Shadowless

by Randall McNally

On the ground, Kirrell rolled to the side just as Kurt’s broadsword swung down into the sand where he had fallen.

  Getting to his feet and grabbing his halberd, he ran back to the centre of the arena.

  The crowd erupted at the sight of Kurt attacking, and his name rang out among the three thousand or so people watching. As unmoved by their admiration as he had been by their animosity, Kurt lifted his wall shield back into position, his sword arm down by his side.

  Kirrell pulled off his helmet and threw it to the edge of the pit. It had heated up in the warmth of the arena and his head and neck were soaking with sweat. He looked across the amphitheatre at the titanic figure of Kurt coming towards him, and for the first time during the fight there was something other than extreme confidence in his mind: doubt.

  The instructors at the Berserker Pits in Stonehelm had told him about his opponent’s strength and size, but what they had failed to mention was that he was fast. Kirrell had fought and killed men bigger than him before, but not one who attacked with the speed of a viper.

  Lashing out with his polearm and looking for an opening, Kirrell swung the heavy-bladed weapon about his head as he ran. Pretending he was about attack to his adversary’s torso, at the last second he dropped low and tried to land a blow to Kurt’s feet.

  Seeing the swipe coming, Kurt jumped. The blade of the halberd made its way under the shield and skimmed the soles of his sandals.

  Encouraged by his most recent attack almost finding its target Kirrell circled his rival more quickly, weaving to and fro, ducking and then jumping, each time delivering a strike that was only inches from connecting.

  With his challenger’s onslaught gathering momentum, Kurt edged to the wall of the arena, cutting off his opponent’s route and protecting his flank. If Kirrell wanted to attack, it would have to be face on.

  The Northern man lunged at Kurt, stabbing at him furiously and desperately trying to find a way through his rival’s defence.

  The crowd rose to their feet and began yelling and baying for blood.

  With his back to the wall Kurt hunkered behind his shield. Now that his opponent had removed his helmet, he could see in the other man’s eyes that controlled aggression was still steering him.

  That had to change.

  As the halberd’s strikes rained down upon the shield, Kurt began to recognise a pattern to the attack: after four strikes, Kirrell adjusted his position.

  Kurt’s opponent was clearly resorting to training methods from the Northern pits. If muscle memory had kicked in, there was every chance Kurt could deliver a hit on his opposite number; maybe not to kill him, but if he could send him into a Berserker rage that would be just as good.

  Four strikes: a pause: four strikes.

  Kurt dug his feet into the sand and changed his stance, shifting his significant weight to his back foot and preparing to go on the offensive. Gripping the straps of his shield he moved it closer to him and got ready to count down the strikes.

  The first hit on his shield clipped the outer edge; the next two landed in or around the shield-boss and the last was a tame effort, which scraped its way along the bottom section.

  As the last impact strike glanced off his shield Kurt charged, bashing the halberd away to the left he brought his right arm over the top and swung his sword at Kirrell.

  The Northerner dived out of the way as Kurt came crashing towards him. He avoided the main collision but was unable to get out of range of the broadsword, which was slicing through the air.

  Kurt brought the sword down as fast as he could; he connected with Kirrell’s head and opened up a six-inch-long gash in it, causing his foe to scream.

  Running on for a few yards he slowed to a jog before stopping, turning around to face his opponent and raising his shield.

  Kirrell sprinted across the arena with his halberd levelled at his foe.

  Looking over the top of the wall shield, Kurt smiled.

  The fight’s over, Kirrell, he thought. You just don’t know it yet.

  A blood-curdling scream filled the enclosed pit as the Northern Berserker charged across the arena. Kurt waited, bracing himself for the impact.

  He stared at his attacker, who was closing the distance between them.

  As the blade of the halberd fell against his shield Kurt spun, deflecting the strike and rolling his opponent to the side, rotating his body so that Kirrell ran past him.

  Then, Kurt counter-attacked, swinging his sword into Kirrell’s body, catching his hamstring and slicing through muscle and tendons.

  The Berserker fell to the ground again, coming to rest near the doorway from where he had entered.

  Manarat had warned the slaves who fought in the pits about killing their opponents too quickly, their role as pit-fighters being to provide entertainment for the paying public, a quick kill left the crowd feeling short-changed, sometimes even causing them to turn.

  Kurt ignored this warning as he moved to the prone figure, throwing his shield to the side and gripping his sword with both hands, preparing to finish the fight.

  Kirrell was foaming at the mouth when Kurt closed in, yet he was able to reach for his halberd and bring it to bear on his adversary. The Northerner was fast, but not fast enough, and as he swung the halberd into position Kurt’s blade landed with an overwhelming force.

  Striking Kirrell’s left wrist it cut straight through and into the shaft of the weapon, splintering it and sending fragments of wood across the arena.

  Blood sprayed from his arm as the beaten man lay screaming on the floor of the pit, Kurt standing above him like a colossus.

  Protocol demanded that the obvious victor in this situation looked to the pit owner for the confirmation on whether to kill the beaten man; in certain circumstances, like when the fallen man had given his all, it had not been unheard of for the beaten man’s life to be spared.

  Fuck protocol, Kurt thought, as he plunged his sword into Kirrell’s chest.

  Kurt walked back to the door he had entered from, looking again at the section of the stands where the dignitaries were sitting.

  Manarat was scowling at him while Yana, and the rest of the crowd, were on their feet cheering and applauding.

  As Kurt approached the iron door, the winch operators turned the crank handles as fast they could and, even though it was only halfway up, he ducked under and disappeared down the tunnel. The noise of the crowd ringing in his ears he walked through the winding tunnel back to the holding area.

  ‘You survived, Master Dorn,’ Bellintín stated.

  Nothing excited Bellintín. He had been born into slavery. Now he was an old man who would soon die without ever having known freedom.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Kurt snapped, unbuckling his breastplate.

  ‘You get to see Yana again,’ the old man said, gathering up Kurt’s greaves and armour.

  At that moment, there was the clicking, creaking sound of wheels on a rough stone floor. A miniature four-wheeled cart was pushed in through the door by two slaves. They were struggling to steer it and at times it looked as if it were on the verge of toppling over and shedding its load. Reaching the holding cell they turned it round and squeezed it in through the doorframe.

  On the cart was a pair of mobile arm-stocks made from several different metals and with runes encrusted around the sides. The restraints had iron hinges and a lock at the opposite side of the hinges.

  The men removed the key and the runes glowed white. The hinges creaked as the magical restraints opened of their own accord, ready to entrap anything put into their grasp.

  ‘It looks like your bracelets have arrived,’ Bellintín said, a sad look on his face.

  Kurt bowed his head as the old man put a hand on his broad shoulder.

  ‘It is time.’

  Kurt sighed and put his wrists against the grooves in the stocks. Once the restraints
shut tight and the key inserted, escape would be virtually impossible. They had been made from magnentium, a magical metal, by the alchemists of the Cult of the Fire Forge in Dragonov.

  Straining and puffing, the two slaves lowered the upper end of the stock on to the lower section. As soon as it came within six inches of its other half the runes glowed red and it snapped into position, sealing itself as soon as the key was inserted. The light from the runes faded. The small cart creaked as the strain of the arm-stocks was removed.

  ‘I will take you back to your cell,’ Bellintín said, and he led Kurt through the labyrinthine passageways that made up the Pits of Tarantum.

  They passed some of the spectators who had come to support Kirrell, and got hackled and jeered at. Reaching a downward-spiralling tunnel, they made their way to a well-lit cavern with tunnels branching off in all directions, some extending horizontally and some going even deeper into the ground.

  The cavern was occupied by the slaves who worked in, and fought in the pit. Training equipment, weapons and armour hung on the walls or were stacked in neat piles. Food and healing supplies were kept in barrels and sacks, high off the ground to prevent the rats from reaching them. The men themselves lay in hammocks bolted to the walls of alcoves that had been dug into the side of the bedrock.

  Bellintín led Kurt down one of the smaller tunnels that went deeper into the ground. As they passed by the other slaves, applause broke out and they began chanting Kurt’s name.

  Kurt allowed himself a faint smile, but said nothing, and they carried on walking down the tunnel.

  At the end of it they came to a five-foot-wide hole in the floor that opened up into a natural chamber beneath, from which light could be seen.

  A wooden winch complete with pulley-system stood beside the aperture and on seeing them coming, a shaven-headed slave got to his feet and readied himself.

  The men stepped onto the heavy metal platform of the winch, and the slave lowered them thirty foot down into the crypt-like cell that Kurt called home. In the centre of the chamber was a chain composed of inch-thick links, anchored to the rock on the ground and with a magnentium foot restraint at the other end.

  ‘I am truly sorry about this, Master Dorn,’ Bellintín said, his voice strained.

  ‘I know,’ Kurt replied in a low tone.

  Bellintín removed the key from the stock that was keeping Kurt’s arms fixed. The runes glowed bright white; then, they sprang open and fell to the ground with a crash.

  Kurt’s arm restraints were off and his leg restraint not yet on: he knew if he were to escape, this was his best chance. Apart from being in the pit, the few seconds between transferring his restraints was the only time he was unshackled.

  Kurt stared at Bellintín until the old man sighed and turned his back to him.

  ‘Do it if you must, Master Dorn. Break my neck and make your escape. But what happens if someone raises the alarm before you reach her? Manarat will have her killed; you know that. If you are willing to trade your freedom for her life, then do what you must.’

  Kurt expelled air from his nose.

  The old man was right. Manarat’s control was built on fear: Kurt’s fear that Manarat would kill Yana if he didn’t do as he commanded.

  He put his hand on the old man’s shoulder.

  Bellintín bent down for the leg restraint, lifting it and closing it around Kurt’s ankle. The clasp snapped shut and the runes glowed once more as Bellintín put the key into the catch. Puffing he got to his feet and, with his hands on his hips, straightened his back.

  ‘Thank you for not killing me, Master Dorn. As soon as Yana arrives, I will have her brought straight down,’ Bellintín said, before walking to the platform.

  ‘One to come up,’ he called and the winch creaked into life, lifting him to the surface.

  When the lift had finished groaning, Kurt was left in silence. He looked around at the fifty-foot-wide cave where he was forced to live.

  One of the few things in it was the stone slab that served as a bed. A lantern lit up the rats and the slug-like creatures that were his cellmates.

  Lying on his back on the slab, looking up at the roof of the cavern, he thought about his dismal existence.

  The sound of voices punctured his reverie.

  The winch creaked and moaned as the lift descended from above. On it Kurt could make out the tall slender figure of Yana in the white gown she had worn at the fight.

  He sat up and looked out of the corner of his eye at the shadow of an empty lift on the wall and frowned.

  Yana waved excitedly as the lift crept into the cavern and once it had reached the bottom she hopped lightly off it and ran over to where he was sitting. She sat on the slab, her head on his shoulder.

  ‘I was so worried about you,’ she said. ‘That other fighter was meant to be really good.’

  ‘He didn’t deserve to die for someone else’s amusement.’

  Yana looked her brother in the eye.

  ‘Kurt, we are going to get out of here you know. The visions—’ she began.

  ‘The visions?’ Kurt snapped. ‘The visions told you two years ago I’d be standing over Manarat with his throat in my hand. I don’t see him around here, do you?’

  His sister shifted awkwardly.

  ‘The visions are my gift. They have never been wrong,’ Yana stated, trying to avoid eye contact.

  Kurt looked at the ceiling, breathing deeply.

  ‘Did the visions show you living in that fat bastard’s mansion, wearing fine clothes while I’m stuck down here in this shithole, living with the rats and having to fight for my life twice a week? What did your visions say about that?’

  ‘We need to be patient, brother; the visions have led us here for a reason, but have yet to reveal when the events will take place.’

  Kurt rolled his eyes.

  ‘How long do we give these visions of yours, then? Weeks? Months? Years?’

  ‘As long as it takes,’ Yana replied. ‘Look, Manarat will give you more privileges if you meet his demands, put on more of a show; do not kill your opponents as quickly. At least think about it.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind? These men are trying to kill me. This isn’t some game, Yana,’ Kurt said, shaking his head in disbelief at his sister’s attitude.

  ‘The more you ignore Manarat’s protocols the harsher he will treat you, Kurt. He may even stop me from visiting you.’

  Kurt looked Yana up and down; her porcelain-white skin, manicured hands and soft clean hair.

  ‘I can see that you’re not ignoring his protocols.’

  Yana stood up and began walking around her brother’s dwelling, examining it before speaking.

  ‘If I could do something to hurry things up, I would, but there is a chain of events that have to take place. It is predetermined by fate. I had a vision last week of a man with no shadow, fighting, being overpowered by other men with scorpion tattoos. That could take place tomorrow, or next week, I cannot tell. All I know is that the vision will, one day, come true.’

  ‘I’ll tell you about my chain of events. I live in a cave. I eat, sleep, piss and shit in a cave. The only time I leave my cave is to get put into a fighting arena where someone tries to liberate my head from my shoulders, either for money or because they’re being made to.’

  ‘But—’

  Kurt put his hand up. ‘Manarat told me at the start that if I refused to fight, I would be executed. When I told him that I didn’t care then he said that he would execute you. He also told me that if I try to escape, he’ll execute you. Long story short – I have to fight whenever he tells me, or you will be executed. My question is this: what happens when my luck runs out and I get my head smashed in? Does he still execute you?’

  ‘I do not know,’ Yana replied, looking afraid.

  ‘Bottom-line, sister, you brought me here
because you told me we needed to fulfil one of your damn visions and I’ve spent the last two years paying the price for it. So either you find a way of getting me out of here or I’ll be getting myself out, do you understand me?’

  Yana knew that he was deadly serious. Kurt had always protected her, but even his kind nature had limits. He had kept them safe for over sixty years with the help of a band of outlaws that operated from Greywolf Forest in Tantoräc. Preying on foreign merchants and caravan convoys from other realms, they took what they needed and no more. The men that had fought alongside him were loyal and trustworthy, rare traits amongst men of their ilk considering their leader, and his twin sister, had been born without shadows.

  Yana had let him down by bringing them both here. After a fight in the marketplace they had been arrested and subsequently sold into slavery by the corrupt city officials. She was living in Manarat’s mansion while he was living with the rats in a stone prison and risking his life while the worst thing she had to contend with was Manarat’s drunken advances.

  Yet she could not understand it. Yana had had the vision over two years ago, while they were living in Greywolf Forest, but it had definitely shown Kurt standing above a man in a head wrap after having ripped his throat out.

  Was the vision wrong? But they had never been wrong before.

  ‘If you don’t get me out of here by the time of the next full moon, I’m going to break out whenever they take these restraints off and fight my way to the surface,’ Kurt growled.

  ‘You are right, brother. I apologise. I will find a way of getting us out of here,’ she said.

  From up above a small bell rang, signifying the end of Yana’s visit.

  She gave him a kiss on the forehead and then made her way back to the lift.

  Kurt did not raise his head.

  ‘One to come up,’ Yana said and the winch creaked, lifting her to the surface.

  Kurt had always trusted his sister to do the right thing and believed in her ability to tell the future; more than once her premonitions had saved his life, and the lives of the men in his outlaw band. An unnatural insight into events that had not yet taken place ensured that Kurt had kept one step ahead of his enemies at all times.