A Record of Ash & Ruin: The Grieving Lands

Chapter 12: The Sword of Damocles

Chapter 12: The Sword of Damocles

The Queen’s first egg was to be presented in ten turns of the seasons as a new bride. Such was the desperation of the alliance with the fate of the world on their shoulders. The Dragons in their great pride would never forget what the ‘lesser races’ had forced upon them, and their resentment would only grow with the passage of time.

- On the Cataclysm by an unknown Quassian Scholar circa 103 AC

Calm. I sought calm across the battlefield of my thoughts. A thousand times I had replayed my exchange with Jongshoi and Navigator Olai. Was there anything I could have done to steer the conversation in a different direction, a different path, a different strand of fate to cling to? Trapped in endless contemplation, I continued to pace about my cell in circles as rosy-fingered dawn came again to light up the sky. The hush of the night was broken by the voices of industry and commerce.

My breakfast was a death row inmate’s last meal without the flavor. Despite all of my efforts, my last training session ended with only a single point increase in Strength. This yielded a small bump in Health, and from that, I was able to deduce that Strength’s threshold for increasing Health was likely every four points. Strength, Dexterity, and Constitution all had a role in determining my endurance and Stamina, though to what degree I had not calculated yet.

I smiled wryly, thinking that if this was back home I would have sifted through the message boards, forums, and Wikis to confirm my theory. Here I just had myself. I checked my character sheet as I prepared to meet the rest of the day. It looked like I had also gained another ten experience points, and my character sheet had been updated with my chosen name. I marveled once more at the game-like nature of this world, far removed from my old one.

STATUS

SKILLS & PROFICIENCIES

Power Strike (lvl.1)

Endure (lvl.1)

Stealth (lvl.1)

Rest (lvl.1)

Backstab (lvl.1)

Dodge (lvl.1)

Polearms (lvl.1)

SPELLS & MAGIC

Rust (lvl.1)

Identify (lvl.2)

Silent Casting (lvl.1)

GIFTS

There would be no point in training now, I needed to face my trial with a fresh mind and body. I had little doubt I would be pushed to the limit with the odds stacked against me. As my time approached, however, I refused to give in to fear. I overruled the thoughts which hung over me like the sword of Damocles.

I tried to formulate a strategy for my upcoming combat by analyzing my abilities. Between my Mana, and my level two Heal spell, I had forty-one points of effective Health provided I wasn’t instantly killed by a single attack. A respectable forty-six points, actually, if I was willing to brave the pain and disorientation of bottoming out my Mana. Though I conceded that this might not be feasible in a combat situation. Perhaps I could use it with my Pain Nullification skill to some sort of advantage?

Power Strike I could use three times before I started taking potentially serious damage to my Health, but I worried whether I would be strong enough to inflict serious harm against my enemies. How tough exactly was the average human in this world? Bogurchu seemed the sort that was hard as nails, with his tremendous one hundred forty-four points of Health. Dread filled me at the thought of facing something like that.

On the bright side, Navigator Olai did mention that the ‘winnowing,’ or whatever it was, was some sort of test for their younger members. This could mean that they would not be as tough as Bogurchu. However, my opponent or opponents would be almost certainly of a higher level than myself. For all intents and purposes, I was like a newborn in this world.

Yet, should I manage to survive, I would no doubt be showered with experience. My hands began to shake as I realized that if I were to survive I would have to take another human life. Was it in me, I wondered. I resolved that if it was a choice between my life or that of another, I would not play the martyr's role.

After another hour or so, two armored men entered my cell wearing wolf-masked face helms and outfitted in overlapping plates that resembled the chitin of beetles. They each carried two very severe-looking pronged long mancatcher-like devices which exuded an aura of tightly-coiled menace. I weighed my options, judging that if I was to make a break for freedom, this was probably the prime moment. But indecision took me and I lost my chance, as one of them caught me by the neck and began dragging me out of the cell.

I held up my hands in the universal sign of surrender, exclaiming in their language that I would walk willingly, but they just grunted in the way of busy men before tugging a bit harder on my leash.

Once I was out of the cell, the other guard attached his mancatcher around my neck and they began to push me with the length of their polearms, pointing down the corridor to the direction of the outside street. As we passed by my sullen-looking guards, there were no longer jeers or mocking laughter. As I came to the main entrance I was greeted by the bright morning sun, making me squint and slow down a fraction against her light. Two guards standing post at the door stifled their chuckles as my bare feet touched the hard-packed earth of the street. My escort stopped suddenly behind me, pushing me slightly down and indicating a space on my left by my feet.

“Put them on,” one of them growled in a surly voice as I noticed a rough pair of well-worn leather sandals on the floor by the entrance, perhaps a size too big for me.

I knelt down and slowly put them on, fingers unsure with the buckles and intricate straps. I was tempted to Identify the pair but thought better of it. I would need every scrap of Mana for my upcoming challenge.

After I finished putting them on, my escort shouted for me to keep on walking. The voices clipped and harsh as they pushed me again with their long mancatchers. I could feel the hard stone floor through the thin soles of my sandals.

The market outside my jail was in full swing. Colorful merchants were competing with each other, shouting in large voices or conspiratory whispers as they haggled with customers. A magician of some sort pulled a silken blue cloth from the ear of a young blushing woman, all to the applause of a rapt audience. I mused briefly whether or not this was real magic or merely sleight of hand.

Now on the streets proper, moving past the market on the main thoroughfare, a girl child of no more than four years turned a cherubic face to her mother and asked, “Is that the outlander?” pointing at me, eyes wild with the curiosity of the young. Her mother quickly shushed her, and they both hurried quickly away, the little girl casting one last glance in my direction.

The people we passed on our way down the main streets barely gave us a passing glance. This was quite obviously a sight that they had seen many times before. A small brown mongrel dog with a white spot over one eye started barking as a naked man stumbled out of a tent followed by screams and thrown objects, much to the merriment of his neighbors. Despite the alienness of my situation, it seemed that humanity was still humanity in this strange world.

We continued to walk past a large number of round hide and oilcloth tents, reminiscent of Mongolian yurts. Some of them had intricate patterns, wavy threads of green and red that made the mind think of ocean waves. But for the most part, they were dull squat things.

I would have liked to have had a better look at them, but my eye was drawn to a building made out of clean-cut white stone. Above an iron-banded entrance hung a sign with a symbol of a crossed sword over a wooden torch. The door suddenly burst open as a Goliath of a man half-stumbled out of the building, a greatsword strapped to his back almost as long as he was tall. He drew it half in mocking rage, hands the size of hams grasping its leather-bound hilt under a crossguard just over the width of the blade, shouting unknown curses at the people in the building. As he waved the sword back at them, I could see that the weapon was double-edged with a rounded point, with a shallow fuller running about three-quarters up its length.

He was followed by a man in loose dark blue robes hung around his thin frame, golden esoteric patterns sewn into the fabric around the sleeves and hem. The slight man in the robes was donning a wide-brimmed conical hat with the tip folded slightly, looking like a classical wizard straight out of a fantasy game as he laughed at the mountain of his friend.

Next, a woman with platinum blonde hair tied in a high ponytail clanked out of the building, angry and shaking with indignation with clenched fists at her sides. Clad from the neck down in plate and mail, a white tabard with a golden chalice loosely followed the contours of her armored chest. A mean-looking flanged mace hung from a belt made from thick iron rings. She punched the barbarian of a man on his bare shoulder, but unbalanced from the force of her own blow she almost stumbled, which just made the large man guffaw with laughter.

Ah, I concluded, a typical adventuring party, before my escort shouted at me to pick up the pace. For a long while I could still hear the woman berating the man in a language that I thought resembled a form of Latin, until we passed another market square, the sounds of their argument lost to the hubbub of the city.

We turned left from the main avenue and continued through the sprawling maze of tents. I could now clearly distinguish our intended destination; a great circular building made out of enormous wooden logs in the style of a primitive Roman arena. A small market lay along its outskirts and as we got closer, there was a sense of festivity in the air as the sounds of commerce grew ever louder. The crowd parted about us as we sailed by myriad colorful stalls. In our wake, I could hear the chatter and gossip of the people debating my chances.

Eventually, we arrived at the entrance to the arena, its great iron portcullis resembling the teeth of a monster that had gorged on considerable human flesh. Guards idly lounged by the entrance, leaning against great glaives of banded wood and steel. Stepping past the threshold I could feel a gnawing sense of dread in the pit of my stomach that I had been marked as a sacrifice to this place. I was roughly shoved into a wooden cell, and once again I was alone.

Another cell, I grumbled. A small open slat in the door allowed a glimmer of sunlight into the main fighting area. A series of cables, winches, and pulleys were attached to the top of the door, no doubt a mechanism to lift it when it was my turn to fight.

I could hear the stirring of a crowd through the opening and quickly made my way over to see the cause of the commotion. Through my limited vision, I could see that the arena’s white sand floor was in a rough circle, and rising above this was a fenced wooden stand area made from rough-hewn logs. A mixture of unarmed citizens and armored martial types made up the rough shouting audience. From the other end of the arena, I could see an armored warrior enter with a swagger that spoke of assured confidence and skill. I yearned to use Identify, but I knew that I had to save my precious Mana.

I was stirred by a sudden grinding noise, as the wooden reinforced slat to the cell on my right was raised. Quickly looking back through my window to the arena, I observed a ceremony official with a colorful plumed helmet and bronze breastplate throw a gray steel weapon into the center of the arena. A scrawny shape clad in rags abruptly darted from the cell to the center of the sands, scooping up the weapon with thin weak arms as if it was the most precious thing in the world, before adopting his best impression of a fighting stance. The crowd roared their approval.

The shape on closer inspection was a pitifully poor specimen of a man. His beard and hair were a long and unkempt brown, and his eyes were wild with panic, and fear. He was holding a short straight steel or iron short sword with both hands in front of him, arms inexpertly locked and stiff. Across from him the armored warrior closed his face helm and hefted a wide shield to his left arm. Holding a curved backsword in his right, he executed a few simple flourishes before walking languidly up to his opponent. For every step forward he took, the wild man took back a step as if forced by an invisible aura.

The armored warrior reached the center of the arena and gave a wild ululating battle cry, which was met by a great roar from the crowd as he suddenly charged. The man clad in rags broke and panicked, seeking to escape to the arena’s edge. Throwing his sword down, he tried to clamber up the stanchions. After his second failed attempt, he gave up and retrieved his short sword in shaking hands, eyes now filled with the panic of a cornered animal.

Clad in heavy armor, the warrior came ever closer, fast but sure on his feet. Sprinting, he aimed a cool methodical cut at the poor soul in rags who threw up his sword to block the blow. His effort was in vain, as the man’s long curved blade cut a crescent through the air and left a red line across his chest. Screaming in pain and shock, the thin man crumpled to his knees, holding his pouring lifeblood through his hands. Methodically, like a gardener plucking weeds, the armored man ended his misery with a small simple flick of the wrist, cutting across his throat and the thread of his life. Turning to the crowd, he raised one hand in salute fist closed, and there was another roar of approval. One of the Children of the Tides had been blooded this day.

Despite the violently surreal scene I had just witnessed, I could for a brief few moments only think of how much experience the armor-clad soldier had obtained from this encounter. How much exactly was the life of a man worth in experience points?

As soon as the man fell, the victor picked up the defeated man’s shortsword in his other hand and turned back to his corner, walking through the gates at the far end to the riotous applause of the crowd. On the sands, a group of young boys between the ages of ten and fifteen hurriedly dragged the corpse away in preparation for the next bout.

This scene would repeat itself another ten times as the cells to my left and right were opened one by one. Blood was spilled on the sand and a bitter harvest was reaped. Some did not even put up a fight, instead cowering in their cells. They were butchered like livestock. Another man deigned to prolong his life by simply running around the edge of the arena to the boos and jeers of the crowd. He was hunted down like a dog. I seethed inwardly at the unfairness of it all. Even here in this fantasy land, those with power would always win.

The only way I could stop devolving into an utter sense of panic was to compartmentalize and view this next trial through the lens of a game. This was no doubt a part of the main questline, the ending perhaps of the tutorial where I could finally start exploring the wider world.

The door to my cell began to rise with the slow grinding of gears. An official from up on high threw a weapon onto the sands. It traced a graceful arc. There was a glitter as it reached its zenith, before it fell signaling the start of the Blooding. It was kill or be killed, and it seemed the universe agreed as a new quest notification flashed across my inner vision. New Quest: Kill Jongshoi and survive the Blooding