The cloaked figure ran from Vakhanor, weaving through the crowd on light feet, he descended the steps and turned to snake down into the guts of the arena, where more like him were waiting, many more, and if his aggressor did not choose to return the highly explosive crystal-like loot to him, he would find himself in a lot of trouble. Were Vakhanor to continue his blind chase instead of losing himself to the vast number of spectators in the crowd today, three men would follow him down the stairs and make sure there was no going back. On the breastplate of the man's leather tabard, a dragon sigil was tooled into the softened hide, with seven diamonds cut into the cloth overhead like stars. The cloaked man stopped at the bottom of the stairs in the tunnel, surrounded by his kin, turned back and held out his hand for the pouch.
On the sands, Thomas and Malcolm were already at odds, weaving side to side and jumping back from the swing of the giant's axe.
"My lead!" Malcolm reminded the commander and closed his left hand about the chain that bound them in order to strengthen his control over which direction he was jerked and pulled.
"We need to get closer!" Thomas yelled, his tone like white noise, lost under the roar of the crowd.
Thomas tugged the Mortalborn forwards to strike, just as Victoror brought down his axe, and the two, failing to communicate, tried to dash either side of the swing as the hooked edge of the axe caught their bindings and the giant dragged them forwards onto the faces in the sand. He took this opportunity to release and swing again, and Malcolm, keeping an eye on where the axe was at all times, rolled towards the commander as the weapon sliced into his shadow, and was buried half a foot in the earth. Thomas stabbed at the conqueror's legs and caught his inner, right thigh, failing to get a reaction from him, while Malcolm went for the ankles, slicing the top of the giant's left foot open through the straps of his sandal, which caused the shoe to come undone.
The pair struggled to their feet quickly, and as Victoror threw his back into lifting the heavy axe, Malcolm brought his sword down again while Thomas lunged at the man's side. Now missing the ends of three of his fingers and sporting a fresh wound on the right side of his chest from the head of the spear, the conqueror yelled at the Knights and bunted Malcolm backwards with an unexpected kick, his hefty foot sending the Maltalborn down again, causing the commander to fall on top of him. As Thomas hurried to his feet, Malcolm felt every muscle in his body tighten as the axe fell again, a inch shy of cutting him where it hurts, saved only by the commander's dexterity.
For a while the trio moved within the circle of blood, playing cat and mouse while hoping to tier the giant out, after all he had just bested nine men and his stamina, in this fine weather, was sure to wane sooner or later.
Up in the noble stands the crowds were cheering and laughing, woman fanning themselves with pretty, decorative fans, or sitting under lacy sun umbrellas, while the men and boys talked about their bets or gossiped about what they had heard regarding the knight lord commander's capture and subsequent imprisonment. Stood inconspicuously below the king's viewing platform, two cloaked figures had closed in, and to look about the arena now, one might realise that every city guard who had been on post, was now nowhere to be seen.
Amongst the commoners it was difficult to ignore the change in atmosphere, as citizens who had moments ago been watching the fight, pulled on their own cloaks in the same shades of blue and sat or stood calmly. Even for the people who's job it was to notice these kinds of things, like the royal guard who stood tall in the King's box, were too absorbed by the battle taking place down on the sands to recognise what was about to take place right under their noses.
Thomas jumped backwards away from the falling axe while Malcolm stepped forwards to stab at the giant, his blade falling short due to the commander's reluctance, all three of them carrying wounds now, hair wet with sweat, and tired bodies begging them to stop, while unspent adrenaline saw the match continue. The commander had cut his hand and calf, Malcolm was sure the giant's kick had busted one of his ribs, and Victoro himself was battered with stab wounds from the spear and cuts from Malcolm's sword.
Malcolm was growing increasingly aware of the commander's reluctance to play by the rules they had set, already cutting it too close for comfort, sooner or later expected Thomas to put him in danger, if just to save his own skin. Vri, Malcolm's father, may have stripped him of his ability to love or feel compassion for mortals, but his wit was as sharp as the longsword in his hand, and Malcolm wasn't ready for face death a second time for anyone.
A moment's distraction saw Thomas get close enough to plunge his spear into Victoro's neck, dragging Malcolm forwards into the reach of the Giant's weapon, which cut through the commander's armour like a knife in an apple, and bit into Malcolm's side, stilling his own assault and loosening the grip he struggled now to maintain on the hilt of his sword. As Thomas looked down at his mistake, blood raced over the axe head like spilled water front an upturned glass on a table. Victoror smirked, satisfied with his victory, even if it came with his defeat, and stumbled backwards, trying to maintain his footing on the soft sands of the arena.
Malcolm inched away from the sharpened edge of the axe slowly, heart stopped at the sight of something so foreign being removed from his flesh, the wound smirking up at him, like an open-mouthed smile, mocking the fragile state on his existence and any hope he might have kept in his longing to maintain it. He reached for the commander's hand to extend his Mortalborn ability once more, but divine magic didn't work on dead men, and stuck with the wound he had been forsaken to bear, the captain closed his fist around the commander's hand and twisted to hack at the dead man's forearm until his sword severed the limb and freed him long enough drive his weapon forwards into Victoro's gut, twisting the blade as the giant coughed and choked on his death.
Malcolm, abandoning his sword, stepped backwards with right arm outstretched to find comfort on the hot, stinking sand of the arena floor and lay down, his left hand closed over the wound in his side that must have been eight inches across at least, one, if not two deep. Scared to look for what he might find, he felt blood pulse through the gaps in his fingers and closed his eyes as he felt a familiar chill return to the tips of his digits. The King's announcer celebrated with the crowd, congratulating the 'winner' on his 'unexpected' victory, and assured the throng that the two men rushing out into the arena were 'highly trained professionals' who would tend to the new champion's wounds, now unconscious on the sand.
Moments before Thomas Endor's death, the cloaked figures standing at the arena's edge had stood with bows drawn and arrows nocked, only to realise too late that the man they had come to set free had mistakenly stepped into his own fate and embraced death honourably in battle. Weapons concealed behind heavy cloaks, those who had appeared without warning now made their slow retreat from the stands, moving towards the closest stairwells to vacate the area. Those who stood inside the noble stands turned with sights fixed on the royal platform and loosed their arrows into the crowd to cause a distraction, while the rest of their kin made their escape, some of them abandoning their cloaks as soon as they were free of the grounds.
It was the queen's shrill scream that pricked ears and turned heads as she sat now with an arrow buried in her belly. The commotion was followed by an assault from the royal guard, who jumped down into stands to give chase, knocking aside any who were unfortunate enough to get in their way. Hundreds of people hurried to leave the arena, while many more sat wondering what was going on and whether or not they too should go. The city guard marched up the stairs and tired to calm the crowds, asking everyone to remain seated, off duty members of The Iron Hand like Benjamin, Kathryn, and Ronald joining them in their attempts to resolve the panic that had spread through the arena.
On the sands the fallen were dragged away, and somewhere out of sight, Malcolm was fighting a different kind of battle to keep his life, less confident, this time, that he would win.
