Of Blood and Steel

by Seymour Zeynalli

  “If you are so clever, why don’t you cut to the chase and spare me the lecture?”

  “Call it a gut feeling, but if you ask me, I think you could walk out of here any time you wanted, you’re just too fucking stubborn to do it.”

  “A bold statement.”

  “One I’m sure you’ll shed no light on, as usual, but you’ve got an opportunity here, Balak, you’ve got a chance. The way you tell it, this job would leave you with enough coin to buy land, settle down, live out the rest of your days in peace and quiet and comfort. There’s folk around here that would kill for that kind of prospect. Even putting aside setting yourself up for life, it would get you out of here. Don’t you want that?”

  “I have thought about it many times.”

  “You’re a sad bastard, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Don’t start, Giorgi. I’m not going and that’s final.”

  “Sure, stay down here with the rest of us. I think you have been smacked in that head of yours one too many times. Fuck off out of here. Use your skills for good. What’s fuckin’ wrong with you, man?”

  “That’s it. I’m leaving.” Balak jumped down and looked at Giorgi.

  Giorgi swung back his arm and punched him in the face.

  “Out of respect for our friendship, I will pretend that never happened. But try hitting me again and suffer the consequences.” Balak growled. Giorgi raised a clenched fist, ready to strike at Balak’s face.

  “I would . . . if I didn’t feel so much darn pity for you.” Giorgi lowered his hand.

  “I don’t need your pity.”

  Balak stormed away.

  “Why don’t you go drink yourself to death, Balak? Isn’t that what you are good at? One day I won’t be around to drag you out of the Pit. What will you do then?”

  Balak lifted his heavy boot and launched an empty barrel toward Giorgi. Balak grinded his teeth. His knuckles creaked and cracked as he squeezed his fingers into the palm of his hand, tightly.

  He swung his fist at a wall. It stung, so he pulled his arm back swiftly and examined the wound by scraping the skin away. Small specks of red dampened his knuckles. He winced but didn’t make a sound.

  He headed down some side alleys towards The Pit. Three figures emerged from the corner. Balak held his head up as he walked by, but they were quiet as he passed. They went by many names; silencers, mage seekers, spell breakers, cast trappers. But in The Hollow everyone called them Nimrods, a profession that he had once considered. They occasionally appeared in The Hollow if they had been hunting mages in the area.

  They rarely traveled in groups so this must have been a special occasion.

  Another Nimrod marched passed Balak. He was dragging a woman, but her face was locked away by a large mechanical contraption, jawbreaker. Try forcing your way out and it will split your lower jaw from your head. The mage was unable to utter a single word due to its tongue depressor. She made a squealing sound as her saliva was drooling onto the ground and was fighting against the Nimrod’s grip. She was trying to pull away but her hands and feet were bound. An iron device in the shape of a glove, covered her fingers and hands. She must have worn it for a long time as the mage’s wrists turned purple. She would have been taken far to the north to Zindan where she would be kept until the end of her days.

  “No slowing down.” Nimrod ordered the mage.

  Balak turned the corner and headed into The Pit. It was packed and he had to push his way through the crowds of men before he finally reached it. He nodded towards the barman, who brought him a jug of beer, with a ready-filled cup. Balak raked in his pocket and threw the remainder of his silver on the bar.

  “Will you be fighting tonight, friend?” a man called over the bar.

  “Looks like it,” Balak grumbled, emptying the contents of his cup down his throat.

  The crowd roared as another fight came to blows in The Pit. After emptying the remainder of his jug, Balak headed to The Pit.

  “Sign me up,” he told the man at the door. The man nodded.

  Balak stood back and watched as a skeletal man threw a feeble punch towards an older, white-haired man with a long beard. The white-haired man moved swiftly, but the skinny man was punch drunk.

  The skinny man smiled, exposing two missing front teeth as he wobbled back and forth, before falling backwards, crashing against the cage. His vest hung loosely from his body. The skin that hung from his arms was just as slack. He pushed himself forward and stumbled.

  The older man lunged towards him. The skinny man’s head swung around fast and the side of his face smashed against the cage. He slid down the sharp cage and slumped onto the floor.

  The crowd jeered as the organiser counted out the skinny man. He didn’t move, he just groaned. Two men came in and dragged him out by his feet.

  “You’re up next,” the doorman told him.

  Balak grabbed the side of the cage and pulled himself into the ring. Some cheered, while others whispered.

  The white-haired man cautiously headed towards Balak, shielding his face with his hands. He threw a punch at Balak and it went smashing into his jaw, but his head barely moved. He just smiled at the older man, baring his teeth.

  The white-haired man shook his hand and glared at Balak. He pulled his arms up swiftly to shield his face once more, but the force of Balak’s first blow, knocked them backwards into the man’s face. He took two steps back and peered over his hands.

  His eyes widened as Balak took a step towards him and leaned in with a left hook. The man lifted from his feet and flew towards the rear of the cage. Balak was on him. He punched him again, and blood squirted from the man’s mouth.

  “Stay down,” Balak told him.

  The man obeyed.

  * * *

  Balak continued to fight and win, but after three fights, his ribs ached.

  “Count me out,” he told the doorman. “I need a drink.”

  The bar in The Pit was busy, so Balak took himself out the back door and through the desolate streets of The Hollow.

  It was quiet. The only sound was the scurrying of rats running through the infested streets. They moved cautiously and stopped now and then to look at him, but they did not run away.

  He heard a man’s deep scream in the next street, and he stopped for a moment to listen. Men were shouting their slurred words at one another, but Balak shrugged and continued on to the miner’s tavern.

  “Just gonna sit here and get pissed,” he told the barman with a nod, and the barman brought over another two jugs.

  This time it was a smartly dressed middle-aged man. He had dark, sleek hair and a large moustache. No beard. Balak recognised him as the tavern owner.

  “If you’re looking for your friend, she’s in her room. She leaves in the morning.” He coughed, discreetly.

  “I don’t have friends.”

  “Women,” the barman remarked, shaking his head.

  Balak swigged down the first jug. A woman wearing a scarf walked by him. She was carrying a kamancheh, and she carefully placed the instrument on the ground in the corner. She took out a bow and sat on the floor, before placing the wooden bowl-shaped part of the stringed instrument between her knees. Then she moved back and forth in a mesmerising way to the exotic tune.

  Balak swallowed down the next jug and rose. He wanted the quiet of his own bed, so he headed out of the bar.

  As he headed out of the door, he was met again with the dank air of The Hollow. He staggered a little, dizzy, but alcohol never affected him for long, and after a few moments, he walked away from the bar and headed up the alley that the three men had emerged from earlier.

  Balak arrived at Giorgi’s place ready to talk again. Balak stood outside Giorgi’s apartment and after taking a deep breath he said, “Giorgi. We need to talk. I . . . I think you earned the right to know. Why don’t you open the fucking door? I like to look a man in the eyes when I talk to him . . . Giorgi? Are you home?” Balak tried to knock on the door one more time before seeing
the door was unlocked. It opened at the slightest touch, exposing a glimpse of light shining through. Balak reached out for his battle axe. He slammed the door open and was met with a ruined apartment. He paused for a second before entering.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” Balak growled.

  Balak carefully examined the place. Nobody was home. Giorgi’s things were haphazardly thrown around the house. Every possible door was open, every hole looked in. The floor was covered with dozens of letters dating all the way back to Giorgi’s first arrival. Every letter was addressed to Mari Kardav, Giorgi’s daughter. Balak sighed at the letters that had never been sent. As he picked one of them up, his hands were trembling. He started to look over the letters.

  But suddenly, he heard screams outside. It sounded like a grown man. He rushed towards the sound, looking at every corner and alley. But each time, he only saw drunks, beggars, and men getting high on pixy dust. The whole place was constructed like a maze to get yourself lost. But Balak knew he was getting closer. At last, he came across the silhouette of a man fighting off three armed men. He couldn’t tell if this was his old friend.

  “Giorgi?” Balak called out.

  The alley had no lights, but when Balak was answered with silence, he intervened. He came from behind of one of the soldiers and threw him out of the way. Balak stepped forward to get a good look at the man when he hit him in the face.

  “Balak?!” the voice clamoured.

  Balak finally recognized Giorgi’s voice.

  “What is this?” Balak

  “Fight now, talk later.”

  Balak stood with Giorgi back to back as they fought the remaining two soldiers. The soldiers swung their swords and the two friends dodged their blades and threw some jabs, when they could. Balak’s fist pummelled a soldier’s leaden armour, but it had very little impact. Balak slammed him into the wall and rushed to help Giorgi, who was backing up. Giorgi charged forward and fought the man to the floor. He looked up at Balak.

  “Behind you!” screamed Giorgi but he knew Balak would never be able to stop the blow in time. Giorgi jumped between the sword and Balak. Giorgi then held on to the sword to disarm the soldier. He pushed the soldier away with his foot.

  Balak took his chance and lifted the man by his chest plate and dumped him head-first onto the ground, fracturing his skull and dislocating his neck.

  “Glad it is over,” breathed Giorgi as he leaned against the wall and slid down it, onto his arse.

  Balak kneeled to examine Giorgi’s wounds “Don’t worry, we can fix you. When you wake up, you will forget this ever happened.”

  “Balak . . .” Giorgi coughed. Blood spattered from his mouth and his breathing slowed.

  “Don’t move. You are bleeding hard . . . I am gonna get you help.” Balak looked around but all he saw were bodies of soldiers. There had been a few people looking over from the top floors. Possibly investigating the source of screams. But as soon as the fight was over, they all closed their windows and dimmed their lights.

  “Come on, let’s get you home,” Balak reassured, hooking his arm underneath his friend’s shoulder.

  “Ooh, ya. Urgh!” Giorgi moaned. “You’re a bastard. Won’t even let a man die in peace.” Balak’s arm that was cradling Giorgi’s ribs was soaking wet. He placed Giorgi down on the ground carefully, by the glow of lantern. The liquid on his arm formed a thick brown-colored crust. Giorgi was pale, and his clothing was drenched in blood.

  “Don’t get soft on me now, brother,” Balak commanded.

  “Find . . . Mari.” Giorgi whispered to Balak and handed him an amulet. Balak held Giorgi’s hand as it grew colder and lost its strength. He drew his last breath, and all was silent. Balak ran his fingers over his friend’s eyelids and laid him gently down.

  Balak heard a man trying to crawl away nearby. He rose up and grabbed his bloodied axe.

  “No, p-please. I was just following orders. Please, I-I have a family,” the soldier pleaded.

  Balak swung his axe right into the soldier’s face.

  — CHAPTER FOUR —

  Alone in the Dark

  Arda was ready to leave The Hollow, a week was certainly long enough in such a dreadful place. Aside from the endless unsavoury characters, she was starting to worry about the child’s wellbeing. The air was far from clean and clear, and the infant had developed a nasty cough. It was no longer safe. She needed to get back to the surface and make her way to Iron Gates on her own.

  As she packed her things, she cursed Balak for turning her down. She felt as though she was marching to the gallows in her endeavour, and was deeply angered by this unnecessary sacrifice.

  Necessary or not, however, she was willing to lay down her life for the child. She kept the child close, fastening the child’s blanket around Arda’s waist and shoulders to make a sling. She grabbed her heavy satchel, and pulled on her cloak, wrapping it around her and the sleeping child. Her hand grabbed her large, wooden spear and she hooked the infant’s basket across her back, before making her way downstairs to settle with the innkeeper.

  “Leaving us then, eh?” he asked. “Find what you were looking for?”

  “That’s none of your concern,” She scoffed back.

  “It’s like I said the first night you showed up. There’s nothing to be found in The Hollow of any worth these days. Be that a thing or a man. All is broken down here.”

  Arda slid a coin pouch across the bar. “Farewell.” She walked away from the bar.

  “Farewell, lass. Probably best you get out of here while you can. Seems as though you’ve been attracting some attention.”

  She turned and walked back the bar.

  “What attention?”

  The innkeeper held out his hand. Arda rolled her eyes and pulled out three extra coins. She placed one on the bar.

  “Talk.”

  “It’s just there was a fellow in earlier looking for you. Messy hair, large sword . . . looked like the nasty sort so I told him I hadn’t seen you.”

  “What did he say?”

  The innkeeper looked at his hand again, so Arda slipped him a second coin.

  “He asked if the girl with the baby was here. I said I hadn’t seen you and he left in a hurry.”

  Arda slipped him the third coin.

  “I trust you still haven’t seen the girl and baby?”

  The innkeeper looked down at the coin.

  “I certainly have not.”

  “Keep it that way,” Arda ordered and rushed to the exit.

  “Good luck getting out of here alive. You’re gonna need it.” He laughed a hearty laugh from the pit of his stomach.

  As she left through the door of the miner’s tavern, she whispered to the child, “It’s just you and me now.”

  Disappointed that she had to leave empty-handed, she was overjoyed to leave all the same. The Hollow was no place for her. Certainly, no place for an infant.

  As she passed through the hustle and bustle of the market, she stared up at the great elevators. They lay idle and dormant, the immense ropes on their pulleys stretching into the ceiling, fading into shadow. They would save her a lot of time, though their hobbled together construction looked a touch too perilous for her liking.

  She took a big breath as she headed towards them.

  The streets of The Hollow made her feel uneasy. She heard men cat-calling her, yelling “Maska” from all directions. She didn’t bother to turn back and look. Beggars grabbed at her skirt asking for coin, and market traders tried to force goods on her that she didn’t need. They made it difficult for her to refuse, blocking her exit, so she had to push through them. Suddenly, she felt a force pushing her satchel away from her. She lifted her head and saw a man twice her age yet twice as thin as her trying to get her possessions. She felt sorry for the man but struggled with him as the passersby ignored them. She heard someone behind her scream, “Hey!” as the man released her satchel and ran in the opposite direction. Arda fell, her face hitting the muddy ground. The first
thing she saw when she lifted her head was a pair of military boots. Two Amida soldiers quickly brought her to her feet. Her face was muddied and in the gloomy darkness she was sure she looked unrecognizable. One of the soldiers was polite enough to hand back her satchel and offer his help. He was a nice-looking young man and greeted Arda with a welcoming smile.

  “Here is your bag ma’am.”

  “Thank you,” Arda quickly said and lowered her head before turning around.

  The soldier grabbed her arm, “Apologies ma’am but I need you to stay here and make a report to my captain over the incident.” The soldier turned his head around to face a captain in the distance and called him out. As the captain started making his way to Arda and the soldier, Arda sneakily reached her hand into her satchel and grabbed several silver coins, then threw them haphazardly on the ground. The gleaming silver coins reflected on the ground attracting every man, woman, and child within a visible distance separating her and the soldier. People dived into the mud seeking the silver coins, fighting for the possession of even one coin.

  Arda escaped the battling crowd and found herself in a quiet, empty alley. There were clouds of smoke, and putrid smells of human waste that made her gag. Swarms of flies buzzed around, and she batted the air to keep them away from the baby, who had started to cough more frequently. She rushed to get through the alley as quick as possible when a man showed up around the corner. She lowered her head to hide her face, slowed her pace and clinched her trusty spear, ready to strike if needed.

  As the man stepped closer, her heartbeat quickened. She began to play out various scenarios in her head. If he grabbed her arm she could step on his toe. This wouldn’t eliminate the danger, but it would distract him long enough to make a run for it. The man was now within arms reach. She could see his brown eyes and scruffy beard. She was carefully scanning his clothes looking for a glimpse of a knife or a dagger.