When she told him that they both had to travel to Tarantum to fulfil one of her visions, he had been highly sceptical, especially when she would not tell him what this vision was, yet he followed her. He often wondered if Yana’s vision had shown him being imprisoned.
Kurt had not wanted to leave the safety of Greywolf Forest. In towns and cities he was easily recognisable and drew a lot of attention; characteristics which had led to his capture.
People called him and Yana the Damned, some the Cursed, others called them Shadowless, but it was all just semantics. The fact was that ninety-eight years ago Kurt and Yana’s mother had been raped by a god, and they were the result. When their mother died while giving birth, their father, a miller from the village of Larkindown sheltered them and for years kept their existence a secret from the rest of the village. The secret was finally exposed when, still a boy, Kurt punched and killed a charging ox that had strayed onto his father’s land, in front of several locals. Soon after, he and his sister had to take shelter in Greywolf Forest where they, and other outcasts, did what they had to in order to survive.
The siblings looked as if they were in their late twenties but were in reality far older, and were the rarest of all rare things spawned by the gods: twins. Unlike most offspring of the gods, Kurt’s abilities were not hidden; his power was on display for all to see. He was a giant of a man, heavily muscled, and applied brute force to much of what he did. He’d had an unearthly strength for as long as he could remember, even as a young boy one of his first memories was pushing round the millstone in his father’s windmill when there was insufficient wind to turn the blades.
Lying on his slab, Kurt now listened to the rats fighting in the corner of his cavern; every time they got too close to him he would pull at his ankle chain, scaring them off. In-between the sounds of the local wildlife either sparring or copulating, Kurt thought about what Yana had said to him and reflected on how harsh he had been; he hated arguing with her, knowing that every day in the pit could be his last and he might not get to make up with the person he loved more than anyone.
Kurt was only allowed to see Yana after a fight, and even then only for a few minutes. That was his reward for winning the arranged combat bout; meanwhile Manarat collected hundreds of gold and silver pieces, both from the paying crowd and from the owners of the opposition pit.
Kurt shuddered at the thought of how much money he had made Manarat. He had dispatched hundreds of fighters, free men lured by the thought of winning a fortune or slaves who had no option but to fight him. When Kurt closed his eyes at night he often remembered the looks on their faces when he brought his sword or axe down upon them for the final time.
Kurt’s shield had been taken away. He thought it was because this would make him go on the offensive more quickly. Slowly he ran his thumb down one of the blades of the double-headed battle-axe he had been given in its place. It was not as sharp as he liked it, not that it mattered; it was not the sharpness of the blade which did the damage but the impact.
Three days had passed, and Kurt was back in the dimly lit holding area, waiting. His greaves and breastplate had been strapped on tightly and the sand from the floor rubbed over the palms of his hands to get rid of the sweat. He could hear the roar of the crowd and felt the butterflies in his stomach.
There was the familiar sound of shuffling footsteps and the clunk of the door being unlocked.
‘It is almost time, Master Dorn,’ Bellintín said.
‘Random or arranged?’
‘Random,’ the old man replied.
Bellintín stood with his arms folded, the leather-bound ledger pressed to his chest.
‘Really?’ Kurt was surprised: his last three foes had all been arranged. ‘What do you know?’
‘Not a lot,’ Bellintín acknowledged. ‘This is his first time in a pit. Probably his last. He signed up on hearing there were five thousand six hundred gold pieces to be won and he has come in with a sword and shield, both of which have been loaned to him by Manarat. And…’
‘And?’
‘And he looks a little out of shape, even for a man of his age.’
Bellintín bit his lip and looked at Kurt.
‘How old is he, Bellintín?’
‘He looks like he has seen around fifty-five winters, Master Dorn.’
Kurt let go of his axe handle and rocked back on his stool.
‘From one extreme to the other. Weaknesses: or do I really want to know?’
‘Strong ale and pies by the smell of him,’ the old man said, as a bell began to ring from outside the door of the holding cell.
Kurt picked up the battle-axe; swinging it over his shoulder, he pushed open the door that led to the arena.
‘What’s his name?’ Kurt asked over his shoulder, already halfway up the corridor.
‘Marius of Siddenharth,’ Bellintín shouted.
Kurt reached the arena and looked through the barred window. The challenger was in the middle of the brightly lit stadium, the crowd chanting his name. He was blowing kisses to a woman in the crowd who mockingly caught them and slumped down on her seat, fanning herself as if she had just been overcome with a hot flush. The challenger then put his hands above his head and began clapping; as he moved around the arena he stumbled.
This idiot’s drunk, Kurt realised, frowning. Killing trained fighters or seasoned combatants was one thing – drunk men were something different.
The gate moved and the tunnel filled with the sound of metal grinding against stone. The winch operators wound the crank handle and the portcullis-like door rose up, allowing the crowd to get their first look at the pit champion.
Cheers and shouting rang out in equal measure as Kurt walked out onto the pit, making his way to the master of ceremonies. Reaching the gaunt man with a grey wispy beard, Kurt beckoned him down from his podium.
‘This guy can hardly stand, let alone fight,’ Kurt said, indicating his opponent.
‘He looks all right to me.’
‘Then you’re as drunk as he is,’ Kurt snapped.
The arena burst into rapturous laughter and both men turned to see the challenger struggling to pull up his helmet, which had fallen over his eyes.
‘Are you serious? This is what you want me to fight?’
‘What do you want me to do?’ the master of ceremonies demanded. ‘I don’t pick your opponents, Manarat does. He has to resort to fools like this because you’ve killed everyone else. No one in their right mind will fight you anymore.’
‘I won’t fight him,’ Kurt snarled.
‘Tell that to Manarat.’
Kurt shook his head and stormed to his starting position.
The master of ceremonies climbed back onto his podium.
‘And now for the fight you’ve all been waiting for. The champion of the Pit of Tarantum against a new, brave challenger hoping to slay him and claim the five thousand six hundred gold pieces.’
The crowd reacted to the amount of money by screaming wildly.
‘Now please show your appreciation for these two brave men: Marius of Siddenharth and our very own Kurt ‘Back-Snapper’ Dorn,’ the gaunt man shouted and the crowd once again cheered and whistled. ‘Battle will commence when our majestic host gives the signal.’
Kurt took a step forward onto his marker while Marius looked around, clearly unsure of where his was. He had to be shown where to stand by the master of ceremonies, much to the amusement of the crowd.
Kurt directed his gaze up to the section of the stands where Manarat sat on a throne, dressed in a green-and-purple satin robe with a head wrap so high it looked like it could topple at any second.
Yana sat beside him in a red-and-black gown. She mouthed ‘good luck’ at her brother.
Gripping his battle-axe, Kurt stared across the arena at his opponent.
As the white handkerchief fell Ku
rt charged across the arena, raising his battle-axe high above his head.
Marius closed one eye, presumably to help him focus, looking shocked as if the realisation of what he had signed up to had penetrated his drunken haze.
Swaying on the spot, the man from the quiet little town of Siddenharth, felt the ground shake as the quarter-of-a-ton man closed in.
Marius’s sword slipped from his grasp and fell to the arena floor. He grabbed his shield with both hands and hid behind it.
Kurt sprinted across the pit, working himself up into a fury, and when he was ten feet from his challenger, leapt high into the air, bringing his axe down upon Marius as he landed.
There was a collective gasp of breath from the crowd.
Dust flew up from the floor of the arena before settling back down, and when it did the paying public saw that the axe had splintered the challenger’s shield, smashing through both his arm and body and then into the arena floor.
The crowd were silent.
Kurt let go of the axe, his fury subsiding.
Marius’s eyes were blinking rapidly and limbs twitching. His breeches were soiled and urine was dripping on to the ground.
Kurt walked back across the arena. The door operators who had only just sat down after his entrance ran to the winch, cranking the handle to get it up in time.
Ducking under the door once again Kurt made his way back to the holding area.
‘He could hardly stand, Bellintín,’ Kurt said, as he unbuckled his leg greaves.
The old man looked at him and then dropped his head.
‘There is nothing you can do about these matters, Master Dorn.’
‘Even you would have put up more of a fight, old man,’ Kurt said.
‘Think of it like this, you had to kill whoever you faced out there today or there would have been terrible consequences, agreed?’
Kurt nodded.
‘So the question is this: would you rather fight drunks who pose no threat to you and who you can easily beat, or battle-hardened killers who have years of experience in the pits and who stand every chance of claiming your head?’ he asked, suspecting he knew the answer.
Kurt handed him his breastplate.
The door opened and the clicking, creaking sound of wheels on a rough stone floor could be heard.
‘Ah, your jewellery has arrived, right on schedule,’ Bellintín said as he made room for the slaves driving the miniature cart.
The two slaves waited for Kurt to comply. Sighing, the giant fighter got to his feet and put his wrists tight against the grooves of the arm-stocks and, after they had closed around him and inserted the key, he was escorted back to his cell.
‘Do you ever think about what it would be like to be a free man, Bellintín?’ Kurt asked as he was led though the underbelly of the pit.
‘I was born a slave. What would I do with my new-found freedom?’
‘Maybe one day we’ll find out, old man,’ Kurt said.
Back in the depths of the sandstone bedrock, Kurt sat on his slab eating the food that had been sent down in the lift. A meat broth with peas and barley along with stale bread was not much but it was all that there was. He threw the bones into the corner and watched as the rats fought furiously over them.
They put up more of a fight than Marius, he thought, as he dunked another piece of bread into his broth.
He reflected on the man he had killed, feeling remorseful, then immediately hating himself for feeling that way.
‘How can you have sympathy for the other guy in a fight to the death?’ he muttered.
Kurt hated pit fighting, despite being so good at it. He did not mind killing people if he had to, it was part of the world he lived in, but to take another man’s life for the entertainment of others: that stuck in his throat. But what could he do about it?
Yana had told him repeatedly that her visions showed him in the arena with Manarat’s throat in his hand, and he was beginning to wonder if it would ever come true.
Having overseen the cleaning of Kurt’s weapons and armour, ready for the next time the pit opened, Bellintín was inspecting the rota for the tasks that needed carrying out in the arena.
He looked up when he heard the sound of footsteps in the spiralling tunnel that led to the slaves’ quarters. The light from above cast no shadow and yet the footsteps were getting louder. Then, Yana appeared.
‘Ah, Mistress Yana, how good to see you,’ Bellintín said as he hugged his visitor.
‘Bellintín, it is good to see you. Tell me, how is Kurt?’
‘No doubt a visit from you is just what he needs to brighten his day,’ the old man said.
He abandoned the rota and walked Yana down the torch-lit corridor to the winch.
The slave sitting behind the wooden pulley-system stood to attention and grasped the rope with both hands, ready to lower Yana down.
‘Just shout when you want to come back up now, Mistress Yana; do not stay too long or you will get us both in trouble,’ Bellintín requested.
Yana stepped onto the metal platform.
The lift creaked as its passenger was lowered slowly down the thirty or so foot drop into the cavern below.
The slave operating the pulley-system turned a tiny hourglass sitting on the ground beside him. Manarat only allowed Yana to visit Kurt for as long as the sand took to trickle through, a little less than five minutes, but in reality Bellintín usually allowed her to stay a little longer, providing she did not abuse his kindness.
‘One to come up.’
The sand was still running through the hourglass.
The slave watched as Yana spoke to Bellintín before disappearing up the spiral tunnel.
Confused that Yana had not taken her full time, he looked down into the cavern just in time to see a light from below flare up as though something were being burned.
Four days had passed, and Kurt was back in the dimly lit holding area. He inspected his flail, pulling at the links bolted to the top of the wooden handle, checking for looseness. The chains were thick and stiff, each one ending in an iron ball riddled with spikes.
He hated using flails; if they were not swung correctly they were as likely to cause injury to the user as they were to the enemy. Still, at least this time he was being given a shield.
The crowd noise echoed down the corridor that led to the central arena and Kurt felt the flutter of nerves in his stomach. He rubbed the sand on his palms and then sat back on his stool taking deep breaths and trying to calm himself down.
Bellintín’s shuffling footsteps were coming down the corridor and there was the clunking sound of the door unlocking.
‘It is almost time, Master Dorn.’
‘Random or arranged?’
The old man flipped through the book.
‘Random, Master Dorn.’
Kurt sighed in relief. ‘At least that’s something.’
The old man’s head dropped; an expression of worry forming on his face. Looking up he stared at Kurt.
‘What is it, Bellintín?’
‘This one is quite good.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘He does not belong to any particular pit, although he has fought in all the major ones. He killed Trinjulös Mirthe of the Iron River Pit and Jzuktar-Tian inside a minute.’
Now it was Kurt’s turn to stare wordlessly.
He had been due to meet Trinjulös Mirthe a while ago, but the fight had been called off when both pit owners failed to agree on the financial terms. Trinjulös was good, Kurt had heard the other slaves talking about him, and he had not been unhappy that the fight had been cancelled.
‘Who else has he fought?’
‘Nassiel Varcan and Riyestum Hallbörg, from the Dragon’s Gate Pit in Frigöris. There are actually quite a few more, Master Dorn.’
Bellintín flipped through the pages.
‘Weaknesses?’
Bellintín glanced at Kurt apologetically.
‘None that are known.’
‘Do you know anything else about him?’
‘He does not wear armour, only a breastplate and greaves: like you. He normally uses a sword and shield but tonight he has opted to use a mace. And he is fast. Very fast.’
‘Exactly how fast, Bellintín?’
The bell rang.
‘Some of the other fighters say he is faster than anyone they have ever seen,’ Bellintín said as he closed his ledger and brought it close to his chest.
‘Please take care against this one, Master Dorn.’
The door of the corridor opened. Kurt picked up his flail and shield.
‘Who is this guy anyway?’
‘His name is Arpherius.’
Chapter IX
The Botanical Misdemeanours of Dorrin Brethil
Dorrin sat by the fire using its light to write an entry in his journal. It was dark outside and he could hear the wind rattling the loose glass in his windows. The dried peat he was burning crackled in the hearth and sent a sweet smoky aroma around the cottage. He put down his quill and poured himself another cup of tea. Fishing the nettles out of his earthenware cup with his fingers, he dropped them back into his teapot.
‘You have really outdone yourself with this tea, Dorrin,’ he muttered. ‘I most certainly doff my cap to you.’
Dorrin sipped the tea then closed his eyes. A feeling of contentment formed in his mind. He smiled before opening his eyes and looking at the open book on his lap.
‘Enough for one night, I think.’
Dorrin put the quill back in the inkpot and the book on the shelf and trudged up the creaky wooden staircase. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, about to take his boots off, when he heard something.
A whisper, not in his ear but in his mind, called to him. It crept into his thoughts and hissed like a serpent preparing to strike.
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