The mole twitched, each shake spraying spores into the arena. The remaining locusts cascaded from the air with each gust of the agents of decay. The spores came from the thick ropes of purple on the mole's back. The locusts' attack had served only to unmask a more deadly response. The mole swung its head from side to side as it made for the fallen centaur.
Kamahl stamped his foot loudly, sending an irregular rhythm into the sand. The monster paused, its head swinging and its feet shifting. The Cabal caster took her ease, and the barbarian could see her discounting the centaur and focusing on him. A smile lit her face as Kamahl drove his sword deep into the sand. The shock of the tip striking into the rock of the arena floor was a signal to the creature. It charged, each lunge releasing another cloud of death. It passed the platform as the barbarian stamped his feet. The Cabal fighter ignored the spores as her summoning closed. Kamahl's hands blurred as he moved-but not for the sword stuck into the ground.
The barbarian plucked a throwing axe from his belt and cocked it back to his ear. Like a great sigh, power poured into the steel and leather-wrapped handle. The head flashed brilliantly, and then, as a comet, it flew toward the mole. The metal glanced off the massive skull, and Kamahl saw the Cabal warrior becoming still, summoning additional creatures. The barbarian closed his eyes as the axe reached the apex of its deflected flight.
The detonation rocked Kamahl back. The light was bright enough that he could see through his eyelids as the edge of the energy brushed him. The crowd was stunned into silence. The magic ignited the spore cloud, and the explosion sped back to the mole, devouring it as the molds detonated in sympathy with Kamahl's attack. The dementia caster rolled on the ground, unable to stand. She had been flung back several yards, and the sand stripped most of her clothes off as well as much of her skin. Her teeth bared and bloody, she stood, gathering herself to summon more monstrosities. Kamahl did not take his newly gained advantage, though his other axe was in his hand. He pointed to the platform with the metal head. Scraps of the flag still fluttered to the ground, signaling the Cabal fighter's defeat.
"You won more than five hundred!" Chainer said excitedly. The young man gripped the bag of coins tightly, proclaiming to all in sight that he held riches in his hand. Kamahl only smiled thinly as he waited with the other victorious fighters in the winners' box. The arena attendants seated those victors needing no medical attention. The winning fighters watched the remaining fights and were observed in turn by the crowd. A steady stream of visitors and dignitaries cycled in and out, some of them obviously trying to steal some of the fighters' glory. Chainer had come from the bet-monger with Kamahl's winnings. The barbarian held out his hand and was surprised by the weight of the purse. It felt much greater than the victory that had won it.
"The bettors know you now," Chainer said. "You will get much lower odds now that you have won."
A voice interrupted the pair.
"That is because the servants of the Cabal mistake luck for skill," taunted Kirtar. The lieutenant strode arrogantly through the other fighters, pushing some out of the way. Kamahl noticed how the others took it and realized that the Order champion must be even more powerful than the barbarian thought. Perhaps the lieutenant's lop-sided victory had prevented Kamahl from seeing the bird warrior at his best.
"Most of the fighters here don't realize how lucky they are to be competing with their better," Kirtar continued. His pale skin flushed as he drank more deeply from the goblet of wine in his hand.
"I am surprised that you fight at all in these contests," Kamahl said slowly. "Surely you must realize how unequal you are to those who fight here."
Kirtar nodded his head and then realizing that the comment was more easily read as an insult advanced angrily. A massive webbed hand deflected his path. Turg patted the champion on the back as he led him over to the food, the ambassador smiling at Kamahl and Chainer.
"You must excuse our friend," Laquatus said. "He fights out of duty. The Order considers it their task to rid the world of the symbols of past evil. Many of the prizes that he wins will be destroyed at the Order's headquarters."
"He is not my friend," Kamahl said flatly. Chainer nodded slightly, a grim look on his face. "And when he faces me in the arena, he will discover that I don't need luck to win."
Laquatus, still smiling, bowed his head, but his eyes were serious, not merry. Kamahl turned as he felt a threat directed at him. Across the room Turg looked at him even as he shepherded Kirtar toward a bar. The amphibian's eyes held the same look of deadly concentration as the ambassador's.
CHAPTER 4
"Hail the conquering hero!" Seton bellowed, ignoring the catcalls that quickly followed. Kamahl only nodded, as if accepting his due. The centaur snorted as he saw the shadow of a smile on the barbarian's face. The other patients in the hospital could not read the mountain fighter, and their catcalls continued.
Seton had been taken to the hospital to recover from his wounds. Though the druids of the forest were known for their healing skills, the punishment they endured to access those energies reserved them for life-threatening injuries only. Though the poison mold laid the centaur low, Cabal servitors administered an antidote within minutes of the fight's end. Those who survived the games were taken to the healing halls behind the waiting chambers. Kamahl was told to return the next day.
The centaur lay in a shallow pit, his side against a move-able board that allowed him to lie as if on a hillside. Other than a tendency to turn one's head to match up with the patient's orientation, it allowed for ease of access for the nursing staff. It also made conversation more convenient.
The barbarian's eyes swung over some of the patients, and his worries for his friend continued. Amputations were common and many fighters lay as if dead, their stumps leaking blood around the seams of their new limbs. Metal seemed the most common substitute, though mismatched furred limbs suggested other sources. Mold covered the wounds of some. Kamahl watched a caregiver spreading thick mud over the weeping sores of a dwarf whose eyes wandered with pain. The barbarian hoped the Cabal was trying to help instead of preparing a fresh round of victims for rumored rituals. He renewed his vow to avoid injury or at least care for himself.
Seton looked well. His coat was clean, and the patchwork of new fur covered the worst of the stitches. The forest dweller still made few movements, and Kamahl realized the giant was in pain despite his apparent high spirits.
"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.