Manticore II

Manticore II

Wurhi startled as the sack was ripped from her head.

What in the gods? she exclaimed.

Never had she seen a chamber like this. The closest she could liken it to was the foyer at Paradise: an area to hang ones cloak and shed ones shoes before entering someplace. Yet - while this had benches for seating as well - there was no doorkeeper, hook or welcome.

Instead, there was weaponry.

Dozens of arms and pieces of armour hung from the walls or stood on racks that ran through the centre of the room. The bronze had dulled and some pieces sported the beginnings of verdigris, yet a group of eight men and women pawed through them as though they were the most precious of gems.

Some, hesitant, picked up items with trembling hands before quickly discarding them and seeking something else. Others carefully eyed the equipment, examining it with an expert eye before confidently choosing what they would wield.

A pair of men simply took down spears from the wall without hesitation, gripping them as though they were old friends.

What is this? Merrick demanded.

Thoom.

The bronze-shod door slammed behind them with a heavy bar sliding into place on the outside. Berard grinned through a grate near the doors top. I said youd get a chance. Heres your chance. Fight or die. Or fight and die.

With a jaunty knock on the wood, he disappeared down the hall.

There goes our moment, Wurhi grunted.

"They gave us a pair of runts this time, a heavy baritone remarked in accented Laexondaelic.

A tall man approached the two thieves with an appraising look, eyeing each as a horse trader might examine new stock. Old scars formed a canopy on his pale scalp and a black moustache drooped below his chin. You two look quick of hand, at least. You stand with good balance.

What in the name of every damned god is happening? Wurhi demanded, her eyes darting across the room for some avenue of escape. The only other door rose higher than a gallows pole and was immense enough to fit a set of oxen through, yet it sported no handle.

Youve been given a chance to fight. The moustached man gestured to the seven folk strapping on belts and dented pieces of armour. We all have.

Hey, I saw this first!

A squat man tried to drag a warped breastplate from a reedy youth. Get your own!

I had my hand on it, and I used it last time! the thin young man snarled. Shove off!

Hey! the bald warrior jabbed a finger toward them. Save all that for whatever beast theyve brought out! Im not going out there with two of my men already bruised! He pointed to the squat man. Agron, you get the plate. Youre slower. Gannicus. He pointed to the thin man. Take a helm, those pauldrons over there, and that shield. Youre quick on your feet.

Both men glared at each other, but Gannicus dropped his grip and trudged toward a shield on the rack.

What in all hells is this? Merrick demanded.

The armoury for the arena. The bald warrior turned back with a grim look.

Wait Wurhi blinked. Arena? Like a fighting pit in Salik?

Her heartbeat quickened.

Ive never heard of a Salik, but if theyve got fighting pits, then you got the right idea. He looked them up and down. You two as quick as I think you are?

Merrick and Wurhi looked at each other. Yes, I- the Hawk started.

Good. The warrior jabbed a thumb toward the racks. Armours rare here, so you wont get that until I see youre not just gonna die as soon as the gates go up. Try to take any and Ill thump you good, he warned. Youve got short reach so fetch a couple of spears and whatever hand weapon you got experience with. If thats none, take a club. He pointed to a set of cudgels piled in a corner of the room. Keep your head straight, follow my commands and you might live through this.

Who in the hells are you? Merrick demanded.

I feel about the same, Merrick muttered with shaky tones.

Thoom.

The gate completed its rise.

Here we go! Pray to whatever gods you pray to! Crixus slapped down the visor on his helm.

He stepped forward.

The other slaves followed.

Wurhi flinched as evening sunlight abruptly struck her eyes.

The captives exited a stone passage into an arena within the mountains heart. A massive channel opened in the ceiling, illuminating hundreds of black robed figures in the stands above. A line of cultists ringed the arenas floor from atop the surrounding wall; their spears stood ready to impale any who attempted to climb toward the seats for escape.

Were all dead. Merrick muttered.

Silence.

A voice as deep as thunder struck the chamber. It was not raised, yet smote down the crowd to immediate stillness. Squinting, Wurhi rapidly looked toward it.

A man sat in a throne inlaid with black onyx upon a rising dais; the sight of him nearly made her nerves fray in fright. His torso was bare, displaying a powerful build sculpted as a marble statue and crisscrossed with scars. His dark hair was so close-cropped that it seemed chiseled smooth above eyes as hard, cold and dead as diamond. He was slighter than Berard -but only barely - and only in physicality.

Wurhis rodent instincts screamed at her to flee. Her body began to tremble violently. This man seated above all others exuded an immense savagery so primal that the air itself seemed to recoil from it.

A titanic statue of a beast rose above him - its multiple lupine heads writhing - and he was framed by several familiar figures. Berard and the hunt-leader gazed down with animalistic excitement that bordered on hunger. Adelmar grinned and whispered excitedly to a masked cultist that seemed to nearly bounce with glee. The Eye of Radiin hanging from his neck left little doubt to his identity.

I am Milos of Crotonia, Sacred Alpha to this pack. Their leaders voice filled the chamber. And you all have been chosen by Lycundars grace. He pointed toward the statue of the monstrosity. You will undertake The Struggle. Succeed, and you may live. Perform well and you will please He Who Consumes Himself. You, in turn, shall be fed well. Perform poorly? You shall die, and be our gods feast in the afterworld.

Oh, gods, Merrick moaned.

We will perform! Crixus raised his spear. We will be fed!

We shall see. Milos casually waved a hand.

Crnk.

A gate began to rise on the opposite side of the arena.

Thoom.

Beyond it yawned a passage in the stone. It appeared immune to lights touch, for only a consuming blackness lay within. Something moved heavily in that dark.

Wurhis nostrils flared.

Her blood chilled.

Oh no, she murmured and stepped back trembling. Her hand squeezed the spear like the coils of a serpent. No, no, no, no, no.

What!? Merrick demanded.

Steady, I say! Crixus barked.

Scrrrrrrrp.

Something sharp scraped against stone. A crackling growl reverberated with the low pitch of a war-drum. A shape began to materialize from the darkness, its coming heralded by the flash of scarlet, shining eyes.

Were dead. Wurhis breath came rapidly. Were all dead.