Return of the Damned

Six months earlier…

The blackguard stood at the edge of her arena. In the middle, two tattooed men fought. Both were stripped to the waist, barefoot, and bleeding. Each had a short sword and a buckler. They were winded from fighting for nearly an hour.

On their chests, heaving up and down with each exaggerated breath, were three words written in the infernal language of the Abyss-and the symbol of Hextor himself. The god of battle had smiled upon them, and these men, in turn, had dedicated their lives to him, showing their devotion by tattooing their bodies with the image of their god.

The blackguard read those words to herself now: war; conflict; destruction. They were words she could take to heart.

In the arena, a sword clanked off a buckler, and one of the warriors fell to the ground with a blade in his gut.

The stands erupted in cheers. The blackguard smiled as she looked out at nearly a thousand men, each shirtless, each carrying the mark of Hextor on his chest.

The victorious warrior stood over his wounded victim, looking to the blackguard, waiting patiently for a sign.

The crowd chanted, "Finish him! Finish him! Finish him!"

The blackguard slipped her sword from its sheath. The chamber went silent. This was her favorite part. Lifting the blade high in the air, she looked at the warriors in the middle-one bleeding, one wanting blood.

"Send him to Hextor," she said, and she lowered her blade.

The poised warrior did not hesitate before plunging the end of his short sword into the man and ending his life.

The blackguard turned and walked back to her throne. Sitting down, she watched two more men drag the corpse to the edge of the chasm and push it over. Then they returned to the center of the arena, nodded to each other, and began fighting.

A robed man stepped from behind the throne and prostrated himself before the woman seated on it, his face touching the ground.

"Mistress," he said with a lisp, "we have located the bottle."

The blackguard nearly stood up. "Where?"

"In the duchy of New Koratia," answered the robed man, "in some ruined catacombs off the River Delnir."

"The Herald of Hell has smiled upon us," she said, looking over her shoulder at the fist of Hextor.

"Yes, my mistress." The man kept his face to the dirt. "What is your desire?"

Behind him, one of the cultist's swords caught the other man under the chin, taking his head off in a single stroke.

The blackguard templed her fingers. "It is time to move the cult to the duchy of New Koratia," she said. "I want you to personally undertake the retrieval of the bottle."

The man sat up. As he did, the cowl of his robe fell back to reveal a puckered, gray scar over his left eye and cheek. When he smiled, his ruined hps parted to show his teeth and most of his gums.

"As you command, my mistress."