He wondered what Sadira would think of this; would she balk at fighting in a glorified cow pen or would she revel in the chance to show off her arts before a rowdy crowd untainted by cynical expectations? He expected she would find a way to turn it to her advantage and enjoy it. She always strove to entertain and excel no matter who her audience was. He could learn from her example.
The fearsome and much-famed Valaran diVolcanus, Gavin’s rival for Sadira’s affections, would certainly look down upon this match. But then again the Golden Giant refused any fight that wasn't a Deathmatch.
Gavin's broad-bladed war-spear, bearing the mark of a master smith who bore a striking resemblance to it wielder, felt unusually burdensome in his hands today. He should have talked to Liam. He had let his surprise get the better of him. Perhaps he had been without family for too long. Could he even relate to his father?
Perhaps he could. Liam had given up the arena, mastering a craft. Gavin could sympathize, he found himself tired of meaningless matches. The violence of the arena sometime sickened him, and yet the challenges would often exhilarate him as well. His thoughts fell into well-worn patterns. In the end he could think of no other way to earn a name for himself and win his way back to Sadira. He needed to show his worth. The Free Leagues were his best shot.
Gavin inhaled deeply, trying to rid himself of negative thoughts as he exhaled. He sheathed his short sword and took up his lion-faced razor shield.
A lonely trumpet sounded, calling all Gladiators to the field.
o-----
Gavin did not have any time to greet the other fighters, nor were their names announced. He knew they were most likely all defenders like himself; few other gladiators would join a trial for a speciality in which they were not trained in.
His fellow fighters included a pair of Dwarves: one red-bearded with a well-crafted suit of the heaviest plate armour a Gladiator could wear, often called Coward's Plate, and an ornate broad bladed axe and a shield nearly as tall as his body; the other, a woman, also wore heavy armour, mostly mail decorated with clan symbols on the plates, and carried a stout halberd. Dwarves were naturally tough to begin with; the supernatural abilities of the Gifted only enhanced this. Gavin knew from training with Master Ironwall that their low centre of gravity, from their compact frame and heavy body, combined with the strength of a Gladiator, made them near impossible to knock over. Defender was a common training choice among Dwarven-kind. He could not guess any further training from simple visual clues, nor did he know what magic they might employ. Since he was not fighting them directly he did not care; he simply measured them as a matter of course, as all Gladiators do when meeting an unfamiliar fighter.
The largest of the fighters was an Orc who towered more than a full head above Gavin, just shy of eight feet tall, lean and muscular. His long hair was tied into war-braids and he wore ornate silver tusk caps, as was the fashion among Orcs in Thousand Isles cities. He carried a long chain covered in spikes in one hand with a round razor shield similar to Gavin’s own and a fist spike on the other. The Orc’s medium armour harness was set with cunning spines at the elbows and knees, and bladed along any edge that could be used for striking. Gavin guessed that he was at least partially trained in the Pit Master school, because few other Gladiators favoured so many spikes on their armour; protrusions like that could divert a blow into a vital, rather than deflect it away. Pit Masters were adept at making use of the spikes and blades in vicious grappling manoeuvres and close strikes. The Orc nodded to Gavin after measuring him in turn.
The fourth and final person to take the field with Gavin was a Quickling Gladiatrix. She wore a suit of medium armour similar to Sadira's, with the addition of a small breastplate. A wide-hilted greatsword rested on her shoulder. Gavin was immediately struck by her stillness, a rare sight for a race known for their natural hyper-activity. She looked at him as he stared, calm blue eyes meeting his, as if reading his thoughts. He felt his face redden and his cheeks burn, but he managed a small smile.
“Attention!” The announcer bellowed out the rules quickly unceremoniously. “The Free Leagues admission trial for Defenders and miscellaneous middle-weight Gladiators will begin now. There is one change of note. Since the league can take more Gladiators in these categories than are present, all fighters who are still standing at the end of the trial will be accepted.”
The Gladiators shifted, looking each other over in a new light as they digested the announcer's words. They were no longer competing directly: it was easier to survive working as a team. Defenders, after all, were trained to protect their companions and the middle weights could provide a stronger offence with this assistance.
The trumpet sang once more. Despite the simplicity of the arena, the crowd responded with zealous enthusiasm as the match started, cheering and hollering encouragement as the doors to three house-sized wagons at the edge of the arena were opened. Shaggy Beastmen leapt from the wagons, one after another, fanged mouths foaming. The mad-eyed, bestial humanoids looked around, sniffing the air as Gladiators formed up. Gavin took an outer edge of the formation opposite the shield-bearing Dwarf. It would be his job to anchor his side of the line. The big Orc took point.
All of Gavin’s stray thoughts fell away as his adrenaline flowed and his focus narrowed to the fighting grounds. He set aside his worries about the uncertain future. He set aside his thoughts about his father. The crowd seemed distant now, defining the boundaries of his world. He could feel the other Gladiators moving into place; he knew exactly where they stood without looking, an awareness brought on by little things like the sound of a breath or boot, or the feel of power being channelled. Even for a Gladiator, his awareness of the arena was exceptional, forming a map in his head. The Quickling Gladiatrix was beside him, holding her tiny Greatsword at the ready.
Gavin could almost smell the rancid breath of the Beastmen; feel their power and fury. He read the exact moment when their rabid minds turned from the distraction of the tumultuous, rowdy crowd beyond their reach to the five quiet fighters who were much, much closer. The beasts growled, tensed, and then charged, eyes filling with mad rage as the bloodlust took them.
“COME GET IT, YE SHAGGY BUGGERS” bellowed the male Dwarf just before the Beastmen crashed against their line. The crowd chuckled.
A massive form sprang at Gavin. He ducked low, bracing. The beastman slammed into his shield. Gavin levered his shield skillfully, using his attacker's momentum against to lift it off the ground and fling it aside. As it hit the muck, he was already on to the next opponent, thinking two steps ahead. Shifting back, still low, he planted the back-spike of his spear. The next beastman that leapt at him was impaled. The brutal barbs of the spear blossomed from its back, festooned with gore. The creature’s monstrous, horse-like face contorted, more in surprise than pain. There was still enough life left in it, however, to claw at him. Its swipe was strong, fuelled by mad rage. Gavin moved, taking the rasping claws on his shoulder armour. Twisting his spear, Gavin sent the horse-faced beast sprawling into a bloody heap in the mud. Its hands jerked at Gavin's spear. As another foe came upon him the Gladiator channelled a quick mental blast. The beastman reared back, and Gavin reclaimed his weapon with a mighty pull that showered him in crimson. The crowd roared.
The two Dwarves fought with grim efficiency on the far flank, slow and steady despite the red-beard’s gleeful barking insults. Heavy armour and sturdy footwork ensured their safety while they held their ground. Gavin could see that they had fought as a team before this. Dead and dying Beastmen were piled at their feet, a testament to their brutal efficiency. That end of the line was safe.
In the middle of their formation the big Orc whirled his spiked chain around his head in a broad arc, lashing out at any foes who dared approach. The Beastmen seemed confounded by the whirling chain, less willing to brave the weapon's glittering arc. As Gavin watched, the Orc channelled a spell that dropped the temperature around him. Frost clung to the fur of his foes, and they slowed. The Orc th
en swept out with the chain, snaring a beastman. He pulled its struggling form close with a savage twist, ramming his fist spike through the beast's gut. As the crowd shouted their approval another jumped at him. The muscular Pit Master sent it back into the pack with a straight-arm shove,
Gavin unleashed his own magic. An enchantment brought the arena into even sharper focus. A pair of Beastmen closed on him. These were stronger and faster than the Beastmen he had fought against early in his career. Dire concoctions coursed through them, enhancing their strength. It was a trivial matter, for he too was stronger, more confident, and versed in more powerful magics.
He shifted, pivoting and sliding forward to dodge between the pair. His razor edged shield grazed the throat of the first. The thin red line left on its neck soon became a river of gurgling blood. His spear hooked the other beastman’s legs. It tripped, scratching at him as it fell.
The Quickling fighter seemed to flicker among their foes. She stood motionless to lure the Beastmen into attacking her, only to move suddenly as they sprang. Her speed was unmatched and her cuts were faultless; her slender greatsword left brutal wounds despite its toy-like size. When Gavin knocked a beastman to the ground near her, she finished it without pause.
The Gladiators held together in a loose line, keeping the Beastmen from overwhelming them with numbers. Gavin directed foes away from and into the other fighters, reading the battle and applying his strength judiciously. The crowd gleefully applauded the massacre
The only tense moment for Gavin came when a huge beastman, muscles rippling under its scaly skin, brushed one of his spear-thrusts aside and clawed at him. Its sickle-like talon’s scraped along his shield, catching the boss and staggering him. A second swipe slashed Gavin's arm. He felt blood pumping from his bicep. The Gladiator wove a spell. The beastman slashed at a phantom image of Gavin. The Gladiator set himself, lunging, but the scaly beastman's reach was too long and knocked his spear aside again. Massive claws swiped inches from his face as Gavin backed off. He felt the wind of those talons tickle his nose. He caught the eye of the Quickling beside him, and circled the scaly beastman, hoping it would expose its back to her.
As he manoeuvred, another beastman leapt onto Gavin from behind. He reflexively tossed the creature over his shoulder. The massive lizard faced beastman attacked, talons ready to rend. Although Gavin was off balance and ill-prepared to meet the attack, he had already positioned himself so that lizard face has his back to the Quickling.
The tiny Gladiatrix did not disappoint. As the beastman loomed over Gavin, she hopped onto its back. Stabbing it from behind; her slender sword burst from its throat. Gavin gathered his balance and thrust his spear into its chest. Blood gushed from the beast's wounds. There was some fight still in the massive creature, however, and its jaws snapped at Gavin while the Quickling rode it to the ground.
The trumpet sounded again. The fight was done. The remaining Beastmen stopped dead in their tracks, suddenly docile as their minds clouded with spells of control. Gavin felt an involuntary shiver as he was suddenly reminded of the dead-eyed assailants who had attacked them on the road. He shook his head. The Beastmen that were still mobile backed away from the Gladiators, unnaturally docile.
Gavin cleared his thoughts. He smiled at the Quickling, still standing on the corpse of the massive beastman while the spectators wildly cheered her; she regarded him with her huge eyes, poised and calm. One side of her mouth lifted.
“Welcome to the Free Leagues Gladiators!” bellowed the announcer.
And the crowd cheered, loud and furious.
Chapter Thirty-Three: Baiting Bulls
1145/09/15 AR, Bullstock
“The Great Games often draw upon more ancient forms of contest for inspiration. Bull-baiting, shark-jumping, and pit-fighting all come from more ancient traditions, subsumed and consumed by the modern games.” Quinn diTavalon, A History of Imperialism, Volume III: The Great Games.
“Sometimes the bulls win and sometimes the Gladiators win. I like it when the bulls win.” Anonymous fan.
“You’ll love this. I swear.”
“Does dodging a giant, angry bull really sound like my idea of a fun match to you, Ravius?” said Gavin, fastening the leather straps on his silvery mithril greaves. “I’m less mobile than you and my shield isn't going to help when I'm getting trampled.”
“Have I ever misled you, little brother?” said Ravius with a grin, continuing quickly before Gavin could respond. “Ancestors curse me if I have. Now, this type of match is a Bullstock favourite; you did say you wanted to win fame and recognition so you can rejoin Sadira… yes?”
“I’m not going to back out now, Ravius,” sighed Gavin. He shook his head. “I just wish you’d stop trying to convince me I’ll like your new `hobby’ as much as you do.”
“You’ve fought bigger creatures than these bulls,” said Ravius.
“True, but I’m not allowed to injure the bulls, which makes a big difference, I’d say,” noted Gavin.
“You’re always complaining about how the arena is too bloody…” said Ravius. “What better way to showcase your skills in their purest form?”
“I admit you have a solid case my friend,” said Gavin. “Just stop trying to convince me it's all fun and sunshine and let’s go over how this works once more.”
o-----
Bull baiting matches were a popular tradition among many of the people of the Domains, with a history that dated back to the days before The Reckoning blighted the world.
In most forms of Bull baiting matches, a Gladiator harming the bull on purpose was considered a serious foul. No Gladiator wants that kind of black mark on their career, and so the bulls were seldom injured.
The owners of the bulls used the matches to showcase the best of their stock. A winning bull gained fame in its own right, brought prestige to the owner and breeder, and became the subject of local discourse. Bull baiting was serious business in the North. In truth it was simply another way for the notoriously competitive ranchers to outdo each other, along with the plethora of grooming contests, show-judging, demonstrations of strength, and other competitions.
The bulls were groomed and decorated for each match, according to local customs. Ribbons, bells, barding, horn and hoof spikes were all part of the adornments. The bulls were Gladiators in their own right, wearing the owner's heraldry instead of a favour or faction colours.
Before each match the bulls were given alchemical solutions, increasing their aggressiveness and physical prowess. Often the potions, salves, and suppositories were secret and proprietary to each alchemist. The solution usually made the bull angrier, stronger, faster, and tougher. Some formulae, however, had unusual and spectacular effects such as fiery breath or resistance to magic. If the alchemist miscalculated badly enough a catastrophically exploding bull could be the end result. While explosive Bovine pyrotechnics certainly entertained the crowds, they usually resulted in a very angry owner and an alchemist with a ruined reputation facing a hefty court claim.
The goal for the Gladiators in these matches was to get the bull to ram or knock over various targets. The simplest way to do this, favouring swifter fighters, was to run away from the bull towards the target and leap over it while the bull crashed into it. Standing in front of the target and dodging to the side or leaping over the charging bull were also popular choices, but required somewhat better timing. The Gladiators were not penalized for being hit, which allowed some slower but tougher fighters to fall back on the less desirable option of taking the hit to get the bull to ram them into the target which still counted as a success.
To win the match the Gladiator was required to get the bull to hit a certain number of targets before the allotted time was over. More difficult matches required more targets or in some cases unusual or dangerous targets, like spiked dummies. Master ranked bull baiting was a spectacular form, complex and varied in its own right, and growing in popularity.
Since the owner wanted to showcase the strength of
his prized animal, and thus the prowess of the breed of cattle he kept, smashing the targets was nearly as good as knocking down a Gladiator. Thus the two sides were not entirely at cross purposes. A bull could not lose a bull baiting match unless it failed to demonstrate strength of vitality or was accidentally killed. However, a bull knocking out a Gladiator was still considered a great victory for the animal and the owner, and enthusiastically applauded by the audience. The best bulls gained great fame, and allowed the owner to charge tremendous stud fees.
o-----
Gavin was greatly impressed by the bull; the cattle of the Northern domains were well known for their size and strength. The huge creature was over seven feet at the shoulder with thick reddish-brown hide and massive muscles. The owner, showing great pride, had outfitted the creature with heavy mail barding with sharp metal caps on the beast’s four menacing horns and heavy hooves. The armour was polished to a shining silvery gleam and prominently embossed with the owner's mark. The bull's shaggy mane and tail had been dyed a brighter red and elaborately braided. It had seemed quite calm until they fed it the concoction; now it strained against the corral, eager to get at him and Ravius and prove its dominance.
“This bull has knocked out a few Gladiators, little brother,” said Ravius as they gave their salute to the crowd. “He comes from a long line of winners. I hope you remembered to hit The Keystone.”
“Are you sure now is the best time to tell me this?” said Gavin, noticing that the audience was larger than that of the Free Leagues trials.
“Best time for you or for me?” said Ravius, laughing.
The trumpets sounded and the bull was released into the arena. Gavin’s retort was drowned by the cheers of the audience. Many of them cheered the bull. This did not bother Gavin as it once might have. Even zombies have their fans and the bull was a local resident, after all. Its colossal hooves sprayed mud in all directions as the bovine behemoth powered forward with impressive speed, snorting in fury.
Domains of the Chosen 02 Bloodlust: Will to Power Page 3