Victor of Tucson

Book 8: Chapter 42: Trapped

Darren spun, scanning the platform where the enemy archers kept appearing, but it was empty. “Was that…” He paused to lean on his staff, catching his breath. “Was that the last one?” Lam stood over the giant, her hammer dripping gore, her shield battered and likewise decorated. She didn’t answer, so Darren turned toward Trin and Edeya; they’d been fighting off the spearmen pouring out of the western portcullis. They, too, gasped for breath, and Darren saw Edeya’s lips move, but he couldn’t hear her over the roars of the monstrous spectators.

It didn’t matter because the announcer’s voice bellowed through the air, drowning out the noise, “Congratulations, challengers! You’ve passed your fourth wave! Return to the ready room and see to your wounds. You have one day before your next match is required!” As he finished his announcement, Darren stopped scanning the stadium, trying to guess where the announcer stood—he’d never been able to lay eyes on him.

It wasn’t surprising that he couldn’t single out the owner of that booming voice; the crowd was hysterical and unruly. Furry, horned, clawed, scaled, or tentacled, monstrous humanoids caroused in the stands—drinking, eating, cheering, jeering, and generally making football fans look like a children’s choir. The stadium rows were ramshackle affairs of great wooden beams and pillars, and the “seating” was whatever the strange onlookers brought to sit on—backpacks, stools, buckets, furs, blankets, or…nothing. All in all, it was a wild, noisy, intimidating spectacle, and each time Darren had stepped into the arena, he’d wanted to back out almost immediately.

Lam clapped him on the shoulder, bringing him back to the current reality, and, though she shouted, he barely heard her words as she leaned close. “Let’s head out! The Energy is forming up!”

“Right!” Darren held up a blood-stained hand, offering a thumbs up. He was a little upset to see his hand shaking, but he figured it was exhaustion or the dregs of adrenaline still in his system; the last battle hadn’t been a smooth one. He started for the iron portcullis, click-clacking upward on its rusty chains. The team had unanimously agreed to try to be out of the main arena before the System awarded them Energy; they didn’t want to risk being delayed and have to fight the next wave without a rest. As soon as they were all in the sandy tunnel, leaning against the rough stone walls, Darren looked out to see the golden Energy coalescing over the corpses of their vanquished foes.

In a rush, the Energy flowed through the air toward the four of them and split into four distinct streams. One of them slammed into Darren’s chest, and he felt himself slide down the wall, nearly knocked out by the rush of warm euphoria that flooded his body and mind. He saw stars and flashes of rainbow starbursts, and, as it all began to fade, he saw a System message in his vision:

***Congratulations! You have achieved level 13 Chaos Sorcerer. You have gained 6 intelligence, 5 will, 5 dexterity, and 5 vitality.***

“Yes!” Darren hissed, pumping his fist as he called up his status page:

Status

Darren Whitehorse

Race:

Human - Base 1

Class:

Chaos Sorcerer - Advanced

Level:

13

Core:

Wildarc Class - Base 2

Energy Affinity:

Lightning 8, Chaos 7.4, Unattuned 6.1

Energy:

602/602

Strength:

6

Vitality:

47

Dexterity:

20

Agility:

5

Intelligence:

27

Will:

43

“Not bad!” He looked up to see the others also staring blankly into space; apparently, he wasn’t the only one with messages from the System. His attributes were really starting to take off now that he’d gained a few levels with his “advanced” Class—rather than five points per level as a “base” human, he got twenty-one. He hated seeing his pathetic strength and agility, but, as the others kept telling him, no one could hope to maximize all of their attributes, and he could get items and learn spells to bolster his deficiencies. Failing that, he might refine his Class to shore up his weaknesses.

“Leveled, Dare?” Edeya asked, standing with a grunt.

“Yep. Thirteen now.”

“Nice, catching up fast. I just hit fifteen, and Lammy did, too.” She looked over at Trin, who was fruitlessly trying to wipe dried blood from her face with a well-used rag. “What about you, Trin?”

“Nineteen. I must be close to twenty, though.”

“Come.” Lam gestured for them to follow, trudging through the thick sand into the tunnel. “We can talk in the ready room.” Nobody argued, and soon they were all stomping through the deep sand—it was the same in the arena proper, probably meant to absorb blood and, as Darren had learned half a dozen times, provide for soft landings as combatants were thrown or knocked down. Not that soft landings helped all that much when people were ready to jam spears into you or crush you with massive hammers.

“Or pepper you with arrows.” Darren finished his musing aloud as he rubbed at a fresh pink scar on his shoulder; he’d been struck there by an arrow two battles earlier. Nobody paid him any mind; everyone was muttering to themselves. It wasn’t exactly restful in the “ready room,” and they’d been staying there, between fights, for four days. Everyone was kind of tired and raw. When they stepped out of the sand onto hard flagstone and followed the smoldering torches into the square, dimly lit room, Darren groaned and sat on one of the benches lining the rough, wooden table.

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“Tired, Dare?” Lam asked, lightly punching his shoulder as she stepped around to sit on the other side of the table. The only other furnishings in the room were the six wooden cots and rough spun blankets folded atop them. When they’d first arrived, Lam had snorted at the cots and attempted to summon her own camping gear from a storage ring; that had been when they learned that the dungeon somehow blocked their access to dimensional containers.

“Food should be here soon.” Trin peered through the peephole in the door on the far wall as she spoke. It was a stout, iron-banded door through which the coliseum attendants delivered their single daily meal. Considering the chef was probably a monstrous humanoid like the spectators, Darren had to admit that he was a little surprised by how tasty and filling the meal usually was—always some variety of stew, something like grease-smeared bread, and a large tankard of surprisingly cold beer.

“How much longer can we keep this up?” Edeya asked, her sapphire wings drooping in exhaustion as she sat beside Darren.

Lam shrugged. “I’d like to try another round or two. This one was hectic, but Darren did a good job neutralizing the archers with his area spells.” It was true; his Chaos Storm and Fractured Reality spells had effectively nullified the archers standing on the platforms, forcing them to flee down to the arena sands where Edeya and Trin had slaughtered them. Still, it had been a long fight.

He said what he was thinking, “It was a long battle, though. I was almost out of Energy, and if more than another wave came…” he trailed off, letting them use their imaginations.

“I have potions to restore Energy,” Trin sighed. “I wish I’d known we couldn’t use our storage devices. I can’t believe my father didn’t say anything!”

Darren shrugged. “Well, it seems like that woman, Efanie, tried to warn us off. I don’t see us getting through twenty waves, especially at the rate they seem to grow in difficulty.”

“Do you think…” Trin’s words lost their impetus, and Darren could see from the unfocused nature of her eyes that she was lost in thought.

“I’m game to try another. Is there any way to retreat if we’re losing, though?” Edeya asked.

“I—” Trin started to answer, but then a loud pounding on the door interrupted her. Lam jumped up and walked over to the iron-banded door, and just as she reached it, a brown, furry arm pushed it open. A woman who looked more bear than person stepped in carrying a large tray laden with four enormous tankards—their evening beer. She handed it to Lam, belched loudly, and turned to leave. Behind her, another fur-covered woman, this one hunched and far less physically fit, pushed her way in.

“Coming!” Edeya fluttered her wings so she veritably floated through the room to take the tray from the small, hunched bear-woman. Darren squinted, trying to make out what their dinner would be, but all he saw were four wooden bowls and a large paper sack. The bear-woman grunted something that sounded a little like “thanks,” then turned and followed the other woman out. They pulled the door shut with a resounding thud.

Lam and Edeya brought the trays over to the table, setting them near the center. Darren reached out and took his bowl. “Stew again.”

Edeya sighed and shrugged. “At least it’s seasoned well, and they use plenty of veggies.”

“What’s in the sack?” Lam asked, reaching to lift it from the tray. “Heavy!” She pulled it open, and Darren laughed at the familiar smell.

“Fries!”

“Fries?” Lam frowned and lifted out a golden wedge of fried potato. It still had the skin on it, but Darren’s nose told him he was going to love the flavor. Lam tentatively took a bite, and she laughed. “Potato!”

“Yeah! Deep fried in oil or, probably, lard or tallow.” Darren cupped his hands and held them out. “Can I have some?”

“Let them cool a little, or you’ll burn your hands.” Lam set the bag down, and they all tucked into their stew using the provided wooden spoons. Darren paused when he realized Trin hadn’t taken her bowl.

“Something wrong? Not hungry?”

“I—When Edeya asked about retreating, I realized I have no idea how we’re supposed to leave. I know we can ring the gong by the gate to start our next fight early, but…” She looked around, apparently at a loss for words. Lam and Edeya looked up from eating, Lam still chewing, but Edeya wearing a deep frown.

The younger Ghelli pushed her bowl away and glared at Trin. “Are you teasing us?”

“I wish I were—”

“Trin,” Darren interrupted, “what was it your, uh, security person said to you before we entered the dungeon?”

“Efanie said—” Trin’s eyes widened as things came together for her. “She said my father could stop the dungeon at any time!”

“Right, so just message him—” Edeya started to say but stopped short as her eyes widened. “We can’t access our storage devices!”

“Do you think your father is monitoring us?” Darren looked across the table as he spoke, noting that Lam had yet to say anything on the topic. She was still chewing, but Darren could see the storm clouds behind her eyes. She wasn’t happy.

“He may be—Gods! How do I know so little? I’m an idiot!”

“You’re a pawn,” Lam finally said. “There’s no way your father would send you in here without explaining these rules unless he meant for you to lure us inside. He knows you’re not a scheming, conniving scum, so he didn’t explain the dangers to you—you would have warned us, right?”

“Of course! I swear it! I’m—” Trin rapidly looked around the table. “Why? I don’t understand why my father would—”

“He told you to find us.” Darren groaned as everything fell into place. Trin started to object, but he held up his hand. “He planted the seed, right? Victor beat the snot out of his son, so he sent his daughter to lure some of Victor’s friends into a trap.”

“To what end, though?” Lam asked, nodding along as Darren spoke.

“Right. That’s the million-dollar question.”

“Dollar?” Edeya frowned. “Dare, speak plainly.”

“I mean, we don’t know if Trin’s dad wants us all dead or if he just wants to hold us hostage to get something from Victor. Either way, we’re trapped.” Darren looked at Trin and saw she had tears pooling in her eyes, staring into space, utterly stunned by the turn of events. “Would your father be upset if you died, Trin? Be honest with yourself.”

“Yes! He loves me!” The tears broke free from her eyes and streaked down her cheeks as she clenched her thin, pale hands into tight fights. “He buys me dresses, sends me to galas, shows me off to his friends—”

“Just you? How many brothers and sisters do you have?” Darren pressed.

Trin grew quiet, and her lips trembled as silent tears streamed down her cheeks. “Many. My mother is not on good terms…” Her voice fell to a near whisper as she tremulously admitted, “He has other favorites.”

“Well,” Lam sighed, reaching for the bag of fried potatoes, “looks like we need to win tomorrow, and we need to drag this out as long as possible, taking our full day of rest between each battle.” She looked hard at Darren. “Conserve your Energy on crowds. Use one area spell or the other; don’t stack them unless we’re getting overwhelmed.”

“Come on,” Edeya said, pushing Trin’s bowl toward her. “You need to stay strong. We’ll eat, then you, me, and Lam can work on some coordinated attacks.” Trin didn’t say anything, but she took the bowl and began to eat.

Darren stared into his bowl pensively, idly turning the hunks of fatty meat and soft root vegetables with his spoon. He tried to think about Trin’s father’s motives objectively. What would he gain by killing his own daughter along with three strangers? Vengeance? He supposed there were some people that petty, that…honor-obsessed. Still, he didn’t buy it. No, if Darren were a betting man, he’d say that Lord Volpuré was bargaining for their release even now. He nodded, comforted enough by the thought to bite into a crisp, fried potato wedge before a panicked thought raced through his mind: Victor was in some kind of prison dungeon!

#

Guapo tore down the strange, black, crystalline road leading away from the city of Sojourn, his hooves resounding almost hollowly on the surface as it flexed with his mighty strides. Victor held Lifedrinker in one hand, and the Mustang, the axe, and he, himself, all flickered with rage-and-magma-fueled flames. Guapo’s hooves thundered, and Victor hardly noticed the citizens he flew past; he moved so quickly that his vision had narrowed to a tunnel, and only Guapo’s supernatural ability to manage his incredible speed kept him from colliding with other vehicles or pedestrians. After a time, perhaps frustrated with the traffic, Guapo moved to the edge of the road and pounded over the grassy berm to charge in the open space where others didn’t walk.

He might have run the risk of angering some influential citizen, but that wasn’t likely, not on the ground—anyone with significant means in Sojourn flew, either under their own power or in a flying vehicle. No, Victor tore past ordinary iron rankers, people who wouldn’t dare challenge him for his hasty, careless passage. His aura was on full display, and even a steel seeker would pause before accosting him in the face of that potent, rage-filled weight.

Victor was rage-filled. He’d kept his fury simmering while he listened to Arcus. He’d held it at bay when he’d delivered Rasso Hine to the guards in the portal room. But as he’d strode through the Council Spire, it had begun to boil out of his mental containment like a pot left too long on the stove. Summoning Guapo, holding Lifedrinker, feeling and hearing their anger echo his own, Victor found his fury mounting, building to a point where, as he tore over the grasslands, he almost felt like his old self, fighting in the pits for Yund.

Even so, there was rationality left in him. He could still think. He could still objectively look at his rage and wonder why it was so stoked. He couldn’t pin down a single reason; he had many. He was furious that Arcus’s father was such a piece of garbage, for one. How could a man raise a son with no love, only fear, respect, and the tremendous weight of expectations? How could that same man be willing to sacrifice such a nice, sweet girl like Trin? Victor had only met her once, but he’d liked her! The idea that their father was so callous as to use her as a fishing lure—

Victor growled as his anger began to boil over, and flickering flames joined the black smoke escaping his lips with each heaving breath. Bohn Volpuré’s failings as a father were only the tip of the iceberg of Victor’s rage. The idea that two of the people he most cared about were selected as targets by that man simply because they were acquainted with Victor was enough to send him into apoplexy. Edeya! After all they’d done to save her spirit, this piece of shit was willing to try to use her life as a bargaining chip? And Lam? Lam, whom Victor had bonded with, coaxing her spirit home from a desperate crucible of the soul?

Victor lifted his head and screamed his mounting fury, and flames licked his lips as black smoke rode the soundwaves of the terrible roar. Adding to his fury was the idea that this weaseling worm of a man did all of this, knowing full well that Victor couldn’t legally kill him, not without first issuing a challenge, a challenge that he could accept while insisting on the use of his champion.

The laws of Sojourn were strange to Victor, but, according to Arcus, there were rules about who could challenge whom in this society. An iron ranker could challenge anyone, but any iron ranker could also have a champion, and a person’s champion could be any rank beneath veil walker—even a steel seeker. A steel seeker could only challenge other steel seekers or veil walkers, and veil walkers could only directly challenge other veil walkers. If someone above the iron ranks wanted to contend with an iron ranker, they had to employ an iron-ranked “champion.”

So, Dar could challenge Bohn Volpuré, but he’d need an iron-ranked champion. Bohn could then use his champion to fight Dar’s champion. That being the case, Victor didn’t see any point in getting Dar involved and perhaps earning another debt with the master Spirit Caster. No, he’d handle Bohn’s champion on his own. Of course, none of this might bear any relevance—Volpuré might have a bargain in mind, something he intended to tempt Victor with, hoping to dissuade a duel because of his formidable champion. Victor had already resolved to listen to his offer and terms, but deep in his heart, deep in his belly, full of fiery rage, Victor wanted to fight.

When he came to a fork in the road, he turned to the south, where the sign said the Venture Hills Estates lay. “Close now, chica. Close.”

Time to cut and rend. Time to bathe in the blood of our foes.

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