by Rosie Scott
“It is unique to Nahara,” Jakan admitted, appearing as if he'd missed it.
Before us, all around the pool of water which held the musicians, were men and women dancing. The dancing here appeared much more sensual than the styles of Chairel. Men and women alike swung hips in smooth patterns meant to mimic lovemaking, with twinkles in eyes that spoke of memories they had yet to make.
“This is making me really horny,” Nyx admitted, after a moment. Despite the trance I was in, I laughed.
“Everything makes you horny,” Cerin retorted, amused.
“Nothing makes her horny,” I argued, before finally beginning to move on from the scene. “It's her most basic, natural state.”
The group of us traveled slowly through the crowds and deeper into the city, where the buildings grew taller and more elaborate. I could tell we were traveling into richer territory, since the buildings here began to have windows and guards at entrances. Plants in pots adorned walls and steps, some attended to people who were clearly servants, re-dampening soil with water from clay pitchers. Outdoor archways led to gardens abundant with fruit trees and brightly colored flowers, intricately embellished furniture in the midst of being polished by servants in corners and on patios.
“Are you taking us to Anto?” I asked Jakan, because so far, we'd been following him, though we hadn't truly talked about our immediate plans upon entering T'ahal. I knew I wanted an audience with King Adar, and freeing Anto was also on our list. Now, we just had to figure out how to go about doing both of those things.
“I don't know where he is kept,” the thief admitted, though he kept walking. “I am taking you to the coliseum, so we can try to figure out his schedule. Perhaps we can find out more information about his owner there. All I remember is that the owner's name is Ali. I don't know his surname, or where he lives. The rich are protected here.”
I nodded, letting the elf lead the way. I hadn't yet told Jakan of the plan Nyx and I had for simply buying Anto's freedom. I hoped it would be that easy.
Jakan led us past more and more rich homes, until we reached a main road which was wider than the rest and built for heavy traffic, made of thick blocks of sandstone that felt harder beneath our feet than the previous dirt roads. It led us to a bridge which traveled over the second fork of the river of T'ahal. This time, the bridge was stronger and made of the same sandstone of the buildings within the city, and it had railings separating it from the water below.
Ahead of us and past the bridge, at the end of the main road, was a magnificent construction the likes of which I'd never seen. Made completely out of the same swirling gold sandstone as everything else, it was a large, circular structure which rose thirty or so feet into the air, before the walls split into pillars that reached even further into the sky. Between the pillars, I could see the structure had no roof, despite the thick ring of sandstone which sat atop each pillar, connecting completely around the building. At the bottom of the wall before us was an open archway, where groups of Naharans filed in, as if all headed to an event. Many were rich, though many more were not—even still, I could tell the difference by the quality of the robes and armor the people wore. Even moreso, the richer citizens held souvenirs of various types, from decorated pottery to embroidered fabrics. No matter what types of products people held, most held the same name: Gavriel.
“Who is Gavriel?” Nyx questioned, seemingly aware of the same thing as I.
“He was a gladiator who was rising in the ranks last I was here,” Jakan admitted, his voice tinged with worry. “He was fairly new here, and Anto was many levels ahead of him in the hierarchy.” He hesitated, watching a line of people at various souvenir stalls, all lining up to buy merchandise with the gladiator's name on it. “That...may have changed.”
My stomach sunk. If we had brought Jakan all this way just to find Anto had been killed in one of these senseless fights, I would be heartbroken. And I didn't even know the other man.
“Can we attend the event?” Cerin asked, curious. “Perhaps Anto will be fighting.”
Somewhere beyond the thick pillars above and ahead, the collective chants of an excited and bloodthirsty crowd began to vibrate through the air, sending tremors through the sandstone beneath our feet.
“Perhaps...” Jakan trailed off, distracted. He hadn't really responded to Cerin's question about attending. Because I saw no barriers to entry ahead, I figured we could go on through the archway and find seats.
“Any gold made at these events is made through bets, winnings, and merchandise,” Theron spoke up behind me, as if to answer Cerin's previous question. “As long as there are seats, we should have no problems here.”
We piled up behind the line at the door, prepared to wait our turn. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nyx dip toward Jakan, and put her arm around him, before squeezing reassuringly. I could tell our Vhiri friend was shaking with both fear and anticipation, and I knew that given his youthful appearance, Nyx was drawn to nurture him. It was odd to see her do such a thing, but for whatever reason, she had taken a special liking to the thief over the time he'd been with us thus far. Perhaps she sympathized with his plight.
“We will find your Anto,” she said to him, her voice raised despite her face being close to his, so he could hear her over the roaring crowds just across the wall. “We will find him and free him.” Her confident tone indicated this was a promise.
“He may already be...” Jakan stopped himself short, before a sharp inhale. He dared not speak further.
The crowds moved forward into the coliseum as a collective mass, and we allowed ourselves to be swept away with them. Once within the archway, the path trailed up on an incline, before hitting a wall that stood a few feet high. Above the wall was a black fencing made of thick iron which surrounded what appeared to be a sand pit beyond. The fencing was clearly to keep slaves from getting free.
The fight had not yet begun, and even now, I smelled blood and the stomach bile of many a gutted man and woman, the stench staining the very sands with the violence of previous fights. We made our way up into the tiered seats, having to file by rows of full seats to make it to those which sat further back with a worse view. I wasn't sure I wanted to sit in the front, anyway. If Anto was here, I didn't want to subject Jakan to seeing him get wounded or even killed from a better view.
We took seats near the back of the coliseum, the chants and shouts of the crowds deafening in both ears. In the masses ahead, I witnessed men and women in expensive, sharply colored robes pass stacks of gold back and forth, and shake hands that sealed the deal on bets. Bets which would require a blood sacrifice to be fulfilled.
Cerin and Theron sat to my left, while Jakan sat to my right, with Nyx on his other side. Jakan was refusing to look out into the coliseum, and Nyx was speaking to him in low tones, trying to calm him.
We waited. The crowds waited. Servants with trays of foods walked around the aisles of the seats, selling their goods to the prospective audience. When they came by us, I shook my head, willing them away. I didn't really wish to spend money on anything to do with such a place.
Only when the crowds quieted some minutes later did I notice any change in the atmosphere. Across the coliseum from us, being led into a sectioned off part of the seats, was a dark man with facial hair as black as the night and streaked with gray which did little to cover the creases of his aging face. On top of his head was a crown made of gold. Instead of jewels, it held a variety of Naharan flowing designs.
King Adar. I thought it even as I watched him sit in his reserved seat, his blood red and golden yellow robes draping heavily over his seat and to the floor of his high location in the stadium. A few select noblemen took seats beside him. After a moment, the king raised his hand toward the crowds, and they cheered.
Then, all was quiet again. Somewhere over the crowds and in the arena, a man stood, his hands lifting up a large, tube-like object that appeared like it was made out of solid bone, though the creature who it had been harvested fr
om must have been huge. The object was shaped much like a horn instrument, and the man finally lifted the smaller end of it to his lips, and shouted out over the crowds, the tool amplifying his voice in both decibel and reach.
“Welcome, welcome! Welcome to the final qualifying fight! We have a show for you today.” The announcer turned, waving his hand around the arena, where multiple gates separated slave occupants from the openness of its center. “Twelve talented men and women are here today to prove their might, but only one can remain! The winner of this fight will go forth to next week's battle of two champions.
“Today's challengers are: Rhona of the Blood Moon, Bien the Child-Eater, Marxes the Bear, Therault the Exalted, Mirabelle the Chosen, and finally...” The announcer deliberately paused, and the crowd grew wild. “Gavriel, Undefeated Bringer of Death!”
Chants of Gavriel's name grew in intensity within the crowds, some men and women thundering feet across the floor of the coliseum, turning the entire building into one drum as they made music from their excitement. It was like none of them had any love for the others. They only wanted Gavriel.
“Anto is not here,” Jakan breathed, beside me. I could tell he was both relieved and frightened. The absence of the one we were looking for could mean he was already dead, or would simply fight another day.
“Without further ado, let's get on with the show!” The announcer hurried off to a section of gate which led up into the stands, and let himself through. All around the arena, behind iron bars held closed by an attendant, were men and women thirsty for battle. They stood, eyes on the sands of the pit before them, muscles twitching in anticipation.
“Three!” The announcer shouted, and the crowd picked up the volume of their own cheers to yell with him. “Two! One!”
Ching! Iron doors squeaked open, and six men and women burst out of the underground of the arena, hurrying into the pit with their chosen weapons. Now that they were in the pit, I found their clothing gave away their identities, for their names were embroidered into tunics and on belts, heightening their appeal to the masses.
Rhona of the Blood Moon held no weapons. She was a thin but practically muscled woman with hair of cocoa, and held off along the edge of the arena, bending over her knees, convulsing over her own body. Her actions confused me, and I figured she was simply overly frightened of the battle and refused to rush into it.
Bien the Child-Eater was a hulking beast of a man with skin of the darkest shade of brown which stretched over bulging muscles. He held a thick chain in his hands that he whipped around himself in patterns like it was as light as a whip, the clatter of iron and metal harsh against the air. He gritted his teeth so hard in anticipation of this battle that saliva escaped them, trickling down his lower lip and dissipating into the crevasses of his chin.
Marxes the Bear was a dwarven man, nearly twice the size horizontally as he was tall. He wielded both a beautifully decorated shield and a thick hatchet. The shield was painted gold, though the paint was chipped off in multiple places from the trauma of previous battles. The man's thick beard had grown nearly as long as his body, though the thick mess of gray and blonde was braided and pulled in various directions in ponytails to keep it out of his way.
Therault the Exalted was the tallest of the bunch, standing close to seven feet tall, though I was unable to ascertain his race, given his head was fully covered with a silver helmet with a flat top. Two blue eyes stared out of a single slit of the helmet, and his breaths must have filtered through the holes below. He wore full, heavy knight armor, and wielded a single longsword. The weapon was magnificent, shone to the brightest of silvers, and probably measuring close to five feet in length. The man's muscles must have been great, for his weapon looked as if it weighed as much as I did.
Mirabelle the Chosen was...well, she was already dead. She had been in the midst of fighting Gavriel with two swords when a simple mistake had cost her one of her arms. Now, the heavily muscled woman lay in the sand as it darkened with her blood. The removal of her arm had allowed the other gladiator to decapitate her.
As for Gavriel...if the others of the arena were frightening, this man was on a whole other level entirely. He appeared human, though he stood quite tall at about seven feet. His muscles were so large he appeared almost alien, for they rippled outward from his back, arms, and legs like they had a mind of their own. His skin was a deep tan, and he had hair as black as night, with a goatee which was so sharply chiseled on his face it looked as if it had been drawn on. Blood splatter from his first victim was thick and red across his face and bare chest, and he laughed with glee of the battle, licking his lips, tasting the lifeblood of the deceased Mirabelle. His two arms were so bulky they were twice the size of an average orc, and in each hand, he held a large ax which was meant to be two-handed, though he wielded each giant weapon with only one.
That's impossible. How could a human have such strength? Each ax must have weighed many pounds, but he wielded them as if they were nothing but short swords.
I noticed, now, that the others in the arena refused to fight each other. They were saving all of their strength and moves for Gavriel, working as one unit to surround him. Clearly, Gavriel was the biggest threat here.
“Come on!” Gavriel screamed, his voice having an inhuman depth, as if the pits of hell were crying out themselves. “Fight me!”
Bien the Child-Eater took the bait, whipping his thick chain around in the air before throwing it forward, the thick iron wrapping with a clink around Gavriel's neck. The attacker pulled the chain tight and jerked it toward himself, forcing Gavriel to the ground on a knee. Blood drizzled down from the thick iron around his neck, dripping down the bulging muscles of Gavriel's chest. Taking a chance, Marxes ran up behind the temporarily disabled man, raising his thick hatchet to decapitate the larger man from behind.
Gavriel ducked and spun, just as the dwarf meant to disable him for good. The chain that was wrapped around his neck tugged back on the man who'd thrown it, who fell forward from the jerk, having not expected it. Marxes had been in the midst of attacking with his weapon, so his shield was still at his side. Gavriel grabbed this defense, ripping it from the dwarf with barely an effort. Marxes was left with four broken fingers, each finger not strong enough to keep its grip on the shield as it was taken from its owner. Gavriel tossed the shield up into the air, grabbed the edge of it as it fell horizontally, and swept it forward toward the dwarf's head. A second later, Marxes fell backwards, his thick skull cracked in half at his eye sockets, the organs popped out and wet against broken, bloody temples.
Just watching this fight was exhausting. I couldn't imagine how it felt to be in the arena with him, as the others struggled to keep up with the events. It seemed as if Bien's chain had not stunned Gavriel as they had originally thought, and he had used the distraction to take one of them out. Gavriel grabbed Bien's chain with both hands, pulling at it, jerking the large black man forward. Bien struggled against the other man's strength, his hands broken and bloody as they fought to keep ahold of the thick iron chains.
Therault took this moment to swing his longsword in an arc toward everyone's target. Though Gavriel was in the midst of a struggle with the iron chain, he still attempted to dodge the swing. He managed to escape the worst of it, but the longsword still sunk deep into the soft flesh between the man's lowest rib and his pelvic bone, slicing almost completely through to his spine. It was a strike meant to cut the man in half, but even so, the deep gash should have killed him. Blood poured out from the wound like water from a waterfall, audibly splatting heavily against the sands below. The sword had sliced through flesh, muscle, and organs alike, and still, Gavriel did not fall.
Therault hefted his sword back, seemingly in shock. He had made a killing blow, but it hadn't killed his target. Finally, with a laborious effort of both armored arms, the longsword was lifted again.
Gavriel hauled the chain forward, and Bien finally tumbled toward his foe, at the mercy of his own weapon. When Therault's
longsword finally came down with the fury of both a well trained man and the forces of gravity, it was Bien who was cut in half, not Gavriel. Bien the Child-Eater lay in two pieces in the arena, still somehow breathing, though weakening in death, his hands releasing hold of his chains.
Therault screamed obscenities at his foe, in both rage and frustration. Gavriel only smiled cruelly, letting the now loose chains fall from their once solid hold of his neck. The wound at his waist continued to bleed, and when part of the man's intestines began to escape, he simply shoved them back in the wound without a care, before dropping his left ax, not willing to strain his injured side, and going to battle with Therault, using his remaining ax against the other man's longsword. Now, it was just Gavriel, Therault, and Rhona...
Rhona. My eyes found her on the edges of the arena, still convulsing. Though now, as the other two men fought, it appeared she was...growing.
Growing? She screamed, her voice deepening and cracking with what sounded like immense pain. I heard the sickly crackling of bone, and the woman fell to the sands of the pit, on hands and knees. The tunic she wore over her torso snapped and ripped, and her spine popped out, growing outward in bulbous knobs of thick bone. Long, thick brown hair began to bristle along her open skin, growing before my very eyes.
My heart thudded against my chest, confused and frightened by the sight of her. As the crowd watched, her practically muscled arms grew in both size and length, the skin slowly making way for the thick fur of a beast. Her clothes fell off of her body in torn strips, and her screams deepened and distorted. Though her face was turned away from our side of the coliseum, I could see it was growing outward, bone building upon bone and elongating into a snout which immediately was snarling with pain and aggression.
I understood what was happening, now. For the first time in my life, I was watching the transformation of one of the creature races from the western isles of Arrayis. I didn't know much about them, save for the fact they were wild and uncivilized, and that the nations of the world avoided dealing with them for their unpredictability. It was said they weren't truly a race at all, but simply a tribe of people who had come from various places across the globe to gain power from having their body and soul merged with a creature of their choosing.