For Maura, as for many of the inhabitants of Sacral, the return was a disappointment. The Wastes weren’t much of an improvement over the featureless grey nothing that had ringed their home for so long. The priests had been talking about it for as long as anyone could remember, reminding them that the White Mother had moved the great city to reward her followers with a thousand years of peace. But now the fated day had finally come and it was time to reclaim their rightful place in the world.

             Maura joined the crowds, as eager as any of them for a look beyond their borders. She walked along the wall for a time, arm in arm with her husband Beren, hoping to see something more, but the same featureless landscape seemed to totally surrounded the lush valley that housed their city.  They gave up shortly before midnight and followed the stream of people who were starting the long walk back to their homes. If the thousand years of peace are over, what does that mean for us really? And what exactly are we returning to besides rocks and dust?

             The next morning, Maura joined a few brave souls who set out to explore a little farther. The Guards opened the West Gate and allowed the people to walk outside for the first time. People were excited and cheerful despite the barren landscape, until they found a corpse. A man dressed in dark leathers had been eviscerated and left in a shallow dip between two large boulders. There was blood everywhere and flies swarmed around the remains. The excitement and curiosity in the crowd vanished in an instant and the people all clamoured to be allowed back inside. Soldiers were sent out to do a sweep of the surrounding area – they found a number of additional bodies. Men and women of various descriptions, all dressed for concealment amongst the rocks. The number of soldiers patrolling the walls was tripled after that, and few if any citizens of the great city ventured beyond their walls again. Even when merchants from foreign lands started to arrive in the following weeks, they were greeted with equal amounts of curiosity and distrust. The goods they brought were neither of a quality superior to those made locally or were far too ostentatious to appeal to the local, conservative tastes. Few returned. And for the most part, the people of Sacral went back to ignoring the existence of anything beyond their borders.

            “Are you going to those damned games again?” Said Maura.

            “... I am. But only because the king will be there.” Beren answered.

            “The king? Attending those barbaric games? I think not. Besides, it’s Gerald’s turn to have a day off.”

            “But dear, you know....”

            “Between the endless hours you spend in your workshop and running off to those bloody games, it’s a wonder I still recognize you. If our son weren’t working for you he’d have forgotten who you are by now.”

            “Dear, you know I have to see how my work holds up in combat. It’s part of my job. Besides most of my good ideas have occurred to me while I’m watching. And it is true. The priests have been shouting it all over the city this morning—the king is making an announcement at the end of the games. We can’t very well miss his first public appearance in over ten years can we? I hear it might have something to do with the last group of outsiders. Apparently they’re envoys of some description, not merchants at all.”

            Maura turned her back on him, both to feign anger and to hide the smile that bubbled to the surface.

            “I was about to ask you to join us actually. I had Jerik get us some good seats so we’d be close enough to see the king...”

            Maura turned back to him, smiling. She did so enjoy teasing him. “Why thank you, love. It’s about time you got around to inviting me. So let’s be off shall we? Jerik dropped by an hour ago and gave me our passes.”

             Beren blinked at the sudden change, a momentary look of frustration flashed across his face, followed by a sheepish grin. “I was wondering why you were out here and not in the house.” He admitted. “Let’s get going then. We need to hurry if we’re going to see the early matches.” Beren grabbed Maura’s hand and practically dragged her through the streets towards the arena. “Besides, my sweet, the contests are not really barbaric. Not a single competitor has died since Orik took over as arena master three years ago.” Maura rolled her eyes. He just didn’t know when to quit. Her husband loved his family and his work, but almost nothing got him as excited as a trip to the contests as he called them. “Besides Orik is a priest of the White Mother. He wouldn’t have agreed to the post if the Mother herself didn’t approve of the games.”

            “Now Beren, my sweet, you know he only did it to save himself the bother of walking down to the arena every week to heal the poor wounded fighters.”

Beren stopped and glanced back at his wife to make sure she was joking. She smiled and he couldn’t keep a straight face either. They walked on with their arms linked, both feeling lucky to have the other.

            They arrived at the arena well ahead of the starting time, but the place was already busy. Hawkers were selling every conceivable food, drink, and trinket. The arena was one of the largest buildings in the city. It could accommodate ten thousand people. It was, like everything in the city, gleaming white in honour of the White Mother who had founded the city. The arena floor was so heavily enchanted that it could be changed to mimic different terrain types and weather conditions. Combatants squared off with real weapons here—often runed or even enchanted. When a mortal blow was about to land, the ’fallen’ was teleported to healing chambers below, where various priests and herbalists immediately started work on repairing whatever damage had been done. The king himself was said to have had a part in perfecting the enchantment. Control of the great magic was given over to the chosen arena master.

            Beren and Maura had to push their way through the crowd to get to the main entrance. Lots of people recognized Beren and waved. Many tried to ask him for tips or information about his clients. As one of the premiere rune smiths in Sacral, Beren and his smith partner Jerik provided arms and armour for many of the contestants.

            Beren wouldn’t stop to talk. He had learned to stay quiet anywhere near the arena until the games were well and truly over for the week, after a stray comment from him had caused a swarm of betting in favour of one of his clients last year. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the man hadn’t lost, Maura mused. Historically, matters of honour between any two citizens of Sacral could be settled in the arena. But as time went on the number of grievances citizens wanted to settle in safe but real combat led the king to impose a rather hefty ring fee to anyone who wasn’t a recognized member of the city guard or the army.

They took their seats. A few minutes later, Jerik arrived and sat next to Beren.

            “Glad to see you both made it early.”

            “Hi Jerik. You know I wouldn’t miss a matchup like this. Captain Sien and Captain Gorsek! They’ll be talking about this one for years.”

            “Big turnout by any standard. I heard people have come from farms as far away as the outer wall to hear what the king has to say. A good few I spoke to didn’t even care about the contests!”

            “Well if the king’s announcement was enough to draw my lovely wife here, I’ll not be surprised if people are crowding outside the arena for news,” Jerik grunted in amusement as Maura dug her elbow into her husband’s ribs.

            Maura looked on as the two men chatted about the evening’s competitors. Jerik’s massive frame, grizzled grey beard and piercing blue eyes were in contrast to her bookish, absentminded husband. Still, they were as close as brothers, and Maura couldn’t imagine a better friend for Beren. She tuned out the men’s conversation and looked at the royal box to their left. They were seated so close to the king himself!

            Beren might not have a very good head for money, always squandering any extra he put aside on new tools or materials for his workshop, but he was very well respected and never failed to provide for his family. Unlike most of the talented merchants of Sacral, they did not live in a manse on the hill surrounded by servants. He paid Jerik an even share of the profits, gave generous wages to his assistant and was generally quite free with his money. He would never be rich, and Maura loved him all the more for it.

            The talented of Sacral were said to be more numerous than in any other city. Still, they were by no means common. Twenty eight talented merchants plied their trades in the city state of near three hundred thousand. There were also a hundred or so mages of varying disciplines and abilities, and rarest of them all, the Warchosen. They were warriors whose talent fuelled their combat abilities and gave them superhuman strength, speed, and agility. Only sixteen true Warchosen were known to live in Sacral. They all served in the Royal Guard as bodyguards to the king, tasked with guarding the royal person and commanding his armies in the field.

            The first few combats, or contests Maura reminded herself, were straight forward. One-on-one fights between warriors favouring a wide variety of weapons. Most of these were low ranking soldiers using standard issue weaponry and armour. Steel chain, or scale armour and high quality steel weapons bearing a rune. They glowed clearly as the combatants’ life forces gave power to the runes.

            Despite her husband’s reassurances that no one would be permanently injured or killed, Maura saw warriors spray blood from a dozen wounds, and even one man had his arm severed at the elbow. Beren winced but insisted that Orik would have the poor man healed up in no time.

            The last of the preliminary combats finished and horns sounded. The Speaker called out the names of the various teams and squads that would be competing, as well as the six Warchosen who would be duelling at the end of the event. The crowd cheered the combatants as they entered. The sound rising to deafening heights as the Warchosen stepped onto the arena sand and bowed first to each other, then to the assembled warriors who would compete that evening.

The sound faltered as the crowd’s attention shifted, and then the cheers redoubled. The royal box was suddenly full. The king himself, the ancient Archmagus of Sacral, was calmly sitting back in his seat. Those who sat with him all wore varying looks of shock and disbelief.

            Teleportation was the rarest of magical arts. Only a few legendary mages had ever truly mastered the incredibly complex weavings and control it required. Maura felt a flush of pride as she looked at their ruler. Though his hair was pure white and his face lined, his bearing was regal. He showed absolute confidence with his every gesture. King Ansyl was old, even for a mage. His five hundredth birthday had been the celebration of the year. Still, he looked no different to Maura than he had a decade ago when he last addressed the public directly.

             To the king’s right was the High Priest of the White Mother, Yeltos Rogayen. Standing behind the king was Jenus Chenton, Captain of the Royal Guard, anointed champion of the White Mother, and Commander of Sacral’s armies. The last two were unfamiliar. Both the man and the woman were heavily armoured. And judging by the number of empty scabbards strapped to them, they were used to being heavily armed as well. The most shocking thing about them was the colour they wore. Their breastplates were lacquered a deep blood red, as were the links of their mail. Even the leather under-padding they wore had been tinted with the unlucky colour.

            The games resumed. Teams of two or three faced each other, followed by full squads.

             Despite herself, Maura found herself raptly watching the struggles, all the while silently cheering for the combatants who were her husband’s customers. The final group battles were two full companies facing off, the Third and the Ninth. Each was split into a number of perfect square formations and armed with identical swords, spears and shields. Maura noticed the two foreigners speaking softly in their strange language. Still, their meaning was clear, the look of mild disgust on the woman’s face was unmistakable, as were her dismissive gestures.

            Beren and Jerik alternately congratulated each other or shook their heads in shared disappointment as the men and women carrying their weapons and armour onto the sands won or lost. Between bouts they chatted about what had worked and what hadn’t and discussed ways of improving their wares.

            The excitement in the arena swelled when the Warchosen matches began. Each of these incredible warriors was able to turn the tide of a battle single handed. They traded blows with dizzying speed. Parrying, and riposting blows that would have felled a lesser warrior. Each of these exceptional men and women had become legends in the city. All of them had legions of loyal fans who had come to support them, and the crowd’s cheers never faltered during a match.

             Again Maura looked over at the foreigners and caught the woman’s sour look as she watched the combats. The man gave her a small nod and turned to address the king. His voice was soft and had an unfamiliar lilt to it, but the words carried easily to those seated near the royal box.

            “Your majesty, you honour us with this display. Your soldiers are masters of their arts... Still, one would have to wonder at their efficacy when life is truly at stake...”

            The king cut him off. “I have no doubts about the abilities of Sacral’s bravest sons and daughters, Kabol. And I would guess that your ruler agrees or he would not have sent you here to beg our aid.”

            The man the king had called Kabol stood and bowed deeply. “Your Majesty, I meant no disrespect. I merely wanted to suggest one final combat for this evening’s entertainment. Watching Sacral’s mighty fighters has made my own companion eager to test herself against such formidable opponents. Might I suggest that sword-mistress Zorat be allowed to duel your own bodyguard?”

            The king’s face betrayed a flicker of concern before spreading into a wide smile. He rose to his feet and spoke: “The esteemed envoy Kabol from the land of Aboleth has asked to see our champion face his own in the arena!” The crowd roared in response. “Shall we agree to this final demonstration of our might?” The crowd roared and screamed. Chants of “Jenus” broke out in all corners. It was a rare thing for the champion to take to the sands. In his last combat he had defeated two of the other Warchosen simultaneously. Another Warchosen moved into the royal box to take up guard over the king.

            The king waved his arm and both Jenus and Zorat found themselves standing on the arena floor. Maura looked down at the man who had been Sacral’s champion for nearly ten years, though he was barely into his thirties. Jenus looked every inch the champion of a great nation. He was tall and confident. His chiseled features and deep blue eyes left many a woman with a dreamy look on her face. The whole city loved him. Maura had never heard anyone say a thing against him.

            Beside her Beren muttered, “That’s hardly fair....” Jerik grunted his agreement.

             Maura raised a questioning eyebrow at him. He looked at her for a second before realizing she had no idea what he was talking about.

            “Jenus is wearing his field armour. It’s more heavily worked than anything else made since the founding. He usually wears standard issue to compete...” His eyes bulged “By the White Mother and all the Gods! He’s unsheathing the Lightbringer!”

            “The king must really want to make a point,” said Jerik.

            “Whatever that point is...” Maura said.

            It was said that the Lightbringer could only be unsheathed in defence of Sacral. The White Mother herself had given it to her first champion and charged him with the protection of her people. None living had seen it used, but the stories about the legendary blade were many. The priests claimed that the White Mother had used it to slay Death itself and thereby granted her followers eternity in her care. Now it was being drawn against a supposed ally on the arena floor.

            Jenus wore a look of reverent ecstasy as he pulled the massive blade from his back. Zorat took an involuntary step back as the weight of the ancient artifact registered. Then she shook herself like a dog shedding water and drew her two mid-sized blades. Somewhere between a long knife and a short sword, the blades were oddly curved and the guards bore evil looking barbs. The two walked slowly to their marks, staring at each other. The air between them was electric. Jenus pulled on his helm and raised his blade.

            The king’s voice rose above the noise of the arena again: “Begin!”

             The crowd watched in awe as the two fought like forces of nature. Jenus was like a tidal wave, all fluid economy of movement and blows powerful enough to split a mountain. But if he was a tidal wave, then Zorat was a hurricane, spinning fury and lightning fast attacks coming from every direction. She danced and dodged and spun around the champion, evading his every attack and forcing him to parry again and again. After Jenus deflected yet another flurry of attacks he lunged forward, sweeping the Lightbringer across in front of him. The crowd cheered as Zorat threw herself back and the blade passed within a whisper of her chest.

            Neither fighter seemed able to gain an advantage. Minutes passed. Zorat would dart forward with a flurry, which the champion would dodge and parry. Then she would throw herself out of the way of his powerful counter.

             Zorat dove onto one of Jenus’ thrusts. Locking her crossguards around his blade, she flipped right over the Lightbringer, and swept both her swords across his chest as she came back to her feet. His white tabard was torn from him completely and all could see the twin blackened scars etched across his breastplate. But the enchanted metal held, and the blows didn’t slow the champion in the least. Zorat blocked the inevitable counterattack with both blades.

            She sorely underestimated the power of the man swinging the sword everyone would later say. Her own weapons were snapped back against her chest and she was sent flying across the sand. She rolled when she hit the ground and came to a sudden stop against the arena wall. Both her swords lay lost in the dust. Zorat struggled to get back to her feet but her own weapons had pierced her armour and severed her clavicles. Her arms were not responding properly. Wisps of smoke rose from the wounds. Jenus walked over to her calmly, and prepared to deliver the final blow that would send her to the healing chambers below. He looked up at the crowd as the cheers redoubled.

             Zorat clenched her teeth in obvious fury and with a pained grunt threw a small knife towards the champion. Jenus flinched aside just in time. The blade barely missed his right eye. It entered the eye-slit of his helm and split the skin from the end of his eyebrow to his ear.

             Jenus tore out the knife and threw it to the sand at his feet. Then he pulled off his helm and threw it at Zorat. It hit her in the face and knocked her head back against the wall. Blood poured down from a dozen cuts on her face. He then walked up to her and impaled her through the stomach. She let out a grunt of pain and vanished as he wrenched the blade out.

            The crowd cheered around her, but Maura was troubled. This unknown woman had scored two hits on their greatest champion. Whether the others wanted to admit it or not, Jenus owed his victory only to his armour.

            “Your champion has quite a temper your majesty,” said Kabol.

            “He has every right to be angered. We are allies are we not? Your woman dishonoured herself breaking the rules of the arena and our city. This is a place of honourable combat. We do not abide by coward’s weapons thrown to steal victory.”

            “Quite so your majesty. I will reprimand her. Though your champion seems to have punished her sufficiently.” He stood and bowed. “An impressive display in any case. Jenus is truly an exceptional man.”

            The king stood and spoke again: “A fine display my champion; you have our thanks.”

             His voice grew louder then: “People of Sacral, the envoys from Aboleth have come to beg our aid. Their homes are under attack by vicious inhuman savages. Though they have thus far acquitted themselves honourably, they lack the numbers needed to both defend their homes, and to take the fight to the enemy.” The king paused and waited for the people to absorb his words. Then with a slight nod in the direction of the high priest he continued: “The White Mother herself has asked that we help these noble foreigners as best we can. After much discussion with my councillors, it has been decided that Jenus himself will lead four companies of our brave soldiers to aid our new friends.”

            Maura felt like she had swallowed a stone. the king didn’t look happy with his owndeclaration. This is all wrong. How can he send away nearly half our soldiers? Questions swirled in her head. “The Temple of the White Mother has promised to send priests and novices versed in the healing arts to care for the bodies and souls of our brave fighting men and women. So you need not fear for the well-being of your friends or family members as they go off to remind the outside world of our glory!” The crowd’s cheers went on and on. The king stood and listened for a long time before he waved them to silence.

            “Now, my loyal people, I must take my leave of you. I will see you all in four days’ time. I will employ my arts to speed our brave fighters to the city of Sariah.” And with a slight nod of his head he was gone. The royal box was empty. The silence held for less than a second before every person in the arena started speaking.

            Maura, Beren, and Jerik slowly made their way out of the crowd. Looks exchanged between them were enough for Maura to know that both her husband and Jerik were as unsettled by the announcement as she was. Three quiet people in a sea of conversations. Some were excited at the prospect of a real battle; others were busy reliving the fight between Jenus and Zorat. Maura felt cut off from the people around her like never before. Surely some of them must feel as she did? But none of the faces around her betrayed the least concern. Beren led her out of the crowd at the front of the arena.

            “Do you mind going home alone my love? Jerik and I need to get back to the shop. I think we’re about to get a few hundred last-minute orders from whichever companies get chosen to go.”

            “Of course. Go on and have fun, but don’t keep Gerald there too late.” She answered, trying to sound upbeat. She forced a smile onto her face. Beren looked into her eyes for a minute before nodding.

            “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

Maura watched him go, before turning and walking quickly home.

Next Chapter: Chapter 2 - Nial