Chronoblood Chronicles - Prophecy of the Gladiator Read online

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 suppo
sed 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 Crimso
n 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 t
o 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.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞