Arena Of Fire

The King of Arcadia rasped through clenched teeth, “Beat the drum! Sound the horn! A new King must be found!”
The mountainous man coughed and spluttered, blood frothing at his lips. He clenched the arm of Sharak, his trusted Counselor, who had rushed to the King’s chamber upon hearing King Kronan’s roar. The King lay where he had been bitten by the two-headed devil’s asp, naked on a bear rug atop his bed, his large body glistening with sweat in the glow of the fireplace. Already he was trembling with fever, his muscles spasming. On the floor by the King’s bed lay the twisted serpent, its back snapped by Kronan’s mighty fist, but not before both heads of the snake had plunged their fangs into the King’s left thigh and injected him with a poison for which there was no known cure.
“It was the Zorcs! My death must be avenged!” Kronan told Sharak, his grip on the Counselor’s arm still strong.
“Rest, my King,” Sharak advised calmly. “You must conserve your strength. We will find you an heir.”
“How long?” Kronan whispered urgently. “How long before the poison takes me.”
“Three days, perhaps less.”
“Then open the gates to the Arena. The time has come to find a brave new brow for this crown to sit upon. Tell the people of Arcadia they will soon bury one King, and celebrate the coming of another. One who will destroy the Zorcs forever!” He coughed again, his huge chest rising and falling in hacking motions. “Let blood be spilled,” he spat and heaved. “Let the mightiest fall. And let a single champion rise.”