KGWrites

Darrin

The Arena, Spring District, Fallen Kingdom of Aldiron

Darrin sat back against the hard wooden wall of the cell into which he and the other captains of the Sea Lord’s Council had been thrown and shivered. The cold of the storm outside cut through the walls of the building as if they weren’t there. Which, Darrin thought as he looked over the walls next to him, was hardly surprising. The arena was a hodgepodge construction of rubble and torn apart walls of what had once been The Village temple here in Aldiron.

“Fine mess you’re in now Crowe.” He muttered to himself as he looked over at the other captains. Nine others, ten including Darrin himself, had stepped forwards to volunteer themselves to Draconeus following his speech. All of them had knelt, not daring to move, as all but one of their fellows were slaughtered behind them. Darrin had kept his eyes down, watching their spilled blood pool on the stones beneath him, soaking his knee and hands. The first of many lives that would stain his hands from here on.

You do this, then all the work your uncle ever did, all the prosperity and peace he wrought, you betray it all!

They’d been the last words old Captain De Arevalo had spoken before Draconeus’ order had ended the bearded man’s life. And truer words had never been spoken.

Whatever Darrin’s end goals were, the truth of the matter was that he had knelt before the Demon of Shetani. He’d bowed to the monster that had murdered Aldiron’s king and put many of its people to the sword. Every loyalty he’d ever sworn, to duty, crewmates and family, lay in tatters after today. And beyond that, he would need to serve the monster as loyally as he could. It may help the resistance fight back against Draconeus, and keep the people of Aldiron alive until Iona gathered the Brightblade together. But it would cost Darrin greatly. It would shred his honour into tatters and he didn’t even want to imagine what toll it would take upon his soul.

Provided I survive tomorrow.

Darrin looked across the other captains again. Taking in their positions, postures and trying to see beneath the surface, into their plans.

Most of them sat alone, like him. And they seemed to be of two minds. Some were watching the others, studying them like he was, searching for any advantage they could claim over them. A couple sat with distant, haunted stares. Whatever they had been expecting when they stepped forwards to Draconeus, it hadn’t been imprisonment and the prospect of fighting and killing their fellows.

More worrying to Darrin than the individuals though, was the gathering of three captains that sat by the cell’s door. Their shoulders were hunched as they whispered quietly to each other. Occasionally one of them would glance around at the others before returning to whispering with the group.

The first amongst them was the first captain to have stepped forwards in the throne room. The name she went by was Velvet, which Darrin was certain she had chosen in irony. He’d never met a more ruthless fighter in his life. She regularly ran fight pits in the North Span of Blueholdt, challenging any others to beat the gauntlet of fighting through her crew and then herself. Darrin had entered four times, and in all four, had reached the fight with Velvet before having his bell rung squarely by her.

Velvet’s two compatriots didn’t fill Darrin with much confidence either.

One was named Felan and was known amongst the Sea Lords as a shrewd negotiator and a skilled social climber. He’d worked his way up from a lowly fisherman to the council almost entirely by diplomacy. Almost. To Darrin the more worrying thing about Felan was the sheer size of him. He was a tall slab of sailor’s muscle, and he had the scars to tell of his willingness back up his negotiations with force when he needed to. Darrin doubted he’d hold back now.

The third in the group almost didn’t seem to belong at first glance. A well-groomed woman with dark brown hair that fell past her shoulders, dressed in a fine dress. She looked almost as if a noblewoman from the palace had accidentally gotten caught up amongst the Sea Lords as they were brought to the arena. But Darrin knew better than that, he knew that Elvie Mitrick had not earned the nickname “Phantasm” for nothing. A ghost aboard her own ship, Elvie was known for raiding opposing ships by crippling them before they even knew she was there, sneaking aboard and setting fires, cutting alarm bells and slitting the throats of lookouts.

If Darrin lost sight of Elvie in the arena tomorrow, her blade would find his throat in seconds.

All three were people Darrin would have counted among his closest friends on the council. But after today, after publicly turning away from every ideal he had ever championed, Darrin doubted there were any in the room that would trust him again.

More than once, Darrin caught them glancing over at him as he sat against the wall. He made sure to hold their gaze until they turned away again.

“I don’t think they like you.” Came a raspy, strained voice from the shadows of the cell next to him. Turning his head, Darrin looked through the bars separating the two cells into the darkness beyond.

A darkness that slowly coalesced into a figure, stiffly pulling themselves closer to the bars. He wore a muck covered tunic, the kind that would once have been worn beneath armour. He had dark skin that was patched here and there with half healed bruises. One eye was badly swollen to the point it had nearly closed entirely.

“You’re perceptive.” Darrin observed drily, shuffling closer to the bars. The newcomer gave laugh the devolved into a rattling cough. Slowly, he sat down next to the bars by Darrin, curling in on himself until the coughing stopped.

“Don’t take this the wrong way. You look like shit.” Darrin told him, examining the man. He had numerous barely healed wounds across his body, bruising and cuts covered much of his exposed skin. The man simply inclined his head in agreement.

“You might be joining me on that soon.” He replied evenly. Darrin snorted.

“Maybe. Or maybe we’re both dead come tomorrow’s games.”

“True enough. That does seem more likely than anything else.” The man agreed. Then he looked at Darrin quizzically.

“Thought I knew all Draconeus’ enemies in the city at this point, but I don’t recognise you all.”

Darrin chuckled. “There’s your problem, we’re not from the city.” He gestured to himself, smirking slightly. He flexed his shoulders, putting on the best air of self-importance he could muster. “Captain Darrin Crowe, of the Sea Lords Council of Blueholdt, at your service.”

The man in the other cell looked from Darrin across the scattered other Sea Lords and back. Then he let out a low whistle of amazement.

“Well then, things just went from bad to worse.” He muttered before he also pointed towards himself. “Haster Parne, former Lord Captain of the Aldiron city guard.”

Goosebumps rose on Darrin’s arms and his breath hitched slightly. Haster had been one of the names of trustworthy people that Iona had told him to find once he reached Aldiron. If he was imprisoned awaiting death, then maybe Darrin’s plan to help was doomed before it even started. He glanced back towards Velvet, Felan and Elvie, his mouth suddenly dry.

Am I doing this all for an already lost cause?

Outwardly, he slumped further down against the wall, moving himself ever so slightly closer to Haster.

“Lord Captain, it’s an honour.” He said quietly, his fingers rising to lift the string bearing Alyx’s ring around his neck into Haster’s view. “Some… mutual friends speak very highly of you.”

Haster took a while to look at the loop of silver before his face lit up in recognition, his non-swollen eye widening in surprise. Quickly, his eye then glanced around, looking across the others, making sure none were close enough to be heard.

“Trust me,” Darrin said, his voice low and serious. “None of them will want to be anywhere near me after today. I had to betray a lot of ideals to get here.”

“Not the best way to inspire trust.” Haster retorted. But he seemed to accept Darrin’s words, turning his gaze back from the other Sea Lords back to Darrin.

“How do our… friends fare?” He asked cautiously.

“Well enough.” Darrin replied evenly, keeping as quiet as he could. “They spent some time recovering strength and information under my hospitality. They’re headed onwards now, same goal as before, but with a little more insight into where to go.”

Haster let out a long, relieved sigh. “Glad to hear that. Not that I can do much with the information. Like you said, we’re likely dead tomorrow.”

Darrin stared straight ahead in silence for a while, considering. Haster could vouch for him, get him contacts with the rebels, provided he survived to escape tomorrow. But one man against whatever devilry awaited in the arena? Darrin didn’t rate his chances, certainly not of any chance of escape.

Still though, Haster was someone infinitely better alive than dead.

“Maybe, maybe not. Provided we both survive our fights, then I’ll be in a position where I might be able to help you.” He gestured subtly to the other Sea Lords. “Draconeus only needs one of us to represent him in Blueholdt, we’re all fighting for that position.”

Haster followed the gesture before turning back to Darrin with a doubtful look.

“Seems your survival is a long shot Crowe. Beyond which, mine is even less likely. You might all have a fight on your hands, I have a glorified execution to look forward to.”

Darrin gave Haster a thin smirk before undoing his boot and pulling it off. Outwardly, he made a point of pouring water from it, prompting the curious other Sea Lords to turn away, thinking they’d seen all they needed.

Then Darrin quickly reached inside the boot and pried up the sole. Beneath it was a short bladed, thin knife, sharpened to a needle point. Quickly he dropped it into the dirt and, in the same motion as pulling his boot back on, kicked it between the bars to slide next to Haster.

Haster picked up the weapon and slid it into his own boot before glancing to Darrin.

“You sure about that? I imagine that you don’t have one in the other boot too.” He asked.

Darrin did not have a knife in his other boot. He’d just given the one weapon he’d managed to secretly hide from Draconeus’ forces over to Haster in the vague hope that the man survived the arena. Some more logical part of his brain screamed at him. But he forced a smile and cocky shrug.

“Guess I’ll have to improvise.” He replied, praying the look on his face spoke of a confidence that was entirely absent within him.

Haster still looked unsure. “Even if we both survive. You’re asking me to trust you, a man who has spun one pretty story and will then be serving as a member of Draconeus’ own inner circle. Seems a pretty big risk for me.”

Darrin glanced past Haster at his darkened muddy cell, then looked the man over. He wondered how long he’d survive the beatings and wounds, even without the fight tomorrow.

“What choice do you have?”

The Arena, Spring District, Fallen Kingdom of Aldiron – Twelve Hours Later

The rain didn’t let up overnight. In fact, by the time the crowd had gathered at the arena, the storm had turned the entire city as dark as night. Darrin trembled as the cold rain ran down his back in a painfully slow trickle.

One by one, they’d come and hauled the Sea Lords from the cell, dragging them off to some other part of the arena. Darrin had been the eighth taken and had been led through the hastily built tunnels beneath the crowd stands of the arena. He’d been stripped of his armour, leaving him in a simple dark outfit that offered virtually no protection.

Or warmth. He thought bitterly as he folded his arms against the cold. And once they had him alone and unarmoured, they had left him. Only a single Accursed guard stood nearby, leaning on a spear, its lipless mouth making a subtle clacking sound as its sharp teeth chattered. Not that it seemed to notice how cold it was.

Darrin considered the monster. Even unarmed he figured he stood a good chance of stealing the axe from its belt and killing it faster than it could call out. If escape was his goal, he might have tried for it.

But here, that would only end badly. He had a job to do.

One that already seems set to damn me.

He’d tried to set the faces of his compatriots on the council aside. To consign them all as already dead. Gods know he’d tried.

But it would never be that simple. And the gods would never let him off that easily.

Darrin glanced up at the ramp ahead of him, leading up to a portcullis door through which he could see the crowd across the arena, waiting with bated breath for the bloodbath. But it was what was above the door that caught Darrin’s attention. A smiling face looked back at him, carved into the wood. A broken reminder of where this place had been before, of the temple of The Village that Darrin’s fate was to be decided within.

The face was androgynous, and beaming with a warm, welcoming smile. Darrin knew it well, and knew that in a full statue, it would stand with an open hand of greeting and a mug of ale in the other hand.

The Innkeeper, God of Theatre, Good Company and Games. Of course.

A horn blast sounded across the arena, echoing through the tunnels. The Accursed started forwards, pushing Darrin ahead of it with the haft of the spear. Step by step, he rose up the ramp.

He came to a stop before the portcullis, beneath the smiling face. The Accursed yelled something out past him in a language he didn’t understand. It was greeted by more calls of similar nature and slowly, with a groan of straining wood, the portcullis began to rise.

Darrin looked up at the smiling face once more and gave it a thin lipped, unamused smile back. Wish me luck then, God of Games? I’m about to try and play the biggest game there’s been after all.

The God gave no answer, and Darrin was harshly shoved forwards through the gateway, and into the arena.

The roar of the wind and rain drowned out any sound from the crowd as he left the dark tunnel and blinked away the grey light. His vision cleared, and Darrin found himself standing at the edge of a wide space, what had likely once been the central square of The Village itself. Only now it was changed.

Now it was a place of blood and death.

The mud was churned and filled with puddles. Here and there Darrin could make out bones and half-rotted body parts, the remains of Draconeus’ previous ‘entertainments’ no doubt. At the centre was a stone block, what must once have been the carving of The Builder from Their temple. Atop the block lay a variety of tools and weapons. A pitchfork, a hammer, a bow and many others. Darrin could even see a long-handled boat hook, sharpened to a wicked point. A quick count made out thirteen tools in total on the block. Some were clearly meant for killing, others were not. A stonemason’s chisel lay on the block, and a pair of hefty looking scales. Darrin scowled at them, confused.

The Accursed shoved him forwards again and he took a few steps before it barked at him to stop. Darrin did so and took the opportunity to look about himself. The other Sea Lords stood in the arena around him, equidistant between each other and the central block. All of them, like him, were soaked to the bone by the rain and had been stripped of any sort of armour. Their uncertain expressions mirrored his own.

A horn blast sounded again, and Darrin and the other Sea Lords turned to look up at a covered viewing box that stood at one side of the arena, overlooking them. His eyes quickly made out the big man with the mace that had met them at the docks, Xeros, as well as Grand Marshall Hills in his ceremonial armour. Behind him, surrounded by second legion guards and with her face half hidden by a dark cloak, stood a young woman with pale blonde hair that could only have been Hills’ daughter. Iona’s friend Violet.

So, you did survive.

In the centre of the box though, was the figure that held the attention of the entire arena, crowd and fighters alike. Draconeus wore fine black robes, lined with silver. His black iron crown was atop his brow, and he was sat a throne that had been made from the hands of the many statues of the Gods of The Village that had once stood in this place. Behind him, Darrin could make out that the back of the throne bore the visage of The Bailiff, the leader of The Village and the voice of Their judgement. The head was tilted in such a way that it bowed to whomever sat upon the throne of Their hands. To Draconeus.

Prick.

Draconeus raised his arms to gesture to the gathered Sea Lords and his deep, cruel voice echoed across the space. It sounded like he spoke at no more than a low tone, and yet his voice boomed like thunder.

“Gathered people of Aldiron. You come here today to witness strength and ambition find themselves a new avatar to embody them. The Sea Lords of Blueholdt come before us, wishing to swear fealty, to serve our realm and its rebuilding.”

Your realm. Darrin mentally corrected him. They want no part of this insanity.

“We do not have a need for a council of infighting and personal gain to serve us. No, Aldiron deserves only the strongest, wisest, most cunning of these Sea Lords to speak for her.” Draconeus went on, before turning his gaze downwards towards Darrin and the others.

“Sea Lords. You have spent years together, pushing the realm of Blueholdt forth and squabbling amongst yourselves about the right way to do things. Today you shall see the same truth as all Aldiron did. The ties that bind you, shall only weigh you down.”

Accursed warriors stepped forwards around the arena, two to each Sea Lord. They carried a long chain between them, one that encircled the entire arena. Darrin’s breath froze in his throat as he saw that there were thick leather belts attached to the chain, one at exactly the point at which each Sea Lord stood.

He could do nothing but raise his arms out of the way as the Accursed reached him and pulled the belt tight around his midriff. They locked a heavy padlock at his front and stepped away, letting the chain drop.

The pull was instant. The metal length weighed heavily on each side and Darrin felt himself slump beneath it. He glanced to his left and right, to the two nearest Sea Lords connected by the chain.

The one to his left was a merchant captain, Bryce Hornwood. He was a talker, not a fighter and he knew it. It seemed he also knew how utterly fucked he was, considering Darrin stood on one side of him, and on the other was the Phantasm herself, Elvie Mitrick.

But it was the captain on the right that worried Darrin. At the other end of that chain stood Felan, the wall of muscle that had been plotting with Elvie and Velvet the night before. Darrin preyed they hadn’t managed to come to any sort of accord.

As the Sea Lords were left behind, left chained in a wide unending circle by the Accursed, Draconeus raised his voice once more.

“This chain is your bond. And soon you will find that the bond you all share will drag you down, stop you from reaching your full potential. As with those who used to call this place their temple, you will find yourselves burdened by those weaker than you. You must overcome this, prove yourselves willing to end these ties and rise above the others. You have the same tools of the ones you once called Gods with which to do this.”

And now Darrin understood. The tools on the block, thirteen in total, of various utility and purpose. They were the tools of The Village.

“There will be no yielding, no parlay, no fleeing and no alliances. This ends when only one Sea Lord proves themselves and remains breathing.” Draconeus settled back on his perverse throne, slinging one leg over the other, and inclined his hands.

“Begin.”

Chaos was instant.

Darrin darted forwards, dashing for the slab, his eyes focussed on the long-bladed sword at the centre. Presumably it was the blade of The Bailiff. But that mattered little to Darrin. It was a sword, and a sword he could use.

He was only a step away from the stone when the chain on his right side suddenly snapped taught. He cried out in surprise as he overbalanced, sprawling backwards into the mud.

He rolled quickly, scrambling back to his feet. His stance kept slipping as he searched for the source of the pull.

And found Felan bearing down on him, one hand wrapped around the chain between them from where he’d clearly used it to pull Darrin off his feet.

Reaching him, Felan swung his fist for Darrin’s head and Darrin backpedalled, his feet sliding in the mud. He barely remained standing as Felan’s fist missed his nose by a hair. His mind raced. Locked in close quarters with the big man, Darrin was as good as dead.

Moving quickly, he ducked forwards and kicked out at Felan’s chest, driving the air from his lungs and sending him stumbling back. Darrin then sprung upwards, spinning in the air and kicking his other leg around.

The kick caught Felan in the side of the head and he fell face first into the churned mud.

Darrin spun, looking quickly to the slab of weapons.

He wasn’t surprised to see that the sword was gone, and even less surprised to see that Velvet had it and was currently using it to parry away a series of desperate stabs with a pitchfork from another captain.

What was left wasn’t much to work with. A heavy, iron bound book, a set of merchant’s scales and a smith’s hammer. But that was at least something.

Darrin moved for the hammer. Right as Felan’s hand closed around his ankle.

He lurched forwards, slamming down hard onto the corner of the slab of stone. He barely managed to move his hands up in time to protect his chin from smashing onto it.

Then Felan began to haul him back.

Darrin lashed out with his hand, desperately trying to reach out for the hammer. His fingertips brushed the handle, but it was just that tiniest bit too far away and he felt them grab nothing but air.

And then Felan was on him again.

He swung a punch that hit Darrin in the gut, doubling him over. His lungs burned as the air was forced from them. He barely had time to register the hit though when Felan hit him again, this time catching him full in the face with his meaty slab of a fist.

His eyes streamed with tears and pain exploded across his face as he felt his lip burst and his teeth were snapped together, biting down painfully onto his tongue. Copper blood filled his mouth, and he fell.

Darrin lay in the mud, hacking coughs shaking his body and tears and blood mingling on his face and pouring from him in rivers. He looked up at Felan as the big man stood and lifted the hammer from the stone slab. Slowly, ever so painfully slowly, Felan began raising the hammer above his head.

Guess you don’t think I’m suited to your games Innkeeper? Darrin thought in one last, indignant prayer.

And then, the Innkeeper answered.

Further behind Felan, the captain attached to the big man’s other side cried out in pain as the pitchfork was driven into his chest by Velvet, throwing him to the ground. But the impact rippled up the chain as the now dead weight pulled Felan back and he lost his footing.

Giving Darrin a momentary stay of execution.

My apologies Innkeeper, forgot you like a bit of drama.

Not one to waste his divine intervention, Darrin sprung upwards and drove his forehead into Felan’s chin. He felt the jawbone shift unnaturally with the blow and Felan groaned in pain, stumbling backwards against the stone slab.

On his feet again, Darrin gathered some of the loose chain between the two of them into his hand and leapt forwards at Felan. He ducked beneath a flailing swing of the hammer from the injured man as he clutched at his jaw.

Moving quickly, Darrin looped the chain over Felan’s weapon arm and jumped up onto the stone slab behind Felan. Then he spun, braced his boot against the big man’s broad shoulder blade, put one end of the chain in each hand and pulled.

Not even the crack of thunder from the storm overhead could drown out Felan’s scream, nor the snap of his shoulder dislocating from the socket.

The hammer dropped from Felan’s limp hand.

And straight into Darrin’s.

Unlike Darrin, it appeared Felan had no God watching out for him as he tried one last feeble attempt to swat Darrin away. Darrin easily dodged around the attack before bringing the hammer down hard.

It hit Felan full in the face, and the big man’s body simply twitched once before falling limply from the stone. Very little was left of his head besides a bloody mess.

The Accursed, and no small part of the gathered crowd, roared in appreciation.

Darrin took no notice, instead stumbling away from the dead man and wiping the watery sheen from his vision. Then he took in the rest of the battlefield.

The bodies of the other Sea Lords littered the arena, clearly Darrin’s drawn out battle with Felan hadn’t been the way much of the rest of things had played out.

Velvet was still standing, though she was wounded by an arrow that had clearly been shot into her shoulder. The culprit of the shot lay dead at her feet, the bow trapped beneath her corpse. Two other captains stood opposed to Velvet, linked to each other by the chain.

But right now, Velvet’s back was to Darrin. And with Felan having died so close to the centre, Darrin should have enough chain to get across the centre and take her down before she moved on to him.

Provided there was enough chain on Darrin’s other side.

The other side!

The chain was slack. Too slack.

Darrin sidestepped out of pure instinct as the air rippled where he had just stood. A high-pitched whistle followed the blow as Bryce Hornwood stepped into Darrin’s view. The merchant captain held a short, yet wickedly sharp looking scalpel in his hand. Darrin was surprised to see it was already bloody.

He took a few quick steps backwards, putting enough distance between himself and Hornwood that the chain between them went tight again. The other man held the little blade between them, pointed at Darrin.

“Sorry Crowe.” Hornwood said breathlessly. Darrin got the unnerving sense that the man truly meant his remorse. He tilted his head and smiled thinly, tightening his grip on the hammer.

“Me too.” He replied, bending his knees and preparing to fight. He kept his eyes on Hornwood’s face, watching for any sign of attack.

Which meant he saw the sharpened boat hook lash around and drive itself deep into the centre of Hornwood’s throat.

Blood fountained from the wound and Hornwood made a strangled gasping sound. He looked down at the hook embedded in his throat. His eyes betrayed no pain, only a brief confusion before the hook suddenly pulled backwards.

Hornwood was hauled off his feet onto his back, and the chain at his waist pulled tight, dragging Darrin forwards with it. Darrin tumbled in the mud, losing his grip on the hammer as he struggled to control his fall.

He came to a stop on his knees next to Hornwood, who was lying on his back taking rapid, desperate breaths. Blood pooled from the tear in the man’s throat and bubbled up between his lips, drowning him.

But it was the hook’s wielder that frightened Darrin.

Her hair was matted now with mud and her fine clothing torn and bloodied from some other fight. Her face was split in a horrific grin that spoke of genuine enjoyment of the bloodbath she was amongst. A creature of living death, Elvie Mitrick looked more a Phantasm now than ever.

And Darrin was facing her without a weapon.

His hammer was too far behind him. But Darrin’s eyes caught on the shiny scalpel, abandoned next to Hornwood’s limp hand.

He dived for it. His fingers closing around it as he rolled in the mud, aiming to come up facing Elvie.

But she must have seen it too.

As he began to roll, Darrin felt the weight of Elvie crash down on top of him, pinning the arm the bore the scalpel to his waist as she pushed the haft of the boat hook down onto his neck.

Out of instinct, Darrin tried to take a breath, only to find no air could reach his lungs as the unyielding wooden handle strangled him.

He stretched his head back, trying to find any space to breathe. But all that succeeded in doing was pushing his head deeper into the soft, cloying mud.

His vision darkened as the mud covered his head, seeping into his nose as Elvie pushed down with all her might. His legs scrambled desperately for purchase, but the weight of the two dead men still chained to him kept him pinned.

A terrifying certainty of death gripped Darrin. He was going to die, it was just a question of how. Would Elvie strangle the air from him with the boat hook? Or would she not even need to as he drowned in the mud?

The world began to muffle, to slip away like Darrin was falling asleep. His fingers slackened and tightened as he struggled to stay awake.

Which brought with it a sudden stinging pain as his right hand caught something.

The scalpel!

Clarity sudden bloomed across Darrin’s mind and for a split second his hearing and vision were clearer than ever.

His hand was still pinned at his side, unable to stab the weapon at Elvie at all. But there was somewhere else he could use it.

You’ve got a real sense of humour today Innkeep! This is going to fucking hurt.

Quickly, Darrin spun the scalpel in his hand and gritted his teeth. Then he stabbed downwards.

Pain set the side of his chest alight as the little blade bit deep into the flesh of his side, only burning more as he slashed downwards, slicing into his side. It wasn’t deep, but it stung like hell. But importantly, it also caught something else.

The leather of the belt bearing the chains split before the scalpel as if it were a hot knife slicing butter. Instantly the weight pinning Darrin lifted as the chains sprang free and he planted both his feet on the ground.

Pushing off, he rolled them both over with a surprised yelp from Elvie. Blindly, he reached out with his other hand and gripped Elvie’s chin. She could only flail once weakly as he stabbed the scalpel down, finding purchase with a wet squelch and twisting.

Instantly, the Phantasm stilled beneath him.

Darrin sucked in breaths, his lungs burning. He quickly wiped the mud from his eyes, clearing his vision as much as he could.

Elvie lay beneath him, her mouth open in a final scream and her arms spread eagled at her sides. The scalpel was driven halfway up the handle into her left ear, blood pooling around it. Darrin shuddered at the sight.

But there still was no time to remain still.

He rose to his feet and turned, one hand clutching his bloodied side, looking for the next threat.

Which was charging straight at him.

Velvet was the last remaining captain standing besides him, and she looked like she’d had it as rough as he had. Her nose was bloodied and the arrow still stuck out from her shoulder, a long cut on her upper left arm wept blood down it to a limp hand. Her right hand though, much to Darrin’s horror, still clutched the sword.

She was moving slowly though, weighed down by the fact she was now connected by the chains to the corpse of every other captain in the arena.

Darrin didn’t have that problem.

As soon as Velvet neared, Darrin moved, scooping a handful of the mud he’d nearly drowned in and tossing it towards her. She ducked beneath it nimbly, but in doing so, stalled her advance again.

And Darrin made use of that delay.

He leaped into the air and kicked out at Velvet both feet, hitting her in the chest and throwing her backwards.

She slid in the mud and her back hit the stone slab in the centre hard.

But she recovered quickly, slashing the sword around in a wide arc that stopped Darrin from getting any closer to her. Snarling, she pushed back off the stone and stood straight, keeping the sword between her and Darrin. Darrin eyed the blade carefully.

He needed to get it out of her hand. Now.

Darrin stepped forwards again, swinging two quick jab punches at Velvet. The first hit the crossguard of the sword, sending her slash of response whirling away in the other direction.

The other jab connected painfully with the arrow sunk into her shoulder.

The wood rippled, bent, and snapped. But not before the punch drove the arrowhead deeper into Velvet’s shoulder, causing her to scream in pain and rage. But the combined hits to her sword arm were still too much for Velvet, and the sword dropped from her grasp.

She kicked out at Darrin, driving him back and creating distance enough that she could scramble backwards, standing atop the stone slab.

Darrin watched her for a second, pondering his move. The safe tactic would be to take up the sword she dropped, to use it to beat her now that she was disarmed.

Two things told Darrin doing that would be a mistake. The first was practical, if he had time to grab a sword, then Velvet could also grab a weapon. And she was infinitely more dangerous armed. The second was a far more unnerving thought to Darrin.

He was in an arena, he was being watched. He was being judged.

They want a show. A champion who gives no quarter.

He looked up at Velvet one last time, and wished he didn’t see the pained face of a friend looking back at him.

Damn me!

Darrin charged.

Reaching the edge of the slab, he sprang into the air, tackling Velvet around the waist and slamming them both down hard onto the stone.

Velvet’s body broke Darrin’s fall. But there was nothing to break hers.

As they hit the ground, her head rocketed back and cracked off the stone. Blood pooled and her eyes began to roll back in her head, dazed. But she was still alive, and as much as Darrin’s conscience screamed at him to show mercy, the monster on the throne of bowed Gods would accept no weakness.

Reaching down to either side of her, Darrin wrapped his hands in the chains binding Velvet, pulling them tight across his knuckles. And then he began to punch.

Blow after blow he rained down. And he could only hope the hit to the head had knocked her out enough that she didn’t feel them.

Blood pooled, lightning lit the sky and thunder roared.

Finally, the horn that had sounded the beginning of the bloodbath sounded once more and Darrin raised his face to the rain and screamed.

He was alive. He’d won. The Gods had seen him through.

But he’d never felt like such a monster.