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Troy
Lake Sium Dimachaerus
Divine Blades
Tales of the Peninsula | Aftermath
Part II
-Ziba’s scarf-
Vol. I
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Act I
-I’ll need that scarf-
>
> He’d been lucky to get out of Que Ki-La alive.
>
> The wyvern had attacked the city, turned streets to scorching rivers of lava and demolished whole neighborhoods. Pyroclastic clouds had liquefied flesh and scrapped grass, gravel, tiles and soil off of the ground. Troy had made it out by the skin of his teeth mostly because his horse had picked the right route in the fiery chaos.
>
> It turned right instead of left.
>
> The grieving gladiator had gone in to a state of utter shock at the level of destruction and indiscriminate mayhem unleashed on the city and then numbness, his mind all but shutting down exhausted. Still he reached the burning south gates with the few survivors that had managed to jump on a horse at the last moment and picked the south route out of Que Ki-La.
>
> The fields beyond equally burned through, the ground charred and hard as coal. The terrain appearing desolate and hellish under the dimming skies. The night found him reaching Palar but he could have missed it completely as there was little of the large village now left standing. Nothing of the -at least- two large camps erected in front of it and only traces of the Chiliad’s defensive works. The land had been flattened seemingly with only remnants of stone walls showing the borders of hardened narrow streets. Tiles and walls fused with soil. Under the black soot the ground had turned to brittle glass at spots.
>
> Troy paused to rest his spooked horse, the soft breeze blowing over the ashes and the moonlight shining its light on still figures cowering near or inside debris. Black glass-rock brittle statues, covered in cracks and crudely depicting women, children and soldiers. The breeze eating at their bodies slowly. Troy touched one and felt the hard skin still warm. When he broke the fragile arm, Troy smelled charred flesh underneath. The gladiator stumbled back horrified and decided to leave Palar immediately forgoing his rest.
>
> He traveled the whole night heading south with no provisions other than his blades, a cracked mask and Ziba’s scarf. The trip would kill his horse twenty kilometers from Rihtur. So Troy, walked the rest of the way. While the gladiator was still breathing two days later, Troy wasn’t sure he’d actually survived and constantly listened for the sounds of the beast in the sky. If that is what the Wyvern King’s help looks, he thought. Then I rather fight alone.
Second week of Fall 193 NC
Days after the Battle of the Simun Gates
City port of Rihtur
Seventy kilometers from Rohir
Just over two hundred kilometers from Ani Ta-Ne
Troy rearranged the heavy saddle over his right shoulder. A sack with whatever he’d gathered on the road tied on it. He could sense the sun over his head, the tattered cloak offering some protection but not much. Walking during the night was better but he’d eaten through the soles of his boots and had to cover his feet with bandages. It worked but in the night you don’t see what you’re stepping on.
So Troy had walked during the day more.
The Horsearcher watched him entering the city with suspicion. Troy didn’t look his way following after the few civilians heading for the port. The city showed signs of destruction with collapsed walls and gates, but nowhere near what he’d witnessed in Que Ki-La. The wyvern had skipped this part, Troy thought and eyed a tavern hopefully.
He walked there rearranging the load over his shoulder, the scar over his right eye itching and his vision not that great from that side. Troy’s back protested a bit but he’d ignored it for so many days that it had turned into a whine the gladiator pretended he didn’t hear.
Troy paused before the entrance, pale blue eyes smarting and tanned weathered skin sweaty, what wasn’t hidden under a rich blond beard that had sprouted out of his face. With a deep breath he entered, the coolness of the interior almost bringing him to tears.
The tavern keeper’s curt voice snapping him back to reality.
“I got nothing,” the Cofol said brusquely. “Fuck off!”
“I’m looking for a horse,” Troy rustled, still carrying the saddle.
The Cofol scratched his goatee, a large birthmark on his nose staining his pale skin and stared at him behind the table he was repairing. Much of the interior looked ransacked.
“No horses left. Head on straight south in the fields, catch a wild one yerself,” he grunted and stooped under the table.
“Any food you can spare?”
The Cofol raised his head behind the table, hammer still in hand. “Army has taken everything eatable. Most of the uneatable stuff.”
“Which army?”
“All of them,” the tavern keeper replied gruffly. “Got any coin?”
“Not really. I don’t,” Troy replied with a grimace.
“You need that saddle?”
Troy needed it for the horse he didn’t have. His stomach growled.
Eh.
“What do I get for it?” He probed.
“Half a loaf of oat bread. It’s a little moldy, but you can eat around it.”
“Any water?”
“Use the barrel next to the stable,” the Cofol replied. Troy nodded and dropped his load down. Stooped to get his sack and toss it over his shoulder leaving the saddle next to the entrance.
“You don’t happen to have any boots?” He asked the tavern keeper. “Seems like an uneven trade and I could use a pair.”
“Are you a soldier? You look like a brawny lad.”
“I’ve fought on the sands,” Troy replied vaguely.
“I have some pairs people have left. See if you can find one behind the counter,” the Cofol replied and turned to work on the legs of his table again.
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Troy found a pair of boots that fitted him behind the counter and sat on a stool to remove whatever was left of his. He walked to the empty stables and carried a bucket back, used some to drink and the rest to clean the bandages. His feet last. Then he wore the used high-ankle military boots, the rough leather reinforced with thin wooden sole and square heel. No nails underneath so they were not infantry boots.
He reached the front of the tavern via the back door –the stable was reachable from the rear- to get the rest of his stuff. Troy heard voices talking with the tavern keeper just as he went through the narrow hallway’s door connecting with the kitchen.
“Where did you get the saddle Rimsin?” A man asked. Thin as a rail, the leather armour hanging on him and wearing similar boots with the ones Troy had found. Two more standing behind him inside the tavern proper. A short mustached archer and a taller one without hair on his dried up sun-weathered face. The archer he’d seen at the gates.
“Fuck off Irib,” the tavern keeper retorted and stood up. “Leave the saddle.”
Irib, the leader and these looked like Nout’s rangers to Troy, glanced at his friends. “Now, you’re just being nasty for no reason.”
“What’s in the bag?” One of the others asked. The short one with the mustache and gave Troy’s sack a kick. He’d left it next to the stool near the door.
“Didn’t ask,” Rimsin replied sounding annoyed and the ranger/archer spotted Troy standing at the internal door unsure.
“Hey,” Troy said and the short soldier stood back surprised. “That’s my bag. I’m gonna take it and leave.”
Irib turned his head and stared at the gladiator. “Is that him Ammi?”
“Ayup,” Ammi, the other ranger from before replied. “Came through the north gates afore a couple of hours.”
“Check the bag Zur,” Irib ordered the short ranger standing near Troy.
“Listen,” Troy told him as Zur stooped to open the sack, untying the leather cords. “Let’s keep it peaceful.”
“There’s armour in here sergeant,” Zur reported and Irib kept his slanted eyes on Troy. “Swords….” He paused unsure. “A Cataphract’s helm.”
“Yeah?” Irib asked his friend. “You don’t look like a knight mister…?”
“Troy,” the gladiator replied. “I was a gladiator. A freedman now.”
Irib sucked his teeth. The collar on his neck soaked. “Where did you get the mask?”
“It’s loot,” Troy replied, his eyes on Zur handling his blades. “I came upon it.”
“Are you with the rebels?”
Troy took a step forward but both Zur and Ammi reacted, the latter taking two steps away from the officer. He calmly loaded an arrow to his composite bow. It was a strange choice of weapon given they were inside a tavern but Irib looked to explain it to Troy.
“Ammi is a sharpshooter,” the officer elucidated. “That’s yer armour in the bag?”
The query both an attempt to learn more and to warn Troy the tattered cloak wasn’t going to stop an arrow.
“It’s mine,” Troy hissed through his teeth.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen mister Troy,” Irib told him, pressing his mouth tight. “We’re gonna ask a couple of queries and it’ll be beneficiary for all of us if ye answered them truthfully.”
Zur stooped to drag his sack away over the wooden floor. He did it keeping his eyes on Troy. Ammi just pulled the bowstring back carefully and aimed the bow at his chest. They were less than five meters apart and that was a side-notched steel tip on that arrow.
Good to go through hard-leather, even better against hemp cloth and skin.
“What do you want to know?” Troy asked and took another step forward.
“He moves again,” Irib ordered Ammi. “Shoot him in the gut. Get your dagger out Zur.”
Troy nodded to calm Ammi down. “I’m listening guys,” he rustled with a grimace and raised his arms in a nonthreatening manner.
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“We have a dearth of news lately,” Irib started walking to his sack to have a look at it himself. “Seeing as you came from Que Ki-La, how did the battle go mister Troy?”
“I wasn’t involved,” Troy lied. “But there was a lot of fighting, plenty of battles and a wyvern.”
Irib paused furrowing his brows, fingers tracing the gold-sealed cracks on the Cataphract’s mask.
“A what?” Zur blurted out oggling his eyes.
“You’ve seen this wyvern?” Irib asked calmly, turning the polished steel helm around to check on the engravings.
“Almost killed me. It burned the city,” Troy replied and glanced at Ammi to see whether he was distracted, but the ranger smirked alert.
“Uhm,” Irib murmured. “Any idea on where the Prince is?” He asked.
“I’ve seen no Prince,” Troy retorted. “There are heaps of dead bodies around Que Ki-La, inside and outside. Palar is leveled almost but no Prince. Would he even be in the field?”
“A Wyvern?” Zur repeated unable to move past the disturbing detail. “Are you serious?”
He stood closer to Troy than the rest.
“This Prince would,” Irib replied with a troubled grimace. “That’s a royal bodyguard’s helm. Hora-Se’s. I thought I recognized it from afar,” he added.
“Irib,” Rimsin intervened. “What’s all this talk of a wyvern?”
“A rumor,” Irib replied and got up, the helm still in his hand. “I’m more concerned with the Prince’s whereabouts.”
“What does the rumor say?” Rimsin asked and Zur turned to stare at the officer as well. Troy glanced at Ammi but the ranger hadn’t lost focus.
“Que Ki-La is destroyed for the most part,” Irib said with a frown.
“That’s true,” Troy added. “It came out of nowhere.”
“A fucking Wyvern?” Zur asked his face crumbled in disbelief. “Seriously?”
“Does Sept Khemet know?” Ammi asked his officer.
“Haven’t heard from him also,” Irib grunted. “You fought for the Three Sisters. Who’s your master?” he asked turning to Troy.
“I’m a freedman. A champion of the arena,” Troy replied tensely. “I now fight no-one’s battles but my own. Keep the helm but the swords and armour are mine.”
Irib glanced at the sack. “I can’t have you leave out of here armed Mister Troy. You could be lying.”
“You know about the wyvern already,” Troy told him. “What I saw back there neither man nor Prince can defeat. It will kill everything in its path. Heed my advice and get out while you still can.”
“Good grief,” Rimsin commented.
“Hmm,” Irib nodded thoughtfully and glanced at Zur. “Check him for weapons,” he ordered.
“Let me leave in peace Irib,” Troy warned. “You got nothing to gain.”
Irib stared at the cracked mask attached to the helm and then dug his fingers in it. Pulled Ziba’s silk white scarf out. There was blood on the scarf, gold details embroidered at its hem. “That’s Lord Letakin’s sigil. The Libra of Ani Ta-Ne and a noble woman’s scarf,” the officer said looking at Troy.
“I found it. There were corpses from both sides.”
“You know about the wyvern?” Rimsin asked the officer as Zur approached to search Troy.
“It’s just a tale Rimsin,” Irib hissed. “Go outside. I’ve got supplies on the horses. See to fix us a proper meal.”
Zur had found Troy’s dagger and took it out from its sheath. He also found the small wooden Rudis. A tiny replica of a Gladius sword the size of a knife. Troy’s deeds in the arena scribbled on it.
“Nothing else,” Zur reported checking under Troy’s half-opened cloak for anything else. He kept the dagger and returned the Rudis into its leather sheath. “It’s inscribed to a Troy sir.”
“Can I go?” Troy asked Irib. “You know I’m telling the truth.”
“Let him go sergeant,” Ammi said. “It makes no difference. We need to contact Rin An-Pur.”
Irib thought about it and then nodded. “Leave the weapons.”
“It’s a dangerous place out there,” Troy grunted, Rimsin walking outside the tavern to check on the horses. “Let me take my bag.”
“You’re a muscular man,” Irib replied with a smirk. “You’ll manage without it. Head for that door.”
Troy grimaced and stared at his new boots in silence.
A one-eyed dying Ballard raised his head to glare at him.
“Go Mister Troy,” Irib urged him and Zur slotted the gladiator’s dagger in his waistband.
Allgods damnit.
“I’ll need that scarf,” Troy said soberly and Irib nodded as if he expected it.
“A gift from the mistress?” He asked knowingly and Ammi glanced at his officer confused, the aim of his bow dropping slightly, just as Troy burst into action.
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The gladiator snapped his right arm out and grabbed a distracted Zur by the collar. A savage pull and a gasping Zur was violently drawn towards Troy his dagger clattering on the floor. Ammi caught the move out of the corner of his eye, raised his bow and loosed an arrow for four meters away.
Troy let go of Zur, the yelping soldier twisting desperately around while speared from the arrow from left to right cheek. Other than a couple of broken molars from both sides and a partially severed tongue miraculously sort of unharmed.
Irib dropped the Cataphract’s helm, Ziba’s scarf fluttering when it opened like a small sheet freed from its clothespins, taken away from the soft breeze blowing through the tavern’s open front and back doors, helped by the officer moving past it, after unsheathing a long saber-type sword with a single edge.
He moved fast towards Troy.
But the gladiator moved faster, a step right and he put a boot on the nearest side of Rimsin’s repaired table, then kicked it towards the oncoming officer. The table catapulted in the air, losing a leg and turning sideways. Irib turned his back to it, the table breaking again in two afore he sent the cursing officer tumbling towards the wall of the tavern.
Troy snapped his head towards Ammi, the ranger having another arrow out, half-nocked. A lithe Troy stooped folding in two at the waist just as Ammi fired again, the arrowhead opening the left-side of the gladiator’s twisting away neck up to the nappe and ripping the hood of his cloak away. Troy grunted, grabbed Rimsin’s discarded iron hammer from the floor and then rolled the other way towards the counter.
Ammi reached for another arrow, Zur coughing half a tongue out, hands desperately trying to extricate the arrow out of his mouth without tearing bigger holes to his cheeks. His face and neck a gory mess. Troy reached the counter and jumped/slid over it, left buttock scrapping the used surface and dropping the other side, an arrow striking the front edge of the counter. It broke apart and the shaft ricocheted on Rimsin’s few bottles above his head. Bringing a wooden shelf down housing three of them and adding to the brouhaha.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“GET HIM FOR PITTY’S SAKE!” Irib bellowed irate and a scowling Troy stood upright from behind the counter, small iron hammer in hand. The officer hacked at him above the bar, the blade missing and chopping splinters of wood away, even cracking the surface. Troy had jerked away, boots slipping on spilt liquor and broken glass but brought the hammer down banging his forearm against the counter.
Troy almost broke his own arm there but all that force was channeled into the hammer.
He went for the nearest available target and caught Irib’s retreating arm right at the elbow joint with the hammer’s flat face. The crunch of splintered bone drowned behind Irib’s agonizing cry of pain just before an equally grunting incomprehensively Troy swung wildly upwards with the hammer and connected again with the curved claw this time, right under the screaming Irib’s chin.
Cut the sound off abruptly.
The hammer ripped everything but the eyes out of his head as far back as the last couple upper jaw molars, both eyeballs exposed underside popping and pouring down the officer’s grotesquely burrowed out face.
“What the holy fuck…?” Ammi cursed as Irib went down, the amount of gore expelled painting the counter, the ceiling and the floor a deep crimson, while covering the half-collapsed bar behind Troy and Troy himself in a dark red sludge made of blood, body fluids and pieces of torn flesh.
Troy and Ammi eyed each other for the briefest of moments and then sprang into action. Ammi loosing another arrow that missed everything due to shock and Troy hurling the gory hammer with a snap of his raised arm.
The iron hammer traveled the distance between the two of them, rotating over and over, spraying blood on the floor of the tavern and smacked the ranger at the left side of his head as he’d tried to jerk it aside. Ammi’s head cracked like an egg and caved in losing its shape, his eyes turning to the white afore collapsing face first on the blood spattered wooden floor, flattening the front of his skull abruptly.
Troy coughed, blood spraying out of his nostrils and slid over the counter again, much faster now due to the gory lubrication and landed on the other side. Zur who had managed to get the arrow out of his mouth breaking the front part of it, gurgled seeing him approach, boots splashing in the spreading pool of blood and went for Troy’s dagger.
He still had it on his waistband.
Troy reached him and put a heavy hand on his, effectively grabbing Zur’s hand that had closed on the handle. Zur grunted, blood gushing out of his mouth from three spots and unsheathed the dagger just the same with a growl. He tried to turn it against Troy with all his strength, the other arm blocking the gladiator’s from reaching his face.
Troy pushed back, veins popping on his neck and muscles bulging, right hand approaching Zur’s face slowly, left hand turning the dagger around the other way despite the ranger’s efforts.
“NAHRGGLH!” Zur cried when Troy’s index finger found the tear on his left cheek, dug inside and worked to widen it even more, pulling at the wavering flesh after folding the calloused digit over it. With crying eyes ogling desperately Zur felt the bloody skin and thin mucous flesh tearing off of his face from ear to chin, the pain robbing him of his strength until it reached the tipping point and Troy managed to heave the dagger Zur still held into the ranger’s own chest to the hilt, breaking his wrist in the process.
The still flying since the start of the very-brief violent scrap silk scarf found the wall across from Troy before reaching the open door, lost all its momentum and sunk finally towards the floor.
Touching it a moment later.
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“For crying out loud Irib!” Rimsin was heard saying from outside. “What are you doing in my tavern?”
Troy wiped his face from the gory spillage and walked towards his sack. Found the helm and tossed it inside. Heaved the bag over his shoulder and retrieved the scarf afore heading for the door.
Rimsin almost falling on him as he returned. The tavern keeper gasped seeing the carnage behind the blood-covered gladiator and took a step back.
“Any rangers outside?” Troy grunted trying to adjust his eyes to the sun.
“Not at the near,” Rimsin replied clenching his jaw.
“I’ll take a horse,” Troy said after a brief contemplation. “Keep the other two as compensation. I’ve used yer hammer and damaged a table. Don’t think ye can put it back together.”
Some other stuff as well.
“Eh… sure. Don’t worry about it,” Rimsin replied numbly, eyeing the blood dripping gladiator apprehensively. “The brown mare has the supplies,” he added to be helpful.
“Much obliged,” Troy retorted and scrunched his face, the blood crusting on his eyebrows. “I might use the stable again to clean up some,” he added and Rimsin nodded in understanding.
“That would be wise,” the tavern keeper added and tried to smile but he was too shocked to pull it through convincingly and just grimaced instead.
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Act II
-Hello Troy-
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A week later
A kilometer from Ani Ta-Ne’s Great Market
Near the Phalanx controlled war camp
Third week of Fall 193 NC
Early morning
Troy closed his worn out cloak with a hand, the strong wind blowing from the plains rattling the tall grass growing by the sides of the road and the morning dew chilly on his skin. He’d left the horse to graze some distance behind him and had approached the walled camp on foot. While the wooden buildings and tents looked like those of Karit’s army he’d encountered in Rohir there was something eerie about the guards at its gates. He’d avoided the Fu De-Gar mercenaries heading for Rihtur and continued down the road, one of hundreds of refugees –mainly slaves- trying to escape the war. Karit’s army had gathered some of them, but left Troy go through recognizing the reigning champion.
He would have preferred to avoid this camp as well but it was blocking the approach to the city. The guards wearing the black Hoplite armour looking like gladiators but they weren’t. It wasn’t the armour, with whole torso covering muscled cuirasses, narrow slits Hoplite helms, greaves and vambraces of excellent craftsmanship noticeable from a hundred meters away. It wasn’t the spears or the black metal doubled-crescent aspis with the engraved red Wyvern on them as some gladiators would spent the coin for a fancier shield.
Troy had heard that the Phalanx had landed in the Peninsula. The wyvern king of Wetull had brought his army across. And while he’d seen the beast laying waste of everything in Que Ki-La, Troy knew this foreign army’s soldiers weren’t humans.
And it was the aura of the latter he could sense emanating from the guards at the war camp gates.
You need to get moving, he told himself. Through Ani Ta-Ne and back to Fu De-Gar. See if ye can get Ziba out.
Now this part was the most difficult for him. What to say and how to make the woman listen. He didn’t want to take the task but Troy understood Ballard’s worry. Troy was worried about that as well. People might not keep their word with him gone. Ziba-Ra was a beautiful girl even after having a child. Troy could attest to that which was also a problem.
The gladiator didn’t want to take on the task, because he wanted Ziba and Troy couldn’t function when conflicted.
He got up from behind the grass to return to his horse, one of the Hoplites at the gates turning his head to look his way as he’d heard him despite the distance. Troy grunted and backtracked keeping his eyes on the guards, the big road empty as if the large city built near Tani River was dead.
“That’s a Zilan sword,” a tall girl said, standing next to his grazing mare with her back to him. Strange blue hair braided in a long ponytail laced with green leather strips. Same dark green leather ranger’s armour, double folded and hardened, sculpted at the chest and tight leather pants tacked inside felt boots. She carried an engraved ebony-wood quiver on her back, an intricately carved polished-wood longbow next to it and a long dagger strapped on one side of her fit thighs, with a leather satchel on the other. “But not Imperial steel,” the exotic ranger added, touching his opened bag with the point of an arrow she held.
Troy could see long, alien ears sprouting out of her head. The left turned his way like a wolf’s and colored a pale shade of red in contrast to her tanned skin. The gladiator reached for his dagger and the ranger woman turned, expressive large eyes gleaming all green before turning a mixture of yellow and blue.
“This is Gorwin,” the ranger said in refined Jelin Common pointing that arrow somewhere to the right side of Troy and deeper into the tall grass. “My pupil.”
Troy caught out of the corner of his right eye a tall creature dressed similarly rising from his hiding spot ten meters away. The male Zilan, Gorwin apparently, had his longbow aimed at him. The gladiator had the strange feeling he wasn’t going to miss.
“He was worried,” the female ranger continued, flipping the arrow in her fingers expertly. One time clockwise, the other counter-clockwise, the speed picking up. “I told him you were friendly. So let’s try again.”
It was mesmerizing.
“Lady Aelinole,” Gorwin hissed and the female ranger smiled, red lips splitting to reveal many pointy teeth belonging to a large feline predator.
“To the heavens above our greetings,” she hummed, Troy’s eyes following the arrow wheeling, its buzz that of a laden bee. “Our thoughts and prayers warrior of the arena. You are welcomed.”
And the arrow stopped moving. Troy blinked trying to break out of the trance he’d fallen into and realized she had returned it to her quiver.
“I’m Troy,” the gladiator croaked numbly.
“Hello Troy,” Aelinole said. “You’re among friends soldier.”
The latter a play on the meaning of his name in ancient Lorian.
Not that Troy knew that.
“I’d like to pass through,” he told her and Aelinole nodded. “It’s imperative I reach Fu De-Gar milady.”
“Then pass through, you shall,” Aelinole had replied calmly. “Gorwin will take you to the city.”
> Not much was left of Ani Ta-Ne. Fire and over a month of lawlessness had gutted its neighborhoods and driven away much of the population. The Phalanx had restored order, its patrols eradicating the criminal gangs and brutally squashing dissent. Local crews had been tasked with rebuilding or repairing parts of the harbor and the majority of damaged buildings around it and around the city’s center had been brought down, the ground flattened and cleared of rubble.
>
> Rumor was that a governor had been dispatched from Goras to take over.
>
> Imperial ships were moored inside the port, but mostly humans were conducting business in the city with the Phalanx remaining at the camp (but for the patrols) and the Zilan present claiming an area near the river to create a small secluded community and civilian headquarters. A contingent of marines had occupied the Old Imperial Watch, the ancient fort overlooking the approach to Ani Ta-Ne from Fu De-Gar, a couple of kilometers from the junction. One leg of the road heading north to Mista Savar, the Chiliad’s permanent training grounds and the other continuing west towards Fu De-Gar.
>
> Troy visited Mista Savar first, crossed Kineham River there on a boat along ‘Demames’ Bestiarius’ Hermes and then followed its west bank through the Great Oasis towards Gladiator’s Pond, the large lake bordering Fu De-Gar’s northern approach rich wheat fields and fruit plantations.
Act III
-Trading pieces-
The old one-eyed former gladiator cleaning the empty barracks paused and watched Troy entering through the open gates of Chiliad’s camp. Hermes, had fought in the arena during Thalion’s time but while he’d won his freedom and was left crippled, he refused to work for Lord Letakin again. Ballard had allowed him to sleep inside the walled training grounds along several other slaves and freedmen that hadn’t the means to support themselves or were too injured. Hermes who was also missing his left arm and wore a leather sleeve with a steel fork at its end, had eventually helped train a lot of new recruits earning his keep.
When it became obvious that the Chiliad would be used against the Khanate, Hermes had again refused to train any more men as he believed the war a way for the Cofol Lords to circumvent their word and getting them all killed again. Ballard had him work in the kitchen after that and Hermes had accepted it without complains.
“Who else is here?” Troy asked climbing down from the saddle and the grey haired Lorian from Demames pointed towards the barracks facing the west walls. The old gladiator was well into his fifties.
“Some families. Beggars and runways,” Hermes rustled.
“Gladiators?”
“You took them all with you,” Hermes replied. “The rest left with Thalion.”
“No new trainees?”
“At the Ludi. You took the trainers with you as well,” Hermes retorted and placed the wooden broom on the wall next to the barrack’s entrance.
“Is Ziba-Ra around?”
“Reseph came a couple of weeks back,” Hermes replied with a snort as if disgusted at Troy’s query. “Took her and the boy away. That why you came?”
“Lord Dekerut’s man?” Troy growled not wanting to explain himself.
Hermes nodded, sole blue eye appraising Troy’s stance, the missing one covered with a thin cloth looped around his head like a slanted bandana.
“They be at Fu De-Gar by now. Near Tsuparin’s palace or in it,” he said and clenched his disfigured jaw. Hermes wiry body was covered in scars and healed gouges as he’d been a Bestiarius (a beast fighter) afore deciding to fight men for his freedom.
“Eh,” Troy grunted and stared at the barracks. Some men coming out to watch him from afar.
“Won’t find anyone skilled enough to help you over there,” Hermes said hoarsely. “Where are all them boys that went with you Troy?”
Troy glared at the old gladiator. “Lots of stuff happened this year.”
“You reached Que Ki-La. Word is, Lord Sol is no more.”
“Yeah, Nout came after that.”
“He came to Ta-Ne too.”
“I saw it. There are Zilan there now,” Troy informed him. “Running the city.”
Hermes grimaced and walked inside the barracks. Four long rows of beds in there but he stopped near the first one near the door and stared at an old wooden chest placed under it.
“Thalion?” He asked Troy.
“He didn’t make it. Khemet killed them all.”
“Velox?”
“Killed under the walls of Que Ki-La to buy Ballard time.”
“Telos?”
“Died earlier that day being stupid.”
“Your friend? That idiot Issir cinaedus?”
Troy scratched his small beard and then shook his head negatively. Hermes sighed deeply and stooped under the bed. Hooked his fork-shaped fake hand in the heavy chest’s handle and dragged it out. Unclasped the latch and pushed the lid open.
“I knew when they named the place after him,” Hermes said in a contemplating voice staring at the contents of the chest. “Ballard wasn’t long for this world. Dead people have places named after them.”
Troy smacked his lips and turned to return to his horse. Hermes voice stopping him.
“Anyone of the others left?”
“Some. With Asper’s group and Fluke with some of Qathor’s and mine.”
“You left young Fluke in charge?”
“I had to move fast Hermes,” Troy grunted glaring at him.
“You want to get the woman out,” the old gladiator noted still looking at his chest. “Ballard’s wish or yours?”
“Ballard’s,” Troy croaked.
Hermes nodded. “No other hidden meaning to it?”
Naossis’ heavy bosom!
“He feared they might not keep their word.”
“Mmm. First sane thought that came out of the Jackal’s mouth,” Hermes replied and stooped to get a well-used Gladius out of the chest. Run the fork-hand, the steel blades on it like fingers, over the length of it and frowned. “Patrick has a mule. Go tell him I’ll trade my bed for it,” Hermes said finally. “I be needing it no more.”
Second month of Fall 193 NC
Second week
Fu De-Gar plantations
A kilometer from the North facing Oasis Gates
Hermes stopped his mule next to Troy’s mare and stared at the guards half-asleep at the gates. Wagons with produce coming out to head for the crops fields, some going inside the city coming from the plantations led by slaves and their slave-guards.
The old gladiator was wearing an old scaled armour with plates at the shoulders and a leather harness with his legion-type sword, whip and steel chopper with the elongated shaft and flat blade secured on his back.
“What will you tell them?” He asked.
“Haven’t thought about it,” Troy admitted.
“Got any coin?”
“Not much.”
Hermes spat down and grimaced. “Don’t believe they’ll sell you the girl. What did they have Ballard agree to?”
“Free her at the end of the war?”
“You say the war is over now?”
“Don’t know. The King of Wetull seems to think so,” Troy admitted. “I don’t see him returning Ta-Ne anytime soon.”
“How are them Zilan?”
“Weird. You can feel them on your skin. It’s difficult to describe them. Alluring. Creepy.”
“Any magic shite?”
“I couldn’t tell. I’ve no idea what it is they do. They are tall and some are curious even polite. Most though are conceit as fuck. Worse than the Cofols. Anyways, I’ve seen their leader’s wyvern and I know how this ends,” Troy replied.
“Aye,” Hermes agreed. “What was his association with the Jackal?”
“His old squire apparently. He was married to Lord Sopat’s sister,” Troy replied. “Ballard sure loved the kid, never said a bad word about him.”
“I can see how you’re skeptical given what you’ve told me.”
“Aye.”
“Don’t see how he’ll be susceptible to blackmail also, what with him being all grown up now and given his company. Never met a beast master with a gentle soul. You raise a monster, you learn to look the other way. Would he even care about the other Lords agreements?” Hermes noted. “Tsuparin might be looking to secure his city’s freedom here than gaining more land.”
“From the Khan?”
“Nay,” Hermes replied. “The new guy. The man wielding the bigger weapon sets the terms Troy.”
“Qathor would have used a phallus analogy here. Too tempting for him to avoid it,” Troy commented reminiscing and Hermes nodded seemingly unamused afore replying curtly.
“I bet that cocksucker would.”
> Fu De-Gar’s ‘palace’ was an imposing old imperial building with tall walls that looked like a prison. Shaped in a massive half a kilometer in diameter half-circle, the straight back side facing a large walled garden, it wasn’t as secure as Lord Sol’s palace but it had four Ludi built around it. The large barracks and training grounds created a square around which the rest of the city grew out of. To get through the check points and enter the inner grounds and streets wasn’t easy if you weren’t invited or worked there.
>
> The two gladiators asked around and learned Siba-Kal, the famed Ani Ta-Ne Lanista, had moved to Fu De-Gar to work for Lord Tsuparin using his connections. Mainly the local Lanista Ba-Ramis who had discovered the ‘Gargoyle’. So they arranged for a meeting with the old Lanista at a local tavern, bordering Fu De-Gar’s south market. The city had four, each facing a side of the large palace complex.
Siba-Kal sucked his teeth seeing them take the chairs to sit down at his table.
“Hermes? What the actual fuck?” He cursed and had a sip from his black tea. “I thought you were dead old timer.”
“Was thinking about it,” Hermes admitted. “Then I traveled on a mule to come here. That almost did it.”
“Right. Welp, that lion eating your arm is still in memory. What a fucking comeback that was! Ha-ha. Great show, ayup,” Siba-Kal commented fondly and put his bronze cup down. “Old games aside, I’m looking for trainers to get the Ludus going again. Have bought a place and all,” he started eyeing Troy appreciatively. “I wouldn’t mind have a champion working on the new crop.”
“Who else made it out?” Troy asked gruffly.
“Paikan is still breathing. His wife got caught in a raid. He was the only survivor.”
“Hid in the cellar?” Troy chanced.
“Sewers,” Siba-Kal shrugged his shoulders. “Got most of his coin out. He is a partner, but I’m running things.”
“I bet his wife rests assured for the future,” Hermes commented dryly.
“Eh. Let’s not judge people. I barely made it out. It was a good thing everyone went after Letakin,” Siba-Kal said diplomatically. “A big loss,” he added not to appear insensitive to his old boss.
“You visit Ba-Ramis then?” Troy asked changing subject and Siba-Kal pushed back on his chair.
“You are not here for work?”
“There’s a war going on,” Troy reminded him. “It’s weird you’re thinking of that.”
“Bah,” Siba-Kal snorted. “Khemet sacks Ani Ta-Ne, the king of Wetull smacks Khemet and takes it for himself. The Chiliad kills Sol and sacks Que Ki-La, then Nout comes. Nout disappears. Have I got everything right?”
“Where are you going with this?” Troy asked.
“War won’t last,” Siba-Kal retorted. “Are you fucking serious? That’s enough damage done. Khan is fighting a war already. This needs to stop. It will. People will talk about it, find a middle ground, agree on trade and coin will start flowing in again. Coin will bring visitors wishing for entertainment just like old times. We need to get ahead of the game here lads.”
“Talking to you reminded me why I hate yer guts,” Hermes grunted and Siba-Kal frowned in shock.
“Good grief! I’m quite fond of you. Where is this coming from?”
“I need to see Ba-Ramis,” Troy intervened hoarsely.
“I can pay you good coin,” Siba-Kal haggled. “Not right away, but soon. I can have you lads fixed wit a couple of good girls. How about it? Hermes you look like you need your cock sucked old timer.”
“Can you buy a slave girl for me?” Troy asked.
“You mean, like a specific one? I have two young girls. I managed to get them out before the city was sacked. A redhead half-breed and a brunette. A desert lass but spirited. Unbroken,” Siba-Kal eyed him knowingly. “Doesn’t get better than this Troy. People pay coin for that. What?” He asked seeing their sour faces. Siba-Kal sighed deeply disappointed. “I could see if I can trade for her. Who is she?”
“Ziba-Ra,” Troy grunted.
“The Pearl of Ani Ta-Ne?” Siba-Kal stood back alarmed. “Wait, isn’t she on retainer for Mista Savar? He has a little brat with her.”
“Can you do it?”
Siba-Kal licked his lips and looked about them at the other patrons. “What about Ballard?”
“He’s dead.”
The Lanista nodded. “Tsuparin has her. I don’t see him giving her up for free. That’s a pretty expensive slave Troy. Highly priced with plenty of skills and perhaps a looser cunt nowadays but still in her prime years. Not to mention she’s famous now.”
“In what way?” Troy asked staring at the table.
“I told you.” Siba-Kal puffed his cheeks out and worked on his thin goatee for a while. “There’s word that the Lords asked Rin An-Pur for a ‘truce’ of sorts. The Khanate is a mess now and no one knows who is in charge in the Khan’s absence. A cease to hostilities seems like a palatable idea.”
“What does Ziba has to do with any of it?”
“Ballard’s kid and his woman,” Siba-Kal said looking at him a little surprised for his concern. “Are trading pieces,” the Lanista continued. “Cities, fields, coin and people,” he added. “You want to finish the war you better have what the other side might need to sate its thirst for vengeance.”
“Who’s making the talks?” Hermes asked seeing as Troy was unable to speak from the shock.
“Sopat’s idea but the Wetull dude wants in as well apparently. We know what he wants. Sopat is a man of free trade and Tsuparin is prideful. He’ll want his status raised. Now Rin An-Pur… it depends. Assuming the Khan is convinced which is a very difficult thing to do without blood spilt.”
“Who stands in for the Khan?”
“Prince Atpa,” Siba-Kal replied. “Nout left no family or they disappeared to avoid having their throats cut,” he added. “A smart move for sure.”
“Tsuparin thinks Atpa would want blood,” Troy croaked.
“Atpa eh, the Khan. He can’t serve the old Horselord a loss. A draw with his enemies killed is a tastier plate.”
“So Tsuparin keeps Ziba… what would the Sopat offer?” Hermes asked.
“If I’m Chubin Amin,” Siba-Kal had replied thoughtfully. “I’m taking a ship out of the Peninsula.”
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