The Pit
A Chronicles of the White Bull Short Story
Through the ruins of a once proud empire and across a dying world travels Nhaqosa the White Minotaur, seeking the long roads home. The lawless lands that he and his companions tread are in the grip of a relentless drought, consumed by oncoming deserts and beset by bandits and monsters. Seldom does he find a place of welcome. These are a few of the stories of his journeys;
The Chronicles of the White Bull
The Pit
The Merchant's Legacy
Echoes of Dark Reflections
Wisdom from the Ashes
Legion of the Sands
Nights of Fire
In the Lair of the Bloody Handed
Kwaza, Slave
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Copyright © 2012 by A. S. Warwick
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Visit Tales From a Thousand Worlds for more short fiction by the author.
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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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The Pit
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1 – The Beast
The crowd screamed, baying for blood, for death, animalistic in their fervour. Their cries reverberated around the gladiatorial pit, rising to fever pitch as man and beast fought below. Fought and often died.
In the caverns beneath the pit the sounds were dulled, yet audible still to those who waited in the gloom of smoky torches to step out into the blood stained arena. Soon they would be forced to emerge from the darkness out into the blinding sunlight, into the cauldron of the screams, to fight for their very lives for a crowd who wanted naught but blood and agony and the killing blow. Men and women paced, or checked their weapons and armour again, anything to prepare, to distract themselves, yet still the dull echo of the baying crowd reached out to them. There was no escaping what was to come.
At the heart of the caverns, one immense fighter shifted his weight, his cloven hooves pawing at the sandy floor. In the cries that came down to the caverns there existed both exhilaration and stomach knotting terror that set the heart to racing.
Nhaqosa tossed his head, sweeping horns scything at the air. Great nostrils flared as he snorted, a response to the tension that suffused the air. His tail slashed behind him as a giant hand fastened around the wolf's head pendant that hung around his neck, red wood standing out against his bare, white hide chest. There were no wolves in those lands, Nhaqosa had discovered, no wolves to lend him strength, or lead him the far, far roads to home. Only the pendant, a gift from a stranger.
Jhatar, Jhatar, Jhatar!
Nhaqosa could hear the cry from the crowd go up. Jhatar. Their name for him. In their language it simply meant beast. They were calling for him, the crowd favourite.
An attendant came up to him, a fellow slave, tall for a human yet barely reaching Nhaqosa's throat.
"It is time, Kwaza," he said, deep respect in his voice. He held out a small dish to Nhaqosa, containing a red dye. Nhaqosa dipped a stubby finger into it, using it to daub at his white face and horns with the battle marks of his people. Another attendant struggled over with his immense stone maul. The maul was the weapon of his people, a cylinder of carved green stone through which a wooden handle ran. He had carved it by his own hand, engraving the patterns of square shaped spirals upon it, to mark his skill as both a worker of stone and a warrior. He took it from the attendant's hands, lifting it easily, hefting it and feeling its familiar, comforting weight. Without it, he did not feel complete, for it was part of him, and he part of it, having put much of himself into it as he carved it. Rarely did they allow him to use it in the gladiatorial contests, which marked the coming fight as a special one.
"Die well, Kwaza."
The waiting gladiatorial fighters called out to him, pounding fist to their hearts. Die well. Only there, where those who would soon die waited, was he respected. To them he was no beast, but instead known by the title given to him by his own people; Kwaza, Mighty One. Only in those caverns, of all place in that world so far from his own, had he found family, brothers and sisters whose lives were cut short by the whims of a fickle, blood lusting crowd.
Swinging the maul up onto his broad shoulders, hand gripping the handle tight, he walked towards the gate that led out into the pits. Golden beams of sunlight streamed through gaps of the wooden gate, almost blinding in their intensity after the dark of the caverns. Two guards stood at the gate, wearing leather jerkins and armed with spears and shields. They watched him warily, but nodded in acknowledgement, one of them swinging open the gates. Bright sunlight flooded in and Nhaqosa walked out into it, and into the baking pits.
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2 -The Knight
Elad staggered out into the pits, unceremoniously shoved through the gates by burly guards. Moments later a sword flew out to land at his feet, one notched by use and the hilt still damp from blood. The burning sun hammered down from a cloudless sky, glaring off sand marred with crimson pools of blood. His head throbbed dully. Fingers probed at the lump at the side of his head that caused it. He tried to swallow but could not, his throat too tight from lack of water and his lips cracked.
The crowd chanted around him, calling out from the stands for the Beast. As his eyes grew accustomed to the glare, he looked up at the crowd, the high walls that imprisoned him in the pit tipped with sharpened wooden stakes. Men, women and children packed the stands, robed and wearing head scarves to shade them from the sun, their dark faces twisted in bestial fury. Vendors moved amongst the crowd, selling them roasted meats, fruits and drinks.
The gates on the far side of the pit swung open and his opponent emerged. Elad could barely fathom what he saw, for he had not seem a beast of its like before. Immense, fully two and a half metres in height, and heavily built, it appeared much like a bull yet walked like a man. Its feet were cloven hooves and its head that of a bull, crowned by a pair of great horns. Though unarmoured and shirtless, revealing a hide of pure white, it carried a maul larger than one a human could wield. One blow from that weapon, Elad knew, would be all that would be required, a blow to smash bones and crush life. The beast had red paint on its face, running from its forehead between its eyes and down to its flaring nostrils, with further streaks beneath its eyes, running horizontal. More red paint ringed its white horns in broad bands.
Drums sounds from up in the stands as the local lord stood up in his private viewing area, one shaded with a red cloth to keep the sun from him. Around him gathered a crowd of guards, and of sycophantic aides ever eager to please.
He held up one corpulent arm to silence the crowd and a murmured hush fell over the pit.
"Today," he called out in a blubbery, high pitched voice, "We have an exhibition unlike any that you have seen before. Today, gracing our sands once more, comes the ferocious, the undefeated, the Beast!" The crowds rose to their feet, screaming their approval. Elad watched as the beast raised its head, looking up at the crowds, a long tail fli
ckering behind it. For a moment, Elad felt that the beast looked mournful, sorrow etched in that inhuman face, saddened by the events unfolding.
The local lord signalled for silence again before speaking once more.
"Facing him is one never to have graced our sands before. Behold, I give you one of the last Knights, the outlaw and criminal Sir Elad!" The crowd screamed again, except this time their faces were twisted up in fury and hate. Elad managed to spit on the ground, even though the action hurt, to show his contempt to the crowd. Bending slowly down, he picked up the sword. Raising it high, he swept it around to point at all of them. The crowd intensified their hateful screams.
"Gladiators, die well!"
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3 – An Unlikely Meeting
Nhaqosa studied the man sent to battle him as the pair slowly, cautiously circled each other, crouched down with their weapons ready. A dark haired man, his skin was pale though, unlike those who lived in the region that Nhaqosa found himself in. A northerner then, which made him a long way from home. Not as far as Nhaqosa himself, but far enough. A large bruise showed up on the man's face, and that, as well as other signs of mistreatment, coupled with the hatred on display from the crowd, gave some indication as to the fate of the man. He had been condemned to the pit to die, with no chance to win freedom as some could. A Knight. That had been what the lord had called him. In all his time in the pits, and in that world, only rumours of them had come to the minotaur. Fierce warriors, they had all but been wiped out when the old Empire had gone down into ruin and flame and devastation. Few remained, and those that did were disliked, hated even, for they reminded people of a more civilised time, when such entertainment as he had been forced into would not have been permitted.
"They hate you, North Man," Nhaqosa said to the man. The Knight paused in his circling step, eyes studying Nhaqosa warily, though surprise flared in them for a moment. Nhaqosa had become used to that reaction from people the first time he spoke, as if they could not believe it possible.
"And they seem to love you, Beast."
Nhaqosa tossed his head and snorted. "Only because I kill for them, and I am good at it," he replied, weariness in his voice.
The pair had almost stopped their circling, standing across from each other. The crowds grew restless, screaming for them to fight, to kill, yet curiosity stayed the opponents' hands.
"Nhaqosa, Kwaza of my people, the Stonemaul tribe."
"Elad, Knight of the Order of the Ardent Flame, once Lord Elad of Kellat. What manner of creature are you? I have not seen your likes in this world before, and I have travelled far and seen much."
"Nor will you. My people are called minotaurs, and we are not of this world."
"I had not thought such a thing possible."
The jeers and insults from the crowd continued to rise as the fight ground down to a farcical non-event. Elad turned and gave them a mocking laugh and a bow, which only further incensed their white hot rage.
"Careful," Nhaqosa warned, speaking quietly, "They like not being taunted."
"What can they do?" Elad asked, still gesturing to the crowd. "Kill me? I was dead from the moment I entered the pit, and I fear them not."
The lord had risen to his feet as well, face livid and jowls flapping as he screamed at a nearby guard. Nhaqosa knew what was to follow. He had seen it before.
"The true Beast comes."
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4 – The True Beast
When the Beast, Nhaqosa had first spoken, it had surprised Elad. He had not expected words from such an unlikely looking a creature; a minotaur, that had been the word Nhaqosa had used for himself. Yet as they spoke, Elad had sensed something in Nhaqosa, a strength and nobility of character not yet tainted by the pits, or by the dying world that they lived in.
He should not have taunted the crowd, he knew, but he was damned if he as going to be a willing, compliant accomplice to their pleasure at this barbaric spectacle. There would be repercussions, and the only regrets he had were that it would impact upon Nhaqosa as well.
"The true Beast comes," Nhaqosa said, turning to face a vast gate in the southern wall of the pit, wherein were housed the wild beasts. The gates, much heavier than those he had come through, slowly ground open, groaning and creaking as they did. A roaring screech echoed from through them, carrying above even the sounds of the crowds, momentarily silencing them. Then their cheers erupted once more in ecstatic approval.
The beast thundered through the open gates, screeching as it came. Twice the length of a horse, stocky and low slung to the ground, it supported its weight upon four wide spread legs, a giant lizard but far more dangerous. A long, spiked tail lashed behind it, while its head ended in a ripping beak-like snout. A fan of spikes sprouted from the back of its head, protecting its neck. Heavy scales covered its body, scales of black and grey and red.
The beast was only a small one of its kind. Elad had seen Behemoths three times larger, crushing armoured knights beneath them in their relentless, unstoppable charges, their beaks snapping men in twain and bodies soaking up formidable punishment before succumbing to their wounds. There were very few things more dangerous than an enraged Behemoth.
The Behemoth saw the pair of them and charged, clawed feet digging deep into the ground, throwing up sand as it ran. Despite its size, it covered the ground rapidly, a low rumbling growl coming from deep within it. Elad exchanged a quick glance with Nhaqosa before the pair scattered, running in opposite directions to avoid the charge. The Behemoth barely faltered in its stride as it pounded on after Elad, backing him up against the wall of the pit. The razor sharp beak snapped shut. Elad dove out of the way of it just in time as it closed a hand-span from his body. The crowd screamed their approval, urging the beast on.
Elad rolled back to his feet, his body aching all over. As he did, he saw Nhaqosa bound to the side of the Behemoth. The minotaur hammered a double handed blow of astonishing power into the flank of the beast, the heavy stone headed maul slamming home with an audible crunch. The Behemoth's screech rang in his ears, drowning out any other sounds. It whipped about with a speed belying its size, beak snapping at the minotaur that tormented it, forcing him back.
Its attention distracted, Elad moved up behind the Behemoth. He leapt as the spiked tail lashed around, sweeping across the ground in a broad arc. It clipped Elad's feet, taking his legs out from beneath him. Elad fell heavily, sprawling onto the sand, losing his grip on his sword. It clattered away out of reach as the air was forced from his lungs. Ribs creaked from the fall, and the bruises down his side screamed in protest.
The noise of the fall attracted the attention of the Behemoth and it began to turn again. Nhaqosa stepped up once more, bellowing a raucous challenge and bringing the maul slamming down onto its snout. Another screech followed, and the Behemoth turned its attention back on Nhaqosa again, thundering after the minotaur as he backed away. Elad took advantage of the diversion Nhaqosa had provided to scramble back to his feet and retrieve his sword. Step by step, the minotaur was being forced to retreat by the snapping beak and raking front claws, though as yet he remained untouched.
Only one option, one choice came to mind. Elad knew that at best it was reckless and risky, yet nothing else presented itself to him, not in the few moments he had to devise a plan. He ran at the beast, silent until the moment he leapt, and only then did he let out a roar, screaming to challenge the fear that rose within him. His legs surged, propelling him upwards and he landed heavily on the Behemoth's back, almost overbalancing and tumbling off again. At the sudden appearance of an interloper upon his back, the Behemoth thrashed about, trying to throw Elad off, spinning about in circles.
Its attention now firmly fixed upon the man clambering over it, Nhaqosa resumed his assault on the beast. The cheers of the crowd were distant now, almost unheard, all attention focused firmly on the battle and simply staying alive. The maul rose and then descended, smashing do
wn into one of the forelegs of the Behemoth. A grinding crack sounded as the blow landed and the leg gave way while piercing screeches filled the air. The maul slammed into the leg again, further crippling it. The beast's screeches turned pitiful, maddened by pain.
Elad pulled himself along the back of the thrashing beast up to its neck. Unsteadily he rose to his feet, bracing himself, riding the movement. Taking a double handed grip on the hilt of his sword, he drove it down with all of his strength, screaming as he did so. The blow jarred as it struck, cruelling wrenching his grip from the sword and sending pain lancing through him, but it had struck true. The sword drove through the scales of the neck just behind the spined frill. Black blood flowed from the wound and the beast crumpled, its front legs collapsing beneath it, throwing Elad from its back as it squealed. Elad landed heavily, driving the breath from his lungs once more, momentarily dazed.
From where he lay on the sands, shaking his head to try and clear it, Elad saw Nhaqosa step up to the Behemoth. The minotaur raised his maul on high. He seemed to speak and Elad felt he heard a rumbling murmur say the words, "I am sorry. You did not deserve this." Then with a roaring cry, Nhaqosa brought his weapon whistling downwards. The stone maul smashed into the Behemoth's head and the pitiful screeches and thrashing lessened. Once, twice, thrice more the maul slammed down onto the behemoth's head until at last it lay still and silent, black blood pooling on the sand around a head crushed out of shape.
A shocked silence fell upon the crowed at the death of the Behemoth, unable to comprehend just what they had witnessed. Elad picked himself up from the ground, walked across to the dead beast and wrenched his sword clear. He gazed up upon the crowd, who had once more found their voice, screaming their approval, and a sly smile lit up his battered face.
"You wish to be free, Nhaqosa?"
The giant white minotaur stared at Elad, though his face was unreadable to the human. "Of course," he answered simply.
Elad nodded up to where the lord sat in his private viewing area. "Think you could get me up there?"