(1)
Roran was awake and alert early in the morning. Even the exhaustion brought on by his godspell couldn't keep away the nervousness of facing a demi-god. Today was a tipping point for them. This was their last hurdle. The events of the day would change history for the entire empire. For the entire world. Either Roran would clear away the final obstacle for their fight with the Kings, or he would die and the Kings would continue to rule for centuries, devouring the rest of the world in their ceaseless need for expansion and power.
There was tension in the house as Roran took an early breakfast. Few people talked to him and those that did spoke softly, as though they were afraid to disturb the quiet. Outside was quite the opposite. The streets were full of laughter and excitement. Vendors were out in force, serving food and hawking their wares. Today was the first major tourney of the season, one that had been denied to the citizens over and over again.
While the schedule was full of popular Champions, all desperate for the attention and fame available in the arena, the title card belonged to him and Destra. The Reaper and the Crownsguard. Roran didn't think that many people knew of him. He'd claimed some minor fame here and there, and the title of Reaper was easily recognized, but he wasn't a mainstay like the Worldbreaker or the Living Storm.
As Roran prepared for the day, Nul and Kell were both absent. A quick peek through the walls told Roran that Nul was hunched over a notebook, gently rocking back and forth, while Kell was curled up in bed, reading one of Karyn's old diaries. It seemed neither of them would be seeing him off. They had both been struggling lately. As much as Roran feared for their sanity, he didn't have time for them today.
Collecting himself, Roran headed for the door. The Matriarch and Darling were waiting for him.
"Leaving without saying goodbye?" asked the Matriarch.
"Do you think this is goodbye?" asked Roran.
"I think this whole mess is utter madness."
"And that's why you should leave it to us crazy kids," said Darling, grinning. "I have faith in you Roran. So much faith that I've taken the liberty of telling people that you're one of my personal guards and confidants."
"Won't that be problematic when I kill Destra?" asked Roran. "The Kings will be angry when they lose their final Chosen. Tying yourself to me is dangerous."
"You are already tied to Kell, who is my sister. The connection is there whether it is dangerous or not. I might as well capitalize on it."
Roran chuckled. "You really are just like your sister."
The Matriarch groaned. "Of all the role models to choose from."
"I'll be watching from the diplomatic chambers, along with Nul and Kell. Even if you can't see us, please know that we're there, that we're cheering for you. Would you like someone to accompany you to the arena?"
Roran could already feel a vanguard of lyhlim waiting for him in the streets. They were as tense as he was. At no point today would Roran be alone.
"I'm okay, thank you. The lyhlim are with me. Sarah is with me."
"I understand. Good luck."
"From us as well," said the Matriarch. "We would still be dying down in those wretched dungeons if it wasn't for you. Please, don't die today."
"I will do my best."
The Matriarch gave Roran a gentle, motherly, hug. Then Darling latched on and squeezed him tight. It was the same hug Kell had given him from time to time. He wondered if this was what a sisterly hug was supposed to feel like. Roran hugged her back, then departed as soon as they separated for fear of dragging the moment out any longer.
A group of people dressed in silky black robes waited for him out in the street. They were an interesting menagerie of people, differing widely in age, gender, and skin tone. As they moved around him, forming an honor guard, Rath appeared by his side.
"It is strange seeing you without your robes," he said.
"It's strange not wearing them. They've been a part of me for half a year. I feel naked without them. Though I must admit, bathing is easier now."
Rath chuckled. "I imagine so. I wouldn't mind taking off my own robes, though that's not up to me. Then again, I don't think I would be comfortable with you attempting to perceive me without them."
Despite their banter, Roran noticed an edge to Rath's voice. His body was tense and he wasn't looking at Roran, not the way he normally did.
"Nervous?" Roran asked.
"More so than you are, I believe."
"I think you're right. If things go poorly, I won't have to live with my failure."
"Dark humor is a double edged sword, Roran."
"If you have a better coping mechanism I'm all ears."
Rath sighed and fell silent.
Despite his nerves, the gaiety in the streets was infectious. The sky above was clear and blue, the sun shining down on a warm spring day. The unseasonable cold had abated for the moment. It felt nice to have the sun on his skin again.
Roran felt no need to hurry. His fight wasn't until the evening. There would be a full day of bouts and performances before they were allowed the chance to kill each other. He strolled through the city at a leisurely pace, even taking a moment to stop and purchase a freshly baked sweet roll from a street vendor. The scent reminded him of his first meetings with Karyn. Roran ached to hear Karyn's voice again. She always knew what to say to make him feel better, to make them all feel better. He wished she were the one with him instead of the somber lyhlim marching around like a death squad.
Spending coin here and there on food he didn't need to eat, Roran slowly worked his way to the arena. When he arrived, he walked past the other gladiators and Champions waiting in line to check in and simply found the nearest clerk.
"I'm the Reaper," Roran said. "I'm here to fight Destra."
The poor clerk blinked at him confused, then gawked as the meaning of Roran's words settled into his head. Roran offered up his marker medallion as proof, though the clerk hardly looked at it before ushering him out of the entryway and through the halls.
Roran was led up several flights of stairs until they reached the upper levels. Roran was taken to a room with high ceilings, comfortable furniture, and a glass wall that looked down upon the arena.
"You can wait here until the fight," said the clerk. Then Roran was left alone with his thoughts and his honor guard of Death itself.
(2)
Roran settled in to wait. He had a perfect view of the bouts occurring down below and plenty of food to last him the entire day. There was a large selection of furniture for him to relax on, including a large bed in the corner.
Sleep was tempting. Now that the initial surge of anxiety was gone, and he had nothing to do but sit and wait, Roran felt tired. A little nap would be good for him.
Instead of sleeping, Roran went to the window and pressed his head against the glass. Down below, earth movers were already rearranging the arena into some form of obstacle course for Champions to sprint through. The course had a variety of pitfalls and traps, including outlandish things such as rolling boulders, lava pits, and even what appeared to be a massive lion.
The people of this city could create an entire castle in a manner of minutes. They could create flyings ships, impossibly strong metals, and warriors capable of legendary feats. And all of that had been carefully crafted into a machine designed to kill as many people as possible.
As the bout below began, Roran heard the announcer diving into his spiel. The voice was blessedly quiet here in the private room, the sound funneled in by some pipes in the ceiling. Roran wondered how many announcers they had gone through over the years. He wondered why he had never seen them before. It was hard to imagine the announcer wandering around the city without getting recognized.
"Company," said one of the lyhlim. "It's Pelkha."
Roran simply nodded. When the knock came, he called, "Enter, Pelkha."
The door opened and closed and Pelkha came to stand beside him. The lyhlim in the room had all vanished. "How did you know it was me?"
"I was expecting you to come visit. You or Tasos."
"You always were clever. Too clever for your own good."
"I'm still clever, and I'll still be clever when today is over."
"Clever and arrogant to the last. You were a good asset. I'm sad that you'll no longer be available to help the empire."
"Want to make a wager?" Roran asked.
Pelkha glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "What sort of wager?"
"If I die, you can have my swords. If I live, you leave the city."
Pelkha scoffed. "You would have me abandon my post?"
"I would have you leave this wretched place and live your own life. This empire will devour you. We haven't always gotten along, but I do respect you, Pelkha. You can leave and live a happy life away from here."
"And walk away from the life I've built here? I'm the right hand of a god!"
"And what has that ever gotten you but pain and suffering. You take care of an immortal child. He does nothing but dump his responsibilities on you. You're one of the most driven people I know. You can make a good life anywhere. Why throw it away here, for someone who will only miss you because you made their life convenient?"
Pelkha shook her head in disbelief. "You have always been strange, now I realize that you've completely lost your mind. Besides, if I left the city, Ahndor wouldn't know how to find me when she got back."
Roran clenched his jaw shut, his whole body tensing for a brief moment. Then he let go. "I've made my offer, it's up to you if you wish to accept the wager. If you truly think I'm going to die here then there's no reason to say no."
Pelkha didn't respond right away. When she did eventually speak, she said, "You aren't wearing your robes. Didn't want them to get ruined in the fight."
"I'll put them on later. I just didn't want to be too obvious while walking through the streets. The posters they made were a little too accurate for comfort."
"We have the best artists in the world to make those portraits," said a new voice. "You should be honored."
Pelkha jumped and swore. Roran didn't so much as blink. He'd been expecting the surprise visit.
"Tasos," Roran said slowly.
"This is the second time those blades will enter our doman," said the god. "The last time cost us a Chosen. I wonder what we'll lose this time."
"Another Chosen, and possibly your right hand if she's willing to accept my wager."
"Wager?" said Tasos, peering over at Pelkha.
Pelkha huffed and rolled her eyes. "Roran wagered his swords. I get them if he dies, I have to leave the city if he wins."
The King's face lit up and he clapped his hands together with delight. "Oh, what a wonderfully ornery wager. You really are just like your father! I assume you refused the wager?"
"Should I not have?" asked Pelkha.
"Of course you should refuse! If this fool manages to do the impossible, again, then I'm out both of my hands. I would actually have to start working then."
"You think he can win?"
"We all thought Mentass couldn't lose. Don't get me wrong, I'm not placing any money on Roran surviving more than two minutes after the bell, but I'm not going to risk losing what little resources we have left. The storm is coming after all. No, Pelkha, you're forbidden from accepting the wager. You're mine until the day you die."
Pelkha seemed to relax a little at this, as though the offer had been weighing on her. Perhaps she'd been closer to accepting the deal than Roran had expected. Either way, he would deal with Pelkha when he needed to.
"Speaking of," said the King. "Pelkha, I believe there is work for you to attend to."
"There always is." She turned to face Roran. "Roran, you have been an absolute pain in the ass, but it was good working with you. Goodbye."
Tasos watched her go, an odd grin on his face. The moment the door closed, the grin dropped and the god appeared to age suddenly, his youthful demeanor becoming ancient and tired.
"I heard you stopped drinking," said Roran.
"Wine doesn't taste as good these days. No point in wasting it on an ashen tongue."
"What do you want?" asked Roran.
"Before Destra carves you apart like an animal, I wanted to ask you, what happened to Ahndor."
"I told you what happened."
"Whenever someone tells me a story, one that only they know, I find myself wondering what secrets they're keeping. We all embellish our stories, even if only a little, but never once have I heard a story and believed that it was the entire truth, that there weren't some little details that were omitted. Tell me, Roran, what happened to Ahndor."
Roran turned to face the King. Somehow, Roran had never realized that he was actually a little taller than the god. Looking down with perfect calmness, Roran said, "Ahndor's ship was taken down by saboteurs, her crew died in the crash, I haven't seen her since."
The King watched Roran speak, his eyes narrowed. They both lapsed into silence, glaring at one another. Time stretched on around them. The arena below was full of action and movement. The crowd roared with excitement, their cheers vibrating the entire arena around them. Neither Roran nor Tasos blinked.
"There is a window of opportunity," said Tasos, "for all Champions to die well. Don't miss yours, Roran."
Then he turned and left, leaving Roran to await his fate.
(3)
The day dragged on. The arena was constantly in motion, hosting bout after bout after bout. The audience was rampant in their adoration, ecstatic to finally have a proper tourney in the arena again. Even lying on the bed, Roran found that the constant rumble from the stands below made it impossible to sleep.
When the sun had settled on the horizon, painting the sky blood red, a knock came at the door. Roran rose and answered it himself. A clerk stood on the other side, their hood pulled low and their arms folded in their sleeves.
"Are you ready?" they asked.
"Yes," said Roran.
With a nod, the clerk led Roran from the room and began taking him through the halls and down into the arena. As they walked, Roran rested his hands on the pommels of his swords. His father's sword had a blocky pommel forged from black steel. It was hefty and solid in his grasp. His mother's sword had a smooth round pommel of delicate silver. It was cool and calming against his palm. He wasn't alone in this.
After descending several flights of stairs, they reached a set of wide double doors. The doors were already open and the deafening roar of the crowd was making the ground tremble. The clerk stood aside, gesturing for Roran to proceed.
Inside, the noise had been loud. Outside, it was beyond description. The stands were packed with people, all of them pressed together and screaming with excitement. The center of the arena had been raised to a simple square platform. This would have been the same platform that Toran and Mentass had fought on. Squeezing the hilts of his swords for reassurance, Roran climbed the steps.
Destra was already waiting for him at the top. He looked just like he had down in the audience chamber. Tall and broad and built like a fortress. He was covered in heavy armor, with a helm hiding most of his face, and a greatsword slung across his back.
The air hummed with the approval of the crowd, and the announcer's voice echoed through the arena. Roran heard none of it. All he heard was the rush of blood in his ears and a faint ringing in the back of his mind.
"This is it," he said softly.
Then, as though he had heard him, Destra said, "This is where you end. What I do now is not for the sake of glory, but for the sake of my King and all that prosper under his reign."
"The Kings alone prosper in this nightmare, they will grind the world to dust under their heels."
"It is not for us to question the will of the divine."
Roran began walking forward slowly, his hands now gripping the hilts of his swords. Destra moved as well, drawing his greatsword and moving to meet Roran in the center of the arena. The crowd grew to a fever pitch and the familiar vibrations of the bell passed through Roran's body. The fight had begun.
As they met in the middle, Destra paused, his greatsword in hand. Roran stopped opposite him, just out of reach, both of his swords still sheathed.
Roran spoke in little more than a whisper. "What I do now can never be undone."
He let out a sigh and shivered. His black robes cascaded down his shoulders in a waterfall of silk. Strength flooded through him as he reclaimed his power and took Sarah's with it. The world around him shifted and changed as he saw, not with the eyes of a human, but with the eyes of a lyhlim.
Dozens upon dozens of robed figures were already in the arena, watching them. Some stood on the ground, others floated in the air, and even more had joined the audience out in the stands. Death had come to the King's Arena.
Roran settled his sights on Destra and saw the intricate tapestry of little flames that kept air flowing through his chest and blood pumping in his veins. He saw the golden tapestry of a second soul swirled around Destra like armor. They moved and breathed as one, the very essence of both entities hammered and forged together.
Roran called upon his lyhlim powers. His shadow shuddered and expanded, twisting and crawling along the ground until it doubled in size, then doubled again. The shadow deepened into a black void of swirling tendrils. From that void, four separate arms reached out.
A desolate figure, with gnarled hands and tattered robes, clawed its way out of Roran's shadow, moving to loom over him and, in turn, Destra. It looked like a clerk that had been called up from the depths of the abyss. Each of its four hands held a different object. One hand held a sack of coin, stained with blood. Another held a tattered tome with smoldering edges. The third held a long sword, the blade rusted and chipped. And the final hand held a bell, heavily tarnished and cracked.
The world grew still as the audience fell silent. Even the announcer was at a loss for words. Standing in Roran's shadow was the Black Clerk, the aspect of death that haunted the halls of the arena, the end that awaited all Champions and gladiators, the final clerk that would note down the names of the dead, tally their winnings, and cast them into the abyss with the miserable souls of the fallen.
Destra, the man known as the Crownsguard, the man who had become a demi-god, the man who had stood as his King's first and final shield, trembled.
In that silence, Roran looked up at him and said, "What I do now, I do not for my own glory, but for the sake of those who have died at the hands of this empire."
Roran's words appeared to snap Destra out of his fear. He raised his greatsword and brought it down on Roran's head. Roran drew his swords and snapped them up to meet the greatsword. There was a clash of steel as Roran brought the greatsword to a halt.
The audience rumbled, some in awe and some in horror as Roran matched Destra in strength. Destra disengaged and swung again, this time coming from the side. Roran dropped his swords to meet Destra's. There was another deafening clash of steel as Roran once more fended off the demi-god.
Before Destra could withdraw, the Black Clerk raised its blade and swung at Destra. He fell back a step and raised his greatsword to meet the rusted old blade. The Black Clerk's sword passed through Destra's defense like air and cleaved into his shoulder.
Destra cried out in pain and retreated back a few steps. Roran watched as a line of flames within Destra's shoulder flickered out. Roran was hit with a wave of nausea as the sudden death swept through him.
Rath had warned Roran that snuffing out life like this would take its toll, but knowing and feeling were two different things. Roran clenched his jaw and forced the nausea down. He couldn't afford to be soft anymore.
Destra staggered but remained standing. Fear came off him in waves. Still, he raised his sword and held his ground. The Crownsguard was not a weak man. Even in the face of an unknown enemy, he wouldn't be shaken.
(4)
Roran pressed forward, lighting his father's sword ablaze with an effort of will. Behind him, the Black Clerk rang its bell, filling the arena with a horrible mockery of the arena's bell. Roran swung at Destra in a great fiery arc.
Destra blocked with his greatsword. Roran brought down Pathfinder, adding weight to it until it slammed into Destra's shoulder like an anvil. Destra grunted, pushing through the attack with sheer determination. He surged forward, shoving Roran back and planting his boot into Roran's stomach.
As Roran tumbled back, the Black Clerk lumbered forward, cleaving its blade in a wide arc. Again, Destra tried to block the attack, only to find the spectral attack ignored his sword and passed through his arm, snuffing out the fires of life.
Destra roared in pain and stumbled backwards. His arm fell to his side as though numb. He flexed his hand over and over again. There was a flash as the golden flames moved to fill in for the dead ones, making up for their loss. Slowly, Destra raised his injured hand to join the other. Though he was able to grip his sword with both hands, the blade still trembled.
"I am the Crownsguard," Destra muttered under his breath. "I cannot fall. I cannot fail. I am the King's shield. I am the King's sword. I am the King's sole ally."
Climbing back to his feet, Roran said, "So were Mentass and Ahndor, and both of them are now dead."
Destra roared and pushed forward, swinging at Roran wildly. Roran responded in kind, lashing out with his flaming sword. They clashed in a shower of sparks and fire. Roran went to strike with Pathfinder again. Destra pivoted his body and slammed into Roran, driving him back. Before Roran could recover, Destra slammed his fist into Roran's stomach. The blow hit like a cannonball. Even with his godspell, Roran felt a rib crack and he snarled with pain.
Dropping both of his swords, Roran latched onto Destra's wrists, pitting his raw strength against the Crownsguard's. Destra grunted and struggled, veins bulged on his neck as he tried to wrestle free from Roran's grasp.
Through gritted teeth, Destra snarled, "I will not fall to the likes of you, whelp. I am the King's warrior. I carry Vassilis's oldest sword inside me. We will not fail."
"You carry a ghost whose time is long past. I am Death given flesh and I have come to end you both."
A sword erupted from Roran's chest and plunged into Destra's. It cut through him and out the side, leaving a swathe of dead flames in its wake. The Black Clerk pulled its blade free with a flourish as the strength fled from Destra's body and he was forced to kneel.
Roran stepped back from Destra, watching as the demi-god gasped for air. The Black Clerk's last blow had killed an entire lung and left his right arm completely useless. Even the golden tapestry of his Crown had started to come apart. The greatsword fell from Destra's limp fingers.
Roran bent down and retrieved his swords. Destra started up at him with grim determination.
"Rest now, old Champion," Roran said. "Your King shall join you soon enough."
A wave of fire erupted from Roran's black blade and he plunged it through Destra's chest. At the same time, The Black Clerk drove its spectral sword through the other side, piercing Destra's heart. The flickering tapestry of small flames came undone, all of them shuddering it out great waves as Destra's body surrendered itself to death. The bright silver fire of Destra himself slipped free from its bonds and drifted away from its body.
The golden tapestry unwound itself from the dead body and coalesced into a single glowing form. She was tall and heavily built, reminding Roran of Phalyn. The longer he looked the more resemblance he saw. They were kinsmen if nothing else.
She glared down at Roran, raw disdain plain on her face. "You struggle and you thrash, all to tear down the foundation of this world," she said.
"And you steal the lives of others to cling onto your existence," said Rath, appearing next to Roran. An army of lyhlim appeared on the platform, surrounding the remnant. On the other side of the platform, Roran could see several more lyhlim keeping watch over Destra's soul as it lumbered around, confused and distraught.
"The time for you to leave this world has long since passed," Rath continued. "We offer you this one chance, enter the ebb and flow peacefully, or we shall tear you apart and drag you into it by force."
The woman drew her sword. "You know my answer, fiend!"
The lyhlim shifted and grew, their black robes becoming white and wings sprouting from their backs. Spears and halberds appeared in their hands as flaming halos erupted to life behind them. Ancient lyhlim from the lost kingdom stood ready for battle once more.
"I am Hessala, the wrath and rage and King Vassilis. I shall not buckle, I shall not fall, I shall not-"
The lyhlim swarmed her, burying her in a mess of fluttering wings and burning halos. The sound of shattering glass resounded across the arena before being drowned out by the ancient remnants warcry.
"It's time to go," Rath said to Roran. "We'll handle the rest from here. There are people waiting for you."
Nodding, Roran turned and left the lyhlim to finish cleaning up the remnants of the battle. He wiped the blood from his sword and left the platform, the ground beneath his feet rumbling with the crowd's excitement. They were chanting and screaming overhead. Roran ignored them. He felt numb and nauseous. Using Sarah's power to snuff out Destra's life had felt like reaching down his own throat to pull out his liver. He could see now why lyhlim so rarely took the life of a mortal creature.
Pelkha was waiting for him as he passed through the doors and out of the arena. She watched him walk, her eyes glued to his robes and the black roiling shadow trailing behind him.
"You have a crown," she said, her voice hushed.
"So did he."
"You're like them...a demi-god. You carry a monster inside you."
"Death has always walked in my shadow, now I carry her inside my heart as well." Roran stepped around Pelkha and she made no move to stop him. As he passed he said, "You would do well to leave. If you don't, there may come a point where I have to kill you too."