Chapter 34 - Death surge of a prince (First Evolution arc)

　　Weightless, a moment frozen in time, the two moving nearer together; they were the same and they were opposites, splitting the large open grounds of the arena in two.

　　In one part silence reigned—the bone-warrior walking with the sure-footed stride of one habituated to having nothing and no one to run from. The last line of defence before Gorkon. His days of conquest were long since over, fighting human elites and jockeying for status against goblin raid captains and warchiefs. But his status as ex-champion held a certain weight still, palpable to those who stood near him too long; he had this way of exploding in a fit of madness only Gorkon could curb.

　　Then on the other side of the arena, the prince cut through the distance like a man possessed, testing the limits of his new legs—it felt like flying. Far behind him now, the rookies hid at the edge furthest away from the entrance and exit, captives with their captain and watchman, all beholden to the outcome of this fight they had no business being near.

　　The prince heard his heart, its penetrating beat, flashing past his breath and step, all three so heavy and clear. He ran so hard to stop from thinking—his will might fade if he slowed down a hair. Leaping into his opponent`s reach, the prince curved his steel steeply upward, ready for a crash he hoped; his mind trailed a pace or two behind.

　　Colliding then, the bone-warrior dug in his heels. An effort to brace though his body slid back, surprise flitting in the hollow of his eyes—he did not expect the strength of the prince; they were a realm apart in the chain of evolution. But the sordid smile he then gave showed the truth—he held power in reserve, a vast tank left untapped. Saved for that rare worthy challenge all warriors want.

　　The prince felt the flaring of his aura, the royal blue striking out like a sword. A sinister red struck back—the bone-warrior`s force that matched his own, steel for steel and might for will. No... it surpassed him. By the second blow the prince was driven back; the third landed on his shield, and the fourth he ducked under, barely, swivelling to regain a stance that made sense, further apart, for his mind had caught up now. Bade him extreme caution.

　　"Greha... hu... huaa," the bone-warrior`s sound was as his look, rattling to the core—the skeletal cloak that clattered, accentuating each step; it was constant. The reminder of death.

　　Sliding aside, the prince sought to evade rather than block—the blows were too heavy to take in succession. Though moving deftly and with purpose, the prince found no reprieve from the brutal onslaught. The distance between them did not increase; not an inch of ground was given by the aggressor, the bone-warrior moving in close like a shadow—their ways would not part, save for the one and final time.

　　The prince then stepped in instead of out, wielding his shield as a weapon, surging up to meet a downward strike. The bone-warrior`s blade cracked down on the shield moving up, shearing along its ridged edge, sending sparks flying. Now then—bending low with his abdomen braced, the prince hewed at the feet of his foe in an unguarded instant, so he hoped. But the bone-warrior raised one leg in response, catching the blade on his plated greave—the bastard had armour on, of course... most high-ranking goblins did. Only the prince was still clad in beggar`s rags.

　　Spinning away, the prince heard his own frantic heart again; it rose with each beat over the clamour of battle, the frayed panting sound of his lungs breathing fire—gods alive he was spent. A handful of bouts had him reeling with shame and exhaustion; the foe was simply too strong.

　　Relentless in pursuit, the bone-warrior lurched in, his eyes ablaze with a red mad fervour. Metal clinked under his cloak of bone, and it was only then that the prince fully realized the folly of his endeavour. The foe was an impenetrable mass moving at impossible speeds—Zazra`s pace was ponderous in comparison. He parried where possible, took the full force of the bone-warrior`s blows when not—his shield was as breath, both vital and fleeting... his arm was aflame with weariness.

　　How much longer could he keep this up? Now there was a thought a warrior would discard.

　　Discard—the notion flashed past, swift as steel and likewise incisive.

　　The prince flung his shield at the face of his foe, the latter half-ducking as he sliced at the strange projectile wobbling through the air toward him—there was no great might behind the throw.

　　Meanwhile, the prince had whirled clear, taking a breath to himself, but no more than the one. He ran at the weapon`s rack, scanning its contents—was there anything here aside from a second sword he could wield? His eye focused in on the blurs in the back, the cowering rookies. The captain was there, and the watchman, and... his whip, the prince thought in a reckless moment. A weapon so light and strictly for offense. It was bold, but hardly a decision—the prince felt nothing but dire necessity.

　　Looking over his shoulder to assess the distance, the prince saw the foe and his plodding gait—there was no cause for speed beyond the swiftness of steel and step in the heat of battle. The bone-warrior walked the prince down, knowing full well he had no place to run, nowhere was safe inside the arena. And the exit was too far; they were locked in this together.

　　Searching the ground for the whip, the prince saw the captain`s arm stretch, pointing as his mouth moved, though there was no sound—only the pulsing of blood could be heard. The off-beat pump of a royal heart.

　　He followed the path and grabbed hold of the whip—it was there for the taking. The prince spun back round, saw the bone-warrior stall in his step till he merely stood still, waiting. A blatant taunt, the prince thought at first. But then his ears pricked up to far-off chant... soothing sounds that sought to sway and not command, not outright.

　　The source was a seeress, her large and bell-like frame stationed at the gated arena entrance. And her singing was a spell, aimed at the bone-warrior, though the prince gave a twitch too, his body bending in awe to this creature`s charm, a fallen angel if ever there was one, her droning melody boring deeper down than a sword could cut.

　　And the bone-warrior stood entranced—this must have been the plan from the start. A mirthless duel in which the odds were ever in the prince`s favour. Some handpicked enchantress sent by the taskmaster, ordered to quell the bone-warrior`s will if he threatened to win.

　　No. Not like that. All his time down here had been hell—the notion of free will torqued to the point of breaking; there was nothing of the sort. His every conquest had been gifted by the golden hands of the ruling god, the one of his kind remaining. Foul Gorkon had a decisive say in his every captive hour. The ruthless stain of his artifice clung to the very air the prince could but breathe—there ended his say in the matter; his lungs did the rest. And in the same way his will. Sculpted to suit the master`s plan. To make the prince think his acts held the weight of consequence, when in truth they were vapid as air. His resolve meant nothing; all victories were hollow. Gorkon would not let him die, not before he had secured Dicebolg and done what was needed—even this was unclear. What malevolent means he would have to enact, the prince as a puppet. To revive the true devil. Kageru.

　　He was scared and tired—his body shook from awe still, and now from outrage. Begone with these meddlesome deities, the ones that had left to good riddance... and the one that remained, he would root out later. Gorkon would die at his hands. And for that he needed strength, which Gorkon might grant him. And he needed his own mind, the freedom of will that the taskmaster toyed at, seemed keen on bestowing in false acts that felt real—but no more. The prince would carve his own path, severing the safeties installed by that bastard Gorkon`s contriving grace.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

　　"Stop," said the prince to the seeress, loud enough so the command would ring clear. His voice moved beyond hers, though in different timbres. But the result of the clashing, her chant and his command... it was not in doubt. The seeress ceased her song, stood there wobbling with eyes glazed over. Her hold over the bone-warrior broken.

　　And the bone-warrior leered at the prince with all shades of malice glinting, the reds of his ire and aura, the purples and blacks of a singular doom—that was the promise made to the prince who had saved him from disrepute, a fangless and seeress-led duel. One he was built to lose.

　　The vengeful gaze was one of recognition—the bone-warrior seeing the prince as an honourable challenger, worthy of the final resolution two warriors bring to bear on any inquiry: who is the grandest, the one who remains when the other is dust.

　　But the prince had his own heart-felt notions on what pride would allow in the context of duels. No outside interference, that much was self-evident; it`s why the seeress had to go—she was violating the sanctified yet unspoken pact between two high-calibre men.

　　That said... the prince was not above plaguing the foe with his worst weaknesses, be they combat-oriented or outside of that scope. The bone-warrior`s body was beyond rebuke... but his mind was soft in places, the prince recalled. When he and Artisan and Linaria had returned, were given entrance to the tribe`s great halls... the bone-warrior had stood there, dazed and aloof in his role of groundskeeper. Babbling on about the rookie games.

　　And let the psyche be the penultimate factor in battleground success—so close did the psychological reside to the physical forces with which a war is won, that the difference seemed to most seasoned scholars, among which the prince, infinitesimal at best. Time, then, to bring in a different kind of warfare, targeting the mind and not directly the body.

　　"Welcome to the rookie games!" bellowed the prince at his foe, who was again rooted to the ground, the hard lines of him blurred as his body went slack. The bone-warrior mouthed something in response, though inordinately faintly for a man with a resounding voice, the kind he possessed. "Pick one," he said, utterly frazzled as the prince had foreseen.

　　The bone-warrior lived on the edge of reason, a half-snap away from breaking. Gorkon kept him there not with hateful intent, but because it was the best possible state still achievable... this veteran groundskeeper had grown so old, had been through so much, that most of his self had by now eroded. An identity in tatters. Some shade or two removed from madness, that was where he dwelt, by his will or its opposite, the strict enforcement from above—nay, below. Gorkon`s unwillingness to let the man go. And in that case, the god had again proved the greatest bastard living. The prince would grow and gut him like a boar. With his god-blade Dicebolg. Let us soon see if a god can bleed.

　　The prince moved in close, lashed his newfound whip at the chest of the bone-warrior, who did not stir; the bones rattled over the sonic boom, as did the sharp grating clink of a ricochet—the whip striking the metal of his breastplate.

　　No damage was done, naturally—a whip could not pierce or dent a knight`s armour. It was a test, to see how the bone-warrior might react to being struck.

　　"Gruhe... gruhu... GRAAAH," the guttural gasps of the bone-warrior rent the soul of every goblin in there. He barrelled straight toward the prince now, running and leaping. No hint of his earlier composure. No semblance of defence either.

　　The prince lashed his whip hard at the exposed parts of the foe`s hulking form, drawing blood at the biceps and elbow, but not enough, for the charging foe did not relent. Then the prince cracked the whip at the madman`s face, inflicting brutal deep wounds—blood came gushing from the split lip and the spliced-open nose... yet the bone-warrior strode on, unperturbed by the pain and irrevocable disfigurement.

　　A true warrior, exalted by his strife—and the prince felt a flick of remorse that was promptly extinguished. In one calmed-down beat of a dead man`s heart. The prince could not allow the real-world sway of emotional vicissitudes; he felt what he felt in the privacy of his mind, giving no great meaning to anything; they were all to him akin to stray thoughts of sex or love or other past things. They fizzled out without follow-up. He shook them all off, then moved in for the kill.

　　"Rise tall and honour yourself," said the prince as he cast away his whip, took a two-handed grip round the hilt of his longsword. "The mark of the enemy is the mark of death." All quotes from the rookie games, cracking at the mind of his foe like a whip does to skin.

　　The prince sought to strike, but the foe was still swift—their blades crashed together, and the prince did not budge. Nor did the bone-warrior. Deadlocked they stood in a test of final mettle, the strain and weight of metal grinding, staring at the soul with eyes both hollow and venomous—the two qualities could coexist. The two men could not.

　　"Welcome, bastard... to the rookie games," taunted the prince once more as he leaned in with his full might, incensed by the struggle he still experienced—the foe should be a convulsing heap from the mental turmoil; the split between mind and body, the former long gone and the latter retaining ground and gaining. Again, the prince was pushed back.

　　He let it all go then, tapping from his own vast pool of anguish—he saw Gael`s rotting corpse, what it must look like now. "Graaaah, gru... gruueh," he heard himself utter and it fuelled him more, to sound like a goddamn greenskin and not a prince. What a timeless affront. And someone would pay. How about the bone- and metal-clad body here before him?

　　The prince flared out in blue, the royal mark lighting up strong and spreading—his sword caught the same hue as the air jolted round him, sparking out parts of his great and untenable rage. His eyes pulled wide with hate, for the world that had doomed him, and for himself, having allowed the world in.

　　The stalemate seemed then to resolve—the prince being of a single mind, whilst the bone-warrior was torn between unyielding rage and a broad hell-born confusion.

　　Sweat poured as the prince gave a final surge forth, pushing past the foe and his faltering guard, blade slicing through the air and looping round, faster than his foe`s defence might recover. With a final hard slash, the prince forced his blue-lit steel through the metal and bone at the foe`s chest and abdomen, raking through flesh till the sword stalled at the midway point—close to cleaving the champion in half.

　　"Hah," the prince let out in unearthly fatigue, closing his eyes and relaxing, the fool he was. Had he learned nothing?—the thought spun around in his vacant head; all effort had gone to expunging the face of Gael, the way she would look now, so pale and grey and with flesh gone missing to maggots and...

　　He opened his eyes and it was too late—the bone-warrior had shambled toward him, his vile green hand reaching out, grabbing the skull of the prince and squeezing with all the might that remained in that dead broken body.

　　Death surge. Like that other old champion, Vol`krin. There is no give in these goblin warriors. Savages down to the rotten core.

　　The prince jerked back, grabbed the foe`s hand with his and wrenched with all the bitter-wrought fury he had left, though his vision went warped and the lines of reality blurred... then he heard a loud breaking as if from afar, but he felt it—his own damn skull cracking. The last thing he saw was the blood, spurting from his crushed eye-sockets.

　　Falling down, the prince thought of home, of Gael and of Gendrin, a knee-jerk thought of the three things that anchored him straight to being still—he could not die, though his body was ruined.

　　He heard the wheezing grunts of the one who had got him—the dreaded bone-warrior who was damn near bifurcated but breathing. This sick bastard had done him in. Why was he alive still? Why was anyone? The hell with this.

　　Death surge.

　　The prince gave a goblin-true howl as he flailed upward in freefall, grabbing onto the sagging form of the foe so they fell together. Though the prince could not see, he could feel the metal chest, then the flesh of the bone-warrior`s face, and he gripped tight like a vice, swivelling round or flopping his body—whichever way it looked, the result was what counted. The prince lay sprawled on top of the bone-warrior, could hear his sick grunts of pleasure and pain—the man relished his own demise, as long as he went down a champion.

　　He would not.

　　The prince pulled the foe`s skull hard toward him, as high up as he could manage. Then he called for a final time upon his weight and his might, smashing down the skull to the arena ground. He heard a dreadful laughing, as though the bastard was enjoying this, mocking the prince in his feeble last efforts.

　　Moving on instinct, the prince`s fingers felt around for softer tissue, finding the foe`s eyes. He angled his thumbs just right, pressed in and through, a loud pop and then a yell of fear and grave agony.

　　Now the prince let out a sick laugh, pulling the skull in again and bashing it down, harder—he was coming alive with the yielding groans of his blood-sworn foe. Five more times the same, and the back of it popped out; the skull was both hard and soft, a slushing sound of mush as it hit the ground.

　　The prince went on without vision and sound, slamming the slippery mess down until there was nothing much left to hold onto.

　　Only then did he roll off his foe, shocked by the motion into feeling, grasping at last the immensity of his pain. This was the feeling of death; he had endured it before. He thought of Gael as she once was, lively and young... or tried to—he could not trace out the feeling she gave. The prince and his mind, they were too far gone.

　　The world fell away.

　　There was only darkness.