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Sir Emerson Lennox
Ballard of Lesia
Mista Savar
The Pits of Fu De-Gar
Part I
-It’s like Bacchanalia, Ballard-
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> Kuntur-Ki Tsuparin’s funeral celebration,
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> Commonly known as
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> (Mista* Savar** claiming the Pearl of Ani Ta-Ne)
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> -
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> Wall carving over the arched entrance
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> of the ancient arena at Fu De-Gar
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> Circa 191 NC
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> *Mista, translated Light grey, Pale
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> –in the austere old Cofol of Greenwhale Peninsula.
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> **Savar, translated Jackal, mad dog
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> –bastardization of the analogous Zilan word, in the austere old Cofol of Greenwhale Peninsula.
image [https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx2UGhazO8arnHUvCUkOYR9db2F8xMRwokewi8hQj8fXcTP6_eRhGmz6MNQogNgEz6R0IwuCiCjvwVci4MVOLy4agiPdLeeOAZ0A6XkFi_UaywG2hMpmncnSGrh_M6sVUkwyTtqmgpFa6y0DL3z3HrCmvgXNN0RdO-bGDvVLbkCTx-Y_NPtlYjFf15/s1795/Fu%20degar%20part%202.jpg]
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> People said that if not for the Cedar Sisters, the imposing mountain range that was the sources of Kineham River, the Great Oasis would have been swallowed by the Dry Sea eons back and everything turned into a wasteland. The mountains kept the desert sands back and the rich soil allowed the large forests of palms and thin-trunked Cedars only found in the region to flourish.
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> Fu De-Gar, an important Imperial Port built during the war for the Plague Isles, had several ruins from that distant era. Despite neighboring Wetull, with the uninhabited Shark Isles being the only closer land, the place was taken over by the Cofol desert tribes in the centuries that had followed the end of the war. The Zilan had their own internal problems to fund an aggressive colonization of the Peninsula.
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> The Desert Cofols of the Peninsula, had detracted more than they had added to the sprawling city port. Harsh and believed to be uncultured, a mere step above the Horselords of the Great Steppe, the Garites were not particularly liked by the other more sophisticated Cofols of Greenwhale Peninsula. They built their city using practical angles with little fanfare and a lot of limestone, avoiding the circular type, ultra-flowery surface decorations the other Cofols employed.
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> While bland comparing to its counterparts, it still offered an imposing view as it sprouted out of the border of the oasis. At the distant westernmost edges of the city, the Imperial buildings still stood, the ruins of the Arena and the old temple pyramids still visible on the twin rocky uplands.
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> Across from them and massive in its size was the ancient mostly closed square amphitheater, the locals had called the Pits for the underground cells it had and because they were unable to pronounce the more difficult Zilan word. The name stuck and although seemingly vulgar, it described the old stadium and arena very accurately. Once upon a time it could fit the whole city in it for a big event, having a seating capacity of over eighty thousand, but ‘corrections’ from the Cofols in the years since it was built and the increase in population of the city, meant that less than half of them would attend the events, or could afford to.
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> Once a year the city was flooded with Gladiators and visitors from all over the Peninsula, the capital of the Khanate and other big Horselord cities of the mainland. So for two weeks at the start of each New Year, the often overlooked ‘Ugly Sister’ of the Peninsula was once again the center of commerce and interest.
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> The ancient amphitheater, coated with fresh paint and thoroughly cleaned up, was packed to the rafters with undulating crowds for the Gladiatorial Games. Another remnant of the Empire the Peninsula refused to let go, despite the Khan’s disdain for the events. Eventually even the rigid Horselords started participating and dispatched their own gladiators. A sport based in slavery, it eroded the Khan’s own empire and returned to it a custom that was the main reason for his initial rebellion.
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> The more one stayed close to the beautiful creatures of the Peninsula, people say till this day, the more he loses himself. As with everything else, a hefty amount of exaggeration weights down this argument as well.
The camel snorted and stopped in the middle of the busy street. It pulled its mauve lips back, showing a great number of foul stubby teeth, when its handler yanked hard at the reins to get the big animal moving. Some protested unwilling to wait him out under the bright sun and others found it rather silly, even laughed about it.
Paikan Abu-Ra, the makeup running at the corners of his eyes, groaned loudly and popped his sweaty head out of the carriage’s door small window.
“Do something about it Rodo!”
The young Lorian, face pale and still weak from almost getting killed in the arena, blinked and stared at the slow moving animal.
“Salted cunts and oiled arseholes,” Paikan grunted seeing him unsure. “If you can’t fight for me and even obey simple instructions, I might as well sell you for fodder!”
Emerson eyed the overweight Lanista and Paikan rolled his eyes at the warning. The camel finally moving its feet stopping him from saying something they both would regret.
“Siba-Kal’s gotten two replacements in,” Troy, a fighter owned by Angus Bala-Fe, told him with a yawn. A Lorian from 'Raoz' with a Lesia accent and former ‘smuggler’, he had joined the group representing their city. Emerson long suspected the twenty some years old man had been a manhunter dealt a bad hand.
Perhaps rightly so.
“I know,” Emerson replied and started walking again. Paikan’s carriage following right behind them.
“Are they any good?” The man asked him, golden earring catching the female crowd’s attention along with his physique and roguish looks.
“What’s the format again?” Emerson asked, himself not as interest in the lewd looks thrown their way.
“Every city fights the other in rounds,” Troy replied, thick black beard carefully trimmed on his face. “The city with the most fighters left standing wins the event and may challenge the champion, or forfeit.”
“What’s the benefit in that?” Emerson rustled.
“You keep the coin and live?”
“Because the Northman is unbeatable,” Emerson noted.
“Eh, they say he stands a giant,” Troy explained. “Can kill a man with a punch.”
“I’ve met a giant,” Emerson rustled. “He wasn’t that good of a fighter.”
“This one is,” Troy replied. “Mean as fuck. We make it to the final, we take the coin and go home to spend it.”
“You intent on staying a slave for the rest of your life?” Emerson asked with a grimace.
“I aim to retire a gladiator,” Troy said. “If I earn enough, I’ll be free as well, Angus will see to that.”
“Not everyone has the luxury of time,” Emerson argued, thinking of Ziba.
“Paikan will let you step down any time you want, train his fighters,” Troy said. “What are you talking about?”
Paikan wouldn’t release her though. He wasn’t stupid.
“Nothing,” Emerson grunted seeing them reach the outer buildings of the arena.
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The two Issirs looked back at him with the brash of youth. They were brothers according to Lanista Siba-Kal, or that was the story he’d told Lord Letakin to fund their training. In their twenties they appeared dangerous and full of vigor.
They both had light green eyes and the same height and facial features.
They might be brothers after all, Emerson thought.
“You were lucky, we didn’t make the cut old man,” One of them said.
“Who are you?” Emerson asked eyeing the rest of the gladiators training in their part of the closed arena.
“Qathor that’s my brethren Belor,” The young gladiator explained.
“Why do ye have two swords, Belor?” Emerson taunted.
“Qathor,” The man replied with a grimace. “I’m a Dimachaerus.”
“Are ye ambidextrous?” Emerson asked rubbing the back of his head.
“Ah… the fuck is that?” Qathor asked unsure.
“Do ye favor both yer arms?”
“The right.”
“Show me how ye move with the left then,” Emerson told him.
“You have a blade?” Qathor asked him stepping forward.
“I do, but I don’t need it,” Emerson replied casually. “I’ll give ye two chances. But each time I’ll hurt ye a bit more, so keep that in mind afore continuing.”
His brother laughed.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Qathor, wearing a shirt and no armour stared at the taller and much older knight. Emerson was naked above his pants and had no weapons.
“Your master will have my balls if I hurt you before the games,” Qathor argued.
“Trust me, if you do I might as well not appear in the games at all.”
Qathor smirked and stared at Troy.
“Don’t look at me boy,” The Lorian said. “I’ve seen him fight at the games. I was there while ye were sucking yer brother’s cock.”
Qathor pressed his lips into a thin line, dropped one of his swords, gripped the other with his muscular left hand and charged full speed at Emerson with a mighty bellow.
It lost him whatever dexterity he had in that arm.
He made two quick steps and swung his blade towards the calmly watching him knight. The moment the young man had committed, Emerson took a step back and the sword missed his midriff. Qathor grunted at the near miss, his whole torso half-turning following the arc of his blade and made to pull his arm back, but Emerson had extended his right out, caught him by the wrist and shoved the sword on his chest, the blade almost taking out Qathor’s eye.
Qathor tried to unglue the arm and sword from his chest but realized he couldn’t and raised his fist to punch Emerson hard on the ribs and right below the armpit. Once, twice. His eyes ogling when he got no reaction out of the older man. Emerson raised his left arm after the second punch and slapped Qathor right at the right ear with a full palm.
The unassuming blow devastating.
Qathor lost his footing, his eyes rolling up into his head and almost went down on his knees, but Emerson kept him upright, after he retrieved the sword and tossed it to a smirking Troy.
“Breathe through the nose,” He advised the weak-kneed warrior. “Take shorter breaths for a while. It will wear off.”
“The fuck was that?” Belor spat angrily and Emerson eyed him under thick black brows, with plenty of grey in them.
“Yer brother shall use a shield henceforth,” He clarified in his famous firm and didactical manner. “And use only the one sword.”
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Lord Dekerut Tsuparin, had chosen to have his son funeral just before the start of the games. He set the funeral pyre right in the middle of the arena and tied the slaves to be burned alive on posts at the four corners of the six by six square empty dome made out of cedar firewood. Empty because the old Lord of Fu De-Gar didn’t have his son’s body returned to him, as the Issirs had their crows feast on it, at least that was the rumor from the faraway Eikenport.
The noble houses of the peninsula had graced the ‘White Scorpion’ either by being there in person like the Khan’s Sea Master Zeke Letakin from Ani Ta-Ne, the War Leader Chubin Amin from Lai Zel-Ka, the Keeper of the Purse, or the Khanate’s Treasurer, Jain Elur-Sol from Que Ki-La and Telae Pars Ni-Min from the city of Dinar, or by sending a high enough member of the family such as the ridiculously wealthy Don-Iv Sopat from Lai Zel-Ka.
The gladiators were to stand in their loincloths on the West side of the arena waiting for the sun to come down and ‘escort’ the deceased young scion’s soul away to the Land of Shades. The man’s body was to be burned at that point severing his link with the mortal realm. Since no body was available, a young male slave was put in his place along with the four young females for the wives that the young man didn’t have. The rumors were Kuntur wasn’t going to ever get married as he enjoyed male company with abandon, but since it was his father throwing the funeral, this detail was brushed off.
So two Issirs, a Cofol and a Lorian female had been tied there to burn.
Ziba had survived this part. Emerson’s black eyes found her across the sands in the large crowd of slaves that were to dance after the fire was lit to the sounds of young Kuntur-Ki Tsuparin’s favorite music and holiday. The band that was to perform this rendition of Valimae Lilt, over a hundred musicians strong, amongst them forty heavy frame drums, forty double flutes, twenty sistrums and a single lute, stood at the North side of the large arena on a custom stand. Effectively this was a Zilan imperial band with no Zilan amongst them.
The heavily painted and mostly naked Ziba-Ra, but for the jewelry she carried on her blue and gold coated body flashed him a smile and Emerson grimaced caught unawares. While there were a lot of strikingly beautiful slaves near her, carrying even more jewelry and exotic looks, Ziba stood out to the knight’s eyes even with her blond hair gathered in a very tight elaborate bun like everyone else.
“Damn,” Troy rustled nigh impressed. “I’d heard you gotten yourself a slave for your win Ballard, but never expected that.”
Emerson grunted and eyed the former manhunter somberly. Troy chuckled and pointed him to a gigantic Northman, Mordax ‘The Unyielding Gargoyle’ standing two heads above everyone else, almost at seven foot five. Mordax looked with interest at the amount of female flesh displayed across from them.
Emerson didn’t like this at all. Behind them on the half full stand, where the officials had gathered to watch the ‘funeral’ the elder Dekerut Tsuparin stood up and raised a cup to the Lords and Lanistas that had come to his city.
“No father should ever lose a child afore its time,” He said skipping the usual Cofol pretentious openings, face unadorned and clean shaven. His grey-white hair long and thick still. “Kuntur loved the games though and dancing with any type of partner, the latter a thorn in my side,” A couple of lords laughed at that, none more than a heavily inebriated Don-Iv, the young man’s eyes a gold and blue color that matched the paint on the slaves skin. “Since I can’t bring the summer to him, nor can I move the games, I’ll make a festival of this single night. The weather is pleasant, the night beautiful, the pyre will bring us even more heat and the dancers will give us and him something to remember afore leaving this mortal realm behind.”
“Hear-hear!” Lord Letakin agreed and raised his cup, with most of the others joining in and even Paikan, dressed in his best finery for the occasion, who’d kept a quiet presence until now, agreed with enthusiasm.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Don-Iv Sopat was heard amidst the generally tame replies and well-wishers. “Start this darn thing already!” He complained garishly. “I have an aching cock here looking for a keen recipient and ye old bastards don’t appear thusly inclined!”
Half of the lords present laughed at his words, Lord Tsuparin threw a murderous look his way and an official wearing a ridiculous hat with a long multicolored plumage and fake large ears, stepped forward and ordered the torch carriers to light the fire.
“What does he mean?” Emerson rustled seeing the young scion being congratulated on the official’s stands.
“It’s like Bacchanalia Ballard,” Troy explained to him, his dark brown eyes shining. “How do ye guys do it in Lesia?”
Emerson crooked his mouth. “Let me guess, you’re from Aegium,” He told the smiling gladiator.
“Novesium, haha! But it’s close enough to not really matter right?” The man guffawed, in a very non-mourning tone for the occasion. “Light up old man for crying out loud! It’s not your fucking relative!”
Right, the sin cities of the coast, Emerson thought and cracked his neck right and left, an eye on the servants lighting the funeral pyre, over the distasteful cries of the slaves tied up there, since despite Paikan’s assurances, the poor souls were still alive. Ziba had lost most of her color when she realized what she’d escaped at the last moment.
People had died for that respite, Emerson thought. More will soon follow, he added seeing Don-Iv eyeing ravenously the striking Lorian girl from his spot. Ziba despite having her figure painted like everybody else stood out for everyone after all.
The flames jumped out of the resin and oil soaked firewood, crackling and blowing at the soft breeze coming from the coast and the port. Black smoke diminished the light for a brief moment afore the flames leapt over the dome setting everything ablaze and filling the large ancient arena with shadows.
Emerson thought he saw spirits moving, dark figures coming out of the dry sands and the faces of the crowd watching ecstatic from the stands changing. The screams of those set alight and the smell of roasted flesh stomach-turning.
“Hey!” Someone boomed from the stands, a woman next to him baring her breasts, face painted a light blue, almost cobalt. Emerson noticed almost everyone had their face covered in heavy makeup and their hair coated in blue paint, but for the Lords behind him.
“Hey-Hey!” A musician standing next to the single lute player responded to the call and brought the double flute on his mouth to strike the first notes. The whole arena turning quiet for a brief moment as the garish music traveled every stand and reached the sands where Emerson stood. The lute answered the flute’s call and the next moment every flute started playing the same rousing tune, the crowd jumping up on the stands and shouting wildly.
HEY!
HEY!
HEY-HEY!
The drums joining after the first turn and the harsh vulgar tempo starting anew even louder. This time everyone joined in with cries and feet thumping the ground, hands rapping at tables with abandon. Every third breath, the flutes and the solo lute stopped playing and only the drums were heard, the sound ominous and primordial, every instrument starting again after the same interval. The tempo ever increasing, it invaded Emerson’s skin and bones, raised the hairs at the back of his neck.
The fire reaching ever higher and the sounds of the people melting on the burning poles lost in the pandemonium. Three minutes into the rousing tune, every instrument stopped playing but for the lute, the notes struck hurting Emerson’s soul and almost lost into the ecstatic dance of the crowd. A slave girl started dancing around the funeral pyre, her body moving spastically, every limb responding to every note. Long legs kicking out, fit thighs trembling, well-shaped hips gyrating and arms raised to the skies.
The music started again and every slave across from them started dancing to the rhythm, the crowd on the stands going berserk and scenes of insane debauchery unfolding almost everywhere. Ziba danced around the flaming corpses, the custom wooden dome collapsed by this point, with her face half-shining half-dark. Lithe body gyrating and jumping into every wild roar of the crowd, twisting on every high note and every beat of the drum.
Someone fell from the stands to his death, another following soon after. A mature woman got ganged up by three teenagers, an old man was sucking a young boy’s cock and behind Emerson a delirious Don-Iv started calling for the guards.
“Bring me that slave!”
“Milord, it’s not your slave,” The Garite official with the ridiculous hat protested, Paikan standing next to Don-Iv licking his lips trying to get out of his drunken haze. The pandemonium inside the arena eerie.
“I’ll buy her!” Don cried and tossed a heavy leather purse to Paikan, who failed to catch it mid-air and it dropped on their table, sending cups and carafe’s away, spilling a fortune in gold and gems on the surface.
“Good grief!” Lord Lekatin admonished him. “Have her suck your cock and be done with it, what’s this philistine behavior Sopat?”
“I want that slave Paikan,” Don said disregarding the elder lord.
“I have her promised to my champion,” Paikan replied bravely, or trying to up the prize, Emerson wasn’t sure about that. He eyed Ziba giving it all into her dance, a stimulating and lewd display if he’d ever seen one, the pride on her face infuriating the knight. All while the lords almost came to blows on the stands, afore a furious Lord Tsuparin stood up amidst the chaos of the arena that had people copulating in the open, naked dancers thrusting themselves right and left to the wild rhythm and a huge funeral pyre smack in the middle, where five people had just burned into a crisp.
“Enough!” Tsuparin bellowed his words lost amidst the general turmoil. Emerson felt a vein throb on his temple with every beat of the drums, every high note like a knife between the ribs. “Paikan your man isn’t going to fight Mordax anyway. Give the slave to Sopat and be done with it!”
Paikan glanced at the scowling Emerson, the only person inside the arena not dancing to the rousing tempo and gulped down.
“My man won’t fight at all, if I take the slave from him, milord,” He said quickly.
“Why is that?”
“That was his payment for winning the title.”
“Is he an idiot?” The fat Lord Elur-Sol commented genuinely perturbed. The Khan’s treasurer looked at the aged knight standing under the two meter above ground stands with curiosity.
“Bah, if he doesn’t fight Mordax will have her as prize for the games,” Tsuparin decided. “Or I’ll toss her to the pyre. Perhaps I should have done that in the first place.”
“Wait,” Don gasped, as if he’d just waken up from his drunken stupor. “I don’t want her killed for crying out loud. Let the man compete.”
“Sopat,” Tsuparin admonished him. “You started this whole ordeal. Are you backing out now? I can’t have a Lanista insulting your family. Your brother will never forget it, nor will he be amused.”
Paikan opened his mouth to protest the ‘insult’ part but Don stopped him raising an arm and spilling some of the wine on his expensive blue robes.
“Leave Phon out of it, he has no sense of humor,” He said with a droll. “I just want to hear her moan, I’m a simple man and I think I might have had enough of your fine wine my Lord.”
Emerson frowned.
“Goodness me,” Elur-Sol said. “You can’t hear anything over this dreadful noise. Let alone a single slave.”
Don-Iv shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ll pay for your animals,” He told the thoughtful Tsuparin. “You have three troupes of beastmasters rented I hear.”
“How many days?” Tsuparin asked him with a smirk.
“All of them,” Don replied with the affluence of someone carrying the realm’s largest purse.
“Paikan get your slave here, so we can watch her with ease,” Tsuparin ordered the panicking Lanista that was watching Emerson’s expression. “Mordax will work on her for Don’s pleasure.”
What?
“Milord,” Paikan said struggling to be heard over the music and the crowd’s crazy shenanigans.
“What is it Paikan?” Tsuparin admonished him losing his patience. “Is it coin you seek? For you’re very close to receive my wrath right now!”
Paikan all but fainted on the spot.
“I’ll do it!” Emerson barked as loud as he could and Don turned his young face on him surprised. Then slowly his eyes relaxed in understanding.
“Nobody asked you!” Tsuparin growled, but the young scion stopped him with a small curtsy.
“I prefer the old man to do it,” Don said quickly and smiling he added. “Your orc is a fine fighter milord, but I wager ye the coin on that table Paikan’s man is the more committed lover.”
> Pars-Nimin started chuckling uncontrollably is the rumor, something that stunned the Cofol lords present as the apathetic bookish man rarely had these kind of outbursts in public, but such was the mood all around them, the sum spilled out of that purse so exorbitant, as there were even cut diamonds mixed in with the gold coins, the music so stimulating and lewd that everyone went along with it.
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> So a feverish Sir Emerson got to couple with an ecstatic Ziba-Ra in front of forty thousand wildly cheering them on spectators, with the band playing in the background. It must have been an otherworldly experience.
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> The garish scene, ‘Mista Savar claiming the Pearl of Ani Ta-Ne’ is carved in detail at the ancient arena and can be witnessed today by all the visitors above the main south arched gates.