Arc 6: Chapter 1: Coloss
Before the soaring spires of the Fulgurkeep were lifted up from lashing, storm-wracked waters of Garihelm’s bay, the Coloss was the crown of the coastal realms. And like the golden circlets of many famed monarchs, it had been baptized in blood.
It stands upon a long point of near solid rock, a stony cleft jutting out from the winding islands of the capital’s lagoon like a belligerent spear. Dominating most of that island, the central field of the arena is mostly hard packed gray coastal sand and gravel scattered over smooth slate. It holds an almost imperceptible incline, rising even as it narrows and stabs over the water.
To either side of this shelf are two arcs of elevated stone, and these were not made from the violence of now dead volcanoes. They were lifted by the ancient builders who once ruled the coastlands, perhaps by the very ones who’d fashioned the deep catacombs beneath the lagoon. Tall, carved from stone such a pale gray it is nearly like marble, these soaring curtain walls curve toward one another like reaching lovers, and within their inner curves are tiered rows and sheltered nooks where thousands can gather to watch the struggles inside their shadow.
The walls rise directly from the sea along the narrowest reach of the island, connecting to the arena field by narrow bridges and supported by pillars strong as the roots of mountains. Near every inch of these spires are carved with intricate designs, forming windows and shelves upon its face where the visages of weeping saints and robed lords pass silent judgement on those who fight beneath them.
Only later, after the eastward exodus and the rise of the Reynish kings, did gargoyles come to nest in place of those more ancient figures, making the stadium pillars seem more like bee hives of snarling devils.
The Coloss has seen more death than even some of the oldest elves. I could feel the violent history of the place through my fingertips where they brushed stone, or like a hum in my ears. The lamentations of defeat and the roars of triumph hummed through me, not unlike the half-real voices of a remembered dream.
And I had to wonder whether those were the kinds of ghosts we might wake from their dreams, should our struggling grow too loud.
Waves lapped against the structure beneath me. The recessed walkway in which I stood was intended for competitors, a sheltered alcove beneath the stands where the tourney knights could get a close view of the battles across the arena’s moat. There were stables for war chimera below, and many other rooms. The way I’d heard it, the pagan kings who once ruled these islands had kept beasts down there to murder their slaves for sport.
I would like to have felt sickened by that, but were our ways any less barbaric? We prettied our sacrifices up more and lavished them with names and honors, but this was no gentle play. There would be blood spilled over the next three days.
There had been already. Three of those who had fought either on behalf of the Priory or the formerly accused Laessa Greengood had died of their wounds that morning. A fourth had been killed outright by the Cymrinorean, Siriks Sontae, before he had sat the rest of the melee out and allowed the Ironleaf to claim the final glory.
Or so I’d heard. I witnessed none of it, having had other business to attend.