them-which meant they were probably being worn by Mandred when he was brought in from whatever forsaken land Calbit found him in.
“He’s human,” Drahar said, “but he’s growing. The magic is changing him slowly.”
“Is that why he looks diseased?”
“Possibly.” Drahar shook his head. “What I do not understand is that he has the taint of the Abyss.”
“What’s that?”
That prompted a rare smirk from Drahar. “A theory. The Abyss is the void in the chaotic realms beyond our world.” At Tharson’s blank expression-Drahar had to remind himself that, while Tharson was one of the finer military minds in Athas, he had no training in the Way-the sirdar added, “There are-theoretically-many realms beyond our own. The Abyss is like an open wound across them all.” He shuddered. “It’s a horrible place.”
“How’s that? A wound in reality?”
Drahar blinked. He thought that an odd question for Tharson to ask-but, again, he had little training. “And in theory-it’s a mad chasm of entropy. The Abyss is a void of sorts, yes, but it’s also a presence-a death urge capable of devouring the world if left unchecked. The triumph of chaos over order is what they tell us.” Another smirk, as he recalled several lecture-hall discussions that quickly degenerated into arguments. “Or the triumph of order over chaos, depending on who you ask.”
“Really?” asked Tharson with a thoughtful sip from his tankard.
“Yes.”
“And you think that one bears its mark?” The templar pointed at Mandred, who was facing off against a half-giant.
The roar of the crowd muted Drahar’s response, and he found himself, for the first time in his life, fascinated by what was going on in the arena.
Having no clue as to what constituted good technique, Drahar simply watched what looked to him like incredibly graceless stumbling about. The half-giant had tufts of hair all over his body, which were only slightly more attractive than the pustules that ravaged Mandred’s flesh.
They were circling each other at first, and then the half-giant lunged.
He crashed right into Mandred, who barely even seemed to notice.
Mandred just smiled and swung his fist downward onto the half-giant’s head like a hammer.
The half-giant fell to the floor, either unconscious or dead. Drahar couldn’t really tell, and also didn’t really care.
What fascinated him was that the power of the magic he sensed
Three others came out to fight Mandred-a bulky elf, who’d been one of the earlier fighters; a scrawny hejkin, one of the abominations of the desert covered in boils that made him an amusing visual match for Mandred; and a fat human-and none of them lasted much longer than the half-giant had.
He sent the elf flying into the crowd, nearly crushing two children. The hejkin, Mandred picked up and twirled over his head. He then threw the creature into the obsidian wall, and its bones made wet, cracking sounds that echoed throughout the arena. Some of his boils burst with the impact, leaving pus to ooze out onto the arena floor. Somehow Drahar couldn’t bring himself to be surprised that nobody bothered to clean it up.
With each victory, Drahar sensed the increase in Mandred’s power.
It was the fight against the fat human-Jago identified him as Daj Douk-that was of particular note to Drahar. For starters, it lasted the longest of the battles, which meant it could be measured in minutes rather than seconds. That was mainly due to Mandred’s blows being struck at Douk’s voluminous belly. Mandred’s fists seemed to be absorbed by the rolls of fat, while Douk just stood there and laughed it off.
Unfortunately, Douk had two things going against him: first, that his own blows to Mandred’s body were even less effective; and second, that Mandred had the presence of mind to change his strategy and strike at Douk’s head.
Douk was not an entire fool, however. He managed to parry the first blow to his head.
Unfortunately, it caused one of the lesions on Mandred’s skin to burst, sending a red liquid squirting out from the broken skin.
Drahar winced and frowned, finding the sight more than a little revolting. The simultaneous gasp from the crowd indicated a similar reaction. What surprised him was Tharson-a hardened veteran of dozens of campaigns-also pursing his lips in disgust.
The gasps got louder when Douk started screaming as the liquid sprayed onto his face.
Thus distracted, Mandred was able to backhand Douk in the side of the head, knocking him to the floor.
Douk lay on the ground, still screaming, his hand to his head where the red liquid had spread.
Drahar sensed the Abyssal taint still-but it was on Douk, as well as Mandred.
Then Douk’s scream grew louder, and pustules very similar to those of Mandred started to form on his skin. Douk was only wearing a loincloth, so Drahar could see his skin break out all over right before his eyes.
The fat human also started to grow in size. His scream modulated from one of pain and anguish to one of rage and anger.
But before he could get to his feet, Mandred pounded him on the top of the head in much the same manner as he did the half-giant at the start of the bout.
Drahar closed his eyes, focusing the Way toward Mandred. With his mind, he was able to sense the Abyssal taint, the magic that coursed through Mandred’s entire body, changing him-and changing Douk as well.
What was more impressive was that the strange magic had increased in power each time Mandred caused violence. When he killed his foe, the intensity was even greater.
The transfer of the magic to Douk caused a slight dimming, but it was temporary-and brief.
For the final battle, Jago brought out half-a-dozen opponents. Amazingly, that fight went fastest of all, as the six foes had simply no chance against Mandred. Their strikes would have had more effect on a stone wall, and Mandred’s own blows were instantly fatal. The increase in magical potency had led to a concomitant increase in Mandred’s strength.
Drahar then turned to Tharson. “We may now have a solution to our issues with raising a proper army.”
Tharson squinted. “You’re not thinking-”
“Yes, I am. Mandred is a powerful creature of magic, and he can be ours. What’s more, he can possibly create more just like him.”
“Perhaps.” Tharson took a long gulp, draining the last of his tankard. Then he summoned one of the errand boys that worked the arena. “Take a message to Calbit and Jago. Inform them that the Imperial Guard will be coming later this evening to remove Rol Mandred and Daj Douk from the arena. If they ask why, tell them that they are being …” Tharson smiled,
The errand boy nodded and moved off.
A slave poured Tharson and Drahar both fresh drinks. The templar held his up. “To Rol Mandred.”
Holding up his own tankard and clanking it against Tharson’s, Drahar said, “To Urik’s future in our hands.”
CHAPTER TEN
Helsno Calbit was about ready to kill someone.
He was tempted to grab one of the mercenaries’ bone knives and slit the throat of whichever fighter had the most losses, just for the satisfaction.
But no, then he’d have to pay to clean the blood off the stone floors of the cubicles. And all of a sudden, their ability to pay for that was in jeopardy. Bad enough that that hejkin’s green pus was all over the catacomb floors from his burst boils; one of the guards had expressed concern that someone might slip on it, but it was the
