Shadowless

by Randall McNally

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I doubt you do. The man is a renegade. A psychopath,’ Brother Dyám added. ‘If we let him out, there is no telling what destruction he will cause.’

  ‘I will take full responsibility for his actions,’ Amrodan said.

  ‘And afterwards?’ Timalüs asked. ‘Will you be the one who puts him back in his cage?’

  ‘I will tell him that if he helps us he will be released, on the condition that he does not return to his previous way of life.’

  ‘And you think he will happily give up the robbing and murdering?’ Brother Sythâr asked.

  ‘Yes, because if he refuses I will have him reduced to dust. And I will see to it that he is scattered to the four corners of the Northern Realms.’

  ‘You are willing to take a chance on him, Brother Amrodan? That is an enormous risk,’ Brother Felikon said.

  It was cold in the room but Amrodan could feel sweat forming at his hairline.

  ‘I am not here to give anyone a history lesson, but this council was founded with the intention of identifying and helping individuals of a certain type. One of those individuals now needs its help. Believe me when I tell you that I am fully aware of the fact that releasing him is a risk, but I am willing to do what it takes to help Willow in any way I can. She was captured and tortured for over ten years while undertaking a quest that I sent her on.’ Amrodan put both hands on the table. ‘I am going to do everything in my power to get the mask: with or without the help of this council.’

  The brothers looked at one another, then at Brother Sythâr. The old man sighed and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘If he disobeys the orders of this council once more then I will initiate a kill-order against him,’ Brother Sythâr said.

  ‘Understood.’ Amrodan looked him squarely in the eye.

  ‘So be it,’ Brother Sythâr said, reluctantly. ‘Release Lórkrond Nox.’

  Chapter VIII

  The Violent Imprisonment of Kurt Dorn

  The grains of sand parted in a circle as Kurt turned the hilt of his sword, its blade burrowing a small hollow in the floor. Sitting in his holding cell he heard the cheer of the crowd echoing down the corridor of the underground arena.

  His small stool creaked as if protesting at the bulk it was forced to prop up. Still he turned his sword, spinning it by the pommel, causing the tip to bore its way into the ground. The torches flickered and his dimly lit cell darkened briefly.

  Someone’s coming, he thought.

  Letting his sword fall to the ground, he picked up some of the sand and rubbed it between his hands to get rid of the moisture on his palms, watching most of it fall back to the floor. The rest clung to the sweat forcing Kurt to rub his hands together vigorously to remove it.

  He hated the waiting. Everything else he could deal with, even being out there, but sitting in the holding area listening to the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of the crowd as two men fought to the death, and then the screams, followed by the silence: that was the difficult part. Two years he had been a captive and he had still not got used to the waiting.

  At last, there was the sound of shuffling footsteps and then the heavy clunk of a metal door being unlocked. The shadow of a man moved slowly across the floor as Kurt sat cleaning the last of the sand from his palms.

  ‘It is almost time, Master Dorn.’

  The bald man speaking through the bars of the cell was dressed in a grey sackcloth tunic and holding a heavy, leather-bound ledger.

  ‘Random or arranged, Bellintín?’ Kurt asked.

  The old man flipped through the book, licking his thumb to gain friction on the pages until he came to the entry he was looking for.

  ‘Arranged,’ the old man replied, sounding regretful.

  Kurt sighed. Arranged meant they were good. Men who faced him in the Pits of Tarantum did so for two reasons: fortune or fear. The purse for beating him had risen to five thousand six hundred gold pieces; having started at one hundred, it had accumulated by the same amount for every person he had killed.

  Yet despite the fact that he had slain so many people, there seemed to be no shortage of men desperate enough to risk certain death for the chance of obtaining this wealth. Half the men he had killed were not even warriors, just souls who had fallen on hard times and had seen this bounty as their only solution. Randoms, he called them, people with little or no combat experience who signed up for their doom after being washed up in the stinking cesspit that was Tarantum.

  They were his preferred choice of opponent.

  Arranged challengers were a different case entirely. Every pit, every city and every realm had its champions: slaves who fought, not for money but out of the fear of being executed. These men trained, sparred and studied the art of combat religiously, all the time knowing that their masters were arranging for them to be paired up against some rival fighter in some other pit.

  ‘What do you know about him, Bellintín?’

  Bellintín turned the page.

  ‘Let me see. Well, he is a champion of the Berserker Pits in Stonehelm, he uses a halberd.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Kurt replied. ‘A Northern lunatic with a two-handed weapon, with the speed and strength to use it, and a tendency for flying into a drug-fuelled Berserker rage.’

  ‘You did ask, Master Dorn,’ the old man said solemnly.

  The noise from the crowd was building into a crescendo.

  ‘Weaknesses?’ Kurt asked, cleaning the sand from the blade of his sword.

  ‘Hmm. It says here he was badly injured in his last fight: nasty gash to his right thigh. Being a Berserker, he will have most likely taken drugs, so I would not expect him to tire quickly. That said, he should over-swing with most of his attacks. Apart from that just the usual… lightly armoured, oh and he uses a polearm, so get in close and…’ Bellintín ran his thumb across his throat.

  Kurt blew the remaining grains of sand from his sword’s hilt.

  The cheering, which had reached fever pitch, stopped briefly for an announcement before there was rapturous applause.

  Seconds passed then a bell began to ring to tell Kurt that he was next in the arena.

  He inhaled and exhaled deeply, moving his head from side to side and stretching his neck muscles.

  ‘You will be fine, Master Dorn, you have done this plenty of times before,’ the old man said.

  Kurt picked up his wall shield in one hand and spun his broadsword with the other. The bolt that locked the door to the corridor slid to the side.

  ‘Who is this guy, anyway?’ Kurt asked as he pushed the door open.

  ‘He goes by the name of Kirrell Giltarax.’

  ‘What a stupid bloody name,’ Kurt muttered.

  As Kurt walked along the corridor to the centre of the arena the roar of the crowd became louder as they booed and cheered for the challenger who had stepped out before him.

  Upon reaching the door, Kurt heard the master of ceremonies introduce the other fighter to applause from most of the spectators. He looked out onto the brightly lit arena and saw his adversary, stretching and using a halberd as a prop with which to loosen up.

  His opponent was wearing thick leather armour down the right side of his body, with overlapping metal plates and an enclosed helmet. Kirrell’s armour cut off at his left thigh and shoulder and Kurt could see that his skin was covered in tattoos.

  That helmet has to be restricting his vision, he thought.

  Kurt didn’t like using a helmet, he preferred to see attacks coming, citing that if an enemy could land a blow to his head, he was already doing something wrong and so probably deserved it.

  The sound of metal grinding against stone filled the arena, and light flooded into the corridor, as the winch operators wound the crank handle and the iron door lifted.

  The auditorium overlooking the pit was full of merchants and dignitaries. Scant
ily clad servant girls walked among the spectators with trays containing goblets of wine and glasses of mead, all the time being ogled or groped by lecherous men.

  Yana stood in a white flowing gown, embroidered with gold thread in the twining shapes of flowers and leaves, gazing out over the arena, her hand-maiden, Tiann, by her side.

  ‘I hope Kurt comes through this without injury,’ Yana said, in a well-spoken voice, while watching Kirrell go through his warm-up.

  ‘Kurt can handle himself. I think it’s the other guy we need to feel sorry for.’

  Two merchants, dressed in fur pelts and carrying mugs of ale, walked in front of them on the way to their seats. They had beards and talked in a gruff accent.

  ‘That one dressed in white is meant to be his twin sister,’ one said, nodding at Yana.

  ‘She can’t be. Have you seen him? She’s nowhere near as big as he is. I guess they’re not identical twins then?’

  ‘Obviously not. She must have got the looks.’

  The two merchants began to laugh as they made their way to their places.

  Yana scowled at them.

  ‘Ignore them,’ Tiann insisted. ‘Drunken Northerners.’

  Pushing her long brown hair behind her ear Yana returned her attention to the pit. The stands were full and everyone was settling down for the main event of the evening.

  ‘You’ve got company,’ Tiann stated.

  Yana turned to see a four-foot-tall, obese man with olive skin, dressed in blue silks and an oversized matching head wrap, making his way through the crowd towards her.

  Great, she thought. Manarat.

  Manarat was a slaver from the Southern Realms. One of the few people ever to have crossed the Verboten Sea, he had come to the Northern Realms more than a decade ago and established himself as a trader. Drawn to Tarantum because of its high number of unemployed citizens and the questionable moral fibre of its officials, Manarat quickly rose to power. Supported by the Merchants’ Guild and with the help of the local gangs, he crushed his rivals, and anyone else who stood in his way, with the speed of a dictator and the brutality of a tyrant. But old habits die hard, and trading was not enough for Manarat. He soon rediscovered his appetite for making people suffer and set up a slaving operation within Tarantum. Not content with selling and buying, he went about building a pit-fighting arena and had these men battle to the death before a baying crowd.

  ‘Yana, my dear,’ he said, in a heavily accented voice. ‘You look absolutely ravishing tonight. I knew that gown was a splendid choice. If I do say so myself, I have quite impeccable taste.’

  Manarat’s bulbous nose gave his words a nasal twang. He reached for Yana’s hand and went to kiss it.

  ‘Yes, very elegant,’ she replied, snapping her hand away.

  Manarat straightened his silken waistcoat, a look of embarrassment forming on his face. He looked around at the people watching him and wagged his finger at Yana.

  ‘I do not detect a great deal of gratitude from you. Anyone would think you do not like me.’

  Yana stooped down and spoke in a hushed tone.

  ‘The only reason that I keep up this charade, of being your companion, is because you hold my brother prisoner.’

  Manarat’s brows lowered and he stomped his foot on the ground.

  ‘You are both my prisoners, Yana. Do not ever forget that.’

  Kurt took a deep breath, gripped his sword and shield, and stepped into the arena.

  The three-thousand-strong crowd rose and cheered upon seeing him, clapping and yelling support for their champion. Kurt simply walked forward, ignoring them; he was not here by choice and so did not want their support or adulation. The facts were simple; he was a slave made to fight for someone else’s entertainment. No amount of public affection or gratification was going to change that, in the sick and twisted circus that was the world of arranged slave-fighting, Kurt Dorn was the Pit of Tarantum’s main attraction.

  The arena was round and over eighty feet wide. Its sand-covered floor helped to cushion falls and soak up blood, of which there was plenty. Light flooded onto it from a contraption chained to the ceiling composed of lamps and lenses, ensuring that everything that was going on in the subterranean amphitheatre was bathed in bright light. The fifteen-foot-high walls were cut from the sandstone bedrock and adorned with downward-facing iron spikes, an effective deterrent, should the fighters decide to try and mount an escape attempt. With the pit located underground and completely enclosed, the crowd noise reverberated around it.

  Kurt stood motionless in the centre of the arena staring at his opponent, who was spinning and twirling his halberd above his head. At over seven-and-a-half-foot tall and weighing a quarter of a ton, Kurt towered over his challenger who seemed unfazed by the wall of muscle he was about to come up against.

  The pit was warm; despite only wearing a cotton tunic, besides his breastplate and greaves, Kurt was already perspiring. His heart rate started to climb as the fight drew nearer and when he inhaled he could discern the smell of stale sweat and the bitter, metallic taste of blood, which was still tangible in the air from the previous bouts.

  ‘And now, the fight you’ve all been waiting for,’ the master of ceremonies shouted from the safety of a platform overlooking the arena. ‘The champion of the Pit of Tarantum against the very best that the Berserker Pit of Stonehelm has to offer. Please applaud both fighters: Kirrell ‘Eye-Gouger’ Giltarax, against our very own Kurt ‘Back-Snapper’ Dorn.’

  At the mention of Kurt’s name, the crowd stood and cheered.

  Kurt did not even raise a hand in acknowledgement of his audience. Keeping one eye on his opponent, in case Kirrell tried to charge him and catch him off-guard, he looked towards the section of the arena where the dignitaries sat. He saw Manarat sitting on a heavily cushioned, elaborate chair; beside him was Yana, with her light-brown hair shining under the lights and dressed in a long white gown.

  Kurt gritted his teeth. Seeing his sister by Manarat’s side made him seethe with anger. He was the man responsible for Kurt’s imprisonment. He was the owner of the pit.

  ‘Both men will now assume their starting positions,’ the gaunt, sharp-featured announcer shouted. ‘When our illustrious host gives the signal, battle will commence.’

  Kirrell ran into position; he scraped the sand with one foot.

  Kurt sighed: why would someone not doing this out of choice, be so eager to get it started?

  He too readied himself for combat. Turning his body, he planted his feet in line with his shoulders and bent his knees, lowering himself into a more comfortable stance. Putting his shield up in front of him, he readied his sword and glanced at Manarat, watching for the signal being given, yet keeping a careful eye on the man he would soon be killing.

  Manarat held a white handkerchief at arm’s length.

  A hush spread through the crowd. The seconds ticked by, as both fighters darted glances from the handkerchief to each other, knowing that very soon one of them would be dead.

  The sound of Kurt’s pounding heart was ringing in his ears. The nerves in his stomach tightened as the seconds passed. Still he waited, poised.

  Kurt often wondered if dying in the pit might be a blessing in disguise. Manarat would lose a lot of money, five thousand six hundred gold pieces to be precise, providing Kurt lost to a ‘Random’ opponent.

  He would not have to undergo the humiliation of being caged like an animal, eating when he was told to eat and sleeping when he was told to sleep. The prospect of being slain for public amusement was something he had fully accepted the first time he buried a sword in a man’s chest for the entertainment of the baying crowd.

  The only reason he had not given up already was Yana.

  As the handkerchief fell to the ground, Kirrell sprinted to the centre of the arena swinging his halberd around his head until Kurt was close enough to be caugh
t by the blade.

  Kurt kept his wall shield raised in front of him, concentrating on his rival’s movements and paying particular attention to the tip of the halberd, blocking it when needed.

  Sparks flew from the impact of the blade clipping the top of the metal shield. The crowd were gasping and shouting their support for both men.

  Remaining focused, Kurt held his broadsword in his right hand and sidestepped to his left, making his opponent turn while he looked for an opening: that one vital opening that came along in every fight.

  Kirrell rained down blow after blow on his adversary; switching his stance every so often, he swung his halberd down onto Kurt’s shield with an overhead swing before driving the point of it against him in a series of vicious lunges, meeting the large frame of his shield each time.

  Kurt drew him in. He could hear the panting and growling from beneath his foe’s helmet and the sweat on his body told him that Kirrell was expending vital energy for very little return.

  The two men circled each other – Kirrell delivering hit after hit while Kurt was content, for now, to merely defend.

  Some of the crowd had got their feet and were shouting abuse at Kurt for his inactivity in attack while others roared Kirrell on to press home his advantage.

  Whether it was this pressure from the crowd or an increase of self-confidence brought on by the combat drugs was unclear, but during one of his strikes Kirrell over-reached himself.

  His attacks until then had been meticulous, each lunge or swing followed by an instant evade or dodge that had left him out of range of his opponent, but his error in judgement was just the opening Kurt was waiting for.

  As soon as Kirrell’s halberd-blade protruded for a fraction of a second longer than it should have, Kurt pounced.

  Knocking the blade to the side with his sword, he ran at his foe, his shield tight up against his shoulder, and crashed into him with all his might. Kirrell was sent sprawling across the arena floor by Kurt, skidding through the sand and coming to rest face-down over ten feet away.