The Gladiator

by Jon Kiln

  “I didn’t tell my entire story,” Draken admitted. “But something happened while I was away, and I… I needed our rituals to—”

  “Draken!” Keller said. All the softness the man normally exhibited was gone as if he’d never spoken a kind word in his life. “Our monastery is not your own personal Pool of Gileed. This is no place to find yourself, or heal, or anything like that. You assured us you were whole before you began here.”

  “I know, but—”

  Keller waved an impatient hand in front of his face as if Draken’s excuses stunk. “It doesn’t matter. I suppose it’s good you’ve come back. It’s not safe for monks to wander alone at the moment.”

  “Not safe?” Draken said with a smile. The idea was absurd. No one, not even a highwayman, would dare harm a monk. Nothing was thought to bring more displeasure from the gods. Even the lives of babes were not held to the same level of respect.

  But his smile dissolved when he saw the grave look on Brother Keller’s face. “Hard to believe, I know. But we’ve received word from other monasteries, corroborated by government officials, that a group of men in masks has been traveling from town to town, harassing the monks, asking after someone in particular, though we haven’t been able to ascertain who.”

  “No name is given?”

  “Oh, they have given a name, but it’s nonsense. The nickname of the famous fighter in Figa.”

  Draken’s stomach went cold, his blood to dishwater. At once, the truth of the matter became clear to him. But for some reason his mouth still wanted to form the question he already knew the answer to, and he heard himself say, “What is the name?”

  Keller actually laughed at this, apparently grateful for a moment of levity. “You must know the nickname I mean. Aren’t you from Figa?”

  Draken prompted him with a curt movement on the hand.

  Keller said, “They said they are looking for the Old Babe.”

  ***

  There was no time to explain. Draken couldn’t think of a single word, or string of words, that, when uttered, might absolve him of his guilt in bringing such dangerous people to this place of worship.

  “I have to go,” he said, and clumsily knocked over a tall bookstand on the way out, sending ancient volumes sliding across the stone floor like boats over a placid lake.

  “Brother Dimiter!” Keller yelled, and another pang of guilt shot through Draken for never having had the guts to tell Keller, or any of the monks, his real name, for fear that his past might catch up to them all if it were revealed. Especially since it seemed his lie had protected no one.

  He ran to the overwatch, almost tripping himself on his robes several times.

  Sure enough, here were five men, their masks bearing the face of that terrible bear, riding horseback toward the four-five spires of the monastery. An arsenal of weapons dangled from the horses’ toned flanks like butcher’s tools. Among them, Draken could see the special firebombs he knew could immolate the entire ageless structure in a matter of hours—stones and all. Remembering the day the girl, Sula, had explained many of these instruments of battle to him, Draken shuddered. Such weaponry was next to unknown in Drammata. Even in Eda, where they originated, knowledge of the specialized weapons was not much more substantial than rumor. The bear-masks were prudent and crafty, so as to hide the true extent of their power.

  There was a decorative sword in the kitchens, Draken knew. Decorative, but real enough.

  “Weir!” he called to one of the guard monks at the gate. “I need the sword.” Brother Weir knew what sword he meant. There was only one in the entire monastery; the only proper weapon they had.

  “Are you mad?” Weir yelled back over the stamping of the hooves which grew louder by the second. “You cannot fight them.” Draken didn’t know if Weir meant he couldn’t because the men were too strong or if he was referring to the vow of pacifism he’d taken when he’d arrived, just one of the many vows monks made when starting their lives afresh in the service of the four-five gods.

  “I can!”

  “No. You’ll regret it. And don’t worry, the gate will hold. Our monastery is better-equipped for a siege than any other. It used to be a castle, you know. Three-hundred years old. Back before this was even part of Drammata.”

  Weir was babbling. Everyone knew the monastery’s origins, and anyway, now was no time for a history lesson. The din of monks, emerging from the various studies, asking for information, whispering their fears, became louder along with the horses’ gallops. The sounds became a unified undercurrent, reminding Draken uncontrollably of the arena.

  He descended the stairs, running for the kitchen, but the sound of his brother’s voice stopped him.

  “Yes,” Pul shouted as if in response to some polite question from the guard monks on the overwatch. “I’m looking for a monk by the name of Old Babe. He doesn’t happen to be milling about back there somewhere, does he?”

  Draken’s blood turned to ice. Draken had known it must be Pul leading the highwaymen, searching madly for him, but that knowledge had not prepared him for the shock of actually hearing the sound of Pul’s voice. His legs were weak, and he felt the cold comfort of unconsciousness was only a faint away. It doesn’t matter that I feel like death, he told himself, the only thing that matters is protecting this place and these monks. I will not let them suffer for my past.

  And so he pushed himself the way he used to, back when he trained every day regardless of his health or feelings. The monks gathering to see what the commotion was at the gates had left the kitchen deserted, and he found the sword hanging where it had always hung. Either none of the monks had thought to grab it for defense or none were willing to break their vow.

  In Draken’s hand it felt both familiar and awkward. Familiar because he had held a sword four or more hours a day, every day, for nearly a dozen years of his life; awkward because it wasn’t his sword, the one whose hardwood grip had worn to take the shape of Draken’s palm. But it was close enough. The blade, three inches longer than his own, would still serve. He turned and fled toward the courtyard, toward the gates, toward his only living brother.

  Chapter 12

  “Go away! The authorities are already on their way!” Weir yelled, just before Keller took his place at the battlement.

  “Yes, yes,” Keller said, more as if he were annoyed than frightened. “Let’s just have done with this before somebody gets hurt, shall we?”

  One of the five men in bear masks was clearly their leader. His horse was on point, he rode with the swagger of authority, and he was the only one doing the talking. He said, “Come now, is that a threat? If I remember correctly, four-five monks don’t fight, or am I thinking of babies sucking at their mothers’ teats? I always confuse the two.” He dismounted. “I’m not sure why the soldier-police should be bothered with us. We’re not hurting anyone. We’re simply looking for the Old Babe. If he’s not here, we’ll leave.”

  “He’s not,” Keller said.

  “I’m afraid it’s simply not that easy. Let down the gate, and we’ll have a look ourselves.”

  At this moment, Draken made his way from out of the crowd of monks and pulled the gate lever without hesitation. It fell to the ground with a thunderous thump, bridging the moat. Before anyone could ask exactly what madness had possessed him, he stepped out.

  He said, “Hello, Pul.”

  The man didn’t speak for a moment. His blood seemed to freeze just as Draken’s had when he’d first heard his brother’s voice. His hesitation was short, and his cocky demeanor was back in an instant. The other monks surely didn’t notice the man’s shock, but Draken knew how to read the body language of an opponent as surely as words on a page. Clearly, Pul had hoped to surprise Draken with his identity.

  “Ahh.” Pul motioned with one hand to the other riders. In seconds they were dismounted, each one stripped of humanity by the ancient bear masks on their faces. “Our search comes to an end.” And then, louder, arms out in a display of showmanship to
the monks gathering at the gate doors and on the battlement, he said, “Gentleman! I present to you, the Old Babe!”

  “Wrong,” Draken said. “They call me Brother Dimiter.”

  “So they do, but what is your real name?”

  Draken took a step closer. Pul’s entourage did not so much as flinch. Fools, Draken thought. They, of all people, should recognize the deadly danger Draken presented. Surely, they’d heard the stories Sula and Pul had told them.

  “You found me,” Draken said, instead of answering the question. “I’m sure you had a reason to track me down, to ransack so many monasteries, to kill monks. Serious offenses. So, what do you want?”

  “I just want you to come home and give me what you owe.”

  The monks murmured behind them, but none spoke. Not even Keller. Draken thought with dark amusement about how this was probably the best show any of them had seen in years. Monks were not known for getting out to the theater often, and there was no arena in Merreline.

  Already planning his attack, Draken said coolly, “And you are certain I’ll keep my vow? Are you sure I have no choice but to come with you?”

  Pul faltered again, but this time others noticed, too. Before he could respond, Draken had set on him, sword raised slightly, at a perfect angle for stabbing without loss of momentum. Muscle memory served Draken well; it was almost eerie to feel the blade lock into position so assuredly, even though he had not touched a sword of any kind in almost a year.

  Pul’s group may have been stupidly off their guard, but Draken had to admit they were swift. One of them took the thrust mean for Pul, throwing himself between them to let the blade tear into his flesh. Draken felt it slip between two ribs. There could be no doubt the man would die from the wound. The man must have known it too, and Draken’s mind reeled with this reminder that the bear-masks were utter fanatics. Without any hesitation, this man had traded his life for Pul’s.

  Draken was forced to stow the thought of the bear-masks’ loyalty to Pul. He’d have to consider its implications later. Right now, there was more killing to be done. In his years in the ring, Draken had killed on only a handful of occasions, beginning with his legendary battle against Vgar, but he had cherished it each time, secretly.

  In interviews, with fans, even when speaking to Pul and Debbin, he’d espoused his hatred for murder. He’d publicly endorsed changes in arena policy that would make deaths less frequent. And intellectually, he agreed. The arena was entertainment only; no need for the loss of life, especially in a day when the public seemed to enjoy the executions less and less. But when the fires of Rada began to flare up within him, Draken knew he felt very differently. He became an avatar of struggle, the epitome of battle’s most natural conclusion: death.

  Carefully, so carefully, he’d quelled that fire, or at least tempered it, only letting it overtake him in the most dire of extremities in the arena. But now… he felt the grin overwhelming his face. Tonight, he would not have to hold back, and it was as sweet as it was terrifying. At least for him. For these cultists, there would be very little that was sweet about it.

  One of the bear-masks lunged at him. Again, the bear-mask was quick but inept, at least when matched against Draken. Without difficulty, Draken had the man’s neck serrated, hanging on by a pathetic flap of flesh. He was shocked by how sharp the display sword was—nearly as sharp as his own had been—but he supposed it made sense, since it had probably never been used.

  Draken heard several monks cry out at this violence, but their protestations were so primal they could not be expressed in words. Pul had circled behind the largest of his band.

  “What are you doing?” Pul said, as if watching a child place their bare arm into a fire.

  Draken didn’t answer. But he did vocalize something. The rage; the howling anger-excitement of a true struggle. Nothing had left Draken as ambivalent about his faith in his life as these moments of bloodlust.

  Another man was directly before him. This one seemed more adept, landing a devastating blow to Draken’s kidney with his bo staff before Draken even saw it move. A normal fighter would have been too crippled to continue, but the explosion of pain—literally blinding, a momentary flash of white in Draken’s vision—only served to fuel the fires of Rada inside him. Fires that beat against the walls of their furnace now as they never had before.

  Draken employed a move that had been a signature of his, even though, without a shield to augment his fighting, it would leave him momentarily bare-handed. He spun the handle in his palm as he directed it. His tremendous strength sent the blade flying at its target; the spin kept its arc true. The look of surprise on the man’s face—clearly he’d not expected a short sword to become such an effective projective—added to Draken’s saccharine pleasure just before the face was robbed of life. Blood shot from the man’s neck, when Draken pulled the sword back into his possession a moment later.

  There was another bear-mask, just one left alive besides his brother, but Draken knew too much time had passed with Pul left to his own devices. Soon, a firebomb would fall, and no amount of swordplay could save Draken, or the monastery, from its devastation.

  Sure enough, Pul’s fingers scrambled at one of the bottles hanging at his horse’s flank.

  “No!” Draken yelled. “These men have done nothing to you! They are faithful. You cannot murder them.”

  Then the remaining bear-mask was behind him. While he’d been looking at Pul, Draken had been following the bear-mask’s movements with his nearly superhuman hearing, and without warning plunged the blade into the man’s stomach, in the same motion jerking it up toward the heart and lungs to ensure an instant and relatively painless death.

  “You won’t kill me!” Pul said, his words tinged with madness, and suddenly more of the larger picture became clear to Draken. He glanced at one of the dead men, or more specifically the small eye-mask he’d been wearing upon arrival. The bear. The old gods of the southern countries. The companions that had been willing to die for him. One of the priests of E’ghat must have had a “revelation” that now was the time to reclaim Draken. His brother had.

  But there wasn’t time to complete the thought. Draken’s groin exploded in pain. Unexpected, the agony sent him to the ground, clutching at the offending area as if he could assuage the pain that way. Pul had made a last-minute change of plans. Perhaps he’d decided there was no way he’d be able to light and throw a firebomb before Draken took him out.

  “Cutting your losses?” Draken managed in a gasping rasp totally unlike his normally smooth, compelling voice.

  But Pul didn’t even spare the time for a quip in response. He was back on his horse and heading toward the main road before Draken could even stagger to his feet.

  He turned to look back at the wall of monks.

  One glance at their faces—horror, despair, anger, disbelief, grudging awe and admiration—was enough to know he would never belong with them again.

  It was enough to know he never had.

  Chapter 13

  Draken’s first drink in years was like a baptism. The searing alcohol was like another kind of rebirth. But, like picking up the blade, it was as much a return to the past as it was a portent for the future.

  In a dirty tavern somewhere, he drank in anonymity, not as a monk, but as just another shirtless nobody passing through on their way to a larger city. He’d pulled his robe off his torso, creating a pretty convincing set of the traveling skirts nomads wore in the Far North, which really wasn’t so far from Merreline. He looked out of place only a bit.

  Booze was many things to Draken: an abusive lover he couldn’t keep himself from, an escape from reality, a home. Perhaps the strangest feeling was the elation he felt that his brother had found him. Not because he wanted to see Pul, objectively, this was the last possible thing he would have wanted, but because it was an excuse to drink. In the morning he would hate himself for it, there could be no doubting that, but right now he could almost believe he’d let himself be
found just so he could have this liquor now.

  He didn’t know what the drink was, he’d simply told the bartender to get him the hardest thing they had, but he was confident it had been distilled from potatoes or another tuber. It had almost no flavor beyond the stinging shock of its key ingredient.

  Sometime later, he was in the alley out back, with the stars to watch. He didn’t remember leaving the tavern. Maybe he’d thought of somewhere to go, but if he had, the idea was gone now. There was nowhere to return to, nowhere worth going.

  Even if he’d been welcome back at the monastery, he wouldn’t have gone there. Too dangerous. He couldn’t put the monks at Pul’s mercy again.

  Draken felt his pockets. He’d forgotten how when he drank it sometimes felt like his hands were wrapped in cotton, stopping him from feeling with as much sensitivity as normal. There was no money in his robe, though there had been when he’d returned from his journey. Either he’d spent it all inside or he’d been robbed. It didn’t make much difference which. The money was gone.

  He felt himself slipping to one side, and the dirt looked inviting and soft, so he let himself fall. He laughed, thinking how he’d be treated if anyone inside knew he was a monk. They wouldn’t let him crash in an alley; they’d let him sleep off his bender in the most comfortable bed they could find, even though he’d have broken vows by drinking. Their reverence for him would have been damaged only slightly.

  This brought him back to Pul. It was a mystery. Ruthless though Pul had become over the years, it was still difficult to fathom a mind so depraved it would think to attack a monastery. That kind of sacrilege was simply unheard of.

  Sacrilege. The word made Draken’s eyes shoot open. Had he been a novice drinker, the start this word gave him might have been enough to conjure up whatever remained of the drinks in his stomach, but Draken was almost as adept at the art of liquor as he had been with swordplay.

  His brother had become more deeply involved with old gods than Draken would have guessed. Most people in Drammata didn’t even know other gods were worshiped anywhere, by anyone. But Draken knew there was a cult out there, claiming to worship a god older than Dramm-Teskata. They’d exposed themselves after he’d killed one of their number—Vgar.