by Taylor Kole
He couldn’t imagine a louder reception. To test the theory, he pumped the scimitar over his head and heard the slightest uptick in volume with each thrust
Turning, he worried the spikes hadn’t been for him, because their current god, RobertJohnson, stood in the entrance opposite JoshRidley’s.
Even from fifty yards away, the gold of his armor shone bright. The silver arm ending in a flexed fist told of confidence and cast a reflection on the ground near RobertJohnson’s feet.
With full accouterments, the bald man seemed a giant. He held a French rapier in each hand. Thin blades, perfectly straight and pointed, with ornate bronze handguards.
RobertJohnson lifted and crossed them and rotated toward the center. Though the roar reached a deafening volume, Josh felt these cheers differed from his. This energy felt darker, forced, as if fear siphoned the obedience of thousands.
That heightened JoshRidley’s desire to focus—he had more people to liberate.
Seeing JoshRidley for the first time, RobertJohnson tilted his head at his opponent’s black and green gear.
“Nice armor,” he said. The bass in his voice carried over the crowd.
A beat later, he went back to his gate and removed his leggings and gauntlets.
On the casual stroll back toward JoshRidley, he unstrapped his chest-plate. Each movement earned greater cheers from the crowd. Reaching JoshRidley, he unclasped the final fastener and held the polished armor by his side.
“Cute,” he said while staring at the Mantis’s tooth. “But armor is useless against a god’s strength.”
RobertJohnson stepped back, spun like a shot-put thrower, and tossed his armor upward. It opened like wings in flight and rotated with a mesmerizing strobe of reflections, lowering the din of the crowd as it sailed into the upper deck of the stands. By the time it crashed into an evacuated area, the crowd was silent.
RobertJohnson sauntered up to JoshRidley in nothing but tight leather shorts and sandals. Scars overlapped the man’s immense chest and arms. Gray hair covered his shoulders, chest, and forearms.
JoshRidley’s light armor suddenly lost its advantage of maneuverability compared to a man in jockey shorts.
Orion’s advice about the initial meet echoed in JoshRidley’s mind: stay alert for a sneak attack. JoshRidley held the scimitar by its ivory grip and attached handle, angling the blade across his chest, tense for one twitchy movement.
“When you are dead, Joshua, I intend to honor you. I will dip your body in gold and hang you by your feet in my hall. Maybe tie your whore’s unborn fetus around your throat by the umbilical cord. It will be my greatest masterpiece.”
Ignore words. A seasoned man speaks to throw his opponent from their game.
JoshRidley ignored the gruesome words, and stayed alert.
Watch the chest, not the head, which can bob, nor the feet, which can dance. Stare at the chest, where all attacks initiate.
“After I add my decorations, I will kill all of the men in Reysona and leave the women as prizes for my men to mount before they are killed.” He paced, seemingly building to an attack.
JoshRidley stared at RobertJohnson’s pectorals, focusing on reacting at seventy percent.
“Your Bristialian wench, the blonde child who killed your acolyte and came to me, was so feeble in her constitution. A few hard shakes ended her life.” He shook his head. “At least she died full of my manhood, and a few moments later, my seed.”
Bellora’s last moments sunk in. JoshRidley’s face contorted in disgust. Even after what she had done to Junea, JoshRidley remembered her as a confused young woman who made a horrible mistake—like everyone eventually did. He winced at the waste of her life, the theft of her chance at atonement.
Smirking, RobertJohnson continued, “I shattered her fantasies of a happy life at our greeting. I then—”
JoshRidley flicked his sword at the man, hard, fast, but he was mindful enough to do so at three-quarters speed. The crowd ahhed and dimmed to a hum.
The moment Josh finished that swing—and four others—all dodged with care, he saw a glint of understanding register in the older god. RobertJohnson believed in JoshRidley’s shown speed. RobertJohnson’s grin hinted that he meant to have fun with the perceived non-threat.
RobertJohnson opened with a series of overhead lobs, using both blades. Right. Left. Stomping forward as he attacked.
His grace surprised JoshRidley. However, even with less than optimal effort, JoshRidley’s training with multiple attackers allowed him to defend each strike in time.
Contact reverberated steel, testing JoshRidley’s strength. RobertJohnson’s speed seemed significantly slower than JoshRidley at full speed. Perhaps two hundred years of small living took a greater toll than expected.
Six direct arcs from RobertJohnson and JoshRidley was given space.
He sidestepped to the center of the arena—the more room to dodge and evade, to show how slow and worried he was.
On RobertJohnson’s second bout of stomping swings and with the pattern down, JoshRidley countered. RobertJohnson blocked with ease, stitching more confidence on the man’s face.
To defeat a man in love with himself: fill his ego to the point of bursting, and then prick.
RobertJohnson switched to a swiping motion. A sort of outward scissor chop. Using both blades, step chop, step chop, step chop.
The moves were trickier to parry, but JoshRidley found the rhythm and after a half dozen tries, countered, and was deflected. RobertJohnson backed off, still smirking. He obviously thought JoshRidley was a toy.
JoshRidley’s own confidence percolated. It seemed the longer he survived, the more the crowd turned its energy to him, encouraging the impossible.
Two attacks and two defends later, and RobertJohnson dragged breaths through an open mouth. Sweat matted gray hairs against his chest.
Perspiration dampened the inside of JoshRidley’s armor. Yet his sweat was like the beginning of a workout—not the strenuous end of one as was shown byRobertJohnson. Encouraged, he found it harder and harder to contain his true speed.
Still, he waited.
This time, when RobertJohnson lunged, he varied his attacks with highs and lows. JoshRidley sensed desperation in the man’s strikes. He was tired and realizing he was not.
As this round tapered off, JoshRidley gathered his strength, his focus, and when RobertJohnson slowed his swing, JoshRidley summoned all his force and blocked at full speed, sending a rapier high and RobertJohnson backpedaling.
Using both hands, his youth advantage, and all of his power, he sprung the trap by swiping at max speed..
RobertJohnson’s eyes went wide. The swing had already gone too far. It would hit his midsection.
A foot from contact, RobertJohnson flicked his opposing wrist, and knocked the scimitar away. The second rapier banged into the top, sending it into the earth.
The older man stepped closer, spun, and slapped the dull side of his weapon against JoshRidley’s backside.
Having swung with all his force, the swing pulled him off balance; the ass-smack startled him.
He clenched in anticipation of the other rapier skewering his throat.
A moment later, he found RobertJohnson smiling, breathing casually.
“Had to give them a little show, Joshua. And more important, give you hope. For without hope, there can be no despair.”
JoshRidley felt like crying. The speed at which RobertJohnson had deflected his swing was greater than any JoshRidley possessed. All was lost. Everyone he cared about would die, shortly after him.
RobertJohnson attacked with the speed of an arrow.
JoshRidley’s frantic defense brought on a panic.
When the attack relented, JoshRidley saw RobertJohnson’s smirk. It hurt more than the eventual stabbing.
JoshRidley considered throwing his weapon at the man and running, but knew he wouldn’t get far.
“I do this for hours each day, boy. How many decades have you trained?�
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JoshRidley swallowed and looked into his booth, hoping to send a warning of his impending doom to Flavius and the others—give them a chance to flee.
Stepping dangerously close, RobertJohnson said, “Do you wish to save your friends?”
JoshRidley hadn’t realized how much he did until moments ago, but seeing the playful sparkle in the brute’s face highlighted JoshRidley’s emerging cowardice.
Resenting it, he hardened his features and stayed mute.
“If I pull out my package and you give me one peck kiss, right here, in front of the world, I’ll kill you quick, let your friends leave, and only kill half of Reysona.”
JoshRidley didn’t consider the offer—it actually fueled his disdain. Humiliating himself might be the greatest chance for saving his people, but he would die a hundred times over before taking hope and honor from people who believed in him.
A more relaxed smile crossed RobertJohnson’s face.
Keeping his face impassive, JoshRidley pressed weight into the balls of his feet, angled the scimitar toward its target, and struck out.
RobertJohnson tracked the approaching blade, and with a series of left right flicks, knocked the sword off target and sliced into JoshRidley’s hand.
Moving the weapon to his left hand, blood heated his right. He kept it balled in a fist to lessen the pain. Without use of his right hand, he wished he had dedicated more hours to training off hand.
“Did I cut you?” RobertJohnson said.
JoshRidley squeezed the hand tighter and felt the blood pool and drip.
RobertJohnson advanced, both blades in motion.
JoshRidley angled his scimitar hoping to block low then high.
Two powerful impacts rattled JoshRidley’s hold. Two more swats and he disarmed JoshRidley.
Flavius’ distressed cry rang out as the stadium hushed.
RobertJohnson stood in striking range, breathing heavy with excitement.
JoshRidley hoped the shock of being impaled by two swords would negate the pain. Losing in front of a crowd, and the few people who cared for him would be pain enough. Thoughts of Reysona’s dark future fractured his heart. He swallowed hard and inhaled through his nose.
Stepping on the scimitar, RobertJohnson horse-kicked it under him. The force sent it across the sand where it clanged into the arena wall.
JoshRidley still had control of his fingers. The brief assessment seemed futile. Did it matter if he died with a useful hand?
Defenseless, facing an armed opponent, he slumped his shoulders. “You have the world. You’ve shown your dominance. The citizens below will never rise after this. Why harm people who pose no threat?”
“Who cares what they do, Joshua? I haven’t had this much fun in decades. I owe you gratitude for what I’m about to unleash.”
JoshRidley leaned to his right trying to see his scimitar. With RobertJohnson between him, it might as well have been on the moon.
“I’m going to tear that rat child of yours from your screaming woman. Cast the fetus in molten metal while it breathes, kill thousands after that. A great purge, all thanks to you.”
Unable to hear much more, JoshRidley thought about rushing him. One final punch could inspire generations. The eyes of ten thousand watched, and though strangers, perhaps keeping his dignity was the most important thing in his life.
“Are you ready to die, Joshua the Weak?”
“You’ll burn in Hell.” JoshRidley pulled back his shoulders. He’d die in dignity.
RobertJohnson chuckled, his eyes narrowed to slits. Using both arms, he lunged forward and stabbed the rapiers at mid chest, perfectly aimed to pierce JoshRidley’s armor, heart, and then his lungs.
The impact knocked JoshRidley back. In the silence of the stadium, JoshRidley felt no pain. JoshRidley was most surprised to hear a cry of agony from RobertJohnson.
When he looked up, the ruling god had lost a rapier. It lie on the ground, broken.
RobertJohnson’s hand hung limp. It appeared as if JoshRidley’s armor had resisted the stab, snapped the rapier, and in the process, broke RobertJohnson’s hand.
RobertJohnson massaged the area as he winced. He still eyed JoshRidley. He still held the rapier in his offhand. In moments, RobertJohnson would force the second rapier through leather and end JoshRidley’s life.
Be feral. Bouts continue until vision fades to black.
RobertJohnson cursed, tried to rotate his hand. “You little rat.”
Be feral.
RobertJohnson scowled at him. “Wow, you’ll have to die slow now.
Feral.
JoshRidley leaped to grab.
Before RobertJohnson lowered his weapon, JoshRidley locked onto the back of the man’s arms, squeezed the triceps and pulled.
They were too close for RobertJohnson’s weapon to cause harm. Instinctively RobertJohnson dropped the blade and put his arms out to resist JoshRidley.
As the first hand connected, RobertJohnson’s superior strength was evident.
The broken hand hit first. RobertJohnson screamed out. JoshRidley pulled harder.
Seeing the obsidian dagger on JoshRidley’s chest approaching mid-sternum, RobertJohnson’s eyes went wide, wider.
He tried to insert his second arm at the elbow, but JoshRidley was winning the tug-o-war.
The mantis tooth inched closer. Five inches. Four.
“No,” RobertJohnson screamed.
JoshRidley’s muscles strained as he pulled harder.
The fine tip of the tooth met the leathery flesh of the current god, rippled the skin, and parted it with a gentle prick.
“No,” RobertJohnson said as the tooth sunk in a half inch. “No, no, no, no.”
RobertJohnson’s breath blasted JoshRidley’s face. The fear and shock on his face sobered JoshRidley to the importance of this moment.
“Time-out, time-out, time…” RobertJohnson’s final strength left. JoshRidley pulled them chest to chest.
Standing in the silent arena, JoshRidley allowed the man’s chin to slump forward onto his shoulder.
Now, with it over, he allowed himself to sympathize and mourn the lost life that could have been noble, but instead was lost long ago.
Pulled close like prom dates at the final dance, he rotated and took in the silent crowd. All stood. No one moved.
He wondered what came next. Part of him worried that, once he released RobertJohnson, the ancient god would reanimate, proving himself immortal.
Small cries of alarm from the crowd.
JoshRidley separated the old god gently and rested him on the ground. The hole in his chest was as wide as a golf ball. Blood oozed out.
The small cries of alarm spread to an urgency that suggested comotion.
JoshRidley lost all concern for the cruel lord of Atlantis.
Members of the Golden Guard leapt from the stands, throwing off cloaks before and after they thudded into the arena. Around two dozen half-gods spaced themselves around the perimeter, weapons drawn.
Atlantean guards poured forth from both spectators’ ramp and the stadium itself. They ringed the stadium in reinforcements. Archers of the blue guard took position around the lowest lip of the arena. Easily a hundred and a half bowmen armed with notched arrows. Soldiers with long spears filed upwards, filling the aisles.
While the stadium held its breath, Gatacon exited the far gate, discernable by his distinct limp and rim of gray hair. “You have cheated my father.”
A man booed from the crowd and was immediately shushed.
“Because of your trickery, I am the ruler now.” He limped a few yards inside the perimeter of his Golden Guards. “For my first act, I will reward your victory by offering you a deal. Submit to death without resistance and I will only kill your spawn and its mother; no other Reysonan.”
The scimitar was still at the edge of the coliseum. JoshRidley would never reach it before the golden guards cut him down, before arrows sailed at him and turned him into a pin cushion.
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sp; Seeing determination on the faces of golden guards, hearing the hushed expectancy from the crowd, JoshRidley wondered if, after his death, him having beheaded the dragon would yield any benefit.
Rotating, he avoided looking at the stately box that held his allies. Locking eyes with Gatacon, seeing a familiar gloating sneer, he shook his head. These men would be as cruel as RobertJohnson, and, lacking his abilities, employ greater paranoia.
With a smile, Gatacon raised his right hand over his head, and extended a finger.
The Blue Guards turned their attention to an officer in their ranks. He mimicked the gesture, they lifted their bows and drew their strings, aiming a hundred arrows into the ring.
JoshRidley wondered how many arrows his armor and thick skull would block.
“We salute you, JoshRidley,” Gatacon announced. He then squeezed his hand into a fist and lowered his arm, pointing at JoshRidley.
A second passed with no action. Then another.
When JoshRidley finally located the blue officer, he found the man watching him, face impassive, his hand still raised.
JoshRidley sensed the man’s indecision. JoshRidley would still die, but it was comforting to know he was wanted.
JoshRidley nodded to the man.
The guard nodded in return and lowered his arm, commanding arrows loose.
JoshRidley closed his eyes. The twang of a hundred strings drowned out other sounds. The sailing shafts whistled. He heard impacts but felt nothing. Errant shots skidded across the sand. It was music—a crescendo to the grand ending. He also heard grunts. Cries of pain and then the sound of spears taking flight.
Opening his eyes, he saw spears and arrows buried in the golden guard.
Seeking out Gatacon, JoshRidley found even with arrows in his legs and neck, and a spear buried in his chest, the big man clung to life. The confusion on his face matched JoshRidley’s as he dropped to one knee, tumbled forward, and went still.
JoshRidley sought out the commander. He held JoshRidley’s gaze before lowering his head. He then dropped to one knee. Every other guard did the same.
Breathing in for the first time in days without worrying it might be one of his last, JoshRidley surveyed the mayhem. All of the Golden Guards were down.