Bloodlust: A Gladiator's Tale Read online

  He passed two huge ogres, stripped to the waist, muscles bulging with titanic effort as they strained against each other. A band of onlookers cheered them, wagering on the outcome.

  He nodded to a pair of stern-faced, Grey-Robed officers of the Deliberative who glanced at him as he passed. The Deliberative policed the Campus Martius and thus were thick on the street at this time of night, ever-ready to defuse any situation that might lead to a brawl among their young, over-enthusiastic charges. Their very presence seemed to calm the frantic atmosphere of the revels around them, like the cool ocean breeze that takes the edge off the hot summer days in Krass. One of them offered Gavin a small smile in return for his nod, the commerce of politeness in action. The other, younger officer, paid the passing Gladiator no notice; he was too busy trying to look imposing.

  The young Gladiator slowed when, after turning off of one of the Campus' many sheltered side-streets, his eyes met those of a stunning elf-girl standing a little apart from a group of revellers in the fountain square he was about to pass through. He stood there, pinned by her brilliant, intense eyes, while her crimson painted lips curled slowly into a devastating smile. He felt his heart leap, raging in his chest as if it could break free and seek a place with her.

  "Wheeee. Look out long-shanks!" A high pitched voice, shouting in glee, forced him to look away from the elf-girl and stand very still as the small, fast forms of three racing, laughing Quicklings sped past him, weaving through the crowd, leaving cursing and confusion in their wake. When he looked back up the girl had rejoined her friends. He suddenly remembered his resolution and moved on.

  -----o

  The Office of the Arena Registrar is a large rectangular building near the entrance to the pits, one of several administration buildings nestled there. It is five stories of pure white Krassian marble and shining bronze, built in the classical pre-Reckoning style. Public buildings in the capital were spared no expense, especially when the needs of the state converged with love of the Great Games. Formidable columns lined the front of the building, bracing graceful arches, and framing tall, thin windows of translucent amber glass. The centre of the building was dominated by two immense arched doors, made of dark wood framed with polished brass, large enough to accommodate a Minotaur Colossus. Despite their size the doors swung smoothly, noiselessly open, with little effort on Gavin's part.

  The last time Gavin had been in the building it had been crowded with newly trained Gladiators arranging matches at the massive registration counter, or checking the large, flat sheets of link-crystal which displayed the times and locations for all the matches scheduled to take place in the Pits. Now, late at night, it was eerily quiet. Two bored looking officers of the Deliberative stood near the doors surveying the room, a smiling clerk chatted with a Dwarven Gladiatrix at one end of the counter, and three other yawning workers sat gathered around a brass and glass clockwork coffee pot in casual conversation. The smell of the potent black brew reached out to him from across the floor.

  It seemed to Gavin as if none of the staff noticed him, but as he approached the marbled counter a child-sized head appeared directly in front of him. Her small size and sharp features marked the clerk as a Quickling as surely as her rapid movements. Thick glasses made her already large eyes seem preposterously big on her tiny head.

  "Can I help you sir?" Sinti, the clerk, tried to sound as sombre and officious, as she felt her post merited. This was something the young woman practised constantly, for Quicklings are naturally excitable and tend to talk quickly and in a very high pitched voice. She took her duty very seriously and thus tried to talk at a speed and tone that other races would find easy to follow. She smiled as the young man approached the desk. He was quite handsome for a human; his perfectly toned physique marked him as a Gladiator as surely as the weapons he carried.

  "Yes, I would like to arrange a match as quickly as possible, tomorrow if you can," said Gavin.

  "Hmmm..." Any of the other clerks on duty would have immediately denied Gavin's request; It requires time and effort to set up even the simplest of matches in the pits; consequently fights are usually scheduled weeks, often months in advance. However, this particular young clerk took her job very seriously, and she was full of energy and the desire to be helpful even at this late hour. "I can check and see if any matches registered for tomorrow have been dropped due to Gladiator related issues."

  "You mean sickness?" asked Gavin, prompted by his natural curiosity and Sinti's easy and open manner, which seemed to invite questions.

  "Yes: sickness, injury, and imprisonment. Reasons of compassion and education are also acceptable. Occasionally the Deliberative will prevent a Gladiator from fighting for reasons of their own; but that is very rare." She smiled while she checked the crystal in which the records were kept, enjoying the chance to show off her knowledge. "What are your particulars?"

  "Human, Defender, Medium, Cogimancy... unranked," he answered. "One fight, One win."

  "I have to ask because matches often have specific requirements for Gladiators of a certain type." She continued speaking in a cheery, animated fashion, still checking the crystal as she spoke. "We can, as long as it meets with approval, replace a Gladiator who drops a match with anyone who is qualified to take his place. You can actually request special matches for training purposes or to draw a larger crowd. Private sponsors can arrange special matches for unranked Gladiators as well; at the Campus Martius we work closely with the Grand Arena of Krass and the Local Faction arenas to ensure our Gladiators and the public that come to watch them have access to the best fights available." Gavin smiled; the little woman's pride in her work was obvious, a trait he always found endearing.

  "Interesting," he smiled, not bothered at all by the fountain of information. In fact, it had never occurred to him that he could arrange special matches. He was about to ask for more information when she made a small sound of triumph.

  "Got it… Yes!" She smiled brightly, enjoying the feeling of accomplishment. "I have a match tomorrow for someone with your specs. Do you like dogs?"

  The Gladiator's brow arched.

  -----o

  Spike hounds are not truly dogs, but rather ugly dog-shaped reptilian creatures that can grow to the size of a small pony. A mane of spiky quills bristles around their heavy head and powerful shoulders. Their natural ferocity is exceptional and wild spike hounds will attack the peoples of the Domains of the Chosen without hesitation. Many believe that they are the descendants of domestic hounds tainted by the Reckoning. Perhaps this is because they not only look somewhat like dogs, but they bark like them as well; scholars continually debate if they are related to true canines.

  Spike hounds are a constant threat to the semi-nomadic Minotaur herds of the Plains Domains, who must always guard against sudden attacks from large packs of these creatures. Some of these beasts acquire a taste for the flesh of men, elves, and other sentients.

  They are popular in the arena because of their natural ferocity and familiar-but-monstrous appearance. Many of the more bloody-minded fans of the Great Games also enjoy the creatures because when they do manage to get the better of a Gladiator, the results are very, very messy. Nothing like watching a screaming fighter pulled apart by dogs they would say.

  So Gavin's second professional match was against not one, but two of these savage creatures. It would be a difficult fight to be sure, but Gavin was driven by a need to prove his worth; once the match was suggested to him, he felt he would look like a coward if he refused it. He also had a strong desire to progress in his career so that he could seek his fortune outside the comforting confines of the Campus Martius, and he needed at least five matches under his belt to attain the first rank so he could leave. Although not yet wise enough to understand the desires that were driving him, Gavin felt the wider world beckoning him.

  Standing in the shadows of the Gladiator's entrance, he breathed deeply to calm himself. It was not a Deathmatch, so even if he lost he would survive; but the idea
of being mauled and then put back together and spending months recovering after being ripped apart was daunting nonetheless. Some Gladiators were ruined by brutal loses, even if they lived; he did not want to become such a pitiful being, bereft of purpose, subject to mockery, living a half-life. He greatly feared such a fate.

  Although he sought it, calm did not come to him as he waited for the match to begin. The trumpet sounded and the portcullis squealed upwards. The fighting grounds, pure white sand bright in the artificial light, called to him. Gavin walked slowly into the arena and raised his grim war-spear to salute the small crowd of spectators. The audience was noticeably larger than for his first fight, crowding for space along the railing of the gallery. A few of them cheered as he appeared. He thought he might recognize a couple of them, some Gladiators he had trained with. This arena was a little larger than the first he had fought in, perhaps to accommodate the size of the hounds. The trumpets sounded once again. He heard an ominous bark, loud as a thunderclap; the gate opposite him crawled into the ceiling.

  The hounds advanced into the light slowly, sniffing the air, their hate-filled eyes fixed on Gavin. The spines on their backs clicked together as they breathed, making a sound like wooden chimes rattling in the wind. Every movement of their large, lean bodies seemed to exude a deliberate, calculated menace to the Gladiator. They measured him with their pitiless stares and he did not like what he saw reflected there. Icy panic gripped his heart as the two spike-hounds began to lope toward him in an almost casual manner, claws sinking deep into the sand as they moved.

  A half remembered passage from one of Chosen Marius's travelogues saved Gavin. Gathering himself he charged the beasts, yelling as loud as he could. The action was meant to confuse them, challenging their conception of who was prey. They paused for a moment; the smaller creature rushing at them played havoc with their sense of predatory hierarchy. The pair halted their advance, opting to circle Gavin instead of charging; growling as they did so.

  An unassuming man, passing through the little arena on his way to another engagement, stopped when he saw the young Gladiator charge the hounds. A seasoned warrior, he was drawn in by Gavin's use of a strategy with which he was intimately familiar. A woman paused to look at this man as he joined the small cluster of spectators, her brow furrowing as she briefly wondered where she knew him from. After a brief glance, she wrote off his familiarity to "having one of those faces". In spite of the man's exalted importance in the Domains, he was rarely recognized without his symbols of office, which is exactly as he liked it. He settled into the audience, analyzing the Gladiator's chances; a fight against two spike hounds would be tough going for an inexperienced, unranked fighter.

  In the arena Gavin watched the hounds as they circled him. The most surprising thing about Spike Hounds is how cunning they are. In the cataclysmic aftermath of the Reckoning, their bestial intelligence helped them survive and prosper in the twisted landscape. They could outwit larger predators and work together to take down difficult prey. Now, seeing Gavin as a potential threat, they sought to move around him until one of them could attack him from a vulnerable flank.

  Gavin did not see the beast behind him pounce, but he heard it move and sidestepped rapidly so that it landed in the sand beside him. The other spike hound was already charging as Gavin made this movement, and it slammed into him, knocking him off his feet and sending him sprawling into the sand. Dazed, he struggled to get up, to get his spear and shield in front of him. He got to his knees before a heavy weight fell onto him, as one of the beasts pinned him to the ground with its body, wicked teeth snapping at his throat. The creature's hot breath, smelling of blood and carrion, washed over him. He struggled to get the heavy creature off him, horrified as the huge jaws inched closer to his face. He felt something wet trickle onto him. The gaping maw stopped moving. The beast’s terrible eyes blinked, as if in shock, and then went dull. Blood ran from its slack mouth, and he realized that it had, through sheer luck, impaled itself on his deadly spear blade. The crowd cheered, seeing the Gladiator's bloody spear-head blossoming from the creature's back.

  Gavin's relief did not last long, for he felt the jaws of the second monstrosity close around his leg. His armoured greaves absorbed most of the pressure, keeping the beast from snapping the bones, but he could feel its jagged teeth sawing into the meat of his leg. It pulled, shaking its head from side to side. He felt his leg dislocate as he was pulled out from under the body of his first foe which had been pinning him to the ground.

  He kicked at it and the Spike Hound let go of his leg, darting forward to bite at his vitals. The Gladiator did not have time to stand. He kicked at the beast again, slamming his boot into its snout, then sat up half-way, swinging his shield, razor edge first, into the creature's jaws as it snapped at him again. The beast's teeth dug into his arm, but the bladed edge of his shield began to cut into the back of its mouth. Its eyes rolled, shocked by the taste of its own blood. It tried to back away, but its teeth were caught in the shield and Gavin pushed with all the might his wounded body could muster.

  Man and beast, both mad with pain and fury, rolled around the arena while the watching crowd cheered. The Spike Hound raked the Gladiator with its clawed hind legs, trying to push him away from its mouth. Stalwart Gavin's free hand found the hilt of his short-sword and he drew the blade, hacking and stabbing the creature with frenzied abandon as they turned the white sands red. Finally the beast shuddered and died, giving off a peculiar canine whine before it collapsed. Gavin, too weak to feel triumphant, could not gain his feet. He looked down to see deep claw gashes on the unarmoured parts of his body. Blood from his wounds mingled with that of the spike hounds soaking into the white sand.

  He felt giddy and horrified at the same time. The people in the gallery were pushing against the railing, shouting in approval. With a titanic effort of will he pushed himself to his knees. He weakly raised his gore-stained sword to them, kneeling in a pool of blood, and then he passed out from his wounds.

  -----o

  The unassuming man watched long enough to see the healers arrive to load Gavin's wounded body onto a stretcher. The Gladiator would survive and make a full recovery; he knew from personal experience the kind of injuries a Gifted could survive. He was impressed with the young fighter; two spike-hounds, strong ones by the look of them, were not an easy fight for someone just out of training. The boy had adopted tactics he had once used himself, as a soldier and then later written about. He wondered if the Gladiator had read his works; perhaps he would ask him if they ever met in person.

  As the dark mouth of the Gladiator’s entrance swallowed the stretcher, the man turned to go; he was almost late for an appointment. At just that moment a young arena attendant, a boy on the cusp of manhood, spotted him. The boy eye’s widened and he seemed to be on the verge of bowing or perhaps even prostrating himself. The man smiled, quickly pressing a coin worth a month’s wages into the attendant’s hand and raising a finger to his lips. The boy blinked and then nodded, his expression of surprise becoming the stoic silence of one who possesses important information as the Chosen left the small arena and went about the business of the realm.

  Chapter Three: Ravius Vergerus

  1139/01/18 AR, Campus Martius

  "A true champion has no need of friends." Moltar, to Valaran diVolcanus

  "The foundation of every truly great team is friendship." Arena Master Druth

  "I'm telling you Ravius: it was luck."

  "No, it was instinct Gavin. We've been drilling since we were six years old, little brother. We've fought hundreds of training duels with live weapons; moves like that are second nature to us, little brother." Ravius's voice dripped cheerful self-assurance; an annoying trait in Gavin's view. "Your body and subconscious knew how to position the spear even if your conscious mind did not command it."

  "Ravius, I'm pretty certain the Spike Hound impaled itself on my spear accidentally," responded Gavin, trying to show his exasperation.

  Ravi
us Vergerus was one of Gavin's classmates from the Campus Gladius, where young gifted were trained in magic and where they both had decided to become Gladiators. He was slightly shorter than Gavin, with a wide tangle of blond hair, dark blue eyes, and ever-cheerful as far as Gavin could tell. He'd met Ravius in a pairs training duel when he was fourteen and the other had spent the last three years of training taking Gavin "under his wing". Ravius was smart, bold, a little egotistical, and always trying to break the quiet Gavin "out of his shell." Ravius also called anyone he spoke to "little brother" or "little sister", even if they were larger than he was; this too, irritated Gavin... he had a good two inches over Ravius.

  Gavin did not seek his company; Ravius was over-fond of talking and did not seem to understand that some people enjoy quiet solitude, are serious by nature, and that introversion is not an aberration that should be cured. Gavin had hoped that Vergerus would forget about him after graduation, but this was apparently not to be. He'd come to Gavin's second match and had gone out of his way to help him make a full recovery afterwards. Now Gavin was having trouble reconciling his distaste for Ravius with the fact that the man was showing himself to be a true friend; he was beginning to wonder if his aversion to the blond Gladiator's friendship was a reflection of his own internal conflicts and not true dislike.

  Upon further thought, he resolved to be nicer to Ravius. Perhaps true friendship required that he accept the other person's foibles. Besides, it would be useful to have a training partner.

  It was the day of Gavin's third match. After two months of recovery and another month of training he had felt confident enough to arrange a third professional bout. The massive jaws of the spike hounds and their toxic saliva had made recovery slow, even with his Gladiator's healing factor. Ravius had visited him often.