Chapter 9 - Champion of the melee (Rookie Games arc)

　　Cedric stiffened in shock at the primal might of the foe`s ululation. Vol`krin, beast of the sands—like a curse the name lingered in the breeze, beating at the low-slung prince with the force of a gale. There was power in names spoken true—so it was written in the dust-addled tomes of the wildkin, wandering magi long gone extinct. Leximancy they called it—the foul art of bringing one`s soul to bear in the blaze of battle, harnessing it like a hellfire hex, stifling the enemy`s will. It was a dangerous thing, a beastly thing, fighting in such a way. To stoke the fire of war with one`s own will and name... the fire born of it was a counterfire, lashing at friend and foe alike. Many a magi had lost themselves in it—for a leximancer, failure did not come lightly. A curse of madness on those who invoke the force of a name and fall short in honouring the call... to die the small death—that is the cost should the foe not fall. The name will never be what it was in the aftermath. Neither will the magus.

　　But to think that the guttural shrieks of a goblin could hold the power to impel, like the word of the leximancer... that was without precedent.

　　And if there was room for fear in the hearts of princes, then even the staunchest of them would shudder before the beast of the sands—Vol`krin the mighty.

　　In a panic-stricken daze, Cedric fought to retain his ground, to harden the hold of his hand around the hilt of the dagger wrenched deep in the brute`s gut. Deeper still in the brute`s clenched-around hand.

　　The prince hauled and heaved with a hope bordering on desperation, hell-bent on retrieving the wooden weapon, throwing his weight in the brittle scales, slipping and sliding in the treacherous sand. But like hardened stone or a mason`s wall, the weapon would not budge—nor would the man, Vol`krin the static, unmovable as the mountain. His grip tightened around the dagger`s dull blade, bereft now of the shimmering blue glory Cedric had breathed into being, briefly and unknowingly, thinking of home and hell—thoughts of kingdom and king and a throne he would never sit. Lothrian. With all his heart, Lothrian.

　　And be it by grace or folly, the prince held firm to pride and to principle. He would shatter the mind and body of his foe. As he himself had once been shattered.

　　Let blood beget more blood.

　　"I am Cedric, prince of the Blackrose... captain of the Lothrian guard and commander of the northern brigade... keeper of the ranks in my father`s stead."

　　The prince called upon his name as the foe had done before him. And whether it was for true or merely a spectre in the mind... a vital force roiled like the salty waves around him, cool and firm as the earth at winter`s end. Stoic as the snow upon the ancient hills. Unfaltering like the hail breaking from an iron-grey sky. Strong and whole and beautiful.

　　Beautiful like a broken memory. Gael. Always Gael.

　　With the final flare of his physical might, Cedric heaved at the dagger`s hilt. The blade shone a royal blue—a fleeting instant of soul-wrought strength. But it was enough.

　　Ripping clean away at the boundary of flesh, the dagger dislodged from the gut and grip of Vol`krin, slicing apart the hand of the fiend and his fingers; slicing open his abdomen wall. His innards came gushing out, blood spattering the sanctified grounds of the arena—a dark red and then a bright red, venous blood and arterial blood. More than the waves could wash clean, not in a fortnight or longer.

　　But primal fury is a fire that rages. On and on it rages.

　　The prince in backwards fall, the dagger torn free from his broken grip—the strength of his flesh-rending pull had proved too great, and the dagger came clattering, down on the sands of fire and blood.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

　　With the strength of a titan, Vol`krin flailed out a seeking limb, finding the face of the buckler Cedric for life and death held onto. Latching on as fury to a flame, Vol`krin grabbed and yanked, pulling the buckler... and the prince into his domain.

　　For all things good and holy, the prince clung to the buckler, flew like an arrow through the wind, straight into the dead man`s hold. Gored Vol`krin, fighting like a lion for his pride, made a grab for the prince`s throat. Missing by a whisker.

　　With the swift grace of a wind altering its course, Cedric had sought the man`s shoulder, reaching up and back and swinging his whole weight around. If it was to end in a dead-locked brawl, then it would be on the prince`s terms.

　　Cedric let go of the handle, discarding the buckler that had served him so... and in the streaking heat of a moment wrapped his arms around the neck of the goliath, lodging the crook of his elbow firmly against the beast`s frothing throat. Wringing closed like a vice, in and back, with a princely knee burrowing deep in the heaving musculature of the foe`s back.

　　Falling—two as one cracking down hard on the gritty sands of the shore. The prince braced and held on, graced by the mercy of gravity... it was a mere goblin-height drop, two feet and a touch. And it was a broken fall of a broken foe. No stability left in the sliced-off core of him.

　　Cedric clenched down and around the throat, bearing the weight of the man writhing over him. Still the beast had more to give. Strength beyond strength. His throat and neck were iron, even now. Operating on instinct and instinct alone, the foe tensed the sinewy brawn around the oesophagus... and there was no give. So wide was the gap in power that the prince thought twice, uncertain whether the balancing of the scales—the foe`s chances and his—would favour him in a protracted stalemate.

　　But the prince knew: brutes of this sort are tied down only to instinct. Slaves to the greater will of bodies, ever beholden to their nature—lashing out, thrashing like a beast in the dark.

　　"You fight for nothing," the prince spat in a tone of derision, daring the foe to open his feral mouth. To yield more of his mastery over breath and life. To commit harder to his own doom.

　　"Dark and alone, a creature of the night—that is all you are." The prince furthering his ploy.

　　"I fight for the light. I fight for Bartold, king of Lothrian."

　　The brute opened his mouth to utter words of vengeance. But they never came. The iron wall broke as the prince bore down with all his might and fury, squeezing and wrenching until the green of the foe`s skin flared in shades of red and purple. His cheeks bulged and then his eyes, the flesh of the face bloating with the last of a life`s breath and blood.

　　Cedric did not let go—not when the thrashing stopped, and not for a long while after.

　　As he rose, blood-doused and battered, he took hardly a breath to himself. A warrior does his duty and needs nothing more.

　　He stepped out past where the waves broke against the shore, wading into the salty deep. He sank his head under the crashing of water—blanketed by the weight and feel, the soothing rush of the sea. When he closed his eyes, it all vanished, the barren truth of his goblin life and his goblin death. All he saw was Lothrian. The kingdom of man under the kingdom of heaven. The green fields of home. He wanted to stay there, seeing what he saw when his eyes were not open. Blissful and untethered, open gates and merry people. The weight of the water. The crashing of the waves. He wanted so badly to stay.

　　But there was a dark shade to his dream of light—the face and form of Gendrin Honikom. Gendrin blackheart. Gendrin oathbreaker. It could not end like this. Not when that man drew breath and the prince of all of Lothrian was thought dead. This would not stand.

　　Swimming back to shore, Cedric felt the tug of the waves at his back, pleading with him a final time—might he not stay? Might he not be free from it all?

　　There was a long answer and a short, the poet`s answer and the warrior`s.

　　The walk back was longer than he had felt it before. Lurching in uneven steps, with the sloshing of the water nipping at his heels, Cedric retraced his way to the blood sands of the arena.

　　The artisan stood there with a hand on his hip and leaning back at ease, flexing out the knots and aches in the heat of the sun. But failing. We are given what we have, and his lot was that of a warped frame that ailed him now and would ail him forever. Cedric`s lot was different. But the hurt was not.

　　Wordless, Cedric slipped off the green-lit magering, handing it back to its owner.

　　"I don`t think you realize what you just did," the artisan said, seeking the prince`s eye in the way men do. "That was Vol`krin, beast of the sands. Champion of the rookie melee. Year in and year out. No one beats him—not in a straight-up brawl. Not the way you just did."

　　Shaking his head in disbelief, the artisan paused for breath or for effect—it was all the same to the weary prince.

　　"You have just made one hell of a name for yourself, Cedric of the Blackrose."