by T. C. Edge
Dom swept straight for his wardrobe, opened the doors, and began drawing out tunics and robes. He was flinging off his bedclothes as he spoke.
"Head straight downstairs. Order my guards to get a carriage ready immediately."
"But, sir, Claudius said..."
"I don't care what Claudius said!" roared Dom, rounding on her. "Kira is set to fight any moment. I need to get to the Colosseum right now!"
Silia hesitated, fixed in place near the door. Dom suppressed the volume of his voice and calmly went on.
"This is my ludus. I am the master here. Now go downstairs and order for a carriage to be prepared as quickly as possible to take me to the arena. Do it now, Silia. I have no time to waste."
This time, she nervously bowed and moved away, her feet tapping on the stairs as she went. Dom swiftly flung on a series of robes, his head aching with each sudden movement and entire upper body sore. Each awkward motion or stretch served to deliver a deep wince to his face. Without asking when his last dose had been given, he took some painkiller capsules from his bedside table and gulped them down with a swiftly poured glass of wine.
He heard a slight commotion outside, and marched down towards the library at the end of the corridor. His eyes swept out to look upon the yard. The guards were hastily assembling, ready to escort him to the stadium. Their efficiency was something he paid top coin for.
Marching straight down the stairs, he found Silia once more accosting him.
"What now?" he asked.
Silia frowned.
"I just checked what was happening in the Colosseum, sir," she said nervously.
"Tell me!" roared Dom.
"Oom has just completed his bout, and won." She took a gulp of air. "Kira is about to fight..."
Oom looked to have been in a fight for the first time. He lumbered into the cells looking bloodied and worn, his heavy armour battered and sliced and flesh equally vandalised. He looked pale from loss of blood. He planted himself heavily upon one of the benches, the wood groaning under his weight, as a team of medics came hurrying in to remove his armour and attend his wounds.
His eyes met Kira's, sitting across the cell as the commotion unfolded.
"Oom believed he wins...so he wins," he mumbled. "Now Kira believes...Kira wins." His smiled as his eyes flickered and threatened to drew shut. "Oom believes in Kira," he whispered. "Oom believes..."
His voice was drowned out by a flurry of activity as the medics set about seeing to his wounds. At the same moment, the guards came marching down the corridor and called for Kira to step forward.
"It is time," they said, nodding to her.
She was all too aware of the drill now. Above, the crowd were heaving, an energy pulsing through the masses. Kira had been aware of it all without properly listening to Oom's fight. Her head needed to align only with her bout. Until she got through it, nothing else mattered.
She stood and traversed the usual route, moving up towards the usual gate that led out onto the blazing sand. The light filtered through violently, the sun high in the sky and watching from above, as if keen as the rest to view the action. As the call came out for the crowd to calm, Kira barely registered the words. Vesper was making the announcements. Her introductions were of no interest or use.
Only when the guards opened the gate and ushered Kira out did she step into the light. The roars of the people, calling her name, vibrated through her frame, draped in her combat armour and robes and with her typical array of weapons fixed to her belt. Her trusty scimitars and throwing knives were all she ever used. They would be called into action again to save her.
Her motion was robotic as she went, her focus complete and overwhelming her other senses. She was aware of it all, but little else. She knew, as she stood there beneath the royal gallery, that the Empress was performing the intros.
Then, she became aware of the attention of the crowd turning away from her and to her opponent. Vesper's voice rang out, calling Tomahawk to the sand. Now Kira turned to look at him, her focus centring upon the dark-skinned man from the far south. He was tall, strong and incredibly athletic in structure, the parts of his body uncovered by armour telling of an astonishing muscularity, just like Rufus.
His hair was fashioned into a strip down the centre of his head, the remainder shaved right to the skin, shining with a sheen of sweat beneath the sweltering sun. His eyes were shaded and black, some form of war paint added to their border to intensify the effect. His armour was of a dark brown and murky yellow, mimicking the look of the deserts and scrublands from which he was stolen. And above his back, and adorning his belt, several types of axes were fixed, both small and big for long and short ranged combat.
Kira knew of his strengths. She'd spent the entire night pondering every possible move he might make, every counter he'd make to hers. She'd simulated the fight over and over again, logging all eventualities and determining just how she'd behave in any given circumstance.
Yet all of that was hypothetical. Now it was time for the real thing.
She faced him down, the warrior spirit that resided in her coming to the boil once more. She had her strategy to confuse him, to attack from the off and do the unexpected. If she wanted to win, she needed to change things up, use the element of surprise. She'd become known for starting slow and assessing her opponents before taking action.
Today, she'd start like a thunderbolt.
The voice of Vesper sprung up in her head again. She heard her calling out for the bout to begin at the bell.
"When the gong sounds, the fight will start," she called, a hush resulting in the crowd. "Now fight and die with honour. May the best warrior win."
Kira refused to meet her eyes for fear of seeing something to turn her head, to shake her focus. She wouldn't allow Vesper to interfere, not now. She was alone here, rested and prepared. If she were to die, it would be at the hand of a superior warrior.
She could just about live with that.
So she turned to Tomahawk, standing a dozen metres away, and looked upon a man more gifted than any she'd ever faced down. Her body fizzed and tensed, and every ounce of energy she could unearth rose up from the depths.
When the bell rings, I move immediately, she told herself.
And then the gong was struck.
105
A violent, reverberating clang resonated right through the stadium. It happened so quickly after the bell that it seemed to be related to its rings, the final echo not fading away but renewing the first blast, only far louder and more ferocious.
For the tumultuous masses within the stands, the start of the fight had been too fast to see. As the gong was hit, so Kira moved immediately, springing off from her perch and swirling through the sand upon her enemy.
She greeted Tomahawk with a single scimitar drawn, swinging right for his exposed neck. She met only the grim metal end of an axe, drawn immediately to defend himself and covering his vulnerable flesh.
The resulting clang was still bounding around the stands when Kira struck once more. She'd hoped her sudden strike would be successful, but hadn't expected it. She had a backup plan based upon Tomahawk's likely reaction. As she saw it, if he wasn't hit he'd either move or lift a blade in defence. The latter had occurred, and now she performed the follow up move she'd mentally rehearsed.
She'd gone high at the neck, but as she did, she unsheathed her second scimitar, and swung it low. It happened under the radar, beyond Tomahawk's sight, her blade eyeing up the bare flesh of his thigh, just above the knee and beneath his leather thigh-guard.
She had to be accurate, and cut deep. A gash right there could disable him entirely, rendering him unable to use his full capability of speed and, possibly, cutting the femoral artery to quickly drain him of blood. She knew the first strike upon his neck to be a decoy and little more. The second was her chance.
So she swung, Tomahawk's attention taken by drawing his axe and halting the first strike. His eyes were on her blade, deflecting it away, but his other senses were speed
y enough to pick up the slack. As Kira's low attack whipped across him, hunting his thigh, he lifted his leg just in time to have her scimitar bouncing right off his shin-armour.
A second clang of metal on metal resulted, immediately following the first. The fight had been going on for a split second only, and Kira's two assaults had been denied.
Yet she had a third option, each possible manoeuvre going several levels deep. She had pondered what to do if the low attack against his thigh failed, and believed her best bet to swing immediately around his back and get into his blind spot, from where she could attempt another piercing move.
So she followed her strategy, and flowed left, sweeping up a cloud of sand as she worked around him. She lifted her blade to strike, spotting a possible weak spot in his flank. Her blade zipped forward, eager for contact and blood, but was immediately denied.
With a fierce spin and accompanying roar, Tomahawk rounded on Kira and kicked straight out with a thunderous boot. The sole of his foot met with her midsection, sending her flying off across the sand and tumbling in an awkward arrangement of limbs. One of her scimitar blades was dislodged, flung off to the dirt, and she landed with no air in her lungs and a face-full of grit sprinkled in her eyes.
She hauled herself to her feet, and rubbed her eyes clean, her lungs feeling as though they'd collapsed to about ten percent capacity. Dragging an unwilling breath in, she knew she had no backup for this move. Not once had she anticipated a kick of such force. Her element of surprise had been immediately dismissed and her carefully set plans laid to waste.
She felt off kilter, her head in a blur. For a moment she thought it might be game over already, as with her fight with Shadow. The Stalker could have seen her finished so quickly were it not for Rufus' intervention. But here there was no one to help, nobody to save her. She looked up, expecting to see Tomahawk right there, axes in hand and ready to strike.
He wasn't. Across the arena, standing where he started, the barbarian of the south looked on. He hadn't moved an inch.
Warily now, Kira stood and worked to resume a regular speed of breathing. It took a few long swigs of air to get her lungs operating properly again, during which time she kept her eyes on Tomahawk, refusing to move them even for a second. Such a period of time would be plenty for him to advance on her, and right now her senses were slightly dulled and struggling to power up.
A little way from where she stood, her errant scimitar glinted under the sun, its tip piercing the earth and handle aloft. Carefully, Kira began walking towards it, the crowd roaring their approval as the early exchanges of the fight ended, and a short period of sizing-up followed.
Tomahawk, meanwhile, stayed just where he was, seeming to invite Kira to retake her weapon and catch her breath. It was curious behaviour. If he'd have taken advantage of her tumble, he might have been able to kill her already. Perhaps his honour required him to fight her face to face, and kill her as such too. Or maybe he was more interested in drawing the fight out, having already concluded that he could end it when, and in whichever fashion, he saw fit.
Kira imagined it might be the latter, though shooed the thought away. It would do her no good to think as such. She had to believe she could win. She had to know it, as Oom had told her.
Taking up her errant blade, she returned to stand before her foe. There was a milkiness to his eyes that she hadn't noticed before. He stared forward, his tall frame upright and front-facing, seemingly just waiting for her to strike again.
Of course, she'd imagined all of this. The likelihood of her first flurry of attacks actually working were slim. They were always likely to reset as they were now, and Kira had plenty of attack patterns to employ.
Only, the framing of his body was unexpected. The manner in which he stood was quite unnerving. He adopted a pose of utter confidence, open and with his weight evenly distributed. It wasn't a smart starting point from which to engage in combat, yet was a clear indicator of his state of mind.
He wasn't worried at all. He was quite sure he had everything in hand.
And more than anything, that pissed Kira off.
She tightened her jaw and clamped her teeth tight. And taking a heavy breath, she flung herself forward once more.
"Hurry the hell up! Can't this thing go any faster!"
Dom wasn't used to riding in any carriage that wasn't his own, yet this unfamiliar transport wasn't the problem. Alongside him, his cohort of mounted guards were battling with a different issue.
"Sir," one called out, "it's the crowds. They're really dense here."
Dom peeked out from the curtain, perhaps inadvisedly. As soon as he did, several people spotted him and the heaving throng advanced, keen to get a look at their prince. He withdrew again, though kept a slit open for him to peer through. Over the heads of the churning masses he could see the stadium not far away, its external flanks fixed with the large screens showing the action.
And right now, Kira was fighting.
"Hurry up!" he roared again. "Or else I'm getting out and running."
"Not advisable, sir," said a guard. "We can't guarantee your safety."
Dom grunted his annoyance as he looked once more upon the distant screens. He could hardly make out much detail from where he was and through the narrow slit of the curtain, but it was clear enough that Kira was the aggressor. She was striking with great speed and accuracy, forcing Tomahawk onto the back foot. Together, they whirled around the arena like a blur, partially hidden within a mist of dust and grit.
"Right, that's it," shouted Dom, the carriage all but drawing to a stop. He moved across to the opposite side, opened the curtains, and looked up to the nearest guard. "I need your horse," he commanded. "Step off right now."
The guard hesitated.
"Sir?"
"I said, step off the horse, soldier. I am commandeering the beast."
Still slightly unsure, the man had no room but to obey. He quickly dismounted and Dom climbed from the carriage to the animal, calling for the rest of his guards to gather round.
"OK, two of you come with me," he shouted. "The rest take the carriage back to the ludus."
He had no time for a second telling. Immediately, he kicked the horse into gear and began weaving through the crowds with his two man escort, calling for them to part as he went.
"Make way!" he shouted. "Make way or you will be trampled!"
His guards joined in.
"Make way for Prince Domitian!" they bellowed. "Make way for your Prince!"
Those in the firing line began to part as the trio started cantering. The rest looked on in great surprise at the spectacle. While those who lived in these parts saw Dom regularly, the rest of the city certainly didn't. And those without tickets were predominantly part of the latter, with many coming from distant suburbs or towns and villages beyond Neorome to witness the games. Seeing Prince Domitian trotting through the masses was a treat indeed.
With a murmur spreading across the crowd, Dom hurried faster as the people had some warning to his arrival. Before too long a narrow gate was opening for him to gallop through at speed, his eyes glancing between the way ahead and the large screens showing the fight. Each time he looked up he felt a flash of concern at what he might witness. A single strike was all it would take to see Kira's life snatched away.
There was little he could do but bear witness, of course. He knew that, and yet he needed to be there whatever happened. Whether she won or lost, lived or died, he had to be there for her.
So on he went, faster and faster until he reached the end of the crowd and ploughed right through towards the main entrance. The many guards on duty saw him coming, recognising him and letting him through. He flung himself from the horse as he got close, calling for his men to stay where they were, and leapt up the stairs towards the gallery on the first floor, surging under the archway and into the royal balcony.
The din was overpowering as he entered, the crowd roaring their favourites as they did battle upon the sand. A number of
nobles saw Dom enter, whispering to each other as he made straight for his position to his mother's left. He sensed Lord Pontius eying him as he went, no doubt informed of his escape already. He'd have to deal with him later.
His mother, too, looked across as he appeared and took position in his seat.
"Domitian," she said, surprised. "I didn't expect to see you here..."
Dom lifted a hand to silence her. He didn't even deign to look in her direction. His eyes fell straight for the sand, for Kira, draped in red, flowing all over as she fought off the beast that was Tomahawk.
Dom's heart clenched as he saw the action live. Any second could be her last, a single mistake signalling her end. He leaned forward, eyes unblinking, heart pacing and breath rushing. And in his head he said a little prayer.
Please...please let her live.
The crowd was a blur to Kira now. Their bodies all merged into a mottled canvas of random colour, their voices and chants and cheers gathering into a deafening din. As she looked forward, she saw only Tomahawk, his body etched in hyper definition against the backdrop of dull colours. Her senses were fully warmed up and primed, her focus as streamlined and centred as it was possible to be.
If she was to live through this, she was giving it her best shot. She felt happy knowing she could do no more.
Tomahawk was, without doubt, the most powerful warrior she'd faced upon the sand. He made Redmane look like a lost lamb by comparison, his movement so swift, his strikes so accurate, his engine so well oiled and efficient as to allow him to fight on and on, without break, even under these harsh conditions.
Yet, as with Redmane, he had a set of conditions that truly suited him. Vesper hadn't needed to alter them on this occasion. The natural heat and humidity, the sand and grit and dust, were all things that Tomahawk was used to. Were Kira to ever have it her way, they'd have to build a set of a city down here. She was accustomed to sneaking and utilising the artificial features of her world. Here, upon the open sand, a man like Tomahawk was in his element.