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Sir Emerson Lennox
Ballard of Lesia
Mista Savar
The Pits of Fu De-Gar
Part II
-Legends of the Arena-
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> In a sense some men excelled in this barbaric sport.
>
> Tis a special breed this.
>
> Be it a just war, or dishonest raiding.
>
> Be it a noble tourney, or the bloody sands of the Arena.
>
> They entered a nobody and finished the day,
>
> As plaguin’ legends.
>
>
>
> -
>
> Sir Emerson Lennox,
>
> Commonly celebrated in the Old Cofol of the Peninsula as Mista Savar,
>
> Also referred to as the Grey War leader, Pale Jackal and Ballard of Lesia in Common.
>
> Dictum immortalized inside the great hall of the Military School of Fu De-Gar
>
> And home of the famed ‘Unbroken Chiliad’.
>
> Circa 192 NC
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Part II(A)
Emerson watched the sun slowly coming up over the Great Oasis and spill its light over the round watchtowers of Mercy Gulf. The city slow to awaken, three days after the orgy at the Pits had spilled out in turn into the streets of Fu De-Gar with almost everyone participating. Ziba stirred on his bed, herself ever late to wake up and never missing the chance to escape whatever few chores she had for the day.
Perhaps for the better, he thought.
Some of the more nervous Gladiators were already on the sands trying to perfect their moves, as if it was possible to learn in a day what you haven’t learn in a life.
Perhaps it is though, he thought.
He walked to the small table and checked on the Jackal’s swords. The heavy spatha he had grinded down to make lighter and the armour he had mended, leaving the helm as it was. There was a knock on his door and he went to open it. It wasn’t locked as running away was a stupid idea. Where would you go? Why risk your life for freedom, when you could win it in the arena?
The way Emerson saw it, you had the same chances of dying either way.
“Good grief,” Don-Iv Sopat said walking inside, a perfumed hankie on his nose. “I think I’ve ruined my lungs walking on this dreadful sand!”
“Lord Sopat,” Emerson rustled not pleased with the very early morning visit.
“Not a lord, haha,” Don retorted waving him off, an eye on Ziba’s naked form on Emerson’s bed. “Plenty of others come afore me I’m afraid.”
“A big family?” Emerson asked getting between him and the sleeping slave girl.
“Ahm, you could say that,” The Sopat scion replied. “I have a sister you know, so I can understand your reluctance to share.”
Emerson licked his dry lips slowly.
“I don’t think it’s quite the same Sopat.”
“Call me Master Don-Iv,” Don said humbly. “And I assure you it is. But alas I wasn’t given the opportunity…” Seeing Emerson’s solemn stare he cleared his throat and sighed. “A Lorian is it? Goddess you people used to be more fun.”
“I reckon you’ll find little sympathy for yer needs in both Lesia and Regia, Sopat. Much less so in Kaltha.”
Don blinked unsure on his meaning. “Anyways, I presume you haven’t sated yourself still, but I want to inform you that if you fall in the arena, I intent to buy Ziba-Ra from Paikan. So you don’t have to worry about her.”
Emerson grimaced and glared at the shorter well-dressed man.
“I intent to win the games, Sopat,” He grunted.
“You should, I’m betting good money on you,” Don replied surprising him.
“You can’t afford yer own gladiators?” Emerson asked, just as a slave girl entered bringing a small table with refreshments. She opened a bottle of honeyed wine and set two goblets down for them.
“My brother thinks it a better investment to use the capable slaves as caravan guards, or at the mines,” The young man replied looking down the cavernous cut on the slave girl’s dress and her small breasts with interest.
“Isn’t it too early for alcohol?” Emerson probed.
“Ah, I haven’t finished my nightly excursions yet,” Don explained to him. “I find myself restless these days,” He smiled at Hasti-Ra and she returned it.
“Does the master wish me to leave the honey cup here?” Hasti asked flirting shamelessly. “Perhaps he prefers to add more in his wine?”
“You know what?” Don replied returning her smile. “You do it for me pretty.”
Hasti obliged him with a blush and left them soon after.
“Her looks are poor,” Don explained to a scowling Emerson while tasting the wine. “Decent body, but that’s just about it. Though there’s some hunger in there, if one is well-versed in carnal matters.”
“It was kind of ye to lie to her,” Emerson replied mockingly.
“Hah, it’s an expression,” Don retorted chuckling. “Learned it from a slave. He used to be a guard in Rida. Mercenaries used it over there.”
“Used to be?” Emerson asked him, refusing the goblet Don had offered him. Ziba stirred again behind him.
“Rida is no more. Altarin as well. The Khan’s army burned it down aye,” Don said and Emerson grimaced at the tragic news. “But it’s been seven months now. Or nine? Ah, who cares?”
“How many slaves from Rida?” Emerson asked him through his teeth.
“A lot, but as many people died in the fires and the fighting,” The last word Don put in quotes. “You had family there? Some made it out. My man would have escaped as well, but he opted to defend the bridge instead of the port. He left that to the mercenaries and the Lord of Altarin. It wasn’t a good decision on his part.”
Emerson put a heavy hand on his shoulder. Don made to step back, but the power behind the Knight’s grip was monstrous so he gave up.
“The Lord of Altarin?” Emerson rustled his stare intimidating. Don gulped and then drained his goblet.
“Aye, he tried to help the Duke defend his city, but they failed obviously. The man’s a crook.”
“What was his name?” Emerson asked a little disappointed. For a moment he believed Glen had made it out of the mines, but deep down he knew that was unlikely.
“The Lord’s? Eh, he’s a Reeves, a knight of sorts, but I was drunk when the letter was read to me and frankly devastated at my brother’s idiocy,” Don replied truthfully examining him with interest. Emerson grunted in disappointment and let go of his shoulder. Glen isn’t a plaguing knight. Curse ye! “The mercenary company though I remember well. It was called the Gallant Dogs,” Don added.
Emerson stood back shocked. “How do you know?”
“Their late captain apparently had used these words. To a fucking Gish of all things. Heavy drinkers the lot of them they left no tavern unexplored, so the tale spread,” Don explained. “Also the fact she led them, that Gish, you don’t find many companies led by one, right?”
Emerson nodded deep in thought. Jinx had made it out of Hellfort. Did that crafty Gish made it out of Rida as well? Why go there, to serve some Lord of Altarin? Some other cousin? Why bother, if the man wasn’t Glen?
“How do you know so much about this?” Emerson asked him.
Don smacked his lips and glanced at the sleeping Ziba one last time.
“That bastard married my sister,” He replied and carelessly tossed his goblet on the small table. “Then up and took her to Eikenport. They’ve been sucking my brother dry ever since. A crook, I tell you.”
Said the cretin that had just spend a fortune to watch a girl moan while getting plowed in front of thousands of people.
“Eikenport?” Emerson frowned, dismissing the rest of his drivel. “Why Eikenport?”
“The man’s a weirdo is why,” Don complained and checking they were not spied on, he added. “Traveling with Gish and crazy dwarves…” He sighed missing Emerson’s stupefied expression and continued. “And a fucking Wyvern.”
> “Is there a way out?” He had asked the dwarf, when the knight run away to find Marcus.
>
> “Possibly.”
>
> “I need more than that, mister Fikumin!” Emerson grunted.
>
> “We will have to move him,” The dwarf explained, adding some of the water Stiles brought him in the mortar, but drinking most of the wine, remembering to pour some of it in as well, in the end. Fikumin kept grinding at the mixture as he continued. “Slowly and through difficult terrain, in the dark.”
>
> Emerson blinked in surprise, as with the fog gone and the skies clearer, the late morning sun illuminated the yard outside more than adequately.
>
> “Where are you taking him?”
>
> “The mines,” Fikumin answered simply and used his finger to apply some of the poultice on the cleaned up wound. Stiles had helped him remove Glen’s armour earlier. “We’ll need a good head start, Sir Knight.”
Ziba pressed her body on his back and Emerson felt every soft curve under the thin silk light-pink colored ‘dress’ she had on. He put his freshly sharpened battleaxe down between his legs, the heavy weapon sinking into the fine sand and watched the brothers practicing together, one of them with sword and shield, the other with a spear. Troy near them. He let his eyes roam on the large almost empty of spectators’ arena, but for the Gladiators having a final practice for the games starting just before noon.
He reached behind him, sensing Ziba stir restless and grabbed her left thigh just after the end of her short skirt, the skin slippery there and hot as a burning coal.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” He rustled. It was extremely difficult to get her out of his mind. Emerson hadn’t planned to start something so late in his life, not after everything that had happened and the turn that life had taken in the last decade.
“Maybe I’m trying to keep you interested,” Ziba purred in his ear.
“I’m not a dog lass,” Emerson retorted. “I made the choice, so you don’t have to worry more on it.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Ziba flinched feeling his grip hardening at the curse word. “Ouch. You are very brutal.”
“Getting burned alive is brutal, or beaten with a stick,” Emerson grunted. “Learn to discern the bad from worse, what’s meaningful and decent. A time may come when people will judge you and yours based on the way ye behave.”
“I’m a plaguin’ slave Mista,” She reminded him using the Imperial word for grey and hugged his broad back in plain view of the other gladiators. Mordax paused and sheathed that cleaver of his to watch them with interest. The monstrous Northman’s head the size of a male lion’s, the long copper manner and beard laced with coal painted hairs, just like his face and eyes. Red on black.
“You don’t know what the future holds,” Emerson replied and getting up turned around to look into her youthful face. Cupped it carefully with both his hands, felt the blond curls on his callused fingers. “Or even tomorrow.”
“They’ll never let you win,” Ziba warned him. “Nor will Paikan ever let me go. Not if that means he can keep you tied to his fates forever.”
Emerson lowered his head and found her soft lips. The slave yielded her mouth allowing him passage. Her taste unforgettable. A man could lose himself easily here, forget about freedom and duties and opt to remain a slave forever. The Realm and the real Lord of Altarin. A war ravaging whole cities and a ruined unwed sister waiting back in Ballard. A man could do that and spare himself the trouble and all the pain of trying to get away, he thought and pulled back.
But Emerson couldn’t.
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There was a large entrance into the arena grounds. You reached it by going up the stairs from the tunnels located underneath, where the cells were. Another six smaller gates, two on each remaining side of the expansive square. Four balconies of stands over it packed with thousands of people. So many of them and so high over those standing on the sands near the final stand that you couldn’t make out their faces or even their gender. The latter always troublesome with Cofols.
The officials stand located on the western side of the massive enclosed arena, where Emerson had performed almost four days back, was also completely full this time. The lords seated nearer to the grounds and the action. The first row a mere two meters away above them.
Troy breathed once deeply and let it all out, just before the gates opened and the sound of the crowd came in, similar to the funeral but also different. More vicious, bloodthirsty.
“Whatever they throw at us, stay close and protect each other!” Emerson bellowed to be heard by his group and wore the Jackal’s helm on his head. His freshly shaven skin burning where the steel touched it. The armour and weapons smelling of oils and old leather. The dark tunnel leading to the arena of sweat and fear. A man cried out further up ahead, half of it an inspiring call, the other half despair.
“What’s the plan Ballard?” Troy asked him as they waited their turn to get out.
“No plan survives fighting the plaguin’ unknown,” Emerson rustled his face hardening. “So we’ll just go for the win.”
Whatever the cost.
(998th Games, Second Week)
The Nimra male lion let out a terrible growl, the young Cofol gladiator pissing himself next to him and the crowd quieted down for a brief moment shocked at the brutal violence. The lion’s mate, black mane gleaming in the sun coming down from the uncovered arena’s top, bloody dagger-sized fangs sunk into the man’s shoulder, responded with a guttural snarl. Its yellow eyes watching for the next victim.
The male lion charged ahead, one leap and it cut the distance in half, another and it landed on the gladiator’s chest, three sharp claws testing the chainmail there, the other taking a swipe at Emerson that circled around it. The Nimra missed, but the gladiator went down, got his face torn apart from the giant cat’s hind claws as it leaped ahead going after Emerson.
The knight twirled around, heart beating like a hammer in his chest, the twin swords of the dead Dimachaerus in his hands lashing out. It got the animal on its left side with one, the cut bleeding on its dark brown striped hide, but superficial. The Nimra lion growled in pain and jumped back, the two brothers keeping the lioness behind him at bay working together.
After Emerson and his gladiators had wiped out their first opponents on the third day of the games with everyone performing admirably, the magisters had pulled them from the single matches initially, –Ani Ta-Ne didn’t have to fight again anyway- but had thrown them against the beasts and a team of Gladiators from Que Ki-La. It was a surprise as their next match should had been the final set for the end of the second week of the games, in three days.
Emerson gasped to get some air into his lungs and caught a fighter running towards him, a Cofol, with a spear in his hands. He twisted around, half a breath in, arms opening wide to confuse the attacking fighter and felt the earth shaking under his hobnailed sandals.
Literally.
Damnation.
The fighter lost his footing, a cloud of grit billowing behind him and the next moment a bloody horn the size of Emerson’s thigh gored him through the chest. Studded leather armour, skin, flesh and bones all yielding to the monstrous strength in an outward eruption of gore and pulverized internal organs. The hapless fighter disappeared from his sight, half his body crushed under stubby hoofed feet, the other hurled away as the grey rhinoceros went right through him.
Emerson dove to the side, taking a page out of Glen’s book and the three tons beast missed him as it had continued charging forward without thought. He rolled on the sands, shoulder covered in bloody mire and a large piece of skin ripped out of someone’s back. He managed to stand on a knee breathing hard and watched the fat beast come to a stop near the first of the lions.
Despite the steel helm bothering him, he caught Troy out of the corner of his eye finishing off a heavily injured Issir that had almost gotten Emerson at the start of the fight. After that the beasts had been released over Paikan’s desperate protests and turned the whole ordeal into a bloody affair.
“Troy help the brothers!” He ordered the older fighter and the Lorian nodded behind his iron shield.
Ah, Emerson thought standing upright and sheathed his lighter swords. Let’s see if ye are any good against this fat chunk of mess. He reached over his back and got the Jackal’s heavy sword out, the handle on it a little large for his hands, but the grip was still solid and of quality leather, the edge on the blade sharp.
The more ye fear an animal, the more strength ye give it, his father used to say.
Fear is utterly useless, unless you have a sure-footed way out of yer plaguin’ troubles.
If ye don’t, it’s a burden.
Lose it son.
The late Lord of Ballard was speaking of direwolves and grizzly bears, but it was advice Emerson thought applied here as well.
The Nimra lion, bleeding from the sides snarled at the larger animal and the Rhino snorted, small black eyes turning to this new nuisance. The lion started circling it and Emerson standing about ten meters away started his run, half the stadium getting alive and standing up from their seats in turn.
By the time he leaped onto the Rhino’s broad back all the arena was on their feet and screaming with enthusiasm.
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Emerson botched the landing, growled in pain meeting bone with the inside of his thighs and was almost thrown back as the big beast charged ahead heading at full speed for the Nimra lion that had watched his crazy flight with cunning eyes. The wounded lion faked a left jump, but went the other way to confuse the onrushing mountain of flesh. Emerson bouncing on that broad back as if he was riding an unbroken horse, everything between his legs getting mauled, teeth rattling and eyes ogling, flipped the heavy sword in his hand and stabbed it hard down.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
He went for the right side of the large Rhino’s neck just after the bony shoulder on purpose, the blade cutting through thick skin and hardened fat and doing little damage. On purpose because the Nimra that had tricked the huge beast had gone that way taking advantage of its greater dexterity. The lion had jumped on all fours, twisted around in the air and bounced off its hind legs to attack the Rhino from the right side.
The huge beast snorted feeling the sting of Emerson’s blade and swung right violently turning that massive body around and into the leaping lion’s path. Emerson lost the handle on his sword and was thrown off the Rhino’s back. The knight flew briefly sideways, watching the Nimra eyeing him with hatred and then with absolute horror realizing what he’d done.
Emerson hit the ground much harder this time, every bone on his body protesting and the crowd let out a loud gasp of excitement seeing the Rhino catching the leaping Nimra mid-flight and savagely hurling it back at least ten meters. The lion stopped on the stone wall of the arena, broken in half and collapsed on the sands spitting blood out of his jaws and left eye. The right eye socket was empty, the fleshy orb lost on impact.
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Emerson staggered towards his group and the lioness realizing she was cornered snarled once and retreated. Twenty meters away the Rhino went over its half-dead mate and finished it off sending a chunk of its torso and a hind leg at the stands.
“Give me yer spear,” The knight ordered Belor and the young Issir tossed him his spear without a word.
“Bloody business this,” Troy commented, eyeing the grieving lioness.
“She won’t fight,” Emerson informed him and hefted the heavy spear in his hand. He’d trouble walking properly and his back was a mess.
“Can you kill that?” Troy queried seeing the knight heading towards the Rhino.
“Yer helping lad,” Emerson replied with a snort. “And you two shall keep an eye on the lioness.”
“Right,” Troy sighed and waved at the excited crowd. “I’ll need a name. Think I’ve earned it. They are calling you Mista Savar, it doesn’t seem fair,” He teased.
“See ye remember to jump out of the way,” Emerson told him with a grunt, seeing the large beast turning around huffing and puffing. “Else you’ll get that name on yer gravestone.”
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“Pull it!” Emerson grunted two hours later and Qathor did with a grunt of his own and managed to snap his shoulder back. It had popped out while attempting to get the spear out of the dead Rhino’s eye, when the apparently not dead beast had gotten up and lifted Emerson clean off the ground. Thankfully the huge animal didn’t have much more left in the tank and the Knight managed to crawl away from it.
It wasn’t the most dignified of endings, but the crowd didn’t seem to mind and cheered him on for almost ten minutes straight. Troy had gotten some love as well for his heroic sprinting out of the way. He’d turned an ankle in the process, but it hadn’t cost him in the end.
“Brilliant!” Paikan announced pushing away the guards to reach their cell. “Fantastic success my lads!”
Emerson raised his strained face and glared at the overweight Lanista.
“Now,” Paikan said quickly sensing his mood. “I admit we got blindsided there, but we got coin in return. We made a fortune as a matter of fact lads! So rejoice, by gods you deserve it!”
“What about the final?” Emerson asked him.
“Who cares?” Paikan retorted a little surprised. “We made our name. The arenas will be filled for the rest of the year to watch you—”
“I ain’t forfeiting,” Emerson rustled setting his jaw.
“You’ll challenge Mordax?” Paikan asked with a frown. “No, I will decline.”
“Angus will probably settle for what we got here,” Troy agreed.
Emerson stared at the twins.
“Siba-Kal will want the first place Ballard. If you don’t challenge the champion, we will,” Qathor explained.
“Bah, what nonsense!” Paikan argued. “Fu De-Gar can field a full squad of gladiators. They haven’t lost anyone.”
“They also didn’t fight much,” Emerson pointed out.
“They did.”
“Those guys from the capital were pretty weak,” Troy agreed. “But I can’t see anyone beating the Gargoyle.”
“Has anyone fought him?” Emerson asked.
“Last couple of years no,” Paikan replied. “For good reason.”
“So I beat him and the Fu De-Gar gladiators…” Emerson said not backing down.
“You get your Rudis,” Troy said looking at him. “A wooden sword. Everyone does.”
“Right. Is Mordax free then?” Emerson asked.
“All of them are,” Paikan replied puffing out. “You don’t have to do this Ballard. Lord Tsuparin… you won’t win any favor with him. I will free you, if that’s what it takes. Work for my Ludus for some years to train me a couple of good lads and then you may go home.”
“What about Ziba?” Emerson asked.
Paikan stood back, his eyes hardening.
“You’re enjoying her Ballard a plenty. Only lords have touched her, what more do you want? I have offers for her, she’s worth a lot of coin.”
“How much coin?” Emerson rustled.
Paikan smirked. “For her?”
“How much coin you’ll make if I win the games?” Emerson asked him.
“Betting on you would be a bad business decision,” Paikan told him without hesitation. “And fighting three to five? I don’t see any of you making it out of there.”
“I want to place a bet on myself,” Emerson told him solemnly.
“You don’t have the coin needed—”
“How much for the entry?”
“You need to bet at least a hundred gold to make enough to buy her Ballard. If you win that is and if I want to sell,” Paikan explained.
“Give me a number Paikan,” Emerson said warningly and got up. The Lanista took a step back.
“A thousand gold Dinars,” He finally said and Troy gasped in shock.
“He can buy a brothel wit that kind of coin!” The Lorian protested.
“A thousand gold it is,” Emerson said and tended his hand. Paikan stared at him unsure.
“Three against five Ballard,” He repeated and reached for the knight’s hand.
“Four,” Troy corrected him with a grin. “The Titan of Novesium will participate in the final,” He added and everyone looked up surprised.
“Who the fuck is that?” Qathor asked.
“Why me of course,” Troy replied still grinning and seeing everyone frowning, he added. “What? Don’t give me those stares gods damnit! Look at this figure guys come on!”
Paikan shook his head and walked out, while the bare-chested Lorian struck a couple of poses to showcase his musculature to the others.
“Where are you going to find the coin?” Belor asked him curious, while Troy arm-wrestled his brother who wanted the moniker for himself.
Emerson smacked his lips, the lines on his mouth deep and not all of them from age. His black eyes settled on Hasti, the slave girl had brought them food after the day had ended and gifts from the crowd. Mostly trinkets and expensive wine.
“You’ve serviced Sopat the other day,” He told her. It wasn’t a question. Hasti shrugged her shoulders not denying it. “I want you to deliver a message to him.”
Hasti nodded in understanding. Her mind sharp.
“He may ask for something in return,” She murmured looking at him.
“Tell him I’ll owe him,” Emerson replied confidently. “He’ll agree.”
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Part IIB
(998th Games, Second Week, final day.)
Mordax raised the heavy spiked club and let out a mighty roar. His voice so loud and carrying so much bass, it covered the cries of the undulating crowd. People were sitting on stairs between the stands, many packed into the tunnels leading inside the noisy arena, looking through the barred entrances.
Men and women of all classes and of different purses. Whole families with kids and thousands of slaves. No one wanted to miss this event and while most were there for the local champion the giant Gargoyle, a good number of them had come to see the first challenger in years -the already famous Pale Jackal- in person.
“Troy, shields!” Emerson bellowed seeing the Cofol Ranger aiming his recurved bow. The fighter, clad in an iron cuirass with bronze and silver details on his chest, a gift from a rich merchant beyond the Khanate’s Gulf, nodded and barked a sharp warning to the others. Emerson was already moving towards the two Hoplites.
Fu De-Gar’s gladiators were a compact group with two Hoplites, a Ranger, a javelin thrower carrying a trident and Mordax who was a category of his own.
The ‘Unyielding Gargoyle’ wore a heavy chainmail shirt, a steel plate over it to cover his massive chest and sported a massive black and gold gargoyle shaped helm on his large head. Horns, smirking fanged mouth and everything at the back, the same but with that monstrous mouth wide open so Mordax could see what was happening at the front. A large custom made cleaver as a sword and a heavy spiked club, half of it made out of steel but for the long pommel.
The Hoplites turned their sinister full face helms seeing him moving against them, an arrow zipping next to him and breaking on Troy’s angled round shield. The Lorian fighter knew how to use his weapons and he was training every day with enthusiasm, as if he’d found his calling later in life.
In a sense some men excelled in this barbaric sport.
A special breed.
Be it a just war, or dishonest raiding.
Be it a noble tourney, or the bloody sands of the Arena.
They entered a nobody and finished the day
As plaguin’ legends.
Emerson ran determined as if he was still in his youth, hobnailed sandals thudding on the soft sand, while the crowd still cheered Mordax on. The fight hadn’t started officially yet, but they had all agreed on the game plan to counter Fu De-Gar’s block, immobilize and allow Mordax and the other lighter fighters murder everyone strategy.
The crowd quieted down sensing something was afoot, but Emerson had covered the distance between the two groups by then. Troy and the brothers following right behind him shields raised. The Hoplite standing on the left saw them rushing forward, something no one had done in the recent past and hesitated to commit his spear. His friend didn’t and lunged it forward to skewer Emerson through the neck.
The knight ducked under it, steel blade clanging on the top of his helm, teeth rattling at the impact and followed the retreating shaft towards its wielder. The Cofol Hoplite gasped seeing the mean grizzly warrior reaching him, the steel Jackal helm covering most of Emerson’s face but for his black pitiless eyes. He let go of the unwieldy spear and his hoplite-type heavy shield to reach for his kopis, but got stabbed viciously under both armpits right at the opening of his thorax from both of Emerson’s swords and died with his lungs full of steel and blood.
“Arrgh!” The second Hoplite yelled in horror and jumped back. Troy blocked his spear thrust with his shield and pushed it aside, but his own attack was blocked in turn by the Hoplite’s shield. The Cofol moved his shield aside to make room for his return lunge, after taking a large precautionary step back out of the reach of Troy’s blade. Troy ducked in response surprising him and by the time the Hoplite figured out what was happening Belor’s heavy spear had smacked him on the face, the helm wrapping and yielding at the long eye slits. The skin and skull bones behind it offering much less resistance to the steel spear blade.
The crowd roared in unison, a thunderous groan of horror and excitement at the sudden explosion of violence and the Ranger who was busy reloading his bow realized that their group had just lost two members in less than a minute.
They were now three instead of five.
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“Keep those shields up!” Troy yelled over the pandemonium as the Ranger’s shot almost took out a sleep-walking, or just rattled Qathor. “Rush them fuckers!”
Emerson was already heading for the giant that turned his massive body very annoyed his moment was interrupted and glared at the smaller man approaching. One breath and he was within the giant Northman’s reach, the heavy club already swinging. Emerson rolled forward the next, under the whooshing spiked weapon and slashed at the Gargoyle’s knee, just above the iron greaves. Mordax raised his trunk like leg, the blade connecting with the metal and clanging afore bouncing back.
Emerson rolled onto a shoulder, sand in his face and to the side. He jumped on his feet, just as the heavy cleaver-type sword was coming down, the Northman deceptively fast for his size.
Not fast enough though, for an experienced fighter like Emerson.
The knight sidestepped, the cleaver struck the spot he was standing a moment before and missed, Emerson slashing Mordax’s right arm below the elbow. The Northman growled and twisted around, the ground shaking under the knight’s feet and the sound of the returning club cutting through the hysterical crowd’s noise. Emerson twisted away putting a blade on the nasty weapon to push it aside, his sword bending and then breaking at the hilt.
The spiked club would have killed him, but such was the force behind it, Emerson was shoved back his arm numb and useless. He hurled his second sword at the onrushing Northman, but Mordax swatted it aside with his cleaver and kept on coming. Emerson twisted away, breathing heavy and tasting sand, slipped on a piece of broken blade and went down on a knee.
Mordax reached him a moment later, his shadow blocking the sun over their heads and booted the staggering knight in the chest, the plate caving in where the massive foot got him. Emerson was shoved back, his feet losing the ground and landed on his back with a gasp, the wind knocked out of him.
A very big animal this father, he thought trying desperately to roll away and onto his feet again. Mordax approached keeping a steady tempo and raised that cleaver again, his reach dwarfing Emerson’s who had gotten his heavy sword out in the meantime. The cleaver came down with enough force to demolish a stone wall and Emerson just moved out of the way, without a thought of attempting to block this time. Mordax showed him his huge teeth, incisors the size of his fingers and raised his spiked club without showing any signs of slowing down.
Damnation.
The nasty weapon whooshed again coming down and Emerson sidestepped to the right this time, turning his torso to attack from Mordax’s weak side. The giant let go of his club and stopped his blade with a hand blocking Emerson’s attack. He yanked it out of a stunned knight’s grip, the strength showcased otherworldly and tossed it aside with a snort. The cut on his palm bleeding freely not bothering him. Emerson groaned and tried to get out of the way of the returning cleaver, realizing he didn’t have the time to dodge it.
But the cleaver never reached him. Mordax growled in pain and staggered a spear lodged between his ribs, going through mail and the bindings of his plate. The attack left unfinished.
“HAH!” Belor guffawed rushing the giant behind his shield a long knife in hand. Mordax stumbled a couple of steps, dropped his cleaver and reached to dislodge the spear out of him. He yanked it once and it came out with a torrent of blood.
“STAY BACK YE FOOL!” Emerson yelled and dived for his own blade, sensing something was amiss, just as the giant turned with a mean look on his uncultured face to eye the bravely charging young Issir.
Belor cut hard right raising his shield, his intention to circle around the wounded Gargoyle, close the distance and attack him with his short blade.
A fatal mistake.
Mordax pulled his fist back, huge muscled arms full of thick veins and an otherworldly stamina and punched the Issir’s shield right at the bronze disk at its center. The crowd gasped in horrified admiration when the shield came apart, bones breaking, wood splintering in a thousand pieces and the boss, along a piece of his arm propelled backwards and smacked a stunned Belor on the head blooding his nose.
Emerson grunted and made to rush at the young fighter’s assistance, his eyes scanning the grounds feverishly to find the rest of their group. The Ranger was dead and Troy with Qathor were hunting the quick-footed javelin gladiator around the arena.
Too far to offer help.
Mordax had gotten to Belor in the meantime, the young fighter stumbling back stunned on shaky legs and reaching with a long arm grabbed him by the head, long fingers almost connecting at the back. Belor kicked wild like a cornered animal and even stabbed him a couple of times blindly, the knife opening Mordax’s face at the left side of his nose, just as the giant lifted him clean off the sands.
“Yield!” Someone yelled from the crowd and it found supporters in the stands, their voices rising as the young gladiator and his brother had found quite a following in the previous weeks and the younger spectators favor. Mordax snorted neither expecting, nor likening the turn of events.
Curse ye, Emerson whispered under his breath making two steps and launching into an attack, hearing the sound of bones crackling as the horrified crowd went quiet. The sudden silence inside the huge arena menacing. A dead and broken Belor hit the sands, pulverized skull, skin and brains turned into a gory goo under the stirring crowd’s protests. Mordax grunted and sensed Emerson coming, more than he heard him. The giant turned around, bleeding from his face and cut palm, skewered through the ribs, but utterly unaffected.
Emerson jumped from his left leg, the knee crackling there and the tendons protesting and slashed upwards, just as Mordax was stooping to put his hands on him. The heavy blade connected with the giant’s helm, broke it in two uneven pieces and gored his face taking out the left eye and ear, along most of his cheek. Mordax snapped his head back, blood raining over both of them and a worn out from the exertion Emerson landed on a bad knee and stumbled away.
Mordax groaned in pain and looked around for his club. He found it and went to grab it, while Emerson gulped down air, doubled over his heavy sword, trying to regain his wits as he’d burned through his stamina, fighting at a very high tempo for his age. Mordax picked up his club, half blind and made to turn around, but he was assaulted by Troy and Qathor that had finally finished off the javelin-throwing gladiator. The panicked man had jumped at the wall leading to the stands in an attempt to climb over it and get away.
Being an already freed slave, Emerson could understand the Cofol’s unwillingness to fight this one to the death. Mordax didn’t have the same sensitivities. He made a step forward and swung with his mighty club, breaking Qathor’s shield and paralyzing his left arm, whilst shoving him back three meters. Troy slashed at the giant’s right leg with his sword, connected at the thigh and cut a deep wound there.
Mordax grunted and twisted his body around, faked another swing and kicked a leg out catching a turning Troy on the right shoulder and hurling him back to the wall under the official’s stands. Emerson cracked his neck right and left, somewhat recovered, an eye on the staggering Mordax that roared to silence the protesting crowd, another on the stands where a Lorian female slave covered a crying young girl’s face with both hands, the mother’s eyes urging Emerson to finish this.
Whether it was solidarity from one slave to another, or just a Lorian supporting a fellow Lorian stranded thousands of kilometers away from their homeland, Emerson didn’t know and wouldn’t find out until later.
How do you kill a mountain? He asked his father, but the old man remained silent. In the end Emerson thought, ye fight alone.
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Mordax swung his club and a heavy-breathing Emerson ducked under it and closed the distance between them even more. The giant reached to grab him with his left hand, but the knight swung his heavy sword expecting it and chopped a good chunk of it away, leaving a stub behind and a part of the pinky finger. The white severed bones protruding from the bleeding wound. Mordax groaned in pain, sounding really hurt and retaliated with a blind swing of his club, the spiked weapon going down. Emerson in the midst of a return slash across the giant’s face, saw the danger coming, but didn’t hesitate nor changed his stance, understanding what was needed to win against his opponent.
Ayup, his late father agreed, finding his voice.
Ye gotta take a hoof to the teeth son.
The club came down and got him at the right knee, breaking it and peeling a piece of flesh and skin away. Emerson almost fainted on the spot, his teeth biting his tongue and Mordax stumbled back, spraying hot blood on the faltering knight’s face, the Gargoyle’s throat slashed open.
Emerson went down, his right leg ruined and Mordax followed him soon after, a huge hand clasped at his neck to staunch the bleeding.
“Ah,” The knight groaned thrashing this way and that, trying to get up. Troy slowly got up himself, whilst Qathor was standing over his brother at the distance.
The knight redoubled his efforts to stand up. He’d a reason for it. He could see Mordax slowly stirring again, a pool of blood turned to mud around his huge body.
Damnation.
Mordax started to slowly rise putting his arms down and pushing hard to lift his massive body. The left one a stub from below the wrist not bothering him. Emerson grunting and clenching his teeth pushed himself upwards on a ruined leg and reached for the Jackal’s batteaxe still sheathed over his back. He felt the sweat on his forehead and realized he’d lost the helm going down, but it wasn’t worth pondering about it more.
Half-hopping, half-stumbling he approached the slowly getting up giant Northman. His earlier wounds had already started healing somehow. Emerson hefted the axe, the crowd’s buzz unrecognizable to his ringing ears, too injured and too tired to really dwell on what they were asking him.
Mordax turned his sole eye on him still kneeled and covered in gore, ruined mouth cracking into a grotesque smile, as the side of his slashed face left most of the bloody teeth there uncovered.
“Small man can’t win against Mordax,” The giant rustled and Emerson snorted, his legs barely holding him, feeling broken pieces of bone tearing at his knee and downed his axe aiming at the Northman’s wide forehead.
> Once and the crowd roared in horrified disbelief.
>
> Twice for that thick skull bone to crack open.
>
> Thrice for the blade to spill the Gargoyle’s brains all over him.
>
>
>
> And Mista Savar became a legend.
People rushed his way, a recovered Troy pumping both his fists in the air delighted at the miraculous win, bashing in the delirious crowd’s adulation, while Qathor was mourning silently over Belor’s mutilated body. Emerson reached for something to hold on to, found nothing and went down on his good leg, the right dangling useless and groaned desperately staring at the sky while the games official announced the winner and new champion of the Peninsula.
A free man, the official shouted over the buzz of the mindless crowd, holding the Rudis in his hands, the wood covered in gold and silver.
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Emerson closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again, Hasti was staring in his sweaty face and a day, or a week had gone by.
“What?” He croaked and checked on his heavily bandaged right leg. “Where’s she?”
“Paikan ordered her to stay away,” Hasti explained quickly, looking at her feet. “Mista Savar, Master Sopat wants a meeting once you are able to walk about.”
Emerson stared at the expensive curtains and well painted tall walls of the room he’d found himself inside.
“Where am I?”
“It’s a villa on the outskirts of Fu De-Gar,” Hasti explained with a blush. “Much has happened—”
“How long was I out?” Emerson rustled cutting her off and tried to get up, frowning when he spotted a cane next to his large soft bed.
“Three weeks.”
“Why are you here?”
“Master Sopat bought me from Master Paikan,” Hasti explained and showed him the word Iv carved on her right shoulder over the older marking.
Emerson grimaced and put his feet down.
“Paikan is still in the city?”
“Yes Mista Savar,” Hasti replied.
“I’ll see the Sopat scion now,” He rustled.
“They are waiting for you,” The slave girl replied with a deep curtsy and backed away.
“Hasti,” Emerson told her before she could exit his lavish bedroom. “Has Sopat changed his mind about Ziba?” He asked her and she blinked in surprise.
“Master Don-Iv didn’t care about Ziba as much as he cared about you Mista,” Hasti replied cryptically. “Take his offer, if you value her life though.”
> In the second month of winter 190 NC in a packed arena a legend of the Pits of Fu De-Gar was born. A legend in the sands for he defeated the ‘Unyielding Gargoyle’ and a legend outside of it, for without Mista Savar the flames of the ‘Three Sisters Rebellion’ would never had fanned so high, or so successfully.
>
> Sir Emerson Lennox was forty when he became champion of the 998th games. The next time the games would be held six years later, a close friend of his was to succeed him. The now much talked about for his string of victories, mostly due to the vulgar plays of Asmudius that had taken a fancy at his legend, ridiculously famous ‘Handsome Titan’ of Novesium.
>
>
>
> Embellished by
>
> Lord Sirio Veturius
>
> Circa 206 NC
>
> The Fall of Heroes
>
> Chapter XXIV
>
> (Sir Emerson Lennox, Ballard of Lesia, Mista Savar)
>
> Tales of Greenwhale Peninsula
>
> Prelude to the ‘Three Sisters Rebellion’
>
> -Pale Jackal & the Pearl-
>
> Volume III
>
> The 998th Games
>
> Week One
>
> Week Two
>
> (The Unyielding Gargoyle’s downfall)
>
> Second Month of Winter,
>
> 190 NC