The charioteer said something in his tongue, but whether it was calling to his fallen comrade or something to me, I did not stop to find out. I merely drew a curved dagger on my belt, snatched his head in my hands and drew a deep red line along his neck. I hoisted him above my head as the chariot sped on, and I hurled him from it. The crowd roared their delight.
I went on circling the arena in the chariot a long moment, hailing the crowd in victory as the legionnaire generals of the empire did.
The brown clad servants of the coliseum emerged from their gates once more. They began carrying off the wreckage as best they could, and I let them take the chariot back through the gate it emerged from. Through the metal gate, I saw as the opposing side prepared their next opponents. They were several dark sword wielders of some kind. As best I could tell they were dressed in robes or skirts rather than armor, and were lithe and agile in their movements.
I went back to my own gate. “Servant,” I called once more, and tossed him my ax—the gladius had been lost in the carnage. “Pass me my great sword.” The servant returned moments later with a menacingly wrought blade that I had come to call Thirst. I caught it, and unsheathed it, its blade blinding in the sun.
“They say a man’s true weakness is always a beautiful woman…” Pelleo’s voice rang out to the crowd jeering, “But women this beautiful must be the weakness of a thousand men, because if beauty kills then these women are worth a thousand in battle!”
The gate opened and three women dressed in only copper brassieres and gossamer skirts emerged. Their bodies were curved and lithe like dancers, their skin a haunting bone color. Two wore gold gossamer skirts and were armed with long curved black swords. The one in the center seemed to be the leader and was tattooed all along the thighs and arms with a crimson color—she wore a red silk skirt and had her head in several tight braids. I had heard tales of women from the continent of Partha, trained from birth as assassins and duelists. As they approached I could see the utter fearlessness that they possessed. Their eyes were bloodshot crimson, and all their teeth filed into fangs, their long hair braided through with gold wire. They danced to me, all wielding curved blades, the leader wielding one gold scythe-blade in each hand.
I gripped my massive sword and took a ready stance. They practically danced toward me, their movements honed, precise, graceful. They shouted in their tongue, it almost sounded as if they rejoiced. As the first one slashed at me with her blade, I parried and stepped back, taking her measure. She was quick. The other one came at me and slashed. I ducked back. They were all quick. The tattooed one slashed and quickly slashed again. I parried low and high. I was too slow to react as the one with the long braid slashed and I felt my arm bleed.
“Argh!” I shouted as I reeled back, and swung at her. She spun away from my blade as if I were a dance partner rather than a seasoned gladiator. I slashed again, and she spun away again, and this gave another one an opening to attack me. I sprung back, but the tattooed one cut into my side with a slash. “Ungh!” I grunted as I hopped back, hefting my sword up to parry three quick blows with a clamor of steel, high, high and low. They were unrelenting as another came springing at me, leaping into the air and slashing. I ducked—my helm rung as luckily it took the glancing blow rather than my skull. I dashed away from the trio, hoping to recompose myself. But as I tried to take their position, I felt myself spin with grogginess. The interior darkness of my helm seemed full of strange black tentacles, of gnashing teeth and grinning demons. “Wha-!” I shouted as I opened the visor of my helm.
The three were encroaching, walking me down, their hips gracefully swaying toward me like predators. I couldn’t tell if there were three of them, or six or nine. I looked at their weapons now, and could see a sickly green sheen on them. Poison. What kind I didn’t know, but it disoriented me so that the world felt like clay being stretched out by a god’s hand.
The tattooed one leapt at me and I staggered back, parrying for my life. The clang of steel rang out, and the crowd laughed at my stumbling. Anger swelled up. “Cursed witches!” I swung. My blade was a shining blur all around me. They leapt back. I kept slashing, a storm of steel. As they reeled back, the one with the single long braid became isolated from the other two. I pressed her with everything I had. I brought a blow down on her so hard I felt her arms snap back and almost break even though she parried. As she sought to balance herself again I twisted my hips and slashed from one side to the other, a bright beam of steel that cut through her like a scythe through wheat. “Nraaaagh!” she screamed as I split her in two at the belly. Her torso and legs dropped to the ground in a splatter of entrails and crimson.
The other two did not hesitate and were on me in an instant. As I leapt away one of the tattooed one’s blades caught me on the leg. I grunted in pain and frustration, feeling the poison well up in me. The one with the single curved sword came at me and slashed. I ducked back and parried the blow into a clanging clash of steel. I arched my blade at her, and she spun back. I made a quick stab but she hopped back from that too.
I took my gamble. I raised my sword above my head and hurled it at her. She began spinning away from it, but it meant she would give me her back and take her eyes off me for just a fraction of a moment. Without a pause I sprinted for her and rammed my armored shoulder into her with all my strength. As we came crashing to the ground I postured up and brought a steel-spiked elbow crashing down on her face. I heard her jaw break and a red gash open up on her cheek. Without looking I knew the other would be on me and I rolled. As I pivoted on one knee I drew a small knife I always kept sheathed in my boot and I drove it into the tattooed one’s belly as she came at me. She screamed and reeled back. I quickly picked up the blade she dropped, it was curved, almost a hand scythe. I swung at her and caught her on the arm, and she recoiled back in a gasp of pain.
“How does... your own poison feel?” I gasped the words out drunkenly, because I was exhausted and because it felt like my jaw was melting onto the ground.
She grinned her filed teeth at me. “Keshia bemanah uhara daradai,” she said, in a tongue I did not understand. I should have guessed, she was unaffected by the poison. Looking at her bloodshot eyes and at her companion who was standing despite having taken a spiked elbow to the face, I guessed that they themselves were under some narcotic, one of many combat drugs that dulled pain entirely—among other possible effects. Deep breaths. I tried clearing my head, but the poison in my veins made me feel like the entire arena was tilting ever to one side. The feeling was so strong that I crouched and touched the ground in anticipation of sliding right off. The crowd jeered. Drunken laughter roared all around the vast stadium.
“Bastards…” I muttered.
The tattooed leader came at me, her blade flashing. I stepped back and clumsily parried, steel ringing. I wildly swung back. She evaded and slashed again. I stumbled back so hard I lost my footing and fell on my ass. I scrambled up, narrowly avoiding a slash. I was never going to win this at this range. I had to fight as close as possible, a brawl, a wrestling match even—where my senses didn’t have to be so honed. I charged, swinging wildly. She parried but I kept driving into her, pinning her against one of four jagged pillars in the arena. She hadn’t noticed, that I was the one with a weapon in each hand now, and I drove my small knife into her abdomen, twisting for a moment, but I knew I had to avoid the remaining death dancer who was still standing somehow and was charging for me. I clenched the arm and braid of the dancer I had pinned to the pillar and hurled her onto the oncoming one like a farmer hurling a sack of grain.
She didn’t expect it and the dancer limbs swinging through the air threw her off balance and she crashed to the ground. I threw myself at the entanglement of limbs, felt the body that was still living and trying to scurry up. I slammed her weapon hand down with one of mine, then punched her twice in the face. Having felt where her face was, I raised my armored elbow and slammed it down with all my weight, smashing her throat in. It snapped like a piece of
brittle wood. This time, no matter what combat drugs were in her blood, she would not get up.
I let myself roll onto my back, the world spinning. I gulped air. The crowd thundered a mix of shouts and jeers. Through my flickering eyelids I saw servants begin carrying away the bodies of the death dancers, along with fallen weapons and debris. Some even came for me as they hoisted me up, after feeling my pulse. They got me to my feet and after some wobbling, I managed to stand on my own.
“Behold, the Dog of War rises from the ashes of battle!” Pelleo’s voice rang through the stadium. The crowd thundered applause and shouts of praise. “He rises to fight one more battle for you, a final battle, a battle which will be sung of for centuries to come, to fight the greatest Orc to walk the earth…”
“Rothan! Just hold on!” I heard a familiar voice cut through the din of the crowd. “Rothan! You’re the greatest warrior in all of Skald!” I searched for the voice and after a moment somehow I spotted it. Eric. He was in the crowd flanked by One Eye.
Eric. Skald. Wolf Rein. My younger brother Yorbrand. Kyra. Gustaff my father. My home. That cold pure air. Then my life started seeping into my mind through the poison. I had to live through this. One day I had to wage war once more on the Empire. I had to… I glanced over at the pink gossamer curtains in the stands, that concealed the viewing chamber of the concubines. I had to win freedom for Bellabel. I would not let her fall into the fires of my vision. I breathed deep and began walking toward my side’s gate, leaning on one of the servants.
I reached the thick black metal of the gate, and the servants scurried back into their holes. “Servant,” I called. “Get me some clearing water—I've been poisoned. And get me my great ax, and the Sarathean spear.”
I waited a moment, leaning my forearms against the gate. “Hurry, servant.” Finally he came to the gate and handed me a weapon. I held it and made sure it was not the poison that was muddling my vision. No, even to touch, this was neither my spear nor my great ax. “Servant, I said my spear and great ax—the clearing water too! Come now, this is no time for flooslisness.” I didn’t hear a reply. “Servant! Hurry!”
“I’m sorry, Dog of War,” came the servant’s mousy voice from the shadows. “These were orders. I am a servant and must obey. They’ll, they’ll kill me.”
“What? What madness do you speak?” The servant faded into the shadows. “Servant! Who? Who will kill you?” There was only silence.
“And now!” Pelleo’s voice rang out. “The monstrosity of the South, the wielder of tree trunks, the Monster among Monsters, my newest champion…”
I leered at Pelleo, and stared down at the weapon the servant handed me. The poison. This weapon. Someone had arranged it all. I examined the sheathed bastard sword the servant had given me. A piece of parchment was tied to the hilt. I ripped it off, but the drug made me clumsy and it fluttered to the ground. Scrambling, I picked it up. I held it and blinked to try and read it properly. Finally, I focused my vision and made out the words: “Remember... don’t take things... so personally.”
My eyes rose from the parchment slowly, and even through the muddle of the poison, they stabbed at Pelleo’s heart all the way on the other side of the arena. “Pelleo…” I cursed.
Behind the opposing gate I could see the silhouette of the thing I was to fight. I could hear its snorts all the way from here. Like a bull—it snorted and kicked up dust as it did.
“The Black Orc!” Pelleo’s voice rang with glee and the crowd frenzied with joy and bloodlust.
The iron gate slid open and out stepped the largest foe I had ever seen. It was the height and width of a two floor house, its arms and legs looking like they were chiseled from black marble, its skin like shiny bull hide. It looked like it didn’t need any armor, but even so it wore massive plate on its shoulders, its shins, its waist. A horned helm adorned its head, and its jaw was covered in a steel trap that was larger than a phalanx shield. In one arm it wore a spiked gauntlet, in the other it carried a war mace whose haft was truly a tree trunk, the top of which was a massive steel head with a dozen cruel spikes protruding from it.
“DRAAAAWGH!” it roared out, a sound that silenced the crowd’s cheering. Some people in the nearest rows were so frightened that even with the stone walls and the metal grating arching out over the arena, they still fled from their seats in a panic.
The creature stomped forward. It stopped in the center of the arena for a moment and inhaled, gazing around at the sight of the stadium, as oblivious of me as if I were a gnat.
The poison still surged through my blood, but my mind clawed for some way of surviving. The creature finally seemed bored of staring at the crowd, and it fixed its eyes on me. They were a yellow that belonged in frightful camp stories, not in an arena.
“Wait…” I said, my legs buckling, “this is not what…. I agreed to.”
The creature’s eyes narrowed, and it charged.
Waves of dust kicked up as it thundered at me. It moved entirely too fast. It raised its war mace into the sky—I sprinted and dove. The mace came crashing down just behind me, splintering the earth where it hit.
I staggered up as fast as I could. I couldn’t tell if the earth quaking was still the poison or the shudders of the mace blow.
I dashed, zigzagging toward the creature. It aimed one more blow and I dove once more. I felt the earth shake behind me.
If I stayed close enough to it… I might avoid that mace. The tatters of a plan began forming in my mind.
I ducked a swipe of its gauntlet and moved closer still. The creature roared its frustration, its grunts kicking up dust. I scurried like a rat in between its legs. It tried pivoting to get a good aim on me, but I moved with it. I reached a spot where I had an open shot at the back of its knee. If I aimed just right, cut a tendon…
I unsheathed my weapon, gripped the bastard sword with both hands, grit my teeth and drove it as hard as I could into the creature’s leg. I heard a snap, and smiled. But my eyes went wide as I saw that the sword’s blade had shattered like glass, barely scratching the creature’s hide.
I stared at the sword in an agonizing moment, saw now that what remained of its blade was so rusted it might as well have been charred wood. Pelleo, you bastard… Grimy metal engulfed my vision as the creature’s gauntlet swept toward me.
Pain rang my body like a bell. I was flung into the air, twisting—once, twice I did not know. I crashed to the ground, coughed out blood.
It took an effort just to stagger up, and all through my struggle I felt the rumble of its footsteps coming toward me. I shook my head trying to steady my swaying body. It was upon me and it swung its mace in a massive arc.
I threw myself to one side, but its weapon still caught me in its graze, striking my armored arm. I was flung again. As I crashed down a pain seared through me that I had never known. I tried to move my arm, but saw blood seeping through the joints of the plated armor. My arm was broken and useless. I staggered to my knees. I was close enough to the gate that I called out, “Timor, Zurkin! Help! A weapon, anything…” I stood and began staggering away. “Help someone,” I said to the nearest rows in the crowd. Laughs were my only reply. “Damn you all…”
“Rothan!” I heard a cry come from somewhere in the stands. “Rothan!” I searched again. It was Eric. No…. he was climbing the steel grate arching over the arena.
“No! Eric! Stay back!”
“I’m coming!” he said and climbed the grate just as he had climbed the wall a day ago.
“Damn it!” I grunted.
Eric clambered down the steel grate, then let himself drop onto the ground. He perched up like a cat. The Black Orc turned its attention to him, snorting. Its shadow loomed over Eric. Its tree trunk war mace came down like lightning.
The ground smashed as Eric hopped aside. He scurried away from it, but the Orc swung its mace again, this time in an arch that trailed after the youngling. Eric let himself fall and the mace passed above him. He stood and began running away but t
he creature swatted him with its gauntleted hand. The sound was excruciating. Eric crashed to the ground, rolling to a stop. The creature picked him up by the leg, and squeezed. I knew Eric’s leg was shattered as he screamed out.
“No!” I staggered as quickly as I could toward them.
The Orc hurled Eric, sending him flying and smacking into a wall. The young man left a red stain on the flat stone. “Eric!”
The creature brought down his mace on the already broken body, and I knew that Eric’s life had been wiped from this world.
Somehow I forced myself into a kind of limping run, and picked up something off the ground—a broken spear, I felt—and I ran for the creature. You must die, you will die… were the only thoughts that consumed me. The creature turned enough that one of its yellow eyes focused on me.
It swung its massive shoulders. The last thing I saw was its giant mace whipping toward me, engulfing my vision. Then everything went black.
Wolf Blade: A Sword and Sorcery Fantasy Harem Page 5