The Price of Immortality

Just before sunrise, Erik Valdovitch came to life with a gasp. 

He took a quick glance at his surroundings. Same dirty prison cell, with rusty iron bars and a small hole for a window. Not that there was any light this time of day. Erik sat up, dusting bits of straw from his back, then let out a deep sigh. Today was a new day, which meant a new death. He wondered how long it would take this time.

Erik had lost track of how long he’d been doing this. Each day was always the same: wake up in the morning, get sent out into the arena, and get killed, only to wake up again the next day. Sure, his opponents varied, the rules changed, and there were always some surprises, but no matter how the day went, it always ended in Erik’s death. The Arena Master could not let Erik win. It was part of his contract with the demon, the one he had made long ago in return for immortality. If Erik ever won, he would be set free, and so the Arena Master employed every means necessary to prevent his victory. 

A squeal from the door caused Erik to look up. His guard had arrived, ready to take him away. Might as well get it over with. Erik slowly got to his feet, then followed the guard out and down a dark corridor. They didn’t bother with chains here. There was no point. If Erik somehow managed to escape, he’d find himself in the cruel wilderlands of the vast Underworld, impossible to survive alone and unarmed. Besides that, Erik had sold his soul - as soon as he died, he’d wake up the next day in his cell. No, there was no escaping his fate. Not unless he won a fight.

The guard led him to the prep room, a small chamber with a weapons rack on the wall and a plain table in the center. Resting on the table were a stale chunk of bread and a tin cup with water. This may be the Underworld, but the Arena Master wanted his fighters to have some energy before the fight.

Erik picked up the bread and tore a piece off. Resurrecting always left him famished, but the warden never provided enough food to satisfy that hunger. The scarred orc always said that the edge of hunger made warriors fight better. Erik had yet to prove that true.

After finishing the bread and gulping down the water, Erik walked to the weapons rack. It was then that he noticed the padded leather armor up against the wall. He groaned inwardly. When the warden provided armor, it was usually because Erik was up against one of the larger opponents, such as Hurk the Greater or one of the wild beasts. Those fights were especially brutal.

Erik finished strapping on the armor. Glancing over the weapons, he decided on a wooden shield and a sturdy pontoon. The long reach of the spear would help if he were pitted against one of the beasts. Hopefully, he could at least put on a show. He had given up any hope of winning, but if he looked like he was trying, the Arena Master would occasionally show mercy and give him a quick death. 

The twin suns were just rising as the guard led Erik out into the arena. Burning fiercely, the Eyes of Hades cast long shadows across the terrain. Today, the arena was modeled after the harsh desert of the surrounding Underworld - sharp crags and cracked red earth extended to the edges of the circular area. Several deadly plants protruded from the ground at sparse intervals. Erik would have bet there were a few nasty creatures hiding in the cracks as well. This was typical for the battles - your opponent could only kill you if the arena didn’t get to you first. As he approached his designated starting mark, Erik looked across for his opponent, but they had not yet arrived. In the stands above the fighting grounds, spectators were still arriving. Demons loved to watch the fights, despite knowing that the outcome would always be the same. They just loved to see Erik get torn apart.

A cheer arose from the gathering crowd, signalling the arrival of the other combatant. Erik looked to the other starting mark, expecting to see a manticore or sand wyrm dragged out. Instead, a man with choppy silver hair walked up to the spot, a twisted smile on his face.

Zatarin. The man was a sadistic killer, bound by no contract, choosing to fight in the arena for the pure pleasure of it. He was paid handsomely by the Arena Master, but Erik knew that he simply enjoyed inflicting pain in others. Zatarin delighted in dragging out his victim’s death, something Erik had experienced firsthand a number of times. Erik looked at the weapon in his hand, large and unwieldy, then back at Zatarin, armed with a sword and dagger. This fight would not go well. 

Both combatants readied as the Arena Master stood. “The rules for today are simple: the contestants will fight to the death. If a contestant attempts to leave the ring, he forfeits the win. If a contestant dies after killing his opponent, he forfeits the win.” The demon paused, allowing the excitement of the crowd to build. “Let the game commence!”

As soon as the words left the demon’s mouth, Erik ran towards the nearest crag. If he could just get some high ground, his pontoon might be of use. From the edge of his vision, he saw Zatarin rushing towards him.

Erik reached the side of the crag and started scrambling to the top. He made the split-second decision to drop his shield and stick his spear through the back of his armor, allowing him to climb faster. When he had almost reached the top, pain shot through his foot. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself over, then turned with spear in hand towards his enemy below. 

Zatarin backed away from the wall, bloodied sword in hand. He began circling the rocky outcrop, waiting for a hole in Erik’s defense. Erik hazarded a glance at his foot. It was bleeding, but the wound was superficial. He found he could still balance his weight on it, but the pain would make running difficult. He swore under his breath. Already this battle had taken a turn for the worse. 

As Zatarin circled Erik’s crag, Erik held his weapon at the ready. On three sides, the cliff protected him. There was no way for Zatarin to climb that without opening himself up to attack. On the fourth side, however, a wide slope approached the top. This is where Zatarin focused, watching for an opening. He’d occasionally dart forward, at which point Erik would jab with the spear, forcing him back a few steps. It held the man back for the moment, but Erik knew that he was trapped. If it came down to a contest of stamina, his enemy would win. Zatarin was no prisoner. He was well-rested and well-fed, and he had much more training than Erik. Eventually, Erik would succumb to the heat of the arena. He had to act before then if he wanted to survive.

“Today, you will die again, slave!” Zatarin jeered. “Tonight, I will feast to celebrate my victory.” His voice dropped, low enough that only Erik could hear. “You have not eaten well in a long time, have you? Perhaps, if you won every now and then, they’d give you some real food.” He feinted another charge, but stayed outside the pontoon’s reach. 

His taunts had little effect on Erik, although his stomach complained about its lack of nourishment. Gathering his strength, he charged at his enemy, sweeping his spear at the last moment. Before he struck, Zatarin ducked, then stepped closer to slash at Erik. Erik was ready for this, switching his grip on the weapon and using it to parry the sword strike. At the same time, he thrust the spear shaft upward and landed a kick on Zatarin’s knee. The mercenary gritted his teeth, then unleashed a flurry of moves on his opponent. Using the pontoon like a quarterstaff, Erik parried blow after blow. He almost got an edge in, but then his wounded foot skidded on some loose rocks, and Erik fell to the ground. 

Slice!

The sword thrust that would have pierced his chest glanced off his collarbone instead, opening another cut. Erik scrambled back in shock. He grabbed the end of the spear to pull it towards him, but Zatarin stomped on the shaft, causing it to break off. Erik was left with only a length of wood. 

Thud!

The blade bit deep into the wood. Zatarin grinned, and Erik knew he could not hold him off much longer. 

Thwack!

The already-broken shaft began to crack with strain. Zatarin’s smile grew menacing as he pressed the sword down with one hand, slipping the other to the hilt of his dagger.

Erik pushed away, widening the gap between the two as fast as possible. His opponent approached slowly, brandishing both sword and dagger now. He wore the expression of a predator toying with his prey. As Erik braced himself to get up and run, he felt a sharp sting in his ankle. He looked down to see a pale serpent slithering away, leaving two red marks behind.

Within seconds, Erik could feel the venom spreading up his leg. Purple-black waves rippled out from the puncture wound to the surrounding skin. In that moment, Erik knew that he would die. Somehow, that knowledge gave him new strength. 

With Zatarin only a few paces away, Erik stumbled to his feet, gripping his stick in one hand. When the mercenary swung, Erik smacked his sword away. Angered, his adversary lunged forward. Erik twisted to the side, smashing the attacker’s hand and forcing him to drop the sword. At the same time, Zatarin’s dagger plunged into Erik’s gut. The broken shaft fell to the ground as Erik’s hand went to his stomach.

Zatarin sneered. “I told you I would kill you. I’d ask you to send my regards to the Underworld, but you’ve already landed yourself here.” He laughed, a cold, heartless laugh.

In one swift motion, Erik yanked out the dagger and thrust into his enemy’s heart. The smile froze on Zatarin’s face as his life faded from him. “I think you should be saying goodbye instead,” he spat. “Not even the Underworld will want your soul after dying by the loser’s hand.”

Erik released his grip, allowing Zatarin’s corpse to fall. Then the pain reached new heights, and he collapsed to the ground. His vision grew dark, but Erik allowed himself a moment of victory. Today, he would die, but tomorrow, he would live once more. Zatarin, on the other hand, would not.

As the suns shone bright in the sky, Erik died with a smile on his face.