Date: Mon, 28 Mar 2016 11:19:06 -0600
From: Michael Offutt <kavrik@hotmail.com>
Subject: Chapter 11-The Orb of Winter-Gay Science Fiction

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				   *****

			      Chapter Eleven

   The roar of some fifty thousand souls in the Arena of the Flayed man
filled Ser Skellhaundar Romax with pride. At six-foot four, the Darkglory
Timeron knight was looked up to for his imposing size, his military acumen,
his good looks, and his sensible leadership. Skellhaundar was a highly
decorated war hero in Noremost and was one of only ten to have the title
"Darkglory." He earned this honor with a military career that spanned sixty
years, although he didn't look a day over fifty. Unlike most Noremarians,
Skellhaundar's skin was several shades darker, yet unblemished by many
scars because his skill in battle kept him from getting wounded. He'd sired
ten perfect children, half of which were knights in their own right,
serving in different parts of the Noremarian empire. For ten years he'd
been in charge of the Keep of Anghul, overseeing the training of Timeron
squires and building up a force devoted to the Queen of Demons on Zandan
soil. Now he had a sizeable army strategically close to the border of their
mortal enemy: the Valion empire. This had been the plan all along, because
the Night's Daughter knew Skellhaundar's eyes saw everything.
   Skellhaundar examined the field of three hundred recruits from his perch
in one of the exclusive game boxes set aside for families of wealth. Each
of these luxury boxes came with its own slave, but Skellhaundar dismissed
the one that wanted to wait on him prior to the game. He also stood, rather
than sit. He didn't want to grow soft, for he had to lead men a quarter of
his age into battle and to do that required that he maintain the hardness
and discipline that made him famous.
   He made mental calculations, and looked at each prospective warrior's
coat of arms. Some came from places as distant as Asanibis on the far side
of the world. It made him wonder if today would be the day in which a
single man would rise above the others and prove himself worthy of Taleta's
love. But as his scrutinizing eye fell across the men, he felt
disappointment filling his gut once more.
   "Let's try to stay positive, shall we?" He said out loud to himself.
   Each of the shabby recruits did wear some kind of armor as this was the
minimum qualification, and some even managed to look half decent. They all
had swords; most had capes and poorly wrought boots, but at least they
weren't sandals. His blue dragon, Tyriankeldazriax, had chided him on many
an occasion with, "It's foolish of you to expect any kind of quality here,
Skellhaundar." He reluctantly agreed because even standard issue equipment
dispensed to squires on their first day at the Timeron knight academy was
better than anything here.
   But these men also had something that other Timeron knights lacked.
   They'd been beaten down upon by society and told they were
worthless. Many came from families with no name, trying to establish a
dynasty with the success of one child. In a word, they were hungry. All of
their equipment had been acquired in some way, even if many fashioned the
items themselves. So there was hope, and hope is like a drug. None of them
had any idea how broken their bodies would be by the end of the day. None
of them had a clue as to the brutality of the games until they fully
participated. The Bowl of Blood had only one purpose: to weed out all but
one perfect young man from all this garbage. To find the diamond in the
rough, shine a spotlight on him, and make Skellhaundar Romax put spurs on
his feet and initiate him into their order so that he could go and kill in
the name of Taleta, Queen of Demons. This so rarely happened that the games
seemed pointless. But then again, there were those shining moments...
   As for the rest? Their lives would most likely be ruined. Most would be
killed, and the remainder would end up permanently maimed or crippled.
   Such is the way of life, he thought.
   The chill of the chamber box in which he stood surveying those below
somehow intensified; white frost spread out over his corobidian armor. His
eyes turned to the doorway, and General Calisto Blackmoor entered his
luxury box. Maggots fell like cooked rice from the chinks in his battered
plate, and the general's tattered cloak billowed around boots caked in mud
and with many burst seams. Of equal rank, Ser Romax gave him a nod and then
turned back to the field before him even as the rankest of smells filled
his nostrils. It made Skellhaundar give silent thanks to "the goddess" that
he'd skipped out on lunch.
   "What's the purpose of all this anyway?" the death knight asked him,
taking heavy purposeful steps across the hollow floor. Underneath them,
cheers erupted as the first event started: a one-mile sprint in armor on a
track of frozen mud and snow. The uneven ground would turn many an ankle
before the race finished. And, there were four such events designed to push
men to the very edge of their athleticism and skill.
   Next, the men would be shown to a maze underground where they would face
all kinds of horrors with only the weapons they brought as
protection. Those that survived could take a lunch while their feet were
measured for an incredible pair of leather boots only available to Timeron
knights. The footwear would be form-fitted by the Keep of Anghul's personal
craftsman, made from the finest leather, and prepared for the recruit's
victory. Only two percent of the entries ever made it that far. With
today's lot, that meant only six men at most.
   After lunch, this last group of men would be washed and oiled and then
they would don their armor once more, minus the cuirass to leave the chest
and back exposed, and be marched to their deaths. Disarmed of swords, two
captains would be picked, and they would choose teams that would compete in
a fantastic gauntlet to get to a flag at the end. There they would have to
protect the flag until no one from the other team was left standing.
   The surviving team was then split up and put into an arena and
instructed to kill each other until only one stood. If this person was not
maimed or damaged in any way, he could become a knight. But if he was
crippled or wounded beyond rudimentary healing, he would be mercifully put
to death and the game would end with no winner.
   However, assuming that one did make it then this lucky soul had one last
test: an Auditor of Eilustriel. The machine would give the man a rank from
1 to 10 with regard to physical perfection. His final score determined the
sub-order in which he was enrolled. Thus far, Skellhaundar hadn't presented
spurs to a new recruit in over four years, and the Blood Bowl (as it had
come to be called) occurred at the end of every week.
   "The purpose is to give the unwashed masses a little hope in life,"
Skellhaundar replied after a long silence. Calisto folded his thick arms,
and Skellhaundar tried his best to not feel small in the general's shadow.
   "Your recruits are ugly. Not a one will make it past a `four' on the
auditor," Calisto said. "Why are the boys of this accursed country so
dreadful to look upon?"
   "Many are from outside our borders. But, how can you tell?" Skellhaundar
asked. "They're all wearing armor, and their faces are hidden. Perhaps your
racism has something to do with your taste? Fair skin and hair are rare in
this part of the world. In Noremost, they're as common as dirt. You'd be
wise to broaden your horizons if you intend to be happy while you travel."
   Calisto snorted. "Happy? That word is lost on me. I feel only duty."
   Skellhaundar tipped his head. "Ah duty. That thing that keeps us in an
eternal state of war with the rest of the world. There's been a lot of
blood spilt in duty's name."
   "That group's too fat, those men there are too short, and this stuff you
call armor hurts my eyes. It's shameful. They should all be executed to
send a message to the batch that comes here next week. Does no one spend
quid on proper mail anymore? We have recruits Skellhaundar! They come from
Noremost and are trained from birth to match our athletic principles so
that they may squire in places like the Keep of Anghul. They are men we've
bred for physical excellence and trained in war so that they kill without
mercy or compassion. As Inzilbeth was slain so shall all those be put to
the sword who do not recognize the power of the Queen of Demons. That is
duty. Whatever you play at here disgusts me. I beg of you, make this the
last Blood Bowl and return to the Night's Daughter in Dek Lek Thukar."
   "And so you said last week and the week before that," Skellhaundar
said. "You're welcome not to attend. Perhaps there's one here that will
earn spurs of gold."
   "There's never been one that earned that. The last five that came from
this event all got brass spurs. Congratulations, Skellhaundar. You found
five men in sixty thousand capable of being initiated into our lowest
rank. Did you have a servant put the spurs on their feet because you didn't
want to touch them yourself?" Calisto laughed. "A captain that's truly
moved by a recruit's physical beauty and performance will lick his squire's
feet clean before presenting them with the spurs of their office."
   "Well, as you said, those that participate in this event fall short of
our ideals," Skellhaundar said. "And the whole licking thing is an honor
reserved for the best. We call it the Tongue of Taleta for a reason: we
spend so much time saying prayers to Her that our tongues and saliva are
holy. Receiving the Tongue of Taleta is the highest reward to which a
recruit can aspire. Much funner is the Inspection: the ritual in which I
physically examine the recruit to make sure the Auditor of Eilustriel is
functioning properly. And both of these things are very public, so there's
much pomp and circumstance that I, for one, have never been moved to
participate in."
   "I've never attended one I liked," Calisto said, grinding his teeth.
   Skellhaundar almost retched when the light caught the general's helmet
just right, and he caught a glimpse of Calisto's bone white skull still
wrapped in rotten, bloody meat.
   On the field, men fell behind others who raced forward at a breakneck
pace. Four men fell down in a heap of limbs and looked exceptionally clumsy
from this distance.
   "I just finished a meeting with Kahket," Calisto said. "The bitch thinks
that she's a goddess in her own right."
   "Technically," Skellhaundar said, "she's correct. Her husband is a god,
and that means that she is one by extension. I wouldn't cross that one. Not
if you value your...existence?" From the corner of his eye, Skellhaundar
spotted a bit of mud on his polished black armor. He lifted the hem of his
blue and black cloak and buffed it off. He took a moment to look at his
calloused brown hands. I'm getting older, he thought. But how wonderful it
was to be a young man once.
   "She's after the Orb of Winter," Calisto said to him.
   "Ah, and the point of this little visit emerges. The one mentioned in
prophecy?" Skellhaundar cleared his throat and recalled the words he'd
learned as a squire. "I think it says `When the Orb of Winter breaks look
ye to the Valion whore with hair the color of blood for she and she alone
will lead Thomas astray. And the god of war shall fall from the heavens
like a comet and into the outstretched tentacle of a demon prince...I
forget what its name was...who shall take the godling's body of flesh and
blood to chain it with our dark queen in the lowest level of Hell.' You
mean that prophecy?" Skellhaundar asked. "The Orb of Winter does not
exist."
   "The one and the same," Calisto said, watching as two men finished the
race. "How long's it been now?"
   "Eight minutes," Skellhaundar replied.
   "Only three men finished in that time?" Calisto asked, voice
incredulous.
   "It would appear so. I can already tell you want to leave, and I
encourage you to do so because today will no doubt disappoint as have all
the other days," Skellhaundar said.
   The death knight turned and stared at Skellhaundar, his glowing eyes
fierce. "The demon prince is real, and he's in Zanda. I saw him today at
the palace."
   A silence filled the room for a few seconds as Skellhaundar comprehended
what Calisto had just shared with him. "You saw what?"
   "I saw the Anatomica of Chagidiel. He calls himself Vampyr. But make no
mistake, it's the one mentioned in prophecy. It's the demon prince that
takes Thomas into hell."
   "Interesting. Is he huge? Does he have tentacles?"
   "He's about my size but very thin. And no, there's no tentacles. But I'm
sure that Vampyr can take any form he desires. Something that powerful
could easily take the shape of what I saw today."
   "True," Skellhaundar agreed. "And what of the red head?"
   Calisto shook his head, scattering more maggots on the
floor. Skellhaundar grimaced but kept his silence. "I'm not sure. The
prophecy says `Valion whore' but all Valion women are whores," Calisto
said.
   Skellhaundar laughed. "That is true, isn't it?"
   "But at least two parts of the prophecy are coming true," Calisto
said. "All of these things are signs that point to Taleta's return. You
would be wise to put this childish pursuit of yours aside. Fuck the people
and their hope. Not everyone is cut out to be a Timeron knight. Not
everyone is destined to tread the world under their boots. In life, there
are wolves and there are sheep. We are the wolves!"
   Skellhaundar bowed his head and the general departed, leaving a trail of
gooey footprints to mark his path across the floor.

				   *****

Thank you so much to those readers who have written me to tell me how much
you've loved the story, and special thanks to Jim (whose been getting
advanced chapters from me in exchange for editing :) I totally got the best
of that bargain).

This weekend I published thru Chapter Twenty-Three on my website at
http://slckismet.blogspot.com/p/discussion-board-for.html under the label
"The Orb of Winter" if you care to read ahead. If you go to my website
directly from this posting, you will want to begin with "Chapter Seven" in
the forums. For those of you only interested in sexytime, that happens in
Chapter Twenty-Two.