by E M White
Sarina could make out from their shifting postures that they were all, however, growing even more impatient than she was. Which was usually impossible.
Stay at it, Sarina.
It’s for the men.
It’s not about you.
She drummed her fingers on the hilt of her sword. She sucked the hot air between her clenched teeth. A stiffness in her neck was spreading down under her gorget and across her shoulders. Being dehydrated didn’t help.
Captain Markus, veteran commander of first company, stepped up to her right flank, eyeing the perimeter of the blacksmith’s courtyard. His mighty shadow was a temporary relief.
Without reservation of being overheard, he said, “We could simply…kill him.”
Sarina almost smiled.
She reached up and placed a hand on the captain’s pelt of bear fur, kept on despite the heat, despite his dense, braided beard. She slid her hand within, stroked the skin of his shoulder and spread her fingers across his broad, dense muscle. She whispered, “I’ve got this under control, Markus.”
Which was a boldfaced lie.
The big barbarian grunted and stepped back, returning to his place behind her.
The burgomaster, in a light white toga better suited to this scorcher, kept interrupting his tasks to turn back toward Sarina and her party. To Sarina, it seemed he was still considering the matter, despite his adamant refusal. After all, nobody was going anywhere. It was a game. And everyone knew it.
Sarina took the opening and advanced upon his center.
“Your honor,” she blinked slowly at those words, “I’m asking as a commander of two successful commissions under the Imperial standard.”
She held up two fingers in case the burgomaster couldn’t count so high.
“And you’re an Imperial protectorate. You rely on the Empire for trade and protection from the Savage Reaches. There’s a connection here. A relationship. Why not reinforce it?”
The burgomaster finally stopped, handed his papers to a boy, and turned toward Sarina completely.
He sighed. He took three big steps in her direction across the dirt yard.
Sarina straightened up, adding triumphantly, “It seems we have friends in common. Governor Quintus Petrus being one. All I’m asking, your honor, is a waiver from you to purchase taxable goods from your granaries.”
He waved to the air above her, saying, “But I see no standard above your head now, do I?”
His voice was high and tight, like one completely consumed by anxiety. It fit his fucking face.
“Commissions come and go, Prin-cess. Eh? Who can predict who you’ll serve tomorrow? Eh? If I sell you grain, you and your barbarian allies turn against the Empire next week, guess who Quintus Petrus strings up by his neck after wiping the battlefield with your skin?”
He gestured to his own neck in case Sarina didn’t grasp his point. Then he put his hands on his hips and began to walk back to his work.
Sarina looked around for something to punch.
Nothing about the blacksmith’s courtyard seemed suitable without fracturing a few bones in her hand.
But the burgomaster…he looked so…soft and doughy.
She allowed an extra moment to imagine the satisfying squish of pummeling him.
Stay at it, Sar—
He shouted over his shoulder, “I have a festival to plan for, Princess. Thousands of subjects, all descending upon my town. What do I feed them if I sell it all to you?”
Now he was being dramatic.
The harvest had been a boon this year as far north as the Orcan Highlands. Everyone knew it.
Sarina turned completely around to Captain Markus. She muttered lowly, “A politician with a tiny cock, getting revenge on the rest of the world. What do we do?”
Big Markus was Sarina’s best, most knowledgeable strategist. He’d been with her from the beginning. A special assignment from her father. She knew to keep him close during times like this. Even if it wasn’t a typical battlefield. Markus said, “You said it yourself, Your Highness. He’s a politician. Everything he does is for some sort of gain.”
“So. What is it?”
Markus looked around, pondering the question, nodding. He narrowed his deep brown eyes. Then shrugged. “I don’t understand politicians.”
Fantastic.
Markus wouldn’t know what it was like to have a tiny cock either. Thank Uthril for that.
Sarina, who had spent her late teens and early twenties maneuvering among the tribal council tables to secure her military command, did know politicians. She also knew they could unreservedly be hard-headed weasels. But they all had their motives. Here, she couldn’t find the motive to make the man turn.
But surely…
There must be something the man wants from me.
The way he keeps glancing back at us…
In truth, Sarina’s party was something to behold. Who in this town had seen such an assortment of races? It must’ve been a shock to their unworldly, sheltered eyes. It must’ve made them retreat to their doorways as they, the princess and her barbarians, strutted down their darling, precious streets.
First, there was Sarina herself, a beautiful anomaly, the blonde princess with the growing reputation, who’d abandoned the comforts of her father’s longhouse to wage battles for the Allied Tribes and, when the money was sound, the Empire.
And behind her—
Captain Markus, her strategist, the large barbarian who plied two well-used battle axes to prove his wisdom.
Captain Vadric, her over-achiever, the massive half-orc, studded with an obscene amount of muscle that he refused to cover with a shirt, ever.
Akimi, her tent maiden, the petite half-elf with exquisite eyes, who knew when to keep her distance, though often knew how to keep the peace too.
Zachārius, her secret weapon, the unquestionably loyal white-haired mage, whose skill with a throwing blade was almost as deadly as his skill with his enchanted stave.
And finally Onäs, her graceful champion, newest to her entourage, the gray elf swordsman, retained by Sarina’s father to defend the rash princess’ honor while keeping her safe from harm—which was, everyone knew, an entirely impossible task.
Sarina was sure by now that the burgomaster was speaking, the side of his hand over his mouth, to his attendants about her motley band. Finally the little man waved Sarina closer.
She looked back at each one of her party. She reluctantly stepped forward—only two strides—fingers sliding around her sword’s handle.
She’d trained with long blades since she turned ten. She could draw hers, close the distance in a full second, slide it in one of his kidneys before he could react.
She imagined the scene. Getting out of the town would be tough. However, her party could probably do it. Still left the problem of feeding her army, some two hundred leagues from their tribal homelands.
She growled. The burgomaster lowered his voice.
“Have you ever thought, Princess, of using your barbarians to make…a little extra coin?” By now, the little man was actually leering at each of her companions. He was surveying them up and down, as though observing each bulging muscle and savoring the sight.
By Uthril’s Hammer, he’s sizing them up. The puny lecher.
Sarina bristled at the man’s wandering, beady eyes. “These are my council and closest advisors, your honor. I don’t use them…for anything.”
She could see his focus settling upon Onäs now, who was leaning on a wooden column of the blacksmith’s workshops.
The gray elf responded by relaxing even more into the wood column. He planted the tip of his sheathed sword in the dirt and began rotating it. The bronze cap scraped against the soil. The elf raised an eyebrow slowly. It was a taunt, plain as day.
“Yes, that one!” said the burgomaster. “The tall one. With the long, tattooed ears. Lovely!”
Suddenly the place was a furnace.
The air became very still.
E
veryone was centering themselves over their feet, widening their stances.
Hands were searching out the hilts of blades.
Even workers throughout the workshops halted their labors at the sense of something dreadful and violent having just landed among them.
Dammit, Sarina thought with regret, her shoulders sagging downward and her eyes rolling upward. Now I’m never getting my army fed.
The burgomaster inched up to Sarina, rubbing his hands, then rubbing his chin, all the while keeping his eyes on Onäs. “You know, Princess…”
This man is about to get himself permanently killed. To death. Forever.
“…we have a very popular arena here in Bolzheim. Can you appreciate that, Princess?”
She frowned. As did her five companions behind her.
“An arena?”
“You see, you need something from us. And I want to give it to you, but I need you to earn it, you see?”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“Ah. Well, I should say that appearing in our arena,” he pointed at her ample bosom that pressed outward from her mail hauberk, “would be just the thing to further your interests. And ours. But I appreciate that a person of your royal stature…” He pointed directly to her breasts again. “…is forbidden to fight, to duel.”
At this point all eyes were upon Onäs—who cocked his head, this time raising both eyebrows and shifting his weight to his other foot.
“Your champion. Eh? He fights in our arena. Win or lose, you will most assuredly earn the right to purchase grain for your hungry,” he giggled, “desperate army.” His ratty eyes widened. “Ticket sales, the chance to see a real elf swordsman fight to the death in our stadium, that will surely take care of any difference in money.”
Sarina restated her original point, “We have enough coin.”
“Yes, but not the right to spend it. Eh? That’s my authority.”
He settled his hips and tilted his head upon his thin neck. He must’ve been already counting the coins. The prospect of rare, exotic elven blood splattered about the sands of his amphitheater would generate quite a sum at the gates.
Practically tittering with glee, the ratman pointed directly as Onäs. He said once and for all, “That one. He fights. In your place. Or nothing.”
Everyone was still staring at the tall, leisurely elf, who seemed entirely unperturbed by the proposal, who did nothing but continue spinning the bronze tip of his scabbard on the ground, the grating sound filling the starched air in a monotonous, slow rhythm. Of them all, only he kept his gaze, penetrating and steady, upon Princess Sarina, to whom he said in a dispassionate, silken voice, as though nothing in the world was amiss, “Your call, Highness.”
3
Onäs Slays The Crowd
Two days later, the town crier stood upon an outcropping of stone, a few yards beyond the covered seats of honor, a few feet over the burning sands of Bolzheim’s piddling little coliseum.
His hands were waving excessively.
He was shouting to the spectators, surely more than two thousand today—but Onäs wasn’t so good at guessing that sort of thing. They were packed in tight, that was for sure.
By the look upon the town crier’s face and the volume of the crowds, his announcements must’ve been thrilling.
Onäs had decided not to listen.
What a tedious display, he thought. He drew circles with the toe of his black boot in the scorching sand of the arena.
He peeked up to the three other gladiators. They were almost amusing, each standing at points around the arena, armed as they chose, equal distances between them.
There was an arachnoid beast across from him, scaled armor atop the center section of its hairy body, as tall as a man. It had two long scimitars pinched in two of its six lanky, hairy legs.
Nothing exciting there.
There was a big oafish humanoid, an ogre of sorts, maybe, perhaps a disastrous muddle of racial bloodlines that resulted in a beast more wide than tall, burdened with bulbous yellow eyes and sickly greenish skin. He swung two massive wooden warhammers wildly and listened intently to the town crier’s announcements. The thing was in nothing but a loincloth.
Not really a concern.
And then there was the Imperial praetorian. Who was interesting, if anything. He clearly wasn’t a praetorian anymore given these circumstances. But he still wore the bronze helmet with the lofty black horsehair crest and the handsome black plated lorica segmentata over his shoulders and the black tunic beneath.
Onäs was surprised he still wielded, of all the options, the short gladius of his trade.
A condemned officer, perhaps?
Onäs took his time removing his ebony, sable fur mantle and spread it at his feet. This was no time to get anyone else’s foul blood on his clothes. His elven tattoos, geometric patterns and bold swirls, glistened in the ferocious sun, from his jaw line to his navel.
He cleared his throat and gripped the middle of his scabbard where his hand had, over the years, worn the leather to a smooth sheen. He sensed the balance of his sword. Which was a comfort in this otherwise alien world.
He finally considered, Suppose I should make the best of it.
The crier was wrapping up.
The crowd was positively bounding about their seats, their sandals stomping feverishly from the lowest seats to the highest, a riotous expectation of violence and blood.
“Until we face the scourges of the Vile Influx far to the north,” the crier belted out with surprising volume, “we shall hold games to witness which warriors among us persist, which shall possibly stand up to the encroaching beasts that flee the sorcerous Vile armies and come to take our lands and rape our women and enslave our children! For without the magnanimous protection of the Empire…” Here the crier turned and bowed to the three Imperial representatives seated in the shade, themselves bearing the high black horsehair crests upon their bronze helms. “…we of Bolzheim, and all the outlying towns, are but defenseless victims of terrible violence from the Savage Reaches!”
The entire arena began to boo in chorus.
The crier finally announced the contestants, saving Onäs for last. The crowd screamed wildly when his name was proclaimed, “Onäs Grimblade of the Elven Kingdom, personal champion of Princess Sarina of the Allied Tribes, has elected to die for you!”
Well, thought Onäs, searching the crowd now for said princess and her other consorts, at least he got my name right.
The three other gladiators saluted both the burgomaster and the Imperial envoys, each in the manner of their race, the arachnoid doing something really no one recognized. Onäs, in keeping with his own race, didn’t salute anyone.
To this the crowd snarled and stomped.
And so began the duels to the death.
Onäs didn’t miss the moment to seize the advantage.
He knew from plenty of experience that aggression and swift violence in free-for-alls win the day. He slid the black sheath from his blade and released it to the ground. He went from standstill to full sprint, trailing the dark orange sword in the air behind him. He raced directly toward the huge ogre.
The armored arachnoid, six wild legs with pincers on each end, skittered in a startling arc to intercept him, two scimitars spinning.
The ogre turned to see Onäs’ swift approach and shook his wooden warhammers. He roared with a mouth almost as big as Onäs’ head.
Both Onäs and the spider-creature converged on the ogre almost at the same time. But Onäs got there first, his long jet and gray braid fluttering over his shoulder.
He crossed the enormous ogre’s center and laid out his long blade along one of its massive thighs, rolling through to its back quarter.
The ogre chased him with one of his hammers but struck only air. The second hammer followed, smashing the six-legged beast square in the middle of its large armored segment.
The spider squealed horribly and shook and scampered backward.
The ogre, red blood pouring
from his green leg, managed somehow not to howl from pain.
But its face betrayed it, and the muscles across its vast, deformed chest rolled and buckled as it raged.
It limped to face Onäs. Blood had already begun coating the warm white sand at its feet.
Onäs kept his stance fluid, knees bent, sword behind him, side-stepping slightly, trying to keep the retreating arachnoid in his periphery.
The ogre pointed the heavy, skull-crushing end of one warhammer at Onäs. He screamed something incomprehensible.
Too bad, Onäs thought. The crowd is sure not to like how quickly this is going to end.
He lowered his stance ever so slightly, feeling the centered balance over his boots, waiting for the ogre to seal its own fate. He would assuredly bleed to death if nothing else. At fifteen paces, Onäs could see the eight-inch slice gaping, blood streaming from the lowest corner. Legs were dangerously full of arteries.
Onäs could see the ogre digging into a place of deep anger and resentment, spouting its wrath.
Wrath at itself, of course. These types always turned their self-loathing loose upon those around them. It was their curse.
Onäs could feel the brute’s torrent of hatred as if it were his own. That was his curse.
The ogre charged as best as it could.
Onäs waited until its weight was almost upon the ruined leg. Then he sprang.
In an instant he was inside the ogre’s guard, before the hammers had even begun their descent, his own blade slicing upward. He separated the thing’s right arm from the shoulder as he passed underneath.
The flesh thumped to the ground.
Onäs twisted to intercept the other hammer that was surely coming. The tip of his sword pierced the thing’s bicep as it arced down.
It dropped the second hammer. It stumbled to one knee. Then another. Blood spurted several directions from the butchered shoulder that at present had no arm.
The thing howled, still reaching with its only hand to wrench Onäs’ heart from his body, anger flashing unrestrained from its over-sized, yellow eyes.
Onäs shifted once to his left, slashed down and took off the thing’s other hand halfway up the forearm, two round circles of bone showing clearly. On the upstroke, he slit open half of its neck with a precise slash of his sword’s tip.
