Freelance Heroics (5 page)

Straight!
The illusions attacked, their daggers glancing off his barriers, but Mazik barreled into the real Vigg’Somala and bore him to the ground. Then, his hand firmly around the man’s neck, Mazik raised his fist and struck.

The crowd hissed as Mazik pummeled Vigg’Somala’s face like a worker driving a railway spike. Blue mana washed over the bigger man, and his nose was jammed flat against his face—and then Mazik was picked up and hurled away.

Mazik cried out as something sharp raked across his sides. He looked up to find the illusions still present, both coming after him. Mazik cursed at himself for assuming they would always disappear and blasted the nearest illusion apart.

There was another flash of light, and three more Shadowfists. Mazik watched as they encircled him. “Don’t you have another trick?”

The Shadowfists didn’t answer. They just attacked.

Mazik reached into his robes and drew three knives. He threw them, two and then one. None of the Shadowfists flinched. Mazik shrugged and whipped off his robes, tossing them over the Shadowfist to his left.

The other two Shadowfists lunged, but Mazik stepped under the dagger to his right and batted it away. Then he wrapped his arms around the Shadowfist and squeezed.

Mazik could feel an unnatural buzzing sensation against his skin.
Not the real one.
He picked the duplicate off the ground and turned, using it as a shield. He watched as the third Shadowfist stumbled erratically. “That means . . .”

Mazik dropped the Shadowfist he was holding and fired on the one tearing Mazik’s robes away from his face. The gray cloth fell to the sand as spell after spell riddled Vigg’Somala. There was a flash, and three new Shadowfists supplanted the old ones.

Mazik grinned and stalked forward. “Would you like to try again?”

Up in the stands, the crowd was going wild.

The three Shadowfists charged, but a burst of alteration propelled Mazik past the one to his right. He wrapped his arms around it from behind, and felt the telltale sensation of an illusion.

The illusion hung limply as Mazik lifted it off the ground, and it gave no reaction when the other two penetrated it with their daggers. But one of them tried to swerve around the illusion and attack Mazik, and it was at this one Mazik fired the spells hovering behind him. The real Vigg’Somala was hurled away, and the others disappeared.

Mazik pursued, firing on the downed assassin. Another flash of light, and three Shadowfists rose. Mazik blocked their attacks and slapped the dagger of the one to his left. It winced. Mazik grinned and grabbed the man by both wrists.

“Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself!” said Mazik as he forced the larger man to punch himself in the face. Up in the stands, the crowd roared with laughter. The dagger tumbled out of Vigg’Somala’s hands. Mazik kicked the larger man in the knees and picked him up. Vigg’Somala cried out as one of his illusions struck him in the back, and Mazik let him drop.

Mazik’s spells exploded all around Vigg’Somala, sending him tumbling again. Mazik loomed over him like the devil’s enforcer, a crescent slash of a grin on his face. “Do you surrender?”

“
Faug-nuere nik lodssf nuks id—Disappearance.
”

And Vigg’Somala disappeared. Mazik couldn’t help but laugh. His eyes glowed blue, and another cloud of mana immediately rushed out around him. Within a few seconds he had found Vigg’Somala, running at full speed toward the Gate of Life. Mazik took aim.

“
Mazik Missiles!
”

The spells struck and exploded, ripping apart Vigg’Somala’s barriers and tossing him to the ground. He flopped to the sand face first and twitched.

A whistle cut through the noise. The announcer raised his arms. “The match ends in a knockout! Contestant Kil’Raeus wins!”

“Well, this is going well so far,” said Raedren as he leaned back, the muscles in his back unknotting.

“It is.” Gavi shook her head as she watched Mazik retrieve his robes and knives. He spun and fired a spell into the air, which exploded in a dazzling display of color. The cheers increased.

“But technically we need to beat two people each, so this only puts us on track.” Gavi fought down a grimace. “And if either of us actually have to beat two, we might be in trouble.”

“Agreed,” said Raedren.

“Who’s next?”

Raedren took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “The Brotherhood of the Steel.”

Now Gavi did grimace. She rubbed the arrowhead necklace she always wore, which now bore her name inscribed on the back. “I hope he can keep this up.”

“He has defeated two opponents so far, each powerful duelists from the greatest adventuring guilds in this city! Defying the odds, doing the impossible, and doing it all with fight still left—contestant Kil’Raeus is on a roll!”

The spectators cheered as the announcer whipped them into a frenzy.

“But will he be able to keep it up?” A hush took over the crowd. “Next, the undefeated newcomer, Mazik I. Kil’Raeus, in his third match of the afternoon, will take part in a bittersweet reunion as he faces off against one of the very people who fought alongside him in the Battle of The Pit one month ago! Please welcome the sterling veteran from the Brotherhood of the Steel, Rynthe Mouré Jor’Alsuiv!”

The Gate of Life opened, and Mazik watched as a familiar face emerged. Rynthe looked little different from when they first met in Captain Ankt’s guardhouse, when he tried to get Mazik and the others tossed off the Amougourest quest. His robes were new, though that was no surprise—no one’s gear survived that battle unscathed. But they were still long and green, and he still wore a leather mantle on his shoulders, and Mazik could still see the emblem that proudly marked his guild.

Rynthe stopped and nodded. “Afternoon.”

“Afternoon. How’ve you been?”

“Fine. You?”

Mazik laughed. “It’s been a busy week. Plus, you know . . .” He gestured at the arena. “Employment troubles.”

Rynthe nodded. “Sorry to hear about that.”

What had changed, Mazik decided, was Rynthe’s demeanor. Where before he was haughty and dismissive, now he was calm and professional. Mazik didn’t think Rynthe liked him, but he sensed a grudging respect, chilly though it was.

“Let’s have a good fight,” said Mazik, bowing.

“Agreed,” said Rynthe. The two moved to opposite sides of the central ring.

While Mazik had little success uncovering their opponents in the days leading up to the event, he did learn about Rynthe. Even though he hadn’t known what his previous opponents were capable of, Mazik was more worried about this match. That’s because he
knew
what Rynthe could do, and the answer was pretty much what Mazik could do.

Rynthe specialized in evocation like Mazik. He was skilled in enhancement, force, and protection like Mazik. He preferred to use simple, direct attacks, also like Mazik. He was better at protection spells, and not as inclined to get into melee, but other than that their styles were identical. He also wasn’t stupid. That meant Mazik’s chances of a clever victory were low.

This is going to be a slugfest.

The announcer’s voice thundered over the stadium. “Gentleladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for another stirring match! Let the battle between Mazik I. Kil’Raeus and the Brotherhood of the Steel’s Rynthe Mouré Jor’Alsuiv . . .”

Bwaaaaang!

“Begin!”

The explosions began immediately. Mazik’s ethereal blue clashed with Rynthe’s pale gold as the afternoon lit up like a bank of fireworks. The air shook where spells collided, while others arced past and still others struck home. The arena floor was an inferno of light and heat and sound—and in the center, Mazik and Rynthe stood hurling spells at each other, and then they hurled themselves. They came together with a crash, Rynthe’s clenched fists and Mazik’s daggers wreathed in mana.

True to Mazik’s expectations, they were evenly matched. Where the previous bouts had ebbed and flowed as one or the other gained the advantage, this was like a dance, a terrifying back-and-forth as advantage was gained and lost in the space of an instant. No tango could be so beautiful, for in its fragility was the battle’s brilliance, and in the spectators’ knowledge that this spectacle could end at any second, never to return.

Mazik struck, and Rynthe blocked. Rynthe cast, and Mazik ducked. Mazik lunged, and Rynthe replied in kind. A column shattered from a wayward spell, but the spectators ignored it, the barrier crystals protecting them so their eyes never had to leave the show.

It was hard to tell how long the fight lasted, so riveted was everyone on the dazzling display. Mazik and Rynthe fought like tigers, each struggling to take the upper hand, but they were never able to hold onto it for more than a split second before their opponent took it back. They fought, and wore each other down, and continued fighting as their mana pools dwindled and their limbs grew heavy.

Mazik went for Rynthe’s legs, but Rynthe leapt backward. Rynthe fired, and Mazik ducked. More spells, another lunge, a strafe from Mazik, and he came in from the side and—

It was over. Rynthe fell, his legs trembling as they collapsed underneath him, his green robes dragging through the sand as his barriers shattered. Mazik’s knife darted to his neck as Rynthe lay completely exposed.

Rynthe raised his hands. “I surrender.”

Mazik fell to his knees. His daggers slipped from his hands, and he had to force himself to look up. “Good fight,” he said, forcing a smile. It wasn’t that that he didn’t mean it. He just barely had the energy to move.

Presumably the crowd cheered, though neither contestant noticed. Mana flowed into their muscles as the whistle blew, and the two slowly came back to life.

Mazik stood up, and held a hand out to Rynthe. “Seriously. Good fight.”

Rynthe nodded, taking his hand, and as Mazik pulled him up, Rynthe stumbled against him and whispered, “Now we’re even.”

Mazik blinked. He turned as Rynthe walked toward the Gate of Life. There was a certain strength in Rynthe’s step, which could have been faked . . . or a sign that he had held back. Mazik was pretty sure he had won fair and square, but . . .

Mazik shook the thought away and sat down. Now he noticed the cheering crowd, and waved. He didn’t get up though, nor did he cavort. What he did was rest, and meditate, and prepare himself for the next bout.

“I told you we should have sent more powerful people!” said the leader of Bloodfist, steam practically coming out of his ears. “We’re being made to look like a laughingstock!”

“Mouré is powerful enough, and he still lost,” said the leader of the Brotherhood of the Steel. “Face it. That lad is strong.”

“Then we should have gone ourselves! We—”

“Having one of us face them would have given them too much legitimacy,” said Warmaster Evii of Paragon. She folded her hands on her lap. “And if one of us were to actually lose, the damage to our reputations would be irreparable. It’s better to lose this entire wager than risk that.”

The leader of Bloodfist clenched his fists and seethed.

“Besides, we should have nothing to worry about.” Warmaster Evii pointed at Mazik, who was sitting with his legs crossed and eyes closed. “He’s worn out. Mas Jor’Alsuiv did his job. Our representative will finish him, and the other two should be manageable.”

“I agree. The protector is powerful, but his focus is on defense and support spells, while their third member isn’t even a full thaumaturgist,” said the leader of the Tryrindar Knights. “They shouldn’t be underestimated, of course, but they shouldn’t be as much trouble as this one.”

“Exactly,” said Warmaster Evii.

The three mid-tier guild leaders said nothing. Privately, they weren’t so sure. The momentum was against the Big Six now, and the crowd was firmly on the trio’s side.

But the mid-tiers didn’t really have a horse in this race, so they settled back to enjoy the show. Whatever happened, it would be interesting.

“Next up, Mazik I. Kil’Raeus will compete in his fourth match of the day. This time he will face off against the lightning bruiser from the peerless guardians of Paragon, Rysha Or’Huent!”

Mazik opened his eyes to get a look at his opponent. Rysha Or’Huent was a lean woman with a fierce demeanor. She wore a combination of simple clothing and plate armor, with the plates strapped around her legs, arms, chest, and hips, presumably to take some of the burden off her barriers. Her black hair was cut short, save for a small braid to the left of her face. Sheathed at her sides were two daggers with Houkian fists
¹³
worked into their grips.

Rysha extended a hand to Mazik. “Rysha Or’Huent. You’ve fought well so far.”

Mazik took the offered hand and stood up. “Thank you. Can I interest you in throwing the match? I’m getting a little tired.”

Rysha chuckled. “No, I don’t think so. Do you need me to go easy on you? I can’t go
too
easy, though. If this whole thing goes to a tie I have a feeling the judges will pick you in order to avoid a riot, so I’ve got to finish this before then. Sorry.”

“No, come at me with your best. If we’re going to do this, we may as well give them a show. I wouldn’t mind a hint or two on your style, though.”

“Sure. Just a small one though.” Rysha drew one of her daggers and slid her fingers into the grip. “I’m fast and I hit hard. You should probably dodge if you don’t want to lose immediately.”

“That’s not very helpful,” said Mazik.

“I’m your opponent. I’m not supposed to be helpful.”

Mazik grinned. “Granted. Let’s have a good fight, all right?”

“One of us will,” said Rysha.

“Ooooo, I like you!” said Mazik, laughing. “I’d ask you out to dinner if I didn’t already have a girlfriend.”

“That woman on your team?” asked Rysha, nodding toward Gavi.

“What? No, uh, not her,” said Mazik. “My girlfriend is here, she’s just sitting elsewhere.”

“Ah,” said Rysha. “Well, we wouldn’t have been able to get dinner tonight anyway, because you’re gonna be unconscious after this.”