Coltus

Voices scattered around the tired warrior as he waited in the line of certain doom.

Heads of varying shapes and sizes blocked out the arena’s entrance, and he found himself staring at the ground again. He heard shifting dirt and gravel behind him as more poor souls clamored into the line.

Desperation and quite a bit of body odor invaded his senses and taunted his pride.

Look at the great and powerful Coltus. Standing and sweltering under the sun.

Shut up.

A clattering laugh boomed in his head. You know that’ll never work, right? Keep doing it, though. It’s funny every time.

Coltus considered bashing his head against the redbrick wall beside him but decided to instead rest his hand against it. One push and he could put the crumbling structure out of its misery. The thought brought him some comfort.

The man in front of him shifted his weight, and the sun’s glare flashed off the metal-spiked shield hoisted on his back. Coltus caught the eye of his reflection, which stared back at him with a sigh. Dark circles under his eyes, picked-open scabs, and a deep scar that spider-webbed across his cheek were not marks that a young man should have. They were marks of honour you earned with age. It was blasphemous to feel so wizened.

Something tapped his shoulder. “Excuse me, sir. You’re in my spot.”

Coltus spun around and was face to face with… nothing.

His eyes dropped and he found himself staring at a little boy. A little boy with a massive, serrated blade tied to his hip. It trailed behind him like a snake’s tail and scraped the ground, drawing a sharp indentation in the gravel as the boy shifted his belt.

His eyes darting back to the boy’s indignant, dirt-speckled face, fists on his hips in a power pose, Coltus felt his mind go numb. No place for a child, an echo murmured in his ears. Yes, this is no place for a child.

This is wrong.

“Is that your dad’s sword?” Coltus’s voice was a timbre he wasn’t familiar with. It was heavy, jaded. Like he regretted every word as it came out of his mouth.

“No, sir. It’s mine. It belongs to me.” The boy’s hand rested on the hilt, and Coltus strained to keep his reflexes in check. Do not kick this child in the stomach.

“It’s mine,” the boy repeated, tugging the hilt slightly. The scrape of the blade against the ground drew the muttering of a few line-goers. Coltus heard feet shuffle behind him.

“Relax, I don’t want your blade,” he said, lowering his voice. “But that’s Blacksteel. Very expensive.”

Sounds like you want to rob him.

“Um… that’s… it’s not your business. Your business is getting out of my spot.”

There were some laughs, and a few people backed away from the pair. The line was loosely structured and mostly consisted of hobbles of people making a point to stand in front of another hobble. Coltus felt the burden of spectacle and began to grow more frustrated.

You could kill everybody here. You could bury them all.

Shut. Up.

“I’m not in your spot,” he shot out through gritted teeth. Another laugh from behind him.

Kill that man. Drive your fist through his heart.

“Yes, you are.”

“This isn’t your spot.”

“Yeah, it is.”

It was shocking how angry this child was making him. What was happening? Was he really so poorly adjusted that he couldn’t defuse this situation without force? What was the plan here?

You really are pathetic. In his peripheral, he saw a wisp of smoke, blossoming into long, prickly gray fingers. The mist twisted and contorted around his eyes, dousing his vision in a dark hue. He saw the fingers reach for the boy’s blade. Let me protect us, Coltus.

“Listen, please.” Coltus dropped to his knee, his bad leg making the movement less graceful than he wanted— his whole body was less than he wanted.

The boy recoiled from him instantly, drawing his blade upward.

Coltus caught it easily between his hands, letting a bolt of energy conduct through the steel. The boy yelped and dropped the blade. Coltus felt his palm go slick with blood. You didn’t catch a Blacksteel without paying for it.

Coltus let himself indulge, just a little, in the anger. “Are you done?”

He met the boy’s eyes and felt a pang of guilt. They reminded him of a cornered animal. The murmuring around them had turned into silence.

Crush him.

“I just…” What was he even trying to do? “You shouldn't be here.”

“That’s not your business,” the boy repeated. His voice was trembling.

A raucous cackle burst out from behind him. He felt a hand clap on his shoulder. “Fighting already? It must feel glorious to best a child.”

Coltus felt the hand squeeze, and he looked back to see a potential future competitor. The arena attracted those who built their lives around the promise of violence’s glory. Despite the man’s lean frame and smiling face, Coltus had learned to look for signs of experience— the scarred knuckles and small knives along the man’s belt let him know they were more alike than he wanted.

“Sol’s glare, man. That is a nice piece of metal.”

The man crouched next to Coltus and picked up the Blacksteel’s hilt, shaking the dirt off the weapon. He was careful not to touch the blade directly. Coltus scanned around him and saw that the line had turned into its own arena, surrounding them against the palisade-fenced brick.

“Go home, child.” With that, the man began to walk away.

Coltus stood up.

Tell him I’ll snap his neck.

Coltus forced his eyes away from the mist forming around the man’s neck. He was swinging his new weapon casually as if he didn’t know its worth.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“That’s not yours, sir. Give it back.”

The man scratched at the side of his neck. “What, you want it for yourself?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what? You’ll give it to the kid? Let him keep it?”

Coltus glanced at the boy. He glared back, searching his eyes for an answer. Coltus looked away.

“He comes here every day, you know. Chickens out right before he gets to the front.”

“Shut up!” the boy’s voice was trembling.

Coltus took a step toward the man. “How do you know that?”

“Hm?”

“You’re also here every day. Waiting for a mark.” Coltus took another step, letting his shoulders slack and his fingers rub against each other. He felt the intense heat rising from his hands.

“Oh, that’s exciting.” The man spun the blade comfortably. He knew his way around this weapon.

Like it matters.

Coltus sighed. His eyes were tied to marionette strings, forcing them open no matter how tired he got. He stretched his arms out to the sky, straining them until he heard a crack.

“Okay, we can fight now.”

But the man was gone. The crowd let out a collection of murmurs and gasps as they noticed his disappearance.

Coltus snapped his head behind him and saw a flash of steel as the weapon plunged toward his heart. He closed his eyes. He heard a shocked inhale and a whoosh of air.

The man’s voice was suddenly behind him again. “How did you…”

Coltus turned his head back toward him.

His opponent had returned a good ten feet away from him, his hair slick with sweat and the Blacksteel plunged into the ground to support his weight. Speed connections were tricky. The further you pushed yourself, the more you paid for it. He panted out a word Coltus didn’t recognize.

An enchantment?

He braced himself, but nothing came. He counted his fingers and toes. He wasn’t enchanted.

The man spat out the same word again, this time with his head raised.

"Huh?”

“My name. Anush.”

The warrior stood up, raising the blade again. Coltus saw a glimmer of excitement in his eyes. He felt sorry for him.

“Anush, give me the sword, please.”

“Whatever connection that is, whatever power— speed trumps all,” he replied, ignoring the plea. He beat his chest, hard, with his fist. The sheer power expelled shockwaves from his body, causing the voyeurs who dared to get close stumbling backwards.

Anush regarded Coltus intensely. Coltus saw a line of saliva droop from his chin. His eyes were unblinking. “You regard yourself a god.”

Coltus narrowed his eyes.

“You regard yourself a god,” Anush repeated. “I can see it.”

Coltus said nothing. There was silence for some time, the only sound the soft clinking of the knives in Anush’s belt as he shifted his weight. Someone from the crowd jeered, and Anush shot him a glare. He twirled the blade again, slower this time— like sudden movement could set something off.

“All gods can be killed. I will plunge this blade into the heart of Solis herself!”

He was getting the crowd on his side. A few people clapped and cheered, while the rest nodded or grunted in affirmation. The hero of this battle had been established. Someone threw a rock at Coltus, and he let it smack against his arm. This was stupid. The people of Sol were ready to rally behind anybody who spoke with confidence. A part of him felt pity, but a much louder part of him hated their desperation.

These are god-abandoned people, Coltus.

Anush smiled. “I will kill you, and bear your soul as an offering.”

Coltus scratched his neck. “Okay.”

Anush disappeared again, and the crowd was ready this time, giving him the oohs and aahs he was probably used to. Coltus knew he would be going for the head. He closed his eyes again. The air changed beside him, and his hand shot out, catching nothing. A cocky chuckle echoed from behind him. Coltus swept his hand out and again felt nothing.

Suddenly, a mist of dirt and gravel exploded in his face, and he hacked and coughed while swinging his arms to void off any other attacks. He accidentally slammed his fist against the wall, sending shards of brick everywhere. He felt his face go red. A pathetic attack like that? He should've seen it coming.

The air rapidly shifted and molded around him as Anush grew more confident. Wind swept around Coltus and flooded his ears, and soon all he could hear was a swirl of changing pressure. He heard a breath behind him.

Now.

Everything seemed to happen at once.

Coltus, eyes still closed, grabbed Anush by the neck with one hand, rendering him motionless.

Anush slid the Blacksteel into Coltus’s side.

A yell from a child and a cheer from the crowd.

The two fighters stopped in their tracks, and Anush’s inertia sent more shockwaves careening toward Coltus’s face from his body. He didn’t even feel it.

Blood mixed with the dirt beneath them in a hue of reddish brown. Anush regarded Coltus with stern, fixed eyes, getting short, choppy breaths out through Coltus’s grip. His hair was tousled and beads of sweat were falling onto Coltus’s arm.

The warrior’s neck felt warm in his hand. Coltus stared back at Anush and felt nothing.

Kill him.

“Take your sword, kid.” Coltus’s voice barked out the order, a shadow of his former self creeping into the daylight.

The boy spoke up from behind him. “Um… how should I—”

“Just take it.”

The boy reached up and gripped the sword with his hand. A Blacksteel was easy to puncture with, but hard to remove. After much squelching and cracking, the boy successfully yanked the blade out of Coltus’s torso. For some reason, the crowd was completely silent, and Coltus heard somebody gag as the blade, tinted in red and covered with congealed flesh, fell to the ground.

“Well, there you have it,” said Anush, his voice strained. “You’ve won.”

He had been holding the man’s neck for too long. The crowd was starting to grow restless. A few people began to shuffle, unsatisfied as Coltus denied them their bloodsport. He wouldn’t kill him. He wouldn’t kill him.

You wouldn’t?

It was starting to get awkward. The boy had picked up his blade, and Coltus could see him in his peripheral vision, slapping the sword against the ground to shake loose the bloody mess.

“Sir…” he said. Coltus waited, but he said nothing else.

Anush slowly crept his hands toward Coltus’s arm. Coltus felt intense pressure as the trapped warrior attempted to pry himself from his grip. Coltus’s arm stayed rigid, unmoving even as Anush began to batter his fists against it.

“Please,” Anush was saying through a hoarse growl. “Please.”

Without realizing it, Coltus had been tightening his fingers around his neck. He felt his nails puncture his skin, and his fingers grew warm from the blood that began to trail from the wounds.

Decide. Decide now.

Anush was thrashing and wailing, his arms moving at lightning speed as they slammed into Coltus again and again, his chest, his face, even battering his wound. Coltus felt nothing. The force of the blows tore open the modest rags he had stolen from a random clothesline. They revealed a jet-black tattoo across his chest, in the shape of a bird’s wing.

Anush’s eyes widened at the sight, and he tried to say something. Coltus pressed harder to keep the words in his mouth. Careless. He hadn’t expected anyone in Sol to recognize it.

The crowd was beginning to get loud. They chanted for blood, stomping their feet and beating their chests.

“Teth’s eyes,” Anush managed to gasp. “Teth’s eyes, see me.”

“Your god is dead,” said a voice that came from Coltus’s mouth. It couldn’t have been him.

Decide.

A flash of memory. A sweeping plague.

His friends. His heroes.

A man who loved him.

A promise.

Everything dies, Coltus.

“Do you promise?”

He had said it out loud. It didn’t matter, Anush was screaming at this point— a guttural roar that sent tremors through Coltus’s body and drowned out the chants of the crowd.

I promise. Everything dies.

He pressed even harder against the warrior’s neck, forcing the last of the air out of his mouth in a final exhale.

Everything dies.