Bladeborn

by Clayton Schonberger

  As Bladeborn was considering his options, he realized his money wouldn’t last long. He was numbed by the loss of Agatha, who probably would have accepted him upon his return. He knew that she took care of him when he was too young to do so himself. Most everyone in Fortress City was only out for what they could get, yet Agatha once held his best interests at heart. It was another missed opportunity to find his place in the City.

  As Bladeborn thought about Agatha, he wished she could have told him about his real mother before she died. It seemed that he would never know about his true origins.

  Although much of the undercity had changed, Bladeborn didn’t have to look far to find Angres, who was still alive. The large man now had grey hair and was missing one of his hands. The old gladiator didn’t recognize Bladeborn until Angres saw a small part of the tattoo which still was recognizable on Bladeborn’s arm and chest. Greatly pleased, Angres paid for Bladeborn’s drink and they went on a long walk to speak about the past.

  Angres said, “Ahh, you remind me of days long gone, Changeling. It is good to see you. I heard that you were thrown into the dungeons. I’d like to know how you came back whole from that rumor.”

  “I escaped through a waterway in the back of the cell I was in, Angres,” Bladeborn began to explain. Before he finished his story, the old warrior cut him off.

  “You don’t have to lie to me,” Angres said, smiling a gap-toothed grin. “No one escapes the dungeons. So, ya hid good for a few years… I’m just glad to see you alive. The heat on you was fierce, hmm? Maybe you found an old, lonely mistress from the upper levels to take ya in.”

  Bladeborn decided to let it go.

  “But look at you! You’re thin as a spear-haft, like she wasn’t working you. Where did all that bulk you had go? I mean, you still got it in the shoulders, but I can just about wrap the fingers of my good hand about yer chest! You look like a brisk wind could knock you over, Changeling!”

  Bladeborn frowned at all this and then asked, “Why do you call me ‘Changeling,’ Angres? You know me best as Bladeborn.”

  “Well that’s an interesting story, there,” Angres said. “Buy us a round at this tavern. This drinking hall is quiet, and we can talk without being heard. We’ll have a bottle or two and I’ll tell you what I know about your past—the real stuff.”

  They sat down in the dimly lit, shabby wine-house, and ordered a bottle with Bladeborn’s money. Angres poured and poured until the first bottle was gone then ordered another, while Bladeborn still sipped his first mug. He talked little while he poured his drinks, and it seemed to Bladeborn that the wine puffed him up.

  Angres finally began, “Agatha and I had to go through the Hells to save you. There was this cult back then, see? These people were evil. There was this—err—Demon that they fell in with. It got so bad that they were sacrificing other folks, including young-uns, to this Abyssal power. A man who quit the cult said every time there was a sacrifice, this creature got more powerful. The Demon could kill folks through terrible dreams.”

  Bladeborn was unimpressed with Angres’ fantastical tale. The old man seemed to be running some sort of con, Bladeborn thought. It looked like Angres knew his story wasn’t having the intended effect on Bladeborn, like the old gladiator wanted to frighten Bladeborn to get another bottle. But Bladeborn had decided to spend some time with Angres already. He didn’t want shadings of truth from the man… He wished for honesty.

  “You’re telling me what really happened, aren’t you?” Bladeborn asked.

  “Yeah, but you don’t get it,” Angres responded. Lowering his voice down to a whisper, Angres leaned in to ask Bladeborn, “You do know what the Abyss is, don’t ya?”

  Bladeborn said, “I know a lot about the world, Angres,” He drained his drink. “I’m not the young one you remember.”

  “Well then,” Angres said, a bit perturbed. “You might be ready to hear this… When Agatha found you, you were in a room where that Demon cult met. This room was right near where the Enclave slept and we didn’t even know it. Well, Agatha looked in that room and all the cultists were all dead. All of them.”

  “What killed them?” Bladeborn asked, feigning disinterest.

  “We weren’t quite sure,” Angres said, casting his eyes about as if to be certain that no one else in the alehouse was listing. “Whatever it was, it could rip a man limb from limb.”

  “Really?” Bladeborn asked. He faintly remembered Angres telling a similar story when he was a child.

  “That’s where we found you,” Angres claimed. “In the center of the dead cultists. Agatha didn’t want to keep you, but I did. You had that mark on you—that tattoo. But otherwise you were ok.”

  “I can’t remember any of it,” Bladeborn said.

  “Of course not, you were only three years old at the time!” Angres said.

  “Could you take me to this room, Angres? Bladeborn inquired. “I mean, seeing makes truth, right?”

  “What?” Angres asked, a bit upset. “You don’t believe me?”

  “It’s not that,” Bladeborn countered quickly. “I just thought…”

  “Harrumph. Let’s go,” Angres said, rising from his chair. His mood brightened like the story was over. “I don’t like the food here… You’re gonna buy me dinner, right? For old times?”

  “Well, I just ate, but…I don’t see why not,” Bladeborn agreed. The wild tale Angres told didn’t seem logical. Bladeborn remembered that Angres had always said such things—with no proof. But Angres was the only connection Bladeborn had with his past and he wasn’t about to let him go.

  At the restaurant, after their food was brought, Angres did some catching up.

  “Not long after you disappeared, “Angres declared angrily, “I lost my hand to the Shaft Police as punishment for protection scamming. Shaft Police Supreme Captain Grus laughed as he cut it off—may the Hells take him. Still, they didn’t dare lock me in the dungeons. I’m too well known.”

  “I heard most of the Enclave were not so lucky,” Bladeborn said gravely. “Agatha was set up or something.”

  “Ach!” Angres said as though he was stricken. “It breaks my old heart to think of it. She was a little wonder. Tough as nails in all the right places and soft in all the others,” Angres sighed. “She was mag-nificent”

  “Did you love her?” Bladeborn asked pointedly.

  “By the gods, Changeling!” Angres seemed offended. “Some of this is personal!”

  “Did you?” Bladeborn asked again, trying to gain some insight into how Angres really felt.

  Angres closed his eyes and turned his head to the side, thinking. Finally, he said, “We all loved her, Bladeborn…But what Agatha and I had was special, I think. It was—complicated. Someday, maybe I’ll tell you more. But not now, I think.”

  Bladeborn frowned a bit, but he couldn’t be unhappy with the old gladiator.

  “Say, Bladeborn…” Angres asked. “You’ll get a couple rooms for us, right?”

  “I guess I owe you that much, after all,” Bladeborn agreed.

  That night, Bladeborn thought about Agatha and Angres as he fell asleep. The two leaders of the Enclave never married, never maybe even admitted they were in love. It wasn’t what he wished to hear. After talking to Angres that day he thought more than ever that Agatha and Angres were his real parents.

  Resting in the upstairs of the tavern, the first comfortable bed he had in many years, Bladeborn guessed Angres’ story about “the Abyss” was some sort of con. Onar had warned him about men who carried on like that too often!

  * * *

  Very early the next day, as the light of the City’s glow-globes came up to full brightness, they went for a walk.

  “Thanks…fer buyin’ me a place to sleep back there, Changeling,” Angres said in gratitude. “I’ve kinda’ fallen on hard times of late, and I’ve barely a coin to my name.”

  “I don’t have much either,” Bladeborn said, although it wasn’t true.

  “I have an idea—i
t’s big,” Angres said. “With a little coin to start, I can get you trained to be a gladiator. You got it in you, see!”

  “A gladiator?” Bladeborn laughed. “I’m pretty out of shape Angres. I don’t think…”

  Angres ignored Bladeborn, for he was on a roll, “You were a pretty tough kid a few years back, as I remember it. Thieving and scamming ain’t no good life—not for ones like us! We are gladiators, Bladeborn! Fame! The cheering crowds!” Then he turned, and put his face right in front of Bladeborn’s, bad breath and all, saying with emphasis, “It’s what you were NAMED for, Bladeborn!”

  Angres called in a favor. First, they visited a loan operator on floor fifty. Angres promised, for a six-month loan of one-hundred coins, three-hundred coins on return. It took some quick bargaining on his part, but the loan operator was an old acquaintance, so he managed to get the money.

  “What if we can’t pay it back?” Bladeborn asked.

  Angres responded, “Then BOTH of us are DEAD, heh, heh!”

  Bladeborn wasn’t sure if Angres was serious or not.

  Next, they went inside the practice rooms of the Arena of Blood, a place where Bladeborn had never thought he would be. Beneath the bleachers, where the gamesmen prepared for gladiatorial fights, Angres moved with confidence, even though it was apparent from the looks he got that he was not welcome.

  “Wait here Bladeborn,” Angres said to his young associate. “I am going to strike a bargain with Merkee the Arranger. He is the main gladiator ringmaster for Fortress City’s Arena of Blood. I know him, but he don’t like me much. Still I think we can ‘hook’ him.”

  “What do you mean, ‘hook’ him, Angres?” Bladeborn questioned.

  “You’ll see,” Angres replied, whispering. Now slump yer shoulders down more and put a stupid look on yer face… Yeah… Like that.”

  Angres then approached someone who looked like an overseer to the training going on in the area, a man covered in many wicked scars. It could only be Merkee, the master trainer of Fortress City’s games.

  “Merkee, my old friend!” Angres said, spreading his arms wide to the ringmaster.

  Merkee the Arranger scowled, “Don’t call me friend, fool! What in the Hells would make you show your face down here again, in the realm of honor?”

  “I have fresh blood to bring before you… a contestant who I am willing to pit against any you offer… Blood for blood!”

  “What’s this?” Merkee tried to feign disinterest; but his curiosity was apparent to Bladeborn. Bladeborn was trying to look as Angres told him…hunched over and slack-jawed.

  Merkee said, “A man you would endorse for the games? Who is he? Is he someone I have heard of, perhaps?”

  “No, Merkee, he is an unknown. He has yet to wield a sword in the arena. His name is… get this…’Bladeborn.’”

  “Certainly, he has a name to live up to, Angres,” Merkee’s interest in Angres’ deal was obvious to Bladeborn now. A few of the warriors who were Merkee’s trainees stopped their weight training and swordplay to listen to the two old titans banter.

  Merkee said, “Tell me, Angres: where does this giant of a man come from? How has he escaped my notice? What brings him to the arena?”

  “This man is no giant—he relies on his wits and his skill… Broad of shoulder, he is, and tall, but not a behemoth like those who you so unwisely endorse.”

  “As I have always told you, Angres, it is sheer strength which carries the day on the blood-soaked stones in the circle of glory…”

  “And as I have always told you Merkee,” Angres boasted, “there is always more to it than that!”

  “Here, then, Angres,” Merkee scowled. “Have your boy fetch this man immediately. Send for him pronto, I have no time to waste debating form.”

  “Merkee,” Angres said, stone cold, “this one you call my messenger boy—he IS the killer I speak of!”

  All eyes in the room turned to Bladeborn, who was positively emaciated beneath his fine clothing, having spent the last years imprisoned. All the warriors began a boisterous, loud, belly laugh at the expense of Bladeborn, and what appeared to be the old, addled Angres.

  “You must be joking!” Merkee said, loudly laughing. “You really had me there for a moment! Now! Begone from here, doofus, and waste no more of my time!”

  “You are wrong to laugh,” Angres said wagging the finger of his good hand at Merkee. “I am willing to bet seventy-five coin—at ten to one, mind you—that this young man can best any of your gladiators, given four months of access to your equipment and a practice room! I dare ANY of you to try and laugh at that challenge!”

  When Angres dropped the bag of coin onto the table for effect, there was momentary silence. Bladeborn eyed the men in the room and knew they were some of the most highly skilled warriors in the City. Some had killed many times. Bladeborn wasn’t sure what Angres’ game was.

  A massive man with ten scars carved precisely up his arm proclaimed, “Ha! Any one of us could smash that waif’s head between his clavicles with one blow!” He sat in the back of the area, holding a huge axe loosely in his hand.

  “Angres,” Merkee said, “you are not merely talking about wasting your money--this youth’s life is at stake!”

  “Aren’t you up to the challenge?” Angres put his grizzled face up to Merkee’s and said, “Seventy-five too rich for you?”

  Merkee snatched up the bag of coin and said, “This is the most dishonorable action you have ever made, Angres! Of course, my men are up to the ‘challenge,’ if you would call it that! Now get out, you root-scuttler! Scurry away! Take some practice weapons from the Battlemaster’s cage if you want! I’ll see your man dead on the stone in four months, and then you will NEVER disrupt this place again!”

  “So be it!” Angres declared.

  They collected some gear on the way out, and a City Constable recorded each piece, for much of it was made of steel, which the common folk were not allowed to have. Angres stuffed it into an oversized bag.

  Constable threatened, “We’ll be watching you, Angres!” Bladeborn and Angres were already on their way out.

  That afternoon, Angres went many places. He bought a lot of food, got several jugs of wine and a single bottle for water. He made Bladeborn carry everything.

  “Hey Angres,” Bladeborn said. “This stuff’s kind of heavy. Why don’t you carry some of it?”

  “What, giving up already?” Angres snapped back.

  Bladeborn was silent.

  After they had supplies, they went to a large room deep beneath the stands where two cots were chained to the walls.

  “Set the stuff down,” Angres said.

  Bladeborn looked at what was in the bag he had he had dragged around the City that afternoon. He found they had borrowed real metal swords and armor for the practice sessions—exactly like the ones Bladeborn had always dreamed of someday having. Bladeborn picked up a longsword. Trying a few practice swings with it, he couldn’t believe how cumbersome it was.

  “Put that thing down before you hurt yerself!” Angres spat.

  Bladeborn frowned and set down the weapon, asking, “So, how do you think we shall start?”

  “Jus’ tryin’ hit me or knock me down… or make me move from this spot, even!” Angres eyes were half-open, and he belched.

  “That’s easy!” Bladeborn declared.

  But when sparring began, the overweight, besotted old man with one hand defeated Bladeborn’s every attempt to make him move. Bladeborn tried to land a fist on Angres but would get thrown or pinned underfoot every time. Trying to punch Angres only earned Bladeborn a bloody nose or a mark that would hurt for days.

  * * *

  Thus, Bladeborn’s course of training began.

  Angres would awaken the young man at all hours, day and night, demanding he lift weights, run 100 times around the room or do stretches. In each case, Angres would be unrelenting until Bladeborn was exhausted—and then, Angres would make further demands, until Bladeborn thought he was goin
g to die. Early on, Bladeborn became angry, but he wasn’t about to give up. He planned to prove himself to the old fool, and perhaps beat him one day.

  Bladeborn became extremely focused. They ate huge meals in the brief moments Angres allowed him to eat.

  There were several times when Bladeborn was so angry that he threatened to quit and put Angres behind him for good. Then Angres would relent a bit and Bladeborn would get a moment to gather some confidence back. Bladeborn was aware enough to know that when Angres yelled at him, it was because their lives depended on it. The money they owed was a serious thing, and Bladeborn was going to have to fight for his life against one of Merkee’s brutes.

  “Come ON!” Angres yelled, “You’re losing FOCUS! Give me your BEST, Changeling! YOU CAN DO BETTER!”

  After a couple of weeks, during a rest period, Bladeborn asked, “When do I get to try with a sword?”

  “I don’t want you cutting your legs off, numbskull!” Angres stated. “Fisticuffs first—and strengthening! …This here weapon,” Angres said, swinging a steel short sword, “this is for a man, not a dolt like you… You just ain’t ready for it… Three sets of parries with it and you’d be done, in your current condition.”

  Bladeborn began to wonder if he’d ever be ready. But after a month of fitness work, Angres began to educate Bladeborn in the basics of the sword.

  Angres began, “First lessons: there's a thousand ways to use a sword, and hacking is the worst one. Fine swords are finesse weapons, and finesse makes for a show the crowd loves. Anyone can hack with a big blade. In the arena, if you want to make a name for yerself, you’ll have to slice your opponent to tiny bits…then leave him alive. THAT’S a show!”

  Bladeborn was relieved, for he didn’t relish the thought of killing a man for money.

  Continuing, Angres said, “Next lessons: what will make you famous, and keep you among the living? Well, I’ll tell ya, it ain’t chopping melons. I’m gonna show you how to pick your foe apart. And like in fisticuffs, don't forget your eyes and your body—those are the tools of the fake and feint to get in and kill. You’ll learn to know where the tip of your weapon is at all times—all you need is the TIP with a bit of strength behind it to take a man down.” Angres took a long pull of his wine, then set the bottle on the floor. He picked up a sword and flipped it about in his one good hand like it was an extension of his mind. “Don’t swing it like a club, you lummox, dance it. Don't hack!”