>
>
> An ode to thee,
>
> Epic, appareled grandeur beyond the crowd’s cheer,
>
> Where allgods stood bewildered & death shivered wit fear
>
> Unrivaled honor’s symphony, divine valor’s perfect symmetry
>
> Blessed be spectator of the way dancing blades deploy
>
> For thy stood in them bloody sands & beheld of Troy
>
> -
>
>
>
>
>
> Ode to the Blessed Spectator
>
> By unknown,
>
> -Inscribed over the entrance of the amphitheater (also known as the Pits) hosting the Great Games of Fu De-Gar, under the famous marble relief of Mista Savar. It is of course referring to none other than Troy (probably born near Novesium) who despite an effort to play down his feats was a real historical person and had won the games twice first in 190NC during the 999th Games and again famously ten years later under a disguise that didn’t hold up during the 1002nd Games.
>
> Installed after the gladiatorial fights resumed with an Imperial Decree after 199 NC starting with the 1001st Games.
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Troy
Lake Sium Dimachaerus
Divine Blades
Tales of the Peninsula | Unbroken
Part I
-The Titan of Novesium-
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First week of Fall 193 NC
Clash at Small River,
Part of the Greater Battle at Simun Gates
5th hour
Early evening
“GRAB THE FUCKIN’ LOG! LIFT!” Balfor growled at Fluke hefting one edge of it with both arms, thick veins popping out on his neck and swollen biceps, eyes squinting at the effort.
“I AM!” Fluke standing across from him protested sounding strangled or equally flushed from the weight.
“NOT THAT LOG!” Balfor blasted him irate. Fluke dropped it and reached for the next one.
Eh, Troy thought and knelt next to the dead soldier. He used the dead man’s robes to clean his swords one after the other. The twin curved-forward old-design Kopis he carried on his back were spoils from the big games and the slightly longer custom scimitar shaped in a convex curve Troy had made and kept sheathed on his hip next to the long dagger. He’d dressed the handles himself with thin strips of black leather and had a blacksmith in Fu De-Gar engrave his ‘surname’ on the flat of the blades.
Lake Sium Dimachaerus.
Supreme.
The blacksmith had forgotten about that and they had to add a second line near the handle later.
If Troy had been asked to choose a life for himself, he’d picked a long career on the sands above everything else. There was nothing more to life than that Troy thought. Until he met the old man that is.
Darn it.
Ballard had a different idea of what one’s life should be. More inclusive, more demanding, less rewarding. Well, it was rewarding if one counted Ziba-Ra amidst the prizes and people’s profound respect. The man’s plans though reached beyond his comprehension. The Cofols would never break their traditions, slaves wouldn’t get magically freed from their shackles and people would still die on the arenas sands. It was as if the former knight knew that but didn’t care.
It’s not on one man to change the realm, he’d told Troy back in Fu De-Gar, but if you can do something, then you damn well better do it and leave the plaguing place in a healthier state than what you’ve found it.
That sounds like a knight’s mission, Troy had argued. Where do you find all those folk to make a difference?
You lead by example and show those around you the way. A touch of charity, a modicum of modesty, a love of friends, family and duty to one’s country that’s it. It is what it is. Ye need nothing more. Decency, aye. Ballard had replied. Deep down people know right from wrong. All it takes is a smack upside the head to remind them.
Troy could agree with some but had trouble with the rest of it.
Many stuff were missing for starters.
But live for a while around the old man and he rubs some of his morality on you. It sticks on yer skin and makes you all confused in the head.
“Them cocksuckers for sure are a persistent bunch,” Qathor rustled and found a short cut log to sit on. They had cut down a lot of trees, rolled them down the shores and road to make it difficult for horses to move freely. People still could, but that’s what they were doing there.
Deter people from coming over by killing those that did.
“Mmm.”
“I have lads guarding the Lake, might be better to pull them,” Qathor continued after having some water. “You think I have time to unclog the pipes afore they come back?”
“What?” Troy asked his mind on something else.
“Ib-Lurd has some of his slaves there,” Qathor explained. “Then there’s the cook’s brother. Great arse given the venue and locale.”
Troy blinked. “Keep the patrols for the time. I’ll see if I can find more men from Ib-Lurd.”
“Good luck with that,” Qathor retorted. “What’s on yer mind?”
Ziba.
“We’re in the middle of a fucking battle!” Troy snapped and got angry with himself. You don’t need this shite. Fuck’s sake.
“We’re on a break,” Qathor replied with a grimace. “Was looking for yer advice.”
“Do you seriously expect my input on this?”
“Now that’s some dirty wording there,” Qathor grunted and got up. He pushed his white braids back and retied them on his nape. “Know that you’re an idiot and it shows. My brother was like that around cunts. Look what it did to him.”
“He was slain in the fucking arena Qathor!” Troy growled, blood rushing to his face. “It had nothing to do with it!”
“Aye,” Qathor replied soberly and stabbed his finger on Troy’s armoured chest. “Keep that in mind and forget about her. Don’t trust the cunt.” He scrunched his black face this way and that and then grinned toothily. “Come, let’s go dig up that tight arse, ha-ha!”
Troy shoved his finger away with a grimace of disgust.
“Get everyone ready, I can see their scouts walking the bridge again,” he told him and went to find Ib-Lurd.
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The Cofol land-owner looked at him unsure. Sim Ib-Lurd was a senior advisor to Lord Tsuparin of Fu De-Gar and his eyes in the camp. A difficult man to convince.
“Will twenty guards make a difference?” He asked pulling at his beaded goatee.
“I need archers to fire back, else they’ll keep crossing the bridge. Anyone that could hold a spear.”
“You are doing an excellent job killing them.”
“The night is here. It won’t help us,” the light was already gone and they navigated the woods with torches. “But it can help them.”
“I need the guards near the wagons.”
“Listen Ib-Lurd,” Troy grunted but the Cofol stopped him raising his hand, fingers extended.
“I have a lot of slaves with the supply train,” he explained. “Valuables, coin for the men.”
“Forget about that. Can they hold a spear?”
The slaves was his meaning. There were over two hundred of them camping near the wagons.
“Are you serious?”
“Aye. Are you?”
“Why would they do it?” Ib-Lurd asked shaking his head at Troy’s audacity. “They’ll probably kill us all and run away.”
“Let them, we could use the guards,” Troy retorted.
“We have freed too many,” the Cofol sighed. “Who will man the carriages?”
“We’re stuck here Ib-Lurd and won’t be going anywhere unless we survive,” Troy grunted. “Even if we do, we might have to leave the wagons behind.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the Cofol relented whilst keeping his options open.
“See you do it fast,” Troy warned him and heard yells coming from the west side of the woods. The Fig trees there thicker as they bordered the lake’s shores. The wagons had camped across the road and in the east portion of the woodland about four hundred meters from the river where it was more open.
“What’s that?” Ib-Lurd asked as they couldn’t see anything in the dark.
“The lake’s patrols,” Troy retorted and sprinted away.
> Arik Sartak having finally received reinforcements, Donkor’s two hundred mercenaries from Lukela and the three-hundred strong Band of Brass out of Dinar, the well-respected multi-national company of Bank’s enforcers, attacked immediately. His men were stopped despite many attempts to cross the bridge and an advantage on horses and ranged units.
>
> The Rin An-Pur general kept up the pressure on the Chiliad’s platoons there (under the champions of the Pits Troy and Qathor according to Asmudius) until nightfall. Phanes, who was under pressure from Lord Kosey-Toka of Dinar to help Prince Nout and his daughter, suggested they use rafts and the local fishing boats to cross the crocodile-infested lake and hit the defenders at the rear, far from the river’s banks.
>
> Sartak agreed to the experienced mercenary leader’s plan but he wanted to open the road and clear Lotus Lane for Nout as soon as possible, so he revised it. He tasked Donkor’s mercenaries with sailing across Clear Lake and land behind the gladiators under the cover of darkness, then ordered Phanes to penetrate across Small River who was at its lowest point, the time being just before the seasonal rains started anew.
>
> The rest of his force, around four hundred horse archers and the less than a hundred remaining Jang-Lu recruits-turned veterans in two months (probably not even half that number) he readied for an all-out attack across the bridge to break the Chiliad’s shield-wall and terrain defenses. Sartak notified the regrouping his forces at the time Prince Nout, but it is unclear if the message reached him. Nout was away from his rear headquarters (located two kilometers from Palar, near Que Ki-La’s south gates and about thirty from Small River’s forested valley where the war-mausoleum resides today) busy with navigating two different battles and opponents.
>
> The fierce battle was fought during the night and hadn’t finished until the late morning hours with Asmudius writing that the gladiators were probably still fighting when Hora-Se’s advanced units broke through Lotus Lane near noon.
>
>
The armoured warrior splashed out of the boat, glanced back once, caught sight of the old-crocodile retreating taking his friend with him and then crawled to the shore covered in mud. The rest of his group cursing at the silent predator with some even attempting to hit it with stones.
“The fuck are they doing?” Balfor asked stooped next to Troy.
“Landing,” Troy replied and shook his arm to clear some of the gore away, more splattered on his half-plate as he’d slipped on the entrails earlier in the dark.
“Think they are with the others?” Fluke asked sucking on his cheek troubled.
“Do they look like fishermen to you?”
“Folk do use spears—” Fluke argued but Qathor waved his arm and caught Fluke with a smack upside the helm silencing him.
“Right,” his friend said with a scowl since he’d interrupted his break to run in the woods for these fools, as he’d complained all the time whilst they were fighting the first group of eight. “Beskar can you move wit all that armour?”
The hoplite-armour clad gladiator nodded.
“They’ll be some sprinting involved,” Qathor reminded him.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Troy will charge them first,” Qathor decided with everyone agreeing and Troy blinked in surprise. “What? You’re the blasted Titan—”
“Oh, fuck off Qathor,” Troy snapped cutting him off and got up. He snapped his shoulders back, pushing his chest out and then worked on stretching both legs, performing a series of energetic squats and finished with a good cracking of the tendons on his neck.
“What’s he doing?” Balfor asked a little perturbed.
Troy glared at him. “We charge all together,” he grunted. “No cries or yelps afore we are near and everyone mind where the other is to avoid a friendly blade in the gonads.”
“Ha-ha, there’s yer answer,” Qathor guffawed grinning.
“No blade in the gonads,” Fluke agreed with a nod and Troy eyed him warningly. “Or arrows,” the gladiator added with a hurt sigh. “It was only that one time Troy.”
“Hey!” One of the enemy fighters that had landed in the dark yelled from the beach. “Is that ye Rin-bert?”
“Fuck,” Troy cursed and peeked out of the branches to see if they had spotted them. “Some should head back and notify the others we have company.”
“Just go get them champ,” Qathor rustled and shoved him forward. “No one says anything stupid, we don’t want them spooked too soon.”
“What are you doing there ye idiot?” The man asked again louder. “I can hear ye stupid fucks talking!”
“That’s lustful moaning yer hearing! I’m plowing yer sister’s arse!” Qathor barked back taking offence and Troy who had ended up in the lake’s beach, shook his head and started running towards the group that had disembarked from the second eight-man carrying boat.
Seven men this time, since the old-crocodile had spotted the eighth man in their group dangling his leg over the lip of the boat and used said leg to pull him under the lake’s surface.
So Troy went for the twins.
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The clad in mail fighter saw him arriving well ahead of the others since Troy didn’t have a slow speed and waved the scythe over his head in a wide circle afore slashing with it aiming for the sprinting Troy’s neck.
Troy heard the whoosh of the shaft, the blade gleaming in the light of the two moons and dived under it, a shoulder hitting the wet soft ground, the large blade shaving the air missing him as the lithe gladiator barely skirted certain death. The fighter twirled following the large weapon’s momentum, Troy followed his and went past him, landing afore his scattering friends.
He jumped to his feet, saw a sword lashing for his midriff and sucked his belly in instinctively, turning the Kopis to divert the blade away. A man grunted and Troy hacked that way with the left arm, slashed with the right. He caught something with his sword, twisted on his axis to see what it was and a spear clanged the sides of his helm right next to the ear.
“Mother—” Troy grunted and kicked a leg out but he slipped in the mud and found himself looking at the black sky. He coughed and rolled left, the spear stabbing the muddy earth missing him. He slashed with both blades jumping up whilst falling backwards at the end of the roll ending up inside the lake with a splash.
He’d tried to perform two moves simultaneously there and failed both.
A fighter entered the water after him, the rest were further back as Troy had blasted through their group. The soaked gladiator used the flat of one blade like a shovel to send water on the man’s face, the other to hack at his head at the same time. The blade bit at a forearm raised to protect his opponent’s eyes, stopping at the bone. The arm smacking the man in the face and breaking his nose.
Troy stepped forward, water flooding his boots, slow as a snail after a lavish feast and his opponent cursed, dark blood running down his chin and arm. The man took a step back to find better footing but didn’t. Troy followed him –very slowly- as he faltered back and slashed him across the chest, the blade splintering the mail rings there.
The man cried out in fear, realized he was still relatively unhurt and retaliated raising his spear to poke him in the head. Troy jerked his neck aside, got muddy water in his eyes but kept them open and found flesh this time with the same slashing attack.
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By the time he’d reached dry ground, which meant ground with mud instead of water, the scrap was over. Troy spat down, removed his helm to shake the spillage off, his eyes swollen and tearing up. He’d a cut right at the lobule of his right ear that stung maddeningly.
“Eah,” he grunted sucking a deep breath in.
“Why in allhells did ye run straight inside the lake?” Qathor admonished him, breaking a dead man’s finger to remove a gold ring.
“I was… didn’t see it,” Troy blurted still rattled from the fight. “I killed one at least.”
“Right,” Qathor replied and got up with a frown. “Fluke what’s them shades over the lake?”
“I don’t see that well in the dark,” Fluke complained and Balfor who had a cut over his brow blasted him.
“Fuck are ye talking about? You’re an archer?”
“What’s that got to do—?”
“Shut your crapholes!” Qathor hissed sounding spooked. “We have more cunts coming our way,” and pointed a beefy arm at the many rafts approaching.
“Eh,” Balfor grunted.
“Troy?” Qathor was looking at him for advice.
Troy cleared his throat and stared at the muddy terrain. “Better to fight them in the trees,” he finally said.
“That’s thirty rafts incoming Troy!” Fluke protested apparently not as blind as he’d have you believe.
Troy pulled his lips back in the pretense of a nervous smile. “Better to fight in the trees,” he repeated absent an alternative and started retreating towards their previous position, his wet boots making squelching sounds on the miry terrain.
“Did ye sent a man to get the others?” Qathor asked Balfor accusingly following after him.
“I did. Why?”
“Ye sure?”
“Ducur. The sneaky Cofol,” Balfor was a Cofol himself.
“Ah, right. Thought that little cunt had run away,” Qathor replied. “It all makes sense now.”
Two hours later
Fig Forest edges, five hundred meters from the bridge
Troy got out of the woods, holding his helm. He paused near a trunk and smacked it a couple of times to fix the dent on it and cursed when he made it worse. He’d a tear at the top his head that trickled blood and made him dizzy when turned right or left.
With a pained sigh he plopped down on the trunk to rest his legs.
Ib-Lurd, clad in a fancy leather armour approached him, a scimitar in hand followed by a couple of his guards.
“How is it going?” He asked and waved for one of his men to offer Troy some water. The torches they carried hurting his eyes.
“We pushed them back towards the lake,” Troy replied and washed his mouth, working his tongue on a loose tooth. “Think I might need a dentist.”
“Are they defeated?”
“How should I know?” Troy grunted and tossed the flask back at the guard. “More may come. What’s with the escort?”
“They came over the river using the same trick,” Ib-Lurd explained. “We had to fight them back. They reached the camp, killed a lot of good people.”
Troy spat down. “Lots of good people are being killed all over the place Ib-Lurd. What’s the status of the bridge?”
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
We are probably killing a lot of good people ourselves, he thought.
“They didn’t try anything there yet,” Tsuparin’s advisor replied. “I armed some of the slaves.”
“Did they fight?”
“They did for a while. But most run away afterwards.”
Smart lads.
“Well, you got something out of it,” Troy retorted. “Any news from Ballard?”
The knight was holding the bulk of Prince Nout’s forces at the narrows between the lake and the city walls, right at the mouth of Lotus Lane.
“I have very few guards that way,” Ib-Lurd replied and rubbed his face looking tired. “The route west through the forest is still open. Maybe we should retreat there Troy.”
“If Sartak’s men come over this side of the river, Ballard is doomed Ib-Lurd,” Troy reminded him.
“What more can we accomplish here? Are we to fight the whole of Khan’s army?”
“What did you think?” Troy mocked him. “That we’ll get to slap around Sol and be done with it?”
Ib-Lurd eyed him harshly. “You’ve no idea of how the world works gladiator.”
“I’m a champion of the arena. A freed man through skill and sword,” Troy retorted. “I don’t give a darn about your world Ib-Lurd. What do you fear?”
“Are you insane? We could lose our heads here!”
“So?” Troy taunted.
“Bah!” The Cofol protested throwing his arms up. “Madness.”
“You’re here for Tsuparin. You work for him for years, but you’re not his friend,” Troy told him and slotted the dented helm on his head with a grimace seeing Qathor returning. “You can’t leave, for the vague promise of Khan’s forgiveness means making an enemy out of that old bastard ‘Cruel’ Dekerut and vice versa. I’m here of my own volition to help my friends and my comrades, nothing of what you fear, scares me.”
Ib-Lurd stood back raising his trimmed brows.
“Are ye flirting again you harlot?” Qathor grunted approaching and slapped his shoulder. “We need to rotate the men and check on the river. Move your arse aside princess, I need to catch a break.”
No sooner had he sat next to him a rider burst through the woods coming from the east. The young man –probably one of Ib-Lurd’s slaves- reached them galloping hard and stopped his horse.
“Cursed fool!” The Cofol admonished him, the horse snorting angry blinded by their torches.
“Apologies Master Ib-Lurd,” the slave blurted proceeding to give his report with a squeak. “The bronze soldiers have returned!”
“How many?”
Troy got up dragging Qathor up by the elbow.
“Lots of soldiers. Foreign. They are in the camp master!” The youth was confused.
“What about our guards?”
“They had to retreat! They are right behind me master!”
They are still in the woods, Troy thought. “Qathor get as many men from the bridge as they can spare to help,” he said hoarsely and eyed the guards with Ib-Lurd. “I need the slave’s horse and you two. Can you use that sword Ib-Lurd?”
“What?” The Cofol snapped angry.
“Get a horse,” Troy warned him. “It’s easier to fight multiple opponents in the trees.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Your men will fight if you stand bravely next to them,” Troy replied harshly and Ib-Lurd glared at the two Cofol guards. “There’s glory in them trees Ib-Lurd, a tale for your sons to read or you can try to flee like a coward and hope you won’t have Lord Letakin’s fate. Are Garites as lily-livered as the men of Ta-Ne?”
The Cofol’s face distorted and then hardened.
“You’ve insulted me plenty tonight Lorian,” he hissed.
Show them the way, the old man always preached.
“You know I’m right Cofol,” Troy retorted hoarsely.
“Get our horses Perilu. Give yours to the gladiator,” he ordered soberly. “We get out of this alive,” he told his men. “The coin in the wagons is yours to split.”
“See you on the other side brother,” Qathor yelled when he climbed up the slave’s horse. “Sent them all to Oras Hells!”
Troy glared at him not to say anymore knowing the Issir gladiator was about to take it down some much more lewder and disturbing paths and big Qathor grinned, two rows of white teeth amidst all the black, then raised his beefy arm to give him a thumbs up instead.
> Phanes, after making some reconnoitering landings and probes during the night, landed in force with all his company at a remote spot on the southeast banks of Small River after crossing it with boats. It took him hours to get everyone across and two trips. With his men assembled he marched through the woods westwards following the river banks. He attacked the Chiliad’s supply camp at the edges of the woods but found it half empty. Phanes torched everything just the same, the flames spreading some inside the forest but not too much due to the heavy humidity.
>
> In the confusion that ensued, the many Northmen serving with his company pillaged the camp while other units probed further up ahead trying to find the road in the darkness. Phanes had instructed his mercenaries to take no prisoners and to leave looting for later, but the lack of serious initial resistance loosened the discipline of his troops. Some headed towards the bridge guided by the river’s shores but the bulk of his force scattered around the camp in different directions weighted down by sacks of coin and valuables along with pillaged supplies.
>
> Probably a lot of that treasure coming from the nearby Que Ki-La and Lord Sol’s palace.
>
> Ib-Lurd’s guards, mostly there to keep an eye on the many slaves, regrouped at the edge of the woods and attacked the mercenaries. Troy was there as well to assist Ib-Lurd who led his fewer men in a spirited fight inside the dark forest, with only moonlight and torches showing them the way.
>
> With the night slipping away and the dawn painting the scattered clouds in the sky a weird crimson, Donkor attacked again from the side of the lake despite having been mauled earlier that night falling into an ambush. It was a doomed assault from his men that had been ravaged all night by the predators lurking near the shores of the lake. Almost fifty men were eaten in four hours, with the giant reptiles getting out of the lake, even entering the woods, to reach those trying to get away from its lethal waters. His attack kept a platoon there to guard the Chiliad flanks which gave Sartak the opportunity to attack the bridge again early the next morning.
>
> While Donkor failed in his flanking assault completely he did penetrate vertically into the woods, heading south and fell upon Toros’ platoon which was the westernmost guarding Sir Emerson frontline. They didn’t fare any better there but again they were always meant to be a distraction.
>
> Phanes managed to regroup his force outside the burning camp, the conditions for the men horrendous and inhumane, then attempted another more-organized push to get out of the woods. In an engagement that runs fifty pages in Asmudius’ notes and four scrolls of epic verses that was done by multiple smaller groups of fighters, in an obstacle-littered terrain, amidst the tall-standing thick Fig trees and the fallen rotten trunks, the bushes and the foliage, under putrid smoke and questionable lighting, Phanes’ pincer attak turned into an all-out brawl.
>
> No start or finish.
>
> It just spilled the few survivors out of the smoking woods at some point.
>
> No tactics.
>
> Pure savagery.
>
> As Asmudius writes.
>
> ‘Fabled skill was needed there and a will of iron but the only man possessing both in abundance was the Titan of Novesium.’
>
“MRRRARRGG!” The giant Northman bellowed swinging his battle-axe with both arms at the shuddering from the blow Troy. The gladiator spotted the heavy blade coming through swollen blurry eyes and scarpered on a moss-covered trunk. He banged on it, helm bouncing off of the cement-like bark and head ringing, dropped on a knee with a pained yelp, the blade taking a chunk out of the fat tree. He could slot his head in the milk-dripping hole left behind.
Troy twirled around just as a guard attacked the Northman but got his leg chopped off cleanly under the joint by another mercenary. A Lorian wielding a heavy bastard sword. The Cofol slave guard toppled forward with a scream of agony and the big Northman turned his torso around, dropping the sharp end of his axe afore swinging it again in a low to high arc cleaving the guard under the jaw.
Good grief! Troy gasped inwardly seeing the horrific damage done, the spillage blinding the Northman, a piece of skull bone –probably from the forehead- lodging in his throat. He gurgled and staggered on his feet clasping at his neck. Troy moved to attack him, but the Lorian came to the big guy’s assistance.
He slashed at the gladiator and Troy had to block the blade, his shoulder crackling at the abuse, then swat the return away, both men snarling at each other maniacally at each failed attempt. Again and again, sparks flying, Troy’s right eye all but closed as he’d a splinter in it piercing at his eyelid from the inside.
“Ye piece of oiled turd!” The Lorian cursed and went for a hatchet he’d on his waistband, Troy’s blade removing his thumb so he couldn’t grasp it. The mercenary roared, blood spraying out of the wound and hacked at him with the sword. Troy sidestepped, half-blind on pure instinct, parried the heavier blade away, reached with his left hand for the dagger but got a four-fingered bloody punch right on the jaw afore he could use it.
Then he did.
Troy’s head snapped back violently, the jolt felt down his spine and that loosened tooth clattering in his mouth until he put a tongue on it. The Lorian stumbled back in turn, the dagger firmly stuck between his eyes. He shuddered once and went down, the angry Northman appearing behind him ready to swing that blasted axe again.
Lumbering orcish prick, Troy cursed and spat the tooth on his face afore dodging to the side. The Northman growled again ineligibly and gathered his arms to swing again aiming at his midriff to split him in two.
So Troy went even lower, a sharp dive and he rolled in the mud towards his opponent, rotten leaves and gluey figs sticking everywhere, the axe whooshing over him and his blade carving the Northman’s ankle tendons right through the hide-boots.
The mercenary wearing the bronze plate groaned and swung an arm at the rising Troy to backhand him across the face but the gladiator hacked a portion of it off below the elbow and just got smeared with blood from the shorter gory stub. Troy stabbed upwards trying to find the Northman’s jaw but missed and slashed his nose off instead.
“UURRMMGL!” The butchered across the face mercenary moaned and then Ib-Lurd sliced him across the face again with a scimitar dropping the Northman to his knees. Ib-Lurd raised his sword to cleave him once more but a small throwing axe screamed over the Northman’s head and sunk into the advisor’s chest to the shaft.
Shite.
“Borg is the best man I ever had,” a Cofol warrior said angrily getting out of the foliage. He had a bronze hoplite cuirass and vambraces on, but instead of a spear he carried a longsword. “Look what you did to him,” he accused the faltering Ib-Lurd that made two backwards steps and collapsed awkwardly on his neck.
The crunch reverberating inside the gloomy woods.
Troy retreated half a step and unsheathed his scimitar. He’d the other Kopis inside a mercenary a couple of trees behind this opening.
“Who do you think you are?” The mercenary officer growled pointing his sword at Troy’s chest. “Know that I’ve killed twenty men with my own hands,” he added with an evil smile. “Three tonight.”
Troy tried to open his half-closed eye but failed so he just shrugged his shoulders, moved his dislocated jaw about to crack it back in place and said persuasively.
“Mate, I’m at fifty. For the day.”
He might have embellished it there a bit.
But not by much.
Troy didn’t do totals a lot since he could only count to ten.
Everything above that was tricky. One time ten, two time ten, three ten, four ten.
Almost five.
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The longsword screamed but Troy put the flat of the scimitar on it to guide it away. He lashed out with the Kopis but the officer jerked away. Made to adjust his stance but failed as Troy had advanced on him flipping each blade in circles then clanging both swords once in front of his chest to distract his opponent. He switched the grip on the Kopis to angle it inwards when the blades separated and then attacked with both like a scissor. The mercenary grunted and retreated again, the gladiator following with another attack switching the handle on the Kopis again to point outwards, the shorter blade cutting high, the longer low and then swapping for a double hack with both weapons.
The officer parried the blade rushing for his face, got slashed above the groin, right under the lip of the cuirass, cursed and tried to block the double-bladed strike but got shoved back with a numb shoulder. Before he could rise and turn towards the gladiator another blade slashed him across the chest, the second severing his sword hand at the wrist. Afore the longsword hit the ground Troy’s swords had returned alike hands connecting to clap with enthusiasm and had stricken the mercenary on both sides of his helm, right at the ears.
Rang his head proper and wrapped the metal cracking his skull in two places.
Troy sidestepped, tears running down his right eye that splinter feeling like an iron rod and snapped his left arm holding the scimitar –it had the better edge on it- to detach the dazed officer’s head from his shoulders.
A good clean cut.
“One and fifty,” Troy counted in case he’d have to discuss the matter with someone else and glanced about him while casually shoving the beheaded body down with the tip of his mud-covered boot. He then sheathed the Kopis on his back and reached to remove the splinter from his eye.
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“Can you stand?” Troy asked the guard but the man had bled out. Cursing he stood up a cough ravaging him.
He walked back towards the road, drenched in sweat and cold at the same time. Troy paused, the sun blinding when he stepped out of the woods and everything turned white for a moment. Then colors returned. The chaos had spilled out of the forest and had reached the road connecting Que Ki-La with Small River and its bridge. He could see the bridge amidst the smokes coming from behind him, as the woods were still burning in places.
The total tranquility sinister.
The sun rays having to fight both the black smoke clouds rising and the white clouds on the sky. Still it was nice he could see clearly again from one eye.
Two gladiators came out of the lakeside woods and hurried towards the bridge. A couple of more after a while. Troy smacked his head once. Twice. Right at his hurting ears and a ringing came back. It bounced off of the inner walls of his skull and made him sick, bile rising on his throat. He coughed again and the ringing stopped.
Horns sounded.
Gongs of war.
The sound of men and animals heard in the distance towards the south and more yells coming from the bridge.
“Troy! Gods,” Fluke cried out and waved at him standing fifty meters from the bridge.
“What’s going on?” Troy barked and sprinted there despite being as tired as a farmer’s dog people had mistaken for a small mule and piled sacks with produce on its back until its legs gave.
“The Cofols are coming again?” Fluke grunted and glared at him.
Troy stopped to stare at the bodies piled on each side of the road. Behind the crude fortifications mostly out of logs and dirt. The barrier part facing the river and the ground covered in arrows, so many one could mistake them for stems sprouting out of the ground.
“Where is Qathor?” He rustled and Fluke grabbed his arm and pulled him behind cover as another volley of arrows came from the side of the bridge. Troy stooped behind the meter high barrier, basically five thick trunks piled together.
“We have less than thirty gladiators left,” Fluke explained through his teeth, gathering arrows from the ground to fire back at the creeping closer group of archers on the bridge. “That’s the sixth time they tried.”
Troy licked his bitter lips silently and glanced at the rest of the platoon trying to protect themselves behind ruined shields, barriers and even single trunks.
“When they fire everything they carry, the infantry charges over the bridge,” Fluke explained. “So it’s a bit easier then.”
“Qathor?” Troy growled, shocked at the sight of so many of the men he had traveled and trained with for years laying dead around the bridge. He’d laughed and danced with most. Fought even. Over silly things. Shared his stories and sometimes heard theirs.
Troy felt ashamed for that.
“Mercenaries came from the east, followed the river,” Fluke explained firing an arrow and ducking under cover. Several arrows rattling at their cover or falling all over them. “Fuck. They know we’re here. We need to move.”
“Fluke, gods darnit!” Troy snapped angry.
The gladiator grimaced and nervously slotted his helm better.
Fluke wasn’t over twenty years old but he looked younger now.
“Qathor stopped them near the river banks. But it was a bloody affair. Overwhelming numbers of heavy infantry. Still they tossed them in the river just the same. Balfor and Qathor didn’t make it back,” Fluke replied sadly and breathed out slowly afore rising to fire another arrow with his bow.
Troy lips had clenched tightly, both his eyes blurring again and his stomach turning hard alike a rock.
“Infantry!” A gladiator yelled from across the road and he shook his blond head to snap out of it, a bloody spot at the top where skin and hair was missing still hurting him.
Fluke slotted his bow over his head and unsheathed his sword. “You’re coming?”
Troy grimaced and got up to glare at the packed group of Jang-Lu taking the place of the archers on the bridge. A roar reaching his ears. Different in nature. Mechanical and out of place.
The gladiator turned his eyes south down the arrow covered road that run through Lotus Lane. All around him the remaining gladiators were forming up as well, shields and swords in hand, spears and axes.
Strangely enough Sartak didn’t have that many left to send over the bridge either. It was archers after them. Troy stepped on the white gravel road and eyed the approaching small cloud. The sound it was producing that of a carriage.
The implications devastating.
“A chariot is coming,” he yelled hoarsely at Fluke and the others forming at the bridge. The gladiator snapped his head around alarmed. Many heads turning with his.
“Now what?” Fluke asked.
“A chariot? Good grief,” another was heard. Nucur by the voice.
“Don’t worry about it,” Troy assured him with a pained smile and looked about for a horse, an eye on the approaching chariot. “I’ll take care of it.”
“You heard Troy. Everyone get ready!” Fluke barked bravely. “He left us the easy part!”
Troy found one munching on figs near a group of trees by the road, a hundred meters from the bridge. The Chariot had stopped in the meantime two hundred meters away and its crew were examining the battlefield with a spyglass.
Scouts.
Troy got up on the saddle and reached for the reins. He eyed the slow-marching in step Jang-Lu now about midway to the bridge and then the crew with the spyglass. With a click of his tongue he sent the light brown Cofol horse into a trot towards them.
They spotted him immediately. Two heavily armoured passengers, the scaled variant of the Cataphracts, and an equally well-protected driver. Wearing those smiling masks. The driver watched him galloping towards them without a plan and snapped at the long reins he’d looped around his left wrist. The Chariot started rolling his way as well. Its scythed –triple-bladed- wheels covered in gore turning with a maddening noise and spraying a red mist every time they hit a body or an animal carcass left on the road. The driver turning the vehicle to avoid harming its wheels and the long blades scraping everything clean.
This could well be the stupidest idea ever hatched by a human, Troy decided galloping towards the onrushing with thrice his speed against him chariot. Or anything in between.
But in the same vein a feat never afore attempted.
Well, perhaps once by a young Thalion if the stories are true.
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The horse snapped its head right and then left trying to get out of the way of the four larger horses galloping furiously towards them, a large dust cloud rising behind the chariot and the sound of the turning wheels piercing the membranes of Troy’s brain and rattling his bones from toes to the molars. The missing tooth sending jolts of pain that seemed to hit right at the bleeding bald spot at the top of his head.
It was like riding towards a coming avalanche.
“AARRHGG!” Troy bellowed ineligibly and released the stirrups to jump on the saddle, the idea being to leap over the four horses, the central shaft or ‘falling tongue’ that connected to the neck yoke, beyond the crossbar of the carriage and land inside it without tumbling over the open back and onto the nasty-looking gravel.
For Naossis’ divine meaty rack, avoid the rotating blades!
A bolt flew over his shoulder whilst still twenty meters away but it was a deceptive distance this, rapidly dissolving. Then another. Troy reached for his dagger and hurled it at the driver. Got him on the face mask with the butt and snapped his head back. Ten meters. The driver lost his smiling mask and a Horselord’s pale face appeared in its place. All furious. The charioteer to his right raised a crossbow and fired. Five meters. The third bolt striking his horse’s chest just as Troy put his right foot on the bouncing saddle.
That no one would get to witness this a crime for sure.
The horse neighed spraying blood out of its snout and veered abruptly left and away from the onrushing mountain of flesh, wood and steel. Troy had leaped off of it half a second earlier, his body catapulting forward, arms and legs kicking at the air, one of the middle horses turning its large head upwards to watch him flying over them with black eyes full of wonder and lips pulled back to show its square teeth. Over the straight wooden shaft, the leather straps and the reinforced with wire very long reins.
Everything happening in a very short second but it seemed longer.
Eh, not really.
The driver ogled his slanted eyes in preternatural disbelief on what he was witnessing and the flying wildly yelping gladiator, crashed with the greaves on the upper part of wooden framework, tumbled over the crossbar feet over head, grabbed the trying to jerk aside driver by the collar and bulldozed the charioteer with the crossbow out of the moving fast vehicle’s back.
A snarling like a madman Troy followed after the screaming while tumbling on the hard gravel Cofol, legs plunging out the back but his grip on the driver’s collar unrelenting. The armour bindings gave a bit, left shoulder dislocating a lot and kept only by muscle, the yelling driver dragged out as well. The fierce momentum swung Troy sideways, feet and torso outside the charging wild chariot kicking wildly, looped him around over the rotating blades, boots melting at the briefest of touches and brought him inside the open cabin again.
The taught reins barely keeping the driver on the bouncing floor almost decapitating the gladiator and the remaining charioteer holding on for dear life in deep astonishment on what had just happened in the span of less than two seconds.
That was it really.
The whole stunt.
One.
Two.
The following second Troy crashed inside the tight space, the reins cutting at his neck. He slipped, back hitting the sides of the square cart, the driver pulling at the reins to get back on as he was holding on by the tips of his boots and the charioteer with the smiling mask still inside raised his crossbow to shoot a bolt in Troy’s face from point blank range.
Troy put a hand on its mouth to push the barrel away from his head, shoulder snapping back into place with a sharp stab of blinding agony, the stubborn charioteer fired anyway and the bolt ripped through Troy’s palm then flew in a bloody line over his head. Troy growled in general, almost tumbled over the carriage, but grabbed at the metallic crossbow with his good hand and pulled it hard. The Cofol clasped desperately at it and they fought for the useless weapon, the desperate driver still looping the reins around his forearm to save himself and the war chariot heading straight for the bridge uncontrollably.
“Allgods helps us! He’s bereft of sense!” The driver yelped when the still struggling with the other charioteer Troy put a boot lacking its sole on his head to shove him over the edge. Large toe plunged into the man’s nostril and Troy closed the toes at the soft part of the nose there and yanked it right and left ripping half the nose off of the driver’s face.
The charioteer reached for a dagger he had on his belt, Troy let go of the bloody noseless driver and reached into a wicker basket with various weapons. He found a flail and pulled it out, the charioteer trying to knife him in the gut as they both bounced violently sideways over the small floor. They were both still trying to gain possession of the empty crossbow for no apparent reason other than trauma, so it was an awkward fight aboard the fast moving chariot.
The charioteer stabbed him aiming for the kidneys, but Troy twisted his torso earning a deep gush under the half plate instead. He kneed his opponent between the legs and got some breathing room to swing with the flail. He’d a fucked up left arm of course but Troy clenched his teeth in a desperate scowl and did it anyway. Once and he broke the charioteer’s wrist, the bone tearing at the skin and the knife dropping between them, bouncing off the floor and zipping past the heavy-breathing driver that had just managed to climb up the carriage.
Troy swung again clumsily and got the Cofol at the jaw, wrapping the mask and turning that smile into a sad grimace. The Charioteer tried to get away with a groan but he’d no room for fancy dodging and stepped over the lip of the floor instead.
Just like that he vanished from sight.
Troy turned his head, realized he was almost over the edge himself and tossed the crossbow away to grab the rail with his good arm. Then he looked at the man bouncing off of the hard gravel behind them, the driver looking in horror his friend’s body turning into an amorphous ball of gore.
Troy looked at the sweaty, wild eyed driver and the driver looked at him bewildered. Then the gladiator swung the flail again and got him with all three steel balls at the top of his head. The cranium exploding like a watermelon but all the spillage going away from Troy since the chariot was moving the other way.
Shite!
Troy turned around, his head and body rattling so much because the war machine was going too fast on the bumpy road, realizing in horror he was less than twenty meters from the large stone bridge over Small River.
“GET OUT OF THE WAY!” Troy roared to be heard trying to get at the slippery reins, only just realizing the driver was still tied with them and was dragged behind the chariot by an arm. Until the arm detached from his shoulder that is, which gave the vehicle even more speed.
The alarmed Gladiators rushed to escape the onrushing chariot, not everyone succeeding and a desperate Troy jumped out of it just as it whipped past their lines. He tumbled on the hard gravel lost the other boot and his greaves, found grass at the side of the road and stopped with a battered back on one of the wooden barriers, an arrow shaft penetrating his calf and popping out the other side.
Troy watched the final voyage of the war chariot with disbelieving eyes. One that is, as the right had closed completely.
The war chariot bounced over the sloped mouth of the bridge, stayed its course by an evil god’s intervention and dashed the few meters towards the packed with terrified Jang-Lu lines that scattered out of the horses’ way as fast as they could. Most made it to the edge of the bridge and the chariot blasted past them running over one in five only, but the long blades extending outwards almost covered the full width of the now sardined frantically crying in panic soldiers’ stone bridge.
It was quite enough.
The white stones of the bridge turned a deep red in just a few seconds, a huge crimson mist rising almost ten meters high and thousands of flesh pieces, body parts, shattered bones, brains and thrashed weapons blasted out in two gigantic red arcs over the screams and sounds of agony of those caught in the machine’s path.
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“Troy!” Fluke cried shaking him by the shoulders. “How did you do that?”
“Garrgl,” a mangled Troy groaned and grabbed him by the collar to stand up. He grimaced when he did and stooped to get the arrow shaft out of his throbbing leg. He started coughing and almost went down again, but Fluke kept him upright.
“The Titan of Novesium!” He yelled and the remaining gladiators raised their swords and cheered loudly.
“Eahrg,” Troy managed to say raising a crooked left arm, blood still spurting out of the hole in his palm.
“Do we attack across the bridge Troy?” A gladiator asked the former champion of the arena, another giving him some water. Troy poured it over his head and puffed out with a pained groan, the throbbing reaching his brain.
“Gather…”
“What was that?”
“Get everyone,” Troy gasped hoarsely, sole eye tearing up. “Head west through the woods.”
“What about the rest of the Chiliad?” Fluke asked with a frown.
If Nout broke through then holding the bridge makes no difference.
Troy limped slowly towards the road and stared at the smokes coming out of the east woods and the burned camp, then at the distance where Lotus Lane touched the corner of the city’s walls.
> A grinning Qathor gave him a thumbs up.
Troy closed his eye and sighed.
See ye on the other side brother, he thought. Now you can party as hard you want.
“I need a horse,” he grunted raspingly. “Fluke, get all the survivors towards the lake. Don’t fuck it up kid. We cleared it so it’ll be safe for a while. Move fast. See if you can reach the narrows, but stay in the woods. Loop around the lake’s shores towards the Sopat camp.”
“What about you?” Fluke asked and Troy crooked his mouth, every part of it hurting afore replying.
“Forget about me. I’ll try to reach Ballard as fast as I can, see if I can get anyone else out in the uproar,” Troy stared at Fluke’s face and added. “Sartak can have the blasted bridge. He doesn’t have the men to hold it and he knows it. Try as he did, in this here bloody ground Sartak didn’t win.”
“You heard him,” Fluke barked and grabbed his left arm. Troy almost jerking away at the fresh jolt of pain. “This champion will never be forgotten,” a moved Fluke had whispered meaningfully near his face.
>
>
> The famed gladiator had just nodded with his head, voice coming out strangled. Asmudius writes because of all the emotions flooding out of him, but if we’re to believe the colorful account it was more because the champion was probably seriously injured.
“Sure,” he replied simply not much believing it. In his mind Troy had failed everyone.
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