The term pit wasn’t perhaps the best term to describe the makeshift fighting ring that the soldiers had erected. It was less of an arena and more of a corner of the camp away from the various command quarters where shoddily put together planks of wood had formed a slightly elevated platform. It was a far cry from the famed venue it had been named for back in the capital city, Talim. Marius had spent countless hours accompanying his parents to the notorious Pit. It was a massive coliseum that could easily fit thousands of viewers. The events were held weekly as combatants of all kinds tested their mettle to honor the emperor and the goddess of war and alcohol, Rymera. Some were there willingly, risking their life for glory and gold. Others were not. Criminals, slaves, and other undesirables were often sentenced to fight in the pits as a form of punishment or execution. The Pit would focus on combat between two individuals, skirmishes involving small groups, or exotic monstrosities would be released into the field. With the talented druids the Imperium had brought in from Fauran Tir the landscape could be altered to whatever Emperor Cassius was partial to that particular day. The emperor was known to be fickle and a boring fight was liable to be “spiced up” in ways that the contestants would certainly not want.

While the Pit wasn’t technically sanctioned by the officers, it was something they generally ignored. Short of someone actually dying, Marius figured that Scalde actually was probably a fan of their makeshift fight club. Anything that hardened his troops was bound to be considered a victory. Most of Marius’ peers considered the Pits to be quite cathartic. Combat in the Pit was generally done with nonlethal weapons. It was forbidden to deal a lethal blow to a combatant and anyone who took the fight a step too far often faced their own form of vigilante style justice from the onlookers.

Although Marius had been trained to fight in legion formation using polearms like Eo’s pilum, or hastas, he had a preference for bladed weapons. The gladius was a fine blade, but his father had spared no expense, hiring practitioners of war, duelists, gladiators, renowned armsmasters from all over the world. If there was a weapon in circulation, there was a solid chance that Marius had seen it, and potentially even practiced with it. Devak Bashad had been his favorite tutor. His father had not been particularly fond of the Balgasian Feltouched, but no one could deny the man’s skill with curved blades. Atticus often considered races of the Etherian Sphere like Feltouched or Sylvish beneath proper society. He often stated that their blood was tainted with less than savory lineage. Marius quickly learned that claim to be false first from his tutor, and then again when he met Caranir. When Devak first showed him the traditional Faraquin kilij, Marius had been awestruck. He had never seen a blade designed in such a way, and he found that through Devak’s tutelage he quickly excelled at using it.

Most prized amongst Devak’s impressive catalog of vicious looking blades was one that he called Ghihanna, the Blade of Song. It had been forged from zephyrite, a metal said to have been infused with the winds of Illias, goddess of storms. The metal had taken on a pastelle blue hue reminiscent of the sky at the peak of Lastsun. The ornate hilt had been carved with the strange cursive lettering of one of the Balgasian dialects. Marius had always appreciated how the desert languages looked more like art with its sleek curves and interlocking characters. A tassel with a crescent moon dangled from the butt of the weapon, and even in a still room devoid of circulation it appeared to be blowing in a powerful gale. At first Marius had found the name of the blade confusing - as far as he could tell it did not sing. It in fact did not produce any noise at all. It was eerily unsettling to watch the blade carve through the air without as much as a whisper, and when it struck against steel or stone it produced not even a faint noise. Devak explained that the sword was said to contain the spirit of a powerful Djinn that had been sealed away within the blade centuries ago. It was named The Blade of Songs because when the wielder danced through combat, the blade produced a beautiful ethereal song that only the owner of the blade could enjoy. Marius desperately wished to try the blade, to hear its beauty, but Devak was adamant that the blade remain in his hands, and after a year of training with the red skinned man, he left without ever allowing Marius to even hold it. Marius had spent a full two months whittling a piece of wood to resemble the curved blade as best he could.

The three men ducked through the brush at the end of camp and climbed down a small ravine which led to The Pit. There were a few other soldiers already there as most of them were still preparing for their duties that night. Caranir gave an enthusiastic wave to Dante, a fresh recruit from Sol Tactus. The region was just west of Fauran Tir and the two areas were often considered “problem” realms within the Imperium. The two small vassal states had a long history of violent unrest going all the way back to the original occupation just a scant century or two ago. There were still plenty of individuals of the longer lived races that still referred to Sol Tactus as its original name that had been stripped from it as part of the imperial process of cultural erasure, or as his father liked to refer to it, “civilizing the savages.”

“Alright, I call firsts,” Eo spoke up as he pulled a wooden spear from a rack of makeshift faux weapons. Most of the arms available had been carved from cedar or cypress which grew in abundance throughout the southern reaches of the empire. Many of the weapons were weatherworn, and plenty of the blades had begun to flatten or splinter where they made contact most frequently. Eo examined the wooden pilum, fiddling with its dull point between his index finger and thumb. He was a fan of polearms; something every legionnaire had been trained in. He even used them in situations where a gladius would have been preferable.

“I’ll take that challenge,” Marius responded. He grabbed his hand carved scimitar and struck the edge of it against his palm before grabbing a buckler. Most soldiers were trained in using scutum shields, the famed semi cylindrical unwieldy amalgamation of wood and iron that required a great deal of effort to carry. They were excellent in proper formation but Marius considered them ineffective for dueling.

Eo and Marius had dueled on countless occasions. It had become a rivalry where the two would exchange wins, constantly aiming to best one another. By Marius' account he had nearly half a dozen wins over Eo, but his friend contested that, claiming that Marius had suffered a head wound and couldn’t keep his memory straight.

“I’ll take winner,” Caranir said, already sitting down on a nearby rock to view the scrimmage.

“No Sylvish trickery bullshit this time, Car,” Eo responded. All creatures who were part of the Etherian races were considered to be infused with Arcana. Their lineage itself granted them a certain access to magic that did not require tapping into The Stream. The Sylvish were descendants of the first lords and ladies of the Fae Houses, and could as a result utilize the innate arcana in their blood. Caranir could use Spring magic to manipulate flora or beguile fauna, but not much beyond that. He had not trained to enhance his magical capabilities which were apparently something of a deficiency for him. It was a sore subject that Caranir did not like talking about.

“No promises, Eo. You never know when we might run into a goblin shaman!” his voice sang with mirth. Hearing Caranir in a truly pleasant mood was a pleasure to the ears. His voice was honeysuckle and sunshine.

Eo grimaced at his lilac colored hair friend as he and Marius approached the center platform. It had clearly been utilized earlier in the day Marius noted as he sidestepped a still drying spattering of crimson. The canvas of The Pit was always a vibrant display of brutality. It was art manifest through brawn and brawl. It was perpetually covered in droplets of vitae every shade of red and brown. Those who wouldn’t test their mettle at The Pit and offer their blood to the war goddess Rymera were often considered cowardly, and treated as such. To avoid The Pit was to risk ostracization.

“Alright, DeSilva,” Eonaro said as they locked eyes, “I still owe you for the black eye you gave me with that cheap shot.”

“Don’t make it so easy to break your guard and I won’t have to give you another one.”

“You won’t have the chance,” Eo answered. The two men stood about five meters apart. The ground was well worn from the number of soldiers who had started their duels in those exact same spots. Eo stood at attention and held his pilum out, perpendicular to the ground with the point aimed at the sky to honor the gods. Marius followed the familiar motion as well.

“May the blood spilled here today flow through the Fields of Strife eternal,” they said in unison. It was one of a handful of traditional honorary prayers offered to Rymera before duels or exhibitions.

With the traditions and customs of battle out of the way the two men stepped from their starting positions and began to circle one another; keeping their distance. Marius knew that he was at a disadvantage given the immense reach of the polearm his friend wielded. There were no real rules on the types of armaments one could wield unless it was agreed on beforehand. For a full minute they did nothing, reading each other's faces, body language, and intentions. It was a silent dance; a game of chess. Eonaro moved first.

Marius knew his opponent well, but this advantage was mutual. Each of them knew how the other moved and could counterbalance their opponent well. Eo was fast but the split second before his charge his face became a mask of determination and Marius could see him coming. With nearly seven feet of reach Eo came in low and nimble. It was surprising how he managed to wield the wooden staff as if it had no heft, as if it were a natural extension of his arm. Eo came in low on the right side, spear whistling towards Marius’ neck, but he was just as quick. He raised his buckler just as the tip of the pilum came close enough to hit its mark. There was a resounding thud and Marius braced against the impact, his feet solid to the ground as to not be driven back. To be knocked from the platform was to lose instantly.

Eo lunged left. Marius parried right. Riposte to Eo. Backstep from Marius. Back to the stand off once more. Grins across each of their faces were but a guise to distract the other from their shortness of breath; a war of attrition. Marius stepped hard to the right and could feel the wood of the platform stress under his step. He tried to get between Eonaro and the tip of his weapon. If he could get close the spear would change from an advantage to a liability, but Eonaro was well prepared. He moved with Marius backstepping in time with Marius’ advance and once again brought the spear point back and thrust it forward with deadly intent. This time Marius swayed with the spear, intercepting the point with his curved blade and guiding it away from his body. Again Marius attempted to close the gap, this time with a dash to the left, but Eo was again on him, unrelenting. He raised his shield feeling each blow against the buckler rattle through his core. Had the polearm been a proper weapon his shield would have likely been rendered useless beneath the puncturing strikes.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Marius squared his legs and bared heavily into the ground. He needed to knock one of the raining blows off course and send Eo off balance or he would be forced back, and already he was at the edge of the platform. When the next strike came Marius angled his buckler so that the tip of the Pilum clattered against it but past him, above his shoulder and caught Eo unready. With as much energy as he could muster Marius took five heavy steps towards his friend and swept his crescent blade in a slicing arc smacking Eo square in his chest, knocking him flat on his ass. They could hear the clatter of the discarded polearm as it rattled down the steps into the grass.

“That makes two in a row,” Marius boasted. He helped Eo to his feet. To his credit, Eonaro was not one to wear his emotions or throw a tantrum. He looked as neutral as he ever did. Very little rattled the always collected stoic legionnaire. It was one of the things that made him a great soldier.

“Rymera smiled on you,” Eo said as he wiped dirt from his tunic. “Next time it will be me who she blesses.”

“The gods are good, but that was no blessing. That was all me,” Marius said with a grin. The fight had been only a few minutes in length but Marius had been so invested in the duel he did not notice the crowd of spectators had nearly doubled since they first crossed armaments. Marius turned to offer Caranir the stage but before the words could leave his mouth he found himself in the imposing shadow of a massive man.

Marius had to crane his neck to see Gor, the Malacathan from the Iocus, glaring down at him. The giant wore no shirt showing the brown and black ink markings of his tribe meticulously carved into his skin which was the color of stone under moonlight. Marius noted that the intricate swirls of ink were covered in macabre scars; as if someone had tried to gouge the ink from the mountain man’s skin. His head was completely shaved except for a tight knot of mottled black hair that stood atop his head like the hilt of a sword. His icy blue eyes were unsettling and Marius detected not a hint of amusement from Gor’s sneer.

“Good fight. Now fight Gor,” he offered as one meaty finger prodded Marius chest. He spoke some other words but they were clearly not Talish and Marius couldn’t make heads or tails of the rough sounding Malacathan language. His voice was thunder and it echoed up the ravine back towards base. Master Forcinius had given him a lesson on the roots of many languages and dialects of the Imperium. When they had stopped to examine Malacathan, Forcinius had explained that the language found its origin amongst the true giants who now made their homes at the precipice of the highest peaks in the realm. It gave the language a sluggish quality as if it was spoken by someone with an infinite lung capacity and all the time in the world to sound out impressively long syllables.

“Caranir claimed ne…” Marius started, but before he could feel the words leave his lips another finger the size of a rolling pin came accusingly, wavering in front of his face like a mother scolding a child.

“Coward,” was all Gor said. A few heads in the crowd turned and Marius could hear the immediate murmurings spread through the dozen or so spectators. It was a magic word without any actual arcana behind it. There were few accusations as disrespectful as calling someone craven. It was an easy way to goad someone into action. Marius had never fought with Gor, or with any Malacathan. The mountains were months of travel from Torva and the stubborn giants were not easily swayed into joining the legions. Prior to Gor, Marius only interactions with the strange ashen giants was through the pits where Malacathans were considered prize possessions amongst the elite who kept stables at the arena. Those Malacathan looked different though - the ones kept in bondage often looked deflated; like broken toys that had been squashed underfoot one too many times.

“Fine,” Marius spoke without hesitation. “To first strike?”

“No. To quit!” Gor responded. His smile showed a mouth full of daggers. Most combats that Marius shared with his friends at the pits were simple affairs that ended when one of the combatants landed a proper strike on the torso, or when someone was knocked from the platform. Others though preferred more demanding fights - the kind where you would beat one another senselessly until someone was forced to submit. Gor clearly preferred the second. There was malice in his voice, apparent even through his thick accent and broken language.

The sun had finally begun to dip towards the horizon, and the late autumn blue of the sky began to fade to soothing shades of purple and orange. In just a few hours the night would begin in earnest and the sky would become a quilt of prismatic chaos. Marius knew that accepting the duel was a poor bet. He couldn’t say no though. The unwritten rules of the camp demanded it, and the haunting image of his father’s disapproving face simply didn’t allow that. So instead, Marius drew his wooden sword and assumed his position once more.

“Careful, Marius,” Eo warned. He placed a hand on Marius' shoulder and leaned in. Marius could feel his breath against the nape of his neck. “Fancy sword play isn’t going to cut it here. Be fast. Think on your feet. Better yet. Don’t get hit.” The words were left lingering in the air as Eo made his way towards Caranir who now wore the face not dissimilar from a worried mother.

As Gor took his position Marius couldn’t help but feel overdressed next to the rolling wall of muscle. Gor wore no armor except for the cloth fastened around his waist in a makeshift kilt and the greaves strapped to his bulging calves. He had picked a heavy club for his main hand and a pseudo-axe carved from cypress for his offhand. Marius repeated the familiar motion of offering his blade up towards the gods, but Gor did no such thing. Instead he collapsed to his knees and bowed his head towards the ground. A warbly song erupted from his throat. To Marius it sounded like a mallard who had accidentally had a swim in a tankard of ale. No one dared snicker at the Malacathan’s display of worship. It was humbling - a far cry from what Marius grew up knowing in the temples back home.

When he stood and the last note died on the gentle winds of the ravine, the air settled heavy and hot around them. The audience of a dozen or so soldiers was still. Marius waited for the brute to make his first move, but the giant was still. Marius tried to read him, but there was nothing there to read. Fighting Eo was like studying a book - it could be complex and intricate but the words were all there. The only thing Marius could read about Gor was that he was prepared to hurt someone, and that someone was him.

Then the avalanche was upon him.

With all of the ferocity of the Wendigos Marius had seen released in The Pits, Gor closed the distance between the two of them in three swift steps. Both hammer and axe raised towards the heavens prepared to come down in a crushing blow. Marius had no doubt such a strike could cave his skull in. He dove to the side rolling on his shoulder and coming up in a crouch. He swung around ready to strike but Gor was there again. Another raining blow. Marius side stepped and swung his sword striking Gor in the abdomen. It felt like attempting to chip away at a granite block with a toothpick. Gor didn’t even grimace.

“Weak,” the giant said through gritted teeth. He reared up and again brought both weapons down in a smashing strike. Marius rolled between his legs. Gor swung right. A parry sent the club a breath away from Marius' head. A backstep from Marius and another precise strike, this time aimed at Gor’s face. The curved scimitar connected with the Gor’s chiseled jaw and sent his head reeling to the right. A few hushed whispers spread through the crowd. Gor turned back towards Marius and grinned. A mad dog’s grin. Rabid. Blood had pooled in his mouth and coated his teeth. He spit adding to the art on the canvas beneath them.

“Weak,” he repeated. Gor charged again and swung wildly. Marius side stepped and found himself in the corner of the platform. He raised his buckler just as the crushing maul dropped on to him, driving him to the ground. His shield clattered against the wooden frame. Gor could easily have kicked Marius from the platform and ended the fight. Instead, Marius felt his stone-like hands grasp the back of his neck and heave him skyward with all of the effort one might use to carry a newborn. With a single hand Gor threw Marius back into the center of the ring. Marius landed with a thud and immediately felt pain radiate throughout his back.

“Weak,” the words themselves began to sting. Marius pulled himself to his feet. His bones ached. Gor’s temperament had changed. Before he was a storm. Now he was a wolf stalking a wounded prey. Again Gor swung wildly. Again Marius deflected. He had no shield, but the single blow he had blocked nearly shattered his arm. There was no elegance to his methods. No refinement. For all the training Marius had received, he could recognize more than a dozen styles of swordsmanship. He could formulate a plan based on his observations. Someone who fought using a gladius would likely aim for short thrusts. The weapon was designed for close quarters fighting and was rarely used to slice. It allowed Marius to plan a strategy. Gor had no tells. He had no fighting style. It was wild and unpredictable. Gor cleaved right with his axe. Marius ducked low and swung upward. Gor swatted his sword away like a pesky insect. Marius once more felt himself being forced back by the unrelenting assault of his foe.

Marius feinted to the left and then swung to the right. Gor ate the first strike without so much as a grunt. The second swing disarmed the giant as it made a cracking sound against his knuckles. The great club nearly splintered the wooden planks of the arena when it crashed down. Gor countered with a headbutt and the audience gasped as the sickening sound of broken cartilage carried through the hot stale air. Marius felt the gush of warm liquid spray down his face and against his segmented armor before he even registered the pain. He backstepped and swung again. Gor caught the scimitar in his empty hand and yanked it from Marius like a father chiding their son. Marius was brought low as the faux-axe caught him from the side and dragged him face first into the ground.

“Weak!” Gor shouted again. Marius suspected through the pain it was his way of asking him to yield. He knew he should surrender, but vanity inherited via blood made it nearly impossible. Losing to a mountain man. A savage. Disappointing. The imagined voice of Atticus DeSilva felt like a millstone around Marius’ neck. With Rymerian effort he struggled to his knees just in time to roll away as the axe came centimeters from giving Marius a haircut.

Then he saw it. At first Marius wasn’t sure if he was delirious from the beating or if something was truly amiss, but he had seen the subtle magic so many times that he couldn’t deny it. The very space around Gor’s foot warped and the stained wood beneath his feet began to bend and twist. As if the plank had been rendered hollow from a termite infestation, it snapped in half and Gor’s foot painfully forced itself below the platform nearly up to his knee. The entire audience reacted and were silenced by the giant’s piercing scream as Marius dove into his leg and bent it impossibly backward until he could feel the tension release in an explosive pop. When Marius tumbled to the side he could see the gory ivory of the Malacathan’s bone piercing through his ashen flesh. May the blood spilled here flow through the Fields of Strife eternal.

And the war goddess was sated.