The Contest

Choose the weapon that will be your champion, and the other's destruction."

The referee's monologue had invoked memories in both combatants as both could remember a time when the magic of previous matches had resulted in the death of one mystic or another. Talanon did not want to see Martook die, so he chose his weapon well.

"Staff," he called forth, commanding the sphere to become his weapon.

"Slashing sword, ornamental design," recited the blue ball; it's voice chuckling evilly. In shock, Talanon could feel the burning grasp of an enchanted sword, thoroughly evil, and extremely intelligent. He already could feel the blade's persona trying to crush his ego, as it asserted itself on him, to attack his opponent.

Martook desperately screamed, "Nunchaka!" for he was somehow aware of Talanon's plight with the evil blade. He actually saw the look of bewilderment on his rival's face change to one of a murder-ravaged monster. Martook had seen the look on the mystic's face once before. Except it was on the face of an Oni, a magic-spawned demon from the very hells. Oni often try to pass themselves off as humanoid, and indeed their magic can give them this very appearance, but inevitably their own actions betray them to those that happen to be around them.

The orange mists parted to see Martook holding a similarly magicked weapon. He could feel the evil item's mind attempting to completely over-ride his own thoughts, but the champion student was made of sterner stuff than that. As he forced the voice down, Martook glanced over in horror to see his master grinning with undisguised glee, caught up in the moment.

Chanare, he thought miserably. Ashamed, Martook realized that he had been a pawn in this whole game the entire time, for it was Chanare who had coaxed him into taking the fight away from Jalkan. True, the youth would have had no chance against the talented monk from their rival school. That had made it that much easier to convince the skeptical Martook to take control of the match. And it was Chanare who had warned Martook of the dangers of the young half-breed. Plus, it had been the master who had trained him to fight the curious styles of the Kren-Ta.

With an animal scream, Talanon disrupted Martook's musings to himself. The possessed young monk rushed him, slashing savagely, and yet...haltingly. Martook could see at once that the peaceful, angular face of the half-breed was ensorcereled, but trying to fight it all the way. Tears streamed down his cheeks, as he appeared to succumb finally and fully to the possession of the magical blade.

Knowing the savagery of relenting to the magic, Martook fought even harder than he needed to, pushing the insistive voice of the sword's spirit away, down deep within himself. He parried easily the clumsy slash with a high block of his own with his enchanted blade, making an audible clang that reverberated in the amphitheater. Knowing that he needed time to regroup, and to plan his way out of this mess, Martook kicked like a serpent, lashing high into Talanon's midsection, making the half-breed double over and gasp for air. Savagely, Martook spun, smashing the hilt of the enchanted sword into his opponent's face, splitting Talanon's lower lip. The blade, sensing the freshly spilled plasma, screamed in anger, of denial; of blood not shared.

Chanare, Martook thought desperately, forcing the ever-insistive voice of the magical sword down once again, and thereby maintaining a fragile hold on his self.