The Champions (6 page)

“I realized something I think is very important today. Not
only is it important, but it is a realization that could change the world. If
we killed all of Sigrant’s troops tomorrow the kingdom of Valdadore would be
the victor, but not the winner. The same is true, though the opposite, if we
all die tomorrow. No matter who wins this war, humanity loses. We are all
pieces in a game played by the gods. They want the life they have given us
back, and the only way to get it is if we die. They create champions to kill en
masse to speed the process. Every birth is an affront to their cause, yet every
death makes them stronger. If we
have
to have a war, then the trick is
not to obliterate our enemy, but break their will, or destroy their reason for
attacking,” Seth explained.

Both Borrik and Sara nodded their understanding. They all knew
Seth to be right, and appreciated that he had revealed the rules of the game,
even though he was sworn to the cause of a goddess. Garret and James, however,
seemed conflicted.

“So you suggest asking King Sigrant to retreat with his
forces so that the gods don’t win?” Garret asked.

James stood thinking, as did Jack.

“No, obviously he did not bring this large a force to simply
turn around, nor is it likely he can be persuaded. What I suggest is that we
find a way to end the war which involves killing as few of his troops as
possible.”

“So kill only his blessed troops, sparing the common
soldiers?” James suggested.

“Perhaps, if we have to, but there is actually another
course of action that would require just one death,” Seth said.

“Kill the king,” Garret nodded. “What if we fail though? We
cannot just stand and take the blows for long, eventually we will have to fight
back.”

“Perhaps you are right, but there are always options, are
there not?” Seth asked.

“Killing the king sounds like our best one,” Borrik said,
his feral mind understanding the importance of taking out the leader of the
pack first.

“Killing him could be difficult,” James added. “There could
be twenty thousand troops between us and him, how do we get to him?”

“If we knew where he was, Borrik could get to him easily
enough, but we don’t. We need someone to infiltrate the enemy lines and locate
and kill King Sigrant,” Seth declared.

“Do you have someone in mind?” Garret asked, looking first
to Seth, then to Sara.

“I do indeed, although I would prefer two separate people
for the job. I can make it easier for them too,” Seth responded.

“Who could you possibly have in mind?” Garret asked as all
gathered looked to the death mage questioningly.

“Thousand Hole Tommy,” Seth replied with a grin. “Who better
to send than a man who cannot die?”

“Tommy is here?” James asked, obviously recalling the name
from his past. “By the gods, I cannot believe that man is
still
alive.

“And who else, Seth?” Garret asked.

“I don’t know. Someone fast, who can think on their feet,
and is experienced with killing.”

“I’ll have the captains find us a volunteer who meets your
criteria,” Garret responded.

“What of the rest of us then?” Borrik asked, his voice
coming as a growl from his throat.

“We are the backup plan,” Seth began. “If our assassins
fail, we still need to end the war. Our jobs are to kill only Sigrant’s blessed
champions, those the gods themselves are depending upon.”

“How do we do that?” Sara asked.

“By creating even more champions for ourselves, and
improving upon those already created. We draw them out. Toy with them, then
destroy them. All the while we have to retreat to stay ahead of the main forces
so that we are not killing those who don’t have to die,” Seth answered.

“What if we fail on both accounts?” James asked.

“We retreat to the city and hope that Sigrant runs out of
supplies over the winter and is forced to withdraw,” Seth said.

Garret stood silently thinking upon his brother’s words.
Ignoring the whole god involvement completely, the argument still held weight.
If either force was weakened significantly following the battle, another army
led by the ogres, trolls, goblins, or who knows what would invade soon enough
to finish either or both sides off. It was a battle where both sides lost. The
only other alternative was to surrender, but Garret had sworn to protect the
kingdom, not surrender it. He would heed his brother’s warnings for now, but if
all else failed, he would do what he could to decimate Sigrant and his troops.

“So it is true that you can create champions, Seth?” James
asked.

“Borrik is one of my champions,” Seth replied, gesturing to
the beast man at his side.

“What do you need in order to create them?” the twins’
father asked further.

“Power and volunteers, sometimes animals as well, but right
now I have all I need stored within me – minus the volunteers.”

“Let us move then to join the remainder of the army.” Garret
turned without another word and began to walk east towards his main forces. The
others followed him, their minds filled with puzzling thoughts of gods and
champions. The night would prove to be a long one indeed.

For several hours King Sigrant sat at the desk in his
makeshift command tent. Though the desk was basically useless, he found comfort
in placing his feet upon it and leaning back precariously in his chair. He
needed no maps to chart troop movements. He also did not need parchment, quills
or ink to list troop totals, rations, and other supplies upon. In fact, the
only reason King Robert Sigrant needed a tent at all was for enjoying his
women, and sleeping. Usually in that order.

For the mundane details of the day to day operation of his
forces all he needed was his head. Nearly everything about running an army came
naturally to the king. At any given time he knew precisely where his units were
and where they were going. He knew how many rations they needed and how many
sick and injured they carried with them. King Sigrant knew, down to a grain of
rice, precisely how much food he needed on a daily basis to keep the army
alive. He also knew how much he needed to keep their bellies full and happy,
but seldom were the two numbers even in the same realm of reality.

Instead of taking notes, Sigrant leaned in his chair as a
steady stream of messengers poured into and out of his tent, spewing updates
that Sigrant nonchalantly added to and subtracted from the totals in his head
as needed, paying specific attention to the numbers of losses sustained. Though
thousands had died, the number could not be accurate for several commanders
reported troops missing altogether, probably sealed beneath the ice of the
still frozen lake. More than a couple hundred were injured and were now being
transported to healing tents set up deeper within friendly lines.

Those who had fallen were being treated with respect as well
and currently mass graves were being dug for them. However, these were routine
things that Sigrant mentally cataloged before being stunned by yet another messenger
bringing news that Sigrant found most concerning.

“Carry on,” Sigrant ordered.

“Yes, your majesty,” the messenger replied. “It seems
thirteen men survived being attacked by the wolfmen as bite marks show clearly
upon their necks.”

“Why is this a health concern?” Sigrant questioned.

“Though only five have regained consciousness thus far,
Sire, all of them appear disconnected, and confused.”

“Could that not be from blood loss or a head injury?”
Sigrant asked, thinking his healers and the messenger might have sustained head
injuries themselves.

“Yes, but the healers report that their blood is restored,
yet they have still been blacking out and waking up disoriented. They also say
that something within the men prevents them from diagnosing the problem. They
fear it is some sort of infection,” the messenger answered.

“Then monitor them closely. If the symptoms persist by
morning then we will put them to death and burn the bodies,” the king decided.

With a motion he dismissed the messenger, and for now, at least,
it seemed the flow of messengers had stopped. Leaning back yet further in his
chair he thought hard about the battle of the day. Valdadore had withstood
much, yet not without losses. It was a small nation that he could easily crush,
but little could be learned from crushed objects. No, Sigrant wanted to bring
Valdadore to its knees. He wanted to kill the kingdom slowly, torturously. He
wanted to watch the small nation twist beneath his heel. More than anything he
wanted to see just how much the kingdom and its young king could take before
they snapped. Settling upon a plan, King Sigrant went for a late night stroll.

First the king, known for his cunning and decisiveness,
visited the mass graves that had already been dug, and looking in before they
were covered once again he was sadly disappointed. Anger flashed across his
narrow face momentarily as he looked around the great holes for someone to
accuse. Spotting an officer he unleashed his tongue.

“Lieutenant, this is unacceptable!” the king shouted, pointing
his finger at the junior officer.

“Your majesty, I was simply following orders,” the officer
replied, shame upon his face.

“You think that this would be acceptable to me?” Sigrant
asked mockingly, gesturing wildly at the giant grave with bodies and limbs
tossed inside haphazardly.

“If you would prefer them organized, your majesty, I will
see it done.” The lieutenant was already turning to bark the appropriate orders
at those he commanded.

“Organized?” the king questioned. “You fool, look at all the
weapons and armor in that grave. Such things have value. Dig it out!”

“Yes, your majesty!” the officer replied and spinning upon
his heel he began to give orders.

Sigrant strode off to see what other mistakes his
simple-minded soldiers were making. Along the way he visited several figures of
worth, including the head of his mages, and Vulgan, the captain to the
Gnashers. The bone-clad warriors were his most ferocious troops, and tomorrow
he would put them to use among others of his favorites.

Near an hour into his stroll, the king paused briefly as a
series of screams pierced the relative quiet of his encamped army. Turning in
the direction of the cries he located the healers’ tents. The screams ended
rather abruptly and, resuming his course, King Sigrant presumed that the
particular surgery being performed had not gone well. Mentally he added another
to the dead.

Though his information had been anything but accurate,
Sigrant could not help himself but to walk near a mile deeper into his army to
visit a newfound friend. Once there, the guards stepped away from the cart,
allowing their king to be alone with the mage prisoner.

“Vladmere, I find your company quite enchanting, yet your
inaccuracies… Well, to be honest they disgust me,” Sigrant said to the disrobed
mage confined within the cell on wheels.

“What inaccuracies?” Vladmere questioned, assuming his
condition would only persist until the king trusted him.

“You said Valdadore was lacking in champions; the army was
naught but less than a dozen knights, a hundred mages of average talent, and
the mage prince. Today my forces faced hundreds of giant wolfmen, flying beasts
who threw fire, blessed knights, mages, and more. Tell me you knew not of such
things.”

“I did not know, your majesty. The prince must have created
more champions,” Vladmere replied.

“Created champions?” Sigrant asked, disgusted. “You compare
him to the gods?”

“Of course not,” Vladmere sniveled, “he is but a pretender.
Slay him and see how his champions fall around him.”

“I will, Vladmere. Do not worry, but if you are incorrect
again, though, I will have you delivered to my torturers. They have means of
deriving the truth.”

Without awaiting a response King Sigrant turned and strode
off into the night. Returning to his tent, he sent a messenger to retrieve his
royal harem, and within minutes his tent was filled with the scents of flowers
and women of varying ages and experience. Tactically he put them to use, adding
his seed, subtracting their clothes, and dividing their legs. From time to time
he multiplied the pleasure by including several of his women at a time.

Hours later, exhausted, the king slept amongst the many nude
woman who had spent the previous hours pleasing him. Morning would come soon,
but none would feel better rested than King Sigrant.

*****

Seth sat next to a large fire as the night turned savagely
cold. Sara had come to join him shortly after midnight, and together they
leaned into one another. Each of them found comfort with the other, at least
momentarily, before Seth’s volunteers began to arrive.

First to come was the famed Thousand Hole Tommy. He was a
man appearing in his late seventies, but who was probably closer to two or
three hundred years old. However, as a man blessed by Vikstol, he had aged
slowly, and served his god well. It was said the man could not be killed. He
had sustained every known injury over his lifetime, but every time he rose
again to continue fighting. Tommy’s every organ had been pierced by a blade or
arrow at one battle or another, and three of his four limbs had been reattached
at least once.

Tommy would make the perfect assassin. Beyond his refusal to
die, there was nothing special about the man. He was of average strength and
size, and even his intellect was nothing impressive. Seth looked to change
that. Sorting through the menagerie within him, Seth sought out those
attributes he felt would make Tommy a more promising killer. Seemingly decided,
Seth began piecing together the puzzle that would create for him an assassin
unlike any other.

Again and again Tommy cried out in pleasure, his body
wracked with spasms with each new torrent of power that entered him. Seth gave
him no reprieve. After each attribute was given, Seth sought the next and
snapped it into place, making the pieces work with one another.