Damned

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Damned Page 3

by K R Leikvoll


  “Weapons of choice?” the grungy captain asked once I approached his side. The crowd was booming with noise at the sight of one such as me on the battlefield.

  “A bow and a sword,” I whispered.

  “You only get one arrow per round. A worthless pick,” he growled, shoving a dulled short sword and a bow into my grasp.

  I had not known the rules of archery in the arena at that time, but one arrow was better than nothing else. I hesitantly moved toward my starting position, filled with nerves. Vince had stopped his companions’ conversations and was watching us intently. It was more intimidating to me than the opponents I was set to face.

  There were no words to start, it simply started when both parties were equipped with weapons. My first opponent was a top-heavy man that preferred an axe. I was forced to turn my attention from my Master’s gaze to the scum that ran toward me. The screams of anticipation from the crowd was morphed into a buzz that no longer existed. Space froze as his body lumbered closer. He was far bigger than my normal opponents. At first glance, he was menacing, but his weakness was his size, not his strength.

  I ripped the bow from my back and nocked my only arrow. The color drained from his face as I released, aiming not for his heart through his shabby armor, but for his exposed ankle. I moved toward him immediately after my arrow started to soar. It hit him on its mark giving me a moment to slice him under his heavy weapon. His ego was his downfall as I brought my sword backward into his spine. I kicked his slouched form to the ground and looked back to my Master.

  The silence was broken by his applause, followed by Lord James and Sendrys. The crowd was shocked that I had won the briefest fight yet. My next opponent jumped into the ring from the stands with an enraged roar. Out of spite, the captain threw my next arrow near my feet rather than hand it to me.

  The ring leader did not even utter our names before my second opponent struck at me with his sword. In an incredible rush of confidence, I ducked under his blade and slashed at his knees. We went back and forth exchanging light blows, none deadly. I recall winning only due to his distraction from the crowd’s jeers. A dodge followed by a quick swipe allowed me to slice his throat. The last thing I remember before being overcome with viciousness and rage was how warm his blood felt as it coated my frozen body.

  Until my tenth opponent, my encounters were a blur. The sensation of my Master watching me fight was one of elation. His eyes followed every tiny movement, as if we were the only ones in the world. Each kill brought him more gratification, and in his gratification, I found purpose. The mediocrity of my life faded in that arena along with my lack of direction. I had no words to say to him, yet I desired nothing more than to speak with him. To gain his attention; to learn more about the supposed gift he had given me. It was easy to let that desire consume all that I was, as I was nothing more than a shell of a person already.

  When my final opponent entered the arena, my daze from fighting had faded. Movement helped warm me temporarily, but the time exposed in the progressively snowy wind froze over all of my effort. I was exhausted – all I wanted was to fall to my knees for rest. I recall hardly being able to stand upright and having to lean on the railing for a moment’s break. Vince’s wine goblet was filled to the brim and untouched. Lord James and Sendrys were having a hushed conversation around him, but instead he was engrossed in me. There was so much I needed to ask him – so much I needed to understand.

  The man that faced me finally was an experienced arena fighter named Gretu. If anyone were to be promoted that day from our rubbish, it was him. He had done his time serving in the Everglade. His father was a captain and regardless of that, he devoted his time to becoming stronger. One as revered as him did not need to challenge a small Evyan woman like myself, but after nine challengers, he was compelled to see what the fuss was about. There was no true fuss, only men that wished to kill me for the sake of killing.

  I still remember the cocky smile he had on his face as he approached me. His sword was an heirloom from his father; longer than my entire body. He needed two hands to grasp it, but he was not a bulky man which made him faster. Gretu stabbed his sword into the ground and laughed so loudly all of the commotion ceased.

  “Perhaps if you surrender, I won’t kill you. The arena isn’t a place for little girls,” he yelled to me.

  I do not remember responding to his attempts to weaken my morale. All I could do was heave from fatigue. I had never fought so hard in my life, accompanied with sickness and unfair matchups. When I looked to the captain to retrieve my final arrow, he tossed it behind Gretu with a sneer. Everyone in the stands cackled, save my Lord and his companions. They were all watching, interested as to how I might respond.

  It will always be a mystery to me what would have happened had I begged for mercy. I thought only of Vince as I dove out of the way of his first swing. Gretu’s sharp sword cut into the stands, but he removed it with ease. I was stumbling back to my feet, barely a threat to him. It did give me the brief moment to retrieve my arrow from the mud.

  When he turned back to me, I released my arrow, hoping it would hit him in the chest. I did not expect him to knock it away with his massive sword. The crowd was begging him to cut my head off, and with my affirmation of consenting to fight, he wanted to as well. With a roar of fury, he charged at me. I could not parry his sword without risking injury to my limbs. I was forced to dodge repeated swings, getting closer to cutting me every time.

  As I thought I might strike his weaker arm with my sword, he caught it in his hand. Normally, a sword would have cut straight through his palm, but the blade was dulled before I killed nine men. With strength I didn’t know he had, he bent my sword’s tip inward, making it useless. He dropped his weapon in favor of throwing me across the arena by my hair.

  I landed near my opponents’ corpses as he made his way over to me to deal the finishing blow. My lack of weapons made the match look over as fast as it had begun. My limbs were pathetically useless as I attempted to stand once more. I glanced to my Master for a moment, as he was all I had fought for. His face was a mixture of disappointment and intrigue. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that my effort was all for naught.

  When Gretu was almost to me, a long, thin dagger of my opponent’s caught my eye. I had no chance of defeating him with it, but I did not desire to die without doing all I could. The knife was far heavier than an arrow; I did not imagine my idea would work. I lined up the knife against my bow, desperately pulling it back as far as I could.

  It was silent as the dagger flew through the air. I aimed slightly too low, but it was just enough. The blade penetrated his throat all the way, decorating the mud and snow with his crimson blood. I could not believe my reality to be real, even after he fell backward with a thump. The commotion began again, but no voice was louder than that of his father shouting slurs at me.

  Somehow, I made it to my feet by pulling myself up on the fenced wall. When my Master and I made eye contact once more, the world around us ceased to be. He pressed his chilled fingertips to his lips and waved barely. I was unable to react to him, as my sickness took me immediately afterward.

  In my fear, all I had found was purpose. From then on, every breath I took, every drop of blood I spilled was for him. Nobody would stand in the way of my goal.

  Everything became rather tense after that tournament, despite my newfound stardom. The would-be thieves and murderers took their interests elsewhere, lest they lose their head. Most of the Everglade’s respect was won with my victories, giving me the freedom to sleep in the warmth of my barracks as much as I pleased. I ignored all of those that would try to sway me, as many did. Some wanted errands taken care of, others wanted to gamble on the fights. My silence became my well-known mask. I doubt anyone other than the blacksmiths had heard my voice for many years. I had nothing to say to them. They were meaningless obstacles.

  I did not go unchallenged, however. For the following tournaments, I fought fewer fights, but against greater o
pponents. The passing time between them gave me room to better my skills. I had made a game of trying to master every weapon, as in my mind, if I could master them all, I could improvise any situation. My Lord never showed to my matches again for many years; I never lost my drive to perform at any tournament. My talent in the arena was the one thing I held onto despite my lack of promotion because I knew one day he would return to me. After all, he recognized me after seven years of hardship and showed me all the compassion he could from the stands. The craving for him grew agonizingly bad with each passing day, though I had no reason for why it was so.

  At first, I was enraged at the idea that I could win ten fights and receive no official recognition or promotion. I brought it up to the high-ranking captains, even the ring master himself. Those that would hear my displeasure were not able to give me a response on why my progress was ignored. I told them that I didn’t seek to become a captain or live in a cushioned home in the Everglade. They could send me to war ruined borders to sleep once more in the dirt and I would have left with pride. Instead, they shrugged and suggested that someone had to have denied my promotion. It is obvious now looking back who it was, though I was too absorbed in my own reality at the time to see it.

  Gretu’s father, Marix, had started a clever vendetta against me. His position as one of the highest-ranking captains was one of infinite possibilities in our swampy prison. It started small, with my rations being cut in half, from winnings to wages. I did not dare complain as I had no leverage to get them to stop. Any complaints would have only furthered his plot. When I reached my record kills in the arena after a couple of years of tolerating it, he moved onto another phase, knowing he couldn’t make me give in. He forced me to fight thirty-five men over the course of one tournament, to which challenge I beat him in. I was naïve in believing that he would be honorable with his vengeance. Instead, he chose the path of cowards.

  The night was dreary and the maroon sky had been showering my blacksmith station for hours. I had been coming in less as the smith was nearing death and I dreaded the idea of being placed there permanently. Even though I was the senior smith among three others, we all pushed collectively to have his son take his position.

  “The metal must be melted a day more. You should go, Lazarus. The last thing we need is to run behind schedule because you are sick again,” one of my colleagues told me.

  I did not like to look weak, but my position was one they respected. The newer cloak I had been able to finally afford after many won tournaments was still not enough to get rid of the chill I constantly felt throughout my entire being. I remember how relieved I was to see my barracks empty of people rather than being concerned. I put my weapons on the stand and attempted to warm myself by the fire, swarmed with thoughts of my Master. It was worse that night more so than others. I drank water to imagine I was sating the strange thirst I had for his blood. I chased him in faraway dreams in an attempt to find answers. It was all in vain. I was nearly asleep in front of the flames when a sack was pulled over my head and I was knocked unconscious.

  When I awoke in Gretu’s father’s home, I knew exactly what was going on. I was bound to a chair with badly tied knots. I was surrounded by men on all sides; none showed their faces and hid beneath rags. There were too many for me to fight without a weapon in sight beyond the knives they were pointing at me. I was not surprised to see him when he took off his mask and let out a pleased laugh.

  “You must be some sort of daft cunt to believe you killed my son in fair combat,” Marix, Gretu’s father said rubbing his knife on my skin. “Nobody could’ve made that shot and I deserve revenge. You took my only son!”

  The men around us cackled in response before taking out metal rods. Before I could respond to his accusations, each member of the group started to beat me as hard as they wanted. I took the blows and worked on the knots restraining me as much as I could. I knew that if I could reach one of their weapons, it would be over for all of them.

  A heavy blow to my face nearly made me lose consciousness once more. Marix must have seen because he called off their attack. My hands freed themselves, but I could not afford to fight them with my legs still pinned.

  “Leave us. I wish to finish this myself,” he told his companions, giving clear indication to what he meant to do. There were murmurs of laughter and a few more random slaps to my body before they wandered off into the rain. I opened my mouth to scream as they left, but Marix gripped my throat to prevent me from attracting outside attention. I doubt anyone would have helped anyway.

  Once we were alone, he was immediately on top of me, scratching into my skin and tearing away my rags. The moment he had his head lowered to wrestle with his trousers, I ripped the knife from his side. I reacted too impatiently. Marix was not as encumbered by his pants as I thought he might be and shoved us both to the floor, shattering the chair in the process.

  I tried as hard as I could to plunge the knife into his throat, but when it came to pure strength, his physique was far larger than mine. A sharp punch to my gut temporarily loosened my grip. I clung to the dagger desperately; with another punch he was able to tear it from my grasp and throw it on the other side of the room. I ripped at his face trying to get away, but it did not matter.

  He lifted me from the floor and crushed me on top of his dusty table. There were no objects in sight which I could use to defend myself as he forcibly began to try and have his way with me. He held me down despite my clawing at his face and shoulders. With nothing other to do than wait for an opportunity to escape, I watched the rain fall from the only window. I hoped perhaps I might black out and not have to endure any more of his violations. Instead, I was distracted by a faint shadow outside.

  I tried to focus on it, but Marix began to do all he could to hurt me, bordering on killing me with his blows. I made as little noise as I could, waiting for an opening. It was only a matter of time before he decided to choke me to death. When he had decided I was more effort than I was worth that is exactly what he intended to do.

  “The Demon King’s bitch will never see the light of Asinea again,” he said with an exhausted laugh as he clamped down on my windpipe.

  I thrashed violently against his grasp, rummaging around for something that could help me. As my vision began to fade, a cold object brushed barely against my fingertips. My hand fumbled with it for a moment before I realized it was the knife that had been across the room. I had scraped at the table continuously before and there was nothing, but somehow the dagger was there now. It made no sense.

  That didn’t stop me from stabbing it with all of my existing strength into the coward’s spine. He screamed in pain and pulled himself away. The blade was too deep for him to reach despite all his efforts. Marix looked at me with a confused expression before falling forward to the ground, expired.

  It took some time to get into sitting position. All of my tournament fights could not compare to how defeated I felt even though my enemy lay dead at my feet. Every part of me was disgusting and bruised, if not bleeding. I do not remember how I managed to find a clothing upgrade in a spare wardrobe, let alone the process of removing Marix’s head. I didn’t want to go through the effort, but I knew the sign I needed to send his companions. I spent a few spare moments to take what I pleased from his belongings, as it was my right, before the fatigue of being beaten became too much.

  The walk home was especially brutal as I had no boots, but I made it just the same. My barracks was empty as it was before I was taken. No doubt they had been paid off to stay away for the night. I stuck Marix’s head through a spike and impaled it on the front of my door. Whoever came looking would know the result of the last person that dared attempt to harm me.

  When I reached my bed, my heart froze. Not in fear, but in shock. A beautiful black flower, known to Duskwraith as a shadowbloom lay waiting for me, with some sort of parcel attached to it. The flower itself was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful plant I had ever seen. Though it was native to that land,
it hardly grew due to the lack of Dryad druids in the area. Its petals were a deep navy with a mixture of purple near the stems upon closer inspection. The scent reminded me of freedom.

  A palm sized vial was attached to it loosely with a small scroll. I fumbled with the parchment and unrolled it, revealing a perfectly curved handwritten note. It said simply:

  “Velis dei delmore –V.”

  It was a common Femoran saying that meant, “No mercy for thy enemy.”

  The vial was filled with black liquid and it only took me a moment to realize what it was. My hands shook as I removed the cap and put it to my lips. The scent took me back to all the brief moments we had with each other and reminded me of my goals once more. I attempted to only take the smallest sip, but once I started, I was overwhelmed like before. When it was empty, I wept into my knees. I may have traced the line of his writing so many times that it nearly wiped off.

  I tucked his scroll into my small trunk, hoping to myself that he would not forget about me while I wasted away.

  My actions did not end with simply posting Marix’s head outside my barracks. Between the gift from my Master and the respect I gained, I had the courage to pursue each one of the men that had participated in my humiliation. It took work ransacking Marix’s home and tracking them all down, but I did it nonetheless. Some were captains, others were guards and opponents that knew I would kill them in the arena if they challenged me openly. One by one they dropped like flies. I slit their throats as they slept and left my initials on their corpses’ with their blood. The information in his house led me to a few, but once they caught on that I was systematically executing them, they started to sell each other out. They were all gone before the next tournament and nobody stopped me.

  With my elevated position above most of the population, even some of the guards, I did not do much work besides smithing. I hardly needed to compete in the arena anymore, as none sought to die. Time was slipping through my fingers while I waited for my Master to return to me, but he never showed. When a captain with duties beyond the Everglade demanded I attend cleaning responsibilities in Vince’s castle, I was as surprised as I was insulted. I didn’t let it show. Cleaning duties were mundane and below me, but I hadn’t left the Everglade once since I was placed there. Even the smallest chance of seeing my Lord was enough to make me tolerate it.

 

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