Cole
Dawn broke on Spiral City as a land of corpses. The dead from the mass poisoning and the massacre at the Dusted Quarter were unavoidable to anyone overlooking the city. There were slight measures to collect the dead, but it was secondary to morning preparations for the Clash. This was true for Cole, who had spent the remainder of the previous night staring at the ceiling.
At some point in the night, the door to the apartment was opened and Pallet limped inside. His voice called to the second floor like the saddest song.
“If you’re there Cole, Fern is gone. So’s Trub. I’m…I’m going to sleep now.”
Not even that would stir Cole's back from being rooted to the mattress.
When he came downstairs he found Pallet sprawled on his bed, caked in his own dried blood. Cole wanted to say something, but his throat was shut. When he reached out, Pallet dismissed him.
“I don’t die easy." The hob groaned, his eyes faint and blurry. "Go. I hear there’s a Clash today.”
Not even at breakfast in the Common House did Cole speak. He was silent as Frost rambled on about the feroscious battle he anticipated. Cole's lips fused at the crack by midmorning, when they gathered their weapons and armor to march to the Red Colosseum beyond the walls of the city, deep within the Queenbreaker Fissure.
The Colosseum was more than just red. Bold white plaster formed the outer walls, capped with golden tiling. There were no windows on the structure, giving it the look of a massive bowl five stories high. Either side of the Colosseum was flanked by the jagged walls of the fissure. A well-walked path, wide enough for seven people shoulder-to-shoulder, zigzagged into the fissure.
Land to the West had mentioned the Red Colosseum. A Coatlmade Empress of the Second Era committed suicide by leaping from the fissure’s edge. Her last decree was that where she landed shall be the sight of a battle to determine her successor. The skirmish in the fissure lasted six days before the victor was declared. The story turned to tradition during the Reconstruction, creating the method by which Spiral City determined their next ruler. The Colosseum allowed noncombatants to view the battle from high stadium seats.
Led by Red Watchmen, Cole was taken to a side-entrance that pathed to a small barracks where Thezzus was gathering his eleven soldiers. Eleven was the minimum, and maximum, number of combatants a General could field in the Clash, counting themselves, obviously. Cole, Frost, and Dirk made for three members of Thezzus’ battalion. Cole expected the rest of the ranks to be filled by other minotaurs, but was shocked to find three humans armed with bows fitting themselves with padded cloth armor bearing teal sigils of an arrowhead over an ocean.
“Greetings.” One of the archers shook Cole’s hand. “My name is Juan Barcel, those are my brothers Alfonso and Antonio. We are archers of Eddadel who have thrown our lot in with Señor Brahmin.”
“But...why?” Cole asked. He remembered the leader of the Eddadel militia, the exiled lord Ruy Vivar. He had died alongside the other entrants the prior night.
“We have agreed it is what our lord would have wanted. He did not trust the Order of Suffering. Beyond that, we heard the speech from the Sráid Princess this morning and could not ignore her pleas.”
The archer gestured behind Cole. On a stone bench sat Onakie. Odile was curled in her arms, fast asleep.
“She has been very busy.” Onakie commented, secure knowing that her talking wouldn’t wake the Princess. “Appearing in as many camps as she could walk to, all to speak against the Order and the truth of what happened in Sráid. Needless to say, this is the most rest she’s had in hours."
She looked at Cole with a proud expression. "I think she got the idea from you..."
Cole stood a little straighter. Beside him, Frost perked-up as well.
“Will you be fighting alongside us?”
Onakie nodded. “Just as the archers show where their people stand, I show where Odile stands. As Keeper, I shouldn’t stray too far from my charge, but…”
Her eyes drifted to the back wall. Azeroth leaned against the wall, shirtless and arms folded.
“I’ll keep her safe.”
“You despise the Order.” Frost said. “Why will you not fight them?”
Azeroth pointed his elbow to Thezzus. Their commander was dressed in a thickly padded cloth uniform with a chain-mail tunic beneath. The cloth was red and patterned with yellow star bursts. The outfit was sleeveless and compensated by ridged bracers on the forearms and shoulder pauldrons that fanned out like a serving funnel. His weapon of choice was a molochan bident. A thick, two-pronged spear made to replicate the horns of a minotaur. His overall appearance hearkened to his people’s ancestry in Sanaatan across the sea.
“It was my decision that he remain out of sight. Many still believe an orc killed the King of Sráid. I know war, but I also know how people observe war. In Finis, I knew we had lost when only other minotaurs would stand with us against the Order. If I march out there with a battalion of nothing but my kin, then the people will see this battle as just between minotaurs and the Order, and they already favor the Order. Victory here means I rule this city. This has to look like more than a minotaur grab for power, otherwise the Order can use the people to undermine me from the beginning.”
His eyes passed over the men and women that would be fighting, and possibly dying, in his name. “I don’t have more to say. This was a last moment decision because I couldn’t stand to see men like Zam and Ghetsis seize power again and make my people the target of their hellish hate. I felt a fire in me when I made that choice. Let’s carry that fire onto the battlefield. Marok chun nate.”
A horn blared. Their signal to take the field. Onakie gently transferred Odile to the bench. The archers from Eddadel secured their quivers. Drik made a prayer to Sahn. Tak made a similar prayer. What Divine he was praying to was unclear as he spoke in Esp. Several of the minotaurs joined him in this.
When they were done Cole tapped on the minotaurs on the arm. “Marok chun nate. What does that mean?”
“‘Die because you choose to.’”
Emotion swelled in Cole’s chest. When he had arrived in the barracks he had genuinely intended to make some excuse about why he shouldn’t fight. It was a battle to the death, and he was terrified. Somehow those words, and Thezzus’ pride, made those fears smaller. He was still terrified, but it was no longer because he thought this cause might not be worth dying for.
“Marok chun nate.” Cole repeated.
In a last moment decision, Frost took one of the clubs brought by the minotaurs. It was a long, studded bat that stretched from his shoulder to the ground, but he seemed taken with it, describing it as similar to an amarok bole-pole. He kept his cleaver strapped at his waistline.
Near the hall to the battlefield Bréag stood. When Cole came close he lowered his bandanna. “You’re a brave person Cole. Braver than I.”
The look in his eyes told Cole that he believed this.
Cole couldn’t find the right way to respond. So he kept it simple: “Thank you. I’ll see you when this is done.”
A palisade gate was at the end of the hall. Through the gaps in the wood they could hear the wall of sound that was the packed Colosseum.
Silver light trickled through the gate. It was moments to high noon, when the gates would open and the Clash would commence.
“Clouds have blown in from the west.” Dirk commented. “My magic will only work in direct sunlight.”
“Is healing allowed?” Cole asked.
“All means of battle are allowed, but be mindful that all of the Confederacy is watching. Underhanded tactics won’t go unnoticed.”
“I’ll protect you cleric,” Onakie lifted her massive shield, “and any that need your aid.”
Thezzus was conferring strategy to his minotaur soldiers in Esp. With so many losses the prior night, it was impossible to know who was accompanying Zam onto the field.
“You favor the atlatl?” The Eddadel archer Juan asked.
“I’ve...dabbled. I’m not sure I’ll be much help though.”
Juan seemed to understand Cole’s situation in this battle. “Stay near my brothers and I. We will be keeping to the outside of the melee and will be needing a defender should one on the other side break ranks.”
Cole nodded and grinned. It was more of a role than he had expected to have. Should the atlatl prove useless, he still had his sword and training with it.
Horns blared again, this time louder now that they were closer to the battlegrounds. The sudden noise made Cole’s insides lurch upwards. The gates began to rise. Three decades of dust flew off the ancient cogs. With every inch it rose the sound of the crowd became louder, and the light on the other side brighter.
A strong hand gripped Cole’s shoulder.
“May the scars we give and take be in equal measure.” Frost whispered.
Cole put his own hand on Frost’s and nodded his agreement.
The gate reached its peak. Gradually, the battalion walked out. The interior of the Red Colosseum is where it earned its name. Just as the outside was stark white, the inner walls were entirely done it shades of crimson. The walls of the battleground shot up three meters before reaching the first row of spectator seating. These seats were shielded with stone bars that obscured the view, but would also —hopefully— catch the stray projectile fired on the field. The seats above those did not have such protection. Some sections displayed banners or company colors belonging to the entrants that had bowed out of the Clash. Cole expected jeers when Thezzus first stepped into the light, but none could be heard over the general rumbling of the crowd. What comfort this brought was ruined when he saw the opposite end of the Colosseum was a wash of blue and white uniforms.
At the forefront of this crowd was Ghetsis Reballo himself. He was still in his armor, which glinted in the low light. The effects of the poisoning made him grey and gaunt. Attendants exchanged cool rags on his forehead and fed him medicine. He pushed them aside so that he may stand and applaud Zam’s entry to the field.
Zam had made his battalion out of Ghetsis’ remaining honorguard. Cole recognized two of the men he had met in the Pavilion of Scrolls, the dwarf and the masked man. Thezzus identified them as Khomyak and Chehara respectively. Past them were four warriors armed with spears and shields, and four soldiers with crossbows.
“Crossbows.” Juan spat. “Cheap weapons that remove an archer’s skill.”
Both sides marched several paces forward. Stopping at parallel lines of bricks in the dirt thirty meters from each other. From here the Generals were allowed to direct their troops as needed. Thezzus wanted his minotaurs to the front to act as shock troops. Frost and Cole would protect the archers. Dirk and Onakie would move between the two groups as needed.
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At the center of the Colosseum, between the two teams, were the eight trumpeters arranged in a square that quelled the crowd into silence. Eight trumpeters seemed a low number for creating the ear bleeding blare Cole heard, until he saw a coatlmade at their center moving a baton in complex diagrams. She was using song arcana to elevate the volume of the trumpeters. Song arcana could be used in this way, but it could also invigorate and bolster mortals by playing along to the natural rhythms of the body. If Cole died here, he would never learn that skill. He solidified it as another reason to survive.
The trumpeters ceased. The bard at their center elevated herself to address the crowd. She was dressed in an austere officer’s uniform meant to invoke the old empire. Her orange scales had been polished and her feathers glittered in the light. Several of the trumpeters changed their instruments to guitars. The woman sang to the crowd. Cole did not know the song, or the words used. It was in Ancient Western, the first language of the land. After the first verse she started over, but this time with her baton moving to the melody. In Cole’s mind the language phased from Ancient Western to Elven. Another arcana trick, changing the lyrics to a language the listener is more familiar with. It was beautifully operatic melody explaining the history of the Empire, Spiral City, and the Clash. Many in the audience raised their chins skyward with fists over their throats, the imperial salute.
The song was meant to bide the final moments as the sun moved directly overhead. The shadow of the inner wall stretched until it formed a circle around the singer and her band. Cole glanced to the shadow edging closer and closer to the line of bricks in front of them. The shadows and the singer were a ticking clock for the commencement of the Clash.
The song crescendoed. Four of the musicians broke left, and the other four broke right. The sing bowed to the audience before proudly gesturing to the two battalions, introducing their leaders and the factions they represented. The spectators were in such a frenzy it was difficult to tell who they favored. This was an excuse to vent every bottled emotion and tension of the last month, and especially last night.
Cole bit his tongue. There was only one thing left to signal the beginning.
“-In this bloodshed may we find the author to the next chapter of our Empire!” The singer declared with gusto. She was escorted off the field by Red Watchmen. The moment the gates dropped behind her was the moment the shadows perfectly eclipsed the line in the dirt. The Clash had commenced.
Thezzus and his minotaurs did not need a second notification. They fired forward, shoulders linked, heads bowed, and weapons ready. Zam had directed his troops to form a phalanx with spears out to meet the oncoming attackers. Cole had expected more rallying or repositioning before the violence truly began. He was left behind as the others of his group moved forward. It was all happening too fast.
Before the minotaurs met the spears, Zam fractured their formation by expelling a fireball. From there the Order’s melee soldiers moved through the cracks in the scattered minotaurs to isolate and push back Thezzus. When the minotaurs moved to counterattack, they were assaulted by combined crossbow fire. All four crossbowmen had chosen the same target, who stumbled to a bent knee. Zam executed the wounded minotaur with his curved dosmanos. It was the first blood of the Clash and the crowd reacted as expected.
Thezzus was growing more isolated from his soldiers, fighting defensively against four attackers and retreating with every step. The minotaurs were now split between pursuing their leader and protecting their flank from Zam and his crossbows. Juan and his brothers aimed to relieve pressure with their own arrows, but before they fired the dwarf of Zam’s group touched the ground. A wall of stone jutted out, blocking the archer’s shots. All dwarves can manipulate the earth without tools, but for it to be done so quickly, and by a single terramancer, caused Cole’s jaw to drop.
Juan cursed and redirected his brothers to find an open angle. Frost growled. Not content to stay with the archers he charged forward as well, practically bounding on all four limbs. Cole didn’t know where he was best suited. He didn’t know what he was doing here at all.
Frost went right for Zam. Zam could manipulate his greatsword eerily well despite its size. His body flowed like the edges of a flame as he used the flat side to deflect blows and the bladed edge to threaten foes back.
More walls were erected to block more arrows. Juan’s brothers shouldered their bows, drawing shortswords to attack the crossbowmen directly. The Order archers were caught in the reload. Two died, but one of Juan’s brothers, Antonio, was blindsided Chehara Veen. The masked knight utilized a pair of axes to carve and kill the youngest of the Barcel brothers.
Cole felt Juan’s cry of “No!” in his very core. He rushed to aid Juan’s covering fire with his own darts. Chehara dashed behind a freshly erected wall. Cole noticed that for this wall to be made, the first wall summoned had to recede. Alfonso returned to his brother’s side and both clasped hands to have an all too brief prayer for Antonio.
Across the battlefield Thezzus had charged through his attackers, taking no small amount of damage to do so. He head butted Zam hard enough to launch him into one of the rock walls. In the stands Ghetsis clenched.
Cole searched for where Dirk had been in this. The dwarf was pulling away a wounded minotaur by the horns, dragging him into the light so he may be healed. Onakie protected their retreat. Her shield repelled crossbow bolts as if they had been thrown rather than launched. The soldiers that had focused Thezzus now turned on Onakie. Onakie flourished her blade, keeping the assailants back single-handedly.
With Zam dueling Thezzus, Frost retreated to Cole’s side. A fist-sized purple bruise was visible on his collarbone. Dirk finished his administrations to the minotaur before sparing a brief miracle for Frost’s injuries.
The audience gasped. The sound made Cole’s heart jolt to his throat. Thezzus stumbled away from Zam. He dropped his bident to clutch his left arm, which was missing a strip of flesh from shoulder to elbow.
Immediately Thezzus’ troops redirected themselves to rescuing him. Onakie and the other remaining minotaur put themselves between Thezzus and Zam. Cole and the Barcels worked quickly to unleash as many arrows and darts as they could. It did not matter if they were firing accurately, only that it became such a hail to force Zam’s retreat.
And retreat he did. When one of the arrows passed a gap in his armor Zam shouted the name “Khomyak!”
The dwarf made a fresh wall to divide the two sides. For the first time since the Clash began, there was a moment to catch one’s breath.
Dirk reached Thezzus and began the process of healing. He cursed the increasing cloud cover that broke his connection to Sahn. On the other side of the wall Zam turned his head skyward, inhaling deep with a threatening hiss. He expelled his breath not as fire, but a plume of black smoke that hung above the battlefield and turned the sunlight to shade. Dirk’s magic would not work in these conditions.
The wall collapsed. Zam and Chehara came out swinging. The last of Thezzus’ minotaurs held them back so that Onakie and Dirk could drag Thezzus’ body away. If they could wait out the smoke, Thezzus might be healed.
“He’s removed our leader.” Frost growled.
Cole grimly agreed. Thezzus had been dragged to the last beam of sun visible. Dirk used what little magic he could, but the process was too slow. The Order fighters that still stood dropped their spears and drew machetes. They fell upon Onakie, keeping her in place at the defense of Thezzus rather than assisting the minotaur fighting Zam.
“If I could fight Zam alone, I am certain I could win.” Frost massaged his chest. “But he’s always protected!”
“We need a target of value.” Juan stooped to join their discussion. “When Señor Vivar engaged in naval battles, he set himself on the fastest ship and took a course around the battle. The enemy would break formation to hunt him down. That left them exposed.”
Cole took stock of who on their side was still standing. Thezzus was their most valuable piece, but he was already neutralized. As was their healer Dirk. Onakie was tied protecting them both and there was no value in the archers from Eddadel. Cole himself wasn’t worth singling out as he was only providing stray darts and the threat of a sword.
But what if they thought he was doing more?
“Frost. What you did when you fought the gigantepedes. That power you formed…”
“The Anguyakti?” Frost puzzled.
“Can you do it again? On my signal?”
Frost looked to the talisman around his neck. His eyes searched the dirt for answers. Resolve tightened his expression.
“For you my friend, I will find the Spirits needed.”
After conferring a brief outline of what his plan was, Cole broke left from their group into dead space of the battlefield. None of the Order members noticed him. The two remaining crossbowmen had left their position to fire upon Dirk. One of them was killed by Juan, who was advancing with his brother. Zam killed the minotaur delaying him with a brutal flourish. In the gap between him and Thezzus stood Frost.
Cole snapped the fletching off one his darts. He held it loosely in his left hand, like a conductor’s baton. As loud and proud as he could, he started to sing.
He had chosen the song One as All for this. It was from the human country of Amenhito, telling of the bravery of Gallant Tsukahara, a swordsman and pupil of the Divine Ruthafuss Monmetis. In life, Tsukahara single-handedly defended a mountain pass from an advancing Orc army. It seemed an appropriate choice for what Frost needed to do.
Frost deepened his breathing. Zam and Chehara paused to gauge what threat this amarok was about to become. Frost looked past them to Cole. His song wasn’t arcana, but Cole believed it was giving Frost the confidence to summon the power he needed.
The ground cracked under Frost’s bare feet. The wisping aura of the True Wolf seeded his body. With this done he shifted fully. The spiritual energy coming off of Frost’s body captivated the onlookers. As the power reached its zenith, Frost howled to the concealed moons.
Frost charged Zam and his honorguards. The bat he had to use with two hands was now light enough to be swung with one if needed. Chehara caught an attack from Frost between his axes and buckled from the strain. Zam’s flowing movements were shaken by the sudden force he was facing.
A breath of fire filled the gap between them, putting space between the three. Zam scanned the battlefield until his eyes fell on Cole, singing loud with what looked like a baton in his hand.
“He uses song arcana. That is the beast’s source of strength. Kill him. I will keep the feral one occupied.”
Cole’s plan worked. Chehara and Khomyak peeled away from Zam to go after Cole. The only flaw was that now he had two warriors of greater skill level coming to kill him. Cole ran, still keeping his song flowing. Performing under duress was one of the earliest lessons a bard learns.
The ground tucked beneath him, forming a pothole to make him trip. He fell hard on his knee and sprawled to his back. Khomyak was bent over, touching the earth with his bare hands. Chehara leapt at Cole with both axes in the air. Cole lifted his legs, catching Chehara in the gut and mucking the attack. Cole rolled to a standing position and started running again, still singing as he did.
The clashes of Zam’s greatsword and Frost’s club rang louder than any other sound in the Colosseum, except for the sound of Chehara’s heavy footsteps as he bore down on Cole. Cole kept his eyes to the ground. The moment he saw any shift in the dirt he darted to the left. Chehara barreled past him, tripping on the obstacle meant for Cole. Cole doubled back to charge directly for Khomyak.
Baffled, the dwarf raised a barrier between himself and Cole. Cole, his heart drumming and vocal chords straining, circled the wall. A new one was formed, then another as he turned past that. Cole had noticed the flaw of Khomyak’s terramancy: he could only manipulate so much earth at a time, often just enough for two walls. Just before completing a third lap around the dwarf Cole loaded his atlatl, pivoted, and furiously sprinted to the space where a wall had just been deconstructed in preparation to erect a new one where he should have been. Khomyak had his back to Cole, realizing too late that he had been out-maneuvered by an amateur bard.
Cole’s dart pierced Khomyak’s armor, but it did not kill him. Improvising, Cole tackled Khomyak, spilling the two like a wheel across the dirt. When they stopped wrestling Cole was on top of Khomyak. The dwarf was strong, and keeping his hands away from the ground took strain Cole didn’t know he was capable of bearing.
Cole heard heavy footsteps behind him. He scrambled away from Khomyak. Chehara had intended to strike Coles’s back, but his axes found Khomyak’s chest instead. Realizing who he had killed, Chehara ripped free one of the axes and advanced on Cole with silent rage.
Cole had left his atlatl by Khomyak. He wasn’t even singing anymore. This didn’t go unnoticed by Chehara, who froze. The slits in his mask drifted from Cole to Zam and Frost still locked in combat. Cole was starting to think Chehara could not speak at all, for he did not relay this information to his leader at all. He shoved Cole aside, a worthless target now, to aid Zam in combat.
Two arrows caught Chehara midstride. The masked knight slipped to one side. Cole held his breath, expecting Chehara to stand up once again, but his body was still.
“For my brother!” Both Juan and Alfonso Barcel declared, lifting their bows high.
Cole shared in their vindication. Whooping loudly as an outlet for the exhaustion he was feeling.
The smoke was clearing. Only Zam remained. His armor was caved from where Frost had bludgeoned him. One of his eyes was swollen shut. Meanwhile, Frost’s aura was fading. He struck Zam hard in the stomach, the sound of the armor bending mixed with the cracking of ribs. Zam fell to his knees.
Frost’s aura faded entirely. He grinned to Cole between heavy breaths. He stepped aside, then collapsed to one knee. Thezzus was not fully healed, but he could carry his bident with one hand. He pointed the weapon so the spear tips hovered over Zam’s head and heart.
Zam smoldered with hate he didn’t have the strength to act on. He looked to Ghetsis, who matched his hate with worry.
“Killed by beasts.” Zam coughed. “What a foul chapter you’ll write for my people.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Thezzus replied.
A forceful thrust of the bident killed Zam. The Red Colosseum was silent.
Thezzus lifted his weapon high. “I, Thezzus Brahmin, claim the Cracked Throne of Spiral City!”
The spectators erupted. Cheers, jeers, threats, and applause. Every reaction Cole expected from this outcome whelmed his ears. He felt like he could sit on the dirt and stay in this moment forever. Thezzus now turned his weapon to the stands, pointing it where Ghetsis sat. The old man receded into his seat as if the bident was actually in his face.
“This will be a first for you,” Thezzus proclaimed to the sea of blue and white, “but you and your kind aren’t wanted here. Relocate where you wish, but understand that the ‘volatiles’ are now on the offensive.”