by Taylor Kole
JoshRidley’s most of everyday, but he chipped in on labor as well, help preoccupy his mind.
As the suns dimmed on another full day of activity, JoshRidley sheathed his scimitar. For the last hour, the sword had cleared debris one wide slash at a time. Leaving clean-up to the men, he trudged past the workers scurrying to complete final duties before nightfall.
On sound advice from Orion, JoshRidley sent a six-man envoy to Atlantis requesting a postponement of the match. The mantis wound ached and inhibited movement and every day of training improved his odds. He asked for a two week delay.
All six men returned, adding more of that providence feel to the camp. The head guide shared RobertJohnson’s message verbatim: “Since I am a fair god, I accept your terms, so long as you’re not growing a yellow belly. This will be the last postponement before we spar in the coliseum. Don’t force me to chase you throughout Betaloome. Others will pay for your cowardice.”
The additional break alleviated some of JoshRidley’s nerves. He’d never voice it, but the third reason for the delay was time with Junea. Her pregnancy presented risk beyond a normal birth, yet she focused only on the blessings of life and health and JoshRidley’s return. Her strength uplifted JoshRidley. He wanted to stay and live here. He could help the men establish farming lanes, erect permanent walls, settle into the life of a father, a husband, and a leader.
Knowing those possibilities were threatened by a bastard always see-sawed JoshRidley between outrage and depression. Only victory in a one-on-one fight to the death could bring his loved one’s peace.
That conclusion always led him to kiss Junea’s cheek, find the nearest warrior (or five) and train.
Finding Junea asleep, yet watched by two loyal maidens, he returned to the main room where the men had dragged in recently-clipped small trees and large branches and were whittling points to the ends, straightening shafts, making barrier stakes and fletching arrows.
Thinking about the armies of Atlantis marching down if he lost, intent on destruction, JoshRidley knew asking people to defend Junea was selfish. He still did multiple times a day.
He fully intended to request an exemption for Reysona and his child if he were to die honorably in Atlantis. He also understood RobertJohnson would probably laugh, or lie.
“You have shown great promise in these last days,” Orion said, rising from inspecting a woven quiver.
JoshRidley headed toward the one chair built for his weight. Once seated, a healer unwrapped the bandage on his lower leg. Less blood stained it with every changing.
“For true, you are the quickest study I’ve ever taught,” Orion said.
A second warrior, who had trained with JoshRidley, said, “You wield that weapon as if an extension of yourself. We have faith in your victory.”
Murmurs of agreement passed through the room, swelling JoshRidley’s chest.
“A nap follows our afternoon lessons,” Orion said. “Today’s work filled me with such hope. As I slept, the gods sent me a vision of your victory.”
JoshRidley leaned closer. By the terse corrections Orion barked on nearly every maneuver, he would have thought Orion stayed perpetually frustrated at his ineptitude. Orion’s furrowed brows, throat clears, and chest scratching said what they both knew: RobertJohnson was bigger, stronger, and had a century’s more experience and training.
“RobertJohnson has never lost a match,” Orion’s voice rose, turning the whole room. “He has defeated thirty armed men in a single bout. He’s faced a half dozen eviscerators at the games, slain hundreds of trappers, bested gods with ease—”
Orion’s eyes grew wide as he continued, “He has never known a loss, JoshRidley. This is how we gain purchase.”
JoshRidley didn’t see it, but his skin prickled. Orion kept his words sparse and presented comedy even less. If he believed in a plan, JoshRidley would follow it.
“We will lull him into a supreme confidence by underselling your skills. At a precise moment, you unleash all you have hidden.”
JoshRidley didn’t know much about boxing, but knew about Ali versus Frazier—the rumble in the jungle—where they coined the term “rope-a-dope”.
“He will want to give the crowd a show. Swing slower than you’re capable, block more awkwardly, slip out of place, let him glow. When he is full of himself, you strike with the fury only we know you possess.”
JoshRidley nodded. Ali versus Frazier. The rope-a-dope.
JoshRidley would downplay his strengths, hope to entice RobertJohnson to play with him, and then strike. A long shot, but he believed it could work.
“Tomorrow, we switch all of our training to defensive maneuvers,” Orion said. “Master them so you can spend the duel on your heels. At a magic moment you will impale the devil and free the world.”
JoshRidley inspected the nodding faces. Even the healer had paused his work to contemplate, and nod stoically.
Glancing at the hall leading to Junea’s place of rest cemented his commitment. Tomorrow, he would work on a plan for victory. He had to win. Losing his bout meant everyone he cared about would be killed.
XXXVII
A living god plus twenty was JoshRidley’s guest list for the match. Going alone would be the most honorable thing; fewer men for public execution, more protection for Junea, but he had reservations. Traveling with people who believed in him reminded him why he risked his life.
JoshRidley waited outside the concrete door. He’d said his goodbye and was ready to go.
Staring down the trail, like he did each time he exited. He hoped someone would show up at the last minute and propose a better solution.
Yesterday, a four man party had arrived. Not with new hope for Junea, but they brought a marvelous treat.
JoshRidley nonetheless examined the men around him. They each wore the detailed sigil.
Since the day JoshRidley’s party left Reysona, tailors and armorers had worked in tandem to remove the back layer of armor plating from Mantis’ head. Diligently, they separated squares and inserted them into leather, creating chest and back defenses. A foot square chunk of the Mantid shell was visible on the front.
Presumably, the same artist who rendered JoshRidley’s previous painting added the sigil. Done in a shadowed black, it was an outline of JoshRidley standing, legs splayed, with his scimitar above his head in victory. Mantis was behind him, head bowed, limbs out and low, as if heeled.
The ingenuity filled everyone with pride. This was the first time anyone had used of Mantis plating in armor. It’s hard lining stopped the thrust of swords and shot arrows without scratching the high green. Add ultra lightweight, and the warriors before Josh wore the most efficient armor in all of Betaloome.
As the bundles unpacked, Josh had hoped the next set would be larger, crafted for him. There was none. Perhaps they figured armor would be ineffective against RobertJohnson.
JoshRidley nodded to each man in turn and they marched away.
Reaching the pointus ascendus, he reveled at the change of expression in each Atlantean guard as they took in the allegorical design on the men’s demon armor. That alone boosted JoshRidley’s confidence.
Defeat RobertJohnson? He swallowed. With the rope-a-dope, maybe. Perhaps if he put up a fight good enough to impress the masses, he would earn Junea and his child a chance at life.
A member of the golden guard, wearing cloth armor with the clenched fist sigil, waited at the head of twelve men. His eyes opened wide and then returned to normal like a good politician as he took in JoshRidley’s exposed chest and his escorts’ matching uniforms.
“Welcome, JoshRidley. I am Sabinus, here to escort you to your quarters in the arena. Your match is scheduled for this evening. A luncheon is set for this afternoon in the Imperial Hall. Allow me to extend you an invitation to dine with our lord and discuss the terms of the match.”
Sabinus stood a foot taller than Josh with the characteristics and genes of RobertJohnson’s lineage, but he was also the first golden guard with
fat rounding out his neck, face, and arms, with a beach ball stomach apparently too large for metal armor.
“I know of the established terms,” Josh said. “I win, Betaloome falls under my control. I lose, it remains RobertJohnson’s, with his word that he will not raze the lower cities.”
The chubby giant shrugged. “The core of that is written in old law and will be honored. Winner rules the world. Beyond that, you’re invited to lunch with our lord.”
JoshRidley stayed impassive. He wanted to discuss terms, but worried RobertJohnson desired groveling, wanted to humiliate, and regardless of deals made behind closed doors, would honor nothing.
JoshRidley wondered how the golden guard? He doubted they simply follow JoshRidley’s orders and become decent, respectful humans? He somehow doubted that.
“I appreciate the invitation, and will consider the offer.”
Sabinus nodded slow and deep. “This way, JoshRidley.”
JoshRidley would skip the luncheon most likely designed to intimidate and belittle, but he’d keep that to himself. Let the big man set a place for him and stew on the mild snub. JoshRidley lacked the courage for the big snub: accept then avoid. Messing with the mind seemed strategic. Enraging a murderer was suicide.
Each pace up the pointus ascendus ramp added another butterfly to his stomach. The air on the top nation was charged with a current that zapped the heart and lungs. Atlantean guards reached the top and spread out. JoshRidley saw a gathered crowd, silently waiting.
Stepping onto the paved entryway of Atlantis, horns bellowed, trumpets sounded.
The scent of cooked and seasoned meat was in the air. A rabble of curious voices overlapped one another out. There were thousands of people here. They clogged the roadways as if eager to glimpse the challenger.
No one cheered or booed, which was better than being spit upon. Excitement showed on some faces, whether for the hopes JoshRidley could win or in anticipation of seeing him die, he couldn’t be some. Like a parade passing a blind crowd, they knew a spectacle moved by, but lacked the full measure to gauge what was before them.
Their clean and colorful clothing, trimmed and styled hair, and presence of children without protective walls told of their superior living conditions. The smooth concrete roads surpassed the grading and texture of many neighborhoods in Chicago. Buildings varied in size and design many had character. The entire city had symmetry. With a single chuckle, JoshRidley realized he had actually forgotten what a safe civilization looked like—including his life in Chicago.
The normalcy made him wonder if these people were aware that other people, one nation below them were the preferred food of demons. That three levels beneath them, citizens kept their children in a vault for years, releasing them into madness and an early death. That going a level below that brought carnage, cannibalism, and a plane ruled by demon lords.
However, the civility allowed him to consider these blessed people welcomed him, despite the lack of support. Perhaps they had to long for a positive change. Mainly, because a change didn’t seem possible. Maybe they know about the dangers below and supported RobertJohnson out of personal preservation.
Each step under the bright sky increased the chance he neared greatness. Glancing back, he found his men marching in two rows. Their chests protruded just slightly, helping display the emblem which told a story of their god’s competence.
With six hours until the bout, only sparse workers populated the gigantic coliseum. A sharp contrast to the bustling city.
Sabinus led them directly to a spectator’s box. A pair of throne seats, split by serving trays, decorated the center balcony. Rows of less formidable chairs like bleachers upwards behind and around them.
“This is your viewing booth, equal to our god’s,” Sabinus glanced across the arena. “There will be servants to tend to your audience as they enjoy the four matches preceding your own.”
JoshRidley thought that if he died and his men were killed moments after, they’d at least be treated to their fifteen minutes of royalty.
Once everyone took in the area, Sabinus said, “Six of your men will have to stay here. Tradition mandates only gladiators and dignitaries are allowed in the staging chamber. You’ll have your trainer and may bring two other men to guard your door, if you wish.”
Agrippa accompanied JoshRidley to the staging room but stayed silent. He posted two guards outside his door, instructing them to deny all entries. Inside, JoshRidley wet his face from a tub of fresh water.
Dabbing his cheeks dry made him think of the smell of Junea’s hair after a wash. He had to live for her. He had to sell this rope-a-dope strategy.
He kept his breathing steady, devoted his mind to one stimulus at a time: the drip of water into the basin, the tapping of Agrippa’s foot, muffled voices down the hall.
By normal years, JoshRidley had to be twenty, maybe thirty years younger than RobertJohnson. That age gap and the rope-a-dope plan were his only advantages.
To stymie any grand thoughts, he unclasped his scimitar and practiced blocks, parries, deflections, and visualized holding back for that precise moment.
* * * * * *
As the first match began, JoshRidley relieved one guard, allowing him to view the match. With under two hours until the lauded match, JoshRidley needed no security—he was probably experiencing his greatest window of safety since arriving.
Two loud knocks on the door surprised him.
He and Agrippa shared looks of confusion, then concern. Before Agrippa fully rose to answer the door, it swung open. JoshRidley clenched his scimitar tight.
Flavius wobbled and then leaned against the door jamb, a wheelchair behind him.
JoshRidley rushed over and gripped the boy’s shoulders before bringing him in for a full embrace. Flavius’ weak hand patted JoshRidley’s back.
“Should you be out of bed?” Josh asked.
“I’m healthy enough to move.” Flavius glanced behind him. “Perhaps walking is a bit ambitious.”
Josh helped the boy into his chair and exhaled with relief at the presence of Reysona’s best healer, and a third man stood behind a resting wheelbarrow.
“What are you doing here?” Josh asked as his emotions swirled. A hint of anger as well. Who allowed an injured boy in a wheelchair to cross Betaloome, essentially defenseless?
“I have come to watch history, JoshRidley. And if I am to die from the silly wounds, I will have the image of my god regaled in full accouterments in my mind as I pass.”
Full accouterments? JoshRidley wore his normal leather tunic and sandals. The third man pushed the wheelbarrow into the room. He dropped it onto its post legs, stepped aside.
JoshRidley crept over and inspected the cargo.
The full set of armor was large enough to fit him. It was better tailored than the armor wore by his men. Polished green slabs of mantis skull protected the chest, shoulders, back, and rib area of the leather armor. Pants lie underneath; armor plated the thighs.
The detail and stitching were kingly. Holding the chest piece up for inspection, he saw no sigil detailed its front. However, the object that replaced it shone like an alien artifact. A midnight black mantis tooth had been set vertically in the center of the chest plate. The tapered incisor started with a soda can radius near the lower abdomen, growing more slender as it climbed toward the chin, ending in a spiked curve that jutted out five inches from the chest piece, ending in a frightening point.
“Another scale of armor rests on the interior, JoshRidley,” the man who had wheeled in the armor said. “Even a god may have trouble piercing our design. We broke six axe heads before learning the tooth could not be chipped with harsh bits. Using saws—and ruining a dozen blades over three days—we managed to cut the devil’s bone to a perfect length.”
From the positioning of the curved tooth, Josh imagined it would deflect an upswing from his face. Even if the armor couldn’t stop a direct hit, protection from glancing blows increased Josh’s odds of survival.
<
br /> Minutes later, Josh faced a mirror in his green and black armor. With his unkempt hair and bulging arms, the suit made him worthy of battle with a god, worthy of martyrdom, worthy of the greatest upset in history.
Horns blared from the arena, signaling the end of the fourth match, leaving thirty minutes until the main event.
Josh thanked them all, shared farewells, and ordered Flavius and Agrippa to sit in the throne chairs.
Once alone, time passed in a fog of stretches.
When the horns sounded again, Josh didn’t need an attendant to rap on his door. He was up, ready for war.
XXXVIII
Having abandoned the harness, perhaps for the rest of his life, JoshRidley climbed the ramp while dragging his scimitar behind him. Its tip grated against the wood. The sound increased his blood pressure. He was a badass. RobertJohnson wouldn’t know what hit him
The vibrations generated by the crowd—which in the arena’s underbelly sounded muffled, like the ass if surround sound in a distant room—delivered waves of adrenaline and pulsed energy into him with each step. He approached his destiny.
As he neared the arena, two blue guards pushed open the gate, drawing greater cheer from the crowd.
JoshRidley stopped in the sunlight and used the warmth to solidify faith in his plan: stay alive, withhold, and set his trap.
He moved to the middle of the arena and lifted his scimitar over his head as he turned in place to survey the audience. With thousands of people hanging on his every movement, he understood how the gladiator could risk life and limb simply to feel the adoration of the crowd for just a free time.
Finding the viewing box, he saw his loyal subjects on their feet, applauding. Flavius, ever the rebel, leaned against the rail with one hand the other rolled in concentric circles as he hooted.
JoshRidley inhaled. His plan, his support, and his high-tech armor created a trinity of faith. The mantis green on his chest shone under the bright light of midday. The obsidian tooth at its center was like a fabled jewel. Its tip pointed away from his heart, needle sharp, directing him to pour himself into the upcoming match.
