by T. C. Edge
Here, Merk would steal some glory, and he’d end his life in a manner befitting the man he always wished to be. He’d spent his life around great warriors. He wasn’t going to die trembling against a wall.
He drew a long breath and clenched his jaw. His right leg stepped forward, still shaking but trying its best to firm up, and the left then followed. Soon he was walking away from the wall, one metre, two metres, then three and four and five.
He stopped, and saw two gladiators in battle ahead of him. Their swords were dancing, their feet shuffling on the sand. They only seemed to have eyes for each other, and Merk spotted his chance.
If he could not just strike, but actually sink his blade into a gladiator, maybe he’d die less a coward, and more a hero of the people. A commoner, not imbued with strange powers, but just a normal man, well past his prime.
He’d become a legend, the regular old man who killed a foreign warrior in the cull. He wouldn’t die a traitor, a fate he didn’t deserve. He’d get chopped down with a smile on his face, knowing he’d elevated himself above all the other shivering prisoners still huddling in the dirt and praying for a miracle.
Yes, thought Merk, this is my destiny.
He narrowed his gaze on the two men, a dozen metres away and completely ignoring him. Watching for a time to strike, he made a move to rush in but lost his nerve. He stepped back and crouched a little lower, and could imagine all the thousands and thousands of eyes stalking him, wondering what he might do.
He couldn’t let them down. He couldn’t let himself down. No, not now. He was in too deep…
He stood tall again, and filled his lungs. His sword was heavy, but suddenly, with his final moments approaching, he felt a hidden strength rise up in him. As in the square, where he faced up to that young thug and gave him the beating of a lifetime, he’d call upon all the reserves of courage and ferocity he possessed.
The mild-mannered Merk would become a beast, if only for a moment. But that’s all he needed. One moment. One strike. One great act and the name of Merk the Mighty would live in this city forever!
He smiled at the thought, and his fears were swept away. Holding his sword firm, he saw one of the gladiators begin to dominate the bout. His swings were starting to weaken his opponent. His strength and endurance were showing. He stepped forward and his blade got through the gate, slicing across his opponent’s side and drawing a fresh dose of blood.
Merk knew that his time was now. He couldn’t delay any longer.
Aiming his eyes at the dominant fighter, whose attention was fully on his staggering foe, Merk began to rush forward, unable to prevent a primal roar from escaping his lungs as he went.
His blade was set and ready, the gladiator yet to see him. With shuffling feet, he surged to within a couple of metres…
And suddenly his target turned.
The man twisted so quickly that Merk’s only reaction was to slide to an immediate stop. His old legs were close to creaking, but he just about halted his momentum. The gladiator looked at him with a lust for killing in his eyes, the madness of battle having consumed him. With his opponent still reeling, he knew he could spare a moment to finish of this pathetic old traitor.
His sword came up, dripping blood. How many men he’d already killed with it, Merk couldn’t be sure. But whatever the number, he was about to add one more.
Merk had no time to consider his failure, or the mocking he must have been receiving in the crowd. He was well used to such treatment, of course. But now, here in the arena, it will have been amplified to a staggering degree. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of sets of eyes were on him now, sniggering at his foolishness in trying to engage such a warrior.
But, mercifully, he had no time to dwell on such things. He shut his eyes and waited for the blow, but seemed to be waiting for far too long.
It was too loud for him to hear much, and even right ahead of him, the sound of the man falling to the earth, gurgling blood, didn’t register. Nor did the thud of the other, injured gladiator, hitting the sand with a heavy puff.
Only when he opened his eyes, wondering what the delay was, did he see that both men were dead.
The man who was about to strike now lay on the floor with the tip of a knife pointing through the front of his neck. The other had a blade in his temple, embedded right up to the handle.
Merk looked at them, astonished, and that lifted his eyes to where his opponent had been. His body was no longer blocking the view, and across the arena, about twenty metres away, he saw a pair of glorious green eyes staring right at him, with a little grin set beneath.
Then, one of those eyes dropped into a wink.
And he watched as Kira went right back to work.
34
“My goodness me, would you look at that old fool. What on earth does he think he’s doing?!”
The comment brought a round of laughter from some of the members of the royal balcony, sipping their drinks and only casually watching the games.
“I say good going,” came a swift response. “Why die cowering against a wall when you can fight and be a man? Bravo I say.”
Dom was only half listening. He couldn’t tell which lords had uttered the comments because he wasn’t looking and it was too loud to identify their voices. His eyes and his attention were solely locked on a specific portion of the arena below, a portion that just happened to contain a great deal of vested interest for him.
Right now, his gaze was exclusively on Merk, his old caretaker. How in the world he was down there in the first place baffled him, and quite why, after several minutes of action, he’d suddenly decided to rush into the fray like a madman was equally confusing.
Now, he stood like a lost child, clearly not quite knowing what to do. His sudden inactivity brought a great deal of laughter from the members of the gallery, though none more so than Lucius who was having a rollicking old time.
Dom merely fixed his gaze on the old man, keeping their affiliation to himself, and prayed for him to find sanctuary. He glanced occasionally up at one of the screens that was showing a close up of his friend, and saw the expression clear as day on his face; that of awe, fear, and determination all mixed up into one.
“Do something, Merk!” he whispered through gritted teeth. “Don’t just stand there!”
Thankfully, however, there were no imminent threats nearby. In fact, most had been hastily dispatched, and Dom had almost leapt out of his seat when Kira had tossed those knives and saved Merk’s life. He’d managed to restrain himself – just – but couldn’t suppress the beaming smile that flashed before being hastily withdrawn.
Now, he was sat wondering just why she did it, and considered that Merk’s charms had somehow rubbed off on her on the ship. Or maybe she just saw it as a good opportunity to take out a couple of opponents while they were distracted…
Either way, it didn’t really matter. It would probably only be a temporary fix for the poor old sod.
As the action continued, Dom couldn’t quite help but notice his mother’s gaze upon Kira. There was a look of displeasure there, as if she still harboured some grudge against her for her performance in the ludus. He could see her hoping for a blow to land, for her to be cut down, reacting just slightly each time any blade got close to Kira’s flesh.
But none landed, and Dom’s mind was quite the opposite, praying for her to survive. He was splitting his time between watching her and watching Merk, still statuesque and entirely vulnerable, just watching the action unfold.
Most of the fighting was going on elsewhere, however, and there weren’t a great number of warriors remaining. By now, almost all of the so-called traitors had been dispatched, and aside from Dom and Lucius’ full complement of gladiators, only a smattering of others were still standing.
Dom was quite sure where this was all going – a showdown between the two, which wasn’t a total surprise and something the crowd were clearly hoping for. On several occasions in the past, the cull had ended in such a bout. Whethe
r a three-on-three, three-on-two, or some other variation between the groups, it was highly unusual for anyone other than Dom and Lucius’ men to be the last ones standing.
As he watched now, his contenders continued to press, sweeping through and hunting as a team. He was impressed, and could see quite clearly that Kira was the ringleader. He was well aware that she’d been a high profile member of the rebels in Haven, so such teamwork was something she was clearly used to.
Lucius’ group were doing something similar, though unlike Dom’s they were slashing straight through any traitors they passed by as well. Kira had clearly instructed the others to not bother with them. In the end, they were untrained, unenhanced, tired and hungry and dehydrated. It wasn’t much of a fight for a gladiator to face one of them, and only those with more murderous inclinations seemed to be taking them out.
One such gladiator was doing so alone. It looked as though he’d realised he wasn’t a match for the other warriors, and so was satiating his bloodlust and trying to win over the crowd by killing a bunch of the vulnerable prisoners instead. Dom had noticed him darting to the perimeter from the start, slicing through them as if to build himself up into a frenzy when he might be able to stand toe to toe with a proper fighter.
He wasn’t much of one himself, clearly a very lowly and poorly trained man, with weak enhancements based on a watered down genetic bloodline. He had a bit of extra speed, but not much, and yet had managed to survive as of yet by targeting the weak and infirm.
As Dom’s troop worked on a pair of proper warriors, and Lucius’ did the same not far away, their paths were quickly converging. But this errant gladiator who barely deserved the name had been forgotten, and now, finishing off the final prisoners, he was starting to set his eyes on Merk.
Dom’s gaze sharpened. He could see it all happening now, see this pathetic excuse for a warrior, with his lithe frame and hollow cheeks, moving around the perimeter towards Merk’s location. The old caretaker still stood in place, sword in hand and body covered in a collection of loose-fitting armour, seemingly oblivious to the threat.
Dom wanted to call out to his old servant, his old friend, but couldn’t do so among such company. And even if he did, his voice would be quickly drowned amid the din. Yet his voice wasn’t needed, and the crowd began to call for him, seeing the scenario about to unfold.
It wasn’t that they cared for Merk. It was more that they wanted to see the old man fight, see what he was made. Here, in the arena, they did like a good underdog story. And though he was being ridiculed by many, this might just be a chance for Merk to show his mettle.
As the crowd called, their warnings swelling, Merk finally paid attention. He turned, just as the sneaking snake begin to slither into position behind him. And holding his sword up, he faced the man as he stepped forward. The crowd roared, and suddenly it was as though the arena was split in two.
On the left side, all the true gladiators did battle, fighting for those final three spots. And on the right, with plenty of space to themselves, and old caretaker with two fingers missing on his right hand, and no real combat experience, faced down against a coward of a warrior, too frightened to face any real contenders and here to merely murder and slay the weak and defenceless.
Dom watched the man and Merk come together, and through his teeth he whispered once more.
“Come on, Merk! Kill that bastard! Let’s see what you’ve got!”
35
Merk stood alone, surrounded by death, and still waiting for his own to come.
He’d survived until now on pure luck and nothing more, but that was surely about to run out. Because moving towards him from the wall, a tall, gaunt gladiator came, thin black hair atop his head and dark, crazed eyes hidden within a rather misshapen skull.
By now, Merk had seen all the other prisoners killed. He stood alone, the last survivor of the dungeon in Southside, representing all those who’d been wronged, who had been led here to the sand like lambs to the slaughter, never expected to stand a chance.
And Merk didn’t stand a chance. He knew that full well. But by God, if he was going down, he was going down fighting. He’d face this murderer head on and make him kill him. He wasn’t going to recoil and retreat. He would stand his ground and fight.
And die as Merk the Mighty.
The man walked at him, casually now, with a weird smirk on his face.
“Last one, old man,” he snarled, his teeth sharp behind thin lips and voice just audible over the din. “I’ll make it quick, don’t worry. Just lift your chin and give me a good look at your neck. It will only take a second.”
Merk stared at the man, this bully, this murderer, and saw all those who’d taunted him over his life. His greying eyes began to sharpen up, and he kept his chin just where it was.
“If you want to kill me,” he growled, “then go ahead and try.”
He lifted his sword, feeling lighter now than ever before. His armour suddenly felt like it was tightening around him, fitting him perfectly, shining silver and finely decorated. Merk imagined himself a great warrior, tall and proud and holding a famed sword aloft, a beacon of light and hope and strength here within the arena. He stood like Ares, the greatest champion of them all, his eyes implacable and posture heroic.
And looking at his enemy, he almost thought he saw a slight twinge ripple across his face. A moment of doubt, perhaps, as any bully feels when faced up to by their victim. Merk stepped forward, and all over the stadium, he heard the crowd begin to roar louder. He glanced about, and saw them cheering for him, and his chest swelled in hope and sudden, unearned expectation.
His foe seemed to shrink in size before Merk’s eyes. He saw him as a foot shorter, his aura as a gladiator, as a warrior, being swept off by Merk’s conviction.
The old man stopped half a dozen metres from him, and set his feet firmly to the sand.
“Well come on,” he growled. “If you’re going to kill me, then damn well kill me!”
He watched the man hesitate once more, and the jeers started to come. Merk had seen this man already, going around killing the weak. And though he always considered himself a coward, he had cast off that mantle now and had given it to the murderer before him.
This bully wore it well, and the boos of the crowd weren’t lost to his ears.
They seemed to galvanise him, his anger stimulated by their heckles. Glancing around, he looked back at Merk as the real warriors continued to face off on the other side of the arena, his dark eyes flashing wild and his body priming to strike.
“I won’t make it quick!” His voice was shivering now in fury. “I’ll kill you slow, old man. I’ll make you suffer!”
Merk had no fear of his threats now. He took another step forward to show he wasn’t afraid, and as he went, he crouched down and scooped up a shield from a dead gladiator at his feet. His lifted the shield aloft, slipping his disfigured right hand through the straps and clinging to the handle, his left gripping his sword tight.
“Come on then,” he said. “Let’s get this over with, you coward!”
His words goaded his opponent, and perhaps they were inadvisable. But Merk didn’t care. He was as ready as he’d ever be, pumped up with adrenaline and the thrill of the crowd’s cheers. He was an underdog, and though they’d booed and jeered as the traitors were brought out, he knew that most of them pitied him. That they were well aware he didn’t deserve to be there, and nor did all the rest.
They’d done what they had to, booing for Vesper’s sake. But now, in the heat of the fight, and with an energy fizzing in every stand and every tier, they were making their true feelings heard.
So Merk stood taller than ever, his old bones forgetting their aches and pains. And before his opponent could strike, he decided that now was the time to act.
So he did, stepping forward and thrusting with his blade. The crowd suddenly erupted on his side of the stadium, enthralled by this contest as much as the other, proper bouts going on elsewhere. His opponent saw t
he attack coming easily, and swung his sword to deflect Merk’s blow.
He hit hard, metal clanging with a spark, and Merk’s wrist was turned as the sword almost slipped from his grasp. But he held on, and swung again, and the gladiator stepped back and parried to the right. Once more, Merk struck only metal. Again, he attacked, and again he was repelled. His swings were wild but full of energy, and for a moment he thought he might just have a chance.
But no. Such a foolish thought to have.
His opponent seemed to realise, as Merk’s attacks came, that he wasn’t dealing with Ares at all. No, this was just another old man, unenhanced, no true power behind his blows beyond his instinct to survive. He seemed to loosen up, and while Merk couldn’t see it at first, he began to play with the old man, toy with him. He let him strike again and again, and merely slipped left or right, or gently tapped his sword away.
He was far too quick for a man like Merk, and the old caretaker quickly began to lose his breath. The crowd seemed to quieten a little, their roars dulled as they saw the reality of the bout unfold.
Slashing hard, Merk emptied his lungs and emptied his tank. He panted furiously, and with sweat slipping down his crinkled forehead, he looked up at the hollow-cheeked man and saw no concern in his eyes anymore. Instead, he merely smiled a shark-like grin and in the blink of an eye, lashed out.
His blade cut across Merk’s shield, slicing lines into the metal, and Merk was suddenly stumbling backwards, going the other way, defending himself with all he had. The crowd roared once more, cheering their support, and Merk summoned some last vestige of his will to live, using both shield and sword to stop his foe’s blows from penetrating his guard.