Date: Mon, 12 Sep 2016 03:46:27 +0000
From: Michael Offutt <kavrik@hotmail.com>
Subject: Chapter 35-The Orb of Winter-Gay Science Fiction

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				   *****

			    Chapter Thirty-Five


   "Ser Calisto Blackmoor ordered the change to the field," Ser Makidon
said to Skellhaundar in the early morning light.
   It was disappointments like these that kept Skellhaundar from advancing
Makidon to the gold spurs. You should have told me what Calisto was up to
last night, and I don't care if you woke me up to do so. Calisto knows this
is my project and seeks to embarrass me before the whole country,
Skellhaundar thought. He glanced at the good-looking brown-eyed second
lieutenant and swallowed his anger. Taleta's tears, how can you be mad at
that? What the boy lacks in common sense he more than makes up for with his
tongue.
   Skellhaundar surveyed the field before him with distaste, digging his
heel into the dirt. Already, it had been years since some commoner had won
a pair of spurs and been knighted, and now Calisto had done everything he
could to make the first event of the Blood Bowl even more difficult, if not
outright deadly.
   Originally a mile sprint on a track here in the Arena of the Flayed Man,
it had now been doubled in length and included difficult terrain that would
challenge the most dexterous and strong warriors. Makidon told him that
Calisto himself had toiled the field, carrying in thousand pound boulders
(to no doubt demonstrate his significant undead strength) and set them on
the racetrack by the dozens. Skellhaundar learned that mule teams had
worked for two days to dig trenches and potholes to catch unwary feet, and
razor grass had been transplanted to rip flesh from unprotected legs. One
half mile stretch now went through waist-deep mud, the only way across was
to use carefully positioned balance beams each sixty feet long resting atop
poles planted in the track. Then there was a salmon ladder some fourteen
feet high, requiring men with upper body strength and the skill to swing
their bodies back and forth to leap upward one rung at a time using only a
horizontal pole. As if this weren't enough, the contestants were expected
to leap from the top of that thing into a sandy pit. If that didn't break a
few ankles, then nothing would. The final trek of the first challenge was a
sprint to the finish on the normal uneven ground, frozen because of the
wintry weather.
   "I want it changed back," Skellhaundar said to Makidon. "See that it
gets done."
   "There's no time, ser. Men are already showing up for the first event,"
Makidon said, his voice warbling a bit.
   Skellhaundar considered canceling, but he looked up at his luxury box
where he normally watched the games and saw Calisto there, staring down at
him with those eerie glowing eyes. I will not give you the satisfaction,
Skellhaundar thought.
   He turned to Makidon and said, "Make sure the men showing up to
participate know that the track has been changed. Allow any that wish to
withdraw to do so. We'll see more blood than usual today," Skellhaundar
said. Then he walked off the course to find something to eat before the
games started.
   "Ser, will you be heading to your luxury box as usual?" Makidon asked.
   Skellhaundar turned and pointed his finger up at Calisto. "I don't think
so. It's a bit chilly up there. I think I might take the opportunity to
meet the brave men vying for glory today. It'll be a special lot that
agrees to any of this."
   Outside the Arena of the Flayed Man, Skellhaundar found a food vendor
selling fresh cinnamon rolls and paid for one. He sat at a table alone,
chewing on his food and drinking thick coffee from a mug. He observed the
crowds of gamblers and jeerers hopping in line right as the gates opened.
   They are always the first...harpies among men. They look over my
contestants risking life and limb at the south gate and place odds on
everything from how many minutes it takes for the first man to finish to
how many men will die that day, Skellhaundar thought. If I ever end these
competitions, I'll make sure to round up the lot of them and feed them to
our dogs.
   To no one's surprise, Skellhaundar found the whole business of betting
on men disgusting. Men received glory for winning battles, not
participating in games. The fact that so much money changed hands regarding
a man's fate cheapened the heart of what Skellhaundar thought these games
were about: finding someone worthy to wear the spurs of a Timeron knight.
   I wonder if the Valion knights have such contests, Skellhaundar
thought. I should ask Ephram next time I knock some teeth out of his
skull. Idly, Skellhaundar's fingers toyed with a small velvet bag that hung
around his neck. Inside were the molars from Ephram's mouth, teeth he'd
knocked out last night for the sheer pleasure of it. As far as he knew,
there was no other Darkglory in the service of Noremost that had such a
treasure: the teeth from an actual Crimson Guard of Thomas.
   He finished the last bite of his cinnamon roll and walked back into the
arena to inspect the contestants on the field, sipping at his thick coffee
which steamed inside his mug.
   There were two hundred men milling about the beginning of the race. At a
glance, half of them looked like something the cat dragged in for breakfast
in the morning. Skellhaundar lifted his visor and whistled. "Men! Line up
against the wall there," Skellhaundar ordered, pointing to the left of
where they'd walked afield through an old iron gate directly under the
stands. It led into the gladiator pits, where all contestants donned armor
before spilling blood.
   "Look at your sorry lot," Skellhaundar said, marching down the line as
the men fell in. He saw recruits of every size, short, fat, tall, and
gangly. He focused on one cyclotitan warrior wearing a steel-plaited
lorikon and mail coat and paired with open-toed sandals. "Do you see that
razor grass on the track there? Do you know what it does, soldier?"
   The golden-skinned muscular warrior swallowed. "I am legionnaire
trained, ser."
   "Legionnaire trained," Skellhaundar scoffed walking up to the
cyclotitan. He thought it a trick of the light, but Skellhaundar only came
to the man's chin. "You're a big one, ain't you?" he asked.
   "Yes, ser," the man said.
   "Well it doesn't matter what training you have, soldier, because that
razor glass will shred flesh like my knife can shred papyrus. And you're
wearin' a fuckin' skirt and flip flops like you're someone's nursemaid. You
aren't equipped for this challenge. Go home," Skellhaundar said, anger
thick in his voice.
   The seven-and-a-half-foot tall man nodded, and tears wet his cheeks. As
commanded, he stepped out of formation and left the floor of the arena.
   Skellhaundar looked at the next guy in line, a man that only came to his
shoulder. He had on a pot that had been beaten into a helmet-like shape and
wore hard-boiled leather armor wrapped around his legs, ankles, and
chest. Skellhaundar fingered it, getting a waft of garlic mixed in with a
solid dose of unwashed armpit. The man's long black beard bristled in the
sunlight.
   "Do you know what this is made of?" Skellhaundar asked, loud enough for
everyone to hear.
   "Leather, milord?" the man asked.
   "Are you askin' or are you tellin' me? Which is it?" Skellhaundar asked,
tapping his boot.
   "It's leather, milord," the man stated.
   "Leather! Exactly! And just what is leather made from?" Skellhaundar
asked again.
   This time several voices answered. "It's made of the flesh of dead
animals, ser!"
   "The flesh of dead animals. Imagine that," Skellhaundar remarked. "And
what did I fuckin' just tell that cyclotitan legionnaire?"
   "You told him to leave, ser!" a single voice said. It rang loud and
clear in the morning air. "You told him to leave because razor grass shreds
flesh. All flesh, ser! It grows only on the Plains of Lice, found to the
south and east of Than Jarat in Tar-Meneldur."
   Skellhaundar stood there a moment, staring down the man in the boiled
armor. But he was curious as to the identity of the speaker too, and it
distracted the general. His own men would be hard-pressed to name the
origin of razor grass. However, the ill-fitted recruit (sweating profusely)
finally broke rank and ran for the exit, nearly tripping over his cloth
shoes.
   "Than Jarat in Tar-Meneldur indeed!" Skellhaundar said. He looked over
the soldiers and saw many of them heading for the exit now, all in boiled
leather armor. Just as good, Skellhaundar thought. My men already spend
enough time here cleaning up the dead.
   "Who said that about razor grass?" Skellhaundar called out. Let's take a
look at this smartass.
   "I did, ser," a recruit said, taking a step forward.
   The man in question stood about six-foot-two, and was several inches
taller than every shabbily dressed recruit around him. Skellhaundar sucked
in his breath because he was not expecting to see a lean and trim human in
this assembly, much less donned from head to foot in black corobidian armor
that looked every bit like it belonged on a Timeron knight, but was
specifically made for this unknown warrior. As Skellhaundar got closer, the
general realized he had a fine specimen of man on his hands. This soldier
was clearly lithe and strong, narrow of waist and long of
limb. Skellhaundar admired the exquisite workmanship and embellishments on
the armored suit: gold chasing over the knuckles on the gauntlets, a
gorgeous black helm with fierce demonic faces burnished into the surface,
and raised moons and stars all over the black metal. On this man's feet
were a pair of black boots, tightened into place by six straps a piece and
fastened with highly polished golden buckles. If he dressed correctly, he'd
have metal sabatons underneath to protect his feet when the razor grass
shredded those boots to ribbons.
   Skellhaundar stopped in front of the man, reached out, and then raised
the soldier's visor. Much to his surprise, he beheld the most incredible
face he had ever seen. Here was a youth with fine porcelain white skin
spotted here and there with faint freckles, and eyes bluer than the heart
of the ocean.
   Taleta's Tears...he's a fuckin' puppy! He doesn't look more than
sixteen...maybe seventeen.
   The young man returned Skellhaundar's gaze with fierce
determination. Skellhaundar couldn't see the boy's hair, because it was
hidden by the black chainmail hood. But the dense white-blond eyelashes and
white-blond eyebrows gave him a hint as to the color of hair that would be
found all over this boy's body. Most delicious of all, the boy's nose was
high-bridged and narrow, the kind found in only the pure blood houses of
ancient Noremost. It reminded Skellhaundar of a beak on a predatory bird,
and it suited the angular planes of this boy's fine cheekbone structure the
same as perfection made flesh.
   "I'm the speaker, ser," the boy said, in a gravelly baritone.
   Skellhaundar let the visor drop in place mostly because looking at such
beauty made his fingers tremble. So his eyes fell to the boy's tabard. It
was a Timeron knight's tabard, and he found himself lusting after what
might be concealed underneath. The cloth draping sure hinted at it, rising
with the boy's breath so that the hint of pectorals and abdominal muscles
shaped the way the sleeveless jerkin hung on this tight teenaged
body. Skellhaundar stepped to the side, admiring the swale of the cuirass
as it met the butt tasset, giving this boy a symmetry that he'd not seen in
a decade of recruits. Hell, there's no knight I have working for me now
that looks this good in armor, he thought.
   "Is there something wrong, ser?" the long-legged teenaged boy asked him.
   "Not at all," Skellhaundar said. "I'm admiring your armor,
soldier. Where did you get it?"
   "My father was a retired Timeron knight and moved to Dhesiria following
the Pyricene Wars. This is his armor," the boy said.
   Behind his helmet, Skellhaundar licked his lips at how the armor hugged
the boy's attractive hip bones. "What's your name, soldier?" Skellhaundar
asked.
   "I'm called Kian, Ser. Kian Brittain of House Brittain," the boy said.
   "I'm not familiar with House Brittain," Skellhaundar said. "Is it a
Noremarian house?"
   "No, ser," Kian said, still standing at attention. "House Brittain is a
member of the Dhesirian merchant consortium. When I turned eighteen, my
mother insisted that I leave to make my way in the world. She gave me this
armor, as alas, my father no longer needs it having been killed by a Valion
coward."
   This made Skellhaundar grin. He clapped Kian on the shoulder and said,
"All valions are cowards. I have one in my dungeon right now that I'll let
you have a swing at if you make it through this. I have high expectations
for you, Kian of House Brittain. If you pass the test today, you'll be the
first in years to do so. But from the looks of you, I think you've got
what's necessary to make it through." He leaned into Kian so that the boy
could hear him whisper, "There's no way you're eighteen, but I understand
the need to become a man before conventional wisdom says you're
ready. Kian, if you pass this test, I personally will gift you your spurs
in a ceremony known as the Tongue of Taleta. I promise you this honor, so
give it your all."
   Kian replied, "I look forward to it, ser."
   Then Skellhaundar moved on from Kian to look at the other remaining
recruits. But for the rest of that morning, he thought of nothing else
except how he wanted to see that young man naked and sweaty, bent over so
that he could ream his asshole out with his tongue and fingers in
preparation for a proper breeding. He just hoped Kian would let him do
it. Skellhaundar's personal code did not allow rape of another knight. That
would never happen under his watch. Sex had to be consensual among peers.
   It's a fuckin' crime against nature that boys should look so good,
Skellhaundar thought.
   Having a change of heart, Skellhaundar joined Calisto in his luxury box,
but to be fair there was a bit of a quickness to his step. On the field,
Makidon prepared the recruits for the first challenge of the morning in
which they'd compete in the armor that they wore.
   "I see you trimmed down the ranks of our prospective recruits by almost
half. What are there, only a hundred thirty or so left?" Calisto asked as
Skellhaundar joined him at the rail where they could look down on the
field.
   Skellhaundar's eyes immediately settled on Kian, who (after stretching)
crouched at the starting line, the long line of his body in a running
stance while the others stared at him like he was nuts. Some of them,
however, copied his bearing not realizing that it was probably the best way
to start a race with any serious intent.
   "They were ill-prepared for the razor grass. I just made sure to
convince them of that," Skellhaundar remarked.
   "You did us a disservice," Calisto chided him, flicking a few maggots
from his fingers over the rail. "Blood being spilt is one of the most
entertaining sights for old warriors."
   "Not this warrior," Skellhaundar said.
   "I don't get you," Calisto replied. "I love the sight of fresh blood. I
even crave it. Yet you seem repulsed by it. Why?"
   "Calisto, I like victory. Oftentimes the sight of blood means that
victory is at hand. But blood for lust's sake is a fool's errand. I
appreciate the men that I lead. I don't want to see them harmed
unnecessarily. They've earned the respect that comes from being an elite
soldier and everyday they're out on patrol or serving on the front line of
our many wars, they risk dying. Young men are a treasure that burns
brighter than yellow gleams in solid gold. Let's not waste our treasure
because of appetite."
   Calisto scoffed. "You've grown soft, Skellhaundar. Next time I see the
Night's Daughter I'll tell her how soft you've become."
   "You do that," Skellhaundar said. "And Calisto, next time you change my
field here at the Arena of the Flayed Man will be the last time you draw
breath."
   At this threat, Calisto tightened his grip on the rail. "You think you
could defeat me?" Calisto asked. "I'm five-hundred years old, Skellhaundar,
and have dealt with more powerful foes than you."
   "I know precisely who and what you are, Calisto. And despite what
everyone thinks, you can be killed. You know it, and so do I. This is my
project. I call the shots here, and your attempts to make the field more
difficult will not matter one whit after today."
   "After today?" Calisto asked. "Do you actually think someone in that
pack of slobs has a chance to succeed?"
   "I do," Skellhaundar said. "So much so that I promised him that I'd
perform the Tongue of Taleta on him when he earns his golden spurs."
   Calisto laughed. "Who is it then? Point out this champion among the
garbage so I can enjoy this contest too."
   "You'll see soon enough. Quiet now, the first challenge is about to
begin," Skellhaundar said.
   Beyond the flags flapping in the wind (displaying the insignia of the
Flayed Man) Ser Makidon Oberon walked in front of the contestants of this
morning's Blood Bowl with a gleaming trumpet in hand, and a gorgeous
cloak. Blue on the inside and black on the outside, it fluttered about his
heels. His silver spurs on the black boots he wore virtually gleamed in
first dawn. The track (some one hundred feet wide) circled the inside of
the enormous stadium which stood at half-capacity this early in the
morning. But Skellhaundar felt that once word spread on the street about
Kian Brittain, people would start to notice.
   It would be hard-pressed to find another group of people outside the
Zandans that worship athletic beauty to their extent, Skellhaundar
thought. Shallow and vain are two words that describe a Zandan to a tee.
   "Get ready!" Makidon called out, lifting his visor. "The race starts as
soon as my trumpet blows. Any that manage to cross the finish line will
advance to the next competition in the maze below these grounds. You will
be timed. Get set!" Makidon lifted the trumpet to his lips and blew.
   All of the men rushed forward on the track, but one outdistanced all of
them by about a body length per second: Kian Brittain. By about the fifth
second, this incredible athlete had already put thirty feet between him and
the next best contender: a tall wood elf with hair the color of alizarin
crimson.
   "That lad is phenomenally fast!" Calisto exclaimed. "He's doing that in
full Timeron regalia. Taleta's Tears I haven't laid eyes on a suit like
that in ages. What he's wearing is almost as old as me, and it must have
cost his family a fortune to assemble. I'll bet that's your man, isn't it?"
   Skellhaundar said nothing.
   Calisto chuckled and said, "I'd have to agree; he's gone the extra mile
to show he belongs with us by dressing like our best. But does he have the
athletic chops to survive? That is the real question, but I bet he gets
killed. Shame really, because the outline of his body stirs my loins."
   "Care to make a wager?" Skellhaundar asked.
   "On whether he lives or whether he gets spurred?"
   "On whether he gets spurred."
   "Depends on the stakes," Calisto said, voice as smug as an undead could
muster.
   "I'll let you fuck any one of my men you choose with that atrocious
prick of yours. But you can't kill him...just fuck him. One knight that
serves me. I promise I'll order him to submit to your vile raping,"
Skellhaundar said. "You get that if Kian Brittain doesn't get spurred
today."
   "And what if he does? Then what are you asking for me to give up?"
Calisto asked.
   "You swear off sex for ten years," Skellhaundar said. "No living thing
needs to experience your horrendous touch or needs couch with you for an
entire decade. Those are my terms."
   "You know I've lusted for one of your men, but you're not bringing
enough to the table," Calisto declared. "I want more, or there's no
bet. Here are my terms. I get one of your men, and I get to fuck him as
much as I like. I get to damage him as much as I want, even if it rips his
intestines out of his bloody ass. Whatever's left, I'll return to you in a
basket. Oh, and you get to be in the next room the entire time listening to
his screams. That's what I want, Skellhaundar. That's what I want from
you. And just so you know, I'm going to choose Makidon Oberon. Raping him
to death is how a good day starts."
   This made Skellhaundar tense up. Skellhaundar liked the young Makidon
more than he cared to admit, but the bet (if he won) would remove the
threat of the death knight harming young beautiful boys for an entire
decade. "Agreed," he said. "You have a deal, Calisto."
   "You're truly stupid if you think someone can get spurred today,"
Calisto replied, sitting down in his chair. "I can't wait to taste
Makidon's pussy. I bet his blood will taste like fresh copper on my
tongue."
   "The fact that you can taste anything shocks me," Skellhaundar replied.
   Down on the field, Kian leapt from a full run onto the narrow rails
crossing the mud pits. Still sprinting, he raced across the wooden length
with such grace it looked like he was flying. A full ten seconds behind him
came the next contestant, the elf with crimson hair, who hopped onto the
wooden balance beam with dexterity common to his race (but not even in the
same league as Kian). As more men showed up, a full half of them fell into
the mud. As for the elf, he seemed to be the only other recruit that could
cross the beams with any kind of speed whatsoever. However, he only did so
at a fast walk and not a full sprint like Kian managed to do.
   As Kian hit the end of one beam, there was a six-foot gap before the
next and Kian leapt that, landing with a cat's grace to continue on as if
unfazed.
   "How's he doing that?" Calisto asked. "Your man's as surefooted as a
squirrel on a wire. I swear he's cheating."
   "All contestants are checked for magic at the door. You know as well as
I that they must leave any magical equipment behind. What you're seeing is
his natural ability," Skellhaundar said, gripping the rail. Don't fall,
Kian. That's it. Keep your balance, Skellhaundar thought. The entire time
he watched, Skellhaundar felt a rise in his groin that made his armor
uncomfortable. Look at how his body moves, Skellhaundar thought. And the
armor is certainly suggestive. I can see his thighs and calves strain along
with his glutes. Incredible.
   Kian blazed through the half-mile course over the mud pits in just under
two minutes. He leapt from that onto the track which had many holes,
boulders, hills, and areas of quicksand. Kian soared from boulder to
boulder, pushing off with his feet, sometimes hopping as much as two body
lengths to land and spring forth again. By comparison, his nearest
competition, the elf, was still only halfway across the mud pits.
   At the end of the obstacle course, Kian plunged into the field of razor
grass. Like Skellhaundar said, it pretty much shredded Kian's boots within
a few hundred feet. The waist high grass also damaged Kian's tabard along
the hem, but the razor thin blades waving in the breeze just threw sparks
off his corobidian armor. As the youth ran, he trampled a path that would
make it easier for those following him to pass, but not by so much that (if
they weren't properly protected) they could avoid grievous wounds.
   By the time Kian reached the end of the grass, the elf reached the
beginning of the obstacle course. About a dozen other men were halfway
across the mud pits by now, and another twenty had just reached the first
rail across the mud.
   Skellhaundar watched as Kian gripped the pole in his hands and started
up the salmon ladder. The blond teen hoisted his blade-thin body upward,
one rung at a time he swung himself back and forth, and then he forced a
jump to the next set of hooks at just the right moment. When he got to the
top of the fourteen-foot-tall columns, he pulled himself up and balanced on
the highest point before jumping. Kian executed a double flip in mid-air
and stuck the landing perfectly in the sand pit. At that point, the arena
broke out in cheers. Then he sprinted onto the frozen racetrack for the
last mile finish.
   "He's breathtaking," Calisto said. "I bet that boy doesn't have an ounce
of fat on him. He's like a gazelle and a monkey all in one."
   "That's a rather strange image, but yes," Skellhaundar replied.
   Kian crossed the finish line under thunderous roars from the stands. His
time? Under seven minutes. Then he slowed to a walk, shaking his legs and
arms, flinging sweat from his gauntlets, and wicking it from his face, and
he just stared back at the field trying to catch his breath. There was
nothing left of the boots he'd worn, but Skellhaundar was pleased to see
that Kian did indeed wear a full plate mail set complete with corobidian
sabatons to protect his feet.
   "He's white," Calisto said. "I love that ivory skin. What color are his
eyes? I can't tell from this distance."
   "He has blond hair and cerulean eyes," Skellhaundar said.
   Calisto growled. "Cerulean? How poetic. That's an unusual combination in
these parts. Where did you say he was from? And how blond?"
   "White blond," Skellhaundar replied, looking over his shoulder.
   The death knight hissed. "That's very rare."
   "It's exceptional," Skellhaundar said, "I've never seen it occur
naturally. Impressed yet?"
   "Very," Calisto said. "I wonder if it's dyed that way."
   Skellhaundar frowned at Calisto and looked back on the field.
   The elf finally reached the razor grass and was moving forward through
it but screaming in pain as the waving reeds slashed at skin on his body
left unprotected by the armor he wore. After a few minutes, more and more
contestants arrived only to suffer the same fate. All the while Calisto
cackled and kicked his feet in glee.
   The response from the crowd in the arena was one of horror, followed by
gasps and a few "boos."
   Skellhaundar called down to Makidon, "Rescue the ones that cannot go any
farther. See if you can spare them an amputation or two."
   "Yes, my lord," Makidon said. Then the soldier took off his tabard and
cloak and gave these (along with his sword) to a squire. He called for
several other knights to do the same, and then the group of them waded into
the razor grass to rescue those that had not perished in the bladed
weeds. As the armored men moved into this transplanted pasture of moving
stalks, sparks showered forth from their armor while blood rained forth
from men who succumbed to their wounds.
   After thirty minutes, only forty others managed to cross the finish line
and many of them were so bloody it was questionable if they could
continue. The elf was among them.
   "Only a third of your prospective recruits made it to the end," Calisto
said. "That's got to sting, Skellhaundar. You'd best send in the healers."
   Skellhaundar didn't even bother with a reply.
   It took a half hour for the field to be cleared. During this time, magic
mirrors were moved into place in front of the crowd. All in all there were
ten of them, and each was flexible and unrolled from tubes carted out in a
horse-drawn chariot. Mounted on poles, the reflective surfaces sparked with
magical energy that belonged to the cleric school of divination. Clerics
from the church of Taleta gathered before the mirrors and cast the spell
that would allow them to see through special sensors in an underground
maze. Everything in front of the sensor would be broadcast to everyone in
the stands. And with five minutes before the next event started,
Skellhaundar was pleased that the stadium was almost at capacity. People
were talking about Kian, and he could hear them mentioning Brittain's
contestant number over and over. He imagined that there were a lot of
people in gambling halls throughout the city right now placing wagers both
for and against Kian on surviving the mayhem in the Maze of Monsters.
   The mirror in front of the stands in which Skellhaundar and Calisto
stood gazing down upon the field, illuminated with a view of the
labyrinthine corridors underneath the arena floor. Forty separate trap
doors placed around the arena (and played out evenly across the board)
opened with a grinding noise. There were no stairs or ladder, just a drop
of some thirty feet to a floor of sand. The walls were made of huge granite
blocks and had a steep incline.
   All of the men left in this event wore mail armor, and this is how
Skellhaundar felt it should be.
   Perhaps Calisto hit upon a stroke of brilliance with the razor grass. No
one in hide, leather, or incomplete suits is left, Skellhaundar thought.
   As his eyes swept the field, Skellhaundar counted a dozen suits of ring
mail, twice that number in full chain mail suits and the rest wore half
plate, although much of it had been cobbled together and didn't look
nice. Kian's was the only suit of full plate (worth a small fortune to any
armorer) and Skellhaundar's chest swelled with pride in thinking that he
might get to knight that boy by the end of the day. Each contestant had a
weapon of some kind. Skellhaundar spotted nets, swords, spears, and
bows. Kian was the only one with a short sword and shield. As the other men
rappelled into the maze, Kian strapped his shield to his back and slid down
the incline with his hands raking the walls for a controlled descent. The
speed at which he struck bottom looked too fast to Skellhaundar, but the
boy's agility in the descent was incredible to watch, because he shifted
his feet and hands in minute ways to ensure he landed precisely where he
wanted to land.
   "He's like a cat," Calisto said, "hold them upside down and they still
land on their feet when you let them go."
   A cloud of dust settled around Kian's boots, the image distorted around
the edges because of a "fish-eye" effect produced by the magical sensors in
his part of the maze. The boy crouched there a moment and then moved
forward with trepidation. As he walked, Skellhaundar noted that Kian chose
a path close to the wall where there could be found (here and there) pieces
of granite blocks sticking up out of the sand. Kian hopped from stone to
stone, sometimes leaping as much as six feet to find purchase on only a few
inches of real estate. The result was that he didn't leave any footprints
in the sand.
   "Hah! Two men are dead from poisonous widows!" Calisto yelled, smacking
his own thigh with an open palm. The dull ring of metal on metal clanged
loudly in the chamber.
   But Skellhaundar continued to watch Kian.
   The boy proceeded cautiously, crouched over and listening. Up ahead came
the sound of battle, and he waited until the sounds stopped to
proceed. Kian turned a corner and then another, and came upon three large
black spiders turned over and with blood spilling from their corpses onto
the sand. Near them was the body of one contestant, skin necrotic and
covered in boils from a single poisonous sting. Skellhaundar watched Kian
kneel next to the spider's mandibles, pull out a jar, and skillfully
harvest poison from its fangs. He immediately anointed his sword along the
edge. Kian did so with incredible skill, and Skellhaundar had no doubt that
the boy had been given extensive training in the handling of deadly poison.
   Where did he learn to do that? Skellhaundar thought.
   In the next minute, Kian was off, hopping from spider to spider with the
light touch of a feather, hardly moving the bodies at all as he
landed. Then he leapt to a small outcropping of rock in one of six possible
paths. He looked to the ground, checked, and then looked down the corridor
awash in shadows broken only by areas where sunlight cascaded in from
entryways far above.
   He's tracking someone. Skellhaundar's eyes flicked to another portion of
the magic viewing mirror to see if he could figure out who it was. He's
trailing the elf with crimson hair who looks to be headed into the lair of
the summer onibaba. Interesting.
   The summer onibaba was a prisoner from the mystic east. The creature was
ten feet tall, and ogre-kin, but much more intelligent. With orange hair
and orange skin, the summer onibaba drew magical powers from a mythical
object called the Thunderstone. More specifically, it was a piece of the
Thunderstone carved by their god, Surtr, who broke a gem of incalculable
value into four shards. The summer onibaba drew its power from one of those
shards: the summer prism. This allowed it to call upon the powers of fire,
and made it a formidable foe despite the fact that they typically wielded
enormous iron clubs in battle called kanabo. This particular summer onibaba
had two of those, and it was an expert at fighting with both. The only way
to proceed through its chamber was to get the key that hung around its neck
and open the door that led deeper into the Maze of Monsters.
   Skellhaundar's eyes returned to Kian who deliberately left the track of
the elf to take another passage that led in the same general
direction. This one bore the summer onibaba's footprints, and Kian knelt
down carefully to measure them with his hands: two lengths exactly. It made
the boy shake his head, but Skellhaundar couldn't see the boy's face as it
was hidden behind the gorgeous black helm.
   "He's the only one that's doing that," Calisto remarked. "Look at how
carefully he moves."
   Skellhaundar just nodded, fascinated.
   Kian hopped to several more rocks and then came to the chamber where the
summer onibaba paced around on the floor, one leg tethered to a huge hook
in the ground and dragging a chain behind that looked about three-hundred
feet long. Kian left his shield in the sand and then used his belt to tie
his short sword to his forearm. Then the boy found small footholds and
imperfections in the rock with his metal-encased fingers. With incredible
strength and agility, the boy did what Skellhaundar thought was impossible
in Timeron knight armor: he scrambled up to a corner where the walls of the
corridor joined the wall and ceiling of the monster's lair (at a height of
about fourteen feet) all without making a sound. Once in place, he
virtually disappeared in shadow.
   "What devilry is this?" Calisto asked. "Is the boy a warrior or an
assassin?"
   "That's an interesting question," Skellhaundar asked.
   From an adjacent corridor, the elf came into view carrying a bow. Not
nearly as careful as Kian, the elf almost immediately attracted the
attention of the summer onibaba, which turned its head and roared. The elf
raised his bow and fired off an arrow which struck the huge giant kin in
the center of his chest and bounced off the leathery hide.
   "Elf will burn for attacking Hralgar!" the onibaba roared, attacking
with both iron clubs. As he leapt into the air, orbs of fire appeared
around the onibaba, circling like the wind of a tornado.
   That's when Kian attacked, launching himself forward and down, he leapt
like a missile at just the right angle to bring his sword into contact with
the ogre's exposed legs. Kian struck furiously with the blade, and it
managed to cut through the tough leather and hide and hamstring the
monster. Skellhaundar's eyes flew wide as he saw Kian's powerful shoulder
and arm muscles flex on the skin of his armor. Skellhaundar had experience
fighting these ogres, and the general knew the kind of strength that was
needed to cut through the hide of such a foe—it was the same needed to
sunder an elephant's thigh bone with one blow. The summer onibaba landed
and almost immediately fell over, howling in pain.
   The elf looked shocked and narrowly avoided blasts of fire that missed
his head by a few inches. Still, the heat from those blasts singed the ends
of his crimson hair and melted the granite where they struck.
   "Let's work together!" Kian called out.
   Teamwork? Here? Skellhaundar thought. Incredible. I've never seen this.
   "This boy is doing things that we've never seen," Calisto said. "The
very heart of Timeron ideology is teamwork, and he's showing us that
strength now. It's like it all comes naturally to him."
   "Why should I help you?" the elf asked, face long and drawn. "You are my
competition."
   "Because the last event is also a team event," Kian said. "None of us
stand a chance if there are too few of us to go on."
   The elf thought about this and agreed. By this time, the summer onibaba
managed to gain his footing on his one good leg, and he swung at Kian
angrily with both iron kanabo. Kian ducked under one and tumbled back to
where his shield lay and snatched it off the ground. The elf fired off two
more arrows but to no effect. The onibaba, furious, lashed out with a
blistering heat aura that forced the elf to shield his face with his hands
even from thirty feet away. Skellhaundar saw the skin on the elf's face
redden and blister. Kian ducked behind his shield and was saved from the
heat, although it left his shield glowing.
   How is he going to get past that? Skellhaundar thought.
   And then he saw the blackness creeping up through the veins on the
onibaba's leg. The creature howled and fell down as the poison that Kian
had coated his blade with started to travel through the giant ogre, killing
him. In a few more seconds, the monster fell face forward into the sand as
dead as Skellhaundar's ancestors. Within a minute, the aura had cooled
enough that the sand stopped glowing.
   Kian stood up from behind his shield, none the worse for wear, although
the front face of his shield glowed with heat. Kian dropped it in the sand
to cool off and then strode forward into the chamber to grab the key around
the monster's neck.
   "How did you kill it?" the elf asked, hands and face blistered from
heat.
   "Poison," Kian said, anointing his blade once more with another dose
from the spiders.
   "You have no honor when you fight," the elf said.
   "And you do," Kian replied, "which is why you're burnt and I'm
not. Look, this isn't a contest of honor. It's a contest of survival. You
can have honor later, after you get out of here. How badly are you hurt?"
   "I'll manage," the elf said, wrapping his hands in cloth. "The pain is
inconsequential. Timeron knights don't show pain."
   Kian retrieved his shield, which was quickly returning to normal
temperature and strode over to the door atop a thin veneer of glass,
fingering the key (and its chain) in his hand much like a child plays at a
yo-yo. "Tell me when you're ready for me to open this," Kian said,
inspecting the huge iron door. It was emblazoned with demons ripping apart
jackals, and the whole of it looked hammered from black iron. The center of
it was occupied with a large keyhole that looked to match the exact
dimensions of the thing Kian held in his hands.
   "I'm ready," the elf said.
   Kian took a step forward on the crunchy ground and then stopped. "This
isn't the door. It's some kind of trap."
   "How can you tell?" the elf said, joining him. When he stood next to
Kian, the elf came up a few inches short.
   "The base of the door here wasn't heated from the blast, yet it was only
ten feet away. There's a fine crust of glass where the sand was melted all
the way to about an inch from this door. To our eyes, it looks like
iron. But trust me, it would have been glowing. As is, the door is not even
warm," Kian said. "Hold on a second."
   Kian walked over to the onibaba, grabbed it by the arm, and pulled its
five-hundred pound bulk across the sand with only one hand. Skellhaundar
admired the strain in Kian's muscles, how they stood out on his armor as he
effortlessly pulled the corpse into a position in front of the door.
   "Stand back," Kian said. The elf did so. Then Kian kicked the corpse
into the door. When it rolled over and came into contact with it, the whole
thing froze solid into a block of ice.
   "By the gods of the Symardiearre," the elf swore.
   "Yeah...whatever that means," Kian replied through the helmet.
   "So where's the door if it's not this one?" the elf asked.
   Kian looked around the chamber. Aside from the ways they both took to
find this place, there was the obvious iron door, a third corridor, and
then the hook and chain that tethered the onibaba in place. Kian seemed to
be staring at that when he got an idea and walked directly toward it. He
got down on his hands and knees, digging out the hook which was attacked to
a metal cylinder about a foot thick.
   "The boy's brilliant at sniffing out deception," Calisto said.
   "Indeed," Skellhaundar replied.
   Kian dug for about a minute and discovered another keyhole in the buried
iron post. He placed the key inside that and the iron door that froze the
onibaba solid moved out of the way with a grinding noise. At that point, a
scream resounded from somewhere else in the dungeon, making Kian turn his
head.
   Skellhaundar flicked his eyes to various other contestants and saw a
large man run through by the stinger of a giant scorpion, blood spouting
from his lips and his eyes bulging from his head. The scorpion flicked the
dead man against a wall where some other man-sized scorpions ripped him
apart with their pincers.
   "That sounded blood-curdling," Kian said to the elf.
   "So it turned out that the door was the way after all," the elf replied,
fingering his bow and peering into the gloom beyond the door.
   "But if we'd used the keyhole in the center of the door, we'd both be
dead," Kian replied.
   The elf stepped cautiously past the portal and Kian followed and
Skellhaundar, for the first time in ages, called for the slave that
serviced this box to bring refreshments. This edition of the "Maze of
Monsters" was proving to be particularly interesting indeed.


				   *****

The complete novel is now available to read at
http://slckismet.blogspot.com/p/discussion-board-for.html under the label
"The Orb of Winter" if you care to read ahead.

Are there any artists out there willing to draw some pics for my story? If
so, please email me. There is an "Orb of Winter" map now in both the NEWS
section of my website and in the FORUMS of my website.

If you go to my website directly from this posting, you will want to begin
with "CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX."