Chapter 1: 1 – The Dueler

“Quiet down you miscreants!” Dor’s yell was amplified by his conal pipe of dark, breathing fauvite. The living metal held mystical properties none could understand more than what they could see or how it could interact with the body.

Crowds of human and orc from all parts of Atmos gave a whooping boo to the insult from the Duel Officiator. He stood atop a raised platform in the Duel Arena near the luxurious limestone boxes sparsely filled by the wealthy and influential as he jeered the crowd into an uproar.

“For our first round,” he paused for effect, “we have two newcomers to the Duel in their first official match!” The people cheered loudly, ringing the ears of all in attendance. Amateur duels often ended in death, and nothing was more spectacularly suspenseful than the abyss.

“First through the gates is a man who has seen war, a man who escaped the grip of the abyss by the Giver’s hand, and now proudly serves the Udreshn Guard in Byaldor; Wielding a deadly longblade and a round iron shield – it’s Mehluuk!” Dor drew his shout, elongating the name and drawing the crowd into a stomping cheer against the faded stone standouts.

Mehluuk walked through the wrought-iron gates that clamored with a squeak as it opened. He waved his sword around in the air as the wind blew a cloud of sandy dust around his plate of polished iron, crafted with the appearance of a sculpted body. Emblazoned in the shoulder was the crest of Udresh, an iron fist breaking a shield. The skin and bone of his legs had been replaced by fauvite, shaped into cuisses and greaves.

Angry shouts and lamented insults were thrown at the Udreshn guardsman from the outcast section. The chimeras born of many varieties – scaled bodies, some with beaks, or fangs, or antennae, or even extra limbs – held their own section inside the massive stone colosseum. In Vezna, once was a time none were ostracized for their mutation, but the free city had lost independence when it fell to the conquest of Kandavir the Kinslayer.

Kitar sat on reddened clay-fired slats stacked atop each other in the waiting area. These were often used to add barriers and barricades when the match would be against animals, creatures, or any kind of monster to add to the suspense and appeal of the crowd. She had no interest in that type of spectacle.

“Alright?” Gaelant asked. His chipper lilt came from the Svaldic Isles. A faded teal-gray shaded his eyes wrinkled with age. His face was pale and his head carried short blond hair as dirty as he was after a day's worth of training. Strapped over his shoulder was a large flagon, insulated with cowhide.

“Yea, I’m fine,” Kitar responded. Her muscular leg bounced furiously, nearly shaking the clay she sat on. She lifted her head to see Gaelant had his arm held out, holding a tin mug. She took the cup and grabbed a whiff of the scent. Arl Silver tea, flavored with sweetgrass and orange peel.

“You look dreadfully awful,” Gaelant laughed. Kitar’s green eyes remained unamused as she sipped from the mug before setting it down. “Mehluuk’s just been called in. You’re up in less than a minute.”

Kitar stood, her face darkened, and her stance grew rigid. “Just another day of training,” she said, tying her long umbral hair laced with threads of amber to a high, tight bun. She lifted the mug for another sip. One of her favorite blends of flavor, she thought.

“That’s a good mindset lass! Just forget about the notion you may die out there.” Gaelant’s brow was raised as high as the curve of his lips.

“Abysshole,” she uttered with a smirk, slamming the half-empty mug into his chest. Some tea sloshed out and dripped to the blood-soaked ground. Kitar was half a head shorter than Gaelant, her body more toned, proportional, and smooth by contrast.

“C’mon that was expensive!” He wiped the beads of tea from his tanned leather tunic and dried his hand on his brown frieze-cloth belt. “Well if you survive, we’ll go to Midhork’s and get proper drunk.” Gaelant had been her life teacher, combat instructor, and the closest thing to family she had since the day he rescued her as a child from a Udreshn soldier.

“If you’re buyin’, then sure,” she said. Kitar couldn’t argue for a better tavern as she heard the Officiator begin his next introduction. She grabbed the two shields which she had kept sheathed on her thighs. They were made of titanium, and shaped to her thighs width and length. She took a deep breath, slammed them together, then headed toward the gate.

“An amateur Dueler born here in Vezna –” Half the crowd cheered, the other half booed, while the outcast section shouted the loudest in elation, “Strangely carrying two shields! I don’t see how that could be of any use but here she is now! Looking as fierce as she is pretty – it’s Kitar!”

Kitar walked on gelatinous sand as she took her place in the left center of the arena. She wore a padded vestment of dark silver leather layered down from her chest to her waist, blemished and scarred from use. Her garb underneath consisted of a colorless bamboospun imported from the island of Waiba, and fitted to her form. A similar style was present on her muscular legs.

It had always been her dream to be a dueler. To win significantly more than she lost. To be invited to the Gladius Tournament and receive a title of her own much like her childhood hero Lei-Lahk, the Hands of Death and her instructor Gaelant, the Greyblades.

She waved to her chimeran drinking buddies she had met in the slums of Vezna just two moons before. They all let loose a boisterous racket.

Officator Dor continued his announcing prattle with long wind on the rules and outcomes along with the prize at stake before adding flavor to the duelers’ backgrounds. Kitar heard little of it. In a Duel, there was only one rule that mattered – don’t die. And that clouded her thoughts.

“What you think you are doing?” Mehluuk shouted. Kitar remained still with steady breath. “Two shields is not fit for combat! You would not last on battlefield.”

Kitar heard this sentiment before, and often. She had been trained well by Kazoki, the cousin to Lei-Lahk, along with her current instructor Gaelant who vanished from the scene nearly ten lights ago. A duel was nothing like a battlefield engagement, and those who would draw comparison are fools.

Any type of armor, weapons and fighting styles were allowed in one-on-one bouts, and killing your opponent was a victory met with no punishment. Out of respect and honor, the duelers aimed only to injure – when it could be helped. Any hesitation would result in a stark entry to the onyx-laden gates of the abyss.

“You do not want to speak?” Mehluuk was met with no response. He stabbed his sword into the dirt and held one hand vertically to his chest. It struck Kitar that he was praying to Eni, yet that came with a kneel. Perhaps he was incapable of the action with regard to his artificial legs. It didn’t make a difference. Appearance wasn’t all that mattered.

“BEGIN!” The Officiator yelled.

Kitar steadied herself, shifting her leather boots along the sand. Mehluuk dashed forward. Kitar’s knuckles grew white around the grip of her shields. She dodged an arcing swing of his blade, and met his shield with hers as she spun around him.

Mehluuk started to lose ground as Kitar’s shields pounded into his arms and chest, preventing him from lifting his sword. Her combat style resembled Waiba’s native martial arts; incorporating kicks, dangerous kicks, as her ankle-boots held a titanium toe.

Mehluuk grew tired, his shield was beginning to stoop, heavy as iron was by comparison. Kitar slammed her shields together catching a slow breathy swing and jumped in a barrel roll. Her opponent had been disarmed. She swept his leg then mounting his chest, she pressed the sharp edge of her shield against his neck. He raised his hands together to form a tight ‘x’, indicating surrender.

“What an upset!” Dor yelled as the crowd clamored. “With a dazzling display of agility she finished the match quick, and I can tell the fans want for more!” The crowd screamed in unison. “Well let’s give the crowd what they want,” his voice nearly drowned by the volume, “we had a participant drop-out of our next match. Who wants to see Kitar face-off against Orulia?”

The crowd wailed in elation. Kitar was herself surprised but not disappointed. A chance to show what she was made of would bring her closer to her goal. The Gladius Tournament. Where the king himself would come to watch.

Dor spoke to the crowd as Orulia entered the ring. Kitar thought of where Kandavir would sit in the Gladius aftermath. Raised on a deck of mahogany under a pristine awning lined with goldvine, glimmering brightly as the verdant strands wrapped around the posts. Three opulent seats. Either side filled by Ryven and Jahzeen of the Udreshn Elite with the king center.

It would be tough to get close. She would have to win the Gladius for her best chance at succeeding. Festivities would commence in the winner’s honor. Feasts of grand meat and frothy ales and deep meads. Music moved throughout the courtyards. Duelbards sang the praise of their journey. She wondered if they would start with the murder of her parents, or today’s victory.

As the feast ended, the king presented a steel-tempered gladius sword decorated uniquely with a crossguard and a pommel inlaid with a sharp cut of ruby. Then the winner would rise from their knee and be asked for their chosen title. Kitar had thought of one already.

Drops of rain shocked her skin, her eyes snapped to the scene in front of her. Orulia’s large frame fit with a broadaxe was charging toward her. She flung her shield from where she had been standing loosely against the wind. Orulia was too slow to dodge or block from the distance just two blade lengths away. The shield collided with her jaw, knocking her unconscious.

The crowd was deathly silent.

“If you can believe it! That may have been the quickest duel in history! Let’s make some noise and wake the recordkeepers from their long slumber!” Dor yelled while the crowd erupted with a mixture of laughter, cheers, and caws.

Gaelant was perched on the clay slats as she returned to the waiting area. “Easy enough?” He smirked.

“You said I could die but that wasn’t even a challenge,” Kitar replied, nonchalant.

“Ay lassie, I’ll let you in on a little secret now that you’ve had a taste of the arena. Ninety percent of the duelers you face are going to be easy. It’s that last ten you got to worry about, the ones you’ll meet at the Gladius.”

“Why did you hype it up so much! I was shaking, I was so nervous.”

“Didn’t want you to drop your guard. Those bad habits of yours – losing focus, and forgetting to breathe – can get you killed against an amateur.”

“I don’t lose focus,” she retorted.

“Yea? What were you thinking about out there that had you seconds from death?”

She stammered a breath, tensing with shame as her cheeks buried a tint of old rose. “The Gladius. My parents. What does it matter?”

“It won’t matter if you’re dead!” A man shouted. Both turned to see a larger man walking in their direction. He wore a luxurious black tunic with an intricate pattern threaded in from the silver fleece of a mountain wolf. The hem was a deep red and sat tight at the waist. He held his hand over his chest where taut strands of golden string tied the tunic together over a white silkspun undershirt, and bowed. “Ryven of the Elite.”

Kitar glimpsed the crest on his large shoulders. The Elite’s crest had their fist with pointed knuckles – the shape of a crown. Her fingers twitched as she resisted the urge to strike him down here and now. She had only seen him once before, but then he was clad in tempered steel. He was far less intimidating without his helmet. Silky chestnut hair thrown back to his neck showcased a rigid yet handsome face with a sturdy jaw. “Kitar,” she said unenthusiastically.

Ryven glared at her with dark condescending eyes. “I suppose it is typical of a commoner to not understand the courtesies of nobility. In the future, you would do well to bow when meeting someone new.” He turned to Gaelant, “and you are?”

“Gunter,” Gaelant said with his accent hidden, bowing.

Ryven eyed Gaelant. “You look familiar. Have you participated in the Duel?”

“Only as a trainer,” he responded, trying to keep his words brief to prevent his accent from slipping out. “I have not stepped foot in the arena. Lingering injuries make it difficult for me to move.”

“Injuries from the war? Were you a soldier? You do not have an accent from this region.”

“I was a hunter.”

“I see. I never cared for hunters or duelers, as most are nothing more than uneducated barbarians.”

“You see right through us.” Gaelant gave a labored smile, wrinkling his eyes more than he was accustomed to. Ryven chuckled with insincerity. “To what do we owe the honor of your presence?”

“I was delighted with Kitar’s performance.” Ryven turned to Kitar, “ I am here to invite you to join the Udreshn ranks. You could be a soldier tomorrow –” He raised two fingers, pointing them, “but with your skill, I believe working your way up in the guard would be more rewarding.”

“Not interested. I prefer to spend my time at the Dueler’s Guild. I’m opposed to murder,” she said with heat in her voice. The edges of Ryven’s mouth twinged, looking as if he was straining to prevent them from thinning.

Then his eyes glinted with curiosity. “How is it that you are already living in the guild, having won your first duel today?”

Damn. She felt so frustrated at his offer, she had forgotten to keep that a secret. “I was a lostling. The legendary Lei-Lahk had found me on the street and brought me there. I was allowed to stay, as long as I trained, and kept it clean.”

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“Oh? The Hands of Death himself? Shame he isn’t alive today to confirm that.”

“It’s a shame nobody had found his body,” Kitar replied. Gaelant shifted uncomfortably. Kitar realized he never mentioned her living there. It was as if he already knew who she was. It panged her body with a wracking anxiety. Am I being interrogated?

“And you are Veznan born?”

“It’s where I was found. I don’t want the crowd’s pity.”

Ryven looked contemplative. “I see. I suppose your fighting style is of some resemblance. One that would be difficult to imitate. Be that as it were – a dueler’s life is short, and dismal at best. A life in the guard, however, is much nobler – especially in the capital.” He paused. Kitar kept her gaze strong on him as he scanned her tattered clothes. “Would an incentive of auran convince you?” Ryven asked, pulling from his tunic a noticeably large and full silken pouch that rang with the heavy clink of gold.

Kitar wanted deeply to take the coin. The doors of the guild creaked loudly, nearling falling from their hinges. Glass from the windows had all fallen out. Residents went days without food. Local duel crowds had lessened in the last few lights with the insurgence of Chapel of Eni supporters spreading their gospel of divine peace. The pouch was enough to feed them all for a season.

She pondered joining with the invitation to the capital. It would be closer to Kandavir by proximity. And only proximity. The conviction she had in her goal was too strong. “No. You could bring that to a shelter. Lostlings are dying by the day,” she said, her face struggling to remain pleasant.

Ryven scoffed. “So be it. The guilds will not last much longer. Soon you and all the freeloading dregs within will have to find a new place to live. And things aren’t getting any less expensive. It would be fair to say that a guard’s life isn’t much different from a dueler’s. At least as a guard,” he sneered, “you wouldn’t have to be a housewench.” Ryven turned with a disappointed sigh. “I’ll let you think on it, guild rag,” he said as he walked away.

Kitar’s body trembled with rage, her teeth grinded audibly and her jaw quickly grew tired. She spoke gutturally, “I should’ve killed him. He knows who we are.”

“He didn’t recognize me, I don’t think, anyway. And it’s a good thing you didn’t attack,” Gaelant said, “if an Elite Guard turns up dead in the Duel Arena, imagine Kandavir’s retaliation. It would be easy to guess who it was and all he needs is suspicion to execute. Then you won’t ever get your chance.”

Kitar remained silent as they walked. The town was a mash of limestone, brick, and plastered structures. Night was coming, and the sky was enrooted with clouds growing thicker as autumn pushed away the summer blue. Her mind was fogged by anger, and hate. She had grown used to these feelings, but managing them was a skill yet to develop.

A skill she wished she did not have to develop. And perhaps that was what held her back. She could not separate her mind from the past. Each day she thought of nothing more than what needed to be done. But if she could change the past – she would.

Had her parents only surrendered peacefully, they would have lived.

But no. It was not their fault, she reminded herself. Her mother was attacked unprovoked. If her father would have stayed with her, or if he had taken them with – No. Whichever way she tried to twist the memory in her mind, there was always one constant. Kandavir commanded the sacking of Vezna.

The time that followed was just as bloodied. At only twelve lights, she had woken on a cruddy ship of driftwood tacked together with iron nails rusted as they were bent and twisted. Two blades gray as storm, shiny as gold, reflected a thin sliver of light into her eyes. Eyes that rested then upon a dark brown frieze-cloth belt with a dueler’s pin. Gaelant had taken her on board and sailed away from Vezna with a small crew of men whose names had been long forgotten.

Waiba was their first destination. It was beautiful, she thought. Buildings made from natural golden wood unlike Udresh’s menagerie of dirtied and broken stone and clay. Elongated and curved blue or black clay-tiled roofs were clean and smooth while Udresh’s thatched roofs leaked and blew away with strong winds. Grass held a darker green, a softer touch, and a sweeter scent. The lakes and rivers were surrounded by trees full of cherry blossoms, the beautiful flowers would fall slowly, resting on the green lillies as a blanket for nature’s inhabitants.

Kazoki’s home had a small pond in the yard behind, and she spent many nights staring into it, wistfully unaware of the bright starry skies unpolluted of Udresh’s false light from torches and lanterns. Seeing nothing more than her parents' faces, she would reach for them and they would ripple away. Though tried as she could, she did not remember their appearance anymore.

Kitar trained diligently under Kazoki, cousin to the Hands of Death. She learned his style of fighting, and won her first local duel in a small Waiban village at only thirteen lights. She felt as she did after winning just moments ago. It did not last.

With her skill they had traveled through Udresh alongside the rebels who fought against the crown’s oppressive rule. Gaelant had been arrested in Byaldor, and nearly killed. The rebels freed him, and from there they fled to Liria to live in Aurum as Kitar honed her skills at the dueler’s guild domicile within its borders.

She thought again of Lei-Lahk. He had saved her from a Udreshn raider only seconds from the abyss, if not servitude as a vhori slave where she would have been used in whatever manner the noble owner demanded. Her eyes stung, so she knuckled away the tears as they formed.

“Alright, Kitar?” Gaelant asked. She had not comprehended any images on their walk along the river. She thirsted for drink from the tavern in front of her, but instead saw only the waters of the Dead River where the refuse of war was dumped. Rough currents during the Season of Rain would push them into the Wasting Morass. The heat from the Season of Sky would deteriorate those ashore the riverbanks. Her parents would have been dumped here. She wished now that she could remember their names.

“Just thinkin’ about the past again,” she said.

“You have to let it go, someday. At least for now, forget about it,” Gaelant said, pushing open the doors to a tavern.

Applause erupted from Midhork’s, a tavern in the Vezna slums. Orcs and chimeras enamored by the strong and striking dueler pushed away the memories of Kitar’s lament. Forceful patting caused her shoulders to pop and her neck to crack. Her friends she had made just two moons ago shook her vehemently with joy.

Kitar let her hair fall down her back. “That’s enough you offs of whores and cocks,” she said, letting her dirty scowl turn to a fine smile. “Let us celebrate!” She grabbed two bottles from behind the bar counter where the busy Midhork hadn’t noticed, and left enough aurans to cover the cost with a little extra. One bottle had been wine curated from berries. The other tasted of dandelion and mariwoad. “This one’s on me,” she said, handing the bottle of flower wine to an Avianary, a bird-esque chimera, as she sat facing the door.

Two mutants with six arms between them were playing music. The one with four arms had been knocking on drum barrels of cheap willow and tattered alligator skin stretched over them. Scaljens gave no mind to the skin’s use, no more than the taurus chimera Bovidaens gave to leather garb. The other plucked dandily at a lute with filed claws.

Kitar shared a cawing laughter with Iluana whose beak protruded no further than a large human nose as she listened to a spectator's perspective of her last duel. “It was funnier than the theater,” Iluana spoke amusedly.

“Ay but from my view,” Gaelant said, hiccuping from ale, “I thought she was dead in the sand!” He took a sip from the flower wine. “This is awful,” he said.

“It has health benefits,” Kitar said with a slur.

“I cannae care less about my health. Look at me; I’m old, getting fatter and slower.”

“Getting? You have been,” she quipped, “You –”

The doors swung open. Metal boots clomped on the wooden floorboards replacing the beat of the drummer. A pompous face resting at a furrow sat upon an athletic body attired in crimson velvet with blackwool bindings, showcasing an ornate pin of Udresh’s Elite crest. Kitar stood as he halted by her table. She recognized those pale, lifeless eyes.

“I’m not joining the Guard,” Kitar said, her voice chilly. “I’ve thought on it plenty enough.”

“Good to hear it,” he said, “It looks as if you recognize me?”

“Jahzeen.”

Jahzeen bowed, “so is my name. But I am not here about the Guard. I have an offer for you to join the Legion.” The legionnaires in tow looked menacingly around the tavern as whispers jumped around the room. The Legion was the core of Kandavir’s chosen raiders, 2nd to the Elite. Their outposts were constructed across the northern country of Udresh as each territory had been forced to surrender. Any sign of revolt was met with the Legion decimating the civilian population. Many towns lay empty by the hands of their warriors who were renowned for ruthlessness as much as skill with a blade.

“The answer is the same,” Kitar said, “I’m not a murderer.”

“Pity. Tear it down.”

The legionnaires brandished warhammers and began smashing tables and breaking the planks holding the walls together. Midhork wailed a complaint and tried to stop a hammer from smashing the bar, and the infantryman rammed his chest with the blunt metal.

“Stop!” Kitar yelled with fire.

Jahzeen raised his hand near his ear and the legionnaires stood straight, waiting for the next order. He pulled a dagger from his belt. The hilt was of bone with a blade of platinum, known only to a few metalworkers in the lands both north and south of the Wasting Morass.

“You say you are not a murderer,” he said, walking closer to Gaelant, “yet if you do not join; I will kill this man.” He placed the blade to Gaelant’s neck. Blood beaded on the blade. “Then his death will be on your hands. And I’d hate to see Greyblades die in such a pitiful way.” He grimaced with pleasure. “I used to be a fan, after all.”

Kitar wanted for her shields. She had begun to reach for them when Gaelant’s begging eyes did not relay the message she hoped to receive.

“She will join. Right Kitar?” Gaelant half-asked.

Kitar let her hands go limp. Her body felt as if she had been standing in front of a forge. Her mind screamed no. She felt as if another light had passed in the seconds between Gaelant’s pleaful question and her answer. A line of crimson now flowed down into the shirt of her last remaining family member.

“Fine. I will join,” she finally said.

Jahzeen placed the dagger back in its sheath and color returned to the room. “Good. Now, follow me.”

The two followed Jahzeen toward a small dock along the Dead River where he waved his guards away. There was something wrapped on the pier. Is he so confident that he’s willing to be out here alone with two enemies? Kitar slid her hands across her shields still strapped to her thighs.

“How did you know who I am?” Gaelant asked. His voice broke the tension in Kitar’s body. “I shown my face little in those days.”

“Your swords gave you away,” Jahzeen said, sounding arrogant and crude. He released the object from its wrapping. Two swords sat in their sheaths. “As luck may have it, the guards conducted a random search of the Dueler’s Guild and came upon these,” he said, revealing the blades. “Nobody could discern what the metal was. I guessed auraddium.” Gaelant swallowed. Kitar recalled that if an army was equipped with a metal as strong and as sharp, they would be unstoppable. “Fitting isn’t it, Greyblades? I could have arrested you, or simply – executed you, if I wanted. Lucky as you are – to know some influential figures in Liria.”

Kitar understood Jahzeen was speaking of Persute the de-facto leader, and possibly Brohk, a once dueler and now renowned weaponsmith. “What does that matter?” She asked.

“To you, it doesn’t. To the king – perhaps it does. That is what we want to find out. You will both head to Liria and report back to me on all that happens,” Jahzeen demanded.

“And what do you need Kitar for? Leave her out of it,” said Gaelant.

“To prevent suspicion. I’m sure you’re aware Liria has its own Duel bracket now. As a secondary, it will keep you in check. If either one steps out of tow – I’ll kill you both.” Jahzeen saw Kitar’s hands grab at her shields. “That won’t do you any good.”

“The abyss it won’t!” Kitar bashed Jahzeen’s face with all she could muster. She lost balance and fell as her shield shattered into pieces. Her hand rattled with incredulous vibrations as if a thousand pyromoths were biting the skin while a whetstone abraded bone.

“I’ll let you get away with that one,” Jahzeen said. His face had changed. His skin was metal; mercurius. And his eyes had replaced its white with gray, the iris glowed with a circlet of pale violet. A cloud of fear followed Gaelant’s breath. “I expect a pidgkin weekly. No later – else the abyss will feel as a lifelong dream to yearn for.” Jahzeen tossed Gaelant’s swords into the muddy shore and walked away. His skin reverted to normal but Kitar’s mind remained spotted. She was stuck on her knees, goggling the sky. The beautiful violet aurora illuminated the lunar plane as if it were only a fading dream – like her goal; unreachable, and untouchable.

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