Blue Diamonds (Book One of The Blue Diamonds Saga) (10 page)

Baymar jumped from his chair and was back to darting around the room more frantically now. He was mumbling to himself, excitedly thumbing down row after row of books.

“We’re going back in time to slap some leaders around? You are much more powerful than I thought,” stated an amazed Shomnath.

Baymar appeared from behind a bookshelf with a large, dark book that had a cover trimmed in silver border tucked under his arm. He flipped the book open over the desk as he corrected the prince.

“No, no, no. Time travel is beyond even the guild's collective reach, but everyone died battling that dragon, correct?”

“As far as the scroll says,” answered Shomnath.

In the middle of the book Baymar jabbed one of the pages with his index finger. “Aha. Here it is.”

Shomnath stepped towards the desk and leaned over to read:

AGO AGERE EGI ACTUM PHASMA ATIS

“Okay, so what does that mean?” he asked. Shomnath did not understand the old language. He'd cut out on those classes.

“
AGO AGERE EGI ACTUM PHASMA ATIS”
Baymar read aloud, “to reanimate the spirit.”

“Reanimate?”

“Precisely. We’ll go to the gravesite and ask Ambrosia ourselves! I will contact her through séance.”

"Oh of course," said the prince, "because that sounds much more rational than time travel."

Baymar just smiled in response, but inside he was bubbling with excitement. It was a spell he always wanted to try, yet never had the chance, let alone the reason. He chose not to tell the prince that the last wizard to attempt this powerful spell accidentally swapped his assistant’s soul, with the soul of his deceased pet parrot.

Rolo draped his arms over the limestone backrest and kicked his feet onto the ledge in front of him. He was an impatient man, but didn’t mind waiting at his most favorite of places, the Somerlund Gladiator Arena. The massive stadium bulged from the southeastern corner of Somerlund, although as big as it is, the arena is but a pimple on the great wall that surrounded the city. The wall has been the bane of would-be invaders for over four centuries.

When filled, the arena accommodated twenty thousand blood lusting fans, and that would only be counting the seated. After the seats filled spectators stood wherever they braved, often risking a dirk in the back (fight fans are very particular over their view and blocking the wrong one can be lethal). A full arena was fairly rare though, because the majority of the audience had a wife with more sense than to let their husband spend the expensive gate fee week after week. That’s not to say that women never attended the fights. They were always quite the distraction, or at least to everyone besides Rolo. The fight was the apple of his eye.

The field centered steep rows of seats and was covered with more dirt and pebble than grass. Throughout the field, there were several deep ditches, randomly scattered about. One hole had a bottom carpeted with venomous slithers. The snakelike slither is able to grow from a few inches to twelve feet long in mere days after hatching given the proper diet, and once it reached adulthood it developed two strong hind legs. The powerful legs enable the serpent to lunge forward, adding another six feet of range to its bite at standstill, another twenty feet if it built up to a trot.

Another hole housed four salivating bearwolves. Not related to the massive grey wolves, as once believed because of their shiny silver coat. The bearwolf is Mother Nature’s alpha bear. Possessing frightening speed, while bearing the brute strength of a mountain grizzly, this beast is as deadly as it is feared.

Rolo recalled that the ditch had five bearwolves the week prior, which meant they tired of waiting for the next meal to pop out of the sky and ate the weakest. This upset Rolo. When he was champ this rarely happened, because when he was champ they fed often.

The other holes on the field were filled with poisoned spikes, a classic, but much less entertaining death that Rolo felt needed upgrading years ago. Separating the oval field from the bleachers was a fifteen-foot, jagged rock wall. The only breaks in the wall were two large, iron doors on opposite ends of the field from which the combatants made their entrance.

Fighters traveled from all ends of the continent to compete. An elf-invented game that consisted of kicking a leather ball back and forth was gaining popularity in the south, but the Somerlund arena fights were by far the greatest sporting event of the time.

Warriors came, and competed for many reasons. For some, just being recognized as the world’s deadliest fighter is worth risking their lives. For others, such as Rolo Grandstep, the arena was one of the only places left for a warrior to be himself.

Rolo was the Champion of the arena for six consecutive years prior to being forced into resignation. New rules were installed for the tournament, which included weight divisions. The rule took away any chance for a match, considering Rolo was nearly ten feet tall, and over five hundred pounds. He was in a weight class of his own.

Horrified by the announcement, Rolo had begged the arena commission to let him fight (after a series of death threats failed to garner any results). He even offered the idea to add as many fighters against him as they wanted, and even to hold matches where he would fight completely unarmed.

Alas, the officials would not budge on their decision. They wanted guests to see a contest of warrior skill, not a weekly slaughter. In compensation, they granted him a lifetime of free seats, in a choice section of the first row for he and his friends to enjoy. The seats did little to pacify his contempt, until they mentioned the seats came with unlimited drinks. If there is one thing Rolo likes as much as a good fight, it’s a good drink. It was thus that the arena became the regular meeting place for Rolo, Pall, Kala, and Shomnath.

“Pall should be here soon.”

Kala’s voice startled Rolo but only slightly. He looked to his left to see her sitting comfortably. Her posture said that she might have been sitting next to him for a while. He didn’t doubt it.

As usual she was in her elfin-green cloak, with a bun of her red hair tucked under the hood. Elfin-green can only be described as the color of the forest, as it mirrors nature's green tones. The farther away from nature the cloak is, the darker the shade of green it gets, until it is almost a sickly brown, as it was now. It was how it always looked when she visited Somerlund. Kala was staring at him, which is quite normal for her, but something Rolo could never get used to. It was old news that she was simply infatuated with the big man.

“You know, you should say when you’re nexta someone,” said Rolo. He always spoke gruffly to Kala. Kala had a crush on the big man from the first day they met, and it was totally to his dismay.

“I was going to, but you were so focused on the match that I didn't want to bother you,” she said in her sweet, innocent voice. Rolo just grunted his approval and went back to watching the action in the arena, pretending she wasn’t there.

Kala loved watching Rolo at the fights, even more than she liked watching the actual fights. It was one of the few places where he became animated, quite opposite of his usual silent, stoic self. Rolo didn’t need to look at her to know she was still staring at him. He knew how ignore stares, it was something he learned to live with his entire life, yet for some reason her emerald eyes burnt holes into his skin.

“Humph, I don’t call these two gnats a match. One swings an axe like a sword, and the other swings a sword like an axe. They look like teammates tryin to knock a fly out of the air.”

As the big man spoke, the gladiators began another flurry of swings that kicked up a lot of dust, but again failed to land a single blow. Even the hits to one another’s weapons were sloppy, pitiful spectacles that wouldn't draw sparks in the dark. Rolo stood and nearly threw his pitcher at them in disgust, but didn't when he realized it was still half full. It would have been a waste of perfectly good mead.

“Not everyone is as great a warrior as you,” said Kala.

Rolo rolled his eyes as Kala sang the praise, but even he couldn’t help to smile. He knew that she was every bit as deadly as he was, if not more so. Her weapons of choice were elfin throwing blades. The silver, leaf-shaped blades were no wider than her palms, and were easily hidden. They were also razor sharp, as well as paper thin, enabling her to hold hundreds of the fearsome knives at a time in pockets hidden under her belt.

Her Redwood ancestors traded the bow and arrow for these versatile blades as the clan's signature weapon ages ago, favoring the ability to have a free hand during battle. As the rest of her tribe did, she trained with the leaflets since she was old enough to run. Not only did her speed and agility make Kala an impossible target, but also her aim was dead perfect.

“Yeah, yeah, just watch the fight,” answered the big man.

“Okay sweetie,” she said, smiling. Again he ignored her.

Four matches, and four mugs later, Rolo was praying to see at least one fight he deemed worthy of his time. If the big man had any hair he would have probably pulled a good portion out by now. Kala was sifting through the audience, looking for local celebrities without success. It was a game she played to entertain herself when the combat bored her. It’s a slow day for the famous, she thought, as even the royal box seats were empty.

“Bring out da real fighters, if there’s any left!” yelled Rolo, drawing some cheer from the crowd as he took another huge gulp of his mead. Once drained, he threw the empty mug at the honor seats two sections to the right, where the current champion sat.

When the champion, a burly man dressed in a flamboyant red, silky robe stood to stare down whoever threw it, he found Rolo's wild gaze, holding his arms out wide in taunt. The crowd around Rolo snickered as the champ sat back down to watch the fight, apparently forgetting about the mug. Rolo had always been the people’s champion, and the cheers around him proved that he still was.

“Don’t pick on the poor guy,” scolded Kala.

“What?” he asked innocently then turned to the crowd with his arms still spread.

“Is it my fault the champ has no spine? I’ll say it again, bring out the real fighters!”

He practically screamed out the last part, intentionally aiming his voice towards the champ. The crowd let out a roar and toasted Rolo in response. Some called his name, while some chanted
bring em out
. The quiet champ’s face flushed red.

“Who knows, maybe they’re saving them for last,” giggled Kala.

“The both of ye will be waiting a long time. The only fighters I see be in the audience.” Pall had finally arrived.

“Well look who finally decided to show up. I know you got them small legs, but you coulda made better time by running!” Rolo didn’t need to stand in order to give Pall a hearty slap on the shoulder, a nudge that would easily knock someone over if they weren’t ready for it.

“Keep it up big boy, and I’ll show ye what else these legs can do.”

“Settle down boys,” injected Kala. “So why did your father want you Pall?” Kala had grown accustomed to separating their play, even though their quibbles were always in good fun.

“He needs me to fetch books. They’re for his dumb alchemist, who says we’ve run into problems with the digging. Fire rock, he says."

"That's weird. Fire rock in that dead old mountain?" pondered Kala.

"That's what I said, but they weren't fer listening,” answered Pall.

“Still aint ready to leave yet? The prince aint gonna like that,” said Rolo.

“Don’t ye worry yer big bald head, I’ve sent me little cousin on the secret mission.”

“Secret mission?” asked Rolo. Pall gave him a moment of thought before they both erupted in laughter. Kala caught on too and glared incredulously at Pall.

“Scuttle? Oh, you’re so mean! Smart, but mean,” she said, before breaking into a giggle herself.

“Aint Scuttle just a babe?” asked Rolo.

“What do ye mean by that? He’s a dwarf! Solid as the ground ye walk upon. Dwarves are born knowing how to avoid danger,” he paused, “and with him watching out fer spies, I’m sure the boy’ll be perfectly fine.” Pall loved his kin so much that he wouldn’t let the young dwarf go if he was worried, so Kala let the subject rest at that.

“Then let’s go. Time is wasting, and the boss is waiting.”

Without another word, Rolo stood up and then thundered down the row for the exit as his two companions followed, all smiles and happy to be together again.

Rolo still called Shomnath boss, but he stopped accepting Shomnath’s gold many years ago. As far as the giant was concerned, the partnership had mutual benefits. Shomnath provided Rolo with the excitement he needed to go on living, while Rolo consistently saved Shomnath from being killed.

“Where is his highness, anyway?” asked Pall, jogging to keep up with Rolo’s long strides as they weaved their way out of the crowded arena.

“He's with a guy named Baymar, an old cleric that he convinced to come with us,” answered Rolo.

This stirred up quite some curiosity from Kala. She couldn't recall Shomnath ever needing, or ever wanting, additional aid outside their own circle. The four of them had always been enough. The knowledge of him hiring a healer told her one thing, and that was that they were about to roam a dangerous path.

It wasn’t curiosity stirring within Pall, but discomfort. Magic was always a touchy subject for him, as it is for all dwarves. Everything that resonated from wizardom, like potions, explosions or just smoky stuff in general was a bad mix for people who lived in tunnels. Mystery gas and smoke meant death in the depths. Not that having some wizard healer around was so terrible a thing, Pall just thought magic was unnatural.

Typically, the only magic dwarves delved into involved their weaponry, or elemental magic, which even then was still a rare occasion and definitely performed above crust. Also, this type of magic was strictly regulated for weapons that were going to someone of major importance. Humans would enchant their underpants if it were available. As much as he didn’t like the idea, he held his tongue. He decided to trust in Shomnath’s decision for now.

During their walk to Baymar's, the bells of rest began to chime throughout the city, informing citizens of the two hottest hours of the day. Everything in Somerlund shuts down at this time. Shops close, animals are brought in, and most people go inside for a nap or sneak a quick cup of wine. This just made the walk all the more surreal, like an unreadable omen was looming over the deserted streets they strolled down. It was an uneasy feeling that made for a slow walk.

When they reached Baymar's house, both of the wizard's neighbors were out. They eyed the friends with a slight scowl, knowing all too well what was going to happen next. Rolo had been here before, and didn’t hesitate to lead the friends through one of the neighbor's yards, guiding them through a few rows of flowers and around to the back.

When choosing which neighbor's yard was going to be violated, Rolo's decision came easily. The garden on the left was going to get trampled, because they had peaches. The big man even smiled at the helpless neighbor and waved as he pulled a fat, ripe peach from a branch. The angry neighbor scowled at Rolo, but nothing more. After all, the giant man had just plucked a peach that would have required