Arena: The Dark Ages Part II

It was never meant to be

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The Amazing Nova
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Arena: The Dark Ages Part II

Post by The Amazing Nova »

One Night, Lost to Memory

One night is all it takes. Mistakes and disasters were nothing new to the Arenalands. Everything could change in a single night. It had happened before … it was happening again. Though the explosions were political and the aftermath reached much farther than anyone could possibly know, the Arena and its surrounding baronies were about to change drastically.

In the dead of night, as others were chased by ghosts both real and imagined, secret meetings carried forward and whispered conversations told stories of plots and rumors – some true, others not. Though midnight came and went, there was no rest to be found. One man’s death in a world of destruction had pushed minds to the very edge, where imagination became stronger than rationality, while bodies grew weary but could not find the oblivion of sleep.

There were people in that world which knew that one death was the beginning. Some were persons of magic, others seers of the future – those men and women would never deign to interfere in the course of events. Let self-ordained heroes play their role to fight those they see as villains.

Rare was the man that could forecast the future of that world without a second sight or magic spell. A certain amalgam of qualities was required to be such a man – he would need to be capable of reading not just the hearts and minds of a single man, but the hearts and minds of the masses as a whole, ever-vigilant for welling panic and unrest. This sort of political animal would understand events not for what they were, but for what they could be. He would need to be a spider king, able to feel even the slightest vibration in the web of the world.

Such a man existed, many miles outside the borders of the Arenalands, and news traveled to him on swift wings. He was not happy.

“Laird MacKenzie, I bid you be calm. We cannot fathom what tonight’s events mean without further information. It could have simply been an accident,” a voice pleaded, carrying out a window and into the open air of the courtyard.
“I will not be calm until we know exactly what this means! Why would he kill a man … a boy really … that posed no threat to him or any of his plans?” another voice answered, strong and confident in both tone and reason. “Camilla, I want the other generals in here NOW. Chreytien, send a messenger to G’nort and find out just what the hell is happening in his lands. Find out if the mountain fortress gates will be open for us if we need to make a move.”
“Yes sir!” a door slammed shut.
“Ian, again, I bid you be calm,” the voices quieted as emotion gave way to level heads. Only murmurs could now be heard by those outside.

Two guards stood at ease near a side gate to the courtyard, having heard most of the excited conversation from the window above. One rolled his eyes at the other.
“Sounds like the Laird needs a good brandy, a good woman, and a good night’s sleep,” he said to the other before adding, “… in that order.”
His fellow guard leaned back against the high wall, stretching his arms over his head. “Not likely ta find any of those ‘round these parts. Hasn’t been a good brandy since that big explosion, there’s no such thing as a good woman, and I’m convinced the man never sleeps.”
“Hey now, there is such a thing as a good woman. I know that much is true.”
“She’s only good ta ya because ya pay her ta be, Kert. She’d just as soon stab ya in the back and take yer wallet.”
“I’m pretty sure I’d have to pay extra for that one.”
The two men looked at each other for a moment and then chuckled. Their laughter stopped immediately as the door to the main house opened.

A man dressed in light leather armor stopped outside the doorway to set a skull cap helm on his head before closing the door behind him. He took one moment to adjust his blue cloak and started off towards the two watchmen and the door they guarded. The two men snapped to full attention and saluted as he approached.
“Captain Chreytien,” they greeted the newcomer in unison.
“Gentlemen,” Chreytien saluted them casually and gestured for them to be at ease. “An ugly night.”
“More whispers of war, sir?” the guard named Kert ventured.
“As always. But only whispers. One of these days someone will start a war just to end the damned rumors. I trust everything is quiet out here?”
“Except fer the Laird’s shouting, all’s quiet,” the other guard stated.
“Yes, it’s a damn shame about that boy’s death. I had a lot of money wrapped up in some excellent odds that the boy would be a baron by winter,” Chreytien shook his head slowly before slapping a hand against his thigh. “Ah well. That’s why they call it gambling. Have a good night, gents. Be vigilant.”
The Captain of the Royal Guard, Chreytien, opened the side entryway and stepped out into the night beyond. As his footfalls slowly died away, the guards relaxed once again, entirely oblivious to the shadows gathering around them.

“Ian, listen to reason. This isn’t the first death in the Arena and it certainly won’t be the last. We have no reason to believe this is anything other than a grand accident. Perhaps the Overlord’s Ward is finally failing.”
“Camilla, the boy got four touches on Kress, which all healed. Both of their hands healed during the ritual of blood. The ward failed, but it failed selectively. That’s the problem here. That’s what smells of a plot. Why would they want him dead? It’s something I need to understand.”
Camilla sighed quietly. “I doubt we will ever understand it. As exhilarating as those duels get, I sometimes cannot understand why people must die so that others may feel more alive. Wars I understand, rivalries I do not.”
“War is nothing more than rivalries, Camilla. Only rather than settling the rivalry with your own blade, you settle it with your orders and allow others to die in your stead,” Ian said as he sat down heavily at the only table in the room. Despite the summer heat, a fire was crackling in the hearth.
“I do not believe that, nor will I ever see it in such a way,” the woman named Camilla stated, her voice quiet and her words strangely accented.
A long silence crept into the room, two people giving up a struggle to understand the other’s moral stance.
“I asked you to call together the other generals. I would like a report before dawn,” Ian finally said as he looked up.
“As you wish. I will rouse them,” Camilla placed her hand against her chest in salute and walked towards the door.
“General,” Ian called to her before she had left.
“Laird?”
“This is going to be bad. I can feel it. Make sure your people are prepared for it.”
Camilla looked down for a moment and then nodded. “Yes, my Laird.”
The door closed.

In the courtyard below, the shadows grew longer as a torch sputtered and died. Kert sighed as his eye was immediately drawn towards the absence of light.
“Damned things. You’d think it was raining,” he complained.
“It’s pretty humid. I guess they just don’t make torches like they used ta.”
“What is there to it? You take a stick, wrap some cloth around it, soak it in pitch, and light it on fire. We’re not talking a fault in a mass production line here,” Kert said as he lifted another torch out of its bracket and walked over towards the dead light.
“Careful ya don’t light yerself up again, Kert. I know how dangerous ya are with fire.”
Kert gestured rudely over his shoulder before disappearing into the shadows of the darkened area. His fellow guard watched him go and turned away to chuckle to himself before it registered in his mind. Kert was carrying a torch but disappeared into shadows. He blinked as the incongruous image filled his mind.

He turned around to investigate, but his knees buckled beneath him. He blinked again and raised a hand to touch his throat. It came away bloody. The ground rushed up to meet him.

Kert’s torch flared brightly for a moment and then died altogether, snuffed out as if doused by water. He stood there for a moment, dumbfounded in the darkness. He turned to retrieve another light, only to find the entire courtyard dark. The stars above gave off very little light.

A shadow moved and Kert immediately dropped the torch, reaching for his sword. He had drawn it only halfway when the shadow fell upon him, light as a feather but razor sharp. He felt a sharp pain in his chest and could only count the beats of his heart until it failed. His last thought, a strange thought … the shadow was a girl. It smelled of lilacs. He was dead before he hit the ground. Two shadows met in the middle of the courtyard and moved onward toward the manor house.
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Post by The Amazing Nova »

The Assassins

Ian MacKenzie sat alone, lost in thought. His every intuition was screaming that the world was about to change once again, only this time he would have a chance to control that change – mold it into something good. He couldn’t prevent the disaster that had taken the lives of so many of his friends and enemies. On the rare occasions he did sleep, he would relive that night again and again. Sometimes the dreams would come to him as it truly happened, with him standing on his balcony, watching helplessly as the mushroom cloud dissipated over the far away lands. Sometimes he would be among the rubble, seeking survivors, finding friends … sometimes they were even alive.

No one would ever understand the depths to which that one night haunted him. He was a man that needed control and few men could ever hope to hold the reins to disaster. Part of him held himself at fault for distancing himself from the Arena before the cataclysm … the other part cursed him for refusing to step in when the new Arena’s bloodshed began – still, there was nothing he could do then. The Arena, new or old, was not his responsibility and could never be his to control. The sport and now the lands associated with it were their own entities and never truly needed his guidance.

He had lost friends, true, both before and after the disaster, but what bothered him even more is that he was nothing but a bystander to the disaster. He didn’t even know it had occurred until someone had awakened him and told him of the earthquake and fire on the horizon. It was a night that made him realize he was not the all-knowing man he had believed himself to be. Since then, he had worked diligently to correct that flaw.

At first, lost in thought, MacKenzie didn’t realize that the room had grown darker. A few candles had gone out, victims of a summer wind. When the fire in the hearth hissed and began to blink out, all six senses came alive. As the room plunged into darkness, he stood up calmly and removed a sword from its resting place above the hearth.

The stars through the window were blotted out by shadow. One attacker. Ian cleared his mind and reached out … and his mind was repulsed. One attacker, mentally shielded. So he came prepared. MacKenzie relaxed himself and placed his back against the mantelpiece, prepared for an attack from any direction. Almost immediately a feral thought was caught in the snare of his telepathic trap. A second attacker, unshielded but animalistic. He redoubled his preparations, indeed ready for any attack … except one from below. Something grabbed his ankle and pulled, sending him crashing against the table before him.

Immediately he slashed his sword downward, striking nothing but a floorboard. In the dead light of the evening, he saw a shadow crawl from the fireplace and smelled the scattered ash hanging in the air. His eyes could not follow the attacker into the deeper shadows. He turned again, throwing himself back against a wall, feeling rather than seeing a blade slash through the air where his face had been.

Another shadow crossed in front of the window and Ian leapt to meet it, slashing his sword in a controlled arc designed to force the attacker back and to the right, towards the other would-be assassin Ian knew to be in the room. If there were more than two of them, he may be overpowered – though he sensed only the chaotic mind and the stark emptiness of the shielded assassin, he couldn’t be certain others didn’t lie in wait. He had to give them credit for coming down the chimney – he didn’t think even an average sized man could fit down it. He made a mental note to have a mason fix the chimney so that not even a wet kitten could fit through.

Through the dark came a quiet chanting that caused Ian to curse inwardly. Were they prepared for him or not? If they were, they would know their magicks wouldn’t harm him. The room was lit up briefly as a blue fireball surged through the darkness, its light revealing two attackers clad in black clothing and masks. Ian stood his ground and was vaguely surprised when the fireball crashed into him with a wet splash rather than an eruption of flame. Having no time to consider the absurdity of the magic, MacKenzie got to his feet and scrambled across the room, his blade slicing through the darkness again and again, cutting only air every time.

Once more he paused, listening intently but hearing only his heart hammering in his chest. His eye was caught by a glimmer on his chest, causing him to glance down and realize that the spell that had touched him was not offensive, but simply a spell to mark prey – the oil soaking his shirt glowed dimly in the darkened room, giving away his position for all to see.

A shout in the distance was followed by the sounds of many feet racing across the courtyard below. Reinforcements would be arriving soon. Ian turned back towards the dim light from the window, straining his eyes to gauge where the attackers had hidden. The chaotic mind was behind him – before he could react to it, he heard the soft click of a door being locked. He turned and jumped towards the assassin, but his blade only caught the door frame.

A quiet cry of surprise and the smell of lilacs revealed the attacker to be a female … his thoughts swept out, for an instant pushing through the chaos of the woman’s mind to find her true image … and he knew exactly where she was. Better still, he knew where she was going. Small feet scurried away into the darkness once again. Ian insured that the door was unlocked before moving back towards the center of the room, prey becoming the predator. The sounds of feet on the stairs signaled the arrival of the cavalry and the door flew off its hinges, entirely forgoing the lock altogether. Three women burst into the room, two holding torches and the other standing spear in hand.

“Laird, come away quickly!” Camilla cried out.
Before Ian could respond a shadow fell upon him, knocking him to the ground. A dagger sliced past his face as he shifted his body and kicked the female attacker away. The torch-bearers reached for the girl but she was too quick – she got to her feet and launched herself at Ian again. Camilla was there to meet her.

The haft of her spear slammed into the stomach of the assassin, knocking her back to the floor. She cried out pitifully as the butt end of the spear immediately took her in the temple. The torch-bearers lifted her off her feet and held her in their iron grip.

“There’s another in here,” Ian said as the female assassin struggled. Camilla had already circled the room carefully and checked the window.
“There is no one else. They must have jumped.”
Ian reached out in futile attempt to find the shielded one. All he could feel was the chaos of the girl and the steadfast loyalty from the three others in the room.
The female held by the two guards kicked and screamed viciously. Ian stepped forward in mind and body, causing the struggling to cease. He pulled the assassin’s mask away, revealing a child-like face and a shock of silver hair. Her wide green eyes were wild and burning fiercely in the torchlight.
“Who are you?” Ian asked her, already knowing her name but wanting to see if she would give information freely.
“I’m sorry, please just let me go. They made me do it,” the girl cried out. Tears brimmed in her eyes.
Ian’s mouth twitched. He’d expected pleading … at least some offer of information in exchange for mercy, but he didn’t expect to hear an open appeal made through the argument of coercion. The chaos of her mind suddenly gave way to a childlike fear. Her thoughts gave him pause.
“Who made you do this?”
She looked from him to a point somewhere over his shoulder.
“I did,” came another voice, followed by two explosions that were deafening in the confined space of the room. The flashes of light that accompanied them were almost blinding after MacKenzie’s prolonged exposure to the darkness. The two guards holding the other assassin crumpled to the floor.

Camilla stood staring at the scene, her spear at the ready but unable to act as the assassin’s weapons thundered. He was standing in plain sight – somehow he had managed to mask his presence from them all, even as she secured the room. And her failure had cost the lives of her comrades and perhaps even her commander. Before she could even breathe the guns boomed again, sending MacKenzie spinning to the floor.

Without a word the assassin turned and surged toward her, the unmasked girl close behind him. Camilla lifted her spear and cried out in anger and frustration. The assassin dove directly at her, snapping the haft of the spear with his weight. His momentum carried them both through the window. The last thing she remembered was the world spinning away from her.
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