Chapter 1 Terra

He rubbed his eyes and waited for them to adjust to the soft light that illuminated his room before he lazily rolled out of bed. Slowly he got up and gave his home a cursory glance. It mostly consisted of a single large room that was thirty by twenty five feet, far bigger than he really needed. His bed was pressed against the middle of the left wall so rolling to the right was his only option. Casting a quick sweeping gaze he thought to himself again what Gammon must have said to get him to agree to the furnishings of his room. Smiling to himself he decided it did not matter, the room had been this way for more than a year and he would be remiss to see it changed. The woollen rugs that covered most of the stone floor were an inch thick and bright red in colour. Even he, who did not take much notice of such things, knew they were of good quality. He did not know from where these things came but along with the rugs, directly before him, not ten feet away, was an imported maple dining table which was eight feet long and three feet wide with enough chairs to fit almost a dozen people. It was a light brown that reminded him a little of ale with a finish so bright he could have used it as a mirror if he chose. To his left, partially blocking one of his windows was a large wardrobe, the buff colour of which matched the dining table. The heavy crimson curtains over the windows muted the sun’s power, given the room a soft red hue as the sunlight struggled to penetrate the veil. Of all the restrained luxury that surrounded him one item stood out, it was a goblet that stood on a small round table. It was a just about a foot high and made of pure gold. The likes of the goblet, most people in his town would never see outside the walls of the Governor’s hall. Though he did not have the guards the Governor did, his cup was just as well protected. The reason was simple; not many were brave enough to try and steal from the best of the arena. Being champion had made him a small fortune but most of his earnings went to his manager. In fact, it was his manager that had insisted on giving him the extravagant furniture that dotted his room, the cup being a gift for being able to keep his title for two years running. Mathew was his name, an ordinary name for an extraordinary young man. He had entered the fighting ring at the young age of fifteen and in only two years had become the champion, a feat no one had done before him.

It was the defence of that same title that had roused him as the sun began its descent. For a long time he had known the match was coming, for weeks in fact. A relatively new fighter named Tael had been racking up an impressive string of victories with six wins in just as many months. Usually the idea of a new challenge would have excited him, this case was different. As much as he wished otherwise he could not shake the boredom that seemed to cling to him. He had watched most of Tael’s matches and had a fairly good idea of how the new fighter would react to Mathew’s well known style of fighting. It had not taken him long after being present at and studying a few of those matches to come up with a counter strategy to the plan that he was sure his challenger would bring to bear. Even as he focused his mind in preparation for his warm up he hoped he was wrong. Turning to his right he slowly made his way to a bare patch of stone in the far left corner. It had taken quite a bit of coaxing and convincing to get Gammon, his manager, to leave that piece of ground uncovered. Finally, after explaining to his manager how nonsensical it would be to have to leave his room to warm up before matches the older man conceded. As he stood on his favourite spot the cool hardness of the stone was a welcome change from the soft warmth of the rugs. Mathew never cared for the feeling of rugs under his feet, it felt almost unnatural. He preferred the warmth of sun kissed grass or the cool of smooth stone. That was what men were meant to stand on, the ground that was put under their feet, not some woven padding. Given the strength of the light that filled his room he figured he had enough time to get a proper warm-up.

Slowing his breathing he let the tension slide from his muscles. He could feel them slowly relaxing, every muscle lengthening and every sinew unwinding from his neck to his toes. He was at a place of near perfect stillness, where the only things he could sense were the stone under his feet, the soft tickle of a slight breeze on his bare chest and his breathing which, in his peace, sounded like heavy gusts. Almost without thought he mechanically began his stretches. Seemingly without any instruction his arms stretched over his head as if to touch the ceiling until his muscles felt as taut as a bowstring preparing to fire. Then he slowly descended, halving his body to touch the floor. After ten repetitions he changed stance. Next, he placed his right arm across his chest and held it in place with the other at the elbow hearing the joint pop. Methodically he continued, until his entire body was limber; whip-like. This was how he liked to feel, it was perfect for the second half of his warm up, the more entertaining half. With his mind as clear as a mountain pool, it took him only seconds to project the images he needed. He was suddenly surrounded by three opponents. He chose fighters that he had already faced as the models for his apparitions. They would not be as those men, however; they would be faster and stronger. They would be better, each skilled enough to match him without aid. This was how he liked to challenge himself; pitting his strength against enemies he had no hope of beating. If he could not find a true challenge in the ring he could at least invent one. His opponents attacked, in almost flawless unison. A quick duck avoided an imagined punch from the foe to his front, another duck and flowing sidestep dodged a sweeping high kick from the enemy to his right. He was not fast enough to avoid the attack of the third adversary, however. His mental foe fired a kick to his face that he barely blocked in time. Then he went on the counter attack, firing blows of his own just as fast as his adversaries. His punches and kicks rushed through the air, his limbs become ebon blurs as he fought his ethereal foes, trying to best them. The fictional battle continued for the rest of the hour, warming all the parts of his body he would soon rely on to save him from real harm. To conserve his strength he did not continue this exercise long, as much as he found pleasure in it. Instead once a familiar warmth permeated his being and a sheen of sweat covered his muscled frame he halted, satisfied with his readiness. Turning back to a small bed side table he retrieved a roll of linen that stood there. With it in hand he sat on his bed and stared his final preparations, wrapping his joints. It was a slow and probably for most others an uninteresting process but to him it held a sense of finality that he needed before he stepped into the arena. Unlike others he would be fighting without sword, shield or any other steel aid. And so for him, it was the same as a soldier donning armour, a sign of complete readiness for what was ahead. It was not a process to be rushed, he knew all too well what it was like to have a joint slip from its place. He started at his wrist slowly wrapping around his the same spot many times so as to provide anchorage. Then he wound the bands down to his hand itself. There he bound his palms while intermittently threading the white cloth between his fingers. Through practice the exact tightness he was to use came naturally and before long his left was complete. Now to the right. For most people the use of their left hands was a clumsy affair, this was also true for Mathew, save for this activity. Years of practice had given him as much proficiency wrapping his right hand. Just as he finished a loud knock came from the door. It was Gammon, of course, come to escort him. He hurriedly changed into a crimson pair of short pants he wore to each match. It only reached his knees and was made of a soft wool-like material which made it light and comfortable but durable enough for him to fight in. After one last check of his wraps that secured his hands and ankles, he was ready. With a short dash he crossed to the door and opened it.

“Ready as usual, good,” the words came as a coherent rumble.

The burly man took up most of the doorway. He had been a fighter in his younger days and except for a bit of fat on his stomach he had maintained the body of a wrestler.

“Let’s go, my coin purse is feeling light,” Gammon said, giving a smile as he turned away to face the street.

As Mathew stepped out of his house, the cool evening air filled his lungs and chilled his skin. It invigorated him, giving him a little hope that if the match was dull he would at least be comfortable fighting it. They made their way through a small alley that was next to his house so as to not attract the attention of any stragglers. The precaution was for a simple reason: the whole town knew Mathew. How could anyone in the humble hamlet not know him? No one could have guessed that after seven years as the best, Leon, the previous champion would lose to a seventeen year old boy. Many a man had lost their entire month’s wages that night and a very fortunate few had earned a year’s. The entire town would be at tonight’s fight. Tael had grown quite a following in his short time as a fighter. Among them Mathew knew the familiar faces of those that once backed Leon. He figured that most did not even truly think Tael could defeat him. Instead it was more a hope for his defeat than Tael’s victory. Their numbers would be swollen by the large number of supporters that Mathew had garnered and would mean that most homes would be empty tonight. Thinking back of the murmurings that proceeded every championship bout he recalled some even saying that Tael would be to him what he had been to Leon. The thought made him smile a little. Unless things went very wrong, he would have total control as soon as he step foot into the arena.

They took an indirect route to the arena instead of making their way via one of Belanor’s main roads. They wove between the stone houses by keeping to the small lanes that connected them, the dark wrapped about them as they moved through the still night. The only thing that accompanied them was the sounds of their heavy footsteps and the occasional overhead rustle revealing the presence of a cat or some other small creature scampering across the thatch covered roofs. Looking up, Mathew could see the windows of the houses around him shut tightly, evidence that their occupants were absent. They were all at the arena, waiting for him.

On arriving at their destination they came to a small side entrance, and after giving a slight nod to the guard on duty they entered, hurrying to the fighter’s area. The arena towered over the surrounding peasant dwellings. It was a near perfect cylinder of granite and other stone nearly four stories high that dwarfed the mostly one storey buildings of the town. Only the Temple to Galdas could pose any opposition to it and it was only three stories high if one counted its four spires into its height. Making their way through various corridors they passed many workers going about the business of keeping the place of entertainment operating harmoniously. To most the inner passages of the coliseum would have been a labyrinth but to him they were a second home. Mathew knew which connected to others and which held rooms at their ends. It had taken him a long time, but he had eventually engraved their intricate interrelations into his mind. The roar of the crowds was a constant loud hum; the thick walls only managing to quell the noise. Absently Mathew thought that if they became any louder then the whole building might have started to shake. He could hardly be surprised though. The town of Belanor had become famous for its arena. It was the only one to be found for many miles in any direction not to mention one of only three across the entire kingdom. What made Belanor’s distinct was the fact that the two larger were found in Kelath and Symaran. They were cities, large cities, with populations easily ten times that of the small town. Over the years the fights had become the main source of income for Belanor. That was not to say that it did not have others. It boasted a large farming community. Large enough in fact that the residents easily provided enough for themselves so as to be able to sell much of the wheat, barley, carrots and other crops to cities. No matter how much they harvested or how much of it they sold, however, they could not compete with the profits the fights brought in. People from the multiple adjacent hamlets came to watch the show every week. That was especially true on nights likes these that happened once every three months, the championship bouts. Mathew smiled at the thought of how elated Governor Alan should be to see so many of the seats filled. It had been a bold move on his part to commission the building of such a structure. Belanor and its surrounding towns were all farming towns. It had been that way for hundreds of years. So when most heard of the project they disagreed, saying that it would lay empty and would be nothing more than a colossal waste of time, stone and gold. He had forged ahead with his plan, despite them, and after five years the Alan Arena was complete. At first it seemed his detractors would be proven correct. At first only a few members of the community showed any interest in the activities but soon the popularity of the bouts grew, attracting scores of people. Soon with them came the vendors. People who made special breads and other sweets followed the crowds to sell. With the influx of people who started to trickle in from the surrounded towns and villages it became a place where a king’s ransom of gold changed hands on a monthly basis. So much so was his new found wealth that some, in jest, referred to Governor Alan as the, “Peasant King”. His estate had grown to easily twice the size of any of the other governors in the surrounding hamlets.

The arena itself had been well built; its shape was perfect for allowing everyone an unobstructed view of the flattened earth ring in the centre. It also boasted large arched spaces in its walls to allow wind from any direction to cool patrons. The ring itself was about twenty feet in diameter, large enough to allow fighters flexibility to use all forms but not large enough to allow a coward to flee his opponent for too long. It was made of smooth flattened earth that was well kept to avoid cracks and stones with a waist high wall around its perimeter to separate it from the closest seats. To increase to protection of those that came to view but more to dissuade the interference of meddlers the intervening space between the wall and those that sat on the the lowest tier of seats was designated only for guards who stood watch on the lowest landings of the steps that ran from ground all the way back to the highest part of the arena. A few had dared to defy the rules only to quickly find themselves on the wrong end of a spear as the men at arms ushered them out of the arena immediately.

As he followed Gammon’s broad back through the brightly lit tunnels he greeted all of the attendants and workers who were not preoccupied enough to notice him. One of them that did was Milaine, a serving girl. He stared at her for a few moments and almost as if on command she met his eyes. He gave a smile and a slight wave which she returned as he passed. She was young, only a year his senior and very beautiful. Her long black hair seemed to flow from down to her shoulders like a waterfall and went perfectly with her brown, sun warmed skin. Many men in the town had thought to catch her eye, hoping to get a closer look at her large pert breasts and round rump. He would have pursued her himself but had grown tired of those whom were easily swayed by his status. She unfortunately struck him as such a girl, one that would do almost anything to share his bed. They were all after the same thing; a night with the strongest man for miles. Soon after he had become the best, he had taken a few of the most beautiful and willing damsels. After a few months, however, he grew tired of the morning departures and empty beds during the day. For that reason his bed had remained vacant for almost a year.

So deep in thought was he that he barely noticed the rise in the clamour of the crowd that indicated that he had reached the fighter’s waiting area which was a small circular spot with a tunnel leading directly to the ring. Gammon turned to him when they finally stopped.

“Same as always, leave him counting stars,” another smile stretching his thick lips.

Mathew nodded as the giant patted him on the back with a bear paw sized palm. Mathew had always seen Gammon for the colossus that he was. Most people did; given that the man was six feet tall and weighed nearly three hundred pounds of mostly muscle, with arms as thick as saplings and a back as broad as the side of most barns. Mathew himself was by no means tiny, at six feet three inches tall and two hundred and thirty pounds he was mostly lean muscle. The exceptions to this were his chest, arms and back which were a little thick compared to the rest of his body. It could not be helped. The slight imbalance in muscle size was a product of his fighting style. A gentle breeze swept down the tunnel from the ring caressing his skin unable to ruffle his very short black hair. He knew his bout was about to begin as the crowd hushed to listen to the fight master speak. The instant his name was called a rumble emanated from the audience that even managed to overshadow their previous cries. Turning from his manager he strolled through the passage and into moonlight.

It took his eyes a little time to adjust to the slightly dimmer light of the moon that suffused the ring He panned around the arena, scanning the crowd for familiar faces until his eyes finally stopped on Tael who was standing in a shadow cast by the lowest stands. It crossed his mind that it was a little nonsensical for him to do that since his pale skin was a dead give-away. The thought made him grin a little. Mathew’s toes curled involuntarily as he felt the smooth, earthen floor. The crowd’s noise was all around him but not within him. As soon as he had spotted his opponent, all his senses began to focus. The ubiquitous clamour became nothing more than a distant drone and every feature of the tall slender fighter before him became pronounced. His skin prickled, hairs stood on end and muscles tightened in anticipation. Nothing else caught his attention and his thoughts quickened, becoming mere fragments of their former selves that rushed and swirled around his mind. He was in the mood for a battle. Tael’s pallid form emerged from the shadow, his gray eyes locked on Mathew. The short man that shood in the middle of the ring called for the match to begin, then quickly scrambled over the low wall to his place.

Before he could lift his clenched fists to his chin Tael crossed the ten feet between them. He lashed out with a ferocious kick aimed at the side of Mathew’s head with his right leg. The kick was so swift he barely saw it but instinct took care of that. Without a thought he docked the kick, sidestepped his enemy to his left and answered with a powerful straight. The blow connected, sending Tael reeling from the force. Mathew did not let up. This was the opportunity he wanted. Tael was not an especially well built fighter and Mathew intended to take advantage of that. He stepped forward to the stumbling fighter and fired a sweeping punch with his right hand only to have it avoided with a back step. A back step was not the correct word to describe the movement because in a single movement Teal had moved back almost five feet. Before Mathew could even ponder how strange it was Tael attacked again. This time, however, it came in the form of three kicks from the same leg, one the level of his thigh, the other at his ribs and the last at his head. Mathew did not even bother to attempt to avoid the barrage, instead he braced. The instant they connected he wished he could have somehow eluded them. It felt like he had been hit with a steel rod rather than human bone. He buckled a little as the blow to the ribs knocked the wind out of him and the one to his head made a large red dot obscure Tael’s head from his vision. As disorienting as the hits were he felt no pain. As hard as these blows were he had felt worse. Tael it seemed was content to stop and smile at the obvious damage he had wrought with only one flurry. Mathew surged forward, catching him by surprise. He launched a straight to Tael’s nose with his right and a second later, even before his right returned to his chest, a sweeping left to the side of his adversary’s head. Tael staggered from the blows and shook his head in an effort to regain focus but Mathew would not allow him reprieve. He continued the assault with a viciously powerful strike under the man’s narrow chin. The blow sent Tael an inch or two off the ground and flat unto his back. Mathew jumped toward the man he had just downed hoping to land on top of his opponent and land a finishing blow. Tael quickly rolled to his right side and threw a sweeping kick even before he had left the dust. Mathew tensed his leg guarding against the blow. Even though he had protected himself, the blow seemed far more powerful than the lanky fighter was supposed to be able to generate. Tael bounced up, his face looking as if the blow that had felled him had had no more effect than the flick of a finger. Mathew again advanced, deciding to throw a quick combination of punches to throw off the balance of the fighter that had only just returned to his feet.

Again he was disappointed as in a blur of motion Tael dodged all four blows and with a floating back step found his range launching a driving kick to his stomach with his heel. A blast of air escaped him as the blow connected, his body doubling. Tael was not about to let Mathew recover this time. Though Mathew could not see it Tael spun his entire body about, whipping his heel around in a strike to the side of Mathew’s head causing it to snap to the right. Instinctively Mathew extended a hand to lessen the impact of the fall that followed. As his palm made contact with the ground he shifted his weight, spinning unto his back. A small cloud of dust formed around Mathew’s head as he hit the floor. Tael stepped quickly to the downed champion and stomped hard in his stomach. Mathew would again have lost his wind had he not consciously tightened his abdominals with all his strength. Instead he responded to the crushing blow by grasping Tael’s ankle and twisting. A cry of anguish tore itself from Tael’s mouth. He collapsed and Mathew again took the initiative as he wrapped both his legs around the one that he had already accosted the ankle of. With this his victory was all but assured. Some of his most difficult matches had been ended by this very manoeuvre. He had not expected to be using it here but he had not complaints. There was no time to be considering his fighting history, however. With the hold he was now employing he could easily snap Tael’s ankle; a fact he intended to use to leverage victory. They tussled on the ground for a few seconds, Tael trying his hardest to extricate himself.

“Give up or I shall break it,” Mathew shouted.

“Go ahead,” Tael spat back.

He hated the idea of doing permanent harm to another but he seemed to have no other choice. Releasing him and returning to a standing battle was not an option. Not with the power of Tael’s blows being as unnatural as they were. He hurriedly increased the pressure on the ankle in his possession. The seconds, ticked by and felt like minutes as he strained his arms, pushing them to their limits. A sharp ache ran through his muscles as he reached maximum exertion. He felt more than heard the crisp snap as bone and sinew parted ways. A yowl escaped Tael’s lips that made Mathew release and roll away from the pale man. He watched, crouched only a few feet away, immobilised, as his opponent squirmed and held his now obviously permanently injured leg. The crowd’s raucous clamour dulled to a deep lull. It was not concern for the fallen warrior that had overcome them, but fear and confusion. Fear caused by the shriek that rose from Tael; it was a high pitched bird like sound that no human should have been able to make, irrelevant of their physical state. What frightened him even more were Tael’s eyes. Mathew was sure because of their distance the crowd could not see them but both of the pallid fighter’s eyes had shifted to a dark colour leaving none of the white. His blood felt as if it had frozen in its course as he watched his opponent writhe in the dirt uttering his shrill cry. Fright threatened to hold him in place but before it could take his instincts forced him into action.

In a flash Mathew rose to his feet, bringing his hand to his face to guard against the blow. The force of the hit sent him flying ten or so feet backwards slamming his back on the ground as he was tossed head over heels the world spinning like a mad top. He was assaulted again and even before he could gather his wits he found himself airborne once more. He would have sailed another dozen feet if the hard wall that rimmed the ring did not stop him. For an instant he thought of bells only to realise almost instantly that the ringing he could hear was from within as his head slammed against the stone while his vision was awash with stars and other whimsical shapes. In his addled brain the only coherent thought that formed was, how could a man he had crippled not a minute before hit him with the force of a raging bull. How could any man hit him that hard? Before he could fully even consider the idea fragment, a pale arm flashed out at him. This time he got the better of his assailant and was able to dodge the blow, ducking under the arm that sent it. With a smooth motion he continued the movement and went into a roll, trying to put some distance between himself and whatever it was he was fighting even as he struggled to keep his food down. The fist that was aimed at his head connected with the stone wall with both a loud thud and a wet crunch as bone and stone were crushed under its force. Mathew stood again, his arm held across his abdomen as he laboured to breathe. As he looked up he saw his adversary standing on the same ankle he had broken. The bone jutted out of the skin and blood poured from the wound. What was left of the joint could hardly be recognised and should have been in no way functional. While he observed, Tael spun to face him, his right fist now a bloody mass of broken bone and rent skin. As he took a step forward to continue his attack, the dim light of the moon was suddenly magnified ten fold. As fresh screams rose from the stands Mathew could barely believe his eyes as a jet of fire erupted shot down from some of the highest stands. Rather than a wild flame the tongue of flame flew straight towards Tael, enveloping the pallid figure causing another series of bone chilling wails. He watched in amazement as the man burned. He followed the path of the plume back to the stands and a mixture of surprise and relief washed over him as he found his target. Standing in the Governor’s box, the ones surrounding him staring with wide eyed amazement was Elias. The ancient looking head of the Temple of Galdas had his small hand outstretched his fingers somehow producing a stream of fire that devoured his intended target. Mathew did not have time to consider much, as soon as he had identified the aged man his vision started to falter and flicker and in an instant the world was no more.