Escana

by J. R. Karlsson

  The bolts were released with a twang into their chests and they shared a brief look of surprise and dismay before gurgling to the floor in a pool of blood.

  'Now that I truly have your attention, you may begin to eat.'

  The next few men that shouldered their way forward came more hesitantly and respectfully to the once-again beaming man as he ushered them to join him at the table.

  They sampled the food with caution this time, several of them broke out into smiles. It was good then.

  'Do any of you know me?' the man asked to those eating, his voice turning cold. They shook their heads nervously in between bites.

  'Yet you're stupid enough to accept a meal like this without wondering at my intentions?'

  They stopped now, clearly worried and confused at what he meant.

  Each man fell to the ground, their mouths frothing with a slightly more muted gurgle than the previous victims.

  'They may have been good fighters,' the man mused thoughtfully. 'Ordinarily I'd accept them with open arms if I thought they'd do well.' He shook his head sadly. 'They didn't have what I was looking for.'

  He looked each of the remaining men in the eye now, one by one as he spoke. 'You see this calculated façade is in place to locate a certain individual. I am Corporal Dyson to you and I have been tasked with finding the diamond in the dust, the champion that will lead us to victory over those pompous asses in Levanin.' He curled his lip at them in hatred now, completely transformed. 'I am not a learned man, I am not a big wig scholar from upon high. I will chew you up, spit you out and chew you some more just to fuck with what's left of you. Just to let you know that you're mine to do as I please. You'll all be dead soon enough, that's why you're here in the first place. A long, slow, painful execution that will only be halted by two things.'

  He held up his fingers and glared at them with a mixture of wrath and something profoundly dangerous. 'You either go down to Levanin and become champion, or you try your shot at getting rid of me and running this place.'

  There was utter silence now.

  'I see some of you have heard about how long I've been doing this. This fucking place is all I have left now.' He stared at each of them now in turn. 'Do you plan to try and pry the only thing left from me? Cross me and you're dead.'

  Hern always found it surprising how the masculine bravado melts away in the face of certain death, none of the men grumbled or complained or even challenged Dyson. What Dyson wasn't accounting for was the dangerous streak in Hern.

  The broad grin had been plastered on the Corporal's face once more as he continued to speak. 'Through the door are a number of my lads, they'll give gruel to the hungry and meek, it may taste like poison but it isn't. They'll also break the face of anyone they don't like the look of, any questions?'

  When nobody seemed eager to query his hearty tone, he motioned to the guards to escort them into the next room to the right. Now it was time for Hern to act.

  He stepped forward with care, enough to gain the attention of Dyson but not enough to warrant a bolt in the throat.

  'Yeah, you with the pretty boy face hair.'

  Hern couldn't suppress the slightest of smiles at that. His thin goatee was usually well-oiled and lacked the thick layer of growth it currently sported, that Dyson thought this was pretty spoke volumes.

  'Either speak or die, just don't waste any more of my fucking time.'

  Indeed. Time to get to the point.

  'Are you going to finish that fowl leg?' he asked.

  The silence that followed was nerve-racking. Had he misjudged the man?

  His face crooked into a smile, Hern could feel the positive assessment behind it, the wheels turning behind the eyes. There was a real mind at work here, constantly weighing up what he saw before him, constantly shifting.

  'Why? Do you want it?' He picked the leg up and offered it to Hern.

  Hern smiled back at the challenge, he knew precisely what would happen if he accepted.

  'It would be rude of me to eat from my host's plate when he has so graciously provided me with my own.' He gestured at the room he presumed the gruel was kept in. 'Besides, my colleagues here may misinterpret your kindness as preference and take issue with it.'

  He held Dyson's gaze and watched his mind spin into motion, he hoped the conclusion wasn't fatal.

  Slowly the man smiled, putting the leg back upon the table. It was a real smile, not of warmth but curiosity, Hern had interested him.

  'Go and get your gruel.'

  Hern walked to the room, assured that he had caught the Corporal's attention.

  52

  Dyson

  Dyson stalked his way back to the command post, refusing to betray how pleased he was by today's developments. Yalem shadowed him as always, an ever-present form that he had felt naked without in his dealings with the Praetor.

  'What is your assessment of the recruits then? I don't see any that looks like he could take out a big lizard.'

  Yalem nodded. 'Piss weak.'

  Dyson snorted, coming from Yalem that was a harsh condemnation.

  The damn sand had begun tickling his feet once again, the stuff got everywhere. He had told the dregs in B-company to clear the pathways, he made a mental note of it.

  He still didn't know what to make of this oily looking fellow. He can't have been an idiot to have survived the journey to Greyhawk, so why would he ask such a dangerous question?

  'What do you make of the one who wanted my fowl, Yalem?' he asked.

  Yalem grunted. 'Dangerous.'

  That stopped him short. He turned to address the impassive face of his protector. 'What makes you say that?'

  Yalem shrugged. 'Refined.'

  Dyson nodded, recalling it now. There was a certain calculation and fluidity in the way he approached the desk. Fuck all help it would do him if he couldn't back it up in the trials. That gave him something to look forward to at least.

  The tasks appointed to the Corporal in residence were unending in their stress and monotony, a blip such as this could provide days of entertainment before he lost his nerve.

  Dyson had delegated most of the strenuous work to his squat underling, Tub. He still observed the sessions and occasionally would descend to intimidate and belittle, for the most part he felt that a distance needed to be kept.

  It had paid off with an extended service in this shit hole which on the whole was preferable to the treatment he would have got back home. If any of them had known he had ended up here they would have tracked him down and hung him by his entrails.

  He barely noticed one of his soldiers snap a quick salute as he entered the building, he cursed himself for it. In an environment such as this he couldn't rely on the likes of Yalem to catch every possible threat. He felt he was getting altogether too soft with age, perhaps another sparring session with Tub was in order.

  His room was a small and unfurnished area located on the third floor, his actual sleeping quarters were a mystery he kept from everyone. The desk still had a few papers clinging to the edges, they could wait for another time.

  Settling himself into his hard-backed chair, he planted his sandy boots on the desk. Rubbing his chin thoughtfully he stared at Yalem, who seemed entirely unperturbed with his fascination.

  'Tell me Yalem, why should I trust you again?'

  Yalem shrugged. 'Service.'

  Dyson waved his hand in irritation. 'Yes, yes, I know you've been here twenty years and have yet to fail me but what's stopping you from finishing me now?'

  Yalem smiled at the age-old question. 'You are finished.'

  Dyson laughed at that. Perhaps a little harder than he really felt. It was an old joke which served to ease his paranoia somewhat. Of course Yalem could be trusted, otherwise the fear of his impending demise would have driven him insane over the years.

  Unless that was his plan.

  'I suppose every Corporal of this godforsaken place is doomed to failure, a life in which death becomes sweet release should you l
ast long enough.'

  Yalem snorted. 'Poetic horseshit.'

  'I know, I know, can't you allow me the briefest of ruminations in the privacy of my own room? Are your ears that deaf to the higher arts?'

  Yalem didn't respond. He tended to do that a lot.

  'You're right I suppose, there's no point in thinking too hard on the inescapable permanence we have both been placed into, in another era you would be considered a profound philosopher.'

  He heard the slightly quickened intakes of breath from Yalem's laughter click in his throat, who'd have thought that would become the most joyous sound of his long days?

  'Fowl man?'

  Ah, yes, the displayed calculation of a man starving to death.

  'He's a lingering thought amongst all the rest. I don't plan on giving him any preference just yet. We'll stick him in C-company to make sure we haven't misjudged him. He's less likely to get killed that way and may have a chance to show us he's worth something.'

  Yalem nodded and Dyson felt pleased with his agreement. Sometimes he wondered whether the better decisions came from his mind or his protector's.

  He mulled over the organised papers with precise care, it wouldn't do to have any of these damaged.

  The transcription from slate to paper of information regarding training, deaths, new recruits and match results was by far his most arduous task. This month's efforts would be transported with the Urtaka and cages back to the city, there the guild would make sure that they reached Levanin without things going amiss. He wished he could have the man who demanded such nonsense stood here before him, he'd throttle him with glee. Why did such a bloody business now require detailed reports on the training? What was it they were looking for with all this? His job had been much simpler at the beginning before all this crap came in.

  Having said that, he wasn't about to underestimate the reach of Levanin should he defy even their most petty and pointless demands. His tenure here seemed to stretch out for a ridiculous length of time and coincide largely with this new method. He wasn't about to change his way of working, even if it was some idiot bureaucrat behind it. No, if the two were linked and this came from upon high then he'd helpfully pretend to be king of the castle for the rest of his days.

  He slept fitfully that night in his hidden room, there was something wrong about the eyes of the fowl man.

  53

  Hern

  The gruel wasn't the worst Hern had tasted, though that may have been because he hadn't paused to taste it at all. When a man is starving to death he isn't overly picky about the texture or flavour of things.

  In truth he was waiting for the poison to take effect. He had been under no illusions that the display he had just seen was merely the beginning of a very dangerous game. There was undoubtedly a conditioning here that he was required to take part in. Whilst many of these men would go through it willingly and obliviously, Hern wasn't about to let someone pry with the ordering of his mind.

  As his strength started to recover and he noticed the foul stench of the greyish muck dribbling off his chin, he began to peer around him again. They appeared to all be in this together still, each man gobbling down as much gruel as he could stand, ladled out of large rusty cylinders. So that was where the occasional crunchy bit had got mixed in.

  The speed with which they ate proved to be a wise decision, as their time to do so was never going to be infinite. The lids slammed down with a thunderous crack, causing Hern to jump into readiness. The guards advanced, weapons drawn, and ushered them through the next door and down a flight of roughly hewn steps.

  They were being shuttled down a dark corridor which turned sharply to the right without warning, at the end of this corridor they spied a square of light.

  The marching slowed as they grew closer, the guards allowing their eyes chance to adjust again so that they weren't caught in some futile backlash from their impoverished quarry.

  It was as Hern had expected at this point, the arena itself.

  Two huge swaths of what looked like canvas covered the seats in the oval, large sandy walls curving around provided an impossible climb. Hern had seen the various artistic depictions and even studied the diagrams of the Levanin Colosseum drawn up by the guild. He knew that this must hold but a tenth of the power and majesty of such a place but he still felt a sense of awe at having arrived within something so large and ancient.

  The Greyhawk oval was the oldest active arena in all the land. Not that this brought it much prestige from anyone but archaeologists and historians, most of whom didn't have the stomach for the actual bloody competition it hosted.

  The combat within the multitude of arenas spread across the land was wildly popular in all parts of society. The squalid underclass thirsting for some momentary release from their hellish lives through the gambling merchants and nobles. It even extended right up to the politicians that would feign interest in the sport to appease their subjects.

  The seats were empty but for two men at the far end, carefully studying them as they stood blinking in the bright light.

  A squat man standing in the arena started the usual tirade. Hern listened in for a moment, heard the threats and the imposition and the clunky mind games that would work fear into the hearts of some. There was no real import to the words, it was the standard agreement that he had been bound to so long ago. He silently longed to work under the previous man, at least then there may be some substance to spice up the tedium.

  The screaming abruptly abated and they quietly shuffled into a line, the fat man who called himself Tub paced up and down, eyeing them all unkindly and daring them to look back the same way. Nobody was deluded enough to make that mistake it would seem.

  He could see that the man wasn't entirely mindless, he was assessing them carefully in his own beady way. Hern caught sight of two guards peeling off from the main group, they returned with a large mannequin of an unknown material, securing it firmly with a click into the ground.

  'As some of you skulking shit stains have probably noticed my boys here have set up a dummy. This is the first and last time you will strike an immobile target. That is until there's a fresh corpse beneath you.' He turned and spat into the dirt. 'Some of you I will beckon forward, others I will shove back. A few I may leave as they stand. You respond in any way and my men fill you full of bolts.'

  He barrelled into one of the smaller men and sent him flying into the dirt. 'End him boys!' he shouted, swinging his arm down in a decisive arc. The sound of three bolts cut off the terrified scream, none of the other men dared to look.

  'When I come at you, you fall you die. If you stand you live. If you react you die.'

  This didn't bode well at all.

  He beckoned the next man forward, sweat beading across his face but eyes resolutely fixed into middle distance. Tub promptly left him standing there and threw himself into the next man who stood firm and stifled the murderous thoughts Hern felt rising from him.

  Slowly and steadily Tub worked his way through the men and closer to Hern, no more bolts were fired in that time. It would seem that the rest of the slaves had no illusions about how much danger they were in now. Hern tensed up, knowing that he couldn't afford to be touched by the likes of this man even if it meant safe passage. His slight form wasn't going to stand up to this barrel of lard even if he braced himself, there seemed no other way out.

  His mind raced, he risked glances around him to determine distances and numbers. Judging from the sounds of the reloading there were four crossbow carriers and having counted the number of guards that had escorted them out that left at least twenty others. The longer he thought about it the more he realised there was no choice. He certainly wasn't going to receive any help from his comrades, better to die on his feet than his back. What a surprisingly short vacation this has been. Perhaps the guild were right after all, though it's easy to say that when the odds were so stacked in their favour.

  Slowly relaxing each part of his body, he willed it into a state of sha
rp readiness that his mind had already achieved. There could be no error here, he had to be decisive, relentless, swift and unwavering. He had no desire to maim or kill any of the occupants of the arena, that would only serve to enrage them further. He had but one chance in this whole incessantly heated débâcle.

  This Tub was clearly discriminating by size in order to gauge strength, the larger men had been given their beckoning and the smaller ones swayed on their feet a little further back. Either this was a preliminary or Hern had entirely overestimated the man's capacity for analysis.

  His brain retreated back into pulling the reflexive strings that held his life in the balance. Tub approached the last man between them and bowled him into the sand, the bolts went flying into his curled up form and the shriek he let out nearly deafened Hern.

  Now it was his turn.

  Tub waited, staring at him. Hern stared back at him impassively. The sounds of reloading and the tightening of strings by expectant hands seemed to last a long time.

  As Tub finally launched at him, Hern made as if to brace for impact then leapt low and scissored his feet, entangling the man's strides perfectly. Tub's momentum pitched him head first into the sand at a very painful speed. He roared for the bolts, blood streaming from his smashed nose but Hern was no longer there.

  He kicked the first crossbow out of the bemused guard's arms and made for the high wall with it. He tossed it with all his might, forcing it to land a few strides from the figures he had previously noticed observing from the stand. A bolt whizzed past his temple and he sped forward to where it had appeared, downing the second guard with a kick to his own temple in retribution before hurling the second crossbow after the first. One of the figures observing jumped to his feet. It was indeed Dyson.

  A spear cut through the acrid air to his right, he ducked underneath it and felt it gently kiss his back.

  Fortunately the last two bowmen were working in tandem. He leapt out of the path of another bolt and felt it clip his boot in flight, momentarily unbalancing him. He leapt upon the two men and dashed their heads off the arena wall. He saw another spear flash behind him from the corner of his eye and ducked, causing it to crack against the wall. There wasn't much time left now, he just hoped they liked the display.