Avarice Blacksteel

A lion Among Men

Jhary sat in the midst of the gaily dressed crowd, precious instrument set in his hands and began to pay an upbeat and complex melody. Bach’s Toccata. Usually he could lose himself in the cadence of his art, but not today. His head was down, an errant strand of brassy blond hair hanging in his eyes which were closed. All of his music remembered and played by rote.

The scent of a pig roast carried to him delicious on the cool air. Perhaps he would partake of it later? He tried to lose himself in the moment, to be someplace else, this spectacle he could no longer abide. Yet he must as his Master had commanded it, Jhary knew how these things worked, what he was and who he must be. The skilled musician would uphold the illusion, though his heart had returned to the darkness he had so sought to shake.

The bard looked up but briefly in-between his playing to glimpse Aurianne close by, he cast her a rueful smile. One that did not match the tune that was being plucked by his skillful and elegant fingers. She would leave tomorrow, and that thought saddened him further. The statuesque woman had been his only brightness in this place of brutality and human misery, and he did not know how he would fare in her absence.

We are all like water he thought, we ebb and flow our different ways, and we largely have no control of where the world will take us. Some cross our paths, some stay, some must leave... He sighed softly the mournful sound hidden by the strains of his music. Jhary uncharacteristically missed a note but covered the mistake skillfully, none of the untrained ears about him seemed to notice, nor did they glimpse the tears wetting his eyes.

Jhary loved joy and stories, he adored smiling faces, the innocence of children, beautiful women, and art. He was content to wander at will, taking his future by chance. Yet this place was no more than a parody of these things. He wondered how he would survive, surrounded by such misery?

He did not look up from his closed eyed playing, he would not witness the wanton waste, the bloodshed. Sometimes the loud roaring of the crowd would all but drown his lilting tune, however Jhary cared not. The music lie in his heart, and he was determined this day and every one after to lose himself in it. It was now all he had.

Aurianne fidgeted in the stands, though the fresh air felt good she was restless and wished wholeheartedly she could depart for the quietude of the indoors. She sat a small distance away in the stands from Master Jacques and his appalling visitor, who’s sharp features were shrouded in black. She observed the short riding crop that he seemed to always carry tap the sides of his shining leather boots in a nervous rhythm. She could see no more than his aquiline nose and hard leering mouth beneath the brim of his Death's-head cap.

It was difficult to know what to make of him. Was his Nazi attire for show, did he believe in the doctrine of World War two Germany, or did he simply overcompensate? Could such a small statured man really be so dangerous? Did it look as though she may have a chance to overpower him and flee en route? How much of this man was a self styled image, and how much was real?

Her eyes skirted the crowd further, seeking his companions. His soldiers seemed real enough, a regiment of stout fighting men, they appeared both battle hardened and disciplined. Well equipped also. She guessed she would find all these answers on the morrow. She would escape, this outcome was not negotiable. The journey would be her only viable chance to do so easily. She would not be the wife and chattel of some unknown man; no, irrefutably not.

The clangor had begun in the pit below, Aurianne had seen enough of the senseless bloodshed and the cheapness of life here. She looked away towards the south, toward the endless procession of solid clouds muting the sunlight. Would it never rain, would the cloud never lift, must each day be the one with sameness, and cold?

Torn bodies, blood soaking the sand. The crescendo of the rabid crowd, never sated, always lusting for more. Aurianne tuned these things out, firmly revolted by the anarchy she lived in. Perhaps she did not live at all but merely survived.

Even her bitter vengeance no longer drove her. Though deep inside the mission to save Darius still burned, unfinished, like a lone hungry dog following in her shadow hoping to be fed. Then in the same thought hopelessness would come rushing in, like seawater into the hull of a foundering ship. Drowning her, washing her away. Like a doomed sailor she would admit. Why am I fighting, should I really care anymore? Why not just quit this fight? Darius will surely be dead. Common sense tells me this. I may as well just be that wife. Surely marriage cannot be so bad? Perhaps with time I will even be happy I had?

In the next moment Aurianne snatched her reasoning aside. There was another loud roar from the crowd. Animals, yes animals, that is all you are she accused silently. Then perhaps not, as animals in her eyes held much more dignity. Perhaps you are humans after all and it is I who feels no kinship with my species.


Kario was still far from his best this day. Even one with such advanced mental acuity as he, struggled to focus. The strong drugs he had been so long addled by had seen to that. To be honest he was totally bewildered and even afraid of the events unfurling before him. He could hardly recall the journey he had made, just small snippets of disjointed events and vistas.

In shock he let himself be unshackled, rubbing his aching wrists, and casting wildly about at his guards. The raven haired man with the unreadable black stare was graceful and slender, and did not reflect any kind of physical dominance in his rangy frame. Unless you were indeed compelled by his unusual beauty, and the straightness of his stance. Hardly the warrior he seemed to be mistaken for. Yes, indeed this had to be some kind of terrible mistake.

The rough men left him then to stand confused and alone. He was fighting to remain calm, the desperate sounds coming from something unseen down the corridor before him. A cry, a scream, a struggle of some kind? Kario shivered, his quick mind felt almost neutralized, as he pulled the tattered blue robe tighter about his leanness.

The young man had but moments to try and gather his wits. The clangor had abated for a time, and now he was being instructed to take up the knife he had been thrown, which had landed almost buried in the dust before him.

With reservation and much goading from the angry guard he finally took possession of the small weapon. Immediately despairing it was not his. Yet as he clutched it in his hand he felt that familiarity of his own athame wash over him. Not so strong, and yet it was such an alike feeling. His befuddled mind began to clear.

He stole another glance at the blade in his hand as the guard was attempting to herd him down the dreaded dark hallway cut into the earth, toward the source of the dreadful din of only some moments ago. A residual aura perhaps? This was definitely not his blade, it was simple and plain, an everyday thing unlike the demon steel he had always carried. He took solace in the effect it was having on him though. Whatever was ahead he would face and bend to his will.

Kario had been sometime in the dark and fetid human misery below. Though the day was glum, the entrance to the pit seared Kario’s eyes, the air was tainted with the scent of fresh blood. He took a step backward, heels digging into the damp and bloodied sand. He was shocked to sight the ring of earnest spectators above him.

I am no warrior he thought, I do not understand. He cast his eyes upward to sight his black and silver clad tormentor, and a rather flamboyant man next to him standing, addressing the assembled crowd.

Words of introduction were said but Kario was only staring at the blade buried in the palm of his hand, bleeding it of its residual power. It must be enough, he had to hope. All else a blur as he willed his mind to prepare to survive the unknown.

A snarl from someplace behind him, tawny hide emerging from the darkness. Kario reeled and almost forgot himself completely. A gaunt lioness down on her haunches, hungry, desperate, dangerous, and aged. Worn yellow teeth and fetid breath, she tensed her body to spring.

The controlled facade of Victor Krosse could not hold his composure at seeing the big cat released into the ring. He had expected a human adversary, someone easily controllable. An entity that simply knew there would be no death. Not this savage, unpredictable beast.

He stood up, and glanced at his host sharply. “It was supposed to be an exhibition match!” Victor all but shrieked in a manner very unbecoming of his rank. His henchmen arranged about him tensed, as did those about the swarthy slaver. Hands went to knives, swords, and firearms.

Jacques smiled an expansive smile, waving his right hand in a very dismissive gesture, hoping to diffuse his guests alarm. “Why my good friend it is. The old cat has no claws and most of her teeth are broken. Relax, and enjoy the spectacle.” He coaxed his agitated guest. “You implied he has some very interesting skills after all.”

Victor reluctantly resumed his seat, stiff backed and very obviously angered. Gloved fists folded and riding crop clenched in his lap, mouth set in a hardened line.

He would not lose this fascinating subject to some simple minded despots idea of a jest! The tension in the stands abated somewhat. Though Victor shot a fiery glance at Jacques, this was not at all what he envisioned. He felt somewhat duped knowing he did not pull the strings of power here.

Almost out of time in his hesitant terror Kario took up the blade and hastily drew a circle in the sand. Vaguely he could register the bewildered murmurings of the crowd above, mocking laughter came also to his ears. They believed him defenseless and dimwitted of that he was sure. An easy kill.

Sand sprayed in his eyes as the large cat made to strike, a swift incantation flew from his lips and fire sprang from the earth in a protective ring. The feline angered and terrorized by the singing flames snarled and darted away. The crowd above got to its feet and there were murmurs of unease from above. Kario clearly heard the word witch uttered.

“What was that, how...what...I don’t...” Came from Master Jacques’s mouth as well as a sting of surprised profanity to infuse his very colorful words. He rose from his place to peer closer into the pit. Squinting his black eyed gaze to better see. The flames seemed real enough, he could even feel the heat, and scent the singed cat’s fur.

Victor chuckled sarcastically, and shot the slaver a glance. Krosse was fascinated, however he was the only person in attendance who was not wholly surprised at the spectacle unfolding before him. The rest of the crowd had left their seating and were all milling forward to peer over into the blood pit alongside their disbelieving leader.

Kario was feverishly delving through his plethora of standard illusions that might save him. Demoniac, simple magic as his beloved and mysterious mother had termed it. He had always so longed and desired to be more skilled, but here his crude trickery was more than enough for mortal men, but what about beasts?

He was unsure his illusions would fool the she cat. However he was left with little recourse as the flames began to lose their intensity, and the lioness again began to circle closer with a menacing snarl. She was hungry this big cat, her frame gaunt, and fur moth eaten. Desperate and dangerous.

Kario took up the athame again channeling its residual power. He could to his alarm feel it fading. He needed one more good spell, something to intimidate the predator, buy him time and possibly a vehicle to escape. What would the cat fear? What would best facilitate his exodus from this pit? An elephant perhaps, yet instinctively he knew it would be too large for his magic to conjure let alone sustain. If only he had access to his real blade.

The starving cat struck at him though the dying flames with its massive paw, he jumped back reflexively and the crowd roared with approval. Kario had seconds to decide as the flames sputtered out and vanished. His wall of protection gone he spoke the powerful incantation to his white knuckled hands encircling the plain little blade.

Another roar from the blood thirsty masses above. Sleek of fur, muscular of frame and easily twice her size the black maned lion launched forward on powerful legs. Pinning the weakened and battle weary lioness to the sand, clean white teeth poised about the circumference of her neck. A death grip on his own kind.

Victor too was now standing. The colorful scene about the pit had become confused, almost to the point of panic. Jhary had ceased to play, guitar idly trailing in his hand all but forgotten, mouth agape as the incredulous spectacle below unfurled. People were beginning to shout the word witch, and jostle forward. Some urging the magnificent lion be shot, crying that the evil of the witch must be stopped.

Jacques seemed transfixed, he did naught to quell the crowd or signal his guards to any action. As the magnificent lion began to tear the lioness’s throat asunder. Blood flowed freely on to the sand, the copper stink of it pungent, as the tormented creature finally succumbed to the jaws of her vanquisher.

Victor did not know if he should be jubilant or horrified at what he had unleashed here today. The magnificent black maned lion sensing the creature beneath subsiding into the embrace of death raised its head and made ready to spring from the confines of the hole.

It was a large beast and easily with its first haphazard leap gained the top of the pit, the rough walled sides crumbling beneath the weight of the wildly flailing, colossal paws. Undaunted the animal tried again, higher this time. The crowd scattered, people were knocked down and trampled in panic. The gathering began to disperse and weapons were drawn. Krosse's men included.

Jacques stared at the black maned apparition slack jawed. He was recalling another incident of recent weeks, the blond maned warrior who had bayed for his blood, hands just like paws at the edge of this very pit, and today his arena master Keith was not here to take control by his side.

He felt a hand on his arm pulling him about from the terrible specter below. One of his guards, unsure of what to do and how to control the pandemonium. He was shouting over the din, seeking some kind of conclusive order to proceed in the panicked situation from his Lord.

Aurianne though struck by what she had witnessed, had already decided this was her moment. She took one look at Jacques and his black coated guest, satisfied their attentions were elsewhere and left her seat in the stands. She pushed her way through the panicked throng towards her only friend here.

Fortunately she was a powerful woman of stature and made good distance in the confusion to pluck at Jhary’s arm. “Come, let's go, this is our chance, hurry.” Jhary did not need much prompting. He gathered up his precious guitar and its leather clad case battered by years of travel, and they sped off through the crowd undetected.


Sheharizade had been sleeping, in that odd way of demon kind. Perhaps to the human eye it was no more then the imitation of death. Skin so white, seeming unmoving. The flutter of black lashes, deep black pools that housed no visible pupils to open skyward.

Though there was no cupola of azure blue above to greet those eyes. Just an inky dark devoid of stars, an endless night. A deep and frightened intake of breath, but her kind did not feel fear? Yet Sheharizade did feel something. A terrible rending, a disquiet, an urgency, a mother’s love.

She sat up, the movement beautiful and fluid, yet abrupt. What is this feeling? She had never experienced it before, and she did not like this emotion. The demoness rose and cast about her. Nothing seemed out of place. There was the troublesome matter of the rising waters yes, and the minor discord among her peers along with the anger of her ruler and lover Xonereth. Not to forget the color red.

She gasped, perfect alabaster hand held to her breast. Fingers crowned in rings of demon night and luster. Red, yes red, a hue none here had ever gazed upon. The color of mortality, and the shade of fear. Her son! He needed her, yes, he needed her now! The raven crowned beauty that was Sheharizade closed her eyes and vanished into a vapor of steely smoke.


“Shoot the beast!” Jacques finally spluttered in blind panic to his garrison of guardsmen. “Do not let it leave the arena!”

Victor had risen and was battling his way through the terrified throng. He could not allow his prize to be slain. All of this had gotten so very out of hand. His own retinue of guards pressed forward alongside him forming an iron and leather clad phalanx that bore their leader to Jacques side.

The immense lion took another flying leap at the wall, almost over this time, and an unfortunate man fell to the sand below screaming and crying in his fear. The lion ignored him and again ran at the wall.

“Stop!” Victor yelled hoarsely. “Can’t you see he is only trying to escape!”

But Jacques could only look into the desperate gold eyes envisioning threat and the specter of death; his own death.

“Kill it!” He screamed, ignoring Victor’s wishes completely. Master Jacques’ soldiers going for their weapons to dispatch the magnificent black maned lion.

Victor gave the order for his own men to stop the bloodshed. His captive property must not be harmed. The compound exploded into violence then, guard on guard, with the civilian population partially divided amongst those who turned to flee, and those who blindly joined the fighting.

Shots were fired, the lion was still madly leaping upward in a bid for freedom. Mindless of the gun fire and the projectiles that pitted the sand so close to its rippling, tawny, hide.

Kario was teetering somewhere between beast and man, it took great will to shape-shift into something and not be overcome by its thought processes.

The human in him could feel the spell slipping, and yet part of his consciousness had been readily absorbed by the aspect of the lion. He was not a killer by nature, however a swipe of a paw had rent a human life. All he desired at this time was escape and liberty. Time to resume his weak human form later so he fought raggedly to hold on.

Though mighty in physical presence even the great lion reeled with the sudden explosion of pain. A bullet had grazed his noble hide, crimson ran. More shots were fired. A sharp tip of a sword raked his feline nose and whiskered muzzle as he again launched himself at the wall. He once more fell back, he was tiring.

Then in the confusion from nowhere to be identified appeared a figure, a willowy apparition clad in blackness, a robe that seemed to flutter about the inhumanly tall form like a flurry of raven’s wings. A deep cowl obscured the face within.

The superstitious crowd ceased their bluster for a moment and Jacques blanched rubbing his unreadable eyes. Was this death he saw standing so blatantly before him. Here in his own ring of slaughter?

Many also thought the same, the pandemonium came to a sudden cessation. Rife muzzles were lowered along with the tips of sharp bladed weapons. Individual violence stopped.

Men turned to look upon what they believed the was the specter of death, or the dark lady. It was as though the fabric of time had stood still.

Even the magnificent lion sat, looking up at her hooded visage, expectant. She placed her white hand lovingly on the beasts head, her perfect pale flesh thus exposed seemed to unravel and vaporize somewhat in the dull gray afternoon light.

“Go my beautiful son.” She whispered in a language none could comprehend. “Be free, go!”

The great beast turned, nuzzled her one last time and leapt with new vigor from the pit. The crowd parted soundlessly and the lion ran through the spectators at a steady lope and was lost into the distance.

Victor wanted to move, he desired to take action, but it was as though he was frozen, rooted to the spot, no more than a cast leaden soldier of his distant childhood playtime's. His mind raced though he could not act or move. Then just as suddenly the black clad apparition was gone leaving only hushed superstitious talk and such somberness in its wake.

“Death walks where there is so much death,” Someone muttered superstitiously. Weapons were sheathed, men shook their heads. What had happened? What had they truly witnessed this day? The people were scared, and one by one they turned away. Gladly seeking the comfort of their domiciles and loved ones.

The guardsmen stood respectively quiet about their leaders as the crowd dissipated. The unfortunate dead man lay bleeding into the dirt at the edge of the ring, claw marks raked deep in his flesh and clothing, life blood coagulating. The cold wind ruffling hair, furred garments, and flurries of sand on to the tops of boots.

“What happened?” Jacques said finally breaking the spell of silence. Men grunted and muttered for none could really say. Victor stood stony faced staring down into the ring where his captive had been, and the odd visitor of moments before. It occurred to his vigilant assessment that no marks of the apparitions passing had been left in the shifting sands. His skin crawled and he shook his head, this was all so impossible.

Jacques turned about and Victor faced him. No words were exchanged. Just a long and meaningful stare, and further silence. Victor gestured to his henchmen who stood down and followed him into Jacques’s warm abode.