Of Blood and Steel

by Seymour Zeynalli

  Before setting off, he gripped the wood of the walkway railing, looking out into the immense shadow that was The Hollow. He lived twenty stories up, and twenty stories more towered above him. Built into the walls all around the gargantuan cave he called home, were hundreds of rickety walkways and ramshackle quarters, linked by dozens of plank and rope bridges that interweaved like so many strands of a spider’s web. In some places, precarious pulley systems dangled pallets from the high ceiling, as means to ascend or descend more quickly. From the structures above them, all the way down to what passed for a town center on the cavern floor, fires were going out, one by one. The miners had taken it upon themselves to ration and manage the fuel in the Hollow, and extinguished the flames.

  It wasn’t pitch black when they deemed it night. A scant few lanterns gave off a dull illumination throughout the city, though there was hardly a point. They didn’t reveal much outside of a radius of a few feet. If anything, the greatest source of light by night was the town center far below, where fuel burned perpetually behind closed doors and windows. Those that didn’t frequent the town center at night considered this a waste beyond reason.

  Fuel was becoming rarer and rarer. A large chunk of the population mined a network of man-made tunnels that spread out from the ground level. It was perilous work. If the miners were lucky, they’d come back with coal, sulphur or, on extremely fortuitous occasions, crude oil. If they were unlucky, they didn’t come back at all.

  Timber was hard to come by in The Hollow, so bracing the tunnels was a chore that often fell by the wayside. Cave-ins were frequent and always lethal.

  While no leader ordered it, the denizens of The Hollow, be they civilian or criminal, were all in agreement that fuel needed rationing and management, a task that fell to the miners. Besides it being their lifeblood, it was the only thing they really had to barter with towns on the surface. It surprised Giorgi when he first arrived, seeing murderous thugs, smugglers and rapists nodding along with the runaway families on this matter, but he soon learned why. Any corner of The Hollow left dark and wet for too long became home to a virulent kind of fungus, one whose toxic spores were lethal to all. So, fuel became more than light for eyes and warmth for bones. In The Hollow, it was the dividing line between life and death, a line that everyone was happy to toe.

  It baffled him that the people could see eye to eye on this matter, and still readily slit each other’s throats over scraps of food. It baffled him even more that taverns were the exception to the rule. Though he wasn’t complaining.

  It always took a couple of hours to reach the ground level. Along with the taverns and merchants, it was home to many scrawny muck gardens. While they only grew sprouts and mushrooms, the meagre crops were vital to the community.

  Descending the uneven, tumbledown steps, Giorgi counted each one. He knew them well. His eyes had long adjusted to the perpetual gloom, but there was no harm in being careful. He’d had the misfortune of finding many a mangled corpse on his way down. Folks returning home after lights out, who had taken a single misstep along their climb. It was a long way down each flight of stairs, a longer way still to the bottom.

  The streets of the town center were desolate but no less claustrophobic. Giorgi frequently found himself living up to his nickname, turning to one side to squeeze through the narrow alleys. He squeezed through one such laneway to make an impromptu stop to The Pit while on his patrol. He was running low on booze.

  The rowdiest of all the taverns, The Pit got its name from the caged arena dug out in the center of the building, and the fights that took place within it. There, the desperate dredges slugged it out for coin or glory. Though being in The Hollow, there was little of either to be won.

  The place reeked so strongly of sweat, beer and blood that you could taste it before you had a single sip or stepped foot in the ring.

  Giorgi shoved his way through the writhing mass of men in front of him, making a beeline for the bar. Heads turned to give him grief, but all turned away just as quick. Few ever gave him any trouble. At one time or another, he’d made an example of almost every man there. He pushed on through and slammed his empty flask on the counter. The men around him all backed off three feet for safe measure.

  “Refill,” he barked at the barman, “and hey, has he been in here?”

  “Been in? He ain’t left! Who do you think’s fighting right now?”

  “What?!” Giorgi turned around but couldn’t see over the crowd into The Pit. “Fill that up and keep it behind the bar ‘til I get back.”

  Elbowing through the patrons once more, Giorgi headed for the ringside. Lo and behold, there he found his missing neighbour. He arrived just in time to see him take a savage right hook, teeth and blood spattering across the dirt floor.

  “Balak, you fucking idiot!” Giorgi shook his head and slammed his fist against the steel cage that enclosed the arena. Balak showed his yellow teeth and blood spilled through them. It dripped down his wiry beard that was showing hints of grey and silver. Balak’s ability to take a beating and still get back up to fight was unparalleled, even though he was not a trained fighter. He was enjoying this and there was little Giorgi could do but watch and wait it out.

  After the last wallop, Balak’s knees were buckling. He was more beast than man, titanic in stature, but Giorgi could see he was tiring. His opponent was nothing to be sniffed at, a toned young man and the underdog of the fight.

  The underdog took Balak by his beard and yanked his head down, driving his knee hard into his ribcage. Balak shrugged off the potentially broken bones and tackled his opponent from his doubled over position. The crowd whipped into frenzy. The men in the ring always made some coin, true, but the men outside made more.

  Straddling the other man, pinning him to the ground, Balak thrust his fists down onto his face, thumping the cartilage in his nose into an unrecognizable pulp. It seemed to take it out of Balak, as his final punch was slow, and his opponent easily caught his right fist with both hands and twisted his entire arm the wrong way. Balak growled out and raised his left, but the other man twisted harder still, hurling Balak’s hulking form off him and clean across the ring.

  The opponent clambered to his feet and ran screaming at Balak, kicking him hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

  Balak recoiled but swept a leg under the man’s feet, landing him on his ass. With his opponent temporarily down, he reached for the cage to help himself up. Something became very apparent to the ringside crowd, Giorgi included.

  “That’s it. That’s it.” Giorgi rolled his eyes. He raised his voice and began pounding on the cage again. “You’re done, Balak! Just fucking give up! It’s over!”

  Balak steadied himself and raised his left fist alone.

  His right arm was hanging out of its socket.

  “Just quit!” Giorgi hollered to no avail. “Idiot!”

  Swaying on the spot, like a tree branch in a blustery gale. Blood streaming from his nose, purple and yellow with bruises from head to toe, torn open in places, Balak looked as though he’d been subjected to days on end of torture. The dislocated shoulder was just the finishing touch.

  His opponent came at him. Balak landed one more for good measure, square in the man’s jaw, but it wasn’t nearly enough. The other fighter concentrated his attack on Balak’s shoulder, beating the loose flesh with all this might, jabbing the occasional elbow into his face.

  With his back against the cage, Balak pounded away at the side of the underdog’s head until he felt skull crack and dent beneath his knuckles. He looked close to blacking out from the pain himself, until finally his opponent’s eyes rolled back into his head, and the young fighter collapsed.

  While he stood long enough to claim his victory, Balak promptly lost consciousness.

  A riot threatened to erupt in the crowd as the fighters went down. Few people bet on Balak, the reigning champion of The Pit, for the stakes were higher for the young underdog.

  “Fuck.” Giorgi sensed
the danger boiling over.

  He unhooked his bludgeon and raised it over his head, bashing it against the cage. One by one, the men in The Pit recognised the clattering weapon making the racket and decided it best to simmer down.

  “Show’s over! Now, get a move on! Go on!” Giorgi shouted at the top of his lungs. He caught the eye of the Fight Master. “You! Open this cage, now!”

  The man obeyed and made his way to the cage’s gate as the bystanders dispersed. Once it was open, Giorgi headed inside, shoving the loser out of his way. He crouched next to his friend.

  “Idiot.” He slapped Balak’s face. “Wake up!”

  Out cold.

  There was nothing else for it. Giorgi yanked Balak’s massive arm, stretching it out with a steady and deliberate tug. He lined up the ball of the humerus beneath the bone of Balak’s shoulder blade and jammed it back into place with an audible clunk.

  “GAAAGGGHHH!” Instinctively, Balak threw his left fist out, and caught Giorgi in the jaw. His face swung to the side with the impact.

  “Bastard!”

  “Don’t push me, brother.” Giorgi grinned. “Come on, let’s get you up.”

  “Giorgi . . . that you?”

  “Who else would be pulling you from The Pit, if not me?”

  “Funny man . . .”

  “You’re the funny one, Balak. What the fuck are you still doing here? I thought we agreed last week you were done with this place?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry? That doesn’t fucking cut it, you . . . never mind. Come. I need a drink and by the looks of it, so do you.”

  Giorgi pulled Balak’s good arm over his shoulder and hoisted him to his feet. Satisfied he could walk by himself, Giorgi led the way back to the bar.

  “Did I win?”

  “Did you wi-Yes, Balak. You won. Your reward this time is a few broken bones and a lifetime full of back pain.”

  “Make sure to get my coin.”

  “Coin? Yes . . . Looks bad.” Giorgi stretched out his hand toward Balak’s ribs. “There are a few slash marks across your ribs and stomach. They’ll need cleaning and covering.”

  Balak grunted.

  “It’ll get worse before it gets better. Take your drink.” Giorgi held out the cup and Balak accepted it.

  Giorgi signalled for two more drinks. “Just think about what I said to you not seven days ago! I know the air down here is thick, but it has completely clouded your mind!”

  “Would you stop talking? I have a buzzing in my head.”

  “Least you still have a head on your shoulders. Too bad you don’t use it that often.”

  Their focus shifted as six men entered the tavern in plate armour bearing the crest of Amida, a white lion in a field of red. Helms in their crooks, shields on their backs, they were equipped to slaughter every living soul in the place.

  “These Imperial Guards have been swarming the place.” Giorgi took a swig of his drink and looked away from the men.

  “Why do you care? That’s none of our business.” Balak tilted his head back and emptied the dregs into his mouth.

  “Another drink?” Giorgi offered as two large cups were slammed on the bar in front of them.

  “Another time, brother.” The battered pit fighter took off towards the back door.

  “Are you joining me for supper?”

  “Nah. I need to rest.” Balak stopped leaning on the edge of the door and there was a brief pause. “Will you be making qutabs?” he asked without looking back.

  Giorgi smirked “Your favourite? Yeah, yeah. If you show up, there might be a few pieces for you.”

  Balak turned his head and nodded to Giorgi.

  “See you for supper,” Giorgi bellowed, but Balak did not answer. He left the tavern. Giorgi picked up the drink that Balak had refused and sipped it. “Gahhh. Well, more for me.”

  In many ways being alone suited him just fine.

  * * *

  Escaping the stale and balmy air of The Pit, Balak took a deep breath. The cold felt good on his aching flesh, though it was about the only thing that did. He’d been fighting in that ring for six nights, undefeated. Prior to that, he’d been a regular at The Pit over the last decade or two.

  Balak raised his left arm and stroked his smooth, baldhead. He winced. That shoulder was going to hurt for a few days. He almost wanted to find the loser and shake his hand. Having his arm near pulled off was a first. Leaning against the back door of The Pit, he patted his ragged pockets. A few coins, enough for a few drinks, somewhere else. Somewhere away from Giorgi’s nagging.

  He went on his way, ambling through the run-down alleys of the town towards the next tavern. A miner’s bar that he reckoned would be quiet enough. Not many crooks frequented the place, so he figured it was the best option to avoid the royal guard.

  He could hear footsteps lightly tapping the ground behind him as a cloaked figure tailed him and hid in the nooks throughout the alley. It had followed him for the last three nights, and he had waited for someone to attack. But nothing . . . someone had been watching him. Whoever it was, was terrible at trailing and it was hard for Balak to think of this as a serious threat. Although it was starting to be annoying.

  A few decades before, his pulse might’ve quickened, a bead of sweat might have trickled down his forehead, but these functions were long gone. He was just as ready to feel a knife in his back and the freezing hands of death on his soul, as he was to fight. Balak kept walking without hesitation, letting his stalker grow ever nearer. He contemplated simply letting it happen. Letting it end.

  Balak neared the top of the lane and came to a halt, taking a moment to rest. He blinked hard and waited for his tail to catch up

  Five feet.

  Four feet.

  Three feet.

  Two.

  Turning on his heel with the spontaneity of lightning, he reached a hand out into the dark and gripped the soft and smooth skin of his stalker’s throat. The scent of rose stood out like a severed thumb among the dank and mildew. He hadn’t smelled something so sweet in the longest time.

  Feeling no bony bulge beneath his grip his assumption was confirmed. It was a woman, a girl, in fact. Her pulse pounded, her own hands going to his, desperately trying to pry them loose, to no avail.

  He took three steps backwards to the closest lantern, not lifting her clean off the ground for fear of breaking her delicate neck, but dragging her along by the tips of her toes. Her spear lay on the ground. If she wanted to strike him, she should have done it sooner. That would have been the smart thing to do. She was not a threat. He pulled her into the light and confirmed his deduction. She was a young girl, roughly between fifteen or so.

  He released his grip, and she collapsed before him, choking, coughing, struggling to catch the breath he had taken from her.

  “A bold move, creeping up on me.” He spoke plainly. “You must be new around here?”

  The girl remained still for thirty tense seconds, frozen in fear and silent, save for her shaking breath.

  “Don’t try that again,” he growled. “If you do, you won’t get up!”

  She carefully got to her feet, reaching out to the alley walls for support, her stare glued to her feet. She picked up her spear from the ground. The ratty hood of a burlap cloak was draped over her head. Around her neck was a handmade glass, featuring teardrop shapes in dark blue, white, and black, an eye bead charm for good luck. With anxious hands, she tried her best to brush off the mud caked into her dress, wiping the dirt in firmer. She sighed.

  The girl looked up at Balak and raised her newly filthy hands to pull back her hood, revealing a cascade of black hair that fell around her shoulders. The lamplight glanced across her big, imploring eyes, her irises a brilliant green. They were neatly framed by a pale face of otherwise petite features.

  “No, I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you,” she whispered, catching her breath. “I seek your help.”

  — CHAPTER TWO —

  The Girl

 
; Balak sat in pain, patiently, at a quiet table in an alcove of the miner’s tavern. Heads swivelled when he’d arrived moments prior, but none made any mention of his state. It was his usual post-fight haunt.

  The bar was lively, and a musician skipped around their table briefly, tooting into his long, wooden balaban. His fingers stretched over the 8-holed-tube. Another musician followed him, strumming the strings of his wooden, hollow Tar. They used their throats to sing along to the tune. As often, those tunes were improvised on the spot relying mostly on feeling rather than rhymes, like a musical poetry of sorts.

  “King Levon, the Unchained, yes, the tyrant is dead,

  The people should mourn, or they might lose their head.

  With a throne to be claimed, there’s lots to be gained,

  The family fight for his crown, before he’s cold in his bed.”

  A group of miners sat at the largest table near the door to the tavern. They roared as the dice rolled across the table. The game of Nard was possibly the only civilized game in The Hollow. The winners revelled while the losers grumbled, bashed their fists on the thick, oak tabletops and slid their coin over the table. Occasionally the players grabbed a piece of dolma, a mixture of meat and rice covered in grape leaves, sipping it with ayran, a cold, salty yogurt beverage.

  Balak enjoyed the carefree atmosphere after the storm of the brawl. Though that was not what kept him there that night.

  “Fine,” she returned from the bar with two precariously held jugs, beer slopping over the rims and splattering onto the floor, “two pitchers, as agreed. Now can we talk?”

  She sat across from him, red in the face and out of breath.

  “Gonna live?”

  “I will manage,” she panted. “Are you really going to drink all that?”

  “That’s how long you have. So, talk.”

  “Great, I-” the girl’s eyes went wide as Balak started downing the first pitcher as though his throat were a well, “just hold on a minute here!”