Arena: The Dark Ages Part I

[The Amazing Nova]

The Warlord That Never Was

It was an atypical Thursday night in the Arena. The seats were only half-full, but the crowd was eager to see the scheduled spectacle. Grandmaster Cristian de Oro, a promising duelist from the House of the First, was scheduled to be promoted to Warlord in a commencement ceremony. For years, this ceremony had been used to mark the end of danger and sacrifice, the culmination of a trial by fire. As a Warlord, a duelist is granted certain rights, including protection from the laws governing taking a life within the Arena. For a Grandmaster to take a life was a travesty. For a Warlord to take a life was tragic, but required – an act laced with melancholy honor.

Cristian had sacrificed a great deal in order to place himself at the cusp of greatness. Of 87 duelists, not counting the titleholders, only fifteen were Warlords. He was about to become the first duelist to transcend the boundary between fodder and champion in over eight months. Beyond his new title lay the promise of riches, respect, and the opportunity for power beyond the imagination. De Oro had given up his career, his duty to his family, everything for one chance at excellence. He had tried his best not to take too many lives during his rise through the ranks, doing only what he must to convince himself and his sponsors that he was capable of doing what needed to be done. The House of the First and, more importantly, the Baron of the First, Jarrad Pyresbane, was proud to call him one of their own.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” a voice called out from the platform on which the Overlord sat, “We are here to witness a rare sight indeed.”
The crowd hushed as the Overlord, caught in the shadows of the setting sun, announced the procession.
“Tonight is the commencement of Cristian de Oro,” a small cry of appreciation rose from the crowd as the prospective Warlord was announced.
“In this endeavor, he is sponsored by Jarrad Pyresbane,” a far louder cheer rose from the bleachers at this man’s name, “Baron and Leader of House One,” with this, the crowd began a chant ‘the first, the first, the first’. The Baron, seated on a dais that was traditionally reserved for callers, stood and waved to acknowledge the adulation.
The Overlord raised his hands for silence, but the gesture was lost in the shadows. The cries gradually trailed off of their own accord.
“For those of you who have never witnessed this ceremony – there may be a few of you, it has almost been nine full months since a duelist has proven themselves worthy of the title of Warlord – I will explain the rules of this engagement.”

“In commencement, we pay homage to our forefathers, to Warlords past. Cristian and his dueling partner shall put on a display that I wager most of you have never seen, but there shall be no risk of injury. Tonight, our special Ward, that can only be used when the planets are in alignment,” as if drawn by common curiosity, most of the crowd looked up at the darkening sky above for a glimpse at these aligned planets, though little could be seen of the celestial bodies, “our special Ward will keep these brave young men safe as they display their skills for your enjoyment.”
“I introduce to you, worthy of your respect and applause, the man who shall be Warlord when this night is done: Cristian de Oro!”
Cristian stood up and waved to the crowd from beside the circular ring, the only one marked out for the evening. The applause was generous.
“And his opponent. One of the most successful duelists in this or any age of the Duel of Swords: undefeated in fifteen challenges for his title. With a record of 152 wins and only 17 losses. The Baron of the Fifth: Aren Kress!”
A fan favorite, the applause for Kress was the loudest yet.
“Please enter the ring, offer your respects, and give these people what they came to see!”

Despite the small crowd, the Arena was electrified by the noise of its occupants. A constant throb of cries, cheers, and catcalls rolled across the Arena floor as Cristian entered the ring and bowed low to his opponent. He drew a black-bladed schiavona from a sheathe at his side and placed the blade against his palm, slicing cleanly across the flesh with ritual precision. Blood welled from the cut as he held his hand aloft, mirrored by his opponent. Cristian watched as the cut on his opponent’s hand healed rapidly and marveled at the power of this special ward. For a heartbeat, he regretted that the planets were in alignment so infrequently – in that moment, he would have liked to have been able to take back some of the deaths he caused.

As his opponent shifted his sword to his bloodied hand, Cristian did the same, taking a moment to inspect the area of his skin where the cut had been. Healed completely he noted with relief – his recent nightmares of the Ward being unable to heal him had been nothing but bad dreams. Though these dreams still scared him and, to a lesser extent, even embarrassed him, he now realized that this new Ward was much like the old: indiscriminate in its healing power.

He nodded to his opponent, the man saluted, and the duel was joined. The Baron leapt forward, snaking his weapon out for a killing thrust. The schiavona swept up and around, parrying the attack and rolling off of the hand guard to strike against the shoulder. Fabric was torn, blood welled … the shallow cut disappeared. Kress nodded in appreciation of the move.

Again the baron attacked, launching a searing cut that climbed up towards Cristian’s head, forcing him to duck away. Rather than retreat, de Oro launched himself forward, pressing the length of his blade against the Baron’s torso and slicing cleanly through as he stepped away. Even before the cut had healed, Kress had thought better of another attack. A wary circling began.

Cristian’s patience wore thin as he waited a full minute for the Baron to attack – the schiavona snaked out, testing, probing, knocked away easily at every turn. To have two strikes against this man was already great fortune. To get another would take skill – a trait Cristian was certain that he had. A step forward and the schiavona lashed downward, paused a split second to allow the Baron to commit to another block, and then angled sharply upward, tearing through the basic parry and launching the sword away from the center of the Baron’s body. Cristian took another step forward and drove off of his back foot, thrusting his weapon outward – the Baron, his blade lagging behind from the shock of the upward slash, was again caught off guard, pierced through the shoulder.

It was then that Cristian noticed the flash in the Baron’s eyes, the anger of pride welling within. In order to save face with this man, a respected and deadly Baron, Cristian would need to allow a few touches without the appearance of charity. Before he could even formulate a plan, Kress’s blade pierced his side, causing a deep, fiery pain. De Oro rolled his body back and away from the blow. It seemed he would not have to allow charity after all.

For another minute, the duelists circled warily. Cristian was not eager to end the display without being touched another time and it seemed his opponent was in no hurry to regain lost ground. A thrust was tested and blocked without retribution. The duelists had worn a circular pattern in the sandy floor of the ring.

Another minute passed. His sword arm growing weary, Cristian switched the blade to his off hand and found that the sword felt heavier still. He paused his steps for a moment and glanced down, noting the blood that he had tracked across the sands. He blinked, but before he could make a move, a blade pierced his shoulder. The schiavona fell away from his hand, but he paid it no mind – confusion was giving way to fear at the base of his skull, but it had not yet earned its name.

Kress walked forward, his stark white face dabbed with droplets of blood. ‘My blood’, Cristian thought to himself as the baron’s cold eyes bored into him. Cristian listened for the crowd, but could hear nothing save for the incongruous roar of a distant ocean.

“You are not worthy,” Kress whispered to him. “Your sponsor is scum.”

With that, Kress stepped back, reversed his grip on his blade, and plunged it down through Cristian’s chest, piercing the heart directly. The blade remained in the body as it toppled over. Kress stooped to lift up the schiavona that had fallen from his opponent’s hand.

“Thank you for the blade. I shall honor you with it,” he said to the body before raising the weapon above his head. The crowd, shocked by the unexpected death, responded only with spotty applause. Darkness washed over the Arena floor for a moment as the sun was hidden completely by the bleacher walls. By the time the lights flickered on, the blood had been covered by fresh sand and the body was already being carted away.

“And now, we give you your normal dueling hours,” the Overlord announced before leaving his platform.

[The Amazing Nova]

Dinner with a Duke

“No, I don’t need to see him. Tell him I’m trying to have dinner with my family. Have him come back in say … a year, when I’m in a better mood. I just don’t have the patience for this right now,” a gesture was made and, with it, a man was sent on his way, “Why do they always have to bother us when we’re having dinner?”
Drakewyn Dragoon-Talanador leaned back in her chair and laughed quietly, her face hovering over a glass of wine as she leveled her eyes on the man across from her.
“Hun, you run one full third of an entire kingdom. They bother you at breakfast, they bother you at lunch, they bother you at dinner,” she gestured this way and that, indicating everything in existence before lifting her free hand into the air to punctuate her point, “They even bother you when you’re trying to sleep. If you didn’t want to take care of the details, you shouldn’t have become a Duke,” she said as she pointed a shaming finger at him. Her admonishment was playful, hinting at words that she’d repeated many times before.
“You know, you’re the one that pushed me into it,” G’nort Dragoon-Talanador couldn’t help but smile, knowing his statement was far from true, but certainly fitting to the war of words they always exchanged in the interest of the duchy.
The dining room of the Dragoon-Talanador household was grand by all accounts. The room could have accommodated a small soccer stadium and still had space left over for a sizeable dinner party; however, on this night, the dining area was confined to one small, circular dinner table and the family sitting around it. Voices echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
“Adelie, sweetie, don’t try to fit that whole piece in your mouth. I know you don’t want to be a lady, but let’s at least try to be human,” G’nort said to the red-haired youth seated to his right – he reached for the child’s knife and swiftly cut a piece of meat into more child-like portions.
“Now then,” he said as he settled back into his chair, “let’s talk about something that doesn’t have anything to do with running a bunch of farms, towns, and a few of measly baronies.”
Drakewyn gasped in mock pain. “Measly? You’re calling my barony measly?”
“It is the smallest barony out of the ten. Plus most of it is mountains,” G’nort replied around a mouthful of food. “Ah,” he added, as he washed it down with chilled wine, “I’d say that’s kind of measly.”
“And a lake.”
“Oh, and a lake. That makes it not measly,” he rolled his eyes comically, looking at his daughter to elicit a laugh from the girl. Adelie giggled and looked to her mother for another volley.

A knock at the dining room door quieted the family. G’nort’s face darkened.
“Come in.”
The door opened to reveal a plainly dressed man, proud and proper of stature. A man that was a butler to the very core.
“My lord, apologies for disturbing your dinner again. There is a rider here to see you from the Arena proper. I have made him wait in your study.”
“What does he want?”
“He brings news of the commencement. He claims something has gone awry and he felt that you should know immediately. Shall I tell him to come back in the morning, or perhaps leave you a letter?”
G’nort shot a look across to Drakewyn as he stood up from his chair. The familial levity had instantly given way to a stony silence. “No, I’ll see him now. You can clean up my plate. I’m not hungry anymore.”
Drakewyn stood up as well. “Barret, see to it that Adelie finishes her dinner please. I’ll be joining the Duke in his conference.” The butler nodded and approached the table even as the couple stepped away.
G’nort held the door open for his wife as Barret began clearing dishes, pausing only to admonish Adelie for not eating like a lady. The dining room door slammed shut as the couple left - the sound reverberated through the now empty room like a cannon shot.

[The Amazing Nova]

A Quiet Life

Verceterix Favre had chosen the area to build his home because of the beauty it exuded in that moment between sundown and darkness. With the very tops of the trees still catching the last rays of light and the earth darkened by shadows, fireflies tossed their beacons across the grasses in an awe inspiring pattern.

Rix leaned back to appreciate the scene, draping his arm across the shoulders of the woman sitting next to him. She leaned her head upon his shoulder and held her hand up to allow a firefly to land.
“Here’s one, Kaylan,” the woman said softly, holding her hand out so as not to disturb the insect.
A little girl came wandering out of the shadows, clothed in red overalls and a blue t-shirt, holding a jar already teeming with tiny flashing lights.
“Thanks, Auntie Mir!” the little girl whispered quietly - still at that age where she was excited by the daily prospect of catching fireflies, releasing them as bedtime approached, and starting all over the next evening.

Miror Shadow-Favre smiled as the firefly obediently flew into the jar, which the little girl immediately covered with a tin, hole-poked lid. Rix watched the child run back into the darkness, the flashing jar the only indication of where she might be.
“She’s starting to look so much like him,” Miror observed as she curled her arm around Rix’s torso.
“Yeah, I really miss him. Especially when those fireflies light up her face the way Nova’s powers used to light up his,” Rix lowered his head to kiss Miror gently on the top of her head.
“I wish he would come back. Or at least send us some word,” her voice got softer as she watched the jar get closer for a moment and then fade further into the darkness.
“It’s been years. Ian keeps telling me to accept that something bad happened. But I don’t get how it could, he always moved too fast. Nothing could catch him.”
“I know. I remember when I was Kaylan’s age, Nova had to be like eleven or twelve, he would convince us to play tag and he would just sit on a chair in the middle of the field, point at people, and say he tagged them. We could never be sure because we could never see him actually get up and run. Could only feel the breeze.”
“Wow, Nova was lazy even when he was a kid,” the two chuckled quietly in the darkness before easing into a long silence. Rix could feel his wife’s face heat up against his chest as it always did when she grieved.
“He’ll come back,” he said, more to convince himself than the woman beside him.
Eyes slowly adjusted to darkness to allow Rix and Miror to watch their adopted daughter live out her childhood in peace. In that moment, they could forget that things were never meant to be this way.

[The Amazing Nova]

Tavern of Ghosts

By any measure, the tavern had long ago broached “decrepit” and was slowly working its way towards condemned. The grounds were overgrown, the forest had seized opportunity and marched slowly towards the building – in the space of a few short years, the trees had come to tower over the tavern, one even bold enough to burst its strong roots through the building’s foundation. A sign swung lazily in the breeze by its one nail, the only thing keeping it attached to the building. The word “Fury” painted upon the sign made the building almost comical. A run down shack in the middle of nowhere made many words come to mind – fury was certainly not one of them.

The door was ajar - left open for so many years, its hinges had rusted. Chairs and tables stood where they had been left, glasses and bottles collected dust behind the bar. Only one table showed a hint of recent use, lacking dust or cobwebs of any kind. A dusty bottle of scotch sat watch over two glasses and a pair of empty chairs.

With so much alcohol present, it was a wonder that the tavern hadn’t been looted, but the truth was that not many people came this way anymore. It was rumored that creatures lived in the shadows and ghosts roamed the lonely roads. Those brave enough to travel the roads surrounding the Tavern of Fury were still too superstitious to disturb what was so obviously the home of ghosts. There may have been some truth to the matter that something lurked around the Tavern, as even the most dense of visitors would note that there was something wrong with the land. No birds sung, no animals rooted about for food, the trees cast long shadows across the building no matter where the sun was – there, in the moment between sunset and night, the land looked positively evil.

The silence of the world was broken by the steady clopping of a horse. A lone rider plodded through the tall grass, talking calmly to the beast beneath him, assuring her that the land was no more dangerous than any other. The horse shied as he steered it towards the tavern.

“How many times do we have to do this? We’ve been here a million times and the worst thing that ever happened to you is a thrown shoe. What is your problem?” the man’s voice had lost its calm tone as frustration edged in. He swayed in the saddle as the horse stumbled, then cursed loudly before turning the reins towards the Tavern’s east wall. Even as he was climbing down out of the saddle the horse was backing away from the building.

As the man got his footing on solid ground, he tugged the reins. “Next time I’m getting you drunk before we come out here. Maybe you’ll show some balls,” the man mumbled as he grabbed hold of the hitching post and began looping the reins around it. Nearing madness, the horse reared, snapping the rotted wood away and leaving a trail of splinters on the ground. The man darted after the horse and grabbed the reins again, kicking the post away with another curse.

“You did that just to spite me. I get it. You don’t want to be here. I’ll sell you for glue as soon as we get back and buy a new horse. Now stop complaining,” the man tugged at the reins, leading the horse back to the tavern. He looked around for something to tie the reins to, but finding nothing sturdy enough, he simply shrugged and let the reins trail along the ground.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he said as he pointed at the horse. He waited until the animal stopped shivering before making his way to the front door of the Tavern.

“Hello?” he called as he stepped inside. Floorboards creaked as he made his way to the only table meant for living customers. The dusty scotch bottle had fingerprints upon it, one of the glasses showed traces of the liquid at its bottom. “Started without me, I guess,” the man said to the bottle before pouring himself a glass and sitting down.

Time passed and the man drank alone, oblivious to the decrepit surroundings and the gathering darkness.

[The Amazing Nova]

The Ward's Guardian

She gasped as her hand cramped again. After laying aside the pestle she had been using to crush herbs, she used her opposite hand to massage the cramp away. The night had been so long - longer than she had anticipated - and it still wasn't over. She had made enough balms and salves to treat twenty people that morning, having rightfully expected more bloodshed than usual after the commencement. There was always more bloodshed than usual after a commencement. The young duelers wanted to be the next to hold the honor of warlord after watching that archaic ceremony. One would think that a man's death during commencement would have made duelists think twice about rushing towards their doom, but apparently it only inspired them to redouble their efforts. She no longer had any pity for them.

Koyliak had already treated 23 people that evening, with a further five sitting in the waiting room of the small hospital built beneath the Arena's floor. Three bodies, including that of the de Oro boy, were waiting to be cleaned and claimed in the tiny room at the back of the hospital that had once been a storage closet. Before picking up the pestle and continuing her work, she gave a silent prayer to whoever was listening that the referee for the evening would close the queue soon.

"Koy, I don't mean to be a bother, but I'd like to get another duel in before the queue closes. Do you think you can sew me up?"
"Keep yer britches on, Andur, I need ta finish this salve fer tha wound ye got on yer thick noggin' there. I wasn't plannin' on so many of ye ta lose all sensibility and try ta slice each other ta shreds tonight," her voice was edged with frustration, perhaps even anger.
"I don't understand why the Ward didn't work on us if the planets are in alignment."
"Mebbe they were only in alignment fer a few minutes. Must be why tha fella bit it."
"Planets aren't in alignment for just a few minutes."
The pestle clinked against the mortar as Koy let it go. She rounded on the man, her eyes gleaming in the dull lighting of the hospital.
"Then I guess the Ward jest doesn't like ye, can't say I blame it. I certainly know I'm 'xhausted healin' the neverendin' stream of idiots playin' with sharp things in hopes of brown-nosin' the Overlord. I'd imagine the Ward feels the same."
The man wisely shut his mouth and turned back towards the waiting room, colliding full on with what felt to him like a brick wall made flesh. His eyes widened as he stared up at the man before him.
"Lot hi," the newcomer said, quietly but with genuine feeling.
Andur snorted, stepping back and turning towards Koyliak.
"You let this beast hang out in here? Running a home for simpletons?"
"The only simpleton I see in here is bleedin' all over my hospital from a head wound," Koy hissed.
"It's almost stopped," Andur replied as he touched a hand to his scalp.
Koy rounded her workbench and grabbed Andur by the collar. With a strength that belied her frame, she practically threw him through the doorway, sending him crashing into the waiting room chairs. Before slamming the door shut, she gave a deadly look to the shocked assemblage waiting their turn with the healer, daring any of them to bother her again.

Just as quickly as her rage welled, it abated as she turned to look into the wide blue eyes of the large man awaiting her attention.
"Sorry 'bout tha Goon. It's been a long night," she tried to smile, but the corners of her mouth barely moved.
Goon stood there for a moment, a contemplative smile on his face. His shoulders seemed to sag with the weight of the entire universe upon them, but still he managed to smile for her and this, in turn, caused her to smile as well after only a moment.
"Healer-lady lot lot hi!" he said with the enthusiasm of a child, a quality that always seemed so out of place to Koyliak - particularly in a dark hospital that smelled of rot and blood.
"Evenin, Goon. Or mornin as the case may be," she managed another smile as she returned to her mortar and pestle. "There are three tonight. Hodierna bless us, I'm hopin' there won't be anymore. Ye can go see 'em iffn ye'd like. Ye know where ta find 'em," she said, gesturing the pestle over her shoulder towards the curtained doorway leading towards the body storage.
In an instant, Goon's entire affect changed. Impossibly, his shoulders sagged further and the gentleness in his eyes all but disappeared. For one moment, that giant of a man looked entirely defeated by three dead men, none of whom he even knew. His halting steps took him towards that curtain, the child-like quality of his soul shining only through his reluctance to see them coupled with his steadfast need to do what he felt needed to be done.
As Goon disappeared through the curtain, Koyliak paused her work for a moment to wipe her face with the hem of her apron - wiping away a night's worth of sweat, blood, and tears.

[The Amazing Nova]

Troubled Dreams, Troubled Dreamer

Vincent Smith sat back in his chair and kicked his feet up, content with another duel admirably fought, even if he had lost. The mood in the Arena was cheerful - a handful of duelists had gathered near the bar and laughed and joked with one another while enjoying the seemingly endless amounts of alcohol the servants always stocked. Vincent's mind drifted, as minds sometimes do, to thoughts of more mundane things in his life … women, work, home. For some reason he couldn't quite determine, these things seemed suddenly alien. It was almost as if mundanity was a piece of his life from long ago that somehow fell away in the chaos of aging.

He leaned his head back to look up at the stars, only to find a ceiling above him, the soft glow of lanterns lighting the Arena. The laughter increased in volume as a group of duelists walked by - a woman paused to look down at him.
"You look lost, Vinny. Did Rix ring your bell in that duel?"
Vincent's mind raced for an answer as information and memories flooded through the pathways of his mind.
"Uhhhh…."
"I guess so," the woman laughed as she took a seat across from him. "Maybe you should go back into the ring and see if the Ward can straighten you out."
"Yeah, maybe," his vision swam as he stood up, pressing a hand against the tabletop to make sure he didn't fall over. "I don't know what's happening."

He took a few steps and rubbed at his eyes. He pulled his hands away the moment they touched the soft flesh of his face, for some reason surprised to find stubble and smooth skin against his fingertips. Nothing seemed right to him.
"What the hell was that?" a voice cried out. The Arena began to shake.
"Earthquake!" another duelist said before ducking beneath a table.
"No, no …" Vincent mumbled to himself, his mind willing his body to find shelter even as his head turned towards the ceiling.

He saw the timbers splinter and the stones of the wall shear away. For a long moment, he was blinded by a midnight sun, the brightest flash of light he had ever seen in his life. Images floated across his open eyes, but failed to register as anything other than blobs of matter. Even as his vision cleared, he could feel the winds pulling at his clothing, the splinters digging straight into his skin. The air became oppressively hot despite the wind and the floor shook with a fury that almost had Vincent believing it truly was an earthquake.

All sound died away. Though Vincent knew he was screaming, he couldn't hear himself or the cries of those around him. His vision cleared for one sharp moment as the world stopped in mid-heartbeat. A butterfly axehead, snapped off at the shaft, hung in the air before him, frozen in a single moment of time, like some kind of ridiculous child's mobile. He willed himself to move, to lift an arm, to grab hold of the broken weapon … anything to disrupt the moment that was to come, but he could not. That moment in time ended and time flowed again. He couldn't even close his eyes as the axe fell towards him.


Vincent sat up in bed like a shot. There in the darkness, he felt as if the axe had just hit him in the face a moment ago rather than almost eight years prior. He could sense the echo of a scream in his ears, but whether he was crying out in his sleep again or it was simply the after effect of a nightmare, he didn't know. He sat as still as possible, afraid that moving would conjure the ghosts of the past, or at least the physical pain that accompanied them. The darkness was almost comforting after the blinding lights of his nightmare.

A quiet knock sounded at the door. So, he had been crying out in his sleep again and disturbing the neighbors. Vincent reached over and turned on his desk lamp and began fumbling around for the clothing littering the floor beside his bed even as he was mentally preparing his latest apology to the neighbors he had awoken. Not for the first time, he swore to himself he would buy himself a house out in the wilderness of one of the baronies … as soon as he had the money. A promise he had made to himself and broken a thousand times before.
The knock came again as Vincent lifted a piece of metal from his nightstand, carefully laying it over his face and fastening it place with black ribbon. A third impatient knock forced him to acknowledge the person beyond the door.
"Who is it?" he called as he completed tying the ribbons - a careful tug insured the knots were snug.
"It's Aren," a voice said beyond the door.
"Kress? What the hell are you doing here?" Vincent asked, even as he reached the door and pulled it open.
"I take it I caught you with your face off?" the Baron smirked by way of greeting.
"What do you want?"
"The Overlord requests your skills. An incident has occurred."
"An incident? What sort of incident? What would the Overlord need me for, I'm not even ranked."
"He wants you for your mind, not your sword. He needs a neutral party to investigate a death," Kress stated as he looked at his fingernails, taking a moment to brush them across the front of his shirt - a gesture Vincent rightfully took to mean the death had been Aren's fault and he was in fact proud of it.
"A death? People die every day, why should I investigate it?"
"I'm sorry, what do you say? Your voice is so muffled by that dreadful piece of work. Is your blacksmith actually a butcher?" the Baron grinned as he indicated the metal mask which now covered Vincent's face - the small eyeholes and the crescent shaped mouth giving him the look of a frowning machine rather than a man.
"I said," Vincent paused to take a calming breath, "Why do I need to investigate a death?" he enunciated slowly and as loud as he dared to avoid the neighbors overhearing.
"Ah, you haven't heard? The Ward failed. De Oro died in Commencement. The Overlord requests your presence to investigate why his personal Ward failed tonight and to make sure it doesn't fail again."
"Let me guess, you're the one that killed de Oro."
"Naturally."
"It failed because you wanted him to die. Case closed," Vincent said as he began to close the door. A strong hand slammed against it and forced it back open.
"I didn't like the de Oro kid one bit, but the Ward failed. It could have been me that died. I want to know why," Kress hissed, for a moment seeming like a concerned patron of the Arena.
"Ask the mages, then. Or did they ban you from the Isle?" Vincent replied as he began to push back against the door, trying to force Kress out into the hall.
"The mages are busy with something bigger than a Ward that only works once in a while. Come to the Arena and just look into it. I'm sure the Overlord will pay handsomely."
For a long moment Vincent considered telling the Baron where the Overlord could stick his payment, but then the thought of his own home far away from the Arena proper interceded.
"Fine. Let me get my coat," Vincent finally conceded - he didn't fail to notice Aren's smug smile.

[The Amazing Nova]

Fury of Shadows

Alcohol addled dreams were disturbed by a sound from the real world. A screech and the distant galloping of hooves startled the man out of his chair, bringing forth curses for having fallen asleep at the table. The Tavern of Fury was dark now, looking for all the world like the setting for a bad dream and a worse reality. Shadows stirred all around him, black on black, and quiet murmurs filled the room with the sort of incomprehensible chatter one would hear in a busy bar.

The man pulled his satchel off his shoulder and blindly groped within for the candles and matches he always brought to this meeting. Though he feared no specters or shadows, it was always the disembodied voices that set him on edge. If there was one thing the citizens of the Arenalands learned in their harsh new world, it was that if you can see it, you can kill it. If you can only hear it, that means you’re the prey. He knew the voices were just ghosts of the past, but that did nothing to settle his soul – much like his horse, there was something deep inside him that harbored a child-like fear of this forgotten place.

A match was struck and a candle lit, practically before it had cleared his satchel. It burned low for a moment, as if it were physically fighting the darkness, beating it away in an epic struggle. He jammed the candle into the mostly empty bottle of whiskey that sat on his table and then pulled another five candles out of his bag. Though he was in no hurry to light up the tavern, his hands still fumbled with spearing the bottoms of the candles onto their bases.

The lighted tavern was no better. There were shadows lurking in the darkness, seated at tables, standing near the bar, there were even a few twirling through the gaps between tables, looking for all the world like a barmaid ready to take an order. An involuntary shudder ran through him, the only living man … creature in the immediate vicinity.

“Damn horse,” he muttered to himself, his voice lost in the ghostly chatter. For a moment he considered pulling the candle from the bottle and settling himself with a drink, but his mind railed against the action. He had nothing to fear. Ghosts and shadows can’t harm you.

From the doorway came a new shadow, much more tangible than the rest. Darkness given life. This was the type of shadow that can harm you, but then it wasn’t truly a shadow … was it? The darkness swirled around this dark figure as it approached the table, slowly sticking to the vague outline of a body as it drew closer to the light.

Darkness fought the meager light of the candles, slipping away from skin and flying off towards the back, seeking a place untouched by light. Even as a man’s body emerged from the darkness, the shadows clung to his back like a cloak, ready to swallow their master whole should the light falter.

He was hooded, this man-shadow, his skin deathly pale. The man in the shadows had obviously not seen the sun for years, but his muscles were powerful, his skin alive with the sheen of life. A healthy man caught in the grip of a living shadow. The Hood seated himself at the table with a quiet sigh of relief.

“Hello, Sartan,” The Hood said to the other man. Though Sartan could not see his face, the tone suggested the hooded man was smiling.

“Hey there, Hood,” Sartan smiled in return, pushing a candle towards the man as if it were a fresh drink. It was a gesture he made every time he met the man-shadow, a trick to try and pry the shadows out of that hood and reveal the face of his friend. As always, the trick did not work.

“I wish you would stop calling me that,” the Hood said as he pushed the candle away without a care.

“You’d prefer … the Shadow?” Sartan asked, wiggling his fingers over a flame, causing it to dance for effect. The shadow cloak played over the Hood’s shoulders, daring the candle to go out.

“I’d prefer my name, but I respect the fact that my identity needs to remain hidden. Though it’s been years and I’m getting a bit tired of the charade,” the Hood said as he plucked a candle out of its resting spot at the top of the whiskey bottle. He handed the candle to Sartan, rubbed his hand across the bottle’s mouth, and poured himself a glass.

“You’ve got to come up with a new complaint, Hood,” Sartan cautioned as he removed the last candle base from his satchel and settled the candle into place. “That line is getting old. I don’t think your shadow pals would even let you say your real name anymore. I’m surprised you haven’t forgotten it.”

“I control them,” the Hood sat up straight, his voice hard.

“Sometimes I wonder, man. Why were you so late?” Sartan asked as he poured the rest of the whiskey for himself.

“I was at the Arena. De Oro is dead. Killed during commencement,” the Hood tipped his glass back, the liquid disappearing into shadows.

Sartan gagged as he heard the news. “Dead? How? What about the Overlord’s Ward?”

“I think the Overlord arranged it. He must have known we spoke to de Oro.”

“Do you think he knows what we’re planning?”

“No, if he knew you’d be dead now, too. As would the others.”

“Pfft, I can take them. I just won’t duel for a while to be safe.”

“Good idea. You’d be safer if you left the Arenalands altogether.”

“Oh, I can’t go without you, Hood. Please come with me,” Sartan’s tone quickly shifted from serious to overdramatic. He even swooned to add that extra something to the false entreaty.

“Hmmm. Very funny. If you ever end your political aspirations I’m sure you’ll be able to find work as a comedian. Getting back to the matter at hand, we have to find out what they know and how far this conspiracy runs. If we’re right and the Overlord is trying to force a war against the Outer Realms, we need to know why and who’s in on it. We need proof.”

“Even if we had proof, I doubt MacKenzie would believe us. Or for that matter, any of the other Outer armies. Even I don’t believe it. The Overlord’s either crazy or a colossal moron. Maybe both.”

“Don’t bet on it. There’s something calculating about all of his moves. Even killing de Oro. I think this might be a major power play. He doesn’t just want the Arenalands, he wants the entire realm.”

“Great. So how did he kill de Oro exactly? Shouldn’t the Ward be indiscriminant?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out. I’m going to speak to the Ward’s Guardian as soon as possible.”

“You know who it is? I thought that was supposed to be some big secret?” Sartan leaned forward, hoping for a new insight into the mysteries of the new Arena.

“Information isn’t hard to come by when the shadows have ears.”

“Yeah, well, find out what the Overlord is planning, then.”

“If only it were that easy. The Mages protect him.”

“Wait, wait. I thought the Archmage closed the portal to Twilight Isle because he couldn’t stand the Overlord and all of the bloodshed. What the hell is going on?”

“The Archmage has nothing to do with this. Let’s just say some of the mages have defected and others are decidedly neutral enough to play for both teams. It’s like a game for them. And they’ll play any game they want to no matter what their supposed master says. You know magickers.”

“No, I don’t know magickers. That’s the whole point of me steering clear of them.”

“You’d be well served to steer clear of everyone, Sartan. Lay low for a while. I’ll contact you when I have more information,” the Hood said as he got up out of his chair. The shadows began clinging to the front of his body even before he moved away from the light.

“Wait a second, Kress was supposed to fight de Oro. Did that change?” Sartan called after the shadow-man.

“No, it was Kress that dealt the death blow,” the shadows replied.

“Is the Overlord hanging Kress out to dry, then? He must have known there’d be an investigation. I thought Kress was like the anointed one? The Overlord’s best buddy. You can’t just kill during commencement and get away with it.”

For a long moment, Sartan thought the Hood had already gone as the only answer to his observations was silence. But then….

“You’re right. I’ll look into it.”

The darkness retreated from the Tavern, leaving it a ghostly scene lit by flickering candles. The ghostly chattering was gone, replaced by a deathly silence.

“Damn horse – once I find you, I’m turning you into glue,” Sartan whispered to himself before blowing out the candles and leaving the Tavern to its ghosts.

[The Amazing Nova]

The Renegade's Procession

Robert Braxxx had his own little piece of paradise. As holder of the Tenth Barony, he stood as the lone Renegade. Loyal to no one but his people, hated by no one because his status would insure that he would never interfere with any side of any debate, and loved by no one for the same reason. He was The Renegade. The Ghost of the Arena. For the most part, he stayed within his tavern, serving drinks and listening to the regulars gossip about the goings on in the other baronies. Occasionally he’d work up the energy to attend a duel or two, just to give himself a workout and make sure his name would remain on the next title listing.

No one had ever challenged him, from the day he took the Tenth from the cold, dead hands of the Bastard Baron. He hadn’t even known the guy’s real name – everyone called him a Bastard, so The Bastard he was … Robert even addressed his challenge letter to Mr. Bastard. He certainly didn’t regret killing the man – the guy obviously lived up to his nickname. The day Robert entered the lands of the Tenth, the people threw a massive parade and actually tossed roses at his feet. Though few of the citizens ever talked about it, it was rumored the Bastard had been heavy into the dark arts and may have even sacrificed a few virgins. Sacrificing wasn’t something Robert was interested in doing to virgins, but that was neither here nor there.

He paused as he wiped down the bar, taking a sip of the beer he always had close at hand. Business was light that evening, only a few regulars dotting the bar stools and the booths beyond. He knew them each by name and occasionally called out a joke or swear to find out if they had passed out in their mugs.

“Hey there, Jemes!” Robert called to one patron in particular who sat slumped against the wall in a corner booth. “Don’t you have to go home to your wife and my kids round about now?”
The man named Jemes stirred and groaned.
“Let’s go now, man. I’m sure they’re waiting with open hands to take your hard earned beer money. Get yourself out of here!”
Jemes pulled himself out of the booth, staggered upright, and wandered towards the door as if Robert’s wish was his command.

No sooner had Jemes closed the door than it swung back open, revealing three young men dressed in leather jackets and short pants.
“… aye, so long as the beer’s good. Get yerself movin’, lad. Yer keepin’ me from my goal.”
“Ach. The beer ain’t goin’ anywhere. Have some patience.”
The trio had loud voices and even louder demeanors. They may have already been drunk, but they could have simply been obnoxious.
“What can I get you boys?” Robert asked, already setting up three mugs under the assumption that they would be ordering the only thing in the house: beer.
“Three beers, barkeep. Two adult sizes and one in a sippy cup fer our little brother, here. Who turns the ripe old age of 19 this very night,” one of them said, slapping another on the shoulder and giving them a half-hug.
“Well congratulations,” Robert said to the birthday boy as he set the mug in front of him.
“Aye, thanks,” the boy said as he picked up his mug and immediately turned away from his brothers to survey the room.
“Lovely place ya got here. The Wild Jasmine, is it? That mean ya got …” a brother paused to clear his throat “some entertainment by the name of Jasmine?”
Robert chuckled, “Afraid not. You might be able to find some …” he cleared his throat to mimic the man, “entertainment in the border towns, though. Those folk know how to have a good time.”

One of the brothers turned towards the drunken regulars. “Looks like these boys know how to have a good time, though! Don’tcha fellas?”
Silence met the question, though someone may have groaned.
“Right. Party on, then,” the young man mumbled into his mug.
“Maybe ya can help us, barkeep,” the tallest brother said. “We’re lookin’ fer some work. Know a place that would hire three strappin’ young lads?”
“Well, this is mostly a logging town. The foreman works out of a shack about two miles up the treeline that way,” Robert indicated by pointing to his right. “He should be sitting out on his front porch having a nightcap around this time. He’d probably be in the best mood to approach him for work.”
“Looks like we’re hiking a little further, men. Mind if we take the beers ta go?”
“Go ahead, I don’t think I’ll need the glasses tonight. Bring them back if you can.”
“Thank ya, my good man,” the tallest man said as he spread a few coins out on the bar. “Let’s go, ladies. Time ta hit the road again.”
The birthday boy tottered towards the door on unsteady feet. “Good, this place is creepin’ me out,” he mumbled before being pushed towards the door.
“Ah, you’re just drunk,” his brother told him as he followed.
“No, he’s got a point. There’s somethin’ … unholy ‘bout this place,” the tallest said as the door closed behind him. Bob shook his head. The Tenth Barony couldn’t have been more peaceful, at least in his opinion.

Time passed and the night wore on. When it became clear that most of his patrons were near the end of either their money or their consciousness, Robert roused them and shooed them out the door. As always, he watched them stumble into the distance to make sure he didn’t find them passed out on his front lawn the next morning. As he turned to lock up the bar, something in the treeline caught his eye.

For a moment, his heart froze. Two hooded figures in the trees was never a good sign. As a third figure came into sight, Robert cursed himself for having not brought his sword with him. He instinctively knew the hoods were those drunken children with the stupid accents and obnoxious personalities. Those types were always nothing but trouble. He cracked his knuckles and turned fully towards them … and was startled to see even more hooded figures walking straight towards him, double file. The two in the front of the line held long, thin candles which glowed a sickly green color. The rest carried a throne on their shoulders, upon which was seated a woman of unsurpassed beauty.

The procession filed down the road, their feet making not a sound upon the gravel. Their movement was smooth and effortless – as they drew closer Robert saw that they did not walk, but rather floated. Within the illumined hoods each of the cloaked figures wore a draping of white cloth over the face - two dark holes cut into the cloth gave the impression of gaping eyes in a featureless skull. Robert’s heart jumped into his throat and started pounding against his ribcage, so frightened by the sight that it wanted to get a running start ahead of his body.

Robert never much believed in ghosts, but one glance is all it took to make him a staunch believer. As the group passed by and continued on towards the trails leading deep into the forest, the woman on the throne turned her head to look at him. In that single moment, Robert Braxxx experienced every beauty and every horror of humanity that could ever be conveyed in the eyes of a woman. Her face was expressionless, dead and pale, but her eyes burned with a promise best forgotten – eternal pleasure and eternal damnation, the one moment in time when you are most alive but closest to death.

Unconsciously, Robert pressed himself back against the door of his tavern, taking comfort in the solid oak. The procession stopped in the middle of a field, causing Robert to fumble for the doorknob behind him. Get inside and lock the door, shut the windows, crawl under the bed, and keep the lights burning all night. Instinct grappled for control of his motor functions. His mind bade him to act but his body could not shake the paralysis of fear.

He watched helplessly as one of the candle bearers broke away from the procession … and raced effortlessly across the field, at great speed, directly at him. Robert’s eyes widened as the specter flew closer – right then, Robert was certain that he was a dead man. Instinct finally gained control as he turned his back on the ghostly form bearing down upon him. He grabbed hold of the doorknob, pushed the door open, and tumbled into the tavern, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him. Of course, a door would never keep a ghost out, but all logic had fled from him. He raced to his room above the tavern, barricaded the door, unsheathed his rusty blade, and waited until morning for the dead to claim him.

By the sun rose over the Tenth barony, he had almost convinced himself that it was only a nightmare.