* * *
“Slave! Answer me when I’m talking to you, slave!”
Brought back from his dark memories only to refocus on his even darker reality, the warrior’s eyes came into focus and fell on the fat, hairy specimen standing before him. The monstrosity hovering over him appeared to be more beast than man. A large bald head sat upon a pear-shaped body. That head seemed to be the only part of him that didn’t have hair, as thick, black, wiry fur covered every inch of this beast’s body. Black leather boots were the most functional clothing he seemed to be wearing. A thin black mawashi held up by one leather strap that looped around his right shoulder finished the comical attire. Not a battle scar of any kind could be seen on this mushy man’s body. Pushing around slaves was the closest this thing had ever gotten to real combat. Any man could see that.
Morcel did not stand, but raised his head just enough to show he was listening.
“It begins soon, so you better get ready. Pray to whatever it is you pray to and prepare yourself!” shrieked the mountain of flabby skin with eyes, in a voice more fit for a boy than a man, especially a man of his size.
This time, the warrior leapt up to his feet and locked his eerie green eyes on the man. He never changed his expression or uttered a single word.
Jumping out of his seat with an axe in both hands while screaming battle cries would not have had a stronger effect. The large man stumbled backwards and then quickly turned to rush away from the chamber through the open wooden door. The large door slammed behind him, followed by the sound of a heavy bolt falling back into place, making a soft thud.
Few souls in the dark chamber even noticed the exchange, as each man was completely consumed within his own nightmarish thoughts—thoughts of upcoming pain, which was almost always worse in one’s own mind than it ever was in reality.
Morcel’s thoughts began to wander again as he gazed around the chamber, which seemed to change constantly with the flickering torchlight that made shadows dance on the stone walls. His thoughts drifted to the quick mockery of a trial that he’d been given as to whether or not he was a traitor. The whole ordeal could only have ended one way.
Morcel was sold into slavery, thus forced to fight in the games. Few people were ever put into a cell for any period of time. The few that found this fate were there for no longer than a week or two, for mostly small crimes that were a very gray area. This was generally frowned upon because there was no profit to be had, and it fact it cost money. A public whipping was also a very legitimate option. However, the number of lashes would depend more on the governor’s mood or how much coin found its way into his pocket, rarely on the crime itself. Most criminals were sent to the games and given the option of execution if they could not bear the idea of fighting in an arena. Almost no one took this option, but wished they had when the time came. A man’s own mind can be his worst enemy if he cannot control the fear of the unknown.
The warrior had to admit he could not offer up much of a case as to why he should have been spared from the games. He was a sword for hire, and he hadn’t exactly earned his coin.
Morcel had seen his share of death in his lifetime. Countless souls had been sent to the next life by his hand, but this had been different. He hadn’t been able to go through with the massacre. Killing innocent townsfolk had been too much to ask of him.
But that young girl...she moved like a trained soldier and killed without hesitation. That she acted from sheer will to survive was not really all that unbelievable. People could do amazing things when they were backed into a corner. But combat skills were learned over a long period of time, and then more training was needed to apply those skills to a real life-and-death situation as opposed to training drills or sparring. The fact that she’d had the mental capacity to stay calm and apply techniques through muscle memory and reflex instead of conscious action was truly amazing.
The warrior’s thoughts were interrupted once again when he caught the eye of another man sitting by himself on the bench across from him. Aside from the fact he was staring a hole into Morcel, the large, dark-skinned man stood out simply by being so calm. When surrounded by men screaming like girls covered with centipedes, or who were relieving themselves on the floor constantly because the unrelenting panic didn’t allow them the slightest bit of bodily control, a calm man stands out like he is on fire.
The dark-skinned man slowly stood up, never taking his eyes from Morcel as he walked gracefully towards him, stepping over one of the poor souls that was trembling uncontrollably while curled up in a fetal position on the cold stone. “Well met,” came a low, grumbling voice. As if the dark skin and sheer size of the man did not give it away, the thick Dronin accent was unmistakable.
“Well met,” Morcel replied, without ever standing up or offering his hand. Basic courtesies seemed as out of place here as a priest in a whorehouse, but he did maintain eye contact throughout the exchange.
“Of all the company I be keeping in here, you look the face I might be seeing when dis be over.” The man was actually taller than Morcel and nearly as muscular. In fact, given his cut, lean frame, he appeared to be more muscular. Of course, standing in nothing but the loincloth that was supplied to everyone didn’t leave much to the imagination, as all the slaves in this room were easy to judge from a physical standpoint. Most were thin and seemed to be farmers or laborers.
Morcel looked down at his feet for a moment, then replied, “I hope to find a way to pull through this. Of course, if the gods have decided it’s my time, then I go to them with no regrets. Everyone dies, but not everyone gets to choose how. I’ve known for most of my life I would die on a battlefield. However, I did not know it would be for the entertainment of the people I once swore to protect.”
“Words of a man who feels he no longer be in control of his own fate,” came the slow, rumbling reply. “I not care if you live or die. It make no difference to me. But I want life. To see me family again. I think you help me do that. We, together, have better chance to live,” the tall stranger pieced the words together as best as he could.
Morcel said nothing as his mind raced once more. The mental wall came crashing down, and he now took it all in. The cries and whimpers of terrified men spread throughout the stone room. Fear hung heavy in the air and seemed only to intensify, as the men could now hear the crowd outside getting louder with the taunts of the speaker as he tried to prolong his moment of cheap glory by dragging out the introductions to the upcoming carnage. The man the large Dronin had originally stepped over was now gouging at his own eyes while laughing like a giddy child, stopping only now and then to let out a soft sob. Another mind snapped like a twig.
Morcel felt as though the realization that he might not survive this was hitting him for the first time. Perhaps the warrior meditation he learned so many years ago was betraying him and allowing him to really feel the severity of it all. No, that is not why his senses had heightened. The warrior knew this whole time he was doomed, and was resigned to his fate. So what had just changed?
He looked up to the Dronin man while he remained seated, only now realizing his gaze had been wandering around the room. He knew a warrior when he saw one, and assumed the other man did as well. This man was giving him hope. It was true; if they teamed up in the arena, they might just have a chance. This was the part of him that wanted to live at all costs; the most primal of instincts that will not take no for an answer, no matter how badly the odds were stacked against success.
I can’t take revenge if I’m dead. And there it was—the sudden blast of clarity and emotion put into one conscious thought. Morcel had no fear of dying, but it needed to be on his terms. Under the circumstances, he and everyone here would be nothing but sacrificial lambs for the entertainment of a mob. No, this is not the storied end of a warrior. He needed to stay alive as long as possible to have any chance at getting back what had been taken from him. Sure, even if he survived this round of the games, it only meant he would be in the next,
and the next, and next, until he finally fell.
“Steady yourselves,” someone shrieked from behind the wooden door. A small sliding panel on the lower portion of the door slid open as weapons began sliding through the chute. Most were rusty, poor-quality swords and axes, with a few daggers thrown in as well. You would think the mountain of hair was throwing poisonous snakes instead of weapons, the way all the slaves bolted away from the mounting pile. “You can all fight without them for all I care. Bite and scratch if you think it will work better...ha ha.”
The small door slid shut, and then it began all over again—the crying and wailing of terrified men filled the room. A few picked up weapons and began slicing at the air, trying to gather as much self-control and courage as they could muster. One slave actually drove one of the swords into his own belly in a futile suicide attempt. All he managed to do was inflict a gaping wound that rendered him nearly useless for combat. He had wanted to die, and would now most certainly get his wish.
Morcel gave his attention to the Dronin once again only to see that the big man’s eyes had never left him. His gaze patiently rested on Morcel and, even given the eruption of madness all around, remained calm and focused on the impending answer. “Alright then, but you have to follow my lead. You understand?”
The Dronin just smiled as Morcel sprinted towards the pile of weapons as if he might get stuck without one. Nothing could be farther from the truth, as almost all remained untouched. He picked up a large, rusty axe and banged it loudly against the stone floor several times to make sure it would not crack in half the first time it hit anything solid. Well, it’s better than a tree branch, I suppose.
The Dronin calmly walked up and grabbed two rusty short swords out of the pile. He then tossed them up in the air and caught them on the backs of his wrists. There he balanced them for a while, seemingly to decide whether or not the balance was any good, or at least to decide how to compensate for the imbalance.
“When that gate opens, we cut through whatever is in our path until we can take the center of the arena. Then we go back to back. On your word you must parry all blows coming from your side, and I swear to do the same. We cannot dodge any or we will risk injury to the other. Agreed?”
The Dronin just smiled and bowed his head. “Whatever be getting me back to me family. I swear on both our lives, as they now be joined.”
Then, all of a sudden, a loud, grinding sound could be heard from the large metal door just beside the wooden one. What started as a crack of light at the base grew into a blinding flash of sunlight as the door began to rise. Everyone squinted at the brightness, trying to get their eyes adjusted as daylight came flooding through. Flower petals of all different colors could be seen fluttering down across the doorway. Reds and blues fluttered down like a rainbow of butterflies. The crowd roared in response to the open door. This is what they had all come to see.
“ This is it. Let’s go!” Morcel boomed in his deep voice. He was the first to run through the open gate. Sprinting through the shower of petals, he could feel his new friend just behind him, and to his surprise, a few others just a few short steps behind them, screaming battle cries of their own. It seemed others wanted to live as well.
The crowd roared like a raging waterfall, and Morcel found himself caught up in the energy of the mob. Twirling his axe over his head, he could not help but think, I will not die this day!
Chapter 2
The rain came down in sheets, battering the rooftops and pounding against the large wooden fence that surrounded the town of Denark. The gusting winds drove the rain sideways for brief moments before dying down, only to pummel the area with hail mixed with the already heavy rain.
The guards manning the main gate paced back and forth across the top of the fence on a platform just large enough for two men to pass side by side.
This time of night there were only two guards on duty. Each of them was wearing gray leather armor adorned with a red eagle on the chest piece. The various flags displayed around the fence also bore the red eagle that was synonymous with the town of Denark.
Both men wore matching gray hooded cloaks to protect them from the storm. Being completely soaked, the cloaks did little to provide warmth, but did help shield from the stinging raindrops that felt like gravel being thrown every time the wind picked up. Each carried torches that came with metal shielding around the flame to help deal with weather conditions such as these. Even with the shielding, one or the other torch seemed to keep going out in the hurricane-like conditions, while the man with the remaining lit torch would use his to light the other. So far, keeping the torches lit had been the biggest peril they had faced this evening. No travelers seemed to be on the roads this night. Not that many would be out at this hour anyway, but with the current weather conditions, they expected the night to be uneventful.
“How much longer are they going to leave us out here?” asked Oben through his thick blond beard and mustache as he pulled the hood over his face as far as he could.
The other man just grunted as they passed each other for what seemed to be the thousandth time tonight. Grend was a tall man with a thick black beard and long black hair tied back into a ponytail. A veteran guard, he had seen much worse conditions than this, and was not about to complain just to complain.
Lightning crackled across the sky, illuminating everything in a blinding flash. For a brief second, the rows of trees close to the main gate bent unnaturally in the swirling winds.
Oben seemed to be really struggling to keep his torch lit, constantly trying to shield the sickly flame by covering it with his hood, bringing his face very close to it while at the same time trying to keep his back to the wind. If the flame were to suddenly gain strength, he would surely lose an eyebrow. But the possibility of that seemed quite slim, given the extreme elements.
Grend was now leaning on the edge of the rail with his torch held low so as not to get it slammed by the incoming combination of rain and hail. Another flash of lightning split the sky, and Grend almost jumped out of his skin. Right in front of the main gate, where he just so happened to be staring into the dark, appeared a dark, hooded figure. It only became visible during the flash and then was swallowed up by the blackness once more. He waved frantically to Oben, not really wanting to call out. It seemed that his friend was still losing a mighty battle with his torch, and not paying attention to much else.
Thunder boomed a split second later and it gave Grend the courage he needed to call to his companion. “Oben. Oben,” came the forced whisper as he waved a hand frantically in his companion’s direction.
“What is it?” came the annoyed reply as the struggling man’s eyes remained fixed on his torch. Protecting the precious flame was clearly the only thing on his mind.
“Come here,” said Grend, whispering as loud as a whisper could be and still be called a whisper.
Now he had Oben’s attention. The guard trotted over to him, still protecting his precious torch from nature’s onslaught as best as he could. Following Grend’s gaze, he glanced down at the road down below, squinting hard in the dark to try to see what his friend was looking at.
As if right on cue, several flashes of lightning lit up the sky one after another, revealing the cloaked figure waiting patiently in front of the gate. There was no horse to be seen, which was rather unusual, considering that the nearest smaller towns were still miles away, and even more unusual given the weather. No face could be seen, as the black, drooping hood covered the figure’s head completely, and the long, flowing black robe covered his whole body down to the ground, making it so that not even his feet could be seen. The only obvious clothing other than the black robe was a belt that housed daggers in plain sight on each hip. The cloaked man stood with his arms crossed in a nonthreatening manner.
Oben was speechless. He just stared at the dark figure as his hand wandered instinctively towards his sword opposite the hand holding the torch.
Grend had seen many things in
his years of service, and decided not to be so fast to pass judgment. This man’s business had to be urgent, to come out in this storm. “Who goes there? State your business,” he called in a shaky voice.
A few seconds passed before the dark figure slowly reached a hand deep into his robe.
Now Grend found himself unconsciously fingering his sword handle at the unnerving movement.
Just as slowly as the figure reached into his robe, he withdrew a small bag that appeared to be a coin purse. He slowly held it up towards the two soldiers. Another few seconds went by before the dark figure began to shake the bag back and forth, seemingly to verify its contents and dispel the guards’ doubts with the familiar jingling sound of coin.
Lightning crackled across the sky again, followed almost immediately by booming thunder. The rain began to drive sideways again, which made both soldiers squint as tiny, stinging drops hit them in the face.
Grend was the first to compose himself. He shook off the onslaught, only to look down and see the figure was no longer holding the coin purse, just standing patiently, his arms folded once again in that same nonthreatening manner. “Bah...let the freak in,” grumbled Grend as he regained his nerve and walked over to one of the wooden wheels on the north side of the passage. He quickly gestured to Oben to man the one on the other side.
Oben, who was still a bit shaken, walked as fast as possible without actually running to the other wheel. The metal gate was not heavy, but did require two men to turn two separate wheels at once to open it.
The flimsy metal gate was more fit for keeping livestock out than for actual protection of the city. It was only closed at night anyway, which always made Grend wonder why, since their instructions were to let folk come and go as they please. I suppose having to turn these bloody wheels a couple times a night justifies our compensation. With the gate now open, the dark figure drifted through as the two soldiers looked down at him from the other side of the narrow walkway.
Oben shivered, looking at the unnatural grace with which the cloaked stranger moved. The head, which was perfectly level and did no bobbing at all while he moved, combined with the long robe that did not display any legs or feet, gave the appearance of a specter floating along the street. The dark figure did not appear to be particularly tall, but it was hard to tell from this height. The guard shivered again and grumbled something about the cold as both guards took positions at their wheels and closed the gate.
The stranger walked down the main street where most of the trade shops were. Made of a combination of clay and sand, it was packed down tight from decades of use by wagon wheels, horses, and literally thousands of merchants throughout the years. This was partly the reason why there were deep puddles everywhere. The rainwater did not easily seep into the rock-hard dirt road. The cloaked figure continued right down the middle of the street, not even avoiding the larger puddles, just walking in a line straight as an arrow with his head down and arms crossed. He passed a local armory, the bakery, and the weaponsmith’s shop, all which were closed for the night. However, none of these establishments drew the interest of the stranger. He continued to walk through the driving rain, seeming oblivious to the lightning that flashed again and again and was followed by earsplitting thunder. He only encountered one person, who ran off without paying the cloaked figure much attention.
The only places still open this time of night were the few taverns and whorehouses in Denark. One was hardly distinguishable from the other. It was more a preference of name rather than services rendered, as any place that served liquor had its share of whores as well, and vice versa.
One such establishment was known as “The Bleeding Duck.” It was unusually slow tonight due to the weather. Topless waitresses walked around serving drinks to the usual rough lot that graced that establishment almost every night. The patrons would show up in the middle of an earthquake if necessary; a little rain meant nothing. It would take a lot more than that to stop this group from getting their poison.
The room was brightly lit with the many lanterns hung around the room. Yellow and white stripes running down the wallpaper gave the place an innocent feel. Five small, round, wooden tables complete with four plain wooden chairs apiece were the extent of the furniture. A worn-out staircase led up to the second level, where rooms could be rented for the night or by the hour if so wished. The heads of different game animals were spread around the room high on the walls, with wooden plaques holding up the trophies. A bear’s head was the most obvious, with a few strange creatures mixed in. One looked like a deer head but had three small horns and unusually large eyes.
Vega, a large, bald, heavyset man, stood behind the bar, pretending to clean off glass mugs with his apron as he stood under the bear’s head. Considering how filthy his apron was, it was a good thing he was only half-heartedly going through the motions while his attention remained where it always was: Looking out for his girls as they paraded around in next to nothing, and in other cases nothing.
Most of the girls carried a dagger somewhere on them, whether tied to the sides of their thongs or in leather sheaths tied to their lower legs. There were not many places to conceal such a thing, but that wasn’t really the point. Having a weapon in plain view made each of them seem like less of a target for some of the vile men they were forced to deal with. And maybe, more importantly, it made Vega feel better.
As he continued pretending to be busy, he watched his girls getting pinched and groped by the group of leathers in the far corner, who were the only customers remaining this time of night. He had learned long ago when to act or just let things be. For one, his girls could take care of themselves, and knew how to defuse any situation that got out of hand. One thing that was a little harder for him to accept was the simple fact that many of his girls liked the attention, and really had no limits at all when it came to making coin. He wasn’t jealous exactly, it was just that he had a daughter of his own and simply could not imagine her working in a place like this or being treated like a sexual toy. Most of his girls came from broken homes and had nowhere else to go. Some were severely abused, and he took them under his wing and cared for them like his own daughters, but at the end of the day they had to make their own choices, and all he could do was offer employment and protection.
When he opened The Bleeding Duck oh so many years ago, he had been young and brash. Sure, he had sampled many of the girls he’d hired, but as Vega got older, he regretted a lot of the choices he had made. No sense living in the past.
The group of four leathers had one of the girls bent over the table. She was being cheered on by the others to the sound of clapping and whistling. Her trained moans made the leather who was using her services feel like a king, but all the while her smile was quite genuine, thinking of the coin her performance would earn her.
In between cheers for their friend, the three who were not as occupied were telling their same stories again: of the time they raided the town of Brinton and slaughtered every family that held residence. Of course, their version of the tale had them meeting stiff resistance, with them prevailing from insurmountable odds as wave after wave of trained solders were sent to the afterlife by their blades.
The girls stood around the table and listened intently, as though they had not heard the story a hundred times already. Ignoring the hands rubbing all over them as they oohed and aahed at just the right moments, they raised their hands to their faces in feigned excitement so as to seem completely spellbound by the thrilling tale.
Then one of the girls let out a short-breathed gasp, one that had nothing to do with her being penetrated harshly by the storyteller’s finger as she sat on his lap. There was another figure in the room, which nobody had seen or even heard come in. The dark-robed man was sitting at a table opposite the group, with his arms crossed and his black hood worn low over his face. The whole group eyed the stranger anxiously while remaining silent as mice. The cloaked figure did not move a muscle or even seem to breathe.
The
leather who had been doing most of the talking was a large man with a thick, red beard. He leaned forward on the table, being the first to break the silence. “Hey there, stranger, can’t you see we’re closed?” he said a little more timidly than he had intended, which took some of the bite out of his attempt to appear tough.
The dark figure didn’t say a word or even move a muscle as the tension became so thick you could cut it with a knife.
Clearing his throat after his awkward attempt for humor, the leather looked to his friends for some sort of support. “Whatever happened to Will? He was supposed to meet us here over an hour ago,” he said when the silence became unbearable. Not that he cared why his friend didn’t show up. He might have gone home with one of the whores for all anyone knew. He was just trying to get some conversation going to help distract from the hooded figure he was suddenly sorry to have ever spoken to.
“Don’t know,” replied the dark-haired, clean-shaven leather on his left, “must be busy polishing that green ring he’s always bragging about.”
The three leathers laughed out loud and the girls timidly joined in. It was true, Will always did brag about the ring he’d stolen from some guy he supposedly killed right after raping his wife and forcing the man to watch. Nobody knew for sure if the story was true. It seemed to be a little different every time he told it.
The leathers had now put the dark figure out of their minds, so much so that they never even noticed when he walked over behind their table and hovered there a few moments. What they did notice was the severed hand thrown onto the table, still wearing the same green ring they had been speaking of.
There was instant chaos. All three men leapt from their chairs with weapons drawn.
The girls screamed and ran towards Vega, who had already pulled his steel crossbow out from a hidden trapdoor concealed behind the bar.
The hooded figure jumped back a few steps but did not draw the daggers that were attached to his leather belt. He just stood there with his arms crossed in a defiant stance.
All three leathers knew very well how to attack as a group. One of the leathers attacked high while the other two attacked low. Then they would suddenly reverse their angles as they continued the assault.
At the last possible second, the dark figure snapped both wrists upward in a whip-like motion. With a click, shiny daggers snapped into each hand. Purely on the defensive, he parried every single blow while lifting a leg when necessary to dodge a low attack, but never backed up one inch. Arms pumped in circles as the whirling blades deflected every thrust and slash with a solid clanging sound, sending occasional sparks flying off in different directions. Then, like a lightning bolt, he broke the deadlock by throwing a high kick that caught one of the lowlifes square on the face. He bolted towards the fourth, who was frantically hopping on one leg, trying to get his pants on. The stranger zipped right past him, seeming to have made no aggressive movements towards him at all.
It was not until the leather spun a complete circle that his eyes bulged. His throat sprayed warm blood like a fountain. No one even saw the strike happen.
The dark figure never broke stride as he ran halfway up the wall, then flipped over his pursuers in a tight somersault. Nimble as a cat, he landed on the table behind them. The leather with the thick beard watched the dark figure snap both hands in a whip-like motion towards them, then suddenly noticed he was the only one still standing. Looking down at his comrades, he saw a dagger buried deep into each of their foreheads, their expressions little changed due to the efficiency of the assassination.
The dark figure snapped his hands towards the ceiling once more. With a click, two more silver missiles appeared in his hands.
Knowing he was clearly overmatched, the surviving leather bolted out the door, screaming like a girl with a snake on her back.
Whirling around, the hooded man walked slowly towards Vega.
The girls were either face down behind the bar with their arms covering the backs of their heads or holding onto the big man with faces buried into his back, sobbing uncontrollably.
“I know who you are...Phantom,” the barkeep said evenly as he threw the crossbow onto the floor, “and I know you won’t hurt me or my girls. Go upstairs and pull the string hanging from the ceiling. The guards will be here soon, so you better take to the rooftops. Go now,” he said, pointing to the stairs.
The dark figure paused a second then bowed low, his drooping hood nearly flush against the floor.
Vega glanced out the window when he heard the bells begin to ring, but when he looked back, the phantom was gone. Good luck, stranger. I’ll lose no sleep tonight.