The Manticore Ascension: A Short Story in the Arena Mode Universe (2 page)

A
clang echoed through the hall when the blade passed harmlessly through me, striking the stone floor with a burst of sparks.

My attacker’s jaw fell slack.

“The c–commoner,” Dawson stammered, peering at me through his mess of blond locks. “She’s a superhuman...but how did she get in here?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Drake replied swiftly. “I’ve seen her kind before. I’ll deal with her.”

“’Deal with me’?” I sneered. “I don’t think you understand: I can ghost. You can swing your cosplay props at me all day long and it won’t make a difference.”

“Electrodes,” Drake commanded, speaking directly into the hilt of his sword. The shimmering steel blade began to glow, radiating with angry purple light.

The next swing came before I could react, passing through me once again. I didn’t flinch.

The blade didn’t quite connect with me, but for reasons I still can’t explain it didn’t quite miss, either. The after-effect of the electrified blade left me nauseated, dizzy. I fell to one knee. It was like a concussion, food poisoning and a muscle cramp had been thrown in a blender, and I’d downed the mixture with a single gulp.

I stood and staggered forward, wildly flailing fists at my attacker. It wasn’t my most impressive display of fighting technique, but my motor skills had been reduced to Jell-O for the second time that morning. It was all I had in me.

Drake had no trouble evading my attack. He clasped his hand around my wrist in mid–swing and produced a pair of handcuffs – or a pair of bright yellow bands that looked more or less like handcuffs – and bound my arms in front of me. Whatever his sword did, it succeeded in making me corporeal; I was solid, unable to pass through objects. And now I was trapped.

“Take her to the dungeons,” Drake commanded, shoving me towards his younger brother. I lurched a few steps and collapsed, landing at his feet. “We’ll execute her in the morning on a live simulcast. It will serve as a warning to any who dares infiltrate House Lehmann.”

“Wait,” Dawson said, peering down at me with innocent eyes. “Let’s take her to dad. He’ll know what to do with her.”

“
I
know what to do with her,” Drake replied without missing a beat. “This is part of running a Kingdom: obeying the chain of command. Have you forgotten that, little brother? I’m the eldest, which means that one day, I will be king.
Your
king. I suggest you start growing accustomed to heeding my words.”

Dawson stepped past me, coming nose–to–nose with his older sibling. “And I suggest that
you
start accepting counsel, because that’s part of ruling, too: listening to the people around you. Or do you want to end up like the last person who ran this territory?”

Drake’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Fine,” he conceded, though his eyes revealed it wasn’t without reluctance. “We’ll see what dad thinks. But you
do
remember what day it is? If he’s mad at us for interrupting him ...”

“I’ll take the blame,” Dawson agreed with a small nod.

I was dragged to my feet and led through a series of dark, narrow passageways that were crafted with intricate stonework like a medieval castle, and illuminated only by the torches attached to the walls. Whenever we arrived at a doorway a motion sensor detected our presence, sliding open to allow us access to the next corridor. This continued until we reached a particularly striking set of double doors – the largest we’d come across in our journey – which remained resolutely shut.

“Drake Lehmann,” the knight proclaimed, standing a little straighter as he spoke, “First born to King David Lehmann, slayer of manticores, heir to the one true throne of Iceland, first of his name.”

The doors pulled open. Drake marched into the room as if he owned it, striding several steps ahead of us.

I turned towards Dawson and arched an eyebrow. “Slayer of what?”

“He does this every time,” Dawson grumbled. “The voice activated locks only need your first name, but he says that whole thing whenever we come here. And for the record he’s never even
seen
a manticore.”

The throne room was massive and imposing. It was roughly the size of the hall I woke up in, though far more ornate. A dozen marble columns flanked each side of the hall, stretching towards an arched ceiling. Light poured in through stained glass windows five storeys above, brightly illuminating our long golden walk from the entrance to the apse.

At the far end of the room elevated on the dais were two men engaged in a game of cards. One was sitting in the flamboyant ruby–encrusted throne that was large enough to seat a giant, while his opponent sat across from him in a markedly less-impressive plastic folding chair. Separating them was a matching fold-out table where various dice, cards and soda cans were strewn about, with candy bar wrappers littering the floor around them. Whatever game they were playing, they’d been playing it for a long time.

The man sitting in the throne looked vaguely like the king I’d seen depicted in the fresco; they had similar facial features and roughly the same build, although that was where the similarities ended. The regal leader that adorned the ceiling of the main hall was buried beneath a thick chestnut beard, had a wave of untamed hair, and was cloaked in layers of crimson and gold. This man was clean–shaven with closely cropped hair, and was dressed as if he were about to spend a day at the beach: flip–flips, cargo shorts, and an oversized black t–shirt with a cartoon wizard on the chest. He never averted his gaze from the cards in his hand, even as we loudly approached.

His opponent, a graying middle–aged man with tired eyes and a crooked nose, seemed much less enthusiastic about the game they were engaged in. He was dressed far more formally: a black suit and outdated bowtie hung from his narrow frame.

“Yes!” the man in the throne shouted, pounding his reddened fist into the table. The impact sent a pair of twenty–sided dice and an empty Dr. Pepper can sailing from the surface. “That’s eighteen in a row! You just can’t seem to catch a break today, Morton.”

Morton dipped his head into a barely perceptible nod, as if he lacked the energy to complete the gesture. “Another impressive performance, Your Majesty. You are not only the King of House Lehmann, Lord of the Realm and Ruler of the Icelandic Republic, but you are undoubtedly the best – ”

“Yes, yes, yes...” King Lehmann interrupted. “I know my name and how impressive I am. Now clean up this mess and get back to work. You’re ten hours behind and this place is an absolute disaster.”

“Thank you, sire.” The man stooped to gather the garbage at their feet.

“Now,” King Lehmann shouted, loud enough to cause an echo throughout the chamber, “I’d like to hear from my knights.”

The moment the boys were addressed they kneeled at the base of stairs leading up to the dais, gazing up at their father. Dawson shot me a sidelong glance and his eyes widened, darting from his knees to my own, and back again.

“Ah, right,” I whispered. I dropped to a knee at Dawson’s side.

The King waved his sons back to their feet and flopped back into his throne, draping one leg over the arm of the chair. “Do you know what day this is, Dawson?”

“Yes,” he replied sheepishly, trailing his eyes along the floor.

“Very good,” the King nodded. “And do you know what’s so special about this
particular
day?”

“I do,” Dawson muttered. “It’s card day.”

“Sorry,” the King shouted, cupping a hand over his ear. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“It’s card day,” Dawson repeated a little more forcefully, still aggressively avoiding eye contact.

“That’s correct. It is, indeed, card day. So whatever this is, it had better be exceedingly important.
And
entertaining.” The King acknowledged me for the first time, vaguely gesturing in my direction. “Who is this blue–haired harlot? Have you brought her here to entertain me?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Drake replied. “This foul–mouthed commoner appeared in the main hall around the time the power went out.”

“Hmm ...” The King stroked his beardless chin, narrowing his eyes as he studied me, much as Dawson had done when I’d arrived.

The situation was getting ridiculous. Could this all be some elaborate hoax? Or a game I had been involuntarily tossed into after Arena Mode had ended? Billionaire media tycoon Cameron Frost was notorious for his over–the–top programming, so it was a distinct possibility: I’d seen a reality show like this before, where an unsuspecting contestant was tricked into believing she was lost in the Australian outback; in truth she was wearing a full–body virtual reality rig. Her life was never in any danger, but the emotional distress caused from the event (and the series of lawsuits that followed) quickly ended the ‘bold, new type of reality program’ that Frost was trying to pioneer. Never one to let the boundaries of good taste get in his way, I wouldn’t be surprised if, buried somewhere in the fine print of the document I had signed prior to entering Arena Mode, there was a clause that allowed for me to be thrown into some perverse game show...although if that
were
the case, I’m not sure I understood the premise.

“I have no idea who you people are,” I shouted, springing to my feet, “or what the heck I’m doing here, but if you’re going to kill me can you at least tell me what the fudge is going on?” I had to get one of these idiots to break character. Were there hidden cameras spread throughout this castle, watching me at this very moment? If there were, I might put an early end this insanity if I let on that I’d become aware of the situation.

The King held his belly with both hands and bellowed out a jovial laugh; a hearty, Christmas–y laugh that continued until his face reddened. “Are you quite serious, commoner?”

“And what is with all this Medieval Fair crap? You are
not
a King, this is
not
a Kingdom, and these kids dressed in Halloween costumes are definitely
not
knights.” I waved around the room as best I could with my hands still cuffed, screaming until my voice went hoarse. “You got me, Frost! It’s over! Just come out, give me my check and I’ll be on my merry way.”

The King laughed again, so boisterously I thought he’d fall from his throne. “Oh my,” he said breathlessly, wiping a tear from his cheek. “This
has
been entertaining, boys. You two have outdone yourselves. Now, I need to get back to my game development. Give this servant her clothing back and let her resume her duties.”

“This isn’t a joke,” Drake barked, shoving me back to my knees. “And this foul–mouthed wench is
not
a servant. She arrived right after our shields went down.”

“Wait,” the King said, rising from his throne. “Our shields are down? When did this occur?”

“Not but ten minutes ago,” Drake said, grabbing a fistful of my hair. “When
she
arrived.” He jerked my head back, peering down into my eyes. His gaze was painted in darkness, dripping with hatred. If he was an actor, someone should have awarded him the Daytime Emmy right then and there, because I was completely convinced by his performance.

At that moment I truly began to panic – even more so than when I’d been handcuffed; either this was all just an elaborate plan to convince me I was in the middle of some quasi–medieval conflict, or my life truly
was
in danger.

“So it’s a power surge,” the King said offhandedly, “likely caused by the construction project in the north wing.”

“I already checked,” Drake replied. “It’s not just here. The entire island is exposed.”

The king’s face fell slack. “This was entertaining for a moment,” he said plainly, “but now it’s growing old. And frankly it’s becoming a little boring.”

“Father,” Drake pleaded, “don’t you see what’s happening here? She caused this, and she needs to be punished!”

“Ah, I see.” The King snapped his fingers high above his head. A doorway opened from the wall behind the throne, and a pair of knights in black armor stepped out onto the dais. “Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”

The knights descended the short flight of stairs, grabbed my arms and jerked me to my feet, dragging me away from the dias, back towards the entrance.

“Throw her from the wall,” the King said, gathering his cards from the table. “And when she lands, prop what’s left of her up on a spike so the rest of the commoners can see her.”

“Live simulcast?” Drake asked expectantly, raising his eyebrows.

“Sure,” the king shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

“She deserves a trial,” Dawson announced, stopping the dark knights in their tracks. “Right here, right now. At least a short one.”

The king breathed out an exasperated groan. “That sounds
boring
,” he replied, shuffling his deck. “You know what’s
not
boring? This new card game I’ve invented. I don’t have a name for it yet, but it’s magic based. You start by gathering the...well, I won’t get into all the details at the moment, but suffice to say it is
not
boring. Trials most definitely are.”

“This isn’t the way we do things in Iceland,” Dawson proclaimed, stiffening his posture. The more authoritative tone in his voice must have struck the King’s ear, because it was enough to divert his attention from his cards.