Ordinary Joe and the Mark of Four

To the King’s amazement Jiila handed over her weapons without a fight. She could easily escape the soldiers, maybe even kill a few of them on the way, but the King could not escape unharmed. Again she put herself in danger to protect him. His instinct was to tell her to run, to save herself and let him take his chances against Flint’s men. But the prophecy’s words came back to him and he bit back the impulse. Meeting Joe was all that mattered.

Unarmed, the King and Jiila were prodded forward by the soldiers, though they drew back from Jiila’s glare. Even unarmed the woman radiated threat. They were led to a tall circular building, a patchwork of metal and wood panels bolted together and held fast by sturdy angled girders. A zig-zag of steps traced along one side, leading to a curving walkway, but otherwise the walls were blank and featureless, except for a small iron door beside the stairs, flanked by two guards. Flint nodded to them, giving the King one last smile before turning to the steps and beginning to climb. Then the door was pulled open and they were bundled through into darkness. The door thumped shut behind them.

It took a few seconds for the King’s eyes to adjust to the dark. The edges of the chamber were hidden in shadows, though he could see the walls curved to create a dome. A large hole opened to the sky, as if the roof was sheared off, and a row of wooden spikes ran around the edge, pointing into the pit. He made out vague shadows moving in the glare and shielding his eyes saw they were scavengers, crowding against looping chains forming a barrier around the hole. They were getting ready to watch.

The walls were coated with thick tar, making them impossible to climb, and the floor was scattered with the bones of past fighters. In the centre of the Arena, bright in a circle of daylight, was a large metal dome. A long, heavy chain was fastened to it, hanging loose in the air and disappearing into the glare of the sky.

Majia lanterns suddenly sparkled to life, pushing the shadows back, and the crowd cheered. Flint appeared, seating himself above his subjects, and though only a vague shadow the King knew he was smiling.

An angry roar shook the building.

At the opposite side of the room was the Threshmaw. It had looked almost harmless before, allowing itself to be led into the village by Flint’s soldiers, but now it was furious. Thick chains looped from its ankles to four large metal spikes driven into the ground. The cuffs binding it crackled with Majia and though the beast bit at them angrily, they held fast. Beside the Threshmaw was another iron door, dented and scratched, but no doubt capable of thwarting any attempt to escape.

“Welcome to the Arena!” announced Flint, standing with his arms raised, and the crowd cheered wildly. He waited for the applause to die before continuing, “For today’s entertainment, a challenge has been accepted by the former King of Hatriila, Elvan Caldor.” More cheers, but no mention by Flint of Jiila. If he considered her unimportant then he judged her badly and would pay for the mistake. “He wagers his life against a promise of aid. I, as King of the Wastelands, accept the wager, and pledge to provide whatever assistance is needed, should he survive.” More laughter came from the crowd, as if the idea was ludicrous. Flint waved them silent and peered into the chamber, flashing his crocodile grin, “Let the contest begin!”

At the Scavenger King’s side stood the short man who announced their arrival in the village. He stepped forward and raised his horn, releasing one long note. From beyond the walls came a heavy clanking sound and the chain hanging into the Arena begin to rise, pulling tight, lifting the heavy iron dome into the air. A sharp crackling noise escaped into the pit and the shadows beneath it flashed with a bright, angry light.

Jiila grabbed the King’s arm and pulled him back against a wall. The dome lifted clear of the ground and the Threshmaw roared, yanking at its chains and growling at the flashing light. Jilla’s eyes widened and she cursed, dragging the King to the ground.

“A Majia rift,” she said.

Beneath the dome lay a crack in the chamber floor, no more than a few feet long, from which sprouted clumps of clear crystals. Majia ran across them, bright in the darkness, but the sparks grew erratic, thickening into bright balls of white light, before exploding into the pit.

Searing bolts of energy burst around the chamber and the King buried his head under his arms. They punched into the walls sending sparks flying and stabbed into the ground, scattering bones and skulls. Many bit into the Threshmaw, trapped and furious, cutting open its flesh in long cruel gashes.

The crowd cheered.

The discharge ended and the King moved to stand but Jiila held him back,

“Wait,” she said. The rift exploded again, splitting the air with countless spears of crackling energy. The walls rang, deafeningly loud, though the Threshmaw was louder, covered in long, dripping cuts, fighting to escape its shackles. The rift’s explosion subsided again, though sparks fattened across the crystals and soon it would release a fresh burst of lethal energy.

From above a second blare came from the horn. Beside the Threshmaw, the small iron door flew open and four guards appeared, each wielding a long wooden pole. The poles were topped with more crystals, much smaller than those in the rift, though they sparkled with the same powerful energy. Quickly the men jabbed the sticks at the Threshmaw’s cuffs, darting away from its swiping claws with terror in their eyes. One by one the crystals flashed against the metal and the manacles snapped open, falling to the ground. The men retreated, scrambling in fear, and three of them escaped through the small doorway. The last stumbled, his foot twisting in a slew of scattered bones, and he fell to the ground. Before he could move the Threshmaw pounced, closing a fist around his struggling body, lifting him into the air. Its jaws snapped at his head, ending his screams with a horrible wet crunch. With a roar of victory it threw his body skywards, towards the lip of the Arena, where it was speared by one of the sharp, wooden spikes.

The crowd cheered again.

Jiila jumped to her feet, her face fierce with determination, and gripped the King’s collar until his eyes met hers.

“Stay back and stay down!” she said. Then she was gone, sprinting across the chamber towards the Threshmaw. The King’s stomach tightened. She was unarmed! What could she do?!

Jila ran full pelt towards the beast, head down, eyes fixed on the enormous creature, dropping its head to roar in fury as she charged. Its claws lashed out, a deadly blur in the stuttering light of the lanterns, but she rolled beneath two deadly swipes, feigning an escape across the chamber and then changing direction at the last second to bolt between the beast’s legs. It turned instantly, amazingly fast for its size, and she slid to a stop, closing her hand around the guard’s fallen staff.

Beil Flint jumped to his feet,

“What’s she doing?” He shouted, “That’s not allowed!” Jiila was moving again, fleet footed and bent low, slipping under the Threshmaw’s searching claws, and coming up wielding the rod, stabbing at the beast rising over her.

Flint’s laughter echoed through the Arena,

“What are you going to do with that?” he shouted, “It’s like trying to kill a dreycat with a blade of grass!” If Jiila heard she ignored him. But Flint was right, the flashing Majia only angered the beast.

The rift exploded again. Jiila stood with her back to the blast and a scream rose in the King’s throat. She was too close to the crystals to survive! The arcing power would tear her apart and there was nothing he could do to help her.

Jiila wasn’t hit by a single bolt. Instead the crackling power leapt to the rod’s crystals. It drew them in, growing brighter and brighter, until the King tore his eyes away. The Majia exploded. Jiila was thrown back by the blast, clinging on to the rod, and rolled across the ground with a grunt. Without a pause she was back on her feet, circling around the beast, which howled again, its body raw with fresh cuts. She drew up beside the King, never taking her eyes from the Threshmaw.

“Stay with me,” she said, “I’ve got an idea. Look.” She held up the rod and to the King’s amazement, despite the explosion, the crystals were still intact. She gave him a grin, trapping the rod under her foot, and snapped it in two, snatching up the crystals and tossing the splintered staff to the ground.

The Threshmaw bellowed and charged. Jiila darted away but the King moved too slowly, stumbling through the bones, and suddenly the ground slipped from under him. The beast snatched him into the air, lifting him to its blood stained jaws, squeezing the air from his lungs. He bucked against its grip, hands tearing at its flesh, but it was no use. The Threshmaw was too strong. It roared, spattering his face with hot drool and smothering him in hot, rancid breath. Jiila screamed from below. Suddenly the beast lurched. Its grip tightened and the King’s vision blurred. He shook his head clear, unable to believe what he was seeing.

Jiila was climbing up the Threshmaw.

In one hand she clutched the head of the Majia rod, using her other to seek out horns jutting from the beast’s flesh. It twisted savagely, trying to shake her loose, lashing out, but she ducked every blow, scrambling higher, scaling its broad torso and leaping onto its shoulders, wrapping her legs around its head. The King barely recognised her. Her face was a snarl of hatred and her eyes shone in the dark; ferocious, like the eyes of a wild animal. With a scream she drove her hand into the Threshmaw’s eye, ignoring the eruption of thick, yellow fluid, tearing at the wound. It howled in pain and its long claws uncurled around the King. Suddenly he was falling, gasping in lungfuls of air, and hit the floor with a yell. Jiila hung to the beast, dodging its flailing claws, and threw herself backwards from the crest of its skull. Her arm flashed out, hurling the crystals into its wide jaws.

The creature shook, still wailing, and dropped to all fours, its remaining eye fixed on Jiila, crouching before it, teeth clenched. She sprang away, but was tiring quickly, her feet less sure, dredging up the last reserves of energy, heading for the rift. She landed on the crystals with a cry and pulled herself up to face the Threshmaw. The beast charged, still choking on the crystals, sensing its enemy had weakened, and reared up, drawing back its muscled front limbs. Its jaws opened wide with a final roar.

The Majia Rift erupted.

Time slowed. The crystals flared, building to a final explosion of light banishing every shadow. The King ran towards Jiila, yelling a warning, but the words were strange, stretched thin, making no sense. The Threshmaw pitched forward, front legs thrown back, spraying drool in tiny spinning drops through the air. Jiila clung to the crystals, knuckles white with the effort of holding herself up, staring at the beast defiantly. Majia exploded around her, like cracks spreading through ice, though she did not seem to notice, even when the first jagged bolts cut across her skin and blood flew in a slow spray of crimson. She would die, the King had no doubt. The Majia would cut her down and no matter how skilful, she was not immortal. His body moved as if through treacle, hands straining forward, fingers opening like flower buds, seeing her head turn towards him, so slowly it could barely be seen, her eyelids drawing down in a blink. His hands drifted closer. The Majia surged in thick fatal shards.

Everything accelerated. The King crashed into Jiila, sending the two of them tumbling across the floor and the Majia leapt like lightning through the air where she had stood. The Threshmaw was still moving, jaws wide and the leaping energy twisted, drawn to the crystals wedged inside its mouth. Light spilled from the beast’s head like candlelight from a Halloween pumpkin, growing brighter, and it staggered back in terror. Then the Majia exploded.

Flesh rained in chunks, thumping onto the King’s back as he shielded Jiila from the gore. The Threshmaw’s body crashed lifeless to the ground.

Above, the crowd were silent. They stared at the beast’s smoking corpse and glanced nervously at Flint, standing at the lip of the pit, staring in disbelief. He stood back, catching their confused looks and his familiar crocodile smile spread across his face.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he announced, “The new champions of the Arena!” The crowd roared their applause, drowning the sound of the heavy metal dome dropping into the arena to shield the victors from the rift. Jiila coughed and pushed the King from on top of her.

“You need to lose some weight,” she said. He smiled and struggled to his feet, holding out a hand to help her up.

“That’s one paid back,” he said.

“I am impressed!” Flint called down to them, bowing to Jiila, “I think I may have underestimated you my dear.”

“You’re not the first,” she said, “Doubt you’ll be the last.” He laughed and turned his attention to the King.

“You truly believe you will reclaim your Kingdom?”

“Avarat will fall,” the King said, “I will honour my pledge to your people.” Flint looked to Jiila, unsteady but still standing,

“Such loyalty you inspire,” he said quietly, as if talking to himself, then raised his voice, “Very well Caldor, I will honour my side of the bargain and grant you passage to the mines, but if you enter them, I doubt you will be able to honour yours.”