Chapter 70
A monster?
That didn't sound particularly encouraging, especially since I'd had to consume my Blood Chalice segments just to knit my wounds shut. Still, there was one thing I could do before the final bout.
As the portcullis of the arena's main gate began to groan open, I returned my dagger—slick with Orc blood—to its sheath, retrieved my shield, and wrenched the Axe of Khargan from a dead brute's skull. I needed every scrap of magical empowerment I could scavenge.
I lunged toward the greenskin I had skewered through the neck. He was still more alive than dead, slumped on the arena stones among the mountain of goblin corpses, gasping as life leaked from the hole in his throat. The Orc glared up at me with pure malice, clawing at the air with his one good hand. Raising the axe high, I brought it down on his head. The kill only yielded half a segment; it seemed most of his vitality had already drained into the dirt.
Before the gates could finish their slow ascent, I hunted down two more lingering goblins. Hacking through their necks as the crowd screamed for more, I managed to top off my first segment and start a second. A quick, theatrical gesture saw me hurl one of the severed heads toward the stands. It didn't reach the front row, but the Dark Elves met the move with a fresh roar of bloodlust.
The main gates finally opened. From the darkness came a guttural, hollow roar—one that sounded more weary than enraged. Heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed through the tunnel. What would it be? A Manticore? No, they sounded different when they walked. A Hydra? God, I hoped not; those things were massive and healed faster than you could cut them. Maybe some lizard-thing from Lustria?
What emerged was none of the above. Out of the arena's bowels stepped a massive, centaur-like behemoth. At first, I thought it was a Dragon Ogre, a twisted creature of Chaos, but I quickly realized my opponent was something else entirely.
Wait...
It was... what were they called?
"The elven creatures have managed to capture a Zoat," the Hypnotoad whispered in my mind. "Do not try to match its strength, warm-blood. Rely on your speed."
I could have figured that out without the backseat driving. The Zoat stood nearly ten feet tall, its massive frame covered in a thick, scaly hide. Its head vaguely resembled that of a tortoise, and it gripped an enormous mace topped with a jagged boulder.
"Can't you talk to it?" I asked Pepe just in case. "He looks like a lizard."
"No. Zoats are not servants of the Ruinous Powers, but they do not follow the Great Plan of the Old Ones. This creature stands in our path; therefore, it is an obstacle to the mission. Remove it, warm-blood."
My internal Hypnotoad wasn't exactly known for his mercy. In this case, however, he was right. There was no "opt-out" button on a Druchii arena floor.
With heavy, thumping steps, the Zoat approached the center. I retreated, drawing it out into the open space. I didn't want to get pinned against the walls. The lizard-centaur glared at me with deep-set, sullen eyes. It slowly raised its titan-sized mace and began to move.
I threw aside my useless shield. It wouldn't stop a blow from a monster like this. Keeping the Axe of Khargan on my shoulder, I marched toward it. There was no point wasting spears on that armored hide; the only way was to bait an attack, dodge, and strike. Besides, I still had one trump card left, and I was betting everything on it.
When I was five meters out, I broke into a sprint. The Zoat swung its mace with a sudden, violent speed—I knew it was faster than it looked.
"Now!" I barked, drawing the blood-stained dagger with my left hand.
The Ash Lash snapped out toward the enemy. Obedient to my will, the whip coiled around the shaft of the giant mace. I yanked the dagger back, mimicking the motion of hooking a fish. The magical lash shortened instantly, dragging the enemy's weapon forward and locking its movement. I dove to the right, circling around the beast's flank.
The Zoat released the mace with one massive claw, trying to crush me with a fist. I ducked just in time, sliding past its side.
"Take that!"
I delivered a running strike, burying the Chaos blade into the Zoat's front left leg. The enchanted axe didn't fail me; it bit deep through the scaly skin. The blood that sprayed out was a normal, vibrant red, unlike the Orc's sludge.
I managed one more hack at the leg before the beast counterattacked with its tail. It was a brutal move—the thick appendage slammed into my midsection. I couldn't dive or jump clear in time. Bracing my back against the creature's flank, I dipped my left shoulder to take the brunt of it.
God, what a "refreshing" massage. Sigmar, help me through this!
It felt as though every bone in my body had shifted at once. I was slammed into the Zoat's side, the wind completely knocked out of me. However, those last two hits had filled two full segments of the Blood Chalice. That bonus was the only reason I didn't crumble. I even managed to nick the tail as it retracted.
What now?
I gave the Ash Lash another tug to keep the beast off-balance with its mace and drove the axe into its soft underbelly. I tried to disembowel the thing, the blade slicing through the scales more easily now. As I plunged the axe in, I tried to drag it along the stomach to widen the gash. I expected another tail swipe, but the Zoat began to turn its entire body toward me. A mistake. I simply moved with it, raining down more blows.
The Zoat tried to swipe at me with a clawed hand, but I was already out of reach. Three segments. This monster was packed with life force, and it was leaking fast.
Another tail strike.
Shit...
That one nearly caught me off guard. A stinging crack across my back that stole my breath worse than the first. In that moment, the Zoat could have ended it. It could have kept lashing at me until the Ash Lash wore off. But, thankfully, the beast didn't know my limits. It made its second mistake: it called upon the Wind of Ghyran.
The lizard-centaur didn't know that using magic near me was a death sentence. It likely wanted to knit its wounds and harden its hide. A sound plan, normally. But my presence fractured the spell. The Zoat's wounds stayed open, but I received a jolt of raw Life energy. The pain from the tail strikes began to fade.
I hacked at its belly again, then its flank, then its leg. The Axe of Khargan was shredding through it now.
Blood! More blood for... Sigmar and the Great Plan, of course.
The Zoat tried one last tail swipe, but I had four segments filled. The attack failed. I shifted toward the base of the tail to minimize the impact and brought the axe down in a vertical arc. The blade flared with a dark light, as if the artifact were satisfied by the slaughter. One more strike, and the tail was nearly severed, dangling uselessly by a few strips of flesh.
The Ash Lash faded, but I didn't need it anymore. The Zoat tried to keep turning, but I stayed in its blind spot, showering it with strikes.
The fifth segment was filling when the Zoat finally collapsed onto the stones. My debut series was ending quickly and, for me at least, with minimal blood spilled. Beneath the Zoat, however, a massive crimson pool was spreading. The creature had stopped trying to heal. Finish it? I supposed I had to.
I raised the axe high, looking out at the frenzied crowd. They'd gotten the spectacle they paid for: a feast of unrestrained violence and primal cruelty. I looked into the monster's eyes. There was no rage there. Only pain and exhaustion.
"Finish it?" I asked in Norscan.
I doubt it knew the tongue, but I didn't want to reveal my fluency in Eltharin with all those ears around. The Zoat didn't answer. It merely opened its toothy maw, and I saw a stump where its tongue should have been. The Druchii had done that. Bastards. They'd cut the tongue from a creature capable of healing magic. Ending it was probably a mercy. Zoats weren't evil like Orcs or Chaos spawn, but this was for the best.
I took the axe in both hands, bracing for the final blow.
"No! Stop, beast! Back away!"
The shouts in Norscan cut through the din. From one of the smaller gates, a squad of fifteen Dark Elves rushed toward me, led by a beastmaster. It wasn't Kehmor; it was someone else, likely the Zoat's owner.
"Stand down! Obey!"
Obey? Like hell.
They were about ten meters away—spearmen, a few crossbowmen, and one guy with a two-handed halberd. Ignoring the beastmaster's screams, I delivered the final stroke. The Axe of Khargan, backed by five segments of the Blood Chalice, shattered the Zoat's massive skull. I really do love this choppa. It's short and heavy, but it cracks the toughest shells.
I wrenched the axe free. A pulsating red halo flared around me again. A bolt whistled past—or rather, it would have hit me if I hadn't seen the Druchii aiming and stepped behind the Zoat's carcass.
It seemed the beastmaster's men were losing their nerve. Would I have to fight them too? The crowd cheered, sensing more blood. But the fourth fight never happened.
From the other side of the arena, a larger squad emerged under Kehmor's lead. He had more men—shields, swordsmen, crossbows, and Sisters of Anath Raema with bows at the ready.
Looks like I was about to be the center of a Druchii turf war. Fine. I just needed to grab my shield; might need it later today.
"You owe me!" the other beastmaster began, his voice a snarl. "Your beast killed mine!"
"Yes. That is what happens in the arena," Kehmor replied with unconcealed mockery. "When your beasts killed others, you weren't so quick to reach for your purse."
"In a fight is one thing, but he finished it deliberately!" The master pointed a ringed finger at me while I retrieved my shield.
Kehmor laughed. "He is a bloodthirsty animal. A Norscan berserker. Don't pretend to be surprised. You feel wronged? File a complaint with Venil Cold-Blade. Tell him you put a beast in the pit and it died in a match. I look forward to hearing the Dreadlord laugh in your face."
The other master glared at Kehmor with pale, icy eyes, then cracked his whip and hissed to his men, "We're leaving!"
Kehmor gestured for me to follow. The red halo was fading now, but it still pulsed faintly.
"Ignore him," the beastmaster said in Norscan as we walked toward the exit. "The fool is just angry he lost his favorite toy. It serves him right. Look around you. Enjoy it." He waved his whip toward the stands. "Half of them want to own you now. The other half want your head as a trophy. Can you feel it? The greedy, ravenous gaze of a thousand eyes."
"The final bout has ended in a slaughter pleasing to Khaine!" the announcer yelled. "Jurg the Goblinslayer has shown he kills more than just wretched greenskins! The ancient Zoat, slayer of manticores and trolls, has fallen to the berserker's axe! The power of the woods has succumbed to the fury of the North! And in our next match, a young hunter seeking the blessing of Anath Raema will face..."
We returned to the guts of the arena. I consumed the remaining energy in the chalice. Despite the strain, I felt only a light fatigue. Vampirism is a hell of a drug, especially when you don't have to hide from the sun.
Liandra was waiting for us in the armory. With her were several other Dark Elves, looking wealthy based on their polished gear and groomed appearances.
"Your predictions are always incredibly profitable, Master Kehmor," one of them said, wearing a greasy smile. "The odds were magnificent today."
"The money is less sweet than the sour look on Keltrain's face," a woman covered in jewelry added. "His cursed lizard had been a thorn in my side for too long. He refused to pit it against an equal."
The other Druchii boasted about their winnings and mocked their rivals. Kehmor was right about the "ravenous attention." Every one of them was stealing glances at me. I didn't even want to imagine the deep, dark fantasies swirling in the heads of these sadists and sybarites.
"A fine specimen," one of the men said to Liandra. "Is he for sale? I could make a very tempting offer."
"Not as tempting as mine," the jeweled woman countered.
"Liandra, come, we must settle accounts," Kehmor stated. "The rest of you are invited to my estate for a banquet. Or perhaps you'd like to see the rest of the games? The penultimate match is a Polar Bear versus spiders. A rare sight."
Liandra followed the beastmaster, and I followed her. Kehmor led us to a small basement room and placed a casket of greenish metal on the table. The lock clicked open.
How did they put it in Pulp Fiction?
"Vincent, are we happy?"
Yes. Definitely yes.
In the dim lantern light, gold shimmered. Rows of coins and small ingots. It wasn't a kingdom's treasury, but it was a fortune even by the standards of the expensive Druchii lifestyle.
"I trust we did not disappoint you, Lord Kehmor," Liandra said, her tone icy but with a hint of pride.
"Oh, no!" he chuckled. "You impressed me. You impressed this entire bloodthirsty city, and now your lives are in danger. Especially yours." He pointed at Liandra. "I don't know where you found such a rare specimen, but my servants tell me the witches and acolytes of Khaine are already interested. I would suggest you hand him over to me now. I will pay triple. I'll walk him back into the arena today and declare Jurg the Goblinslayer is my gladiator. I have the influence to keep such a beast. You do not."
"I refuse," the elf replied curtly.
"Bold," Kehmor nodded. "Bold and reckless. I will help you leave the arena unnoticed. Later, you will both perform a task for me. After that, I advise you to leave the city. Or be prepared to fight to the death for every day of your lives."
"I was always prepared," Liandra answered, taking the chest. "We're leaving. I look forward to the chance to work for you, Lord Kehmor."
"My bodyguards will see you out. Walk carefully, girl. Some victories are more dangerous than defeats," the beastmaster called out as we left.