Becoming the Void

[ManyAsOne]

“Enjoy your last moments, easterner. I’m going to kill you and make a limbless monster of your corpse.” Arleth gripped the gladius in his right hand, judging the blade’s weight while taking good measure of the man standing a few yards away, his opponent. The crowd was roaring for blood. It was the first fight of the afternoon exhibitions in the arena and Hillsfar’s people had a voracious appetite for carnage. Arleth took a moment to gaze around the stadium. It was only a third full. He couldn’t imagine how loud it would be were this fight one of the premier battles.

He was dressed in a polished bronze cuirass, muscled in design and perfectly fitted to his body. The front was decorated by an ornamental silver relief of a gladius, the hilt on his chest and the blade following the line of his abdomen. The back bore a skull resting on a sunburst done in the same relief style as the front. Under that he wore a white, lengthy sleeveless tunic that ended at his thigh and was pleated from the waist down. Around his waist he wore a studded leather war skirt. A bronze fore-greave which covering his shin and ended at the knee with a skull design was strapped to his left leg. His wrists were covered by leather bracers and on one of them, a buckler. He wore a new pair of caligae, typical leather sandals favored by soldiers, on his feet.

“Say farewell to your gods, heathen, because I doubt Set will release your soul when it is his,” the Mulan warrior offered a dark grin, revealing a mouth of golden teeth, each of them sharpened to a point. The easterner’s chestnut skin was oiled down and glittered in the sun, a stark contrast to the white sand of the arena floor. His body was a maze of self-inflicted scars each of them serpentine in their designs, coiling and writing around his powerful frame. Oddly he was dressed in a filthy, tattered loincloth and shoddy sandals but was still adorned in masses of jewelry. He wore golden bracers, a golden collar, several golden necklaces, and a golden band around one of his bulky arms. Arleth turned his attention to the easterner’s weapons. He carried a pair of short spears in either hand, both of which he held as if he were born with them in his grip.

They slowly paced a circle, cautiously closing in on one another. When the first blow came Arleth was completely caught off-guard. The easterner’s speed was shocking for his size. He had seen one of the spears coming in quickly to strike just below his cuirass and had parried the attack easily only to meet the thick wooden haft of the other spear across his face. There was a flash of light then blinding pain as Arleth staggered back, clumsily raising his blade to defend from another attack. But none came. When the momentary daze subsided Arleth saw his foe standing a few yards away with a grin on his face.

The easterner charged straight in this time, his spears raised over his head to stab downward. Arleth raised his blade before the easterner landed his blow, leveling it with his chest and thrust forward with a hiss of breath from his clenched teeth. Showing that shocking speed again, his opponent spun to the left of the thrust, Arleth striking air and teetering forward as his balance became compromised. The easterner lashed out with both spear hafts, using his momentum as he spun to strike Arleth in the back of the head. That flash of light and the eruption of pain returned. Arleth felt his world rise up towards him as he fell face-first to the ground. The battle had just begun and it was already about to end.

Giving a sadistic roar of glee, the Mulan warrior placed a boot on Arleth’s back and raised one of his short spears, hurling it down with all of the force his colossal body could muster. Arleth screamed in pain as the spearhead pierced his bicep and he felt the shudder of steel against bone followed by a loud crack that reverberated throughout his body. The spearhead ripped into his arm with ease and cleaved almost effortlessly through his bone. He could feel the haft scraping against the splintered bone and the pain was unbearable.

Arleth was blacking out, but the Mulan gladiator wasn’t going to let it end so easily. Grabbing the spear, the dark-skinned warrior gave a great pull upwards. The spearhead pulled up and caught on the bone, breaking off as the wooden haft pulled free and thrown off to the side. The new surge of agony kept Arleth awake. Desperately, he tried to grip his blade but his arm was completely disabled. He felt the one of the bulky hands of the easterner taking hold of the back of his cuirass to turn him over.

As he was rolled, Arleth flung out his shield arm and caught the man in the face with his buckler. The blow wasn’t much in itself, but it gave Arleth enough time to roll to the side and grab his blade with his good arm. Arleth quickly crawled across the sand, moving away from the warrior, scrambling to get to his feet. As he gained his footing he felt the massive frame of his foe crash against him, sending him sprawling several yards away.

In a fury, the easterner closed in, his remaining spear poised for a coup de grace. Arleth raised his legs when his foe was near and allowed him to charge into them. Using his legs and his enemy’s momentum, he flipped the Mulan warrior over his head.

They both were up on their knees in an instant, both with their weapons at the ready. The dark-skinned warrior lunged with his spear, his grip high on the haft for maximum force, as Arleth raised his blade in a parrying motion. The spear caught Arleth just above the collarbone, but the force of the blow was taken away immediately as Arleth’s parry caught the easterner’s arm, severing the tendons. The spear fell away leaving a large gash but no severe injury. A howl of pain came from the Mulan warrior as he feel back, cradling his wound. Arleth slowly stood, his body drenched in sweat and blood. His head was spinning and his arm was thundering in agony.

Giving a growl, he raised his foot gave his foe a sharp kick to the face. “I promised to make you a limbless monster of your corpse. I’ve changed my mind. You’ll be alive as I do it.” Arleth pressed his foot onto the easterner’s wounded arm and gazed at the point where it met his shoulder.

“Set curse you! You filth! Curse you!”

Arleth raised his blade.

[ManyAsOne]

Arleth stood at the gates at the bottom of the ramp and listened to the crowd above. He took hold of the iron gate and rested his head against it, staring down at the stone floor. Nearly a quarter of the city, nine-thousand strong were present and an additional three-thousand from the outlying regions, all screaming for the night’s premier gladiatorial events. The sound was deafening.

It was the cycle of the city. Everyone would work and strive until sundown, pleasing the Gods with an honest day’s work. Until nightfall. When the sun went down, the Gods were blind and the people of the city indulged in hedonism. Everyone closes shop and makes their way to the arena to relax from the hard day‘s labor by bathing in blood. Atrophy at its best. And tonight. Tonight was special. Maalthiir, the First Lord of Hillsfar himself, was present and had spent the past two tendays promising an extravagant evening of severed limbs and rolling heads.

Arleth focused, separating the sound of the crowd and the faint sound of the battle above, the clash of steel and the cries of those in the fray. The event was an exhibition featuring ten men against a trio of ogres. It sounded like the ogres were winning. A loud cry came up from the audience.

Nine men.

For seven long and brutal months he had fought in the arenas as ‘The Cyricist‘, a young warrior steadily climbing in the public eye. Each battle earned him a sum of gold and gave him an outlet for the lethal rage that would otherwise consume him. It had been his crutch, a means to keep his mind from Zhentil Keep. From the betrayal. From his family. From his past. The carnage gave him peace. Yet, each day he prayed that he would be killed. He would pray that his opponent would outfight him and that the bloody death he had always expected and deserved would finally embrace him and set him free of torments. Free of his pain.

And now it was his final battle. He could bear it no longer. He sought solace from the persisting ghosts of his wife and his child and the blood of those he killed in the arena wouldn‘t do anymore. He owed his family a debt of flesh and only the blood of their killers would do. Each and every one of them. In the end, though, he knew that it was his blood they wanted. It was his life they deserved.

“Annah,” his words were choked off by tears, a moment of weakness, emotion. He would give her that.

The sound of the wooden gears turning and the chains rattling within the walls broke him from his moment of silence, pulling him back to reality. He stepped back from the gate as it slowly raised up into the ceiling above. The battle above was over and the words of the coliseum director could be heard, magically enhanced to echo throughout the stadium. “Applaud for the fallen! It seems in the end they were no match for the Trio, but hail to their valiant efforts,” there was a roar from the audience.

Arleth pulled up his hood and started up the long ramp as the announcer continued, his black cloak bearing Cyric‘s mark fluttering behind him, his bronze cuirass polished and gleaming. The announcer went on, “And now First Lord Maalthiir is pleased to present you with tonight’s main attraction! In this gladiatorial exchange we have a veteran warrior, fighting in the arenas for nearly fifteen years, a menace from the Frozen North! Once a proud chieftain of a brutal, marauding, orcish tribe he was captured and sold into slavery! Now he fights for your entertainment as the villain you know only as Naaaaarzul!”

There was another roar from the audience and Arleth paused. He could hear the pompous shouts of the orc above. The announcer continued, “and, what better way to fight villainy than with more villainy! We are pleased to present his opponent! You may have heard of him as the rising star of the arena, the bloodthirsty cleric who stops not at only killing his foe, but claims their very souls! Hailing from parts unknown, the vile, the vicious, the priest of the Dark Sun himself, the Cyricist!”

Arleth passed over the top of the ramp and emerged to a incredible sight. The entire arena was radiating light from thousands upon thousands of torches, firepits, and lamps. The massive stone structure seemed more like the blazing gates of Hell and it stood in stark contrast to the black skies above which were void of stars and moonlight. Immense red banners fluttered above and the sand of the arena floor shone gold in the light, the whole stadium taking on a nearly supernatural glow. The coliseum was packed with screaming patrons, their howls nearly hitting a fever pitch as they cheered for the upcoming battle which was promised to be one for the ages.

Arleth looked to his foe and steeled himself.


______________________________________________________


It was done. His sword arm ached and throbbed and he was bloodied and bruised, but alive, his foe dead. His face was swollen and a deep gash ran vertically down beside his left eye. One of his ribs was surely broken and he was bleeding from a wound in his side. It was done.

As he sat in the carriage heading for the caravans at the city gates, the money needed to get him to Cormyr in his bag, he reflected. His seven-month stint in Hillsfar was over and he could now do as he was meant to. He clutched the symbol of Cyric around his neck and gave a sigh, lowering his head as tears formed.

“Annah, it is done. I am dead within and my debt to you and our child is paid. Forgive me. I was not there when they came. I did not protect you,” he paused and took a breath, wiping away the tears. Looking out the window of the carriage, he thought on his child. His son. His face slowly hardened into an expressionless mask, “I am dead, my debt is paid. Now I will make certain those who made you suffer give what is owed. A debt of flesh.”

[ManyAsOne]

Hordes of mindless dead. An all-consuming terror that had ravaged the small village of Isinhold. Such death and desolation made a good comparison for Arleth's thoughts on the moment as he stood quietly and watched a unit of the shambling corpses pace by. He drew his hood forward and leaned back against the tree, his mind racing for some sort of solution. None came.

So much for careful planning, he thought. He spat to the side, replaying the events in his head that led to his current predicament over and over. The paladin, the halfling, the mercenary. You were foolish and now you've lost all control on it. You're losing the war and a blow hasn't even been struck. They know of Eclipse, but who shed the light on it? Who made it known?

The Archmage? Maybe. Betrayal from him wouldn't be unexpected and Oriana... she knows. That knowledge is damaging. Perhaps that was your folly. A soft spot for a woman. Fool. Perhaps it was the mercenary? More likely. He has every reason to. He's said himself that he'd kill you were it not for your capability to attain the knowledge he desired. And his presence after that woman spoke of Eclipse. Coincidence? Arleth sneered slightly and clenched his fist.

He shook his head as if to banish his thoughts and stared ahead and focused on the brick wall across the road. Cut your losses. Leave. Take the road south to the Dragon Coast. Start again. You cannot purge Cormyr. He glanced up the road towards the undead patrol, the dead turning the corner past the Regal and moving out of sight. Cormyr will be purged anyways. Leave.

"No..." he said aloud, clenching his jaw, his teeth grinding. I'll not lose. Someone will pay. They all will. But where to start...?

Oriana.