. Your medicines are the best there are. Ardenne will be fine.”
“Well, it’s nice to hear it my Duck. Not many folks appreciate the wisdom of us old women. Now, I'd better go get this tea to Raul before he thinks I somehow managed to get lost in my own kitchen, eh, poppet?” Granny said with a wink, taking two mugs through to the small sitting room that was kept for greeting visitors and patients.
Lysette took her mug of tea and buttered herself a slice of bread, and, not wanting to get in the way, retreated with it back to her own room. She had recently borrowed a book from Nora, the innkeeper’s daughter, and she wanted to finish it quickly so that she could talk with her all about the dashing hero in the story. There was always a dashing hero. It seemed those were the type of books Nora liked. Dashing hero, goes on a quest to save the beautiful princess from the evil wizard. That was the usual thing. Lysette still liked to read them. She didn't have any storybooks of her own, so she considered herself lucky that she had a friend who would share the stories with her, even if there wasn't much variety.
The wind outside the cosy cottage was picking up, and a smattering of rain beat a gentle patter against the shutters. Lysette made sure they were tightly fastened, and settled down in her little wicker chair to enjoy the new story. Whenever she read a story, she always felt as though she was right there with the characters in the book, watching what they were doing. Sometimes she even felt she herself was the hero in the book, using nothing but a sword and her wits to overcome great evils. Perhaps that was why she had such strange dreams. Granny always had told her she had an overactive imagination.
Lysette had thought about that many times over the years, but she didn’t remember ever reading anything about the strange people that appeared in many of her dreams. Some of them were horrifying, monstrous to behold. Others looked like her, with her dark hair and features, but their clothing and demeanour was foreign to her. Lysette flushed, embarrassed at the thought of the things her mind must have invented.
Unchaste was an understatement when it came to some of the things she had dreamt. Women with painted faces brazenly flaunted bare shoulders and midriffs, wearing brightly coloured, almost transparent clothes that barely covered their modesty. Men with loosely fitting shirts tucked into wide leather belts that drew the eye temptingly towards their hips and strange shoes that were made of leather strips, revealing their muscular feet.
In many ways, these dreams were the more pleasant ones. She didn’t understand them any more than those in which creatures of dread would chase her, but they did tend to be less frightening. Sometimes these strange people would speak with her, and sometimes it seemed they looked to her for instruction, as though she were their Queen. Another thing she should keep from Granny. Common folk like her shouldn’t dream of such lofty things. It was almost as immoral as the clothing that the people, including herself, wore in some of those dreams.
Lysette shook the thought away, feeling the warmth of embarrassment creeping up her neck. She tucked her feet under her chair, and forced herself to pay closer attention to her book. The heroine of the tale, a blonde beauty with blue eyes and a soothing voice, had been captured. The brave hero was fighting through hordes of evil Magic wielding monsters to save her, with his faithful hound bounding along beside him. Something about that didn’t quite sit right with Lysette, but she pushed away her own thoughts once again and focused on reading the story.
The wind picked up speed as it rustled through the trees and over the houses in Ardenne. Gloom settled thick and heavy over the quiet village. Those who could, remained indoors. The farmers eschewed their ploughs, and the washerwomen didn’t hang out their laundry. Instead, they sought refuge indoors. Fires were stoked up high, but flames could only ward off the cold of the night, not the horror to come.