by Jeff Gunzel
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“The maggots is been hung, Morcel,” came the high-pitched voice from the other room. “You gonna be next. I hear da boss gotta big surprise for youzz. Betta says you prayers! He not very happy with you.”
Morcel sat on his usual bench in his usual spot. Slow, rhythmic breathing followed as he concentrated on the images floating around in his mind. The raging river roared along as violent rapids sprayed high with white foam and mist when the water crashed against the rocks. Steel striking steel rang through the air as warriors charged against one another with completely reckless abandon. The sounds of primal battle echoed through the surrounding forest as screams and clanging steel became one continuous song of war. Then, one by one, the warriors began to disappear into thin air. As the violence slipped away into the shadows, the river began to slow its pace as well. Soon, roaring rapids became a bubbling brook as the water trickled along smooth rocks.
Morcel took a slow, deep breath. The hot, humid air filled his lungs. Then he released it, along with his fear and doubt. The river was calm now, the shoreline was peaceful. Morcel calmly opened his eyes. I am ready.
He stood up off the bench and began to flex and stretch, wearing nothing but his loincloth. The man had always been large, but his physique was shredded now from constant battles that had gone on for years. His eyes hadn’t changed a bit. They were still bright green and full of murder. He needed to find some way to survive whatever was waiting for him out there.
As he walked towards the iron gate, one of the men started clapping in a slow, steady beat. Others began to join in as the warrior marched on. Each man rose from his seat when the warrior passed by. He had fought beside these men, watched them die. They were his brothers. Soon, all were clapping in the same slow rhythm, a constant single beat that thundered through the chamber. Some picked up shields and began banging on them with swords. The public speaker was making the announcement for the upcoming battle, but no one could hear him inside the tunnel. The steady beat ended. The gladiators were now roaring wildly.
This was the last time Morcel would see his brothers. He would either be free and never return, or die in the most glorious way a warrior can. The next minutes of his life would decide all of that.
The mob in the arena roared as the iron gate rose with a grinding creak that echoed off the stone walls. Brightly colored flower petals rained like a downpour over the entrance. Morcel sprinted through the shower with his great axe hung over his shoulder. Dashing to the center of the arena, he threw it onto the sand where he stood. If this was to be his end, he would go out with a level of honor and reverence worthy of song and poetry for years to come.
He made four separate turns followed by four separate bows to acknowledge the mob that had cheered him on for years now. Each bow sent a storm of applause rising from that section, only to be outdone by the next. Some wanted to see him kill. Others wanted to see him die. But in the end, they’d all come to watch him.
His heightened sense of awareness took in everything: the smoldering heat that sent drops of sweat running down his forehead, stinging his eyes; the roaring crowd, now sounding like thunder from a distant storm rumbling low long after the hot flash of lightning cuts the air; the fly buzzing past his face in slow motion as its clear wings pumped up and down. Time moved at the speed of melting ice as his mind floated in nothingness.
He picked up his great axe, raising it slowly until it was pointing towards the other iron gate on the far side. A long second passed in what seemed an eternity before he spoke what would possibly be the last words he would ever say, words that boomed as if spoken by a god: “Send me your demon!”
The words rang through the arena with power and clarity. The mob broke into a chaotic frenzy as the iron gate slowly rose. The gears creaked, and the grinding noise screeched in the ears of all above it.
The mob, who had bordered on rioting not a moment ago, now went deathly quiet.
Morcel stared into the black tunnel. Embrace death. His rhythmic heartbeat thumped in his ears. Meet your end unblinking. Time flowed like melting ice. Every man dies. His mind floated in nothingness. But not every man chooses to face it!
The gurgling roar that echoed from the tunnel was blood-curdling. The nightmare that emerged would have taken the heart of any other warrior, but not a warrior that grinned when facing death. The gorbel was over ten feet tall. A single eye seemed to glow red against its dark, leathery face. The giant had four thick massive arms, each holding crude wooden clubs. It roared again, flexing its huge muscles on its almost human-looking torso. As its head cocked back with a bone-chilling scream, rows and rows of pointed, sharp teeth that appeared to line its entire throat gleamed in the sunlight. It wiped the long, stringy black hair from its face as it charged.
Everyone gasped at the nightmarish sight, unable to speak, including Jade, who turned her head, not wanting to see the inevitable carnage.
Morcel only grinned and let out a blood-curdling war cry of his own as he returned the charge. Neither showed hesitation; the beasts sprinted towards each other like wild animals. When they engaged, the gorbel used its reach to strike first, bringing down all four of its weapons at once.
Morcel went from a dead sprint to a sideways roll, easily avoiding the barrage that sank deep into the sand. He spun on one knee as he slashed at the beast’s leg, but was too far away, catching nothing but air. He knew he was out of range even as he missed by several feet, but he had to keep mounting some kind of offense. He needed to find a way to keep this beast honest as he looked for his opening.
The gorbel showed no signs of defending itself. It swung wildly at Morcel.
He dodged and rolled repeatedly, trying to get his feet under him so he could mount some kind of attack while club strikes pummeled the ground around him. The range was too much; he couldn’t get inside the arm length of the beast. The warrior no longer held his axe with both hands on the handle. He now had one hand on the handle and one just under the blade to reinforce the weapon so he could use it to block, but with the explosive force behind the received blows, a full parry would be a last resort.
Morcel didn’t want to become defensive, but he had no choice. Keep moving! The warrior kept backing away, rolling to the side at the last possible second.
The onslaught was coming hard and heavy now. The mob was silent. Most were half-covering their eyes, watching the warrior backpedal for his life.
The beast’s clubs were beating the ground furiously. They crushed the sand where the warrior stood a fraction of a second ago, only to keep repeating as Morcel continued to roll and dodge. This was an assassination, not a tournament!
The warrior was in a completely defensive mode, but not without purpose. As his mind floated, he could feel the attacks more than see them; he knew where they were coming from. He could feel a pattern forming. The stupid beast was lunging right at him every time and making no adjustments to his movement at all. It was beginning to slow as well. Morcel’s conditioning was superb, but he couldn’t keep this up forever. He had to take a chance sooner or later. He came up from a side roll and held his axe firmly in front of him.
The gorbel dropped his club down hard, but not as hard as earlier. It was definitely slowing.
Morcel braced and then parried the vicious blow, reeling as the hard vibration pulsed down his arms. However, he countered hard even though his arms felt numb from the impact, slashing at the beast’s arm. It howled and backed away a few steps, but its scream was nowhere near the thunderous roar that erupted from the mob. Now I am the hunter!
The warrior pressed his attack hard as the roar from the crowd exploded throughout the arena. Morcel began savagely swinging his axe in wide, looping circles, more to get in on his foe than to actually cause any damage. Time moved in slow motion as he pumped his axe over and over.
The lumbering beast blocked the incoming barrage more out of instinct than skill, simply flinching by reflex, bringing his large weapons up defensively as th
e heavy blows came raining in repeatedly.
Morcel struck hard, not even looking for openings, throwing all his weight behind each blow, right at the creature’s desperate shield made of crossed clubs. “I am no slave!” he screamed as he chopped away at the clubs, sending splintering pieces of wood flying with every blow. “I am as free as the day I was born!”
Blows came down harder and harder. The gorbel fell to one knee, using all its dwindling strength to hold its splintering shield of clubs in place.
No one remained seated. The mob screamed as loud as they could, jumping up and down in a crazed frenzy.
The gorbel fell on its back, still holding the nearly useless weapons desperately in front of its face as the vicious shots continued to fall relentlessly on him like an avalanche of steel.
Morcel dropped blows with every word he shouted. “You…will…not…take…this…from…me!” he screamed. The final blow drove right through what was left of the clubs, sinking deep into the beast’s face. Mocel pulled the axe from the beast with a crackling sound and held it high into the air. He faintly remembered the roar of the crowd.
The mighty warrior collapsed from total exhaustion. It made no difference. He would wake a free man.