by Chad Corrie
In his early years Dugan had nursed a fantasy of leaping to ascend the banner and laying waste to the emperor and his followers before his own demise. But it was a fool’s fantasy. The inner arena walls were twenty feet tall—high enough to prohibit anything from coming up while keeping those above them close enough to see all the action. Wisely, the banner was also only three feet in length, keeping any seeking its use as leverage out of reach.
And so it was that he and many like him found themselves contained by the gray granite oval stretching a thousand feet between its concave curves. This was the extent of their world, where even the republic’s most common rank and file could stare down at them from above—much farther away than their betters, on the third tier of seats with the women, but looking down at them nonetheless.
“I’m betting it’s a horde of buxom women wearing nothing but a smile wanting to congratulate us on a fight well fought.” Laka’s voice pulled Dugan from his thoughts.
“That wouldn’t be much of a show,” said Dugan.
“Speak for yourself.” Laka smirked.
Dugan glanced up at the box opposite the emperor’s. There sat Gilthanius, the manager of the arena, who made it a point to literally beat it into all the gladiators who found themselves captive that he was their master, and they the expendable entertainment. For the first two years in the arena, Dugan had transposed Gilthanius’ face onto every one of his opponents, alternating it with Balus’ from time to time, until he realized just how little good it did him.
Gilthanius’ box was a bit more subdued when compared to the emperor’s: a polished granite series of columns and a ledge behind which he sat with a collection of arena guards and various favored persons. Here too the same red silk banner, displaying the crest of Colloni, was draped. Dugan watched the two trumpet players step forth to the edge of Gilthanius’ box, ready to blare out the notes all gladiators quickly learned to dread.
A new round of cheers erupted from the bloodthirsty crowd.
“Keep your eyes on the gates!” Dugan joined Laka in darting his eyes back and forth among the eight visible gates built into the arena’s wall. There was a gate under Gilthanius’ box, one under the emperor’s box, and three on each of the longer stretches of wall between them. There were also many more hidden under the sand and in some interesting places one wouldn’t think to look—all to add more spectacle—but the main eight were the ones from which much of the action stemmed.
“Here it comes.” Laka jabbed his sword toward the rising portcullis under the emperor’s box. And no sooner had it opened than a group of figures emerged into the sunlight.
“Lizardmen.” Dugan clenched his jaw as the small company hurried toward them. Unlike the two gladiators, the bipedal reptilian humanoids wore only breechcloths and carried painful-looking spiked clubs. “I count six.”
“An even split then.” Laka drew closer to Dugan.
“Back to back until we can break away.” They did just that, backing up to each other while still allowing room for whatever might be needed when swords started swinging.
“You think you’re up for this?” Laka didn’t take his eyes from the growling alligator-like jaws salivating at the prospect of ripping into his flesh. “That ogre did hit you pretty hard.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.” Dugan made a quick study of his foes, noting their sharp, clawed feet and hands and strong, swinging tails that could pound him back against the wall as surely as any ogre’s fist.
“I still think the women would have been a better choice.”
Dugan didn’t blame Laka. Lizardmen weren’t the easiest of opponents. No one had really been able to figure out their language, and so they just named them for how they looked rather than anything else. They were thought to be savages, so it amused the masses to have them take the role opposite the more civilized warriors Dugan and Laka supposedly represented. At least they weren’t as imposing as the ogres—this batch of lizardmen were only a few fingers above six feet, though Dugan had seen some others closer to seven in times past.
The lizardmen rushed forward, acting as one. Dugan merely stood his ground, waiting for the distance to dwindle. The closer the lizardmen got, the stronger their stench became: a dank, musty smell reminding him of snakes and other reptiles. To the crowds it might have seemed an exciting battle, but to Dugan it was nothing less than another part of the soul-wearying drudgery that had become his life. After five years of repeating the process—emerging from his cell to slay for the masses, then returning to his cage once again—he knew this was the best it would ever get. No matter how often he prayed for relief, if anything was going to change, it would need to come through him and him alone—if he didn’t wind up in Mortis first.
Laka struck first, blocking the downward arc of one of the nearest lizardmen’s clubs with his shield and then slicing the arm holding it. Seeing that first blood was drawn by the gladiators, the crowd erupted with a jubilant shout.
Together the lizardmen encircled them, making their job easier, as each now faced the three they’d planned for: one to the front and one on each flank. Dugan thrust his gladius at the center lizardman, even as the one on his left tried denting Dugan’s shield with his club. His attack was thwarted by the other lizardman’s parry, causing Dugan to contend with a series of back-and-forth exchanges between his three attackers, resulting in a stalemate of sorts.
Laka was having better success, attacking low and nipping at his opponents’ thighs and waists—drawing both blood and the crowd’s approval in the process. And he would have continued such progress if it wasn’t for the club that whacked him across the face. The blow was so strong it shoved him back into Dugan, leaving the Celetor struggling for footing and clear vision. But Laka was far from defeated. Gritting his throbbing teeth, he pressed through the defenses of the lizardman who struck him, slicing deep into the creature’s entrails.
Again the crowd roared.
Dugan was able to find his opening in a similar manner, jabbing his gladius through the heart of the lizardman at his right before blocking the two attacks from his flank and center with sword and shield. Laka managed to wound the lizardman to his left, but took another smashing blow from a spiked club that knocked him to his knees.
Dugan registered this in the blinks between attacks as he worked himself between his two lizardmen, stabbing the one on his left through the heart before spinning around to cross weapons with the one remaining. A brief series of strikes and counterstrikes were exchanged before he found his opening and severed his remaining opponent’s head from his neck.
The crowd went wild.
Dugan spun on his heel, ready for what lay behind him. Immediately, he saw Laka’s bloody body prone on the sand, being pounded like some dead mule by the remaining two lizardmen. Without thinking he took his gladius like a spear and chucked it at the lizardman on his right. The blade sailed clear through the creature’s chest, jabbing out through the other side. Staggering back and choking, he gave a garbled snarl before falling to his side.
Upon seeing his comrade’s fate, the remaining lizardman stopped his pounding of the long-dead Celetor and fixed his sights on Dugan. Removing his shield, Dugan took hold of it as a discus and stood his ground as the lizardman rushed at him with an animalistic cry. He didn’t get more than a few steps before Dugan launched the shield straight for him. The lizardman raised his club, attempting to swat it down. This was only part of Dugan’s plan. He used the moment of distraction to move in and, reaching under the club, lay hold of the lizardman’s hand to break his wrist with a crunching snap.
The club was dropped as Dugan shoved back the same arm, and set his sights on the creature’s neck, wrapping his arm around it and pulling with all his might. The lizardman writhed and fought against his efforts but grew weaker and slower as Dugan held fast.
The crowd was brought to its feet.
Dugan gritted his teeth and fought to increase his stranglehold with arms burning with exhaustion. Soon enoug
h the lizardman fell into a slumber-like stillness, allowing Dugan to whip out the extra gladius in his belt and hack off his head.
When his grisly work was finished, the loud blast of horns pulled his attention back to Gilthanius’ box. The new set of notes indicated the day of battle was now at an end. Another day of slipping closer and closer into being little more than a common animal trained to entertain his masters. Even though such battles weren’t a daily occurrence, he’d be out here soon enough for another elven holiday or event under the hot sun and the bloodthirsty crowds who’d just as quickly cheer his own death as his slaying of another.
Dugan sought out Laka; the Celetor was now more bloody pulp than human. He reckoned Laka died quickly, at least. Dugan wondered if he’d be just as fortunate when his time came. All of those who entered the arena had been trained well and were quite practiced, but in the end it would never be enough. How soon would it be before he joined Laka? How long until he was too old or too slow to stop that one attack that got past his defenses and sent him to the sands just like Laka . . . or even worse?
Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he took note of the elven slaves sent to cart off the dead making their way inside the arena from the side gates. Dressed in the simplest of tunics and sandals, they were the lowest of the elven rank: Elyellium who had been brought into subjection. But even those, save for a few exceptions, weren’t forced into the life of a gladiator, the lowest form of existence on Colloni. The wooden carts they manned were no more than a flat surface fixed between two wheels with two long poles for a man to pull. There was no need for opulence. The dead would be piled on top and dumped in a mass grave—forgotten just as quickly as they were once heralded by the masses.
The procession continued as a small company of guards entered the arena. These ensured the surviving gladiators were disarmed and escorted to their cells or the physicians, whichever might be needed. The old pattern played out before him. For a moment, he felt the heft of the sword in his hand and wondered if he might be strong enough to find some solace in its embrace. He’d been able to hold the blackest of this depression at bay with thoughts of escape and fantasies of revenge, but that would only help him for a little longer, and he knew it.
“Drop the weapon,” a guard ordered as he and the nine others approached. The sun shimmered off the nose guards of their open-faced helmets. Each sported a gladius, a few more also having a crossbow at the ready.
Dugan stood still.
“I said, drop it.” Dugan ignored him, looking up at Gilthanius’ box once more. He could now see Balus leaning over the ledge with a familiar dark sparkle in his eyes. His flowing red cape and gold-trimmed white tunic under his armor were an attempt to look dignified. Dugan wasn’t buying it.
“Did that ogre’s punch clog your ears?” Balus leered like some poor imitation of a god. “Maybe some lashes will help unclog them.”
Something had to change.
“Surrender your weapon or—” The guard never finished his ultimatum. Before he could react, Dugan had launched his gladius up and toward Balus. The weapon hit home in the surprised captain’s chest with enough impact to not only dig a good way past his leather cuirass but into his rib cage and beyond. A shocked hush descended upon the crowd as Balus’ form crumpled and toppled over the edge of the box, landing in the sand with a muffled thud.
The guards quickly recovered from the shock and ran to their captain, who remained motionless. “He’s dead,” one of them announced, turning Balus’ body on its back for further evidence. Murmuring sparked into crackling life across the stands, encircling the arena in a rising verbal blaze as Gilthanius appeared at the box’s ledge. His dark green toga was a simple contrast to his gold-trimmed white tunic but complemented the golden diadem resting on his short black hair.
“Take him alive!” Gilthanius shouted.
His time had come. If he didn’t act now, he’d never get this close again. As the guards sought to surround him, Dugan focused on Gilthanius’ box and the two carts nearby. Breaking into a sprint, he pressed past the guards, aiming for two slaves carrying the corpse of a Telborian gladiator between them. They dropped the body and fell back at Dugan’s approach.
Not stopping for anything, Dugan fixed his eyes on the red banner that had always been out of reach as he took to the cart beside the one already piled with a good load of corpses. Empty and unattended, it had tipped itself into the sands, leaving the poles rising into the air. Using it as a ramp, Dugan ran all the way to the cart’s end before taking a massive leap as the cart tipped in the other direction under his added weight.
The crowd watched, collectively holding their breath as Dugan sailed through the air, within reach of the silken banner, which he grasped with a growl. The crowd exploded with noise—some favoring, some disapproving.
He could hear the orders from above mingling with the fleeing feet of those who had joined Gilthanius for the day’s entertainment. Using all the strength in his arms, Dugan shimmied up the banner to the ledge and then pulled himself up to look over it with a small grunt. He found himself staring into a series of sword points belonging to the guards who’d gathered around him. Behind them were Gilthanius and a few brave guests. He was so close. Just a little bit more, and he could die a satisfied man.
“It’s your choice.” Gilthanius put on a brave face, but Dugan could see the trembling hand at his side clear enough. “The guards can run you through, or you can surrender.”
He made an effort to lift himself over the ledge and received a fast series of jabs from a few of the swords. Somehow he managed to avoid them unharmed. Just as he began to feel a sense of optimism, his right shoulder exploded in pain as a crossbow bolt found its way into his back and brought him to a halt. This was followed by another, and another grunt as he tried keeping himself on the ledge, all the while feeling the strength drain from his back and shoulders.
His right hand slipped, bringing all his weight to bear on his left. Gritting his teeth against the movement that had almost dislocated his shoulder, Dugan dared one more glare over the ledge. The next moment he fell, toppling to the sand a few feet from Balus but facing the opposite direction, toward the emperor’s box. The crossbow bolts in his back had broken their shafts in his fall but were still in him, and had worked themselves deeper in the process. A moment later he was surrounded by sneering guards and their accusing sword points.
“What’s the verdict?” one of the guards asked another. Dugan knew full well what would be coming next. The emperor would pass judgment on him for his actions, as he did on all who faced one-on-one combat. Sometimes a white flag would be thrust forth, indicating mercy should be extended. But at other times—
“Black flag,” the guard said with a satisfied smile. “You know what that means.”
“Crucifixion.” Another guard glared down at the Telborian. “Better than you deserve.” This was followed by a sharp kick to his head, sending him into unconsciousness.
Chapter 5
Revenge is like spoiled meat slathered
with an intoxicating sauce.
It might taste good at first but can
wind up killing you in the end.
—Bolin Miders, Telborian philosopher
(5340 BV–5231 BV)
Dugan awoke in a room he thought he’d never see again: the cell where Balus had first welcomed him into service. It had aged some, like the rest of the inner workings of the arena, and still reeked of old blood, rust, and sweat, but it was the same cell he’d first been taken to half a decade earlier. The biting shackles bound him to the wall with just enough slack for him to find some rest on the floor—which was where he presently resided—but never enough to allow him to come close to the door. Gods knew how he’d tried, though.
At least this time they hadn’t bound him about the ankles. And he could take some comfort in knowing Balus wouldn’t be making a return appearance. But it was a small comfort, knowing what awaited him in the morning. As he stood, he
was pleased to note they’d let him keep his boots. The bronze greaves attached to the tall leather would help keep his feet warm, but the breechcloth would be scant defense against the damp cell’s chill.
The pain in his shoulder was now just a dull ache. He thought he could make out the feeling of stitches lining the holes the bolts had left in him. Strange that they’d taken the time to patch him up, but he wasn’t going to complain. They could have left the tips in him until morning. Another small comfort.
Thinking on how he’d got to this point, Dugan’s attention turned to the stylized spread eagle seared into his left shoulder. The branding, now just a pink, puckered mark, remained a constant reminder of all he’d lost. The irony that this was his final resting place before his execution wasn’t lost on him. He wouldn’t be surprised if Gilthanius wanted to remind him one final time who was the master of whom.
A small torch on the opposite wall, near the door, provided the only light. It wasn’t much, but there wasn’t much to be seen. He was alone with his thoughts and the imaginings of what was soon to come. He could see it quite clearly, having borne witness to it more than once—the horrid display of public execution to which even the most hardened of criminals feared being sentenced.
In the middle of the arena a large hill would be raised up, using the many hidden trapdoors under the sand. Atop this hill would be enough room to display several people as they were hung on the crosses for the crowd’s entertainment and admonishment. The naked victims would hang until dead, slowly turning like meat on a spit by means of another clever device built into the hill. All—no matter where they sat—would see the agony and full extent of their pain, while some bet on how long they could hold out for added sport. A hard end to a hard life.
When he was five years old, Dugan’s parents had been murdered, and his village had been razed to the ground by invading elven forces. A few weeks later, he found himself in the work yard of a minor noble, dyeing wool at one of his factories. Why the elves attacked, he never knew. He’d lived in a very secluded fishing community on the western coast of Colloni. While predominantly Elyelmic, a good mix of Telborians called it home as well. Because of this racial mix, Dugan had long put away thoughts that the attack was an effort at ridding Colloni of humans. As the years dragged on, he simply gave up trying to figure out what had motivated them. There wasn’t any benefit in such ponderings, only old wounds to agitate. And he had more than enough to contend with as it was.
