 
**Chronoblood Chronicles:**

**The Prophecy of the Gladiator**

By Jason Kurek

Copyright Jason Kurek 2013

Characters Copyright 2006

Fourth Edition June 2015

Published by Sci-Fantasy Books

ISBN: 9781310038563

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE

A Message to the Prophet

We rejoice that this ancient text has finally fallen into your hands. It is not by chance, that your eyes see these words. It is by fate! For centuries, the greatest sages have attempted to decipher the meanings of these verses. Those that have tried, have only met great sacrifice; emperors have lost their kingdoms and wise men have lost their minds. For the secrets of this tome were meant to only be understood by a chosen witness... That chosen witness is you, oh Great Prophet.

You have lived a life of uncertainty. Constantly feeling lost, out of place, trying to find the meaning of your existence. The truth is, you are more special than you can imagine. It has always been your destiny to discover this lost tome and give testimony of its hidden revelations. This oh Great Prophet, is your purpose!

Behold, the Chronoblood Chronicles!

Let your mind travel across the dark seas of space, deep within the colorful waves of the streams of time, to the crown jewel of the universe: the world of Terrynmen. It was a majestic realm of infinite beauty, where snowcapped mountains overlooked flowering valleys, and golden deserts led to lush tropical coasts. The many species of this world, from the smallest sprite to the largest giant, all coexisted in peace and harmony. Together, they developed wild technologies that were powered by archaic magic, which they used to establish fanciful kingdoms of crystal castles and enchanted monuments.

Sadly, the once blossoming glades and surreal cityscapes of this beautiful world, were burned away by the fires of conquest, when Annukus, the god of the night, viciously invaded Terrynmen. He led legions of vampiric blood demons and undying flesh fiends into the mortal realms to gluttonously feed upon the multitudes of innocent men, women and children. The armies of the living tried frantically to withstand the waves of undead that were flooding their lands, but their swords, cannons and ramparts were not enough to hold back the unholy onslaught. The only real protection that the mortal races had from the creatures of the night, was the temporary light of day. Yet when the sun set, entire nations fell and most who survived were rounded up like cattle and devoured.

Thankfully, a hero arose; a master of both time and space, known only as the Crimson Saint, took desperate measures to defeat the Night God and his blood sucking hordes. He confronted Annukus and nearly died in the process, but found the strength to create a magical explosion that froze the dark deity within the fabrics of time...

Yet, what was supposed to be a moment of triumph, turned into a tragic catastrophe. The temporal shockwave from the blast spread across all of Terrynmen and stopped the world from rotating, cursing half the planet in endless darkness and the other in scorching daylight. The defeated blood demons and other creatures of the night, found refuge on the cold, sunless side of the planet, while the victorious, mortal beings were forced to rebuild their once great cities in the "safe-zone" of the sweltering, sunlit lands. Eventually, most of the civilizations of the light united under a single flag, called the Golden Empire.

Although their world would never be the same, the mortal races still dearly thanked the Crimson Saint for saving them from the brink of extinction. They beseeched the holy warrior to be their king, while many more made distant pilgrimages to worship him. He declined all offers of royalty and humbly asked them not to exalt him as a god. The Crimson Saint's destiny was always to serve the people, not to rule them. To do this, he divided his essence into what legend would call, 'The Four Shards'. The Saint gifted these aspects of his consciousness to the mortal races of Terrynmen, to help them prosper in the new world ahead. After doing so, he began to fade into the ether.

Although, just before the Saint vanished entirely, he gave a dire prophecy. He warned that far into the future, Annukus would escape his temporal prison and would then send forth a Dark Emissary to gather the Four Shards in an effort to use their combined power to finally destroy the people of Terrynmen. The Saint then gave a promise of hope: he revealed that the Night God could be stopped during this time of tribulation, if a holy chosen one, known as the Bearer, could reunite the Shards before the Dark Emissary. By doing so, it would summon the Crimson Saint to appear again, and in his second coming he would permanently vanquish all darkness in the realm, and would bring Terrynmen into an eternal age of love and light.

A millennia later, the Crimson Saint's prophecy began to come to fruition, as the Cult of Annukus unified the blood demon clans within the Veil of Shadows. Unfortunately, the provinces of the sunlit lands were too consumed by the bile of politics and greed to take notice. Someone else would have to bear the weight of the world's salvation and that person was the most unexpected of all...

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
CHAPTER ONE

The Book of the Child

The city of Skul'haven was once a thriving trader's outpost, which laid just beyond the borders of the Golden Empire. It was hailed as the last stop before entering the Veil of Shadows, but safely rested in a region where the fiery red sun endlessly illuminated the western horizon. Yet in recent years, darkness crept further into the land and the flourishing trade routes became plagued by flesh fiends and other creatures of the night. The dangers quickly became too overwhelming for importers to make the long journey to Skul'haven and suddenly the city's steady stream of commerce ran dry. Merchants and citizens alike abandoned the outpost and moved on to better lives in cities that still basked in the protection of bright, unending daylight.

Those who remained in Skul'haven were simply too poor to leave, and were forced to miserably watch their city crumble around them. Vibrant shops and businesses were now vacant buildings of rotting timber, and entire neighborhoods were replaced with the ragged tent camps of the homeless. Sadly, there was no charity for the downtrodden. Their only guarantee in life, was a brutal end met by starvation, disease or homicide.

The lack of a legitimate economy caused a vicious black market to arise. Soon, outlaws from throughout Terrynmen rode their griff motorbikes through the stunted foliage of the surrounding wasteland, to enter the city for its growing reputation of sinful pleasures and illegal dealings. Guilds of high rollers and shysters also began to flock to the city to bet on death matches and other barbaric games of chance, which were forbidden in the rest of the Golden Empire. They all came with visions of fortune, but most left with broken dreams; usually due to bad deals, lost bets or bandit's blade.

One of these miscreants who came to this city for ill gains, was a scourge of a man named Cliven. He was nothing but a common street thug, who wore the tattered clothes of a pauper and had the shake of someone who was obviously addicted to the devilish drug called Djinndust. Yet somehow, he sat quite smugly in the exclusive box seats of a makeshift coliseum, known as the Skul'haven Pits. There he watched what was becoming a very bloody gladiator match and cheered alongside of some of the most prominent (and unscrupulous) people in the city. This scrawny sleaze couldn't believe his good fortune and lightly elbowed a fat nobleman from a distant land, "This is the life, huh?"

The finely dressed aristocrat pulled away and wiped himself with a handkerchief, "Don't touch me, you scum."

"Bah," Cliven muttered and thoughtlessly waved away the nobleman's disgust.

The wealthy snob then looked to a large, dark-skinned fight promoter who was the owner of the box seats and ranted, "Barnabas, this piece of garbage is certainly no high roller and has no place amongst us! Why did you ever invite him here?

The promoter leaned forward in his seat, causing his many beaded dreadlocks to fall into his face. He spoke in a deep, boisterous voice, "Cliven may be no high roller—at least in the traditional sense, but he wagered something on this fight, which most men would consider too precious to lose. So for now, he deserves to be here."

The nobleman rolled his eyes and griped, "I am sure he only made the bet so he could win some gold to buy his next fix."

"Who am I to judge?" Barnabas said before he took a long drink out of a jewel encrusted goblet.

The nobleman was not satisfied and whined, "Still, can't he observe from afar? I can hardly bear his vomitus stench!"

Barnabas gave the rich man an intimidating stare, "Watching him irritate you is just as entertaining to me as the gladiator match below." The fight promoter then chuckled and looked to Cliven, "Also, if I lose this bet, I am sure our filthy guest will want to be as close as possible to all of his newly acquired winnings."

This made Cliven smile and caused visions of gold to dance before his eyes. The nobleman laughed at Cliven's temporary happiness, "You fool! You made a bet with Barnabas Xuva, the 'luckiest man in Skul'haven'. You're not going to win anything-- except maybe further problems. He has kept you close to be sure that you honor your agreement, which I highly recommend you do, because Barnabas has a reputation of feeding delinquent debtors to the flesh fiends!"

Just then Barnabas' guards escorted a woman and a small boy into the boxed area. They were just as dirty as Cliven and seemed extremely malnourished. Their ashy, chocolate brown skin peered through the many holes in their tattered clothes and exposed many abrasions that happened well before Barnabas' men had them in their custody. The young boy had black, fluffy hair that framed his bruised face like a halo. The woman's lip was busted, but healing. She gritted her chipped teeth and cried out in a raspy voice, "By the Crimson Saint, what further terror have you brought upon our family, Cliven?"

"I have this under control, wench!" Cliven bellowed. He then pointed his finger menacingly, "Clea, if you or Maxtix get in my way, I warn you--"

"Now, now, Cliven, that is no way to speak to your wife and child," Barnabas interrupted and then looked with surprising kindness to his newest guests. "Please have a seat and enjoy yourselves."

The fat nobleman scooted over with a nauseated expression, as the woman and child huddled together in fear and sat down. Cliven then began to passive-aggressively ignore their presence and engrossed himself in the heavy-weight gladiator match below. He watched with great anticipation as his chosen warrior, Bothogus, clashed with Barnabas' fighter, named Tovo.

Tovo was barely twenty years old, but what he lacked in age, he made up for in speed and strength. He effortlessly wore heavy bronze armor without it hindering his movement and easily wielded an enormous two-handed sword. Yet as burly as Tovo was, he paled in comparisons to Bothogus, who was especially large for his canine-like species, known as the Unari. This dog-man's overly muscular body was covered in greasy black fur and his Rottweiler-like head growled ferociously, with a mouth full of foam-covered, yellow fangs.

Tovo wasn't the least bit frightened. He pointed his sword and shouted, "It seems your bark is worse than you bite."

He then charged full speed towards the dog-man with the hopes of putting him down. Bothogus charged also, and his iron armor clacked and crashed like a freight train, as he ran towards his human opponent. When the two warriors collided, Tovo caught the brunt of the blow and was disarmed as he hit the ground with a massive thud. Bothogus then prepared his battle ax and loomed over the downed fighter.

When Cliven saw this, he ecstatically clenched the caged fence that separated the audience from the battleground and gave a deranged shout, "Bothogus, split 'em open like rotten fruit! Take his head, so I can take my winnings!"

But Cliven's bloodthirsty excitement was abruptly interrupted by his six-year-old son. The boy apprehensively tugged his father's pant leg and curiously asked, "Why do you want that man to die? Has he wronged you? Is he a criminal?"

"Enough with your constant questions, Maxtix! Shut up!" Cliven roared as he raised the back of his hand to threaten his son.

The boy instinctively closed his eyes and turned away to avoid yet another beating from his father. The child waited for the blows to come, but when they didn't, he opened his eyes and accidently fixed his gaze upon the blood soaked sands below. He watched as Tovo rolled on the ground to dodge Bothogus' axe, which plunged into the dirt as it missed its mark. Tovo rolled once again and quickly grabbed his dislodged sword, but Bothogus stomped on the flat of the blade and snapped it in half. The fierce canine then continued his onslaught by brutally kicking the downed warrior in the face.

Clea quickly grabbed Maxtix and shielded his eyes with her embrace. She again pleaded to her husband, "The boy shouldn't be seeing this. He shouldn't even be here—"

"I said shut up, Clea! You're gonna jinx this bet!" Cliven screamed to his poor, battered wife.

Clea bravely continued questioning her brute of a husband, "We have nothing left for you to gamble away, Cliven! How can you ever think that you'll actually win?"

Cliven angrily retorted, "Because the odds are ten-to-one in my favor and Bothogus is about to claim the victory! I can't lose, you dolt!"

Cliven shoved Clea out of the way so he could have a better look at the fight. His cold heart beat with anticipation, as Bothogus let out a conquering battle howl and raised his axe for a final blow. Cliven then excitedly grabbed the fat nobleman by his silk robes and screamed, "This is it! This is where I win!"

But suddenly, Tovo got to a crouching position, pulled a hidden knife from his boot and jammed it deep into Bothogus' side. When the dog-man instinctively lowered his axe-wielding arm in pain, Tovo slashed the tendons of Bothogus' wrist, which forced the Unari to drop his axe. The human warrior tried to lunge again with his dagger, but Bothogus countered by tackling him back to the ground. They both rolled in the sand and scrambled for a dominant position. Bothogus ended up on top and Tovo had once again become disarmed in the scuffle. The dog-man was also still unarmed and resorted to using his powerful snapping jaw in an attempt to rip out his opponent's throat. Tovo frantically pushed away the foam covered fangs with his bronze bracer.

The human warrior knew that he could only hold back the Unari for so long. So with his free arm he reached out desperately to find his lost dagger, but only found a handful of dust. In the meantime, Bothogus had used his weight and sheer power to push himself within an inch of Tovo's face and was about to finally sink his teeth into victory.

"Yes! Kill him!" Cliven shouted as he stomped his feet with excitement.

The human warrior's time was running out; he frantically reached out again to find his dagger, but instead found the broken blade of his sword. Tovo gratefully picked it up and severely cut his own hand as he plunged the metal shard straight through the Unari. Bothogus let out a whimpering yelp, rolled to his side and then died on the scarlet sand of the arena floor. It was all over, Cliven had lost the bet.

"No!" Cliven screamed with disbelief and horror, as he watched Tovo raise his bloody hands victoriously.

The fat nobleman began to laugh at Cliven's misfortune and Clea put her hand over her mouth with great concern. She whispered, "By the Saint..."

"You!" Cliven growled and pointed to his wife, "This is all your fault! You're bad luck! A jinx!"

Maxtix frightfully asked, "What happened, Father?"

Cliven was so enraged by his loss that he answered his son by striking him across the face. When the small boy fell to the floor, his entire world went silent. He watched helplessly, in deaf slow-motion, as his father turned his aggression onto his mother. He could see her mouth move, but could not hear her scream. Then sound and speed returned to Maxtix, just as Barnabas' men rushed over to pry Cliven off of Clea. The guards beat the angered addict to the floor, kicked him in the ribs and then carried him away in disgrace.

Clea wiped away her tears and scowled at Barnabas, "You knew! You knew that the dog-man would lose!"

The fight promoter snickered, "You are smarter than you look. Yes, I most certainly knew. Only a fool would have bet on an Unari in a gladiator match. Some of them may appear intimidating, but the entire species is far better suited as sorcerers than fighters. It appears that Bothogus was adept at neither. That's how he became a slave in the first place."

"But why make this bet with Cliven?" Clea asked, "What could he have wagered that had any value?"

Barnabas walked over to the broken family with a smile of satisfaction and said, "He wagered the two of you, of course. Congratulations, you now belong to me."

The boy frightfully hugged his mother and then looked up to her with his big brown eyes, knowing that he'd never see his abusive father again. He didn't know whether to cry or smile. He just held his mother tighter and asked, "What is going to happen to us?"

Clea held her son in a vain attempt to protect him from their dire and uncertain future. She then gently kissed his head and whispered, "I don't know, Maxtix, but whatever happens, know that I love you."

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Max and his mother were escorted out of the arena as slaves, but they were not shackled; their fright and disbelief were sufficient enough to imprison them. Clea and Maxtix went from being treated like pieces of garbage by Cliven, to pieces of property by Barnabas. The slave master locked the mother and son in a shack better suited for farm animals than people. Yet somehow, they were ironically appreciative to sleep here. It was the first actual shelter they had stayed under since coming to Skul'haven. Unfortunately this coop for livestock would not be their permanent home. The fight promoter had bigger ideas for his newly acquired investments.

After a few short hours of sleep, Maxtix and his mother were awoken by a thunderous knock at the door. It then quickly swung open, and Barnabas stood in the doorway, framed with the outside light of the eternal sunset. The dark-skinned man stood tall and strong; he had once been a fighter himself and still retained the large muscular arms and the barreled chest of a warrior. He walked in with purpose and grabbed the six-year-old by his arm. He then turned to Clea and spoke softly, "You may be his mother, but the boy is now mine."

Barnabas then turned to the door, with the child in tow. Clea ran desperately screaming after her son. She wailed with panic, "No! You can't have him! No!"

Maxtix cried into the chaos, "Mama! Mama!"

Clea dove and wrapped her arms around her bawling son, "You can't have him! You'll have to kill me first!"

Barnabas grinned and cast her away with little effort, "Is that what you want? Do you want me to kill you right here, right now, in front of your child? Bite your tongue woman, before you choke yourself with it! He is of more value to me than you are. I am going to take your son, but not far. Behave woman! If you play by my rules and know your role, I might just let you see him again. Be a good dog and I will throw you a bone."

With those cold, closing remarks, Barnabas dragged the shrieking child out of the shack. Clea got to her knees, but did not have the life in her to stand. Tears poured down her face like rivers of pain. "I am sorry, baby! I am sorry! I love you. I am sorry!"

Barnabas shoved Maxtix into a waiting carriage. The child struggled and immediately rushed to the back of the vehicle, jumped upon the seat and pressed his face to the rear window. There he watched his mother wilt and become smaller in the distance as carriage pulled away. With every breath, he wailed, "Mama!"

The black carriage moved forward without the assistance of a horse, and appeared quite menacing as it rolled down the broken streets of Skul'haven. Its shadowy oak exterior was outfitted with dark plates of armor, and its outside driver's bench was manned by two constables who swore an oath to protect and serve the city, but instead were playing a roles of escort and chauffer. One held a heavy pike, while the other ran his hands around a small glass orb that not only steered the vehicle, it also manipulated an unseen fire elemental that was conjured to power the engine of the carriage.

The inside of the craft was quite luxurious, with white leather benches to sit upon, small jeweled chests for storage and silk pillows that added extra comfort. A small enchanted shell dangled from the ceiling by short gold chain and magically played delightful music, but the lovely sounds were completely drowned out by the screams of the kidnapped child. Barnabas was hardly phased by the cacophony. He smiled and calmly asked, "Maxtix? That is your name correct?"

The child did not answer; he continued to look through the window, over the horizon and sobbed. Barnabas continued, "Maxtix, I want you to listen and understand what I say. No longer are you to crave the warmth of your mother's bosom. Soon you will only desire the warmth of your opponent's blood. You are no longer a mere child. Today is the first step on your path to becoming more than a man. You are destined to become a gladiator. Perhaps even a legend. Now stop crying before the other boys see you."

Maxtix eventually stopped sobbing, but his cheeks still glistened with the salt of freshly dried tears. He quickly discovered that he was not the first child that Barnabas had owned. The fight promoter brought him to an academy that he'd started, called the War Chest, which trained Barnabas' child-slaves in the ways of blood and blade.

Max looked from the carriage at the massive, wooden walls that separated the pristine academy from the sleazy grime of the rest of the city. The War Chest was designed like a fortress and was very threatening to all those on the outside. High towers stood at the corners, and a deep trench of spikes and broken glass surrounded the perimeter of the campus. A small drawbridge was lowered that led to a heavy, grated gate, which was manned by several grimacing sentries. They frightened the child and made him feel like he was entering a prison instead of a school... perhaps he was right.

The escorting constable with the pike leapt from the driver's bench, and politely opened the door of the carriage. He bowed his head, "Sir, we have arrived."

Barnabas exited the vehicle first and Maxtix followed with little resistance. The two then began to cross the narrow drawbridge, and upon their approach a guard shouted from the other side of the entryway, "Hail, Master Xuva."

Barnabas raised his hand, "Lift the gate. We have a new student!"

The gate elevated with the sound of rotating gears. Master Xuva led his newest pupil along a winding path through various huts and barracks. There were other boys there, ranging from children to teenagers, but Max was by far the youngest. They were all scarred and battle hardened, appearing more like seasoned warriors than kids. Every time Max walked past one of them, they'd bump into him hard with their shoulders or elbows. The frightened six-year-old looked to Barnabas for protection, but the fight promoter just ignored the aggression of the other children. As Max went further into the camp, there were more students that snarled at him like he was fresh meat. Each step the boy took seemed to lead further into a lions' den.

They made their way to a courtyard that was very well lit by small, flaming caldrons, which hung from chains on iron stands. In the center was a vast, white mat surrounded by sand. Sitting on the mat, were two rows of children that were approximately ten-years-old. At the end of mat, was a very stocky griff, with a blood-stained, blonde beard, who was instructing the students.

Max had never seen a griff before. He was shocked and afraid of the creature, which naturally had four arms. The instructor appeared very powerful, but only stood four feet tall; although, he had a blonde Mohawk that made him look a foot taller. The shaved sides of his head blatantly displayed his cauliflower ears that were crumpled up like balls of paper. He wore faded black pants and a dingy white coat. The jacket was open and exposed a series of tribal tattoos that ran from his muscular chest, up his neck and to his scalp. Max was certain that the tattoos also continued onto the trainer's four arms, but were concealed by the sleeves of the dingy coat.

Barnabas slid off his shoes before he drew any closer. He was about to tell Maxtix to do the same, but looked down to dirty, little feet that have not worn shoes in a very long time. Barnabas stepped on to the mat and bowed. He then looked to Max, "Child, every time we enter or leave this mat, we bow in honor of all of the blood, sweat and time that has been invested in it. Do you understand?"

Maxtix spoke to Barnabas for the first time, "Yes... yes, sir." He then stepped onto the mat and bowed.

The instructor shouted with a deep Brizzlebane accent, "Master Xuva, you have brought a new student I presume?"

"Yes, Professor Darrogg. I acquired him several hours ago," Barnabas replied. "He is small, but I have a good feeling about this one."

The griff looked slightly offended, "I do not care if he's small. I only care about the fire that burns inside of him. Is there a flame in his heart?"

Barnabas raised his eyebrows and smiled, "We shall see. May I have a word in private with you?"

"You may, sir." Professor Darrogg said as he cracked his knuckles. He then looked sternly at his class, "While I am speaking to Master Xuva, I want you all to stay seated or I guarantee that you will receive a relentless beating."

Barnabas pushed down on Maxtix's shoulders, "That goes for you too, boy. Be seated."

Maxtix sat down, as Barnabas and Darrogg bowed to the mat and then walked into darkness. Once the two adults were completely out of sight, the rows of boys instantly stood and rushed Maxtix, like piranhas sensing blood in the water. A larger, tanned-skinned child with black hair and a hideous scar that dug diagonally across his face, was the first to speak, "Look at this runt! Do you think you deserve to be here, boy? Look at you! You are nothing!"

Max didn't answer. He only sat like Barnabas asked.

A redheaded child with a cleft lip, pulled at Max's fluffy hair. The six-year-old winced, but didn't move from the mat. The bully snickered, "Ebarro, this has to be the smallest kid that Master Xuva has ever brought to the War Chest!"

The large child with the scar answered, "He's nothing, but a small pile of dung."

Another boy got in his Max's face, "Hey fellas, it looks like he's been crying. Have you been crying baby girl?"

Again, Max didn't speak, he just looked through the other boys, distantly into his own thoughts.

"What are you a mute or something? Answer him, crybaby!" Ebarro screamed and slapped Maxtix across the face.

When Maxtix still didn't respond, Ebarro paced back and forth, like a frustrated, feral cat, "Fine don't answer! If we can't make you speak, then maybe we can make you scream!"

Meanwhile, from the distance, Barnabas and Darrogg watched from the secluded darkness. Darrogg shook his head, "Where do you find these street urchins, Master Xuva? I think that this boy may have been an unwise use of your gold. Where is his fire? He just sits there as the others taunt him!"

Barnabas confidently turned towards his short colleague, "Oh, Professor Darrogg, ye of little faith. I didn't pay anything for him. I won him in a bet. That being said, how much do you want to gamble that your pupils will be unable to break him?"

"Ha! You're on," Darrogg exclaimed. "You're going to fill my pockets!"

Barnabas smiled, "Who is unwise now, Professor?"

As Barnabas and Darrogg sorted out the arrangements of their wager, Maxtix became tightly encircled by all nine of the other children. Ebarro was still the main aggressor and loomed over the sitting child, "You're just a cockroach, and like all bugs, you need to be crushed!"

The large bully then tried to stomp on Maxtix, but the six-year-old rolled out of the way and sprung to his feet. "Leave me alone!" Max furiously yelled, "Go away!"

The child with the cleft lip mocked him, "Go away! Ha, I think he is going to cry again!"

Before any other words were said, Ebarro punched Maxtix in the stomach, which caused him to double over. The bully then kicked the small child in the face so hard, that he fell off the mat, rolled into the dirt and knocked over one of the lantern stands. The chained, flaming cauldron landed inches away from his face.

The bullies expected the six-year-old to lay in the sand and cry, but they were sadly mistaken. Max had spent his whole life in the dirt, abused by his father. Being there again, ignited him with pure, burning rage! The anger boiled over inside of him until his mind exploded in a stream of agonizing memories, in which he felt every horrible moment of his short, miserable life. He relived all of the beatings that Cliven had given him. He recalled being hit with the buckle-end of a belt and how it tore him to shreds. Most of all, he remembered how being beat in such a way reduced him to nothing. So Maxtix decided to do the same thing to his attackers, but this time with the caldron-end of the chained lantern.

As Max tightly held the chain in his hands and scowled at his attackers, he began to drown in his wave of anger and suddenly, everything went silent again. The whole world seemed to pause at the small child's wrath, as if the universe decelerated in a surreal display of slowed reality. The flames in the cauldron twisted sluggishly like red ink dispersing in water. The sand that blew in the wind, hung in the air like the winter fog. The furious flood of his attackers now approached with the speed of statues. It was at that moment, the six-year-old discovered that the world wasn't moving slower, he was moving faster and the angrier he became, the faster he went.

In a temper tantrum, Maxtix sprung back to the mat for his sonic counterattack. He screamed with ravenous bloodlust, yet no sound could be heard. He angrily swung the small, flaming cauldron around his head like a morning star and struck Ebarro across the face. Max could see the impact slowly ripple across the bully's cheek and watched as the dislodged cinders from the cauldron hung in the air like stars in the night. Before Ebarro fell to the ground, Max had already hit five of his other attackers.

Outside of the madness, Barnabas and Darrogg watched on from the distance. Barnabas grabbed the griff by the sleeve with great excitement, "Did you see that! Have you ever seen a child move so fast?"

Darrogg looked very troubled, "I've never seen any adults that move that fast."

By time the griff completed that sentence, the fight was over. All nine of the aggressors laid defeated on the mat. Maxtix's perception of the world returned to normal. The flames from the lanterns began to quickly strobe in the dusk sky and the cries of Max's enemies finally crossed the courtyard. The bewildered six-year-old tossed the chained lantern to the side, and with great exhaustion collapsed to the mat.

Darrogg and Barnabas bowed and returned to the scene of the fight. Barnabas clapped as he stepped over the broken bodies of Max's attackers. Many of them had minor burns on their faces and bodies. Their downfall only made the fight promoter laugh, "Ha! Is that enough fire for you, Professor Darrogg?"

A few of the older boys that were still conscious, groaned in crumpled heaps, but Darrogg scolded them for showing their pain, "I guaranteed you a beating if you got up out of your seats. You should have heeded my warning!

Barnabas strolled over to Maxtix who was now sitting on the floor. He helped the child to his feet and then raised his arm as the victor, "Behold our winner! Well my little fighter, do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Maxtix responded, completely out of breath, "Sorry sir, I forgot to bow when I reentered the mat."

Barnabas chuckled, "Today, there are no apologies needed, especially since you are going to make me a lot of gold. In fact, you have already started, isn't that right Professor Darrogg?"

The unsettled griff tossed a small leather bag to Barnabas. Darrogg grimaced at the carnage on his training mats, "This child is enchanted, if I've ever seen it! You might as well have put these boys in an arena with a dragon! It will be an unfair match for all he fights."

Barnabas hushed his trainer, "Now, now Professor. This is Skul'haven; only suckers and tourists expect a fair fight. We need to keep this our little secret. One day, he will be fighting in the arena and on that day, he will be making the War Chest very, very rich. You wouldn't want to kill the goose that laid the golden egg, would you?"

Darrogg looked down with guilt, "The War Chest will be rich in gold, but broke in honor. That is a disturbing thought."

"As your liege, your honor is to me," Barnabas said as he placed his hand on the griff's shoulder. "Although, you should be proud that I repay your loyalty with gold instead of honor, otherwise you'd starve. Honor is a tool to make a man a slave, but gold will make that same man a king. Let us be like kings, Professor Darrogg."

The griff shook his head, "Curse you Barnabas. I will train him, but let us pray that you haven't brought destruction to us all."

Barnabas could only scoff, "Bah, the only thing that this boy will bring us is fortune. The faster you prepare him for the big show, the faster we'll all be spending that fortune."

The fight promoter then departed to focus on other business and left the little trainer with his smallest fighter. The griff leaned forward and inspected the child, "We weren't formally introduced. My name is Professor Darrogg Backcracker. I am the Honored High Master of Combat here at the War Chest. And you... You got a name, kid?"

He looked up to the griff, "Maxtix, sir. My name is Maxtix."

Darrogg twisted his blonde beard in concentration, "Well Maxtix, I suppose we should get started."

The Professor gave his student a white set of pants and training jacket. He then introduced the newcomer to basics of grip fighting, which the four-handed man was extremely proficient at. Soon some of the other boys regained consciousness and humbly joined their former enemy in the lesson. The others that were not so lucky, including Ebarro, spent the rest of the day mending in the infirmary.

After countless hours of combat orientation, Maxtix was finally shown to the meager barracks that would be his new home. He laid down on a cot on the floor, but there was no attempt for comfort. There was no pillow, no blanket; he had only loneliness to wrap himself in. It was Max's first night without his mother and he was desperately heartsick. After his rough introduction to the War Chest, he didn't fear what the other boys thought and shamelessly cried himself to sleep.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

CHAPTER TWO

The Book of Living Loss and Dead Triumph

As the years passed, the darkness of the Veil had further crept into the borders of the Golden Empire. Yet the grave consequences of the lingering shadow of doom was ignored by most. They were too busy indulging themselves in mindless activities or petty skirmishes. This was especially the case of the wide-eyed fight fanatics that filled the Skul'haven Pits. Their only focus was on the chance to win gold and the guarantee to see blood. They mindlessly cheered for mayhem and maniacally shook the caged fences of the arena. Their echoing chants for carnage could be heard through the thick walls of the coliseum, straight into the vast backstage area where the gladiators waited for their upcoming matches. It was there that the young warrior Maxtix, spent his seventeenth birthday preparing for his first fight in the arena.

Maxtix had been forged by the fires of the War Chest into a fighter that was as hard as steel. He was dressed in the purple pants of an experienced griff grappler; his body was also adorned with various scars and bruises, which he wore like badges of honor. His once fluffy hair was now braided to his head in tight cornrows, which revealed ears that had been twisted from years of combat.

His trainer, Professor Darrogg, utilized this time backstage, to run Maxtix through a series of pre-fight drills. The griff used each of his four arms to hold wooden shields, which the young warrior swiftly struck with duel sparring swords. Darrogg kept moving in circles and called out combinations, "One, two, one, four! Two, three, two!"

Beads of sweat dripped off of Max's brown skin as he delivered the combinations with great proficiency. While Max warmed up, he occasionally peered over his shoulder at his opponent on the opposite side of the room. His foe was a large barbarian named Ulrich, who was nearly seven feet tall and had muscles the size of mountains. The brute was lightly dressed in only a belt and loincloth, and showed many signs of wear from combat. At one point a blade had severed the barbarian's jaw from his face. Fortunately, somewhere along the line, he had made a deal with an alchemist who gave him a shiny new metal mandible. The same could be said for his left arm and glowing red right eye.

Fighting a man who was part machine did not intimidate Maxtix; he just thought it meant the barbarian was too slow to dodge a sword in the first place. Other than appearance, Maxtix didn't know much about his opponent, although he could tell that Ulrich was overconfident, because he wasn't even warming up. He just sat quietly on the cold, concrete floor drinking mead.

This annoyed the young fighter. His many amateur victories at the War Chest and rebellious teenage spirit fueled his fire. He cursed the barbarian under his breath, "Why do you just sit there drinking? Why don't you say something? Cat's got your tongue... and your jaw?

Darrogg continued to call out combinations as Maxtix obsessed over his opponent, "I bet he's as slow as he is ugly. Do you think the reason he doesn't get up is because his butt has rusted shut?"

The griff circled around Maxtix, "You better hope. One, two, three! One, three, one!"

Maxtix's blades pounded out the combination on Darrogg's shields with experienced precision programmed by repetition. "You haven't heard anything else from the other trainers about this guy?"

Darrogg then lunged his shields at Maxtix, which forced the teen to dodge the blows. The griff simultaneously answered, "Like I said before, all I know is that he comes from the deserts of Cynneria and is apparently a beast on the battlefield. My guess is that he was sold into fighting, because of his debt on all that hardware. Although, Master Xuva feels the barbarian has the potential to bring in a lot of gold."

"Bring in gold?" Maxtix laughed, "How? By having so much sand up his skirt that he starts pooping pearls? Look at him just relaxing before this match! I'll teach him to underestimate me."

Professor Backcracker threw a surprise kick along with the shield thrusts, which Max was able to quickly deflect. The griff snarled with a great fierceness, "I think you know how Master Xuva plans on making his gold! Now shut up, boy! Have you ever thought that the barbarian is trying to play head games with you? Focus!"

"Focus you want. Focus you'll get." Maxtix said with a blaze in his eyes.

The young gladiator envisioned the upcoming match, as Darrogg called out the next sets of combinations. Max swung his swords faster and faster, until the combat trainer couldn't keep up. With a quick blow, one of the shields was dislodged from the griff's bottom right arm and clashed loudly onto the stone floor.

The loose shield then finally brought the attention that Maxtix wanted. Ulrich shouted across the arena in a foreign tongue, which only his trainer seemed to understand. Maxtix turned and faced the barbarian, "What's that Ulrich? I can't understand you. I don't speak camel kisser."

Some of the other fighters who were also waiting for their fights laughed, which enraged the barbarian. Ulrich grabbed his trainer violently and shouted the same foreign phrase. His trainer, which was a thin, sleazy man, translated to Maxtix with a thick accent, "He says that you are better suited to fight dogs and if you hold a shield like your griff, then this should be a quick fight."

Max began to walk over towards Ulrich and his trainer, "Well, you tell that overgrown sand ape, that he won't even be able to hold a shield, after I cut off his arms!"

Ulrich swelled up, ready to fight, Darrogg shouted over to the barbarian's trainer, "Tell him to save it for the arena. If they scrap before their match, Master Xuva will have both of their heads!"

Darrogg then jumped in front of Maxtix and escorted him back to his preparation area. Ulrich released a shout of rage and threw his bottle of mead against the stone wall, sending a shower of glass and backwash onto the floor.

"You are drawing too much attention to yourself, boy!" Darrogg said disapprovingly.

Max smiled, "With what, my mouth or my speed?"

The trainer picked up his lost shield, "Both."

Maxtix continued to lock eyes with the barbarian, "Oh come on, Master Darrogg. Only fools would bet against me. Those that have seen me train at the War Chest, already know that I am much faster than the other fighters."

The griff reached up with his top set of arms and grabbed the young warrior by his cauliflower ears, "Now you listen to me. Don't you realize your value will be diminished as soon as these so called fools catch on and stop betting against you? You need to slow down. I know that you have it in you to move much faster, but don't. For most people this is a fight, but for you it is a show. Remember that."

Maxtix half paid attention and rubbed out a drawing in the dust with his foot, "You know, if I wanted to, I could wait for you to blink and by time you opened your eyes again, I would be gone. The only thing that keeps me around here is your cooking."

Darrogg laughed at his student's joke, with a smile full of cracked teeth, "Nah boy, you couldn't handle real griff cooking. A punch to the face you can take, but a mouth full of griff spices would send you away crying. So it certainly isn't my cooking that keeps you here. I know the truth. I know that you'd never leave your mum behind, but I don't think that's what keeps you here either--"

Max interrupted, "Then what is it?"

Darrogg sat next to him, "It's the love of combat. I believe that you shall live by the sword and die by the sword. It is the reason of your existence and you will never leave it."

The teen shook his head, "You are wrong, Professor Darrogg. I am meant for much more than this."

The griff laughed, "Ha! That just shows your age. You are meant to fight for gold that will be spent by other men, nothing more, and nothing less. If you stay alive long enough, maybe one day you'll end up a trainer like me."

Maxtix shivered at the thought, then took out a whetstone and began to sharpen one of the blades that he planned to use in the arena, "No offense, Professor Darrogg, but if I ever train someone, it won't be a young slave from the War Chest. One day, I am going to take my mother and we're gonna leave Skul'haven forever."

The troubled griff tugged on his beard and then sat on the floor next to Maxtix, "Aye son, I wish you and your mum could leave and never come back, but Master Xuva would not have it. He would most definitely kill your mum, before he'd ever let you leave."

Max knew that there was much truth to his trainer's statement. Barnabas held him hostage, by using his mother as a bargaining chip. The teen just grimaced and continued to sharpen his blade to razor sharp perfection, "Why wouldn't he let her be here tonight? Why couldn't I have seen her earlier? You know it is my birthday. Nowadays, it is the only time that we are allowed to spend together. I will not wait another year to do so."

The trainer crossed his arms defensively, "Of course I know it is your birthday. You don't think your first professional fight happening on your seventeenth birthday is a coincidence do you? Master Xuva wanted to make gold off of you as fast he could legally enter you into a death match. He has a lot of coins riding on you, he didn't want any distractions."

Maxtix raised his eyebrows angrily, "Distractions? Barnabas has used my mother as fight nurse for over ten years. She would be a help down here, not a distraction."

The griff put his hand solemnly on Max's shoulder, "Yes, but Master Xuva doesn't want her around you. At least, not until your fight is over. He thinks that she makes you weak. We want you to carry your weapons into the arena, not these feelings about your mother. You must win this fight. Our bets are on you."

Max quietly continued to sharpen his blade, choosing not to respond to Professor Backcracker's explanation. Then Darrogg pulled a small leather pouch from his bag of equipment, "Master Xuva wouldn't allow this, but what he doesn't know, won't hurt me."

Max's cauliflower ears perked to attention, "What are you talking about?"

Darrogg scratched the bare scalp beneath his Mohawk and then gave the small pouch to his student, "It's an old griff tradition to give a gift to a friend that may die in combat on his birthday. I would have no honor, if I didn't give you this."

"What is it?" Max smiled.

"Open it you fool," the griff said with hidden excitement.

Max untied the leather cord that bound the top of the pouch. He looked inside and found five golden coins. As a fight slave, Max had never owned even one coin before. Now he had five! It was the most incredible gift that he had ever received. He cleared his head from shock and smiled at his trainer, "Thank you! Thank you so much, Professor Darrogg!"

The trainer quickly went back to his business demeanor, "Now put that away, before anyone else sees. Your match is drawing close. It is time to suit up."

Maxtix squeezed the bag of gold tightly in his hand, knowing full well that he was going to re-gift the coins to his mother. He then looked up, hoping that he didn't draw unwanted attention and caught the glare of his red-eyed opponent. Instead of glaring back, he studied the barbarian's fleshy stumps that were married to cold, mechanical forms. Suddenly, instead of hating Ulrich, he felt sorry for him. Worse of all, he felt that he was looking at himself one day. He imagined no longer having hands or feet of his own and shuttered at the thought of being trapped in a shell of his own device.

Max shook the idea from his head and followed through with equipping himself for battle. He threw on a purple rash guard, which matched his pants. He then put on a bronze sleeve of armor, which covered the length of his right arm and placed an armored belt across his abdomen. Darrogg handed him a chest plate, "What are you doing? You'll want this instead of the belt."

Maxtix shook his head, "I don't want to be weighed down. My speed will be my armor."

Darrogg rolled his eyes and set down the chest plate; he knew that there was no sense arguing with the head strong youth. Just then, the service doors burst open and the winner of the last match entered the preparation quarters. It was the hair-lipped fighter from the War Chest. He was being carried by Ebarro, who although was also fighting later in the night, had been appointed the corner man for his colleague. The winning fighter coughed blood from a coagulated smile. He may have killed his opponent, but before dying, the loser of the match had shoved his blade deep under the hair-lipped warrior's arm pit.

Professor Darrogg joined Ebarro and hoisted the blood soaked winner to a metal table. A haughty group of men in fine robes approached the fallen warrior and used their authority to shoo the trainers away. They began to chant and drifted censers of incense over the injured fighter, as crimson pools began to collect under the table.

Max ran over to the monks and cried, "What are you doing? You have to stop the bleeding!"

"By the gods, Maxtix, will you ever fall in line?" Ebarro said, while feeling superior in his brown rash guard, "This is just the way."

"It's the wrong way!" Maxtix turned with a snarl.

The monks did not listen to the teenager and continued their incantations. Max watched the blood and the life run out of the hair-lipped fighter, until there was nothing left but a cold, dead winner. Max grabbed one of the monks by the back of the robe and slammed him against a wall. "You let him die! You have no right treating fighters!"

Darrogg pulled Maxtix off of the frightened monk, "Get a hold of yourself, boy! It is your time to fight."

Maxtix pushed off his trainer's hands, "Where is my mother at? She's the only real medic around here."

Ebarro's scarred face snickered, "She's just a hand nurse."

"She could have saved him!" Max spat.

Professor Backcracker pointed a scolding finger, "Forget about him. He is dead. There is nothing that can be done now!"

Maxtix growled, "By keeping my mother away, Master Xuva allowed one of your fighters to die!"

Darrogg quickly handed Max two swords, "Clear your mind before you end up equally dead."

Maxtix pointed his blades at the monks, "You better hope I die out there, because this isn't over."

Darrogg Backcracker escorted his enraged student to the east entrance of the arena. Ulrich was taken by his trainer to the west. As Maxtix approached his gate, he could hear the chanting of the crowd, "Blood! Blood! Blood!"

He looked to Darrogg, "I promise not to disappoint their request. Although, the blood may belong to Barnabas."

"Oh, I almost forgot!" The short corner man exclaimed as he quickly pulled out a small vile from his pocket. "You must drink this Solution of Sound. Master Xuva wants to be sure that the crowd can hear you and Ulrich insult one another."

Maxtix glowered, "Lies, we drink it because it makes it easier for the crowd to hear our final screams."

The Professor shook his head and handed Max the vile, "Well then just do me a favor. Please spare an old griff much trouble, by being mindful not to speak ill of your fight promoter while your voice is enchanted."

Max smirked, "I am sorry Professor Darrogg, but if tonight I speak my last words, you'll all hear me curse both Ulrich and Barnabas!" He then chugged the potion and let out an earthshaking battle cry.

The teen fighter looked outside into the arena, from the dark shadows of his entryway and gained a sudden appreciation for the orange sherbet hues of the eternal sunset, which shined through the roofless top of the Skul'haven Pits. He then lowered his gaze to the stands, which were filled with a multitude of fans that blended together like the brush strokes of an Impressionist painting. Their screams and shouts were less serene. The senseless bellowing crashed to the arena floor with the roar of a deafening waterfall. He wondered if his enchanted voice would carry over their chaotic cacophony.

Max then put the crowd out of his mind and observed every angle of the battleground before him. The fight field was surrounded by a giant wall and cage that allowed no man to exit once the combat began. The young fighter was fine with this aspect, the cage was a place that he could freely unleash his inner beast. He growled and looked across the blood soaked sand of the arena at Ulrich's gate, where he could faintly see the glowing red eye of his opponent. Maxtix then gritted his teeth with eager anticipation to extinguish this glow. He yelled out again and banged his swords against his gate like a war drum, "Let's do this!"

Just then, the gates raised open, seeming to almost obey Max's command. The two gladiators raced from their entrances as the gates closed behind them. Maxtix covered more than twice the distance as Ulrich, before the two collided in a blur of battle.

Darrogg yelled through the gates, "I said not to move so fast!"

Maxtix had no intention on slowing down, he wanted to quickly make Ulrich eat his words; so he immediately cut the straps on the barbarian's shield, which sent it sailing across the arena. The smiling young warrior relished the opportunity to taunt his opponent, "What were you saying about holding on to a shield? I think you should give up fighting all together. Maybe you'd be better suited to throw the discus."

The crowd heard every word and laughed at the young warrior's hijinks. This infuriated Ulrich; he cussed in a foreign language and swung an oversized sword that was mounted to his mechanical arm, but could not hit his nimble opponent. Maxtix laughed and continued to taunt the barbarian, but this time he used his swords instead of his words. Max slashed the warrior across the calf, thigh and bicep. He then swiftly sidestepped Ulrich's advances, placing himself behind the barbarian. Max then promptly used the flat of his sword to insultingly smack Ulrich in the back of the head. The reverberation of Max's sword sounded like a low humming bell. The teen laughed, "Yup, just as I thought, his head is completely hollow."

Ulrich belched another foreign curse and then slipped into a berserker rage. The brute turned around and again chopped furiously at Maxtix, but the young gladiator rhythmically dodged, ducked and evaded the blows without effort. After Ulrich missed over twenty consecutive swings, Maxtix taunted the bewildered and out of breath barbarian, with a short dance of the shoulders and hips.

Most of the crowd began to scream with frustration, because they had bet against Maxtix, due to his youth and were beginning to realize that their gold was as good as gone. Back in the teen's corner, Professor Darrogg could read the audience's growing resentment. The trainer banged his four hands on the gate and yelled again to his student, "Slow it down! Pace yourself!" The griff griped under his breath, "Keep moving that fast and you'll spook the gamblers."

As the griff focused on the fight, a voice rang from the shadows, "Would you rather he put on a compelling show and get killed in the process?"

"Who..." Darrogg turned in annoyance, "Ah, of course, Clea. I should have guessed you'd turn up."

"Tis my right to see my son on his birthday. That is the arrangement, is it not?" Clea said as she clenched the arena gate worried for her son in battle, "Although I pray to the Crimson Saint that I am not too late."

"He'll be the victor and then you shall see him, but until then, do not distract him," Professor Backcracker commanded.

She didn't move, so Darrogg tried to reason with her, "Listen, there will be plenty of time to see your son after the fight. Go to the War Chest and meet us there when we return. I promise you--"

The saddened mother didn't believe the griff and turned away before he could finish, but Darrogg grabbed her arm gently to capture her attention, "Clea, I care for the boy too. He wants to see you and I will personally make sure that it happens. Now I need to focus on this fight. We will see you at the War Chest, but don't let Master Xuva catch you here or he won't allow it to happen."

Clea bowed with appreciation, but expected the worst, "Thank you, Professor Darrogg... yet, what if he requires medical attention?"

The trainer waved her away and turned back to the fight, "We have the monks here. They'll handle it."

A tear rolled down her cheek, "The monks?"

Darrogg began to lose his patience, "Yes! The monks! Now go!"

"Yes, my Lord," the nurse nervously bowed again. She was terrified that the griff would renege on his promise. She took one last look with tearful eyes at her son and then left the arena.

Back in the fight field, Maxtix never noticed his mother's arrival nor departure. He was too riveted on dismantling Ulrich. Max systematically slowed the barbarian by stabbing one of his feet. He then popped up and purposely missed a close, upward blow, to lure Ulrich into a trap. The berserker bit the bait and tried to capitalize on Max's 'mistake' by furiously stabbing at the young warrior. It was all a part of Max's game plan. He quickly crouched under the thrusting attack and as soon as the sword stretched over his head, the young warrior extended his legs and sprung backwards into the air. He did a full backflip and on his way up, he kicked Ulrich in his metallic jaw, forcing the barbarian's head to snap back violently. Max then landed like a cat, with a cool smile on his face.

By this point, no one could doubt Maxtix's fine technical skills. Professor Darrogg excitedly pressed his face through the grates of the gate and coached with great passion, "There you go Maxtix! Keep it up till the metal moron is gasping for his last breath!"

The barbarian felt humiliated by being bested by a fighter that he considered a child. When Maxtix charged forward, Ulrich's red eye locked on to the teen. The brute grinned a metallic smile of ensuing satisfaction, as he pointed his arm-mounted blade directly at his target. When Maxtix was about a yard away, Ulrich let out a shout and pulled a pin from his forearm, which fired the massive sword from his arm like a bolt from a crossbow.

Not many fights to the death are fought fair, but this attack from Ulrich was so illegal and unexpected that it caught Maxtix completely by surprise. Dodging a shot from point blank range didn't leave much room for time or error. The rocketing blade was getting closer and closer to the young warrior's head. The shock of impending death filled Max's veins with adrenaline like tightly packed dynamite, which caused him to explode into speeds unfamiliar to Terrynmen. In a silent blur, Maxtix rapidly dipped backwards to dodge the propelled sword, which narrowly cruised over his right shoulder. The sharp edge grazed his armored sleeve and created a shower of sparks. To most of the crowd it must have appeared as an unnoticeable flash, but to Maxtix the sparks slowly strolled through the air like fireflies. The momentum from the teen's initial charge still carried him forward as he leaned backwards. He used this motion to his advantage, by dropping to the ground and sliding on his back, feet first, towards Ulrich. Then, when the barbarian was in range, he lifted up his leg with lightning fast force and kicked Ulrich square in the groin.

Max then slipped out of hyper speed and back into the natural world. At that moment, sound returned to his ears, informing him that the Ulrich's blade had punctured the opposite side of the arena with an echoing thud. He then heard the crowd explode into a cheer of amazement; even Maxtix was astounded by how close he had come to being skewered. The barbarian on the other hand had yet to recover from the kick to the groin and let out a groan of nauseated agony. The young warrior chuckled somewhat immaturely, "We'll it looks like those weren't made out of metal, were they tin man?"

The crowd roared with laughter and excitement, but the trained ear could hear Professor Backcracker going crazy behind the gate; he was still fixated on Ulrich's illegal attack. The griff angrily yelled, "There're no projectiles allowed in a death match! If that's how they want to play, the next time we're gonna bring a cannon!"

Ulrich had dropped to one knee and gagged in pain. Maxtix circled his downed opponent, "I admit that kicking you in the oysters was a dirty move, but you did shoot your sword at me. What were you thinking? You wagered your only weapon for the chance of catching me off guard. Bad bets like that will cost you an arm and a leg. Although, you know a lot about that, don't ya, Lefty?"

The broken barbarian stumbled to get up to attack Maxtix, with a bare hand and empty stump. He pathetically reached for the young warrior, but could not keep up with the teen's speed. At this point Maxtix had begun to feel sorry for the pathetic, defenseless fighter in front of him. He then looked through the cage at the sea of shouting fans, towards an area reserved for high rollers and high officials. There he picked out the face of the observing Master Xuva. He locked eyes with the fight promoter and smiled. Barnabas smiled back expecting his prized possession to decapitate the barbarian.

The young fighter then stunned everyone when he dropped both of his swords and shouted to the packed crowd, "Your barbarian is quite literally unarmed. Don't let it be said, that Maxtix doesn't believe in a fair fight."

Barnabas stood up and spit out his fine ale, "What?" Although no one could hear the fight promoter's surprise over their own gasps. After their initial shock, the crowd cheered with a confused enthusiasm.

Back at the gate, Professor Backcracker was yelling until he was red in the face, "What are you doing? Pick up your swords!"

The young warrior ignored Darrogg's coaching. He blocked out the crowd; he forgot about Barnabas. To Maxtix, at that moment, it was just about him and Ulrich. The teen got into his fight stance by raising his arms with the grace of a praying mantis. The barbarian charged like an angry bull. Max jumped into the air, mounted his left hand on Ulrich's left shoulder and swung around the barbarian, like a gymnast on a pummel horse.

Maxtix again had Ulrich's back. This time, he wrapped his legs around his opponent for good traction and then quickly attacked with a rear naked choke. Max placed his arm deep under the barbarian's cold, metal jaw and squeezed his bicep under the brute's throat. Ulrich tried to pull off the teen's arm, but with only one hand it wasn't much use. The young grappler could hear the brute struggle to breathe, as the choke pressed Ulrich's tongue against his throat, blocking all air intake. Yet it wasn't going to be lack of air that was going to finish the gladiator, it was lack of blood to the brain.

Max spoke in decisive finality to the tiring barbarian, "I can tell by the lack of cauliflower on your ears that you have no idea what is happening. It is called the Griff Grappling System. It's designed so a smaller fighter like me, can out wrestle a big waste bag like you."

Ulrich thrashed around like an alligator in a death roll. Eventually he slammed backwards on the ground, in an attempt to use the impact to throw off Maxtix, but that is exactly where the young grappler wanted him. Maxtix gritted his teeth as he squeezed as hard as he could, "You see, no matter how big you are, on the ground we are the same size. You've fell into my trap. The ground is my ocean and I am the shark. Remember that as you drown in my choke."

The barbarian continued to struggle, but in a few seconds his brain began to completely shut down. Ulrich's limbs laid limp and all consciousness drifted away. Max smiled, "Good night, princess."

The fight was finally over. Max let go of the sleeping giant and stood up victorious. The crowd cheered for the young hero and Maxtix basked in the glory of his victory. He was proud that he beat the barbarian, without having to kill him. For a few brief seconds, the gladiator-slave disregarded the path that was forced upon him by Master Xuva and celebrated the win as his own. Yet, much to Max's chagrin, the audience ripped him from his moment of greatness with their blood thirsty chants, "Finish him! Finish him!"

Maxtix tried to turn away from their request, but then faced the other side of the Pit's audience, which carried on the chant, "Finish him! Finish him!"

The teen fighter looked to Darrogg, but the trainer offered no retreat. He then looked at his disabled opponent that still laid helplessly in the sand. Most importantly, he looked to himself and wondered if he could be strong enough to do the right thing.

Just then a spotlight shined into the crowd where Barnabas sat. As the event promoter, Barnabas had the authority to address the fighters after their matches. He swallowed a Solution of Sound and shot his sarcasm at the young warrior, "Bravo, bravo, Maxtix. You have choked a man unconscious... in a death match."

Maxtix made no effort to pick up his swords. He just defended his position with his teenage stubbornness, "The rules state that I can win the match by simply incapacitating my opponent. He lays motionless, the win is mine."

Barnabas' spiteful grin extended from ear to ear, "Yes, I understand the rules are in your favor; that is one way to win. Yet, I ask you and everyone here in the Pits, where's the fun in that?"

The smarmy fight promoter whipped the crowd into a drooling frenzy. They were like dogs awaiting table scraps. Barnabas then sat back down and dismissed Maxtix with pompous delight, "Be a good boy and behead the barbarian."

All the arena laughed and cheered, but Maxtix stood his ground, "No. If you want his head, then take it yourself."

Behind the scenes, Darrogg shielded his face with his four hands, "Oh, it's all over now."

Barnabas leaned forward with great interest in this challenge, but responded with only a threat, "Perhaps I might and then I'll take yours as well."

Maxtix pointed at Barnabas brazenly, "I have seen enough death back stage! A good man died back there just minutes ago. He could have survived, but you kept the proper medical treatment away from him! You have enough blood on your hands. I will spill no more for you."

"It is not what you or I want, boy," Barnabas said with a cool composure. "It is what the fans want and they crave more blood!"

The crowd began to crassly chant without control, "Blood! Blood! Blood!"

Maxtix looked down as if he was about to waiver on his stance. He walked over to Ulrich and then gazed at the pathetic heap of muscle and metal. The barbarian was beginning to come to. Max waited for Ulrich to plant his hand to the ground in an attempt to get up. He then swept the posted hand away with his foot and caused the barbarian to crash his head back into unconsciousness. The frustrated teen thought to himself, ' _Stay down you fool, I am trying to save your life.'_

Max then placed his foot on the barbarian, in a triumphant stature and addressed the audience, "I offer you all something better than blood!"

Barnabas chuckled amongst his cohorts, "Really? What would that be?"

Maxtix pandered to the crowd, "If you allow this man to live, I offer you a mystery."

"A mystery?" Barnabas asked with more intrigue than cynicism, "How so?"

"I should know the mystery this man offers better than anyone!" Maxtix continued, "Were you not surprised by the sword that he shot from his hand? Did it not entertain you to see his flying blade almost split me in half?"

The crowd began to whisper amongst themselves in a murmur of self-questioning. Maxtix then built upon his hypothesis, "What more surprises does this man have to offer? What else can he fire from his stump? Knives? Arrows?"

The crowd cheered and the young warrior continued to excite them, "Would you pay to find out if Ulrich can fire laser beams from his eye?"

They yelled unanimously in approval and Maxtix surfed their wave of enthusiasm, "Would you pay to witness this 'man of mystery' shoot spears from his nose?"

"Yes!" the audience proclaimed with ecstatic smiles.

All eyes were on Maxtix as he reeled them in with one final jest. He looked at Ulrich and loudly asked the unconscious fighter, "What other mysteries do you offer, barbarian?"

Max then grabbed Ulrich by his long greasy hair and lifted his head off the ground. He then crouched down and grabbed the barbarian's iron mandible. In a lackluster attempt at ventriloquism, Max moved Ulrich's jaw like a puppeteer and spoke in a silly voice for his downed opponent, "Would you pay to see me shoot poisonous gas out of my butt?"

The once bloodthirsty audience, laughed at the comedic performance and celebrated in agreement, "Yes!"

Max then turned to the crowd and somberly spoke in all seriousness, "Then I beg of you, let him live."

The chant started off small from the back of the arena; it then made its way forward, row by row, growing larger like a snowball rolling down a hill. Finally, by time the chant echoed off the arena cage, it seemed as if everyone in Skul'haven was chanting, "Let him live! Let him live!"

A smile covered Maxtix's face. He set the barbarian's head back in the dust, pumped his fists in the air and chanted with the crowd, "Let him live! Let him live!"

Max then looked to Barnabas who was hiding his irritation with a grin. The fight promoter saw that the crowd was happy and who was he to ruin the coin dropping state of their elation. He nodded to Maxtix for dismissal. The teen warrior proudly walked away, knowing he had won twice during the same match.

The crowd continued the chant as Ulrich's trainer came to attend to him. Max gathered his swords and exited through the gate. The teen patted Darrogg on his tattooed scalp, knowing the trainer would not approve of a hug. The griff threw his four hands in the air in disbelief, "What in the Veil was that?"

The teen placed his swords in their sheaths and drank a Solution of Silence, which canceled out the augmentation of his voice. He then turned to his trainer and answered, "More than anything, I knew that swaying the crowd against Barnabas would prove more satisfying and challenging than killing an unarmed man. Perhaps it was vengeance through mercy."

Darrogg pulled at his beard, "Whatever it was, I know I am going to hear about this from Master Xuva."

"My apologies, Professor Darrogg," the teen said with all sincerity.

"Bah," the trainer fingered his mustache, "You won your fight and brought gold to Barnabas' fat pockets. That's all that really matters."

Maxtix smiled, but it wasn't returned. Instead Professor Darrogg looked to his student with solemn eyes, "I'm not worried about today; I am worried about your future. You've grown up in a cold and hateful world, but somehow you've managed to keep your heart warm with kindness. Your heart is a light in this dark land. I just hope that others find it as a beacon and not as something they'll wish to extinguish."

Just then a shadow entered the hallway by the gate. It overheard and interrupted the conversation. It was Ebarro. He had a snide expression on his face, "Come Professor Backcracker, there are three matches until I do battle. Let us prepare, I plan on defending my title... More importantly, I plan on winning with a kill!"

Maxtix shook his head at Ebarro's compulsion for murder, but Darrogg knew this was just the way of the so called sport. Darrogg headed away from the gate, "May victory fall upon you, Ebarro. Master Xuva has bet a lot of gold that you'll retain your title."

Ebarro flexed and beat his chest with testosterone fueled pride, "That is a bet well placed!"

The griff didn't want to torment Maxtix with further interactions with the Skul'haven Champion, so he turned to the teen and kindly said, "I have to help Ebarro warm up. I won't be requiring your assistance. Head back to the preparation area and do a post-fight check on your gear."

Max just nodded and walked down the hall, "I am too busy to help Ebarro anyways. I have some business to settle with a few monks."

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

### CHAPTER THREE

The Book of Bloodbeard

Oh, Chosen Witness, may your third eye gaze far into the western horizon, five thousand miles from the deceit of Skul'haven, across oceans and continents, to the honorable griff kingdom of Brizzlebane! Behold! Their capital city, known as the Armored Isles stands at the crux of destiny, as the fate of Terrynmen continues to unfold. Oh, Great Prophet, listen closely as the soft percussion of peace progresses to the drumbeat of battle.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

The Armored Isles appeared as a tropical archipelago in the midst of deep turquoise waters. Yet this was just an illusion of the landscape. In actuality, the Isles were a network of heavily vegetated hills, which were surrounded by blue dunes of sand that rolled into the horizon like rippling waves. The aquatic likeness of the mysterious sapphire desert was further enhanced by the sails of modified ships, which caught the Trade Winds and cruised on giant skis across the azure sea of sand.

The sun was fixed in an eternal midday position, which bleached the many stone structures that were nested in the island-like hills. Even the roads were colorless and wrapped around the lush green peaks like albino serpents. The Isles were interconnected by a web of white drawbridges that extended into tall limestone walls, which guarded each hill from outside threats.

Recently, the Armored Isles had been set ablaze with rumors of war, which spread through the streets like raging wildfires. Thousands of four-armed, battle-readied soldiers stood on high alert to defend their homeland. Safeguarding Brizzlebane was the shared responsibility of all griffs. Every man, woman and child sharpened their blades with great zeal, as the forges of blacksmiths burned bright in preparation for battle.

No one was more ready for combat than the perimeter guard, which stood on high alert at checkpoints along the borders of Brizzlebane. They looked down from their white, craggy watchtowers that sprung forth like lighthouses shining into the fog of war. At the top of the most eastern frontier post, a young guard put down his scope and quickly descended a spiraling series of stone stairs to see his commanding officer.

The young sentry breathlessly entered the situation room of the Eastern Guard and saw his Captain standing over a table cluttered with maps that outlined various defensive strategies. The Captain's brow was wrinkled in the depths of concentration. The officer was dressed in the same uniform as the rest of his subordinates, which was a chainmail coif and tunic, along with a deep red shirt, which proudly displayed the Bloodbeard Coat of Arms. The young guard stopped in a trained halt, saluted the officer and then shouted his distress, "Sir, a galleon approaches."

The Captain looked up at the guard with an eyebrow cocked, "There are plenty of ships on the sands. Could you be more specific, Private?"

"Yes, sir! This galleon travels across the skies!" The young guard stated with urgency.

The Captain twisted the tip of his dark brown mustache, "Through the skies you say? Show me where."

"Right this way, sir. The ship is heading towards the Isles quite rapidly. Let's hope it is an ally." The young griff stated.

The Captain grinned, "Ally or enemy, we are prepared either way; although an enemy would be much more fun to engage."

The two griffs marched up the stairs, with apprehensive alarm. When they arrived at the peak of the watchtower the posted guards greeted the Captain with a quick salute. The regiment leader then proceeded to the most viable viewpoint of the tower and squinted his weathered eyes at a growing speck in the sky. He reached an open hand out to one of the watchmen, who was tracking the incoming object, "Corporal, your scope."

"Yes, sir." The guard obliged and quickly handed over his eyepiece.

The Captain twisted the scope until the approaching ship came into focus. The lens easily made it possible to look upon a mighty galleon, which seemed to ride the mystical winds of an unseen tornado. The ship was made of a dark wood and had massive black sails that branched from the top, bottom and sides of its hull. The Captain put the scope down and turned to the young guard, "With all of those sails, the ship looks like some sort of stupid fish."

"What, sir?" The Private asked nervously.

The senior officer shook his head, "Never mind. The craft that we've been waiting for approaches. Spread the word that the Ebon Tempest has arrived."

"Yes, sir!" The guard said and then quickly left to follow through with the command.

The Captain folded the fingers of his top set of hands, "I wonder what news they bring from the Golden Empire."

Another guard standing nearby, under an archway, which led to a dim room signaled for the Captain, "Sir, we are being hailed."

"About time." The Captain responded.

He entered a shadowy room with mystic runes written on the walls and walked towards a crystal that sat upon a two-foot tall pedestal. The crystal hummed and glowed with a prismatic light. The Captain waved his hand before the pedestal and spoke the magic word, " _Kommuchata_."

Within seconds the glowing light of the crystal condensed to the center of the prism and then generated an image of a man at the helm of a ship. He wore an armored mask that hid his features, but this wasn't unusual in times of impending battle. The stranger nodded in salutations and greeted his onlookers, "Hello my brothers. This is Cadmus Seveneye of the Ebon Tempest. I have a scheduled audience with your liege, King Rangnorg Bloodbeard. He is expecting my presence."

The Captain of the Guard lifted his top-right hand to prepare his men for possible conflict. He then questioned the approaching ship according to procedure, "If you are Seveneye, then you'll know the password and landing coordinates that were provided by the King's personal agents."

Cadmus held up a charter for passage, which bore the royal seal of King Bloodbeard himself, "I thought you'd never ask. The password is _Misthlekorn_ and the landing coordinates are Eastern Dock, 33.7 by 3.11."

The Captain calmed his fellow guards by lowering his hand in a signal of peace. "The required criteria is correct and accepted. My name is Logmar Ironmane. I am the Captain of the Eastern Guard. Welcome to the Armored Isles."

Within moments, several griff heli-birds loudly soared from their battle stations, to escort the Ebon Tempest to Castle Bloodbeard. The roaring rotors of flying contraptions echoed through the sea of the sand, as they flanked the silent, majestic galleon. The convoy cruised together towards the giant limestone castle, which could be seen for miles. It was by far the largest structure in Brizzlebane and appeared as a giant boney claw, reaching for the eternal midday sun.

The winds picked up in the eastern landing docks, as the Ebon Tempest slowly approached for mooring. The heli-bird escort broke off to return to their battle stations, as many more mechanical turrets and cannons targeted the galleon, just in case there was any hint of deceit. Dockhands hurried through the blowing debris and waved their flags to signal the appropriate anchoring pad. As the Ebon Tempest lowered, the sails on the sides and the bottom of the ship folded up into the top mast, like the collapsing of a hand fan. A small pillow of air escaped from the below the ship and gently set the craft in its final landing spot.

An armed welcoming party, of red-clad guards descended onto the dock. They surrounded the visiting ship and stood ready for any surprises. The griffs watched intensely, as a previously unseen panel, opened on the side of the Ebon Tempest. A figure masked in shadows kicked out a rug from the open port. As the rug unrolled, it formed thirteen steps from the edge of the ship, to the dock below. The griffs sighed in relief, as three individuals casually exited the craft, without any signs of hostility.

The strange guests were much taller, than the stout, four-armed griffs. They were shrouded by dark blue, hooded cloaks and fine chainmail, which was further reinforced by plated armor that was fashioned with ornate, metallic buckles. Two of the strangers were men, with various scars on their faces, most likely from past battles. The other was a young woman, with the bulk of her magenta hair hidden by her hood. Her face was unscathed and had an alluring countenance that almost seemed supernatural. She was so beautiful, it caused many of the guards to look away nervously.

Once the three strangers made it to the dock, Cadmus Seveneye finally emerged from the ship. He briskly walked down the steps to join his crew. He then snapped his fingers and instantly, the rug stairway disappeared and the door to the Ebon Tempest closed as if it was never there.

Cadmus' face was still covered by the silver mask, which was seen earlier in the communication crystal. He wore a hooded cloak like the rest of his associates, but his armor held a mysterious uniqueness. The griffs who were metalworkers, as much as they were soldiers, looked at Cadmus' peculiar armor with admiration and hidden jealousy.

Suddenly, a larger heli-bird rumbled in from the east and loudly landed in a reserved anchoring pad. The blades of the chopper continued to spin, as the Captain of the Eastern Guard exited the airship. He quickly made his way through all of the other sentries that had arrived before him, and spoke with a shout, "Mr. Seveneye!"

As the engines of his heli-bird decelerated, the Captain quickly changed the loudness of his voice to a more polite tone and reintroduced himself, "I am Captain Ironmane; we spoke earlier. It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, in person."

Cadmus bowed his head, "Thank you, Captain. We appreciate your assistance in our arrival."

Ironmane nodded, "It is my pleasure and duty. Although, I must say, we weren't expecting you here until tomorrow."

Cadmus replied with an unexpected grimness, "We were afraid that tomorrow may not come for Brizzlebane. It is of the utmost importance that we see King Bloodbeard, right away."

Cadmus eagerly started towards the castle entrance, but the Captain of the Guard stopped him, "Sir, I am sorry, but before you proceed, you must remove your mask. It is a security policy recently enacted to prevent acts of terrorism."

"I fully understand," Cadmus nodded politely. "Although, I would like the general populace to remain unaware and unafraid of my true appearance; so I ask that no illustrations are made of my likeness."

Captain Ironmane looked around at his guards, "Agreed."

Cadmus placed his finger on a small bronze clip on the side of his mask. Instantly, the cover dissolved away like a waning shadow. The guards tensely gripped their sheathed swords in fear and awe of the presence before them. Many had heard tales of the legendary Cadmus Seveneye, but to see him in person was quite intimidating, even for the courageous griffs. His face was more phantom than person. It was like blue projected light on eternal ether; his gentle expressions were made of wisps of smoke. Many guards could have sworn, that at certain angles, they could see the form of a skull behind the translucent, ectoplasm flesh.

As Seveneye came closer, the griffs took a better gander at his extraordinary armor. They were shocked to see that it wasn't armor at all; it was his body. Gears turned and pistons fired, underneath a seemingly weightless plate mail chassis. The guards stepped back superstitiously, as the mechanical man stepped forward. For all intents and purposes, Cadmus Seveneye was truly a ghost in a machine.

The specter could sense that he was being gawked at, so he turned to the Captain of the Guard with a sense of urgency, "May we proceed?"

"Aye, you may." Ironmane nodded with approval, "The King has been alerted of your arrival and welcomes your presence. He is waiting in his throne room as we speak. Please follow me."

As Seveneye and his crew followed the griff Captain down the dock, the blue ghost inquired, "I trust in the meantime that your guards will also watch after the Ebon Tempest."

"It will certainly be arranged," the Captain stated. "That is quite a beautiful ship that you have there."

The young woman that traveled with Seveneye, spoke for the first time with a proud smile, "It's the fastest ship under the sunlit sky."

Cadmus frowned and shook his head, "For all of its speed, I pray that we are not too late."

"Do you care to explain, what you are too late for? What news do you bring from the Golden Empire?" The Captain asked inquisitively.

Cadmus turned to the chaperoning guard, "I am sorry, but that I must share with your King before anyone else."

Captain Ironmane crossed his four arms and nodded, "Understood."

The guards and their guests traveled through the crooked white walkway into Castle Bloodbeard. The structure was very Spartan, and showed no resemblance to the regality of a palace. Although it did have all of the fine embellishments of an impenetrable stronghold. Massive limestone and coral bricks created thick ramparts that separated one area from the other. Each passageway was protected by iron gates, which were guarded by well-equipped defense forces. Additional watchmen were positioned every ten feet in strategically placed battle stations. As Seveneye's crew was led through the hallways, they noticed opened slots along the corridors, which were most likely manned by hidden archers or mages.

Seveneye turned to Captain Ironmane, to kindly show respect, "It has been a number of years since I last strolled down these halls. Every time I return to this wonderful domain, I am always impressed. Castle Bloodbeard truly is a monument to griff architecture and defense."

"Aye, that it is," Ironmane smiled.

After walking through the fortified maze, the griff chaperone and his guests finally arrived at their destination. They stood before an imposing iron gate that was magically locked by two gold hammers, which crossed at its center. Behind the gate, thick oak doors bearing the Bloodbeard Crest provided another layer of security.

Several elite guards, wearing ornate, golden plate male, stood in front of the sealed entryway. They wore no helmet, in an effort to limit anything from escaping their vision. Each of these distinctive watchmen had horribly scarred tissue that uniformly disfigured the flesh around their eyes. The young woman that traveled with Seveneye, looked at them with a curious concern.

Captain Ironmane noticed the beautiful maiden's discomfort and chuckled, "Something wrong, Milady?"

"No. No, it's just--" She began.

"Their eyes?" Ironmane finished her sentence.

The young woman did not want to offend the guards, but replied with truthful nervousness, "Yes, I suppose. What happened?"

Seveneye, a renaissance man, seemed to jump at the chance to share his knowledge of griff lore, "These fine individuals are members of the Golden Gauntlet. They are the private guards of King Bloodbeard. In dedication to their important role, the initiation into their order requires them to cut off their own eye lids."

"Whatever for?" The maiden gasped.

"So our watchful eyes will always be open to danger!" One of the golden-clad guards stated with zealous passion.

The hooded girl smiled, "So you speak?"

Another Gauntlet member laughed, "Of course we do. We lobbed off our eyelids, not our tongues. You're thinking of those tandin guards, who don't appreciate the taste of good goat roti!"

The initial zealous guard rolled his disfigured eyes at his outspoken comrade. The whole exchange caused Cadmus to chuckle. He had a fine appreciation for the warm humor that filled the hearts the griff people. Yet soon after, he quickly regained his focus on seeing the King and looked to Ironmane in an effort to hurry things along. The Captain then took control of the situation and spoke to the King's private guards, "This is Cadmus Seveneye and his crew. King Bloodbeard is expecting their arrival."

"We've been informed. You may pass." The Gauntlet member stated. He then placed his hand on a stone, which glowed upon contact. This seemed to trigger the magical hammer-locks to disconnect from one another. Next, there was the grinding sound of an advanced gear system, which separated the gates and pulled them into slots in the wall. The crew could hear the clicks and clacks of several other locks disengaging from the other side of the heavy oak doors. Finally, with a loud, weighted creak, the doors swung open revealing King Bloodbeard's throne room.

As the group entered the royal chamber, the doors quickly shut behind them and mystically locked on their own. The guests then breathlessly beheld the massive throne room, which truly radiated the greatness of the griff people. Epic reliefs of national heroes were carved into the tall, ivory walls. Beautiful red tapestries, embroidered with magical hieroglyphs were displayed proudly above. The ceiling rounded off into a dome and was artistically adorned with a mosaic of gray toned tiles, which depicted the eternal midday sun and the outside sky. Yet, most eye catching of all, were the two giant statues that stood in the back corners and were nearly as tall as the ceiling itself. The statues represented the twin Bloodbeard brothers who founded the Armored Isles long ago. Though inanimate, they still appeared as watchful guards over the Royal Family.

Directly across from the entrance was a series of steps that led down into a sunken reception area, which was dedicated to those that had an audience with the King. Just beyond that and on the same level as the entrance was long table that made a half circle around the lower reception area. Many advisors and mystics sat at this table and bickered over the finer ways of seeing the future. Above them was a large marble ledge that surrounded the throne room. This area was fortified by forty members of the Golden Gauntlet, who stood so motionless, they looked like decorative suits of armor.

Above the Golden Gauntlet, there was an incline that led to two thrones. The first throne belonged to Prince Agon Bloodbeard, who unlike his forefathers, had a blonde beard, which was neatly trimmed. The Prince looked down at the guests with an irritable expression on his face. The second throne was empty. It was a silent tribute to the King's wife, Queen Hellana Bloodbeard, who had died several years earlier.

The final series of ascending steps led up to the highest tier, where King Rangnorg Bloodbeard sat on a hard marble throne. To the right of his throne, was a communication crystal; to the left was a small, enchanted fountain, which was used for keeping time in this world with a stationary sun. The King's hair was gray, but had many rusty red streaks that remained as a relic of his younger years. Both the King and the Prince wore iron crowns with weighted runes of tungsten, which was a traditional griff reminder that 'heavy is the head that wears the crown'.

A royal crier loudly heralded the entry of the foreign guests, "It is my honor to announce the arrival of the dignitaries from the Golden Empire: Cadmus Seveneye and the crew of the Ebon Tempest!"

Captain Ironmane stayed by the doors, as Seveneye and his crew walked down the steps into the reception area. They all kneeled before the throne. King Bloodbeard smiled a grin void of teeth, which were lost in battles from long ago. The griff lord stood up laughing and clapped his four hands with excitement as he walked down the steps from his throne, "Cadmus Seveneye! You may rise, my friend!"

Cadmus stood as the rest of his crew continued to kneel. He was nearly three feet taller than the approaching King. The mechanical ghost gave a warm smile, "Thank you, Your Majesty. It is good to see you."

King Rangnorg reached out his four arms and greeted Cadmus with a hardy hug. He then jested, "So it takes the threat of a war for you to finally come and visit?"

Seveneye shook his head reluctantly, "I do regret that war is usually the reason we share each other's fellowship. How have you been?"

"I've been getting old," the King laughed. "I am not as young as I used to be during our campaigns in the Veil."

Seveneye disagreed, "I think that statement is a ruse. I bet you are as quick with a blade as you were the last time we adventured together."

The King tugged on his beard, "My goodness, it's been years. I believe the last time we adventured was our quest in the Pine Ridge."

"Yes, as I recall, that ended up being quite the good time," Seveneye reminisced.

"A good time?" King Bloodbeard laughed, "Is that how you remember it? Perhaps you've forgotten that I was nearly eaten alive by Baron Guis and his pack of werewolves. Thankfully you did what you have a knack of doing, and conjured up those silver axes."

Cadmus shrugged, "Ah yes, I do remember. Didn't you promise me that one of your artisans would craft me a wolf skin rug? To this day, I have yet to receive a furry package in the mail."

"Believe me, I tried, but we put too many holes in their hides!" The King shouted quite theatrically. Both Bloodbeard and Seveneye nearly doubled over in laughter as they joyfully relived old times. Price Agon yawned at the pleasantries.

Cadmus quickly tried to get back to business and attempted to make his concerns known, "My good friend, as much as I would like to continue to talk about our exploits of yesteryear, I must discuss with you the importance of our presence. I know you are expecting for us to deliver news about your requests for military support from the Golden Empire, but I am afraid there is a direr situation at hand-"

King Bloodbeard interrupted the ghost by loudly clearing his throat. "Cadmus, I must apologize. As you know, my soothsayers have predicted, without a doubt, that Brizzlebane will soon be engaged in war. As you also know, our enemy has taken great precautions and used sinister dark magic to disguise their identity. My most powerful and trusted mystics have cast bones, read cards and scryed crystals; yet none of them have been able to uncover the hidden threat to our lands. This has made us a bit suspicious about everyone."

Cadmus nodded, "I understand and believe that we can help lift this paranoia by revealing the threat to Brizzlebane. Unfortunately, I don't want to begin with any false expectations of the Golden Empire. The Council has..."

Bloodbeard shook his head, "Wait. No you don't understand. We have set certain safeguards in place in an effort to protect us from the eyes of our unknown enemy. I cannot discuss any further business or politics with you, until you and your crew have been reviewed by my sages. It is a matter of national security."

Cadmus stated with frustration, "I will honor your preventive measures, but please hurry if possible. I believe that time is of the essence."

The King nodded and then looked to the tier above the reception area, where the mystics sat. They all wore purple and green robes, except for the oldest member, who was a dark skinned griff who wore a crimson robe and a pointed red hat. He was also adorned with a variety of rings, bracelets and necklaces; each of which held a unique magical power. The King confidently introduced the old sorcerer, "Cadmus, I believe you remember my alchemist, Bol Malrithru. He now sits at the head of my Advisory of Sages. He will be conducting the investigation to confirm that you hold no allegiance to our enemies."

Cadmus lowered his head politely, "Yes, Bol and I are quite familiar with one another."

Bol raised one eyebrow suspiciously and spoke through his finely braided, salt and pepper colored beard, "Actually, Cadmus are we that familiar? You may have once been a friend to Brizzlebane, but you have also been gone for a long time. Perhaps you have been swayed by those that plot against us. Or maybe you are not Seveneye at all. You could easily be a doppelganger seeking to bring down the proud griff empire. I can't place my finger on it, but something seems off about you and your crew."

Seveneye smirked, "Please feel free to begin your investigation, Bol. You will only find our sincere desire to help the griff people, but like I said before, time is of the essence. Please expedite this. We have much to say, but I believe we have very little time to say it."

The High Sage had a smug look on his face, "You are in luck. This will not take long. I have devised an instrument that will instantly inform me of any treacherous intentions towards Brizzlebane. No sinister soul can escape its detection, so don't even try. It is linked to a very ancient and potent magic, which has been bestowed upon our people."

"Bestowed by the Crimson Saint," Cadmus knowingly added.

Bol didn't answer, he only smiled and placed an ornate monocle into his eye, which had a finely crafted, emerald lens. Next, he picked up a twisted wand with a long emerald embedded into its tip. Then, he waved the wand like he was tracing the outline of Cadmus and said the magic words, " _Tu-trogga Parsona!"_

Cadmus looked around like nothing had happened, but Malrithru's expression showed otherwise. The sage was deeply locked in a trance through the emerald monocle. The sage spoke with an internal vibration to his voice, "State your name."

The ghost shook his head irritably, "Bol, you know my name."

The sage grimaced, "And as you should know, great power dwells within a name. It is linked to your soul. I need to hear it from your lips. State your name."

"Cadmus Seveneye," the mechanical specter barked.

From the High Sage's perspective, the emerald lens displayed a white glowing aura around Cadmus. The white light was purer than the first fall of snow and the energy nearly filled the entire scope of the lens. Bol smirked, "It is Cadmus Seveneye; his power signature is unmistakable."

The King smiled cautiously, "And his intentions?"

The High Sage peered out of his non-monocle eye, "Actually... He appears as noble as always, My Lord. Although, I must add, he is much more powerful than I had initially estimated, so perhaps, somehow he's fooled--"

The King interrupted, "Cadmus has not fooled nor attempted to fool anyone. He is a friend to Brizzlebane, as we expected. Continue your examination of the rest of his crew."

"Yes, Sire." The sage nodded, "Cadmus Seveneye, you will be the core of the rest of this investigation. I will be using your resounding aura of truth to validate the rest of the members of the Ebon Tempest. Start by introducing the first of your crew. Please use their actual names to the best of your ability."

Cadmus could feel precious time slipping away and introduced the first of his kneeling crew in a voice that didn't mask his stress. He pointed to a fair-haired man with a large scar that ran down from his eye like a painful tear, "This is Adolphis, cleric of Golgoron."

The King's eyes lit up, "Ah, mighty Golgoron: the god of blacksmiths. The armorer of the heavens! As you must be aware, the majority of griffs also share in your worship of this honorable god."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Adolphis responded. "My hammer is just like the symbol on your gate. It is devoted to Golgoron, as a smith and as a soldier."

Seveneye added, "Adolphis also has much experience using his hammer to smash the heads of the denizens of the Veil."

The King chuckled, "That is my preferred use of a hammer as well. Hmm, how does he check out, Bol?"

The High Sage nodded, "He is clean."

The King then turned to the validated cleric, "You may rise, Adolphis."

As the cleric stood, Seveneye continued with his introductions. He gestured to his crewmember who had a head of beautiful dark curls, but a face horribly disfigured by three diagonal scars, "To my left is Praxus Martingeau. He is an expert swordsman and has been fighting at my side since the Battle of the Poisoned Fields."

The King nodded solemnly, "Ah, I am familiar with that battle; a lot of good men were killed in that conflict."

Praxus responded, "My brother was one of those good men. He died at the hands of the infamous warlord, Rotgus the Cruel. After my brother was slain, I looked everywhere to find peace. I finally found it during the last day of the battle, when my sword pierced Rotgus' heart."

This exchange seemed to spark the sudden interest of the prince. He spoke inquisitively from the height of his throne, "You are the one that killed Rotgus the Cruel? Many thought he was immortal till that day."

Cadmus verified the claim, "Yes, I saw him dispatch the horrible villain, myself."

King Bloodbeard nodded approvingly, "Vengeance is often the best remedy for sorrow. You did the world a favor by removing Rotgus from it."

Bol Malrithru nodded again to confirm good intentions. The King smiled, "You may rise, Praxus."

As the swordsman stood, Seveneye began to introduce the young maiden. Her beauty gained the attention of the Prince, who leaned forward with anticipation of hearing her name. Yet the High Sage could care less about her beauty and was more suspicious of the interference he was receiving from his lens. Cadmus recognized Bol's unease, but introduced his third crewmember quite proudly, "This is Whisper Silvermyst. She is a Chronoblood like myself and I am currently training her in the ways of my Order--"

The King interrupted his friend again, "Another Chronoblood? That's a rarity these days."

Bol Malrithru began to wince, "I am receiving a strange feedback, like I have never seen before. By the gods, it's just getting worse! It's so bright! So bright!" The sage screamed in pain, as the monocle cracked into a thousand web-like fissures. Bol tossed it from his eye and fell back into his chair.

Captain Ironmane reached for his blade and the Golden Gauntlet followed suit, "The girl is a spy! Apprehend them!"

The King looked quite shocked, "Bol, is this the case? Is she a spy?"

"No, put your swords away!" Malrithru screamed while holding his eye, "Treacherous intentions reflect an aura of black fire. Her aura was so bright and pure, it was like focusing a telescope on the holy sun. I am sure her intentions are good, but I have never seen anything like this. In fact, I hope it wasn't the last thing that I'll ever see. I am still quite blind in my left eye."

As the guards re-sheathed their swords, Adolphis spoke with a cleric's compassion, "Your blindness may be cured through prayers to Golgoron."

Bol waved away the notion, "Hopefully it will correct itself in due time. Right now, I believe we have more important matters at hand. Like figuring out why I was blinded in the first place. Which begs me to ask, what manner of creature are you, Whisper?"

"Perhaps it would be easier if I just showed you," the mysterious maiden said. She then pulled back her hood and to the amazement of the King's court, revealed stunning magenta hair that sparkled with marvelous orbs of light. The King stepped closer to observe her enchanted locks and saw a thousand stars and reflections of galaxies, which floated through her hair like a map of the heavens.

As the throne room speechlessly beheld the enchanted beauty of the maiden, Cadmus added cautiously, "I didn't have a chance to finish her introduction. Whisper is very special and we felt it prudent not to draw too much attention to her as we made our way through your castle. Whisper is not just a Chronoblood, she's much more..."

The King nodded with interest, "Go on."

Cadmus continued, "Years ago, I was guided by a premonition that led me deep into the Gray Oaks. There I saw a comet shoot through the sky and then crash into the forest. I quickly found the point of impact and approached the burning crater. Inside was a molten, metal shell. I was shocked to see a young girl emerge from the scorching debris. She was completely unscathed. That young girl is the woman standing in front of you... King Rangnorg, Whisper is a star child."

Whisper paused for a moment, then like a cloud covering the night sky, she pulled her hood back over her hair. She then simply stated, "Now you know who I am, Your Majesty."

After a brief moment of shock, Prince Agon stood up in outrage, "By the gods, Cadmus! You've brought a star child here? Are you mad? You've cursed us all!"

Captain Ironmane concurred, "The Prince is right! A star child cannot be here! We are threatened with war; we can't be cursed before entering this conflict! King Bloodbeard, I don't care if our guests are dignitaries of the Golden Empire; we must immediately expel them from our lands!"

The King gave a scowling look to his son and guard, "Don't be fools! There is no curse! That is just a mere superstition of the uneducated."

Whisper nodded humbly, "It's okay; I anticipated a similar reaction. Their superstitious belief is shared by most of the people in the Land Eternal. I have grown accustomed to it."

The King looked at Whisper kindly, "Bigotry is not something that you should have to grow used to and that kind of prejudice will not be tolerated in my throne room." The king turned back to his court with disappointment, "Do you hear that, Agon? Do you understand, Ironmane?"

Prince Agon nodded with embarrassed anger, but Ironmane spoke with a worried apprehension, "Yes, my King."

Rangnorg then reached his hand out to the fair maiden before him and said, "Please rise, Whisper."

Whisper stood and bowed graciously, "Thank you, Your Majesty."

"No, Whisper, it is I that should thank you... Thank you for being who you are," the King replied. "As I said before, Chronobloods are a rarity these days. Star children are even rarer. They come to Terrynmen, perhaps once a generation. Yet, a star child who is also a Chronoblood? That is unheard of! You are perhaps the most unique creature to have walked our lands in a very long time. Please understand, Whisper, I certainly do not think that you are cursed, but you surely must be an omen."

Cadmus Seveneye agreed, "You are right. Whisper is an omen. Star children have received the reputation of being cursed, because devastation usually follows in their wake. Yet this isn't a relationship of cause and effect. Star children are sent to warn of impending destruction. Unfortunately, that is why we are here."

The Prince interjected, "No, you are here because of our requests to the Golden Empire."

Cadmus shook his head, "This goes far beyond the Empire. You requested military support, because you expect to soon be engaged in war, but I fear that the situation is much worse than that. Whisper warns of an end to this age. A brutal end, which will begin right here in the Armored Isles!"

The King shook his head in shock, "How can you know such things, with certainty?"

The star-hair maiden spoke with desperate passion, "Your Majesty, I have foreseen what will come to pass; death is coming to Brizzlebane! Yet we may still be able to save the rest of the world, but we must act now!"

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

### CHAPTER FOUR

The Book of Barnabas

The orange hues of the eternal sunset illuminated Maxtix, as he returned victoriously from the Skul'haven Pits. He rode home to the War Chest, upon the back of a steam-powered, flatbed vehicle, along with some other winning 'teammates' from his fight academy. As they entered the training center's main gates, the glorious gladiators were instantly surrounded by a cheering crowd. Max was personally greeted by both boys and men, who were either inexperienced young lions awaiting their turn in the cage, or recovering victors, who were still licking their wounds. Some eager fighters-in-training ran over and hoisted Maxtix onto their shoulders. They lifted him even higher with their praises. This was all a part of a customary 'hero's welcome', which had been put in place by the vilest villain in Skul'haven: Barnabas Xuva.

Max's first professional win was supposed to be the greatest moment of his life; it was something that he worked for over ten years to obtain. Yet, his victory was bittersweet. He sadly watched as no one mourned the loss of the fighters that did not return. It was like they were simply forgotten. This was a fate worse than death, for a culture that celebrated glory above all else. For the first time, Maxtix found the practices of reveling victory and ignoring those who had died to be disgusting and sad.

The teen brooded, ' _Don't they understand that all of these traditions and celebrations are just tools that Barnabas uses to control our minds? He manipulates us so we seek glory and victory. Yet, there is no glory. There's no victory. There is just worthless self-sacrifice. We give our all and earn nothing in return. We're not fighters! We're slaves! When will we stop fighting for a slave master and start fighting for our freedom?'_

Maxtix looked beyond the crowd and saw the second transport arrive to the War Chest. It was Barnabas' personal, armored carriage. The young gladiator wanted to tell the other fighters that this was their opportunity to rise up; that now was the time to escape their prison. Unfortunately, he saw the futility of inspiring resistance, when the crowd fanatically flocked to the vehicle, and actually cheered for their slave master. The mindless masses also celebrated the conniving Skul'haven Champion, Ebarro, as he stepped out of the craft.

Maxtix sadly thought to himself, ' _What a bunch of poor dumb sheep. Barnabas is the farmer leading them to the slaughter and Ebarro is nothing more than a wolf in sheep's clothing. I guess that makes me the black sheep of the group and I'm sure as Haale not going to let these scoundrels devour me.'_

The teen had enough. He wanted to disappear in the crowd. He wanted to be lost and forgotten, much like his fallen comrades. He withdrew from the gathering and then walked down the stone path into the courtyard. Unfortunately, many of the other fighters had also wondered to this common area to continue the celebration. So instead, Maxtix escaped into the sanctuary of his thoughts. Yet suddenly, he was pulled back to reality by a bony hand that grasped his wiry arm. He turned to see his capturer. She was beautiful, with brown, glistening eyes that hid horror and pain. Max smiled and hugged her closely, "Mother."

She embraced him even tighter and then stroked the side of his face, "By the Crimson Saint! Maxtix, you have grown since the last time I've held you! Happy Birthday, my son."

"Thank you, Mother," Maxtix beamed. "I am so grateful that you are here. I was afraid that I wouldn't get to see you."

"Master Barnabas will make me leave soon, but I am happy to see you too!" she said.

Clea then reached into a large pocket in her apron and withdrew a package that was wrapped in white linen. She handed it to her son, with a smile on her face and a tear in her eye, "I brought you something for your birthday. It's not much."

Before the teen even opened it, he smiled back at her, "Thank you, it's perfect."

Clea laughed, "No silly, open it."

Maxtix unwrapped the cloth and revealed three-quarters of a loaf of bread. Clea put her head down a little embarrassed, "There was more, but..."

Max grinned, "Let me guess, there was a hungry child."

"How did you know?" she asked.

Maxtix tucked the package away for later, "I just know you, Mom. Thank you, this is more than enough." The seasoned warrior then lit up like a child, "Oh hey! Actually, I just remembered I have a gift for you!"

Clea shook her head, "No! You don't need to give me anything. Whatever you have, you keep."

Max kindly smiled, "I have you and I want to keep you forever. If that's going to happen, you're going to have to take care of yourself. It will be easier for you to do that with this..."

Max reached into his pocket and pulled out a leather bag. He handed it to his mother and smiled as she untied the top. She looked inside with wide eyes, "There's gold in there. Where ever did you get it? If Master Xuva knew you had this—"

The teen closed his mother's fingers around the bag, "Barnabas doesn't know about it and never will. I want you to have this. Hide it, spend it, whatever. Just don't let Barnabas steal it from you."

"I feel terrible taking this, Max. Are you sure that you don't need it?" his mother asked.

Maxtix insisted, "No. Like I said before, I want you to have it. Now quick, put it away! Barnabas and his entourage are coming!"

As Barnabas Xuva and Ebarro approached, Clea safely hid the bag of gold in her pocket, without the slave master noticing. Barnabas and his champion were followed by Professor Darrogg and a sad looking blonde-haired stranger. The fight promoter had a large smile on his face, "Maxtix, I've finally found you."

The young gladiator nodded, "So you have."

Master Xuva wrapped his dark, muscular arm around the teen like a python, and said slyly, "I want to introduce you to the newest prize fighter at the War Chest. His name is Jameon. I wanted you to meet him."

"Why is that?" Max questioned with agitation.

Barnabas spoke through a sinister smile, "Because you are the reason he is here. His former master just lost him in a wager on a fight... Your fight."

The teen replied sternly, "I wasn't the one that placed the wager, Barnabas. I will not take the blame for ruining this man's life."

Ebarro sneered, "Maxtix, your mouth never stops. Maybe Jameon will be the one to finally shut it for you."

Max sized up his potential opponent. Jameon was tall and muscular, but aside from his athletic build, he didn't seem like a prize fighter at all. He had all his teeth, his ears weren't crumpled and he was fairly free of scars. In fact, he looked more like a prince than a fighter, with handsome features and golden locks. In addition, Jameon appeared to be in his early twenties. Max figured that the stranger was way too old to start his training at the War Chest, so he must have some combat skill; it just wasn't apparent... Unless the enigmatic recruit was meant to be nothing more than a practicing dummy. The teen gladiator shook his head and began to wonder, _'Did Barnabas, a notoriously shrewd fight promoter, get suckered into taking this guy as a wager?'_

Ebarro shoved Jameon towards Maxtix. The teen was sure that the scar-faced bully was trying to force an altercation instead of an introduction, but stopped worrying when Jameon didn't attack him. Max was a bit surprised, though, when Jameon pleasantly extended his hand out to greet him. The young warrior quickly shook it carefully, fearing that the stranger was setting up an attack. When nothing happened, Maxtix raised an eyebrow. He felt that something was really strange about this. Politeness in Skul'haven? Max had to admit that it was refreshing, but he still kept his guard up thinking that this meet-and-greet could easily be another of the slave master's mind games.

The blonde stranger spoke with a baritone voice, which bellowed out of his very tall frame, "I am Jameon, son of Norad. Called to the Order of the Knights of the Golden Sun. Initiate of the Thirteenth Degree. Here, because of the will of the gods. I am at your service."

Maxtix laughed mockingly, "Jameon, son of Nutrat, Newb of the Thirteenth Degree, what is any of that supposed to mean?"

Professor Darrogg intervened by roughly grabbing the teen to remind him of his manners, "It means that he is a paladin of the Golden Empire."

Master Barnabas laughed, "Was a paladin... Isn't that right, Jameon?"

Jameon put his head down in shame, "Tis true."

"I'm sorry. I don't get out of Skul'haven, um, ever. So, what's a paladin?" Maxtix enquired, while secretly feeling quite ignorant.

Jameon answered, "We are a venerable order, which adheres to the cannon of--"

Max interrupted, "No, no. From someone else, please."

Professor Darrogg rolled his eyes at the teen's brashness, "They are basically warrior monks, trained in prayer and combat. In the old days, they were essential in fighting the blood demons and other creatures of the night. Now, they are just aristocratic extensions of the Golden Empire."

Jameon shook his head, "That's not entirely true."

Maxtix opened his package of bread and began to eat. He then spoke with a full mouth, "Great, just what the arena needed, another monk."

Ebarro impatiently butted in, "Haven't you been paying attention, you moron? Jameon's not a holy man anymore. He's just as worthless as you are! He's a paladin without a prayer. He has no allegiance to the gods and they have no allegiance to him."

As the scar-faced bully laughed, Jameon unexpectedly grabbed a dagger from Barnabas' belt and quickly landed the edge of the blade a hair away from Ebarro's throat. The paladin spoke with commanding anger, "Don't ever question my allegiance to the gods, you vermin!"

A shocked stillness fell over the crowd in the courtyard. Everyone waited the paladin's next move, even the guards seemed dumbfounded and immobile. Then the eerie silence was broken by Maxtix's laughter. "Ha! A championship fight, miles away from a paying crowd! If I had money, I'd place it on Jameon. Care to make a bet, Barnabas?"

Ebarro gritted his teeth, "Shut up, Maxtix. Come and help me, you fool!"

Barnabas waited to see what Maxtix would do, but the young warrior just smiled and talked with a mouthful of bread, "Again Ebarro, you've said the wrong thing, to the wrong person. Handle it on your own."

Ebarro yelled furiously, "If you will not help, then you are a traitor to the War Chest! Master Xuva, please do something."

The fight promoter had finally seen enough and put a stop to the conflict, "Quit your groveling Ebarro, it is unbecoming of a champion. Typically I would let you two fight it out, but Maxtix is right. There is no gold to be earned in this skirmish." Barnabas then pointed to the paladin, "Jameon, put down the blade. This fight is over."

The paladin ignored the slave master and continued to hold the knife to Ebarro's throat. Barnabas then handled the situation like an expert hostage negotiator, "Jameon, as penance for your crimes against your Holy Order, you have been sold into slavery. To regain your honor, you must serve your sentence as a slave. Through gods' decree or twist of fate, I am your new master. You must do as I say and I command you to put the blade down, now!"

Jameon closed his eyes and collected himself. He then bowed before Master Xuva and handed him the dagger, "My apologies, my liege. I may not be a paladin anymore, but I hope this answers any questions about my skills. They are still as razor sharp as the knife that was about to slice the throat of your champion."

Barnabas gave Jameon a nod of satisfaction, "I am a bit worldlier than the dogs that you'll find in Skul'haven. I know exactly who you are and what you are worth. You'll fit in nicely as the knight on my chessboard."

"Thank you, my liege," Jameon said respectfully.

The slave master wanted be sure that there would be no further distractions caused by Jameon and Ebarro. He had more important matters to attend to, so he waved away the paladin, "Now, go find the equipment distribution area. They know that you are coming and will have a grappling gi waiting for you."

"Yes, sir," Jameon nodded and then headed out.

Just as the paladin the departed courtyard, a guard from the main gate suddenly ran over to the fight promoter. The sentry spoke slightly out of breath, "Master Xuva, the issue at the arena has been dealt with as you requested. The... package is in the west tower. How do you want us to proceed?"

Barnabas looked excited and spoke with a true smile, "Excellent. I will handle the package, myself." He then turned to his top trainer, "Come here, Professor Darrogg."

The griff reluctantly walked over to the slave master. Maxtix tried to eavesdrop on their conversation, but the fight promoter spoke to the trainer in a voice that was too quiet to perceive over the crowd of fighters in the courtyard. Darrogg's response, on the other hand, was forcefully loud enough to be heard, "You want me to do what? Why?"

Barnabas then pulled the griff closer by the lapel of his jacket. If anyone else would have done that, Professor Darrogg would have certainly put them in an armbar. Yet with Master Xuva, the trainer submitted by lowering his head and listening to the slave master's whispering orders. Darrogg nodded with distress, "Aye, sir."

Maxtix and his mother watched as Barnabas followed the guard to the west tower. They also saw the agitated look on Darrogg's face as he walked the opposite way. Clea looked to her son, and whispered, "What was that all about?"

The young warrior shrugged and spoke softly, "I don't know what Barnabas is up to, but I am sure that no good will come of it. As for Professor Darrogg, I don't know why he is acting so strangely. He has been different as of late. When he's not engaged in training, he's lost in his own thoughts. Professor Darrogg is an honorable man, but he is controlled by the most corrupt person in Skul'haven. Things just keep getting worse, too. I think it's starting to get to him."

Clea understood, "Being locked in the War Chest is a terrible fate."

Max smirked, "Tell me about it."

Clea changed the subject, "What of Ebarro? Will he attempt to take vengeance upon Jameon?"

The teen nodded, "Most definitely."

"What about you? Will Ebarro try to harm you for not helping him?" Clea asked with great worry showing on her face.

The young warrior laughed, "Probably, but I am not concerned. He has tried to harm me numerous times in the past, but it always blows up in his face, if you catch my drift."

The teen was going to continue to make fun of the scar-faced bully, but then he heard something unsettling. It was the loud roar of his mother's empty stomach. Maxtix handed his bread back to his mother, "Here Mom, you take the rest."

She pushed the loaf back towards him, "No, Maxtix, I baked that for you."

The teen wouldn't take no for an answer, "I just thought about it. I know how it works for all of Barnabas' slaves who are not fighters; he only offers food to you all at the end of the day. I am guessing that you probably missed dinner while you were waiting for me here. Please take the bread. I know you need it."

She was about to decline his offer, but again, her stomach growled loudly. There was no hiding that she hadn't eaten. She didn't want to worry her son by telling him that food was actually scarcer than he thought. She just accepted the bread with great appreciation, but with even greater regret. She cried, "Thank you."

Clea felt abysmal for taking back the bread, but then in her internal darkness, she saw something unexpected. It was the light of the smile on her son's face. Being generous was an act of love, which temporarily made him forget about all of the surrounding hardships. She hugged him closely and told him, "Thank you, Max for everything. Thank you for the gold, the bread and most importantly of all, thank you for being my son. I love you."

Max replied openly, "I love you too, Mom. I just wish I could do more. I can't be forced to wait till my next birthday to see you again. I fear that we are not going to survive another year. We need to do something... anything to get out of here. I feel if we don't get out soon, we'll never have a chance for freedom!"

"The Crimson Saint has given us a chance, Maxtix." Clea said with hope.

The young warrior looked puzzled, "What do you mean? What chance do we have?"

She looked at the bruises and cuts on her son's body, then put her hands on his chest to feel his beating heart. "We have a chance because you made it through that horrible fight in the arena. You are alive! That is a gift that you cannot deny! As long as you live, there is a chance to one day escape the bonds of slavery. One day, we will go far from here, to the Golden Gate. It is a fair and just place, we'll be able to start a new life there!"

Maxtix turned away sadly, "I don't know how long I can honestly keep it up here in Skul'haven. I fight for one reason, to survive. Yet to do so, I fear that Barnabas will eventually make me slay a man for sport. If I do, I believe that much of my spirit will die along with my opponent. That's why in my first death match, I couldn't kill Ulrich."

"Tisk, Tisk." Barnabas scolded. The fight promoter had returned and was carrying a black, sackcloth bag. He also had overheard the conversation between his slaves and considered it to be very bad for business. He took quick action to derail the unproductive train of thought and gave an evil look to Clea, "See woman, this is precisely why I didn't want you here or at the arena. You are putting thoughts in the boy's head that do not belong. That is why the barbarian survived the fight"

Maxtix stood up for his mother, "Leave her alone, Barnabas. It was my decision to let Ulrich live. She did not influence me in any way. Yet, like I told you at the arena, what did influence me was seeing good men die backstage. More than one could have been saved had you taken the proper precautions. These were your men! Men from the War Chest and you let them die like animals! But then again, we are all just animals to you! Aren't we?"

Barnabas shook his head, "No, Maxtix, you are special. You are a winner and a survivor. Your first fight was just a prelude to the mayhem you will cause. I have had many important people come up to me, and ask when you'll fight again. I assured them that it would be right away."

The young gladiator didn't look happy about fighting in the arena again so soon. Barnabas intensified the teen's concern by adding, "I also promised that the next time you won, it would absolutely end in a kill. One way or another."

The teen didn't say anything. He just shook his head and balled his hands into fists. Barnabas smirked and then peered through the crowd, "Where is Professor Darrogg?"

"Here I am! I'm right here." The griffs little legs carried him slowly through the crowd of fighters, but finally he emerged with a blade slung over his shoulder.

Barnabas smiled evilly, "Excellent. Bring me the sword."

Max gasped and whispered to his mother, "That is my sword; one of a pair that I had just used in the arena. What's going on here?"

His mother had no answers. She just watched as the trainer forlornly presented the blade to the fight promoter. The griff then turned away, "I will not be a part of this Master Xuva."

"Fine, then go to the training fields, Professor Darrogg! You would spoil the fun anyway," Barnabas said with a devious grin.

The griff nodded in sad agreement and disappeared once again, back into the crowd. Barnabas handed the black sackcloth bag to a nearby guard, then turned to Maxtix and grasped him by the shoulder, "Forget about Professor Darrogg for now. I want all extraneous influences to be put out of your mind."

The teen looked dubiously at the fight promoter, "What are you getting at, Barnabas?"

Master Xuva had a deep understanding of his fighters. He knew that Maxtix was too valuable of an asset to let become a liability. He was determined to conquer the young warrior's mind and used every tactic at his disposal. He slyly spoke with a silver tongue, "Max, when your drug addict father lost you and your mother in a bet with me, I felt that it wasn't by chance. I felt that you were meant to be here with us at the War Chest. I myself never had a son, but if I did, I believe he would look a lot like you. I only want what is best for you, but for that to happen you'll have to listen to what I have to say."

Maxtix wanted to roll his eyes, but before he could, the fight promoter had pulled him onto a small platform that was in the corner of the courtyard. Barnabas then shouted to capture the attention of the crowd of fighters. "My brothers of the War Chest! We gather today in celebration of victory!"

The crowd applauded the slave master's words. He smiled at their acknowledgement and then held Max's blade high above his head, "This is the sword that on multiple occasions slashed into the flesh of Ulrich the Cynerarian. Ulrich was the winner of seven death matches and was quickly on his way to becoming a contender for the championship. His climb to the top was cut short by this very sword. Let's congratulate the master of this blade, young Maxtix, for earning the highly coveted 'Fight of the Night!'"

The crowd cheered and celebrated Master Xuva's remarks. The fight promoter waited for the applause to die down and then ran his finger across the broad side of the blade. Barnabas shouted with glee, "This sword is still wet with the barbarian's blood! There was a tradition in my family, that when a young warrior would slay a beast, his father would honor him. It was a monumental moment in that young warrior's life. Tonight, I pass that tradition on to you, Maxtix."

The teen glared at the fight promoter, "I've slayed no one and I am tired of your traditions."

Max started to leave the stage, but Barnabas fiercely grabbed him by his arm and growled, "Tradition is what binds us together."

Master Xuva then used his finger to draw on Max's face with the barbarian's blood. Clea gasped when she saw that Barnabas had placed the archaic 'Mark of a Murderer' onto her son's forehead. The crowd applauded the impromptu ceremony, but the disgusted teen pulled away from Barnabas and marched off the platform. The fight promoter sheathed the sword and followed; he grabbed Max's shoulder and spun him around. Barnabas looked at his slave with a warm smile, dripping with deceit. "I just don't want you to ever become disparaged with what you are. Never hide from the truth, that deep down you are in fact a killer."

The young gladiator protested, "Wasn't winning the fight enough for you, Barnabas? I promise you, that I will win every fight that you put me in. What difference does it matter how I win, as long as I keep filling your pockets with gold?"

The fight promoter gestured back towards the crowd. He pointed at Ebarro, who was again basking in the admiration of the other mindless fighters. Barnabas spoke softly, "Look at the glory that falls upon our champion. Son, you are destined for a championship match, but will you do what it takes?"

The young warrior raised an eyebrow, "You mean kill Ebarro?"

Barnabas whispered, "It would be something that you'd have to do. If you win the match and refuse to kill Ebarro, do not think that he won't later murder you in your sleep to regain his title. You are fast Maxtix, but not even you can dodge every surprise."

The young gladiator shook his head, "I have no intention of beating Ebarro, by being more like him."

"No, you won't just be like Ebarro... You'll be better! Minstrels will sing of your tales," Barnabas said, while waving his hand across the air like he was painting a picture of the future.

Maxtix smiled, "Maybe they will, but the ballads will be about the one fighter who finally stood up to the infamous Barnabas Xuva and escaped his vile clutches."

Barnabas grinded his teeth together through a wicked grin, "Listen to me, son. I overheard you say that you fight only to survive. That is not true. Please understand, that you also fight for the survival of your mother. I keep her alive only for your benefit, because I do care about you. Yet if for some reason, you didn't give me your all and were to perish, I would have no reason not to bury your mother right along with you."

Maxtix threatened the venomous fight promoter, "I refuse to slay for sport. Not for the defense of my loved ones. If you touch her, Barnabas, I will kill you."

Barnabas gave a dark chuckle, "There the monster hides, behind his mother's skirt. Come out and play, young slayer."

"Go play with yourself, Barnabas! I'm done!" The teen replied and marched away.

Barnabas shouted through his smile, "Where do you think you are going, boy? I am not finished."

"No, but I am. I'm finished with all these head games!" Maxtix said, not caring about the consequences.

Master Xuva's eyes filled with anger as he watched the young warrior stomp away towards his mother. Several guards blocked the teen's path, but it appeared that Maxtix was prepared to punch his way through this obstacle. Barnabas decided to use his words, instead of force to seize the teen, "Do not walk away from me or I will end your mother's visit at this very moment and I will refuse to let her ever see you again."

Max tried to look away, but he couldn't. The slave master had him over a barrel. The teen angrily placed his hands in the air to surrender, then griped "What more do you want of me, Barnabas?"

The fight promoter sneered wickedly, "You will now address me only as Master. I have given you too much leniency, due to your vast potential. I have tried to reason with you. I have tried to do things your way, but I can see now that your insolence far outweighs your talent. You have forced me to do things my way."

Barnabas snatched the sackcloth bag from his guards and then used their assistance to violently drag Maxtix back onto the platform in the courtyard. The fight promoter quickly yelled to the surrounding fighters to regain their attention, "My brothers of the War Chest. In celebration of Maxtix's 'Fight of the Night', he has earned a gift!"

The crowd stood quietly, in both wonder and jealousy. Barnabas has never given a gift to anyone, especially his slaves. Yet the teen growled in contempt, "I don't want anything from you, Barnabas."

The slave master's eye twitched from the improper use of his name and station. He then held the sackcloth bag high into the air, "I am sure that you will want this. It's your trophy!"

The young gladiator replied angrily, "There are no trophies in death matches!"

"Sure there are." The fight promoter stated with a sinister smile. Barnabas then turned the bag upside-down and dumped out the bruised, metal-jawed head of Ulrich. It rolled wetly on the floor, right before the teenager's feet.

"You murdered him!" Maxtix screamed with horror.

Barnabas laughed, "No, you did. You sentenced Ulrich to death with your antics at the arena. Don't be so surprised. You didn't really think that he could just walk away, after that little show you put on. After all, you are the one who told me that if I wanted the barbarian's head, to take it myself. So I did."

Maxtix covered his face with disgust, but Barnabas ripped his hand away and raised it into the air like a victorious fighter at the end of a match. The fight promoter then proclaimed to all of the War Chest, "Behold everyone, a killer!"

This declaration was met with the applause of the other fighters and Maxtix's remorse. The teen fell down to his knees by the severed head. His mother rushed to console him. Barnabas just laughed and bent down by the grieving gladiator, "Next time, you will listen to your master or it will be your mother's head at your feet."

Barnabas had made his point and headed off towards other unscrupulous dealings. The fight promoter walked towards his carriage and spoke with fleeting interest, "Alright, the celebration is over. It is time for all winning fighters to go eat and then retire to the barracks. Those of you that didn't fight tonight, as usual, head to fields 7, 8, and 9, to join Professor Darrogg for evening sparring sessions."

Maxtix couldn't take his eyes off of the cold, dead face of the decapitated barbarian. Clea continued to hold her son tightly. She could see, that although his expression was vacant, his heart was full of pain. She wiped the single tear from his eye and promised him, "Remember, you have been given another chance..."

Suddenly, the words of warmness were crumpled by the cold grip of one of Barnabas' guards. The sentry grabbed Clea and escorted her to Barnabas' carriage. Maxtix stepped in front of the guard with great fury and yelled, "What do you think you are doing?"

The guard spoke snidely, "Her presence has been requested by Master Xuva. Out of the way, Pit Scum!"

"Pit Scum? Pit Scum!" Maxtix grabbed the guard by his lapel, with the intention of ripping his tongue from his mouth.

"Halt!" Barnabas commanded from the trail leading to his carriage, "Your mother is coming with me to fulfill her end of our bargain."

"What bargain?" the teen shouted.

Barnabas laughed with a perverted sickness, "Oh, after all of these years, your mother hasn't explained the arrangements of our deal?"

Max's mother looked down shamefully as Barnabas continued, "In return for being allowed to spend time with you one day out of the year, on your birthday, your mother performs certain... services for me."

The teen became nauseated at the thought. Suddenly, with blinding speed he picked up the nearby guard and slammed him into the ground, shattering both stone and bone. He then stole the crippled guard's sword and pointed it at Barnabas, "You monster, you can't do this! It isn't right! It isn't fair!"

"Since when have I ever participated in a game that is right or fair?" Barnabas snickered.

Two more guards ignorantly tried to take Clea, again. Yet this time, Maxtix was armed and full of hate. He rushed them and easily tore through their defenses. The young warrior lopped off one guard's ear and then sliced into the hamstrings of the other. The teen glanced to check on his mother as she turned away in fright. When he looked back, fifteen more guards had circled him, with their blades drawn.

Maxtix let loose an angry laugh, "Ha!"

Barnabas had underestimated what it would take to hold him back. It didn't matter if it was a barrier of iron or man, nothing that was going to keep the slave from the slave master. Maxtix planned to cut down Barnabas and anyone else that dared to stand in his way. The young gladiator shouted defiantly at the entire garrison of armored guards, "Come at me!"

Barnabas clapped, "Ha, yes! Do it Maxtix! Kill them all! Keep me from your mother if you can!"

Max realized that he played right into another one of Barnabas' head games... and he didn't care. This would be a game that the slave master was finally going to lose. Maybe this was the only chance for freedom that he and his mother would ever receive. The young warrior was going to take that chance at all costs.

The enraged teen raised up his blade to hack through the front line of guards, but his mother came over to him like an angel, guarding Max from himself. She kissed her son on the cheek and gently lowered his sword wielding hand. "My son, you know that these guards are just pawns. They are nothing but slaves themselves. If you kill them, then Master Xuva has won. There will be no freeing you from the prison of your own conscience."

Maxtix trembled with rage, "What about you? I cannot let you go with him! I'll stop him! I'll stop them all!"

Clea began to cry uncontrollably, "There is an entire fortress of guards here, and fighters who are foolishly obedient to their master. Beyond them you have the Security Forces of Skul'Haven. You can't possibly fight through them all Maxtix. They will kill you."

Max's eyes still burned with hatred, but his mother forced him to look at her. She spoke softly, "My only purpose in life was to protect you, but I allowed Cliven to bring you here to Skul'haven. You have lived a life of misery, because I failed you. I will not fail you again. The Crimson Saint has given you another chance at life. I will not let you squander it, trying to save me. I must go, so that you may live. I love you son."

The teen let loose a blood-curdling scream of anguish as his mother turned and joined Barnabas. The young fighter had never felt so defeated. He cast his sword carelessly to the side and the guards swarmed in around him to enact their revenge. Barnabas immediately said to them, "Retaliate on the boy, as you wish. Yet do not kill him. He brings me more gold than any of you are worth. I have my own ways of further punishing him. Isn't that right, Clea?"

Clea turned away to sob, but Barnabas held her there to witness his cruel sentence upon her son. She excruciatingly watched as the guards put away their swords and attacked her boy with their gauntlet covered fists. She cried even louder, hoping to drown out the wet thuds that emitted from the raining blows.

Max's soul was too broken to put up a defense. He did not resist as the guards kicked and punched him to the ground. The slave master cackled at the carnage. Clea tried to run to her child's aid, but Barnabas grabbed her waiste to pull her back. That is when the slave master felt something in her apron. It was the pouch of gold.

Max was ready to be taken into the darkness, as a squad of sentries pounded on his skull. Yet through his bloodied face and swollen eyes, he saw Barnabas steal the leather pouch from his mother. Max struggled to stand, in an attempt to save his mother. He knew that she would be punished for being caught with her own gold. The young gladiator pushed off several guards, but still couldn't reach his mother in time. He watched helplessly as his mother was backhanded by Master Xuva, which knocked her to the ground.

Maxtix could barely hear his mother's terrified screams over the roaring fire of his rage. Everything was going silent again; he was ready to call upon his blinding speed to avenge the brutality against his mother. Yet he was too late. He was blasted from behind with a series of surprising blows. Max fell to the ground and then looked up through fading eyes. The last thing he saw was the swift foot of Ebarro. Then all was black.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

After drowning in darkness, Maxtix awoke in a pool of his own blood. His vision slowly returned to him and he painfully picked himself up into a sitting position. He had suffered from a concussion and his thoughts were clouded. It was hard to tell how long he had been unconscious, especially when the low lying sun was always in a fixed position. He looked through blurry eyes and saw that the celebrating fighters were no longer meandering about the academy and the guards had taken their positions at the various look-out points throughout the campus. Perhaps the others were in the training fields or maybe they were all now asleep. He simply did not know. What he could ascertain, was that he must have been knocked out for quite a while, and still no one had come to his aid. He was left to rot, just like his withered spirit.

The teen ran his tongue through chipped teeth and licked the blood from his busted lips. He then tried to take a deep breath, but exhaled burning anguish. He coughed painfully, then instinctively rubbed his hand across his side and thumbed what he thought to be broken ribs. Max struggled to get to his feet, but then fell back down. He tried to put his hands out to catch himself, but instead only caught agony. He rolled around and screamed, as he discovered his arm was broken at the elbow.

With the fall, his mind dropped upon his last memories of his mother. In a kaleidoscope of images, Max recalled Barnabas striking her after finding the bag of gold. The pains of guilt then overwhelmed the aches of his battered body. His mind swelled in despair, _'It was my fault that she had the bag in the first place! I am responsible for Barnabas attacking her and I did nothing to protect her!'_

He screamed at the thoughts of failure and although he was already badly beaten, he used his good arm to hit himself in the head for forsaking his mother. His knuckles were bloodied, his mind was troubled, and his heart was hurting. Maxtix completely broke down, and from his knees, unleashed a storm from his soul. He looked up to the sky, with tearful eyes and yelled at the Crimson Saint, "Where are you? My mother prays to you always, but you never answer her prayers or any prayers for that matter! Why have you let our lives become this way? You have a power, supposedly beyond the gods, yet you allow things like this to go on? You keep us here, just like Barnabas! Why? Are you also a slave master? You allow everything to be taken from us, from our freedom, to a few measly pieces of gold. What's next? Our lives?"

The young warrior's outpour of broken spirit had finally run dry and he again collapsed. The teen closed his moist, swollen eyes and angrily balled his good hand tightly into a fist. Suddenly, he sensed a strange weight in his right palm. He then felt his fingers push a part. He opened his eyes and saw a small, leather bag magically appear in his hand. It was the pouch of gold that Barnabas had stolen away from his mother. The teen gasped with shock, "What in the Land Eternal? How did this come to me? Is this a blessing from the gods-- or another curse?"

Suddenly he heard footsteps from behind. He quickly thought to himself, _'By the gods, it was a curse!'_

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

### EPILOGUE

_Oh, Great Prophet, your journey through the trials and tribulations of Terrynmen has just begun, but sadly the other tomes have been buried in time and space. Yet do not despair, eventually the other prophecies will come to light for you to discover. When fate has given you a quest, the universe will be sure that you succeed. Until then, your own adventures await and along the way you will certainly find the next piece to the puzzle of your destiny._

Always remember that the cosmos has selected you for a reason. The future of the Sunlit Lands and the Veil of Shadows relies upon you. Oh, Chosen Witness, it is your calling and duty, to protect Terrynmen from being forgotten. Go forth and give testimony of the far off mysteries you've beheld. The history and future of this world relies upon you.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

