Grimdux
I. This is the direct sequel to Touch O' Luck
Touch O' Luck
II) It serves as a prologue to the Old Realms series.
It will be a superior reading experience
to start this story from the beginning
Please give it a good rating if you liked it, it will help the story reach a much bigger audience:)
Chapter specific maps of the realms
Maps of the Realms
Character portraits
Emerson
Ballard of Lesia
Jackal of the sands
Part I
-Need to learn when to stop old bones-
A man dies the first time he steps foot on the sands,
but it might take him a couple o’ more times to realize it.
-
Gladiator saying
(Unknown era)
You got to win once to get an entry token Ballard, Paikan Abu-Ra had said. Now one might buy it and get himself in the games another way, but I ain’t got the coin for that. Had I spent it, you might have dropped dead anyway and left me holding cock in hand, no coin in my pocket.
I have a family to worry about, you understand.
Ah, no reason to dwell on that, Emerson thought, eyeing the tanned man with the scythe. A custom weapon, the shaft elongated and worked with sandpaper to be smoother to the grip.
It is what it is.
He pushed his sandaled foot into the sand, leading with his toes. The Cofol clenched his jaw, side of his mouth drooping where the flesh hadn’t healed proper and came at him. Emerson took half a step forward with his other foot, long knife in hand, the blade made of bronze and of poor quality. It made his opponent to pause briefly as he charged to gauge his intent.
Which was what the older man expected him to do.
Emerson kicked the leg he’d kept back out and sent half a shovel of sand on his face. The man flinched and turned his face to the side nervously to protect his eyes. He swung with his scythe in the same breath, to cut off Emerson’s advance. The weapon had great reach, but a very specific arc of lethality, right at its end. It offers fuck all to you, if your opponent takes a step forward and puts a shoulder to the shaft.
You take a hit son, Emerson thought remembering his father’s words, calm and collected, but for a slight grimace when the shaft smacked his left shoulder. But it’s more dangerous falling from yer horse. He grabbed the shaft below the curved long blade and pulled hard. The man tried to hold on to it, veins popping on his neck from the effort, but a well-polished shaft slithers out yer gods-darn fingers if yer sweaty.
Folk tend to sweat out buckets, when they step into the arena. It’s the sun, the sands under your feet, but mostly the fear you ain’t getting back out.
Emerson stabbed him below the chin with his free hand, while the man was busy trying to wrestle his scythe from him. The darn blade bend outwards a bit when it hit the bone, the blood making the grip slippery, but by the time Emerson had ended his savage attack, the tip of his custom blade had broken out of the man’s brow and it didn’t matter.
The knight pulled away holding the scythe in his left hand, the one with the still numb shoulder and the crowd let out a collective horrified gasp at the sight of the butchered man he left behind. Emerson walked unhurriedly towards the exit carrying the exotic weapon with him, and even so reached the barred gates, before the announcer realized the fight was over.
“The winner!” The man yelled over the curses of the crowd. “Ahm… Ballard… of Lesia!”
“Salted cunts and oiled arseholes!” Paikan guffawed, the moment he stepped inside the shaded tunnel. “Hah! Gods and people stood there stunned and bewildered, as I skull-fucked their wives and daughters with gusto!” He hugged him eagerly, slapping his sweaty back, the grin on his aged face maniacal. “I barely had time to drink this, so have at it son!” Paikan offered him a goblet of cheap beer and Emerson took it and gave it a taste.
He spat it all out.
“Yeah,” Paikan agreed seeing his reaction. “It’s foul stuff. Them cheap bastards, only want my coin with none of the comforts one expects,” he chuckled still too elated by the unexpected win. “I need to run to the registry, declare for the trials.”
“You need to get us some better gear,” Emerson grunted walking towards the exit, with the Lanista hurrying after him.
“Wins will bring coin and better gear,” Paikan touted his favorite mantra.
“Without better gear, wins will be hard to come by,” Emerson grunted. “People will die.”
“Bah, I’ll see what I can find,” Paikan said absentmindedly and stopped to talk with the man running the small arena. A couple of patrons rushed to congratulate him and the Lanista stood taller soaking it all in, the smile back on his face.
“What’s that?” Kamiel the blacksmith asked.
“Lose the shaft,” Emerson told him and tossed him the scythe. “Make a new handle for the blade.”
“Ahm, the balance is all wrong,” he argued looking at it.
“It needs sharpening, but it’s good iron,” Emerson explained. “I’ll use it to get a better weapon.”
Kamiel looked at him. “Just take a spear.”
“Everyone knows they better stay away from a fool with a spear,” Emerson explained. “I want them to come near.”
Kamiel grimaced. “It’s your life,” he said and took the weapon to have a better look at it.
It’s my life! Lila had said, long black hair curling at her back, as she walked away with her dress gathered to avoid the mud of the stables. You ain’t my father!
Ah, no reason to dwell on that also, Emerson thought pushing the memory away, while watching the fighters mixing it in the training ground, cup of water in his hand. Ziba-Ra sashayed her way under the shade he’d picked to rest, long tanned legs uncovered and the anklets she wore ringing at every step.
Not much else was covered, if one wanted to be truthful.
What the woman had, she flaunted for everyone to see at every opportunity.
“What do you have there?” She asked, resting a small hand on his thigh.
“Water,” Emerson rustled, eyeing the ring-covered hand snaking its way towards his crotch.
“Mmm, yeah I don’t want that yet,” the slave girl teased and Emerson reached to remove her hand, setting his cup down.
“If they fight with a couple of spears and rusted swords, they’ll die fast,” Emerson grunted.
“The slaves?” Ziba guffawed. “Yeah, probably. What matters is you didn’t. With the coin Paikan will make from making it to the trials, he’ll bring better ones in. Even buy weapons.”
“How is he going to compete in the games if he loses the trials?”
“He doesn’t expect to win. The champion will be Lanista Siba-Kal’s man anyway. The other four spots are probably taken as well,” Ziba explained looking at her hands thoughtfully.
“Who’s that?” Emerson asked, his eyes on the men training.
“Lord Zeke Leta-Kin, who foots the bill for his Ludus, bought a gladiator from Rin An-Pur. Former champion returning to the arena for a fortune in coin.”
“Why would he do it?” Emerson asked.
“Apparently being free, costs a lot of coin,” Ziba said, blowing air down her revealing top. “I’m burning up here, Ballard. Can we move to your cell?”
“Is there a reason for it?” Emerson queried.
“Eh, you won? I’m supposed to fuck you?”
Emerson crooked his jaw.
“Suck your cock? No?” Ziba thought about it. “Well, a foot massage? I’m horrible at singing, but I’m a pretty soft pillow, if yer too tired.”
“I’m fine,” Emerson stopped her.
Ziba stooped closer. “Listen, I get it. You’re noble, too old for that, or I look like yer daughter. Who gives a fuck, right? But the thing is, Paikan believes you’re doing it to bed me. If he realizes you’re a monk out to save everyone and you’re not in it for the cunt and cheap beer like the rest of them, I’m back on the selling block.”
You’re not my father.
Nor is she your sister.
So what now?
“Stay in the shade,” Emerson said getting up, after she finished and Ziba frowned.
“Didn’t you hear what I’ve just said?”
“I did. Stay in the plaguin’ shade,” Emerson repeated. “I need to give Rodo a couple of pointers.”
Ziba-Ra groaned and moved to the shadier part of the bench. “The kid is going to die tomorrow Ballard,” she hissed, not caring if he could hear her. “How is me getting roasted here gonna help him?”
Emerson paused and turned to glare at her.
“If we lose, you’re getting burned alive for real,” he told her. “Trust me, it’s much worse.”
Rodo swung wild with the spear, but Berg caught it on the shield and pushed it aside. He made to lunge at him with his sword, but the young man retreated and guffawed.
“Hah!” Rodo turned sensing Emerson standing behind him and stared in his frowned face. “What? He missed.”
“What was behind you?” Emerson grunted. “There will be more than one opponents in the sands on the morrow. People will come at you from the sides and behind yer back.”
The young Lorian slave, a farmer in his previous life, puffed out exasperated. “Maybe I need another weapon.”
“Lad, ye don’t have the time to learn another.”
“Stick to the spear Rodo,” Berg advised him. A former caravan guard turned brigand, perhaps the better of the lot, but nothing special. Kurt the Issir, a former merchant, was another spearman.
“You two should fight together,” Emerson advised them. “Guard each other, the best you can. Use yer reach to keep people away.”
“Kid is too reckless,” Kurt argued. “He’ll have me killed.”
“You’re too slow and defensive,” Emerson admonished him. “You’ll do plenty of dyin’ on yer own. Guard Rodo and he’ll attack for you, win together, or die alone.”
He turned around and started walking the periphery of the training pit.
“What are you doing?” Berg asked him with a scowl. “Don’t you need practice?’
“Did all that afore ye were born, lad.”
“So what, you’ll just stroll around?”
“I’m learning to walk on the sands,” Emerson explained. “Didn’t do as much of that.”
“What about running?” The man queried and Emerson stared at the sun over their heads.
“Not gonna do much of that, I reckon,” he rustled, but picked up his pace a little to wake up his muscles. “Nowhere to run in the arena.”
Emerson heard Ziba’s soft breathing change and eyed her head resting on his chest. He’d allowed her to stay the night and sleep, to placate the Lanista’s worries. He touched the dirty-blond curls, felt them at the tips of his calloused fingers. Smelled rose and fiery jasmine oil and stared at the moons outside his cell. No clouds on the night sky, but in his mind he saw them gathering again from the north, the memory vivid.
His father, face hidden behind an atypical beard for a Lesia noble and clad in heavy chainmail, tossed the torch into the funeral pyre. The flames catching and rising. Elongated red tongues, the kindling crackling and the fat boiling on the dead bodies. Don’t look away boy, The Lord of Ballard’s Castle admonished him. We brought this ruin, we got to own it.
“Oras watch over his poor soul,” Emerson murmured the words and his father’s hard-lined face sneered appreciatively. “Guide it through the silent river’s waters, back onto the Land of Shades. I speak the words, for I have taken his voice. Those ye kill are forever tied to thee and won’t let go unless ye acknowledge them. Absolve me, for tomorrow I shall kill again.”
The main arena of Ani Ta-Ne held a crowd of around eight thousand. Be it that this was the last chance to watch the games, before the final round in Fu De-Gar and perhaps the lure of catching a glimpse of a famed local fighter returning to where he’d made his name, all the seats were filled. Each local Ludus would offer four gladiators for the event. The last five that survived would pick a winner, usually the crowd’s favorite and travel to Fu De-Gar to compete for the prize of winning their freedom, glory and gold, against the fighters of the other cities. The Four Sisters, but also Rin An-Pur, Shao Na-Lan and Yin Xi-Yan were participating.
On the final round of the games the last year’s Great Pits Champion usually faced a challenge from the Champions of the other cities, if they made it out of the games standing. To win in the Great Pits of Fu De-Gar one needed to have skill aplenty, buckets of luck and the gods on his side, was the saying. So a bunch of bullshit, Emerson decided. Ye count on Luthos to save yer arse, you’re spending the night getting fucked, or cut in pieces. The current champion stood undefeated for seven years and the one before him, the man sporting the gleaming steel Jackal helm, had retired three years afore the current’s champion streak had started, after holding on to the title for four years himself. The man afore him Thalion, had held the previous record staying at the top for five years before leaving the spot open for the Jackal, probably not wanting to face him.
Emerson, his body shaved with oil that morning, skin pale and sweaty under the Peninsula sun eyed the armoured man, behind the imposing sculpted helm. Steel greaves on his shins and same material vambraces on his forearms, the scaled-type armour on his chest had a feather pattern, interwoven rings of mail, with small metal fragments on top. An older design, rather expensive to make and maintain. Extremely light to wear.
Ye didn’t come back to die on the sands, Emerson thought staring him, just as the man watched in turn, the nervous fighters waiting for the signal to be given. The anxiousness of the crowd spilling into the field and the heat suffocating. Rodo took a deep breath standing next to him, Berg on his left and Kurt on his right with Emerson standing next to the wall, lots of people yelling over his head.
He spat before his feet, wiped the sweat off his brow and stilled his eyes on the group facing them. A spear, a man carrying a custom net and a trident, a shield and sword guy with a plumed open-face helm and a double axe wielding barbarian, all muscles and wild looks. Emerson was probably the oldest man on the sands with the exception of the howling jackal.
The old Champion back for another scoop at the profits and a chance to cheat destiny.
“I can’t breathe,” Rodo gasped, a moment later and Emerson with a grimace, hefted the custom made sword he carried, the scythe’s blade -curved but sharpened enough to shave the hairs off his chest- gleaming in the sun and grunted a reply.
Just as the arena’s master bellowed in a theatrical booming voice signaling the start of the games.
“Ye don’t need it,” the knight told him.
The barbarian from the North charged the spear-wielding duo with an impressive battle cry and Emerson casually tripped him kicking out his leg, send him on the panicked youngsters’ steel-pointed shafts head first. The barbarian lost an ear and an eye, stayed alive surprisingly and Emerson who’d done all he could, moved to attack the man with the fishing net. The Cofol fighter stood back looking for a good angle, so Emerson circled around his friend with the spear, not to give it to him.
“Argh! Eh! Huh!” The man taunted the former knight and his friend tried to skewer him through his exposed torso, expecting Emerson would take the bait.
Emerson didn’t, but stilled his legs instead, then sucked his stomach in and turned just enough for the charging spear fighter to miss. He peeled off everything from the hapless man’s chin to the top of his head. Darn scythe angling inwards. A collective gasp of horror erupted from the crowd. The blood, shattered teeth and pieces of flesh, spraying the side of Emerson’s head. He’d flinched away to avoid the worst of it and the man hurled the net on him finding his chance.
Emerson saw it coming, a sinister mass shading the light and twisted on his left leg, lowering his body in the pirouette. Some of the hooks attached to the weighs opened the upper right side of his back, one them cutting deep enough to touch bone. Emerson groaned a beastly cry and spotted the Cofol coming his way intent to skewer him like a fish with the trident.
The crowd roared ecstatic at the prospect, a woman moaning as if having an earth-shattering orgasm and Emerson jumped upright, heaving the net still partially attached on him, in his bellowing opponent’s path. The man caught it with the trident en route and tried to shove it aside, somewhat succeeding. The net ripped out of Emerson’s flesh, but then the nasty hooked weighs wrapped around the trident’s shaft and caught the unable to stop Cofol in the face.
The man went down, a tumbling mess of legs and hands, as Emerson put his bleeding back on the wall to get his bearings, teeth grinding to the point of breaking. The barbarian had died, after getting skewered repeatedly from the two determined fighters. Berg had his hands full with the shield and sword guy, mainly because they had the same style and were not too eager to look for an opening, or risk it.
“Rodo, Kurt!” Emerson barked, over the roaring craziness of the crowd. “Help him out!”
He walked to the still trying to escape the net trident-wielding Cofol, looked to find a soft spot and finding none, just hacked at him in the blind about half a dozen times, stopped when both the man’s arms were severed and the yellow sand under his feet had turned to a frothy reddish mud.
Emerson wore the dead man’s wooden shield on his back, the wound bleeding freely, but there was nothing he could do about that. Ordered the spear-wielding duo to keep their spot and placed Berg at the near to watch their backs. The two men could only see forward, too shocked for much else. He took a spear from the ground, the shaft bend a bit, but the tip good enough for the job. He run a couple of meters, feet sinking in the sand and hurled it in the next group fighting about three meters from them.
The spear got a sword-wielding Cofol under the armpit, teared everything until it reached his lungs and dropped him. His friend fighting a dual-sword fighter, a Dimachaerus in the old Lorian dialect, glanced back and lost his head for his troubles. The new group pulled back, a man clad in Hoplite-armour amongst them, along another sword and shield guy. They gathered around the Jackal of the Sands and waited for the rest of the scraps to wind down.
In less than twenty minutes, more than ten gladiators had died, almost half that were laying injured and bleeding out in the sand. Emerson’s group being the only other one without losses, along the men flanking the Jackal.
“DECISION!” The spectators roared and several of the Lanistas turned to talk it out on the stands amongst themselves. The murmur of the crowd died down to hear their verdict.
“I have one guy left,” one of them said. “I’m pulling him out.”
“I have two, but they won enough,” another agreed. “We can’t challenge your gladiators, Siba-Kal.”
“Abu-Ra, yer group is whole my friend,” one of the Lanista’s commented, gold loops hanging from his ears. That must be Kenso Siba-Kal, Lord Letakin’s creature. Emerson was watching them, as he was standing near the stands. “With fêted Letakin’s permission, I’ll offer you to forfeit for half my winnings. Let’s send the Jackal to fight for our city.”
Paikan suddenly the center of unexpected attention, smacked his lips and eyed the arena. Emerson watched him counting his profits and knew what the man would decide. He let his black eyes roam the packed stands, spotted Ziba-Ra seating next to Paikan’s pregnant wife and stopped. Her thin tunic drenched in sweat, had become so transparent, one could see the jewels she wore on her private areas gleam in the sun. Most of the men seating next to her and a couple of the women, eyeing her greedily. Paikan had her still on display it seemed, not to miss his chance at a better offer. Ziba locked eyes with him, Emerson’s back hurting something fierce and he returned her query with a scowl.
The girl didn’t have time.
Ah, curse it all, Emerson thought grinding his teeth, but he couldn’t dwell much on that as well. Ye don’t pussyfoot yer way out of your word.
He glanced at the men from his Ludus, all of them dead probably with his next words. The scales tipping one way, then the other.
“I want that helm and the armour,” he grunted pointing at the Jackal and Paikan recoiled not expecting it. The Lanista licked his lips, trying to figure out his angle and seeing none, he sat back on his seat, sweat running down his painted face.
“Yer man is brave,” Siba-Kal commented eyeing Emerson from the stands. “A bit long in the tooth, as well. Might have turned senile.”
“So is yer guy. Long in the tooth as ye say,” Emerson deadpanned, his hoarse rustle shocking the crowd. “Let’s send the better of the two.”
“What nonsense!” Siba-Kal snapped at him. “Flog this fool Paikan! What kind of a Ludus are ye running?” The crowd agreed with his words and some even started hurling foodstuff from the stands.
Paikan probably wished he was somewhere else suddenly, but it was too late for that now also.
“Lord Letakin, Gods be shining divine light unto you,” the Lanista said, his mouth dry. “My man issued a challenge for the lead gladiator in Ani Ta-Ne. Since the previous holder was killed last year and your… Siba-Kal’s man, while famed hasn’t fought in a while. I’d like the opportunity to have the honor of representing our city.”
Lord Letakin, silver and purple robs matching his distinct uncommon eyes, stood back on his seat and eyed Emerson thoughtfully.
“Your elegance,” Siba-Kal protested. “We have a chance to win everlasting glory. My man has won for our city afore. No one has beaten Tsuparin’s Champion in seven years! How much more humiliation can we endure?”
Lord Letakin raised a ring-adorned hand. He’d heard enough.
“Siba-Kal has a point, master Abu-Ra. We need a win. The losses are mounting. I’ve bled myself dry trying to win the games in the past. Lost a daughter in the bloody process. Alas I’m a betting man though and proud of that, aye. Siba, if yer man, who I invested heavily into, can’t beat an old man wearing no armour and sporting a visible injury, then what good is that bet? Is my coin to be wasted?”
Siba-Kal collapsed on his seat exasperated. Paikan gulped down, fearing the worst and trying to figure out, if the losses could outshine his profits and Ziba frowned unsure as to what had happened.
The Jackal that had, stared Emerson’s way inquisitively. Hard eyes behind that steel helm and the carved long ears shining like torches.
“Should it be a duel?” Paikan chanced not to lose everyone, but Lord Letakin wasn’t about to give him anything else.
“Everyone fights,” he announced to the exciting roars of the delirious crowd. “Let’s make another round of bets gentlemen. I’d like that pretty slave of yours brought here, Paikan. I see you are light-pursed today, but worry not. I’ll have her suck on my cock with that mouth, if you lack the coin to up the stakes. Those that pulled their men should remain to make up for the losses. Everybody wins.”
The crowd roared, Paikan sighed relieved for being given an out, since he’d barely a silver left on him and Ziba took her spot between the Lord’s legs. The Jackal watching his furious scowl at the turn of events, shook his steel encased head.
“You need to learn, when to stop old bones,” the famed gladiator cautioned Emerson in fluent common.
Of course, the same could have been said for him as well.
Sir Emerson in the Pits
artwork by @intheblackveil
Grimdux
I. This is the direct sequel to Touch O' Luck
Touch O' Luck
II) It serves as a prologue to the Old Realms series.
It will be a superior reading experience
to start this story from the beginning
Please give it a good rating if you liked it, it will help the story reach a much bigger audience:)
Chapter specific maps of the realms
Maps of the Realms
Character portraits
Emerson
Ballard of Lesia
Jackal of the sands
Part I
-Need to learn when to stop old bones-
A man dies the first time he steps foot on the sands,
but it might take him a couple o’ more times to realize it.
-
Gladiator saying
(Unknown era)
You got to win once to get an entry token Ballard, Paikan Abu-Ra had said. Now one might buy it and get himself in the games another way, but I ain’t got the coin for that. Had I spent it, you might have dropped dead anyway and left me holding cock in hand, no coin in my pocket.
I have a family to worry about, you understand.
Ah, no reason to dwell on that, Emerson thought, eyeing the tanned man with the scythe. A custom weapon, the shaft elongated and worked with sandpaper to be smoother to the grip.
It is what it is.
He pushed his sandaled foot into the sand, leading with his toes. The Cofol clenched his jaw, side of his mouth drooping where the flesh hadn’t healed proper and came at him. Emerson took half a step forward with his other foot, long knife in hand, the blade made of bronze and of poor quality. It made his opponent to pause briefly as he charged to gauge his intent.
Which was what the older man expected him to do.
Emerson kicked the leg he’d kept back out and sent half a shovel of sand on his face. The man flinched and turned his face to the side nervously to protect his eyes. He swung with his scythe in the same breath, to cut off Emerson’s advance. The weapon had great reach, but a very specific arc of lethality, right at its end. It offers fuck all to you, if your opponent takes a step forward and puts a shoulder to the shaft.
You take a hit son, Emerson thought remembering his father’s words, calm and collected, but for a slight grimace when the shaft smacked his left shoulder. But it’s more dangerous falling from yer horse. He grabbed the shaft below the curved long blade and pulled hard. The man tried to hold on to it, veins popping on his neck from the effort, but a well-polished shaft slithers out yer gods-darn fingers if yer sweaty.
Folk tend to sweat out buckets, when they step into the arena. It’s the sun, the sands under your feet, but mostly the fear you ain’t getting back out.
Emerson stabbed him below the chin with his free hand, while the man was busy trying to wrestle his scythe from him. The darn blade bend outwards a bit when it hit the bone, the blood making the grip slippery, but by the time Emerson had ended his savage attack, the tip of his custom blade had broken out of the man’s brow and it didn’t matter.
The knight pulled away holding the scythe in his left hand, the one with the still numb shoulder and the crowd let out a collective horrified gasp at the sight of the butchered man he left behind. Emerson walked unhurriedly towards the exit carrying the exotic weapon with him, and even so reached the barred gates, before the announcer realized the fight was over.
“The winner!” The man yelled over the curses of the crowd. “Ahm… Ballard… of Lesia!”
“Salted cunts and oiled arseholes!” Paikan guffawed, the moment he stepped inside the shaded tunnel. “Hah! Gods and people stood there stunned and bewildered, as I skull-fucked their wives and daughters with gusto!” He hugged him eagerly, slapping his sweaty back, the grin on his aged face maniacal. “I barely had time to drink this, so have at it son!” Paikan offered him a goblet of cheap beer and Emerson took it and gave it a taste.
He spat it all out.
“Yeah,” Paikan agreed seeing his reaction. “It’s foul stuff. Them cheap bastards, only want my coin with none of the comforts one expects,” he chuckled still too elated by the unexpected win. “I need to run to the registry, declare for the trials.”
“You need to get us some better gear,” Emerson grunted walking towards the exit, with the Lanista hurrying after him.
“Wins will bring coin and better gear,” Paikan touted his favorite mantra.
“Without better gear, wins will be hard to come by,” Emerson grunted. “People will die.”
“Bah, I’ll see what I can find,” Paikan said absentmindedly and stopped to talk with the man running the small arena. A couple of patrons rushed to congratulate him and the Lanista stood taller soaking it all in, the smile back on his face.
“What’s that?” Kamiel the blacksmith asked.
“Lose the shaft,” Emerson told him and tossed him the scythe. “Make a new handle for the blade.”
“Ahm, the balance is all wrong,” he argued looking at it.
“It needs sharpening, but it’s good iron,” Emerson explained. “I’ll use it to get a better weapon.”
Kamiel looked at him. “Just take a spear.”
“Everyone knows they better stay away from a fool with a spear,” Emerson explained. “I want them to come near.”
Kamiel grimaced. “It’s your life,” he said and took the weapon to have a better look at it.
It’s my life! Lila had said, long black hair curling at her back, as she walked away with her dress gathered to avoid the mud of the stables. You ain’t my father!
Ah, no reason to dwell on that also, Emerson thought pushing the memory away, while watching the fighters mixing it in the training ground, cup of water in his hand. Ziba-Ra sashayed her way under the shade he’d picked to rest, long tanned legs uncovered and the anklets she wore ringing at every step.
Not much else was covered, if one wanted to be truthful.
What the woman had, she flaunted for everyone to see at every opportunity.
“What do you have there?” She asked, resting a small hand on his thigh.
“Water,” Emerson rustled, eyeing the ring-covered hand snaking its way towards his crotch.
“Mmm, yeah I don’t want that yet,” the slave girl teased and Emerson reached to remove her hand, setting his cup down.
“If they fight with a couple of spears and rusted swords, they’ll die fast,” Emerson grunted.
“The slaves?” Ziba guffawed. “Yeah, probably. What matters is you didn’t. With the coin Paikan will make from making it to the trials, he’ll bring better ones in. Even buy weapons.”
“How is he going to compete in the games if he loses the trials?”
“He doesn’t expect to win. The champion will be Lanista Siba-Kal’s man anyway. The other four spots are probably taken as well,” Ziba explained looking at her hands thoughtfully.
“Who’s that?” Emerson asked, his eyes on the men training.
“Lord Zeke Leta-Kin, who foots the bill for his Ludus, bought a gladiator from Rin An-Pur. Former champion returning to the arena for a fortune in coin.”
“Why would he do it?” Emerson asked.
“Apparently being free, costs a lot of coin,” Ziba said, blowing air down her revealing top. “I’m burning up here, Ballard. Can we move to your cell?”
“Is there a reason for it?” Emerson queried.
“Eh, you won? I’m supposed to fuck you?”
Emerson crooked his jaw.
“Suck your cock? No?” Ziba thought about it. “Well, a foot massage? I’m horrible at singing, but I’m a pretty soft pillow, if yer too tired.”
“I’m fine,” Emerson stopped her.
Ziba stooped closer. “Listen, I get it. You’re noble, too old for that, or I look like yer daughter. Who gives a fuck, right? But the thing is, Paikan believes you’re doing it to bed me. If he realizes you’re a monk out to save everyone and you’re not in it for the cunt and cheap beer like the rest of them, I’m back on the selling block.”
You’re not my father.
Nor is she your sister.
So what now?
“Stay in the shade,” Emerson said getting up, after she finished and Ziba frowned.
“Didn’t you hear what I’ve just said?”
“I did. Stay in the plaguin’ shade,” Emerson repeated. “I need to give Rodo a couple of pointers.”
Ziba-Ra groaned and moved to the shadier part of the bench. “The kid is going to die tomorrow Ballard,” she hissed, not caring if he could hear her. “How is me getting roasted here gonna help him?”
Emerson paused and turned to glare at her.
“If we lose, you’re getting burned alive for real,” he told her. “Trust me, it’s much worse.”
Rodo swung wild with the spear, but Berg caught it on the shield and pushed it aside. He made to lunge at him with his sword, but the young man retreated and guffawed.
“Hah!” Rodo turned sensing Emerson standing behind him and stared in his frowned face. “What? He missed.”
“What was behind you?” Emerson grunted. “There will be more than one opponents in the sands on the morrow. People will come at you from the sides and behind yer back.”
The young Lorian slave, a farmer in his previous life, puffed out exasperated. “Maybe I need another weapon.”
“Lad, ye don’t have the time to learn another.”
“Stick to the spear Rodo,” Berg advised him. A former caravan guard turned brigand, perhaps the better of the lot, but nothing special. Kurt the Issir, a former merchant, was another spearman.
“You two should fight together,” Emerson advised them. “Guard each other, the best you can. Use yer reach to keep people away.”
“Kid is too reckless,” Kurt argued. “He’ll have me killed.”
“You’re too slow and defensive,” Emerson admonished him. “You’ll do plenty of dyin’ on yer own. Guard Rodo and he’ll attack for you, win together, or die alone.”
He turned around and started walking the periphery of the training pit.
“What are you doing?” Berg asked him with a scowl. “Don’t you need practice?’
“Did all that afore ye were born, lad.”
“So what, you’ll just stroll around?”
“I’m learning to walk on the sands,” Emerson explained. “Didn’t do as much of that.”
“What about running?” The man queried and Emerson stared at the sun over their heads.
“Not gonna do much of that, I reckon,” he rustled, but picked up his pace a little to wake up his muscles. “Nowhere to run in the arena.”
Emerson heard Ziba’s soft breathing change and eyed her head resting on his chest. He’d allowed her to stay the night and sleep, to placate the Lanista’s worries. He touched the dirty-blond curls, felt them at the tips of his calloused fingers. Smelled rose and fiery jasmine oil and stared at the moons outside his cell. No clouds on the night sky, but in his mind he saw them gathering again from the north, the memory vivid.
His father, face hidden behind an atypical beard for a Lesia noble and clad in heavy chainmail, tossed the torch into the funeral pyre. The flames catching and rising. Elongated red tongues, the kindling crackling and the fat boiling on the dead bodies. Don’t look away boy, The Lord of Ballard’s Castle admonished him. We brought this ruin, we got to own it.
“Oras watch over his poor soul,” Emerson murmured the words and his father’s hard-lined face sneered appreciatively. “Guide it through the silent river’s waters, back onto the Land of Shades. I speak the words, for I have taken his voice. Those ye kill are forever tied to thee and won’t let go unless ye acknowledge them. Absolve me, for tomorrow I shall kill again.”
The main arena of Ani Ta-Ne held a crowd of around eight thousand. Be it that this was the last chance to watch the games, before the final round in Fu De-Gar and perhaps the lure of catching a glimpse of a famed local fighter returning to where he’d made his name, all the seats were filled. Each local Ludus would offer four gladiators for the event. The last five that survived would pick a winner, usually the crowd’s favorite and travel to Fu De-Gar to compete for the prize of winning their freedom, glory and gold, against the fighters of the other cities. The Four Sisters, but also Rin An-Pur, Shao Na-Lan and Yin Xi-Yan were participating.
On the final round of the games the last year’s Great Pits Champion usually faced a challenge from the Champions of the other cities, if they made it out of the games standing. To win in the Great Pits of Fu De-Gar one needed to have skill aplenty, buckets of luck and the gods on his side, was the saying. So a bunch of bullshit, Emerson decided. Ye count on Luthos to save yer arse, you’re spending the night getting fucked, or cut in pieces. The current champion stood undefeated for seven years and the one before him, the man sporting the gleaming steel Jackal helm, had retired three years afore the current’s champion streak had started, after holding on to the title for four years himself. The man afore him Thalion, had held the previous record staying at the top for five years before leaving the spot open for the Jackal, probably not wanting to face him.
Emerson, his body shaved with oil that morning, skin pale and sweaty under the Peninsula sun eyed the armoured man, behind the imposing sculpted helm. Steel greaves on his shins and same material vambraces on his forearms, the scaled-type armour on his chest had a feather pattern, interwoven rings of mail, with small metal fragments on top. An older design, rather expensive to make and maintain. Extremely light to wear.
Ye didn’t come back to die on the sands, Emerson thought staring him, just as the man watched in turn, the nervous fighters waiting for the signal to be given. The anxiousness of the crowd spilling into the field and the heat suffocating. Rodo took a deep breath standing next to him, Berg on his left and Kurt on his right with Emerson standing next to the wall, lots of people yelling over his head.
He spat before his feet, wiped the sweat off his brow and stilled his eyes on the group facing them. A spear, a man carrying a custom net and a trident, a shield and sword guy with a plumed open-face helm and a double axe wielding barbarian, all muscles and wild looks. Emerson was probably the oldest man on the sands with the exception of the howling jackal.
The old Champion back for another scoop at the profits and a chance to cheat destiny.
“I can’t breathe,” Rodo gasped, a moment later and Emerson with a grimace, hefted the custom made sword he carried, the scythe’s blade -curved but sharpened enough to shave the hairs off his chest- gleaming in the sun and grunted a reply.
Just as the arena’s master bellowed in a theatrical booming voice signaling the start of the games.
“Ye don’t need it,” the knight told him.
The barbarian from the North charged the spear-wielding duo with an impressive battle cry and Emerson casually tripped him kicking out his leg, send him on the panicked youngsters’ steel-pointed shafts head first. The barbarian lost an ear and an eye, stayed alive surprisingly and Emerson who’d done all he could, moved to attack the man with the fishing net. The Cofol fighter stood back looking for a good angle, so Emerson circled around his friend with the spear, not to give it to him.
“Argh! Eh! Huh!” The man taunted the former knight and his friend tried to skewer him through his exposed torso, expecting Emerson would take the bait.
Emerson didn’t, but stilled his legs instead, then sucked his stomach in and turned just enough for the charging spear fighter to miss. He peeled off everything from the hapless man’s chin to the top of his head. Darn scythe angling inwards. A collective gasp of horror erupted from the crowd. The blood, shattered teeth and pieces of flesh, spraying the side of Emerson’s head. He’d flinched away to avoid the worst of it and the man hurled the net on him finding his chance.
Emerson saw it coming, a sinister mass shading the light and twisted on his left leg, lowering his body in the pirouette. Some of the hooks attached to the weighs opened the upper right side of his back, one them cutting deep enough to touch bone. Emerson groaned a beastly cry and spotted the Cofol coming his way intent to skewer him like a fish with the trident.
The crowd roared ecstatic at the prospect, a woman moaning as if having an earth-shattering orgasm and Emerson jumped upright, heaving the net still partially attached on him, in his bellowing opponent’s path. The man caught it with the trident en route and tried to shove it aside, somewhat succeeding. The net ripped out of Emerson’s flesh, but then the nasty hooked weighs wrapped around the trident’s shaft and caught the unable to stop Cofol in the face.
The man went down, a tumbling mess of legs and hands, as Emerson put his bleeding back on the wall to get his bearings, teeth grinding to the point of breaking. The barbarian had died, after getting skewered repeatedly from the two determined fighters. Berg had his hands full with the shield and sword guy, mainly because they had the same style and were not too eager to look for an opening, or risk it.
“Rodo, Kurt!” Emerson barked, over the roaring craziness of the crowd. “Help him out!”
He walked to the still trying to escape the net trident-wielding Cofol, looked to find a soft spot and finding none, just hacked at him in the blind about half a dozen times, stopped when both the man’s arms were severed and the yellow sand under his feet had turned to a frothy reddish mud.
Emerson wore the dead man’s wooden shield on his back, the wound bleeding freely, but there was nothing he could do about that. Ordered the spear-wielding duo to keep their spot and placed Berg at the near to watch their backs. The two men could only see forward, too shocked for much else. He took a spear from the ground, the shaft bend a bit, but the tip good enough for the job. He run a couple of meters, feet sinking in the sand and hurled it in the next group fighting about three meters from them.
The spear got a sword-wielding Cofol under the armpit, teared everything until it reached his lungs and dropped him. His friend fighting a dual-sword fighter, a Dimachaerus in the old Lorian dialect, glanced back and lost his head for his troubles. The new group pulled back, a man clad in Hoplite-armour amongst them, along another sword and shield guy. They gathered around the Jackal of the Sands and waited for the rest of the scraps to wind down.
In less than twenty minutes, more than ten gladiators had died, almost half that were laying injured and bleeding out in the sand. Emerson’s group being the only other one without losses, along the men flanking the Jackal.
“DECISION!” The spectators roared and several of the Lanistas turned to talk it out on the stands amongst themselves. The murmur of the crowd died down to hear their verdict.
“I have one guy left,” one of them said. “I’m pulling him out.”
“I have two, but they won enough,” another agreed. “We can’t challenge your gladiators, Siba-Kal.”
“Abu-Ra, yer group is whole my friend,” one of the Lanista’s commented, gold loops hanging from his ears. That must be Kenso Siba-Kal, Lord Letakin’s creature. Emerson was watching them, as he was standing near the stands. “With fêted Letakin’s permission, I’ll offer you to forfeit for half my winnings. Let’s send the Jackal to fight for our city.”
Paikan suddenly the center of unexpected attention, smacked his lips and eyed the arena. Emerson watched him counting his profits and knew what the man would decide. He let his black eyes roam the packed stands, spotted Ziba-Ra seating next to Paikan’s pregnant wife and stopped. Her thin tunic drenched in sweat, had become so transparent, one could see the jewels she wore on her private areas gleam in the sun. Most of the men seating next to her and a couple of the women, eyeing her greedily. Paikan had her still on display it seemed, not to miss his chance at a better offer. Ziba locked eyes with him, Emerson’s back hurting something fierce and he returned her query with a scowl.
The girl didn’t have time.
Ah, curse it all, Emerson thought grinding his teeth, but he couldn’t dwell much on that as well. Ye don’t pussyfoot yer way out of your word.
He glanced at the men from his Ludus, all of them dead probably with his next words. The scales tipping one way, then the other.
“I want that helm and the armour,” he grunted pointing at the Jackal and Paikan recoiled not expecting it. The Lanista licked his lips, trying to figure out his angle and seeing none, he sat back on his seat, sweat running down his painted face.
“Yer man is brave,” Siba-Kal commented eyeing Emerson from the stands. “A bit long in the tooth, as well. Might have turned senile.”
“So is yer guy. Long in the tooth as ye say,” Emerson deadpanned, his hoarse rustle shocking the crowd. “Let’s send the better of the two.”
“What nonsense!” Siba-Kal snapped at him. “Flog this fool Paikan! What kind of a Ludus are ye running?” The crowd agreed with his words and some even started hurling foodstuff from the stands.
Paikan probably wished he was somewhere else suddenly, but it was too late for that now also.
“Lord Letakin, Gods be shining divine light unto you,” the Lanista said, his mouth dry. “My man issued a challenge for the lead gladiator in Ani Ta-Ne. Since the previous holder was killed last year and your… Siba-Kal’s man, while famed hasn’t fought in a while. I’d like the opportunity to have the honor of representing our city.”
Lord Letakin, silver and purple robs matching his distinct uncommon eyes, stood back on his seat and eyed Emerson thoughtfully.
“Your elegance,” Siba-Kal protested. “We have a chance to win everlasting glory. My man has won for our city afore. No one has beaten Tsuparin’s Champion in seven years! How much more humiliation can we endure?”
Lord Letakin raised a ring-adorned hand. He’d heard enough.
“Siba-Kal has a point, master Abu-Ra. We need a win. The losses are mounting. I’ve bled myself dry trying to win the games in the past. Lost a daughter in the bloody process. Alas I’m a betting man though and proud of that, aye. Siba, if yer man, who I invested heavily into, can’t beat an old man wearing no armour and sporting a visible injury, then what good is that bet? Is my coin to be wasted?”
Siba-Kal collapsed on his seat exasperated. Paikan gulped down, fearing the worst and trying to figure out, if the losses could outshine his profits and Ziba frowned unsure as to what had happened.
The Jackal that had, stared Emerson’s way inquisitively. Hard eyes behind that steel helm and the carved long ears shining like torches.
“Should it be a duel?” Paikan chanced not to lose everyone, but Lord Letakin wasn’t about to give him anything else.
“Everyone fights,” he announced to the exciting roars of the delirious crowd. “Let’s make another round of bets gentlemen. I’d like that pretty slave of yours brought here, Paikan. I see you are light-pursed today, but worry not. I’ll have her suck on my cock with that mouth, if you lack the coin to up the stakes. Those that pulled their men should remain to make up for the losses. Everybody wins.”
The crowd roared, Paikan sighed relieved for being given an out, since he’d barely a silver left on him and Ziba took her spot between the Lord’s legs. The Jackal watching his furious scowl at the turn of events, shook his steel encased head.
“You need to learn, when to stop old bones,” the famed gladiator cautioned Emerson in fluent common.
Of course, the same could have been said for him as well.
Sir Emerson in the Pits
artwork by @intheblackveil
