Bloodlust: A Gladiator's Tale (Domains of the Chosen Book One) Page 5

  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.

  After recovering, he had sought out the efficient Quickling clerk who had arranged his second match. He had struck up a friendly conversation, learning that her name was Sinti, and she gladly arranged a special match on his request. The match was a survival bout that pitted him against the stitched, cadavers re-animated by necromancy, referred to by the common folk as zombies. A "survival" match meant Gavin had to survive an onslaught of these creatures over a time limit to win; any enemies he killed would be replaced.

  Zombie plagues had become a serious threat after the Reckoning. Most ungifted bitten by such a creature would die, and would soon rise again as an undead menace. The Gifted were immune to this and gradually the threat had been brought under control in most Domains. The wild magic that caused the plagues proved more difficult to overcome; cremation was now mandated by law in most Domains, just in case. Those versed in necromantic magic could control most forms of zombie. In many places these creatures became arena fodder, servants, or labourers. A necromancer employing them had to be licensed; his zombies needed be "dried out" or cured, inspected and certified that they could not spread the plague. They often had their jaws removed or stitched shut as well, mostly to reassure the public; hence they were called the stitched in arena slang.

  It had been quite easy to arrange the match, especially with Sinti's energetic assistance, but another month and a half was required to appropriate the resources for his special match this time. Gavin felt it was worth the wait; an unusual battle of this type would draw more spectators, and should help increase his reputation. Even the most skilled Gladiator would have trouble earning an invitation to the Grand Championships if he had no following.

  As they wound through the bustling streets of the Campus Martius, dodging the armoured figures of their peers, Ravius took the opportunity to stop and chat with every single man and woman he recognized. Gavin had anticipated this ahead of time and set out early; he nodded politely when Ravius introduced him to someone, but his mind was on the coming battle.

  It was going to be a difficult match, but defence was Gavin's speciality, and after the brutal mauling he had received at the hands of the spike hounds, his need to prove himself had only increased. Like many people who have a surfeit of intelligence and a deficit of confidence, Gavin had a tendency to over-analyze, especially his own failures. He secretly hoped that Vergerus was right and it was instinct and not luck that helped him bring down the first hound with his spear. He was not yet confident enough to put the incident behind him, and he replayed it in his mind over and over, trying to think his way through it. Ravius had snapped him out of this state of mind several times in the past months.

  As they moved from the streets into the honeycombed passages of the Pits, Ravius turned his attention back to Gavin. "I like the look you chose; the Lion suits you, little brother," he said.

  "Really? I was thinking of getting rid of it." Gavin unconsciously made a sour face; he still did not like being reminded of Isabelle. His desire to be rid of the armour, which she had suggested, was spurred by this. "I've been saving my tokens for a new set."

  "Tokens are not easy to get; I'd save what you have for more enchantments; you will need the extra edge, little brother. Besides, whoever she is, she did you a favour picking out that armour." Ravius read his friend's discomfort like a book, seeing the truth behind the impulse to change, much to Gavin's discomfort. "Think about it at least."

  "You might be right..." Gavin conceded with a shrug of his shoulders. In truth, he liked his lions a great deal, in spite of the fact that the style reminded him of Isabelle; Gladiators become attached to the tools of their profession in the same way that carpenters might love the feel of their best hammer or writers favour a certain quill above all others.

  They arrived slightly early and Gavin entered the arming room to prepare himself. Ravius spent his time talking to the masseuse, who after a few well-chosen comments was laughing at the skirmisher's bawdy jokes, deeply engaged in their flirtation. Gavin felt slightly jealous as he moved past them. Ravius was able to talk to women so easily! The pretty masseuse was already biting her lip and leaning very close to the blond haired man, her dark eyes shining.

  "Good luck, little brother!" Ravius turned to Gavin as he walked past, smoothly putting his arm around the waist of the slim girl beside him as he did so. The warning trumpet sounded just then, calling the spectators to order, and Gavin hurried to take his place in front of the gate.

  For this fight Gavin had requested a modification to the terrain within the arena. There was a raised area, a stone pedestal of sorts, in the centre of the fighting grounds. It was about ten feet across and a foot and a half off the ground. Gavin intended to use the added height to his advantage against his undead opponents. It would also allow the spectators to see him better in the press of bodies that was likely to ensue. He was surprised that this modification was approved, but Sinti had told him that the Deliberative rarely rejected a modification unless it was deemed unfair to another Gladiator or likely to reduce spectator enjoyment. She had remarked that most spectators want to see the Gladiators win in monster fights; it made them feel safer to see the terrible taint-spawned beasts defeated. It made sense to Gavin.

  After the portcullis rose, he jogged to the pedestal and leapt onto it, thrusting his spear high into the air in salute to the audience as he took his place. The sixty or so people crowding the Gallery of the tiny arena, the smallest he had fought in so far, cheered as he appeared. Many of these had come to see this young Gladiator try his hand at a difficult match. Others came because a special match like this is a relative rarity, a treat even for veteran fans of the Great Games.

  Gavin raised an eyebrow and nearly grinned as he realized some of the audience were wearing zombie costumes. Anyone who pays attention to these matters comes to realize that the walking dead have their own fans. It was an interesting sub-culture he thought; it would be less amusing, however, if the zombie fans cheered while he was having his innards torn out by the undead.

  Sinti had suggested this particular arena because it was the smallest she could book that had enough entrances for the Stitched to shamble into, en-mass. The size would make it feel more crowded and claustrophobic, the zombie "horde" would look larger. The more intimate venue would also allow the crowd to get a better look at the action. It would not impede Gavin since he intended to stay on the pedestal, and of course the Stitched, like most zombies, were not exactly known for their desire to manoeuvre beyond running and shambling toward their prey.

  The trumpet sounded again and three gates opened, allowing the first group of Stitched into the arena, two from each gate. Their mouths were wired shut but they managed to make a horrible sound, a ghastly grinding groan, nonetheless. A quiver of delighted fear ran through the audience as the horrible rasping sound reached them.

  Gavin had a moment to survey the hideous creatures as they moved into the arena. Their flesh was dried and cured, tougher but less septic than that of true zombies. These Stitched were piecemeal creatures, veterans of several matches, sewn together from whatever scraps had remained after their last fight. Their hands had been replaced with a variety of hooks, blades, and simple weapons that they could use to cut, bludgeon, dismember, and disembowel an armoured Gladiator.

  After a moment they fixated on him, sensing his life-force he guessed, then turned in eerie symmetry to look at him with eyeless sockets before charging. They ran with a shuffling, ungainly stride that did not really seem to slow them down.

  The first Stitched to make it to the pedestal met with a hard overhand slash from his spear. The blade hit it in the head, squarely, with enough power to cave in the creature's tough skull. The s
urest way to kill a Stitched, like any zombie, was to destroy the brain of course. It jerked stiffly and fell backwards off the pedestal, as two hammered at him with their weapon hands. Their blows were clumsy, but powerful and unrelenting. Three more immediately filled the gap, one began grappling with Gavin's shield.

  The Stitched are strong enough to rend a normal man apart with their bare hands, but their might was no match for magically enhanced strength of a Gifted Gladiator. He shoved forward, putting his shoulder behind his shield, slamming it into the zombie grappling with him, sending it flying back off the raised platform; it landed with a sickening crunch, breaking its lower leg, but started to rise almost immediately. Pain means nothing to such creatures.

  Stalwart Gavin moved slightly so that a clumsy, but powerful, blow from the weapon-arm of one of his foes hit the thickest part of his shoulder armour. He then dispatched his Zombie attacker with a swift lunge, ramming his spear blade through its skull. A horrible odour assaulted him as the majority of the zombie's rotten brains flowed out of the wound. Someone in the crowd squealed in morbid delight.

  At this interval three more of the creatures were released into the arena. Gavin barely noticed; he was too busy with the four that were assaulting him already. The spectators watched with morbid excitement, cheering as the Gladiator fended off his relentless undead assailants.

  They were all around him now, mouthing their horrible groans and throwing themselves at him. In numbers their strength could overcome even his, but his training as a defender had taught him to position himself well, and he moved in such a way that multiple opponents could not easily concentrate their attacks on him. He dodged and pivoted, shoving them back with his shield and grim spear as he did so. From the galleries it seemed as if the silver lions of his shield and armour wove through the undead, bright and snarling. He drove one to the ground with a swift, measured spear slash and stomped on it; the creature's head burst like some obscene fruit.

  The stitched came on, tireless and hungry. More of them shambled into the Arena to join the attack. Gavin lost track of time and felt a rising sense of Panic. A jagged blade gouged into his back. He staggered under the blow, but righted himself quickly. He heard a few cheers from the crowd and realized that some people were actually cheering for his undead opponents. Angry now, he yelled in fury, and pivoted, swinging his razor edged shield in a bright arc, nearly decapitating his undead attacker. This move elicited an even louder cheer from the rest of the audience. Fans of the Great Games always love to see heads roll.

  But the effort of keeping the Stitched away from him was starting to take its toll. Gavin was slick with sweat. His broad-bladed war-spear felt a little heavier in his hands, unwieldy with all his foes pressing in on him. He decided to switch weapons...

  He wove a simple spell pattern, channelling energy through it, shouting out loud as he did so. The pure, simple joy of magic flowed through him. A bright blue beam of energy surged from his head to that of the nearest Stitched, linking them momentarily; its brain liquefied under this magical assault, steam rising from its skull. The zombies seemed to have little resistance to his Cogimancy. The spell he had used would normally not need a shout or produce the vivid blue flame; he had added these effects to the spell to make it flashier, a little pyrotechnic flourish that Ravius had shown him.

  Ravius, being a skirmisher by training, was fond of reminding Gavin that Gladiators were performers as well as fighters.

  Gavin used his mind blast twice more as the zombies crowded round, to lethal effect each time, but they continued to mob him on the pedestal. He pushed one off. He impaled two of them with a single spear lunge, but he could not jerk his spear free. Then a spiked iron ball mounted in the place of a hand smashed into the back of his head, driving him to his knees. For a moment everything was a blur. They fell upon him, their blows raining on his shield and pushing him to the ground. He felt their blades and hooks slice into him where he could not protect himself. He heard their wretched moaning, barely constrained by sewn up mouths, and it filled him with primal dread.

  Ripping his short sword from its sheath, Gavin began to hack at them swinging his blade in tight desperate arcs. He still could not regain his feet under the weight of their numbers. He started cutting at their legs, and some fell; this served to protect him from the attacks of the others as he gathered his strength. He surged upwards, throwing them off. He shouted, he hacked, he sent them flying by bashing them with his shield, and melted their brains with his magic. He went down again, but empowered by a desperate animal fury he struggled to his feet. The crowd cheered, enthralled by the grim spectacle.

  Finally the trumpet sounded. His remaining attackers all sank slowly to the ground as their controlling Necromancers suddenly restrained them.

  Gavin saluted the crowd, drinking the praise they showered on him. His chest was heaving and he was covered in sweat and gore, but he felt a great sense of triumph. It was a small audience but they were all chanting his name, even those who were dressed as Zombies. He exulted in the feel of a hard won victory; he'd endured a brutal assault and this accomplishment felt good.

  He showered and bathed for a long time after the match, to rid himself of the clinging stench. Ravius met him as he left the arena, an hour later. Gavin was surprised that his jovial friend had waited, and then felt shame at this. His reaction reminded him again that Ravius had shown him nothing but friendship. He resolved to make an effort to treat his friend better.

  "I do not think I could have done half as well in that match, little brother," Ravius said, smiling broadly, happy that Gavin had made use of the technique he had shown him. Gavin for his part found he enjoyed the praise of his friend as much as that of the arena spectators, "I think we should celebrate your victory with a drink, preferably in some place full of wanton women who have a taste for brave Gladiators. What do you say, my friend?" Much to the surprise of Ravius Vergerus, Gavin smiled broadly in agreement and they both joined the revels that rock the Campus Martius every night.

  Chapter Four: The Execution

  1139/02/12 AR, Campus Martius

  "Success is attainable only by those who believe in themselves. A positive will overcomes all obstacles." From a popular philosophy of the time.

  "Failure is not, in itself, a character flaw." Chosen Brighthoof

  Ravius entered the Enduring Bulwark Dojo just as Master Ironwall fired another volley at Gavin. The finely tempered springs of the spike gun sang as they let slip the lethal swarm. A dozen four inch steel spikes flew out of the cluster of steel barrels and sped unerringly across the room toward their target. Ravius could just barely follow their course even with his Gladiator's finely tuned senses and lightning swift reflexes.

  Gavin had entered the heightened state of defensive awareness that Master Ironwall had begun teaching him as part of his training at the Enduring Bulwark School. Time seemed to move slowly, and his senses sharpened. He could read the course of each spike as it sped toward him. He heard the intake of Ravius's breath. He smelled the sweet scent of flowers from Master Ironwall's garden. He concentrated.

  Gavin stepped forward, positioning his body to minimize his profile and maximize his armour while moving his lion-headed shield to meet the streaking projectiles. The shield felt alive, an extension of his body. The clang of the missiles as they slammed into his shield was echoed by the thud of those he evaded as they buried themselves in the wall behind him. He grunted in pain and surprise; two of the shots had found their mark, embedding themselves deep in the muscles of his upper leg.

  "Bloody, BLOODY, Reckoning!" Gavin swore, grimacing. He felt like hitting something, unleashing his frustration in a childish tantrum; his failure embarrassed him.

  Ravius winced from the doorway. He did not rush to Gavin's side; it would be poor form to enter the Dojo without an invitation and the wound his friend now sported was hardly a danger to a Gladiator.

  Gavin's disappointment in his own performance was worse than the pain; he had been so
sure he was going to get them all this time. Such wounds, while crippling to an ungifted man were trivial to any Gladiator; they would close and heal long before his match this afternoon. His deficiency was what really hurt. He took each of his failures to heart, which led him to constantly strive to do better, but also meant that he burdened himself unnecessarily.

  "Not too bad Gavin," Master Ironwall's deep, calm voice intoned. "I am pleased with your progress; few of my students are as advanced as yourself after only a few months of training. Please go with your friend after Mishka has tended your wounds. Remember what you have learned in your fight this evening." The flint-eyed dwarf nodded to Ravius, who jogged over to Gavin as the healer Mishka, a pale dwarven woman appeared from behind a nearby screen.

  Master Ironwall moved around the sand floor of the Dojo, picking up the sharp steel bolts. He did not show any outward emotion as he did so, whistling an old worker's song. He let Mishka the healer help Gavin without offering additional comment. The latter was fussing against the healing and his friend's concerns.

  Inwardly Master Ironwall was proud of his new student, but somewhat worried; he felt Gavin was too hard on himself, a sure sign of internal conflict, perhaps low self-worth. Any person from the Domains would know Gavin was an orphan from the boy's surname, Orphanus. The wise master also knew that his student was the product of a union between two Gladiators. Active Gladiators would not be allowed to keep their child, even an ungifted child. It was easy for him to see from long experience that never knowing his parents had driven Gavin to over-compensate; trying to become an ideal Gladiator and fill the void left by his parents with the cheers of the crowd. The old master knew that inner turmoil could be a fighter's worst enemy, but he could not think of a good way to discuss the problem with his proud young charge. Some knowledge was hard to pass on with words, and this particular matter was too close to the heart for him, as well. Perhaps one day he could discuss it with Gavin, but not now.