Bloodlust: A Gladiator's Tale Read online

  In the spear racks of the shop, Gavin's eyes were drawn to a wicked looking broad-bladed barbed war-spear from the Domain of Nar, made in the old Shadow-Elf style. The four foot lacquered ironwood haft of the spear was smooth enough for him to slide his hands along, yet somehow afforded an excellent hold when he tightened his grip. The eighteen inch blade was double edged and three fingers wide, heavy enough to slash with, yet narrowing gracefully to a slim point that could easily penetrate the links and plates of most armour to pierce the soft flesh beneath. It felt good in his hands... he wondered why he had not noticed it before today.

  The two attendants watched him fondle the weapon, noting the rapt look on his face. One of them whispered to the other, a little joke about Gladiators stroking ironwood. He heard them giggle. He shot them as severe a look as he could muster, to show that he overheard them, but nearly dropped the weapon as he put it back in its display stand. This time they did not even bother to hide their amusement and both burst into fits of laughter. Neither girl was being particularly malicious, but since Gavin was a very serious young man, he saw any laughter directed at him as an affront to his dignity. Suddenly he wanted to be elsewhere.

  Gavin straightened up with a frown, spurred by anger, and snatched the spear and a serviceable looking short sword that also happened to be within reach. He marched to the service counter where he slammed his notes of purchase down and then left without saying a word. Both of the girlish attendants felt just a touch of guilt over upsetting the young man, but their minds quickly turned to other things.

  Gavin paused on the street outside of the shop, red faced. He struggled to control his feelings; was he not a Gladiator, destined to fight his way to the Grand Championship and win his place among the Chosen? Surely he should not allow himself to be mastered by a moment of embarrassment; such a weakness could be deadly in the arena. He let out a long breath.

  He privately admonished himself and resolved to choose his armour with all the seriousness and dignity he could muster. Much later, he would realize that his instinctive choice of weapons was quite good. In fact, he could not have chosen better as it turned out. He moved purposefully to the armour shop across the street.

  It was early afternoon and the armour shop was deserted; most of his peers preferred to train in the morning and spend the afternoon in exercise leaving the evening free for socializing and shopping. There was only one attendant on duty, a young looking woman with curled silver hair, beautiful in her elegant dress, sitting behind the front counter of the shop, gazing into a link crystal. He approached her and cleared his throat.

  Isabelle, the attendant in question, was much older than she looked, for like Gavin, she was one of the Gifted and thus her body could overcome the ravages of time. Unlike Gavin, she'd chosen the path of service, and become a Vassal and not a Gladiatrix. Vassals are prevented from learning and using destructive and dangerous magics, part of the price they pay for their greater freedoms. Gavin had not yet learned to recognize another Gifted, and so he wrongly assumed that Isabelle was just a humble store clerk.

  Isabelle, for her part, was quite experienced in dealing with Gladiators fresh out of training; young men like Gavin were her chosen prey. She'd already sized him up as he walked into the store and could ascertain a surprising amount about him just from looking at his clothing, the way he walked, and his body language. She pretended not to notice him, sending word messages on her link crystal, until he approached her; at which time she put her toy away, with a feigned hint of reluctance. By the time she looked up, meeting his clear blue eyes with her calm emerald gaze, she'd decided that she wanted to bed this Gladiator-boy and was already planning her seduction.

  In her eyes Gavin was quite handsome; like most Gladiators he had the impressive, athletic physique of someone who spent much of their time in hard physical conditioning, further enhanced with powerful magic. He was taller than most men and broad shouldered, but not unnaturally large or grotesquely over-muscled like some of his peers. His short dark brown hair framed a well sculpted face that spoke to her of honesty and passion. His clear blue eyes were his most striking feature; she felt they would be shocking if he ever wielded them properly.

  "Um... Hello. I need armour for a match... this afternoon," Gavin said a little nervously as Isabelle met his eye. He silently cursed his voice for not sounding as suave and heroic as he imagined it should.

  "Well, unfortunately, that leaves out anything custom fitted; I can only do minor alterations in that span of time." She allowed the barest hint of reproach to be heard in her voice, so that he would feel that she was doing him a favour. She smiled inwardly at Gavin's shyness; the game was already won as far as she was concerned. "What armour class are you?"

  "Middle," he responded, unable to take his eyes off her as she closed in on him. "I’m looking for a breastplate, bracers, greaves, and also a shield."

  "Have you given any thought to style and colour Honoured Gladiator?" she used the proper honorific to tickle his pride while she stopped at his side, just near enough to occupy his personal space.

  "Um..." His thoughts were suddenly dashed upon the rocks as he became acutely aware of her scent and the nearness of her body. Her lips were a glossy crimson colour.

  "Did they not teach you about the importance of style in your training?" She sighed, turning and moving away, rummaging for the tools she would need. She heard him let out his breath. Long ago she was surprised at how many novice male Gladiators did not pay attention to such an important facet of their career, but she had long since gotten used to it. She walked past him toward the fitting section, making sure to brush up against him, just so, as she did. "Follow me, please."

  She continued her lecture as she led him deeper into her shop, keeping her tone light with a hint of helpful amusement. "A Gladiator's armour is not merely for protection; it is about how you present yourself to your audience. If you wish to be called to the championships you will have to become famous as well as skilled. If you wish to become famous, you will have to win over the support of the people. And I must tell you that people respond very well to style and proper presentation Honoured Gladiator. It is part of building your legend."

  Gavin followed, watching the sway of her hips as she walked while he listened to her. He loved watching women walk and move, and he was suddenly aware that while his peers were cavorting and rutting he'd been ignoring his natural desires. The Campus Martius was full of beautiful women, maybe he should indulge, find a nice Gladiatrix or a store clerk. He pushed the thought aside.

  Style was not something he gave much thought to, although he immediately grasped the truth in her words. Like it or not, popularity mattered in the arenas; a tied match is decided by the favour of the crowds. Well-liked Gladiators received gifts from patrons and even victory coins in special cases, and only the most celebrated of the many qualified Master-class Gladiators were ever invited to fill the limited spaces when a Grand Championship was held. Some fighters learned to call upon the enthusiasm of the audience to channel additional power for their spells. And perhaps most importantly, in the rare cases where a Gladiator chose to engage in a Deathmatch, they could be spared from defeat if they were well enough loved that the merciful audience gave them a 'thumbs up'.

  "I think you should go for a more classical, heroic look, bright metal, silver and steel; pure and honest," Isabelle said as they stopped at a well hidden fitting room. She handed him a mithril breastplate sculpted to look like the face of a ferocious roaring lion that she'd grabbed on the way. "Take off your tunic please. Let’s see how this looks on you."

  She watched as he stripped off his plain white tunic, enjoying the slight reddening of his cheeks. His arousal was obvious to her expert eye even through the conservative undergarment that he wore. For a moment she was tempted to act on her desires right there; she'd chosen the most remote fitting room just in case, but she kept her demeanour professional. With some men this would have been the perfect time to pounce, but she sensed
this one was a romantic whose passions were best kindled a little more slowly. For the briefest moment she wished that she had met him when she was young and romantic herself, but she quickly slammed the door on that stray thought.

  "Hold this to your chest while I put the straps on. You will be able to devise a glamour to help you put it on yourself fairly easily," She said moving around behind him. "My name is Isabelle, by the way."

  "I'm Gavin. Nice to meet you, Isabelle," he said, smiling at her. He savoured the strange silky metallic feeling of the mithril against his skin and the businesslike motions of Isabelle's deft fingers as she adjusted the fittings. He was tempted to use his magic to learn what she thought about him, weaving the simplest of spells, but he was far too principled to actually do so. Besides, you never know when the Grey-Robes are around, he thought, and they would not be happy if he used his magic in such a way.

  "This should fit well with some minor adjustments," She turned him toward a mirror as she spoke enjoying the feel of his muscles underneath her hand while she did so. She liked being the aggressor. "What do you think?"

  Gavin almost forgot about Isabelle for a moment as he looked in the mirror. The lion looked impressive and regal on his chest, almost life-like as the silver-white mithril caught and magnified the light. The lion was a powerful symbol with a distinguished history; it spoke to him of courage and pride. It looked quite proper as far as he was concerned, and he felt a surge of boyish enthusiasm. The breastplate did not protect his neck or the lower part of his torso and did not cover much of his back, but it offered him about as much protection as arena regulations would allow a Gladiator of middle armour class.

  "I like it," he said, smiling.

  "You will need some bracers and greaves and I think this short kilt will go well with it," She handed him the items, waiting while he fastened the kilt. Isabelle still took great pride in her job, and she had to admit the mithril lion looked impressive on her young Gladiator. "I will have sky sapphires put in the eye sockets; they should match your eyes nicely..."

  Gavin looked at her reflection in the mirror, his gaze following her curves like a flimsy boat caught up in the course of a mighty river. His gaze met hers in the mirror and the message in her glance was easy to read, even for him. After all, she'd remarked upon his eyes...

  "You look fantastic Gavin, like a legend of the arena come to life. Did you say your first match was today..?" Isabelle's lips curved into a wicked smile, letting her triumph show. She felt like saying "checkmate" but experience had taught her to be humble in victory.

  "Yes, would you like to watch me? I will be fighting in about two hours, if you can make it," he said. A warm feeling settled on him as he replayed the scene in his mind, realizing how Isabelle led him to exactly this moment. Maybe he would enjoy some of the romance of the Campus Martius after all. He held her emerald gaze in the mirror and smiled, a little more confident now. "I know I will fight better with such a beautiful woman looking on..."

  "I'd love to! I will be very pleased if you wear a token of mine Honoured Gladiator. If you win this match for me, then we can... celebrate afterwards," she let her head rest on his shoulder a moment to emphasize her meaning. "But do this one thing for me if you can; make sure you don't wear this undergarment with this kilt. They look terrible together."

  He laughed. She was surprised at the richness of the sound. The Lion seemed to shake with mirth as he did so.

  "Isabelle, I am surprised you don't know," he intoned with perfect seriousness, turning toward her. "A Gladiator always goes regimental, for the ladies, of course."

  For a heartbeat she did not realize he was being playful; and then she saw the mirth in his eyes, and she burst out laughing, delighted.

  -----o

  A little more than an hour later Gavin arrived at the Arena, feeling less rushed now that he was properly kitted. He made sure to arrive early so he could practise a bit with his new gear. Isabelle had done an excellent job, performing her craft with great skill and magic-aided swiftness. He passed through the inspection station where they checked his gear and watched him attune to the life preserving Keystone. For a brief moment he wondered what he would do if the regulator found fault with his weapons or armour, but the Grey-Robe had just nodded after making a brief inspection. The runes on the Keystone glowed briefly, flashing green, and he felt a thread of attunement connecting him to it as he moved away. The regulators looked bored.

  The arena in which he would soon fight was a circular underground room with fitted stone walls, a high-domed ceiling with a glowing crystal light, and a spectator’s gallery running around the upper reaches of the room. Fresh white sand covered the floor. Wards protected the walls and the gallery from stray spells and angry beasts. Unlike the great arenas in which he had dreamt of fighting while training as a boy, there were no hidden trapdoors or special conveyances in this venue. Nor was it large enough to accommodate bigger creatures or even some of the largest Gladiators he guessed.

  Very few Gladiators have a dedicated following of any size early in their careers; thus there are dozens, perhaps hundreds of arenas like this one attached to the Campus Martius. Citizens from all over the Domains come here and watch novices fight, wandering from match to match. The Gladiators, freshly trained and veteran alike, refer to these arenas collectively as "The Pits". Gavin spent a few moments surveying the fighting grounds, the walls and the white sands, assuring himself that everything was as it seemed and then retired to his preparation room.

  A fresh-faced attendant, no more than a boy really, was talking to a bored looking, lithe-bodied masseuse. The woman looked at Gavin hopefully, having already listened to the enthusiastic young attendant's story five times today. The Gladiator shook his head; he did not need a massage or want the girl's company before the match.

  In the privacy of his arming room Gavin checked the straps on his armour once again, making sure that they were secure and that he had a full range of movement. The breastplate was cunningly crafted, and the fittings, clasps, and layered plates did not impede him significantly. He sensed a few minor catches, and noted them for later; Isabelle had not had enough time to fit the armour perfectly on such short notice

  His short sword was next; since he had not had time to examine it, having purchased the blade in haste. He shook his head, reliving the embarrassment he'd felt in the weapons shop with the two girls laughing at him, before turning his focus back to the task in hand. The short sword's blade was a little wider than two of his fingers, two and a half feet long, with a thin blood channel running down the middle of the bright metal. The hilt and balance-weighted pommel were semi-circular, designed to deflect rather than catch enemy blades. It was an old model, the sort of weapon every Gladiator learns to use in training, and somewhat plain to look at, but nonetheless he was well satisfied. He practised with it for several minutes, simple thrusts, lunges, and quick drawing motions, before sheathing it at his left hip with a small smile of relief and satisfaction; it would do.

  Next, Gavin picked up his shield. It was round, curved inwards from the boss, made from silver-white mithril like his breastplate, and just a little more than two feet in diameter. Mithril was lighter than any steel alloy, but the metal shield was still heavy, and had a nice solid feel to it. Like his breastplate it was decorated with a sculpted lion motif, a great regal beast, roaring defiantly. The edge of the shield was honed to a razor's edge, which made it somewhat less durable but much deadlier. The straps and grip were secure and he kept the shield on his arm, getting used to its weight.

  Finally, he hefted his spear. It felt good in his hand: heavy, balanced, and smooth. The dark metal of the jagged, wide-bladed head was of an unfamiliar alloy. It was an exceptional weapon; perfectly made for someone of his height and strength. He found he could use it with one hand or two, slashing with the edges of the broad tip or thrusting with the deadly point. The weapon handled perfectly, almost like an extension of his body. Turning it over in his hand, Gavin marvelled at th
e superb craftsmanship. He could just discern a small maker's mark underneath one of the barbs; it was familiar but he could not quite place where he had seen it before. He frowned, thinking hard for a moment, and resolved to look into it later, although it was to be much later before he actually did so.

  Lastly he fastened Isabelle's favour, a small garter made from red lace, to his breastplate, where it appeared to be dripping from one of the Lion's fangs, like a piece of its last meal. Any other symbolism was unintentional; his mind was on the coming match.

  "Always work up a sweat before you fight!" The words of Alrum Southlander, his favourite beast lore teacher, echoed in his head. It was advice that had served him well in countless training matches. He could picture the bearded Grey-Robe now. Sadly the teachers could not leave the Campus Gladius to watch matches; he missed Ser Southlander.

  Gavin breathed in deeply, filling his lungs. As he exhaled he tried to rid himself of negative thoughts, nervousness over his first match, desire for Isabelle, and a yearning to escape the restrictions of the campus. He then launched into a series of quick stretching exercises, keeping his weapon and shield in hand to get used to their weight. He followed this with a simple spear kata, letting his body flow through the familiar lunges, thrusts, and sidesteps. It was linear and precise, beautiful in its simplicity, he thought, and he repeated the kata again and again.

  By the time the attendant knocked on his door to make sure he was ready, his body was beaded with sweat and his mind was focused on the upcoming fight.

  -----o

  The Gladiator's gate was typical of the smaller arenas on the Campus, a portcullis of thick iron bars set back several feet into the mouth of the stone corridor. Although Gavin was hidden from the eyes of the spectators here, he could see the galleries where they gathered, opposite the entrance, quite well. He scanned the small crowd. Isabelle was there, talking amiably with two other women; their well-cut gowns and confident airs made them stand out from the handful of spectators in the same way that well grown, vibrantly coloured roses stand out among lesser flowers.