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Emerson
Ballard of Lesia
Ballard of Anitane
Jackal of the sands
Part II
-To the champion the spoils-
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> The woman had plenty of grey 0n her long black hair. A certain harshness on her face and eyes that had the color of coal. She paused to stare at the large group of strange warriors approaching without an ounce of worry. Her own escort an aged man-at-arms, his head completely bald and his beard a brilliant white. Behind her stood the old castle with its walls of solid grey stone, the tall parapets and the iron-reinforced gates. A gloomy picture, somewhat eased by the many Lemon trees on both sides of the dirt road leading to its gates, where the black dressed Baroness waited. The fruits on them a strikingly rich yellow, almost gold. The scent rich and welcoming, if not a little bitter.
>
> “You have a name for me?” She asked the leading woman in the rich exotic coat, frowning at the reply.
>
> “That’s not a Lorian name,” the Baroness noted, her aged eyes on the young boy sitting in front of the woman. “And these are not Lorian arms ye lads are bringing to my gates and my home.”
>
> “I don’t have a Lorian name, but I was tasked to have a part of you and of this land returned,” the woman replied and rustled the boy’s black hair. “I brought him here Baroness, because that’s his father’s home and this is the Onyx Wyvern’s wishes.”
>
> The Baroness stood back speechless, if not a little unsteady and the aged man-at-arms approached and placed a comforting gloved hand on her elbow, until she recovered enough to stand on her own.
>
> “Come forth then,” the Baroness said when she did, sounding deeply moved. “Let me see you my boy. Fear not, we’re harsh but fair. Somewhat bitter but fierce, like the land.”
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> “It is what it is,” the woman replied with a smile and clicked her tongue to get her exotic horse moving.
>
> “It is what it is,” the Baroness had agreed.
>
>
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“Same plan,” Emerson rustled to the demoralized spear-wielding duo. “Berg, keep at the defensive,” he added stooping to check on the barbarian’s axes. Emerson elected the smaller of the two, a worn out battle axe and tied a leather belt on his waist to slot it in.
“What are you gonna do?” Berg asked him, just as the announcer rose up to start this second round of the games.
“Kill them afore they kill us,” Emerson replied and eyed the Dimachaerus tauntingly. The gladiator, tight leather armor on his chest and short hard-leather skirt over his athletic thighs returned his stare, cracking his head right and left. The Hoplite next to him, the black skin of an Issir on a muscular body, flipped his spear then caught it at the mid-point and raised it at a high stance on guard position. The man either an expert, or thinking he could win points with the ladies. The mood in the arena had taken a turn to the lewder side, emboldened by the lord’s shameless public display. With so many slaves readily available and their blood excited it made a weird kind of sense.
You’re next then, Emerson decided and took two steps forward to goad their attacks on him. The Jackal took a step back himself, behind the sword and shield guy. He had a heavy longsword in his right hand and wore a light battle axe on his left thigh. Another shortsword on his back, where he carried two leather sheaths attached to his harness.
The crowd gasped all at once, when the games restarted. A drawn-out shrieking murmur, sometimes high-pitched, others cavernous enough to make your bones vibrate. Emerson sucked a deep breath in, the wound on his back still leaking under the shield and slowly soaking his loincloth. By the time he let the air back out, the dual-sword wielding gladiator was on him. Every man on the sands had their hourglass started, their life slowly flowing out the small hole.
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The gladiator danced left and then right, swung at him in the same pattern. Emerson baulked back one step, the Hoplite approaching from his right, the Dimachaerus left side, the former knight always at the furthest left of their line.
The man clenched his jaw and attacked again in the next breath, first right then left this time, the lump on his throat tensing up as he had a follow up move loading. The leaf-bladed medium-sized blade hissed an inch off Emerson’s face, its sister coming lower almost gutting him, as he pulled away another step into their line.
Emerson heard Rodo’s scream in his ear, the young man pushing his spear out, the gladiator’s deft arms already pulling back over his head, all muscles taut, mouth and face distorted, the fight choreography demanding a double-handed high attack with both blades and rightly so. Emerson was supposed to still have his mind on the last attack to his mid-riff, and react on instinct.
Emerson had unsheathed his battle-axe instead as time slowed down to a crawl. The Hoplite tested the overeager Rodo’s skill with a high attack on his right, the knight caught out of the corner of his eye. The Dimachaerus, already committed to a high double-sword attack, ogled his eyes seeing Emerson casually yank the weapon up and out his belt by its curved shoulder, the axe ever rising, calloused hand softly riding the length of the short shaft and clasping at its pommel the last possible moment. The man’s lips split revealing maniacally clenched white teeth underneath and his neck muscles contracted as he pushed his head back on instinct.
Difficult to pull back yer head, when both yer arms are lurching forward following the swing of your blades. At some point you run out of give. Either way, it does fuck all to protect you, if an axe is hurled yer way from point blank range. The head will stop at the muscles and joints end, but the axe will continue on traveling straight.
You are better off dodging.
The Dimachaerus got the edge of the axe’s blade at his left cheekbone right below the eye, as he’d managed a half-dodge in the split second Emerson had given him. The thing with axes is it don’t much matter how they hit you, or even where. Such is the weight of the weapon and the bluntness of the attack, a wider area is affected. You might lose a hand to a sword cut, but you can still move the arm. Get hit by an axe, or even worse a hammer at the same spot and that arm is useless. The left side of the man’s face immediately caved in, left eye popping out, his forehead cracking open and his brains spilled out of the chasm bloating the loose untorn skin from underneath and creating a grotesque bulge over his brows.
The blades clanged as Emerson dropped to a knee and swung wild at the Hoplite’s leg. The man sensed something was amiss and tried to pull his leg away, but the scythe caught one of the iron greaves, glided all the way down and severed his heel cord. The Hoplite stumbled back maimed and Rodo charged him getting out of the line, spear leading. Emerson cursed and rolled to the side looking for the still raked from spasms Dimachaerus swords.
Rodo got pierced through the shoulder, bone shattering and cried out in desperation. The crowd roared in ecstasy and shock. They weren’t really sure what was going on, but for the blood spraying out of the wounds and darkening the sands under the gladiators’ feet. Berg locked up with another sword and shield guy again, the Jackal circling around him to find an angle and Kurt seeing Rodo dropping to his knees, screamed and pulled back leaving him to his fate.
Emerson ended his roll just as the Hoplite now half-hopping half-dragging on a bad leg, pulled his spear back goring Rodo’s chest and flipped it in his arms, to swing with it like a long sword. The knight charged him from the side, feet digging in the soft sand and his knees protesting. He tossed the scythe to get his attention, the hidden under the full-face helm gladiator recoiling, when it smacked him on the metal covered shoulder and then clanked on the side of his helm.
The hoplite paused mid-move and twisted around, spear whooshing when it repositioned. Emerson jumped just as the long weapon swung in a corkscrew uppercut, but it caught him on the right shin and send him sprawling down. He landed on his shield, teeth rattling and his back hurting, a cut on his leg bleeding. Emerson dodged to the right, kicking his legs and the grip on the Dimachaerus sword unfamiliar.
The weapon too light for its length.
The Hoplite cursed missing his chance and looked back for his friends. Emerson went at him, an eye on the unfolding struggle behind them and the sound coming from the stands deafening. Berg had retreated as he was facing two opponents, bringing the Jackal closer to Kurt now, but the man backed away again too scared to commit and the experienced gladiator got between them.
Ah, curse that fool, Emerson thought. The merchant’s dead.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
The Jackal made his move, heavy sword swinging high and Kurt stumbled back panicked. The old Champion cackled like the animal curved on his closed helm and twisted around to attack Berg instead. The former guard turned brigand, guessed his move and turned around to put his shield on it, the heavy sword landing with so much force it severed a part of it away. Berg recoiled, his arm numb and stumbled back. He made to step to the side, but got half a sword’s length of blade in the kidneys from the tricky sword and shield guy and went down.
Emerson had minutes to live at the most.
Get yer shite together and get this over with, while yer still fighting one opponent at a time son, his father admonished him gruffly. Don’t be a plaguin’ fool!
The Hoplite realized he only had to stall him for a bit and they had the win, so he started stumbling back towards his friends. Emerson, the scowl on his face permanent, stooped to pick up Rodo’s spear, the young man withering away bleeding out on the sands and charged the retreating gladiator head on.
The Hoplite cursed and shoved the spear in Emerson’s face. The former knight ducked under it deftly, but his opponent pulled it away and jumped back. He swung it from the right next, but Emerson blocked it with his own spear and pushed it aside. He immediately lunged forward with his sword. The gladiator pulled his torso back, the blade missed, but Emerson let go of the spear and snatched him by the collar of his plate with his left arm.
“Damnation—” the Hoplite cursed, before Emerson’s returning blade plunged deep into his groin from below his skirt. The man shuddered, hot blood and urine blasting down between them and Emerson shoved him away, hard eyes on the unfolding drama near them.
The Jackal dodged a scared piercing attack from Kurt, grabbed the retreating spear with his left arm and dislodged it from the man’s hands. He stuck it on the ground, the crowd erupting in frenzied adulation. Emerson picked up the dying Hoplite’s spear snapping to action, hefted it in his arm and satisfied sheathed his sword and switched hands. The sword and shield guy banged at his shield for some reason and the Jackal a couple of meters from him, took Kurt’s head clean off with a well-placed swing of his heavy blade.
You’d hear less enthusiasm in a wedding.
The head of the hapless ex-merchant bounced on the sands leaving a bloody trail behind it and the old Champion took a moment to bask in the crowd’s reverence and exaltation.
“Rejoice Ani Ta-Ne!” The Jackal of the Sands bellowed. “For I have returned!”
The whole arena shook, everyone on the stands going berserk and Emerson decided this was as good a chance as any, to test whether proper steel blades worked as well as he remembered from the war, or not. He hefted the heavy spear high over his shoulder, made a quick step forward and hurled it with a snap putting his joints to the task, towards the sword and shield guy.
The man himself half-eyeing Emerson, half-grinning at the crowd’s wild reactions to his friend, –and there were some surreal moments, from cocks and breasts at full display, to a mini orgy under the dignitaries rows- saw his move and made a step to the side raising his shield.
Right where Emerson had aimed.
The spear traveled ten meters in less than a second, the strength and skill behind the toss incredible, pierced through the wooden shield, nailed it on the man’s chest, went through said chest and exploded out his back.
Emerson was sprinting on hurting knees already, sword in hand. The crowd gasped in horror the enthusiasm dying out and the Jackal swung around to see what had happened. The gladiator dropped on his knees, chin on his chest, blood pouring out of his mouth and Emerson jumped over him, thick sandaled foot stepping on his shoulder. He landed on the soft sand, feet sliding and ducked under the Jackal’s swing first, before sidestepping out of a brutal downward cut, the heavy blade hitting the ground and bouncing up.
The Jackal growled angry and twisted around, as Emerson kept circling around him looking for an opening. The heavy blade came at him again, but the former knight just stepped away, seemingly light on his feet. In reality, Emerson’s back was numb and hurting, his knees were protesting on every step and his chest was heavy. Emerson could drop from severe dehydration and exhaustion at any point now, but his opponent didn’t know that.
The Jackal took a step back, but Emerson stepped forward always moving in an arc, ever closing. The man hissed in frustration, constantly adjusting his stance trying to expect Emerson’s attack, but the former knight kept stalling, as if he had all the time in the world. The crowd that was cursing his lineage for the past several minutes for killing fan favorites, started murmuring at the champion’s inaction. To them it appeared the Jackal was on the defensive and actively stalked by the unknown gladiator.
“What are you waiting for?” The Jackal growled, but Emerson just smiled, his lips a dirty white and cracked. The crowd started booing frustrated.
The Jackal realizing he didn’t have all the time in the world like his opponent, cursed and moved forward, left hand reaching for his second sword. Emerson faked an attack, made two steps forward himself and stopped him. The crowd erupted in protestation, turning against the aging former champion. Emerson smiled tauntingly again and the Jackal had enough. He went on the attack, heavy sword swinging right and then left. Emerson dodged the first and furthermost attack, parried the next to the side. The Jackal swung at him again, his hand tiring as he was using a heavier blade against a fast-moving opponent and Emerson deflected it down and swung upwards in the same breath tearing at his fancy armor.
The man recoiled shocked, the mail preventing an injury, but Emerson was on him in the next breath, as he’d closed up the distance. The Jackal made to raise his sword to protect his chest, but Emerson attacked the hand instead and slashed at it below the elbow right where the vambraces ended. His blade hit bone. The Jackal howled and lost his sword, the arm painted red in his blood. He faltered back, in order to reach for his shortsword, but Emerson kicked him right at the side of the knee.
The crowd gasped in disbelief, the noise covering the sound of bone breaking. Emerson stepped around his thrashing opponent still looking for an opening and moving confidently on the soft sand like the desert predator depicted on his opponent’s armour. His whole body was in a battle rhythm and focused on the task at hand. The Jackal realizing he’d lost the fight cursed and went for his battle-axe instead. He managed to get it out, but Emerson retreated casually from him, walked to where his opponent had left Kurt’s spear and got it out of the ground.
The sound inside the arena returned, as everyone got up on their feet to watch the final moments of the fight. Emerson walked back with spear and sword in hand, as the Jackal forced himself upright, the bone on his knee pushing the skin out, the whole joint area a mauve-black. The old champion cursed, but flipped the battle-axe on his left hand and caught it deftly. Emerson circled him again not to give him an angle, while cutting on the distance between them.
He could have gone for a finish immediately.
But this he did for the crowd. Revenue for the Ludus meant Ziba had a chance to escape her fate. The Jackal kept turning on his bad knee, right arm bleeding freely, but he was staring at his own death now and he knew it.
A man dies the first time he steps foot on the sands, read the saying written outside the arena. Next to its gates written in bold ancient Cofol script that resembled the Imperial now lost letters. It just takes a couple o’ more times afore he realizes it.
The Jackal of the Sands saw Emerson pausing out the corner of his eye and took his chance. He twisted around hand already moving for the toss. Sometime mid-move he probably realized that Emerson had come even closer. Not close enough to reach him with his sword, but the old man had also a spear with him. A cheap one, the shaft bend and tip made of rusted iron. Kurt had the worst weapon of them all.
But a bad weapon even a rusted one, is good enough to go through a man’s neck. The skin soft there, the area very sensitive. Be it if yer famous, or very skilled. Young, or old. No matter if you’re wearing good quality armour, or ye carry fancy weapons. A spear through the neck will kill you dead ten times out of ten.
Even if it’s just a cheap blade.
It is, what it is.
So the Jackal of the Sands died that way.
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“The winner and our exalted city’s new champion!” The announcer yelled hoarsely, the sound of the crowd going berserk at the stands, drowning out his booming voice. But the experienced announcer gave it his all managing to break through the noise in the end, putting some touches of finesse and enthusiasm into the unknown name. “Baallaaard… of Lesia!”
If nothing else, the man was a solid professional.
Emerson put his leg on the dead champion’s chest and got the spear out, the man toppling over and falling on his back. He walked over him and removed the steel helm, the craftsmanship on it exquisite. Still walking slowly Emerson gathered the weapons, all about him slaves and dottores’ rushing in the arena to help the wounded. The celebrations on the stands indifferent to the knight.
You don’t celebrate death and all people must leave this Realm with dignity.
With a groan of pain, the scowl on his face returning, Emerson started towards the doors to the tunnels leading out of the arena. People screaming over his head, men, women and children dancing elated. Their enthusiasm grotesque to the aging former knight.
> It is difficult to gauge one’s feelings or thoughts, when records of their deeds are seen through the prism of time and personal preference. Historians are naught but distant witnesses, trying to decode tales and events that happened far from them.
>
> Still whether the man enjoyed the fame thrusted upon his person or not, is a mystery he took with him.
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> Ballard of Lesia walked out of the arena of Ani Ta-Ne a champion, this is an undisputed fact.
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> In a short four months’ time, in the vaunted Great Pits of Fu De-Gar, the Pale Jackal as he came to be known, would have his chance to become a legend.
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>
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> Embellished by
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> Lord Sirio Veturius
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> From verbal tales of the Peninsula, ahistorical personal accounts and the extensive writings of the play-writer Asmudius who wrote about the Jackal extensively in his famed ‘Chiliad’.
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> Circa 206 NC
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> The Fall of Heroes
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> Chapter XXIV
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> (Sir Emerson Lennox, Ballard of Lesia)
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> Tales of Greenwhale Peninsula
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> -Pale Jackal & the Pearl of Ani Ta-Ne-
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> Volume II
>
> Prelude to the 998th Games
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> (Mordax, the Unyielding Gargoyle)
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> Last month of autumn,
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> 189 NC
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