From Othgreiss to Fernsmith, all the way down to Wyminny Cliff, the topic of conversation was dominated by the question of who would be selected to participate in the King’s Tournament.

Everywhere, except, in the dungeons of Lord Kelt of Chimagneland.

Madson Krieger was the master of Lord Kelt’s prison, and he was the guard everyone strived to avoid. Charged with keeping order in the cells, he was feared for his cruel disposition and his vicious temper. He kept his prisoners perpetually underfed, clothed only in rags, and tethered to very short chains. Krieger was a giant walking through a valley of insects, prepared to cut down any disturbance to his peace.

Krieger wasn’t particularly tall, but he was imposing enough to intimidate any wretch condemned to Lord Kelt’s dungeons. He was covered in bright red hair as coarse as the fur of a gorilla, which hid the defined muscles on his arms. He strolled quietly through the dungeons, gently tapping his truncheon against his palm. The prisoners would never make eye contact with him, for fear of being struck by the brute’s baton. Krieger behaved as if the day was ill spent if he hadn’t made an example of at least one of the condemned. His weapon was soaked in the blood and tears of the thieves and vagrants hidden down here beneath the sewers of Lord Kelt’s estate. No one dared to raise even a cross voice to the fearsome Guard Master.

But still, he hesitated in approaching the doomed soul in the last cell.

Historically, Krieger was a man unaccustomed to showing fear. He had defended King Phillip against a horde of rampaging centaurs. He had bested the gorgon threatening the lives of a family of shepherds. He had even survived an attack by the Spider Clan, and returned with a precious jewel that has never been unmatched in beauty. But this prisoner made him nervous.

Krieger stood in front of the cell, his hands folded behind his back, calmly staring into the dark, isolated room. Foul smells from different sources were emanating from the room. Krieger’s minion, who followed him everywhere, took a step back as the odor hit his nose. “I’ll bet he’s working for Queen Mileani,” the smaller man guessed.

The bald and unpleasant toady skulking in Krieger’s shadow, holding a short sword in one hand and a torch in the other, was called Gempley. He was once a prisoner of the dungeons himself, until he was finally released when his sentence expired. But he was a scrawny thief with no skills for honest work, and even less talent for survival in the outside world. He begged to stay in the dungeons, and so Krieger gave him employment as his assistant. It was only fitting; he would have stayed in the dungeons one way or another.

“What are you talking about, Gempley?”

“I said, he’s probably working for the queen of Greenjai.”

“She’s an empress, you lackwit,” Krieger corrected him.

Gempley’s brow furrowed. He didn’t understand that a queen and an empress weren’t interchangeable terms. “The slaves say that Queen Mileani made an alliance with the goblins, you know. They say Mileani paid the goblins to kill our Queen and the Princess.”

Krieger had heard these rumors before as well, they had started circulating just a few years ago. Mileani was rumored to have a dash of elven blood running through her veins, which made her not exactly human. In these days of wide spread antagonism towards all non-humans, it made her an easy target for malicious rumors.

“She wanted her slut daughter to marry Prince Taaht,” Gempley rambled on with a ridiculous air of authority. “That’s why she had to get the Princess out of the way!”

Having heard enough of his servant’s prattling, the guard master turned around and placed the blunt end of his truncheon against Gempley’s cheek. “Keep your mind on your job, and stop distracting me with the idle gossip of these pig shit wretches!”

Gempley nodded slowly and silently. Krieger was known to leash his fury on his own subordinates as well as the prisoners, and he had personal experience with how much it would hurt.

“Remember what I said, Gempley,” Krieger whispered, returning his attention to the cell at the end of the corridor. “Remain at least six paces away from the bars.”

Gempley pinched his noise, trying not to gag. “I don’t fear that will be a problem, Guard Master.”

The cell in question was known as the Tomb. The prisoners housed here would only leave for one reason. Public execution. The cell was spacious enough to comfortably house a dozen prisoners, but for the last week, it had been the solitary dwelling of only one occupant. For the last two days, that occupant had remained quiet and unmoving.

He could be dead, or just sleeping. They would have to bring the torch closer to find out, and Gempley didn’t seem inclined to risk it. “The day has arrived,” Krieger boomed theatrically, spreading his arms out as he addressed the prisoner. “In just a few hours, you will emerge from these luxurious accommodations to greet the sunrise one final time.”

If the captive heard him, he gave no indication. The only noise disturbing the silence were the nervous skitters of other prisoners, peering from adjacent cells, hoping to get a glimpse of the Tomb’s notorious occupant.

“I know you can hear me, Balor.” growled Krieger, scratching his rough thatch of beard impatiently. “When we open the cell door at sunrise, I expect you to walk out into the courtyard and submit yourself to punishment without any incidents.”

Submit yourself to punishment. The very phrase caused the prisoner to finally express a soft but audible, agitated grunt. He had no issue with dying in battle, but he saw no honor in public execution. Especially for the trivial offense he had been charged with.

“Balor was only offering the taxes that Lord Kelt demands from us,” growled the voice in the darkness.

“You hurled it through a window,” complained Krieger.

“No one specified the manner in how our taxes were to be delivered,” laughed the prisoner. “How is that a crime?”

“You threw your taxes through his bedroom window!”

“It was on time,” the prisoner reasoned.

“It was a cow!” Gempley screeched back, but the man in the shadows merely laughed at the thought of the mess he must have made.

“A lesson, then. The more he demands from the people, the more insurgence he can expect to be paid,” he responded innocently.

“Such eloquent philosophy from a mindless barbarian. If you agree to apologize to my Lord Kelt, he is prepared to provide you a last meal worthy of a civilized man before your execution. What say you, prisoner?”

As their eyes began to slowly adjust to the darkness of the cell, Krieger and Gempley began to see the faint shimmer of an outline in the back of the Tomb. The massive shape was sitting on the stone bench on the far wall, some ten feet back, where he remained chained to the wall. Krieger wisely continued to stand a safe distance from the bars while waiting for his answer.

“Balor shall have three helpings of chicken, spiced with black pepper and ginger. A large bowl of potato stew served with fresh bread. For dessert, I desire Tart de brymlent.”

Gempley choked on the request, but Krieger managed to remain calm and collected. “Balor, these are impoverished times. My lord’s food stores have been stretched thin to feed his own family. You certainly can’t believe that he would offer such a feast to a barbaric savage like yourself?”

There were a few moments of silence, broken finally by the prisoner rising to his feet. In the shadows of near darkness, Gempley could just make out the figure standing in the back of the cell. The ceiling of The Tomb was just under seven feet tall, but the man inside seemed to be stooping to prevent his skull from grazing against the granite ceiling. He took a step forward, and the metallic sound of his chains clinking could be heard throughout the dungeon. The manacles on his wrists were connected to the chains, and the chains were bolted to the wall, preventing him from walking more than a few steps away from the rear of the cell.

“Guard Master, I offer my apologies,” growled Balor in an almost pleasant tone. “As an uneducated barbarian, I was not aware that food was in such short supply in the noble house of Kelt.”

The sarcastic tone was not lost on the Krieger, but he nonetheless retained his composure.

“I suppose I can do without the Tart de brymlent,” he decided. “As a substitute, you could send in three women to give me a proper servicing.”

Gempley snorted dismissively. “A savage like you would think nothing of treating women like dish rags, would you? Lord Kelt does not toss maidens over to dogs like you!”

The barbarian’s thunderous laughter filled the dungeons, bringing a shiver of dread to everyone within earshot. “You expect anyone to swallow such a mouthful of swill? Everyone knows about his arrangement with Nomandar Haschau! Does he not offer Kelt a volume discount on little girls to spoil?”

Hearing his lord so openly mocked, Gempley took another threatening step towards the cell wall, only to be stopped by Krieger. The Guard Master would not be goaded into stupid decisions, but even his patience was finite.

“Barbarian, I grew tired of your stench the day you were brought here to die. It was my attempt, only at the request of Lord Kelt, to offer you some comfort before your execution. As you refuse this gesture, let me explain what I can now offer you.”

The barbarian listened quietly, the chains rustling behind him as he let the guard master speak his threats. He had heard it all before, by men more imposing than him.

“You shall receive a meal of four morsels of bread, and a cup of fresh water. You will accept that your cock shall never know the touch of a woman again. And you will walk to meet the executioner without struggle or conflict. You will agree to this, or I will send for the archers. They will enter here, and unleash as many arrows as it takes to rid the world of your presence. Do you understand?”

“I understand…” he slowly responded.

Krieger turned to his lieutenant, satisfied but surprised with the barbarian’s reply. “Gempley, have the cook prepare some bread for this man. Then inform the executioner to prepare the courtyard for the ceremony.”

“I understand…that your daughter has recently turned fifteen,” the barbarian continued. The chains didn’t give him a great deal of mobility, but there was just enough reach for him to withdraw the one weapon he was born with and display it for the guards to see. “That’s old enough for me. She should be a sufficient appetizer to get me started.”

Krieger knew that he was being baited, and he wasn’t about to fall for it. Gempley, however, angrily reached for his sword. He took a step forward, over the protests of the Guard Master, and roared at the prisoner. “You...did not say what I think you said?”

“Forgive me,” the barbarian whispered back as he stroked himself. “If you wanted a go at her first, I’ll gladly wait my turn.”

It was the last straw, and Gempley charged forward past Krieger.

While the rusty steel manacles were still securely attached to his wrists, the chains were actually no longer bolted to the wall. Sometime during the night, Balor had snapped them from the wall with his brute strength. As Gempley moved towards the bars, so did the barbarian. Before the impetuous minion could react, Balor had stretched his arms out through the bars, where they wrapped around Gempley’s neck. With a savage yank, the man was pulled off of his feet, and his blade fell uselessly to the ground.

“Bootsly!” Krieger’s shouted to a guard behind him. “Fetch the archers. Do not dawdle!”

The smaller guard ran up the stairs, nearly tripping in the process. Krieger kept his eyes firmly locked on the barbarian.

He hadn’t had the opportunity to truly look at him since his arrival in the dungeons a few weeks ago. Standing nearly seven feet tall, easily weighing over three hundred pounds, the barbarian made others of his profession look like chambermaids. Dark body hair covered a canvas of muscle, and primitive tattoos decorated the left half of his polished bald head. Glaring out at Krieger with dark brown eyes, holding his hostage by the throat, Balor carefully considered his next move.

The barbarian had been notorious for his acts of savagery and debauchery, but it was the stunt with the cow that had landed him in prison. It had taken seven soldiers to apprehend him, and not one of them left the encounter unscathed. Balor had broken the arm of one guard, and stabbed another in the leg with a jagged piece of wood ripped from a rotting beam of his prison wagon. If he were to be honestly asked, Krieger would express regret that Balor wasn’t in his ranks. But he was a wild dog, and it was time to put him down.

“There’s no escape,” Krieger quietly hissed. “The archers will decorate your carcass with arrows before you could ever hope to get out. Put him down.”

The barbarian smiled, and pulled a bit. Gempley gagged and howled as his bones were squeezed against the bars of the prison, almost as if the barbarian was trying to pull him through the narrow bars.

“What are you trying to do, you lunatic? You won’t get him through those bars!”

It was the first time that Krieger had raised his voice.

The giant relented for a moment, but it was only to allow Gempley to catch his breath. “We have differing opinions on what is and isn’t possible, Guard Master! Of course he can be pulled through the bars…if Balor doesn’t require him to be alive!”

He pulled Gempley once again, causing the helpless man to choke pitifully.

“He will make an excellent shield to protect me from your cowardly archers,” Balor taunted. “If you mean to kill Balor, you will have to open the doors and do it yourself. Like a true warrior!”

He pulled again, and this time Krieger could hear something begin to snap in Gempley’s body. The door to the dungeon opened a second later, and several pairs of footsteps could be heard descending the stone steps.

“Well, in a few moments, we shall see how a real warrior dies,” Krieger hissed, turning to meet the archers.

The barbarian paused, holding the lieutenant tightly in his arms, and watched the drama unfold.

Two archers had arrived as ordered, accompanied by Lord Kelt himself. This was unexpected, as Lord Kelt was rarely known to visit his dungeons. Following Lord Kelt was another man, this one dressed in the colors of nobility. Balor could see that it wasn’t a knight. An emissary, or a royal messenger perhaps? Whatever was going on seemed to be causing a disruption between them all. He loosened his grip, allowing Gempley to breathe, but still held him tight.

The conversation turned heated. Something was not going according to plan. The emissary was speaking calmly, but Krieger and Lord Kelt were protesting. After a few moments of raised voices, Lord Kelt seemed to relent, dismissing Krieger with an angry wave of his hand. The Guard Master departed the dungeon, slamming an angry gauntlet into the wall as he left.

“Well. This is interesting,” Balor mused, but kept his hostage close.

The emissary approached the cell a few moments later, flanked by the archers and Lord Kelt. The barbarian stared innocently at them all, waiting to hear what was to happen next, but did not release his victim.

“You are Balor the Undefeated. Is this correct?”

The barbarian nodded slowly.

“Also known in certain circles as Balor the Vicious, Balor the Brutal, Balor the Unwashed….”

“You forgot Balor the Endowed,” snorted the barbarian, lifting the lieutenant higher off the ground. “State your business, messenger. You are interrupting this man’s glorious death!”

“I am here on behalf of the Lady Tamora, Royal Sorceress of the court of King Phillip.”

Balor blinked, unsure of why this would mean anything to him. Tamora had been appointed the court sorceress three years ago, but the barbarian had never met her. He didn’t know her any better than he did the Empress of Greenjai.

“Three weeks ago, in the town of Othgreiss, you submitted your name into the lottery for the King’s Tournament. It is my duty to inform that you have been chosen to compete, and you are to be released into our custody.”

The barbarian smiled as a sudden rush of realization came over his face. He released Gempley, who fell to the ground and backed away from the cell so quickly that he nearly knocked over the emissary. As Lord Kelt angrily ordered the cell door unlocked, Balor proudly laughed.

He walked out of the cell, wearing nothing but his dirty breeches, a pair of tattered leather boots, and the iron manacles still on his wrists. As a possible show of spite, Lord Kelt claimed the keys had been lost, and so the steel cuffs stayed on.

Balor couldn’t have cared less, so long as he was leaving the dungeons. He may not receive either the food or the women he craved today, but he knew whatever lie ahead would offer unending opportunities.

Did you like it? Read on for another excerpt - THE DEFORMED MAN