The other's hands trembled in the hilt of his sword, blood oozing down his chest and back, as the other man's sword jerked viciously from his shoulder. He'd missed the blade.
Bleeding from a dozen wounds and driven mad with the pain, he ran in. His long sword raised above his head, charging in to take down the enemy. But the enemy would not go down without a fight. He ducked under the opponents swing and brought up his fist, punching him in the face.
They both staggered back a few feet; One with a shattered nose, the other with a bruised knuckle.
They eyed each other, reassessing their injuries. Slowly, the injured opponent eased his sword to the ground, desperate for rest. His fingers shivered, his muscles used beyond their strength.
The uninjured opponent ran in, seizing his chance before the other could recover. He drove his sword before him, aiming for the others chest. And as it is written, his aim was true.
The other could not react in time to bring up his guard, allowing the blade to slide through his defense and into his chest, the thrust taking him to the very hilt of his opponent’s sword. He staggered back, a look of disbelief stapled across his face. He tripped, and the victor fell upon his foe, taking them both to the ground. The blade was pushed back out by the earthy field below, and the crowd roared.
A red stain spread across the soil, coating the fallen opponent in his own blood. The victor looked with horror on his opponent’s face, the accusing eyes and look of sadness and betrayal. He almost gave into it this time, almost forced his hands to into the fatal wound to stop the bleeding. But his mind had been hardened by his time in the arena and so he pushed this to the back of his thoughts, unwilling to break himself back into the man he once was. Instead, he stood, sweat dripping down his face, his hands and knees covered in the blood of his enemy.
The crowd let out a piercing shriek, and the victor raised his gauntleted hands into the air. His eyes were bloodshot, brought on by the heat of the battle. A trickle of blood fell down his chin. He kept his arms high, and circled the dead combatant. Inside he felt the pain of a man who knew he'd done wrong, a man who'd done this too many times to count and one who grew to be less human with every day. He circled back to the fallen enemy, ripping the sword from his chest and waving it towards the audience, hiding his grief in another triumphant gesture. The crowd reacted with pleasure.
From across the field a band of men approached him carrying the victor's crown and the warrior’s throne. The first of many spoils that he'd often take in the comfort of his prison. He beckoned to them with open arms.
And thus he began the ceremony of victory, taking his seat on the victor’s throne and bowing his head to receive the victors crown from the robed priest.
The crowd roared again.
The man felt a heavy weight inside as the crown fell atop his head. He knew with certainty that he was cursed to play this game until he died at the hand of an enemy greater than himself. He looked around, seeking some desperate sign of meaning. But his pleas fell on deaf ears. He gave up, having done this a thousand times before.
He sighed within himself and glanced at the only entrance to the arena.
The gate was open. His eyes widened at the possibility of escape and felt himself rise to the man he once was. He stood from the victor’s throne. A look of deadly intent shot across the eye of the man and he thought a thought more decrepit and wild than any he'd known. He drew his sword and slew the priest, feeling no regret.
The crowd reacted with mixed feelings. But the man was gone; Run through the gate by the promise of freedom.
Through corridors he ran, slaying all in his path, taking turn after turn in the maze underneath the coliseum. He smiled once he saw the final gate from his prison.
But the final gate was closed, locked by the arena Master himself. He cursed his luck. If he sought out the key he'd lose too much time. He had three decisions to make in that very moment, two of which would bring him to die in the pits, the third... He shook his head, he wouldn't know the answer until he tried.
The man closed his eyes, feeling all the terror and hope wash away. He felt the door in his mind, felt the grooves in the wood and the Shakurah holding it all together. And with just a small push, he forced the wood to give up its strength, causing the substance to become brittle and cracked.
His eyes rekindled with hope as he backed up a few steps and charged door. It folded before him, sending splinters and dust showering through the sunlit air. His heart soared for the first time in almost seven years.
His pace was let on with reckless abandon as he escaped from the coliseum, taking no time to look back at the prison or to think of those horrible years of his life, thrown away at the people's pleasure.
He was free from the rules of the gladiators. Free to live without the fear of death. He would fight in no more battles. He would run through no more mazes. His past was behind him. All he needed now was to find a place to stay.
Perhaps, he thought, perhaps I could find refuge with maiden Marilyn. Perhaps she can shield me for the night.
This thought appealed to him for she was never one to turn away the vagabonds and fugitives of the city.
He snuck through the alleys, hiding in the shadows, his thoughts turned to better things. It was honorable to consider a woman as an object of sanction. But to him, it was much more personal; Marylin had been his only friend as a child. The world had been corrupt even then and safety was nowhere within sight for those who lived in the city. Both he and Marylin were children born to families of immense power, and both held positions in the counsel of the Inquirer along with the privilege of using the bountiful resources at his disposal.
He climbed through the sewers, the contaminated water washing the blood from his arms. Marilyn lived on the outskirts of the city. And it was only a matter of time before he would reach her. His feelings about her choice in location often swayed. But tonight he was glad to know she was out of earshot of the Inquirer's more trusted men.
He emerged from the alley. And approached the walls of Marylin's veritable fortress. As a point of pride, she'd chosen this particular manor because she often wished to enjoy the comforting sensation of thick stone. Before him an ornate archway opened into the well-lit courtyard that Marylin defended with an extravagant degree of satisfaction. Light poured into the street below, pushing the darkness from her front door. The man picked up his gait, eager to find rest for the night.
A shadow flicked in the night, greeting him under the arch with points of pain. Something had slipped through the kinks in his armor. He fell back drawing his only feasible defense.
His mind raced with fear; Marylin should have come to greet him by now.
Several shapes came at him from the darkness, answering his question. The weaponry was almost unrecognizable but he'd seen their type, and shape, before.
He was being attacked by a contingent of night warriors, each carrying the armament of members of the third tier, the lowest in the ranks of the Inquirer's elite. Their cowls revealed squinting eyes filled with determination, and hair as black as night.
One of the warriors threw a shuriken while the others spread wide, approaching with drawn swords. Many wore bands of gold on their arms, their sound muffled by the heavy cloth worn to protect against direct attack. And to the man, their silence was a mystery unto itself.
He dodged the flying projectile, drawing his sword to counter the blows. The alley seemed to be getting narrower as the night warriors closed in. Desperately, he fought them off, taking several piercing wounds across his arms and shoulders. The light from the open archway seemed so distant now. He didn't know what to do other than push through. He swung again, sending his target from his path to the light. He charged for the door, hoping beyon
d hope that Marylin was watching.
The hoard pulled back, exposing him to the aggressive charge of a sword wielding warrior whose green armor flared brilliantly in the dull light. The man attacked, desperation making him quick and precise.
The man marked the strength with which his new opponent charged. Noticed the power in his blows, the practiced aim with which he circled. And his hopes fell. He knew his stamina was all but gone. With each parry and thrust he could feel his muscles scream with the exhaustion of hopelessness.
He fell to his knees, unable to stand any longer, his flight from the arena having already driven the strength from his body. But the warrior showed no mercy, kicking him in the chest and forcing him onto his back.
The man knew he should fight, but his exhaustion was overwhelming and so, the warrior straddled his chest, easing his sword onto the man's neck. A trickle of blood dripped to the pavement as the man considered the irony before him.
A whistling sound permeated the air before ending in a dull thud, breaking him from his tired thoughts. A heavy weight lifted from his chest.
Another whistle pierced the night and then another and another, each ending with the sickening sound of punctured flesh.
None stood standing at the end of the volley.
The man looked around, unsure what to think. A
The End of Grieving Page 1