by Dean Henegar
The young gnoll host began to toss parasites one by one toward the closest sleeping slaver. Soon, one landed on the man’s face and began to worm its way toward the open, snoring mouth of its target. Unfortunately, the slaver must have felt the tiny parasite hit; his hand wiped it away automatically while continuing to sleep. The gnoll host was not dissuaded and kept at it for hours until one of the parasites finally landed in his open mouth. None of the other slavers were within range so the rest of the gnoll hosts remained silent in their cages, waiting to see if their new sister was able to infect her host.
The slaver nearly coughed out the parasite when it landed in his mouth, but he doomed himself when he swallowed the parasite down first. The parasite made its way into the stomach of the slaver and then began to burrow until it found a major artery. Riding the nutrient filled bloodstream as it searched for the host’s brain enabled the young parasite to refresh the energy it had expended in burrowing through the tough stomach lining. Soon, it sensed it was in the correct spot and the tiny parasite launched its tendrils into the slaver’s brain.
Before the dawn broke, the slaver had joined the ranks of the Gul Dorg.
The infected slaver volunteered to cook the morning meal while the group broke camp and prepared to move out on the road. The group clambered aboard the wagons and began to haul their slaves toward their main encampment, each member happily chewing away on their morning meal. The morning meal consisted of campfire baked biscuits which were filled with a smoky ham as well as some egg. It was a quick and tasty breakfast on-the-go for the group. Little did they know, but each biscuit sandwich contained a parasite waiting to take over. By the time the party made the crossroads rendezvous with Jameson, all were infected. When the party met up, the abnormally quiet group continued toward the main slaver camp.
The party stopped at midday for their meal and Jameson became concerned about his companion’s behavior.
“What gives with you guys? Why’s everyone so quiet?” Jameson asked.
“Do not worry. Eat your meal, Jameson,” Saunders told Jameson in an uncharacteristically monotone voice. Jameson could tell something was wrong and rested his hand on the short sword at his side while glaring at the vacant eyed leader. The four other slavers that had accompanied Jameson could also sense something was wrong as the infected began to surround them, holding out sandwiches for them to eat.
“Back off, we don’t want your crummy sandwiches! What’s wrong with you guys!” Jameson said, beginning to panic. The infected continued to close in, tightening the circle around the few remaining uninfected members of their party. “Last warning, back off or we’re out of here!” Jameson screeched as he drew his weapon. The other four uninfected joined him, grabbing weapons just as the grasping hands of the infected reached for them.
Jameson launched a wild slash at Saunders, the blade slicing off Saunders’s ear before lodging in his shoulder. Saunders didn’t react to what normally would have been a devastatingly painful injury; the Gul Dorg were able to dampen the pain of their host’s wounds. Jameson looked on in horror as the man who was once his leader raised his ruined face toward him. Blood and gore didn’t bother Jameson, brutality was a slaver’s stock and trade after all. What terrified him were the tendrils that poked out from the bloody wound in the side of Saunders’s head. The quivering tendrils were moving on their own, and they were reaching for Jameson.
Jameson’s shock wore off too late for him to defend himself. Strong sets of hands held him in place while Saunders pulled a tiny parasite from one of the now free-flowing tendrils sticking out of the side of his head and shoved it in Jameson’s mouth. Jameson struggled and could feel the tiny creature squirming its way down his throat.
The physical struggle was only the first challenge Jameson faced. The parasite quickly made its way to his brain and Jameson screamed out in terror as he could feel the creature slowly consume the parts of his mind that contained his very being. Its control complete, the parasite stopped its host’s body from screaming.
Saunders looked around, seeing all the other slavers were now infected. Two of the Gul Dorg had died when the uninfected slavers killed them in their attempt to escape. A third was lost when it turned out the body it was trying to take over was faulty, the heart giving out due to the stress of the ordeal.
The newly captured farming family sat in shocked silence as the Gul Dorg turned their attention toward them. The family accepted the sandwiches offered and slowly ate. Their shock preventing even the slightest hint of resistance. The slaver caravan continued toward their destination, the farming family still slowly chewing on their sandwiches as the parasites inside them slowly chewed away at their minds.
Chapter 10
I woke with a start back in the dirty tent I shared with the other prisoners. Outside the tent, I heard voices and shuffling feet, and a moment later, Septimus entered with his guards once again. Something was up; it was too early for him to be rousing us for the battle.
“Ahh, so sorry to wake you before our big day, but I have such wonderful news!” Septimus said. “I have been scouring the slaves and prisoner contracts for sale here at the games and came across several of your former comrades. I have purchased their contracts and they now stand ready to fight by your side to gain their freedom,” Septimus advised as his guards waved in eight more disgraced soldiers.
This lot were in an even sorrier state than we were. Most looked like they were on their last legs and one had lost his left arm in the not too distant past. Fresh scar tissue covered the stub that remained of his arm. Seeing the scrawny, one-armed soldier reminded me of my friend Ty, despite there being no similarity in appearance save for a missing arm. I wondered what he and the rest of the players were doing while I was cooped up in here trying to earn back my freedom. The only thing I could do was continue to win and play the game to the best of my ability.
The guards roughly shoved the new “recruits” into the tent before bringing in a tray of simple foods for them to eat. Septimus seemed to have quite a bit of experience with starving prisoners and knew not to give them too much or too rich of food. Each prisoner grabbed their portion and began shoving food in their mouths.
“You soldiers may want to slow down. You’ll get bad stomach cramps if you eat too fast after begin starved,” I offered. The soldiers ignored me, save for the one-armed man who glared at me with the same hatred I had seen in Wrend.
“Now that’s taken care of, I expect big things from you all tomorrow. Is there anything else you need?” Septimus asked in mock concern. Our captor apparently hadn’t expected a reply since he was heading for the exit when I spoke up.
“There is one thing, Septimus. You said you wanted us to fight as the soldiers we were trained to be. If you want us at our best, we need decent weapons. Bent rusty daggers and sharpened sticks are not our preferred weapons. Give us our legionnaire weapons and we’ll destroy any similar foe that Asif sets against us,” I told Septimus, hoping to get some concessions from our lanista. Septimus turned around and looked at me for a moment in contemplation before speaking.
“What do you need? Know that I’m reluctant to spend much coin until you all have proven yourselves a bit more . . . but I can understand the need to equip you better than the chaff I normally send out to fight,”
“The two most important pieces would be the gladius shortsword and the scutum shield. Get us all equipped with those and we’ll be good. If you can, pilum javelins would give us some ranged damage. With those weapons, I can lead these men in the tactics they’re familiar with,” I told Septimus. I was under no illusions that we would be geared up from central army supply, but any improvements would help our chances at victory.
“I’ll see what can be arranged. I do expect you to perform with whatever gear your given. Don’t get too full of yourself just yet, Raytak,” Septimus warned as he left the tent. His guards followed, and we soon found ourselves left on our own again. The newcomers finished their food quickly, afraid we wou
ld take their first real meal in weeks away from them. The one-armed soldier looked over at me again, squinting.
“Hey, how come they have an officer as a prisoner? Better question would be, why is he still alive?” the one-armed soldier asked as he shoved the last piece of bread on his plate into his mouth.
“You’ll be mindin’ yer manners around his royal highness now, newcomer. You see, we have no love for officers here either . . . after all, they’re the reason most of us find ourselves here in the first place. This one, well, this is the first officer I’ve ever seen held as a prisoner. For now, we let him live since he’s the reason we have a chance at getting out of this hell-hole early. We win enough fights together and we get a shot at a pardon. I reckon we should just go ahead and play good little soldiers for now while we enjoy the better food and treatment. We’ll eventually win our way out and if not, we can take it out on king Raytak here,” Wrend advised the newcomers.
The new soldiers mostly shrugged their shoulders and went about finding a place to sleep. One Arm, as I was now calling him, picked a slot near myself and pretended to sleep. Wrend blew out the lantern and darkness covered us. Morning was only a few hours away and even if I didn’t need rest, the men did. I was beginning to feel responsible for them; the habits of an officer die hard, even in these circumstances.
Other than the commotion from one of the new soldiers getting cracked across the head by a guard when he tried to escape, the night passed quickly. I spent the time reviewing my abilities and trying to plan for the upcoming fight. I really had no idea what we would be facing. From Septimus’ description I had to gather it would be more fodder of the type that Septimus usually sold to the arenas. We had to be on our toes; Asif had seemed more than angry at yesterday’s outcome. I had the feeling that dirty tricks were part and parcel for these out-of-the-way arenas. This would not be a highly-regulated match, like those at the great colosseum of the Imperium capitol.
Dawn finally broke and the guards entered with our morning meal, smacking those soldiers too slow to rise. The guards demanded we stand and lower our gaze when they first entered as a sign of respect.
“Hey you! Think you’re something special because Septimus wants you to actually win?” one of guards growled as he kicked the one-armed soldier who was refusing to get up. One Arm merely rolled over from the blow and I could tell immediately from the unnatural angle of his neck that he was dead.
“I think you kicked him too hard, sir. I really hope Septimus isn’t upset with you for killing one of the prisoners before such an important fight,” Wrend said, a sly grin pasted on his face. The guard looked at Wrend in anger for a moment, before shrugging his shoulders and dragging the body out.
“Heh, no loss for me if you kill each other. I’ll let Septimus know this one had an accident. I’m sure it was just his half-starved condition that made him slip and fall, right?” the guard asked in a threatening manner, making it clear we should all back-up that story. The man had been a troublemaker, but we would miss the additional sword arm this day, I feared. The rest of us headed toward the food that the guards had left. There was a rich porridge as well as some dried fruit. Enough to give us energy without making us too sluggish.
“Let that be a lesson to the rest of you newcomers. The commander here lives until I say he doesn’t. Our recently departed friend that the guards just drug out decided to try and take his own vengeance last night. I’m the one that decides when the commander dies, not you lot. I’ll not have some one-armed fool take away my chance to get of this place just so he can get some payback. Accidents happen, and they can also be arranged. Remember that.” Wrend finished his threat by looking each of the newcomers in the eye before selecting a plate of food for himself.
I could almost laugh at the irony of Wrend defending me in the dark of night while I was distracted—the same soldier who had taken so much pleasure in killing me when I first arrived. The game’s AI walked a strange line with the npcs, at times acknowledging the player’s ability to respawn, while other times acting as if our deaths were permanent. Wrend was smart enough to realize that our best chance of early release stood in fighting together. Should we ever gain our freedom, that would be the time he would try to stick a knife in my back.
The guards came back a bit later accompanied by a sleepy looking Septimus who yawned, waving in several slaves who cleared away the breakfast dishes and began laying out weapons on the table. The gear was a decrepit mix of cast-off army items and low-quality weapons that were on their last legs. Septimus waved at the assembled shoddy implements of death as he spoke.
“Here you are, brave commander, freshly issued weapons for your troops. I’ll leave it to you to pass them out. Once you’re equipped it will be time for your early performance. I hear the stands are nearly full despite the early hour. The people here love a good bloodbath, and the sheer number of fighters involved for one match is more than they usually see.”
I approached the table and scanned the items. More guards piled in and they warily held their hands on their sword hilts as I appraised the weapons before moving over to the table holding shields and bits of armor. I was hopeful for an upgrade now that I had leveled.
Damaged Gladius (6): These damaged swords were not worth the time needed to repair them. The army sells these off to any buyer for little more than their scrap value. Item-level 4. *Damaged weapons have a chance on impact to break.
Rusted Machete (2): These crudely crafted tools appear to have been left out in the weather for many seasons and have corroded to a nearly useless state. Item-level 3. *There is a chance on hit that this weapon will shatter.
Warped Pilum (4): These army-surplus javelins have been warped by the weather yet can still be used as makeshift spears. Item-level 3. *There is a -1 penalty to attack if thrown.
Rusty Bent Dagger (11): This blade is the poorest quality possible still capable of being called a weapon. Its metal may break the skin of an opponent with enough force behind it. Item-level 1.
The pathetic mix of weapons was only marginally better than what I had used in my earlier fights. Still, any advantage, even as small as one item-level, could make a difference. Before handing out the weapons I looked at the table containing the shields and bits of armor.
Broken Army-surplus Scutum Shield (8): These shields were damaged beyond repair and sold off as surplus. It is unknown how long they will hold together. +1 defense.
Poorest-quality Small Square Wooden Shield (3): These shields appear to have been crafted from a cut-up door and hewn into a rectangular shape to mimic an Imperium scutum. The workmanship is of the worst quality, yet it will stop a weak blow aimed at it. +1 defense.
Army-surplus Boots (12): This pile of cast-off and worn-down boots are of various sizes. Provides no armor protections but does give the wearer better balance than sandals provide.
I turned to address the men before handing out the gear.
“Men, I know most of you would like nothing more than to stick a knife in my back. Before you take a crack at that, think on one thing: I just may be your only hope to survive this day. If we run out onto the arena floor like a gaggle of raw recruits, I have no doubt that Asif’s forces will cut us all down to a man. Hate me all you want, but know this . . .”
I paused for effect while looking each man in the eye before continuing. “I have fought and commanded men on the field of battle for over fifty years. I have seen battles and fought foes most of you couldn’t imagine. There is a saying where I come from that you should be wary of an old man in a profession where men die young. I may not look it, but I am older than any of you. I can’t guarantee you that you will live through the fight, but if you follow my orders, I will do my best to give both victory and life this day. Sergeant Wrend! Issue the weapons!” I ordered as I took a gladius, scutum, and dagger for myself before stepping back.
Wrend looked at me in shock for a moment before old training kicked in.
“All right, you worthless gits, fall in!
” Wrend ordered. To their credit, the disgraced soldiers fell quickly into line. Wrend walked up and down the line, questioning the men on their experience before handing them a weapon and shield. Every man had a dagger as a backup weapon and a primary weapon chosen based on their preference and skill. One man who claimed he was an expert at throwing javelins was given the extra pilum; he could throw one and wield the other as a spear. The table was soon empty, and my “soldiers” were geared for battle. Wrend finished inspecting the men and then did a sharp about face and nearly saluted before he caught himself.
With our gearing complete, the guards led us out of the tent and toward the arena. Just outside the arena entrance, Septimus waited with a dozen of the slaves that had accompanied us on the journey here. He nodded his head in approval as we marched in step toward him. The men were in a single line and I marched next to Wrend, who had placed himself at the head of our new squad.
“Well, I must say you look a bit sharper than I expected. Well done, commander. There has been a little wrinkle in our plans,” Septimus added with concern. “Asif has seen fit to have thirty-five foes oppose us in the fight. I protested that it was unfair to place that number against only the twelve . . .” Septimus trailed as he counted only eleven; apparently, the guard had not informed the lanista of one-arm’s “slip.” “Well, I guess I mean the eleven of you. After a bit of negotiation, I have been able to add these twelve fine warriors to the mix. They are yours to command, Raytak,” Septimus said, waving at the fodder in front of us. To his credit, the twelve that Septimus had selected did appear to be the better of the refuse that we had arrived with. At least they had all their appendages attached and were strong enough to wield a weapon. The group was equipped with only the sharpened stick “spears” that I had seen earlier. How useful could they possibly be in the coming fight? My instincts told me the answer was “not much.”
We were led through the rickety gate onto the sands of Asif’s arena once more. Twenty-five yards across from us, our foes stood in a large mob. Our opponents were a mixed bag of humanoid races and appeared to be armed, equipped, and trained as poorly as our fodder was. Despite what Septimus had said, I counted forty-two rather than the thirty-five we were told to expect. In amongst the crowd of foes, I could make out two that didn’t match the others. They were dressed the same and had the same crude weapons, but the way they carried themselves let me know immediately that these were trained fighters, not average prisoners. One was a lanky elf who held two rusted daggers. The other was a human almost as large as an orc, carrying an old woodcutting axe. By concentrating, I could make out a little more information about our foes.
