by Richard Nell
They cared only that the man who died was one of them. We are none of us safe, Ruka wanted to tell them—a hard lesson learned well in the wilds as an outcast. Such was the nature of all living things.
But he didn’t know their words, and in any case his point to the king had been made. He put his hands out and knelt, hoping the guards didn’t beat him to death.
They ran forward and seized his chain. Something hard struck his shoulder, then his sides. Ruka hardly felt the blows, and Bukayag laughed.
“I will take it, brother, never mind.”
Thank you, brother. Be patient, and trust me now. We will survive.
Bukayag nodded, covering his head and hunching down to deflect the hits as best he could.
At last the chief called out, and the attack stopped. He pointed down at Ruka and spoke, then pointed at the dying man and spoke some more. All were silent, as if ashamed or at least uncomfortable. Then the chief laughed. He laughed alone, and the onlookers forced smiles with white lips and white faces, clapping with hands that hardly found each other.
The guards made Ruka stand, yanking his chain until he followed. They walked him back to his pit, treating him more gently now that they were not being watched. Soon enough they were gone, and he was alone again, battered and spotted with blood on the filthy stone.
Bukayag didn’t mind. Ruka watched all the faces again from the perfect images of his memory. He watched the chief again and again as he laughed, and tried to place his words. He saw the fear in the eyes of even the women standing on the ledge, the shiftless hands and postures ready to run, ready to hide. Slowly, he understood.
This man was not a chief at all. He ruled alone, and with fear. He fought men like dogs for amusement, and to terrify his followers. This man was like Imler the Betrayer. This man was a king.
Ruka leaned his body back against the cold stone as his mind raced.
“Do you have a plan?” It wasn’t fear in Bukayag’s voice, only impatience.
Ruka didn’t. At least not a good one. We are nothing to this man. The realization frightened him. He does not see our value, nor does he care to try.
“Then we must escape.” Bukayag looked at the smooth, stone walls.
Ruka’s attempt to climb his cave had been largely unsuccessful. He would need metal tools to dig hand holds or pierce the rock. And they were watched every moment.
“Then we kill a guard.” Bukayag sniffed and lay down. “We take his sword and keys, and fight our way out.”
Yes. It may come to that. But I believe there are hundreds, maybe thousands of warriors. A king must have a proper army.
Bukayag looked around the cold, deep prison, then closed his eyes and let out a breath. “Doesn’t matter. This is not how I die.”
This seemed a ridiculous thing to say, yet it gave Ruka some comfort. It reminded him of his purpose, and that such things could mean more than the limits of flesh. He glanced around his Grove at the expanding limits, thinking of the mysteries yet to be solved in the land of the living and the dead. He took strength from his brother and repeated again and again. This is not how I die.
Chapter 4
Arun the ex-monk, killer, and thief, wore his favorite pirate mask. Its name was Noose.
“Drink, Noose?” said the newest member of the Bahala Crew, a smile on his ugly baby-face.
Arun leaned on a rail over-looking the famous Trung fighting pit. He closed his eyes, putting his head in his hands.
“Just get me some tea.”
‘New Guy’ snorted and took other men’s orders, and Arun kept on pretending he was more hung-over than he was.
“Who do we like?” said another of the boys, waving a fistful of tickets. Arun tossed a hand as if to say he didn’t care. But of course, he’d already placed his bet.
The Bahala’s complement of kidnapping, extorting, murderous criminals were not a trustworthy lot. Arun’s gambling custom was a monthly display of wanton debasement, then he’d come to Trung’s slave-show reeking of rum and sex with red eyes and single syllabic words. Once properly shielded by the farce, he would slink off as if to retch, and quietly wager around half his savings. This time, though, he had bet it all.
“You’re one stupid, dependable lush, my friend.”
The Bahala’s captain slapped a meaty palm on Arun’s back, and he grunted in response, gulping saliva with a fake spasm.
“Which whorehouse you hitting anyway, eh? Damned if I don’t fancy myself a spin.”
The captain was a city-native, and equal parts paranoid and curious, so it was hard to say which this was. Anyway, Arun never told anyone anything he didn’t have to.
“Not sure, Cap. I think a few.”
The fat man roared and slapped Arun’s back again, turning to the men to repeat ‘I think a few!’
Arun wasn’t exactly faking the debauch. Most of his life he’d been trapped at the monastery with old men and boys, forbidden from touching himself, knowing nothing about lust or love or vice of any kind. These days he made up for lost time.
He had a few regular girls who cleared their nights for his visits, stocking up on drink and sweets and toys, taking turns with glee till even his well honed stamina wore down and he slept like the dead.
Arun loved them as he loved all beautiful women. He brought them gifts, he overpaid, tipping at least double the cost. And if they ever had trouble with a customer or a pimp while he was gone, he ‘intervened’ on return, and added a few more notches to ‘Noose’s’ reputation.
Of course he’d killed his share of women—such was the life of a pirate. He killed children and holy men and cripples, too, if the price was right, or because the boat was sinking and who had room for broke bloody prisoners. But he didn’t enjoy it.
“Entertainment, gentlemen?”
The girl’s voice was sweet and playful, like a child’s. Arun stared from the corner of his eye. A teenage fight-piece passed out a different kind of ticket. She was barely clothed in what might be fishing net, her skin and hair shone glossy with paints and oils, her smile flashed to show crooked teeth that somehow made her even more appealing.
“No, thank you.” Arun stood straight and smiled, weaving to maintain the illusion of drunkenness.
A few of the crew pawed at her hands for tickets, but nothing else. Everyone in a place like this knew the girls belonged to local gangs, and that to smudge her meant buy, or bleed.
Fight-girl smiled back as she passed, and Arun breathed in, hoping for her perfume. He smelled only the dirt and dried blood and booze of the pit.
“They’re stepping out,” said New Guy, handing Arun his tea. The crowd of nobles, pirates and other degenerates waved their tickets, pointing below.
The captain whistled. “Just look at that monster!” he yelled, barely heard now over the frantic last moment betting of the crowd.
Arun grunted and hardly looked, as if he didn’t really notice or care. But ‘The Monster’, of course, was why he was here.
A week earlier, a flesh-peddler bragged they’d found an albino giant, and that they’d sold him to the slaver king.
“Took damn near five doses to knock it out,” said his man, shaking his head as he remembered. “Poison makes ‘em choke, sometimes, so you’ve gotta be ready. We let ‘em out, and he comes peaceful-like and sits, ‘cept the monster just kept fuckin’ eating! Headman tried every tongue from here to Naran. Didn’t hardly blink. Nothing. He just sat there an’ spooned it in with these…” he shook his hands for effect, “these big, pink palms like you never seen, Noose. You wouldn’t believe it.”
Arun had seen many strange things, however, and did believe. He’d seen old monks who could wrestle strong warriors to the dirt like children; he’d seen men bend iron with their flesh, and once, a little boy who maybe lived forever.
So he walked down to the pits and bribed a prison guard to take a look. Together they snuck down into Trung’s slave pens while the stock fed, watching the huge man bend to take his supper like a beast.
He was still shackled and held by four guards, and even so the other slaves gave him wide berth as if afraid. Arun watched him, and watched him. He inspected his wide, hardened feet, his pink, callused palms, his black hair sprouting like fur. Whatever the man or creature was, he was not an albino.
His short hair looked a common black, most of his skin a color between cream and wood. Every movement he made flexed a bunched or corded muscle, his body so fatless he seemed half-starved. His whole head lacked symmetry, with queer lumps and crookedness from forehead to jaw. Yet it was his eyes that held Arun’s attention. His eyes had bright, near slit pupils, and the almost yellow color could still be seen in the gloom.
Arun watched in fascination. The giant had at last finished his supper and rose up as if the pits were his, and strode to his cell as if his captors were his servants.
In that moment, Arun knew he saw something special. In truth he wasn’t much of a gambler, but he could always read the grit and mettle of a man. With only a glance at a man’s eyes he could often see how far they’d go in the name of violence, how committed to their own cause. When he looked in the savage’s eyes—his far distant stare, boring into the world as if seeing through to some other realm—Arun saw a lord of death.
“All on the Savage,” he’d whispered later to his usual bookie, betting damn near every coin he had.
It was riskier than ever before, but he’d grown tired of waiting—tired of murdering for scraps and sharing the company of common pirates. And he felt a sureness and madness he couldn’t seem to stop. His hands moved as if in a dream as they spilled a small fortune in island gold—every ounce of wealth he’d stolen and saved since fleeing Bato and the monks, and a life of joyless discipline.
The bookie’s brow raised as he licked his lips. He vanished the coins beneath his trays to weigh them and glanced around. “To win or place?”
“To win,” said Arun. He’d stared again at the wooden board etched with steep odds and still felt compelled, as if he weren’t truly in control. It was four-to-one against the savage. And whether this was ignorance or because of the favorites involved, he had no idea. He knew only they were wrong.
He allowed that ‘The Hand’ was down there, and ‘Three-toed Braun’—both who’d survived a dozen scraps only losing bits and gaining shallow scars. No doubt the odds would change slightly when the crowd had their first good look at the thing, but they wouldn’t have much time.
Arun already pictured his own ship and crew—a future filled with choice and power and everything he ever dreamed. It was just one last gamble, one last risk, and then it was done. One more win and he’d be free.
The bookie’s greasy forehead was sweating as he smiled and held up the ticket. He looked nervous. But it’s hot, Arun remembered thinking, nothing to be worried about. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He’d gone to this particular man because he had a noble patron and rich customers. He had few masters and could be discreet, and because he had every reason to be forthright or else lose his reputation. But by the time the man said, “Good luck,” his smile and tone no different than always, Arun’s gut flipped with unease.
“Here they go,” said the captain now, bringing Arun back with another rude slap. The men all pushed up against the rail to see, their drinks slopping on the already wet floor.
Arun watched knives drop from the slave-handlers’ hands to bounce at the fighter’s feet; he watched the giant stoop down and lift his like a child’s toy, glancing at his enemies as if only curious.
Arun saw the half-looks and glances of the fighters. He saw their nods and silent agreement as it passed to each an instant. The flip in his gut turned and flopped like a dying fish.
The five veterans aimed their paths toward ‘The Savage’. Their feet and knives pointed at a single target.
They all knew, Arun realized in horror, all the regulars.
He closed his eyes. The pit-fighters below were survivors because they avoided killing the other champions. They played by a certain code and so protected themselves from death. And all the real gamblers here understood: they’d kill the outsider first.
Arun staggered against the rail, held up mostly by the other pirates. The world spun but not from the drink. I’ll be right back where I started. Another broke pirate who gambled away his blood-money and went back to the sea like any other stupid slave or peasant.
Arun’s hot tea spilled on the skin of his sandaled feet. His ambitions shook, their foundations caught in a great wave or an earthquake far beyond his control.
And for the first time since he’d left the monastery, the ex-master of the Ching did something he’d sworn an oath in blood to abandon—an oath he had kept though near drowned in the Coastal Sea, and as he’d lain stabbed, and alone, in the gutters of Sri Kon. For the first time since Arun had abandoned his faith and his only family in the world, he closed his eyes, and prayed.
Chapter 5
Ruka heard the shouts before anything. Light and men waited beyond the narrow, metal-gated mouth that stunk of rot and blood. He stopped and felt the urge to fight his way free, to turn and run as he once had when surrounded in a field by other starving outcasts, not knowing what he’d face.
Perhaps it’s better to fight here, he thought, then to try and take a weapon and navigate the pits.
But he couldn’t be sure. His escorts prodded him with sticks and grunts when he delayed, though they were being careful—as if they sensed he might choose this moment to strike. They had left him bound by ankles and wrists in a shoddy iron, but it was enough to hold him. If he fought them and failed he would be punished.
After his stunt in the pit they left him to wallow in his cage. He had no watchers now except the guards, who moved him away from his own waste only to feed on mush in a bucket. Without the sun he couldn’t know the true passage of time, but he had a dead boy track the time in his Grove by pouring water through a narrow wooden tube, and count the drops. The dead were patient.
By this count he had estimated it was three days before men came with nets, clubs, and hoop-ended poles, which they managed to slip over Bukayag even as he raged.
They shuffled him through the feeding room, a tunnel lined with torches, and finally here to an open gate. Now he stepped through into another pit, and his ears filled with chants, and the roar of bloodthirsty men.
This new stone cage was huge, with the same smooth, high walls. The watchers above numbered in their hundreds, displaying a mix of clean and dirty clothes and faces. They pointed down and called as they saw him, eyes widening, mouths jabbering in excited talk too conjoined and cluttered to be understood. Some threw bits of greens and maybe bread onto the blood-stained dirt and straw. For a moment Ruka considered falling to his knees and eating it, but soon realized it looked and smelled as rotten as the ground.
Ruka’s Chief Guard, a man the others called ‘Kaptin’ and who had never beaten Ruka or treated him cruelly, came forward.
Sweat shone on his brow and stained the cloth at his neck. The others stood behind him with their sticks and hoops, sweat pouring from their soft bodies. Kaptin held up a key. He motioned at the shackles and at himself, and his meaning was clear. Be calm, and still, and I will unchain you.
“Teemada, ka?”
Ruka felt Bukayag’s urge to pull the manacles apart, to rage and leap at this lesser thing before him and tear out his throat. But violence now would not serve him.
Kaptin seemed an honorable sort. Even in the depths of hell, it seemed, decent men could be found improving it. Ruka relaxed. ‘Ka’ seemed a way to form a question, but also meant yes.
“Ka, Kaptin.”
The man raised a brow in surprise, but nodded and came forward. He gestured for his men to follow close. His hands shook and he dropped the key once and turned a bright red.
At last he came close enough to push the key into Ruka’s manacles, turning until an internal latch clicked. The metal came apart, and Kaptin glanced back to his men, no doubt r
ealizing, just as Ruka, they were vastly too far to intervene. He stared into Ruka’s eyes, and froze.
Ruka grinned at him. He did not know the word for honor, but gestured towards the gate with a nod.
Kaptin left the manacles and sprung away. He seemed to recover his wits and screamed at his men, no doubt rebuking their useless efforts. Then the gate closed.
Ruka unchained his ankles and rose up free for the first time since he’d killed the watcher in the pit.
Five more gates creaked and shuddered as men cranked impressive rope winches, and five more prisoners came in through other gates. The crowd cheered for all of them in ways they hadn’t for Ruka. The men looked well-fed and scarred, with large muscles wrapped in fat. Ruka couldn’t help but think: their prisoners eat better than my people.
He understood he would have to fight them to leave this place. The sons of Imler sometimes fought dogs or cocks in the same manner, but never men. Again he marveled at the cruelty of paradise. He wondered too if it was every warrior for himself, or if Ruka had to fight them all.
In his Grove he lined up five dead men in the training field. He gave them blunted knives and clubs and tried to take them all at once. Weapons bounced off his head and neck and chest before they fell, and he knew if he fought them this way then his wounds might kill him even if he won.
Bukayag sneered, which perhaps meant he was excited. He twitched their muscles and cracked their joints, the shudder of blood lust rising up Ruka’s spine.
A large knife dropped from the ledge above. Ruka tested the edge and found it wanting, but thought he could drive it through flesh with enough force. He tested the weight and grip, and decided if Vol— god of craftsmen—truly existed, then he had left these lands long ago.
The other prisoners claimed their own blades and moved out from their gates. Their steps were slow and short, their bare feet crunching or dragging over rotten straw stuck in the sand. They watched each other; they watched the ground and the walls, and they picked paths through the clutter with care. But Ruka saw their glances, their feet, and the direction they held their knives, and he understood. He would have to kill them all.