Torchlight Run

Torchlight Run

         Cannonball rumbled ever closer to a terrible fate as the sun sank lazily into the horizon. His journey from Gilvery not been a pleasant one; partially because the voyage was currently seven hours and counting, but mostly because he harbored somewhat of a longstanding grudge against horse-drawn carriages. When he was a miniscule boy, older children in his village – who were particularly vicious for reasons unbeknownst to Cannonball – made a habit of tying him to the back of carriages and forcibly transporting him for their amusement. It turned out that riding in the traditional manner did not allay his prejudice one bit.
         He wondered why anyone in the Homelands still used these clunky contraptions, aside from the farmers. Yet even the farmers, traditional as they were, came to embrace the burgeoning technological movement with open arms. Shaky horse-drawn carriages were done away with in favor of reliable motor vehicles. The sword-and-shield era graciously stepped aside for a new age of personalized artillery. Electricity – a relatively new concept – began to gain widespread recognition, even if most Homelanders didn’t fully understand it. What they did understand, however, was that their continued existence in Feldoria was largely attributed to their advances in technology. In fact, it was commonly expressed throughout the Homelands that it was the engineers, and not the soldiers, who inevitably won the Axiom War. Yet here was Cannonball, rumbling down a tumultuous dirt road, picking splinters out of his rear end and struggling to keep his dinner at bay. He had a sneaking suspicion that the man who arranged his commute had deliberately chosen this method.
         His destination was the Anathema. A place of some renown, it had housed many captured Freeborn Legionnaires during the war. Although the term “housed” isn’t entirely accurate. Imprisoned, tortured, executed and dismembered are all more accurate substitutes. It was like many Thaedari structures in the Homelands – abandoned after the war and left utterly neglected by a superstitious populace. Save for the intrepid adventurers who sought to unearth the hidden treasures they believed to exist within. Whether you called it adventuring, questing, dungeoneering, raiding, looting or pillaging, it was a way of life that many discharged soldiers and redundant militiamen had resorted to following the war.
Cannonball was no different. Relived of his military obligations following the war, he discovered a living for which his aptitude for physical torment would be best suited: boxing. His imposing physical stature and a formidable head butting technique earned him the moniker of “Cannonball.” Incidentally, it also earned him a fair bit of head trauma which lead to minor issues involving the disappearance of short-term memories. When the selection of willing opponents dried up, so did the money and Cannonball resorted to more traditional methods of gathering gold.
It wasn’t that Cannonball desired a life of brutality and malfeasance; he just found that he was particularly suited to it. With Gilvery’s depleted militia struggling to maintain order among the townspeople, Cannonball and his upstart brand of brigands were free to ravage the already downtrodden populace.
         It was after his fifth imprisonment that Cannonball looked to the forgotten worlds of the subterrain to keep him fed every day. He had delved into his fair share of dungeons, usually scrounging up at least one of two artifacts worth selling. This particular outing, however, was much different from the rest. Though Cannonball didn’t know it, this would be a sadistic subterranean battle to the death in which only one survivor was expected to emerge. This was a Torchlight Run.
         “You fought in the war? You look like you fought in the war,” came the voice of the coachman. He had attempted to strike up a conversation with Cannonball at many points throughout the trip, with little success.
         Cannonball avoided opening his mouth, as he felt that doing so would only beckon forth the vomit. In place of words, and with no real interest in conversing, he grunted.
Taking this noise as affirmation, the coachman continued. “I spent some time in the Legion. I was an archer – Bowman, actually. Bowman Beckle, if I may acquaint meeself. Coachman Beckle now, I suppose. Earned that rank after the Battle of Modestu. Bowman, that is. Took down about fifty of them elves. Moved like the wind, they did. Tough ones to pin down, that’s for sure. Bloody hot island, that one. Too hot. Made you see things that weren’t there. There’s a word for that, I think. A mirage, that’s the one. Now that I think of it, it was probably more like twenty-five elves.”
Cannonball swallowed hard, winning the battle against an emerging lump in his throat.
“You’re full of shit, kid. The Legion has enough firepower to blow a hole halfway to hell and you’re telling me they sent you into battle with a sharp sticks and string? Either you’re off your nut or somebody really didn’t like you.”
“Aye. They didn’t like me much. I reckon they were jealous. Couldn’t do what I could do. Not with those guns. Doesn’t take much skill, does it? A gun does all the work for you. Just point and pull a trigger. Commander said so himself when he saw me with that bow. Said I made it look difficult. Too hard for them to figure out, I reckon.” A moment of silence passed as Cannonball stared dumbfounded at the coachman. The ride was perilous enough without knowing his driver was one wheel short of a full carriage, so to speak. “You said you were in the war? Sturdy fella like you probably saw all sorts of action. Got any stories to tell?”
Cannonball did serve in the war, though he only had one real story to tell: the story of his capture and the subsequent months of forced labor in an incendinite mine. “Oh yeah. A guy like me got into all sorts of trouble. I was a big war hero. Too many battles to count. It was all so fucking glorious.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll make you a deal, kid. I’ll tell you all the war stories you want if you can keep this rickety shit pile steady. I’m about to waste a damn good dinner back here,” Cannonball had to yell over the sound of rumbling woodwork.
“Sorry sir. Not much of a road here. Ended about a half mile ago. These carts don’t do so well on rocks. Not like those rovers we have back home. Those are something, aren’t they? Engines and whatnot. Thinking about picking up one for meeself. If I can scrape up enough gold, that is. Not cheap, those ones. Good time to mention that I do accept tips, in case you were wondering. I’ll do me best to keep this here cart it level for you, sir. Shouldn’t be too much further, I reckon,” was Beckle’s long-winded reply. After a few mercifully silent moments, he gasped, “Saints be kind! You don’t see one of those every day!”
Cannonball pried his palms from his forehead and regarded the structure off in the distance that would essentially be his last vacation spot. He was lead to believe the Anathema was some kind of a prison. He expected to see something akin to one of the many prisons he visited in his time – be it a respectable correctional institution, a blood-spattered inquisitorial torture chamber, or perhaps even a forced labor camp like the one he saw during the war – but none compared to the ominous structure that sprawled out before him. It appeared to be cavernous crater at first gawk, but upon closer inspection Cannonball could see grooves cut into the black rock that spiraled down to form a staircase. Sharp, twisting obelisks encircled the pit like the maw of some horrible beast.
“Just some scary looking hole and not a tavern for miles. Who’d want to meet you all the way out here? That is, if you don’t mind me asking, sir.”
With his journey winding to an end, Cannonball could feel mood drastically improving. “Lenny Killifer,” he said. “Never heard of the guy until a week ago. Supposed to be a nasty fucker. Whoever he is, he’s loaded. The guy is offering a shit load of money to whoever can haul the most loot out of this shit hole.”
“I’ve heard of him. Heard all sorts of things about that one, and nothing good,” Beckle said. If Cannonball wasn’t situated directly behind Beckle, he would have seen all the blood drain from the young man’s face. “If it’s alright with you sir, I think I’ll be letting you off here,” Beckle said, as the carriage came to a standstill at the top of a steep ridge. “Saints be with you.”
Cannonball climbed out of the carriage fully expecting his nausea to subside. He resigned that a team of seasoned elven rangers couldn’t untangle the knots in his stomach. As Cannonball watched Coachman Beckle roll away, he thought that maybe carriage rides weren’t so bad after all. If he gave any credence whatsoever to his feelings or instincts, Cannonball would have put as much distance as possible between himself and the abomination that lay before him. Instead he shook the nagging thoughts from his head, put one foot in front of the other, and his fate was sealed.

“I was summoned here by Lord Killifer and therefore I am entitled to speak with Lord Killifer,” a young man in spotless silver armor said. “Furthermore, I will not be spoken down to by the likes of you, dark elf.”
Cannonball regarded the young man who stood with immaculate posture. His armor looked freshly polished and didn’t bear a visible scratch. Another disgraced Sarthonian looking to reclaim his honor, no doubt.
He immediately recognized the dark elf as Gideon Gaion. It was a face he would not soon forget – the impossibly dark eyes, the cadaverous flesh that clung to his bones and emphasized his thorny facial features. He had charisma that beguiled his frigid demeanor. Gideon was a particularly nasty individual as far as Cannonball was concerned, but a decidedly ordinary one by Drolocan standards.
The tension hung thick in the air, and since Cannonball always loved a good fight, he lingered hopefully to see if anything would come of it.
“Lord Killifer?” Gideon looked amused. “You’re a long way from Sarthonis, blue blood. Take a closer look at your surroundings. You’re standing in a land of desolation, at the cusp of some blighted chasm, among some of the biggest scoundrels on this side of the Jascan Sea,” he chuckled. “You won’t find any Lords out here.”
Cannonball inspected the dimly lit figures surrounding him. Their faces were noticeably scarred, or twisted into some sort of permanent sneer, or both. The elf wasn’t kidding, this was a shady looking bunch.
“On the contrary. You happen to be addressing Lord Errec of House Lothringer and I will have your respect,” he replied. “Or your head.”
“Oh? Then what a privilege it is for me to be graced by the presence of Lord Errec of House Lothringer. You’ll forgive me if I don’t bow. I have little time to entertain the whims of self-entitled aristocrats.”
”I daresay the repugnant reputation of your people is well earned, Drolocan,” he scoffed. “You know nothing of courtesy, nor class, nor dignity. Tell me, shadowmancer, is there any notion of honor among your cursed kind?”
The elf let fly a boisterous, yet mirthless laugh.
“You Sarthonians are so concerned with your honor. Answer me this, noble. What happened to your honor when the Axiom lead the crusade to purge humanity from Feldoria? What honor was to be gained by cowering behind your castle walls and watching your kin die? If I were you, Sarthonian, I might choose another quality to pride myself on. Something more becoming of your people. Honor doesn’t seem to be a good fit.”
Errec spit back angrily, “You dare question my honor! I shall have you know that House Lothringer steadfastly opposed the Axiom Conflict! However, as noble humans of the Auralands we do not simply rush off to battle. Formalities must be observed and treaties need to be signed. I’ll have you know that in five short months the Conflict Resolution Consortium was established and within the year many Houses were openly voicing their displeasure with the Marandus Axiom. When the Freeborn Legion brought an end to the dispute, as we firmly believed they would, it was House Lothringer that tabled the Thaedonis Accord, effectively commending tyranny and oppression in the Kingdom of Sarthonis. I am proud to say that every noble House in the Kingdom has pledged their support for it. Many have signed it, or have openly stated their intent to sign it. Furthermore —“
Gideon moved so fast that Cannonball barely noticed it in the failing light. For a second the elf was no more than a shadow. The young Sarthonian stumbled backwards with daggers protruding from his neck, blood now raining down on his once spotless armor. Lord Errec Lothringer hit the ground with a heavy thud, and would not be participating in tonight’s Torchlight Run.
“Nobles,” the dark elf snarled, appearing visibly angry for the first time. “They talk far too much, don’t they? Always so prim and proper. But they choke on their own blood just like everyone else.” He removed his jet-black daggers from the fresh corpse and turned to regard Cannonball, who was now the only remaining spectator. “And who might you be?”
“One of the biggest scoundrels on this side of the Jascan Sea,” he said. “Do you think anyone’s called dibs on that armor?”
The elf grinned. “It didn’t serve him too well. But it would be a shame if someone didn’t make use of it. It looks rather expensive, if not utterly impractical.”
Gideon’s two goons quickly flanked Cannonball. Surprisingly, they didn’t look miniscule next to Cannonball’s hulking frame like most did. While he didn’t typically submit to this kind of intimidation, he carefully considered the circumstances in which a heavily armed warrior was now swimming in his own bodily fluids and thought it best to exercise a little restraint.
“This is a private party,” Gideon said. “Personal invitations from Mr. Killifer only.”
Cannonball pulled a large, blackened coin from his pocket. It tingled his fingers ever so slightly.
“I’m invited,” he said, casually flipping the coin to Gideon. “You don’t remember giving it to me? I’m offended, Gideon. I thought we were friends,” he smirked.
“Of course I don’t remember giving it to you. I’ve been collecting so many miscreants these days that all their rotten faces just blend together. What do they call you, Homelander?”
“They call me a lot of things. I prefer Cannonball,” he replied, not minding the backhanded insult. He had been called a lot worse, after all.
“I remember now. They also call you the Bane of Gilvery, do they not? You’ve built up quite the reputation there. I must know, do all Homelanders normally aim to profit from the suffering of their own townsfolk or is that your unique custom?”
“Ah hell, I don’t discriminate,” Cannonball said. “Besides, I’m not big on traveling.”
Gideon laughed coolly. “Our course. I do hope your journey here wasn’t too excruciating. It must have been a unique experience riding inside of a horse-drawn carriage for a change.”
Cannonball gritted his teeth. Not because he was so openly insulted this time around, but because the nauseating experience was still fresh in his mind. Gideon, seemingly uninterested in letting his blood-soaked daggers dry, was clearly trying to goad Cannonball into a fight. Normally Cannonball didn’t allow such transgressors to go unpounded, but as he noticed the rather exotic looking henchwoman with morningstars tried to her hair, he let his balled fists relax. “I’ve been through worse.”
“Until tonight, human,” he said before disappearing into the shadows. Dark elves had a tendency to do that.
Cannonball turned to face second henchman, a large dark-skinned man with beady brown eyes. “Well? Run along, pups,” he said. “Don’t want to be too far from your master when he calls.”
The beady-eyed man chuckled and pushed his way past Cannonball as the night sky suddenly turned to daylight. Spotlights that lined the surrounding bluffs clanked to life one at a time. As if the structure wasn’t intimidating enough, now all of its gruesome details were illuminated. The black rock now glowed an eerie, murky blue. Skeletal remains garnished the jagged, uneven staircase that tumbled down into oblivion.
Cannonball turned away in search of a more reassuring sight. He stared absently into the distance for a few moments, until his concussed brain, ever his downfall, processed what he was seeing. Up high, large metal crates were lined up side-by-side on the ledge of a rocky precipice. Rustic vehicles with clunky tires and patchwork paneling were strewn about at odd angles. Bustling bodies happily glared out at him from their makeshift metal grandstand. That was a viewing gallery, and the Anathema was going to be his arena.
A single bead of sweat tumbled down Cannonball’s face.
He thought now would be good time to make some last minute adjustments to his body armor. No weapons are allowed on the Run, he was told. In fact, he was required to know a few important rules prior to his journey. Rather than entrust his feeble brain with such a daunting task, he scrawled his instructions on a scrap of parchment and studied it between dizzy spells. Since this was his first Torchlight Run, he thought it prudent to adhere to rules for once in his life. Nevertheless, he also thought it prudent to hide a small blade in each of his gauntlets. It would have been beyond foolish, Cannonball concluded, to make such a lengthy and perilous journey without any effective means of self-defense. A few strap-tightenings later and he felt marginally more prepared to delve into what Gideon had effectively summed up as a blighted chasm.
Runners will gather by the torchlight at the sound of the horn, he was told. He didn’t know how he would spot torch fire under the blinding glow of spotlights. When the horn sounded he decided to simply follow the current of bodies.
Soon he stood in a crowd, about fifty strong, of the most unfavorable assortment of individuals he had ever seen outside of prison. As it turned out, being surrounded his moral kindred didn’t have any cathartic effect whatsoever. Cannonball suddenly found himself wondering if the contempt in which he stared at these brigands was the same that the people of Gilvery harbored for him.
Take a torch at the sound of the second horn, he was told.
A simple enough instruction, it would seem. Though it is worth pointing out that when goons jostle each other near open flames, the outcome is almost always disastrous. Cannonball deftly sidestepped one or two enflamed individuals on his way to a large metal rack and grabbed a torch of his own.
He turned his head at the sound of commotion. “This bastard’s armed!” he heard a man shout. Apparently some careless person tried smuggling in a weapon. Cannonball couldn’t see through the mess of bodies, but the sound of metal searing flesh was clear enough indication of what happened to those who flouted the rules.
Cannonball folded his arms across his chest as casually as he could with a torch in hand. A scrawny, hooked-nosed man with an eye patch sauntered by and flashed him a cursory glance. If that was the extent of the inspection, Cannonball firmly believed that he could have stuffed his waistband with meat cleavers and still passed with flying colours.
A thin layer of fog spread across the gravelly field. There was no reason for anyone to believe that it was anything more than a bit of moisture in the air. There was certainly no reason to believe the Anathema’s restless dead now tugged at their bootstraps.
Cannonball flinched when the third horn wailed through the night sky. When you hear the final horn, he was told, you run like hell.
Only nobody was running. A Torchlight Run was typically a test of endurance, and it looked as though this group of Runners was conserving their energy in the most effective manner: by not engaging a single muscle group. Cannonball cursed under his breath. The strategy that took him an embarrassingly long time to formulate – one of his more ingenious ideas, he believed – was now being implemented by about fifty other people.
Fourty-eight, he quickly noted, as two intrepid souls dashed their way through an archway and down the hellish staircase. A few more followed. It began to look like nerve had triumphed over strategy, as small clusters of bodies disappeared through the archway in succession. But the group now stood at about forty strong, and it was standing fast.
Cannonball’s eyes weaved a maze through the rapidly thickening fog, passing over stoic jaws, furrowed brows, remorseful frowns, and one particularly colourless man who had the look of someone who was about to be dragged kicking and screaming into the underworld.
At that moment, inside the pulpy depths of Cannonball’s heavily concussed brain, two stray neurons violently collided and the man recalled something he thought lost forever. Something he wasn’t meant to write down. But something he was meant to know. He said it aloud.
“Run like hell, or hell will find you.”
The billowing clouds seemed to tug at Cannonball as he navigated through the crowd. Disembodied voices called out from every side of him. They called to him, speaking a name that none of the strangers here could possibly know – his real name.
He honed in on the stone archway that rose above the blinding haze. Lumpy masses bounced off Cannonball, who was now bludgeoning his way towards Anathema’s entrance. A few silhouettes joined him as he descended down an uneven, indecipherable staircase.
The voices didn’t stop. They were screaming now. Cannonball couldn’t be certain who they belonged to, save for one – an unfortunate individual who apparently lost his footing and now plummeted into the shadowy abyss below.
When the dense fog turned into light mist, Cannonball felt it appropriate to give his heaving body a rest. His face was badly burned. After his own torch was lost in the excitement he had to wrestle a replacement from another Runner. He thought that overpowering someone so diminutive would be a foregone conclusion, but the girl had given him one hell of a fight. In retrospect, he felt the stabbing might have been a little excessive. Nevertheless, he was convinced that more people would have to die if he wanted to escape this ordeal alive.
When two Runners stumbled their way to the same platform that Cannonball had claimed, it was evident from their dour expressions that their own bloodlust had not kicked in yet.
“Good to see you, friend,” one of the men said to Cannonball, marking the first time in history that anyone had either expressed their pleasure with encountering Cannonball or referred to Cannonball as a friend. “Didn’t see too many of us come out of that fog.”