by Sean J Leith
“Where am I?” Zaedor asked the scruffy man. He was dirty, wearing a loincloth and a tattered wolf pelt around his shoulders. His shaggy, jet-black hair shone in the torchlight, and his scraggly beard glistened with sweat.
“You’re in the pit,” the man said. The man had a dead stare against the rock wall at the back of the cage. More cages lined the walls in the round cavern, each with one person, save the one next to them.
Zaedor took a better look around him. There were men and women, Blazik, Human, among others, sitting in their cages with the same look as the man beside him. It was a strange, dome-like cavern, with rough-hewn rock walls surrounding them, and guards at the single rusted iron door. “What is the pit?” Zaedor whispered.
The man’s eyes widened. He exploded out of his rickety chair and rushed over. He grabbed Zaedor’s arms with a powerful grip. “What is the pit?” the man said. He shook Zaedor, then let go and backed away slowly. “The pit is where we people fight,” he said, eyes drooping. “We fight. We fight each other. If we aren’t entertaining, we die. Either in the ring, or out of it.”
Zaedor didn’t know what to say. The man seemed like he’d lost all hope. “Can someone get out?” he asked.
“No one gets out.”
Zaedor felt like he should change the subject. The talk about not escaping made his state of mind worse as it went. “What’s your name?” Zaedor asked.
The man looked to him with owlish green eyes, as if he hadn’t been asked his name in eons. He sat down carefully, leaning in. “Kindro. What’s yours?”
“Zaedor, of Amirion,” Zaedor replied with a sullen voice. A place that no longer exists, he thought.
Kindro sat up straight, ears perking up. “I have an uncle who lives in Amirion,” Kindro said.
Zaedor looked to him with a regretful expression. He’s clueless. He has no idea that all of them are gone.
“What, what’s wrong?” he asked, sensing Zaedor’s despair.
“Amirion was destroyed weeks ago by Rawling and his armies.” Zaedor winced as he mentioned Rawling’s name.
“Oh,” His face grew sullen. “We don’t get much information being imprisoned down here,” Kindro said. Shaking his head, he slapped Zaedor’s leg. “Look at the bright side: you’re new here, so they probably won’t have you fight for a few days.” Kindro closed his eyes and nodded nervously. “It’s about that time.”
What time? Zaedor wondered.
The iron door to the room swung open, and a man in a red silk doublet and loose-fitted cloth pants strolled into the prison dome with flourish. He wore a strange, ocean blue wide brim hat with golden tassels, and had a curled silver mustache hooding a crooked smile. He went from cage to cage, eyeing each individual carefully.
“Fireback,” he said first, pointing to a man with bronze skin and black hair with a flame atop it. “Lizard,” he said next, pointing to a man with azure snake eyes and hunter green hair.
Zaedor didn’t know what to make of that man. He never saw a race like his before. He only knew snakes were devious and vile.
The man stopped at Zaedor’s cage. “You,” He pointed at Zaedor. “It will be your first, won’t it, Amirionian?” he guffawed. “We’re going to have fun with you. Guards! Escort these prisoners and prepare them. The Amirionian first.” His smile slithered like a vile snake across his face.
Zaedor backed away, shaking. Prep me? He didn’t know what to expect, only fearing death after what Kindro said to him. The guards unlocked and threw the gate open. Both guards were taller and broader than Zaedor, with muscles bigger than his head. They gripped him with either arm while he struggled and resisted, and dragged him out of the room. Out of the rusted doorway laid a hallway with many doors and barred windows, each housing dome-like rooms with cages as well. Zaedor’s thin clothes were drenched with sweat, dripping to the floor as they walked. He wondered if the guards even knew of the smell, that horrid stench—shit, sweat, and blood. It was so pungent it stung the eyes.
Zaedor was dragged into a room and thrown into a small wooden chair. There was nothing in the room except the chair, a table with long strings of cloth and leather, and a steel rod placed halfway into a corner fire. He attempted to run, but the guards shoved him back. Each one grabbed an arm, wrapping it in leather straps and cloth, intertwining it between his fingers as if to cushion his fists.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a tremulous tone.
“Making sure you don’t break your hands, whelp,” one said.
“They think you’ll make a lot, so they need you to be useful,” the other growled.
The man with the wide-brimmed hat entered the room with a stroll. With a crooked smile, he eyed Zaedor up and down. Zaedor pierced him with a glare, but he seemed to feel nothing from it. He sauntered to the flame in the corner, smoke rising to a ventilation tunnel above. He picked out a metal rod, revealing a white-hot searing end in the shape of an X made with spear tips and a fist at the center. He slowly turned to Zaedor, creeping closer. “You are mine now, Amirionian.”
Zaedor was unable to move, still restrained by the powerful guards. “What do you want with me?” he yelled.
The man was unaffected, chuckling at Zaedor. “Everyone loves an underdog, boy. A lone survivor,” he laughed maniacally. “And I, Maroia Fallad, will bring it to them!” He threw up his hands and looked to the ceiling, then back to Zaedor with the same crooked smile. The light from the corner fire flickered and danced in his maniacal eyes. He brought the branding tool to Zaedor’s right arm and pressed it hard onto his skin.
Zaedor growled and roared in agony as the brander seared his flesh with the fist and crossed spearheads. As Maroia took it off, he sauntered to the flame to place it on the rock beside. Sweat soaked Zaedor’s matted head of hair, and he panted from the agony he experienced. The brand laid on his arm as burned flesh, a scar to remain forever.
Maroia walked to the door. “Good luck, underdog,” he said in a silvery tone. “You’re going to need it.” He walked through the sandy metal door and slammed it behind him.
“All right, Amirionian. Let’s go,” one of the guards said.
Zaedor feared what would come next. He felt like an animal. Caged, forced into a prison he could never escape, to be used up for someone else’s benefit. Yet more animals in the east, if that’s even where I am.
The guards threw him upward, pulled him through the door, and dragged him down to the end of the hall. He could hear chanting coming from the end, echoing all around him through the craggy cavern hall, dripping with moisture. Doors upon doors lined it, but they had no bars or windows. Where do they lead? he thought. The chanting grew louder and louder. A bellowing voice yelled from within.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and all others! Witness the fight of a lifetime!” the voice boomed.
What is this? Zaedor thought. Fight of a lifetime?
Before he could think further, the guards threw the door open and pushed him in. As he barely held his ground, he found himself in a massive, domed cavern, with stands built from rock blasted into seating. They were filled with people: poor and rich, wearing everything from dirty clothes to silk and satin dresses and doublets, all yelling for more. A large man stood at the opposite end, in clothes as dingy as Zaedor’s were. His face was covered in thick stubble, surrounded by his mane of curly brown hair, and he was looking to Zaedor with murder in his eyes and a clench to his fists.
He doesn’t seem so tough. He’s surely no match for the might of a soldier of Amirion, Zaedor thought proudly.
A man in fancy linens and silk of many colors stood at the base of the stands, waving his arms dramatically. “Ladies and gentlemen and all others! I bring you a new fight for the ages!” he yelled, and the crowd went silent. “From the northern icelands, a man who fought bear, Troll, and Giant comes to you from the Kuralian company to destroy all in his path! Some say he killed a bear with his own bare hands, with no armor and no weapons at all. I bring you, Gorlin, the Giant-slayer!” his bellowing
voice echoed throughout the arena, but the crowd’s deafening cheer overtook him with ease.
The people’s eyes, including the announcer, all turned to Zaedor. “And now, the treat of the night! Or possibly, the year!” he yelled proudly. “We now bring you, from the seawall of the northeast, a man who survived a horrid tragedy!” The man swirled his arms and spread them wide. “Amirion, devastated by the desert armies, left one alive! The man who survived an army’s might, whose will is unbreakable, whose body is undefeatable! Fallad company now brings to you, the lone survivor!”
The crowd’s deafening cheer echoed throughout the dome once again.
Zaedor walked closer, knowing what would come next. He truly wished to give up. He had nothing to live for, and there was no way out. Drawing it out had no appeal. What do I do?
There was no time left to think.
“Begin!” the announcer yelled.
Zaedor walked carefully toward Gorlin, raising his arms into a guarded stance. Citizens of Amirion were taught to fight with both blade and fist, after all. Gorlin exploded from his position, moving swiftly with long strides.
His fists were clenched but swung at his sides. Why isn’t he guarding? Zaedor wondered. His arms were long and gangly, but incredibly muscular. They did not rise until they met. Gorlin was much bigger up close.
Gorlin raised his hands with immeasurable speed; his left threw Zaedor’s block aside, and his right mauled him across the face. Zaedor staggered back from the blow, his nose riddled with blood. Zaedor grunted in anger while Gorlin approached again, and he was ready this time. Just like my training. Instead of guarding, he waited. Gorlin’s fist came down again with a brutal swing. Zaedor deftly jumped to the side and gave him two jabs to his stomach, dodging a fist again to strike Gorlin across his chin. The crowd cheered, loving his retort. I can do this.
Gorlin shook his head, unfazed by the blows. Zaedor quickly backed off, but his enemy charged him without pause. Gorlin grabbed Zaedor before he could escape. Gorlin’s strength was unfathomable. He threw Zaedor to the ground with ease. Zaedor tumbled and landed flat on his face.
The crowd cheered and laughed as he turned over, and Gorlin was already on him. Massive arms came down from the light above, bludgeoning his face and knocking his head into the rock floor. He felt each blow like a maul. Crack. Crack. Crack. Blow by blow, Zaedor’s face was bloodied by the concussive strikes.
When the strikes stopped, Zaedor only heard the muffle of a crowd going wild. Zaedor barely heard the announcer calling the name of the winner as he bled out of consciousness.
“The state of Amirion once again lies in shambles! The Giant-slayer, Gorlin, wins again!” the announcer yelled, accompanied by Gorlin’s guttural roar of victory.
* * *
The silvery hum of a song rang through Zaedor’s ears—well-timed and beautiful. It was a woman’s hum; it lulled him to a sleep that he wished never to end.
The hum abruptly stopped, and a deep sigh followed. “That was miserable,” a female voice said.
Zaedor’s head felt stabbed by a shiv. He felt the bandages tightly wrapped around it.
“Don’t say that. It was his first fight,” he heard Kindro say.
Everything sounded slightly muffled, and his vision was foggy. His jaw felt like it was broken, his nose misplaced and reset. It hurt terribly, and Zaedor had never had a break in his body before. It was his first real fistfight, since Amirion was a peaceful kingdom. He had only been through the battle training, never a true life or death situation. He also believed diplomacy came before brutality. In his naiveté, he believed that Amirion was an impenetrable kingdom, that their warriors were invincible, and that their wills were unbreakable. All he had been taught was defeated in less than a minute by a savage. He was dumbfounded, muddled, and confused beyond belief. His whole life, he saw his city as the strength of the continent. Was it all a lie?
He felt a hand lightly smack him again and again. “Zaedor, wake up!” Kindro chuckled. “You sure took a beating from that guy. How’s your head? I heard he pounded you out.”
The female voice guffawed loudly, “Can’t say I’m surprised. Look at him.” Her voice sounded as smooth as silk.
Zaedor’s eyes focused to see Kindro’s scraggly beard dangling above him.
“There he is,” he said, picking Zaedor up off the ground. “Man, look at that welt!” He poked Zaedor’s cheek. It felt like an electric shock running through his entire face.
“Ow!” Zaedor yelped, swatting his hands away.
The woman who spoke before laughed loudly again. “The others were right. You really are a sissy. To think, I actually warmed the crowd up for you.”
“Freya!” Kindro growled.
Zaedor glanced to the next cage, which was previously empty. A tall woman in tattered, sweat-stained linen clothes leaned against the cage divider, arms hanging through.
“My apologies, mister sensitive.” Freya sighed.
With skin as white as cream, eyes as bright emeralds, and distinctively long hair the color of blood, tied in a ponytail with multiple wraps descending below her lower back—Zaedor couldn’t help but stare. was a sight to behold.
“You have something to say?” she said with a scowl.
“No,” Zaedor stuttered.
After a lengthy stare, she sighed. “Where’d they pick you up?”
“Outside the Zenato palace.” Zaedor was embarrassed. He was angry that he not only was unsuccessful, but that he was so naive to get caught. He tried to stretch his arms, feeling his body sear in pain. He was covered in bruises, and his joints ached with every movement. He couldn’t imagine the condition of his face.
A smirk grew from the edge of Freya’s lips. “Planning on an assassination, were we?” She sniffed curiously with her perky nose. “I can smell the anger on you.”
How did she know? He looked to her with widened eyes, mouth drawn open. He winced, feeling his jaw click when he opened it wide.
“Calm down. Kindro told me about your city—I just guessed the rest.” Freya sighed and smirked at him. “Sorry to hear about it. I knew some people there, too. I can tell that you aren’t handling it well, and you certainly are bottling up the wrong feelings.” She huffed lightly, standing up straight.
“Freya, you don’t have to bring that up now. We can work on fighting later. They use Gorlin as a breaker for the new meat,” Kindro explained. “Isn’t as tough as the last one.”
Freya coughed up a laugh. “Yeah, Quintaine almost punched your head off.”
Kindro frowned, then chuckled. “Hey, that’s hurtful. Y’know I heard he took his own cage door before they could notice.”
They continued chatting, but Zaedor couldn’t get Gorlin off his mind. Gorlin was a beast, an animal. He searched the room with his eyes. There were Blaziks, Half-Devils, and other savage races scattered about. Zaedor had a difficult time believing he belonged here. He looked to his hand, where his wedding band used to be. He had it when he got captured, but it was gone now.
“My ring,” he said brittly. “It’s gone.”
Freya’s gemmed eyes drew toward him with concern, rather than irritation. “I’m sorry,” she said, touching her neckline. “They took the violet tether necklace my mother gave me,” she pouted. “I’ll never get something like that back ever again.”
Kindro gave him a quick swat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Zaedor. We’ll help you. ‘Round here, the more you fight, the better food you get.” Kindro seemed more enthusiastic than before his fight. His fear was gone, his mood relaxed.
“You seem different,” Zaedor commented positively. “You seemed quite shaken before my fight.”
Kindro shot him a suspicious eye, turning his head quickly. “I’m no different.”
Freya slapped the bars of her cage. “I knew it!!” With a growing smile, she said, “You were worried about me. Well well Kin, looks like you’re a little scaredy-cat.” With a laugh, she said, “I told you, Kin, you have nothing to worry about!
They can’t stop me.” She flexed bodaciously. Her physique was very defined, with curves outlining her body around powerful muscles.
But he couldn’t be distracted. His mind stayed on the pit. He hated the savagery of it. He was a man of clean living and sophisticated city life. Now, he sat disgraced by the gods, stuck in a pit of hell. He might as well have been in the realm of Azoran.
The people that put us here are monsters. “Beasts,” he muttered.
“What did you say?” Freya quickly inquired with awestruck eyes.
“Zaedor, don’t—” Kindro attempted to cut in.
“This place is filled with beasts. I don’t belong here!” He shook the bars.
“Are you calling me a beast?” She shook the bars fiercely back.
“N-No, I didn’t mean—” Zaedor stuttered. He meant the guards, but it was too late.
“Call me that again. I dare you.” The bars rattled so hard, they almost broke. Her emerald eyes were filled with poison. She bared her teeth and clenched them tightly. Zaedor backed off to the other side of his cage.
“What’s going on in here?” Maroia bellowed.
Freya closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. She backed off from the cage wall, glaring at Zaedor. “Nothing, we were just blowing off steam from the fight,” she said calmly. “My apologies.” The guards nodded suspiciously, and Maroia left once again.
Zaedor was shocked that a woman of such beauty could be so ferocious. Like Eryndis, he thought. He missed her, and feared he wouldn’t live to see her again.
“Now you know, Zaedor. Never call her that,” Kindro said. “She killed the last man who called her that in the ring.” He turned to Freya, who was still attempting to slow her heart. “He didn’t mean it,” he looked furiously to Zaedor. “Right?”
Freya sighed, looking back to Zaedor finally. “We aren’t animals, Zaedor. We’ve been kidnapped and brought here. Some of us come from nice places, too, as you did.”
