FIERCE: A Heroic Fantasy Adventure (BRUTAL TRILOGY Book 2)

by James Alderdice

  “They are calling for you. Perhaps you can feign an illness? Stay with me,” he suggested, with a grin.

  She pulled away from his grasp despite the invitation and enticing waters. “Perhaps your lack of honor will allow you to sleep tonight.” She ran, dripping, toward the calling voices.

  Feast of the Flayed God

  The red dawn splashed the cobblestones and arches with bloody light, bringing exultation and cheering in the streets that Gathelaus could hear from his cell. He now understood the chants and praises, at least the words made sense even if the motivation did not. Even those about to be sacrificed showed eagerness to give their lives to the blood god. It was considered an honor these people had known and expected all their lives. These alien thoughts struck a bitter chord in Gathelaus’s stomach. He had always believed in dying for something that mattered but not something as grotesque as this. Skinned and worn by priests as a sign of rebirth? Let my own Messiah be the only one to bear such grim burdens, he thought.

  Within a couple hours, the old eunuch, as well as several guardsmen belonging to Tezomoc, led Gathelaus and a dozen more men out a rear exit of the villa and back toward the great central courtyard they had passed by the day before. Collared and roped together, there was no opportunity of escape. Gathelaus would win the ceremony or die, it was the only answer left.

  Inside a darkened alcove, the slaves were whitewashed with chalk—except for Gathelaus—and all but he were painted with a dark pigment about their lips and bright feathers were placed in their hair. The eunuchs were sacred priests of the blood god, Xipe-Totec, and dismayed at Gathelaus’s lack of hair with which to place feathers.

  He said nothing, but paid attention to all that was said. The sacrifices would be gladiatorial and he was to be the final presentation for the gods. Tezomoc hoped Gathelaus would be a grand surprise for the people of his city and that is why there was no chalk placed upon him.

  All of the slaves were given draughts from a carved clay pot that smelled of strong alcohol. The pot looked like a dwarf extending his hands to become the lip of the vessel.

  “What is this?” Gathelaus asked a priest he had never seen before.

  He looked at Gathelaus in surprise. “I was told you could not speak.”

  “I can, What is this?”

  “It is Pulque, the sacred beverage of the gods. But it is given to slaves only on this special occasion because they will soon be one with the gods,” said the old man.

  “Is it poisonous?”

  “No.” The priest took a quick swallow of it.

  Gathelaus sniffed it and pulled a draught and swallowed hard. “That is heady stuff,” he exclaimed, and took another.

  “You are ready for your union with the gods?” asked the priest.

  “I am ready for this to be over with.” Gathelaus slapped the priest on the shoulder. The priest raised an eyebrow at him then shrugged.

  One by one the other slaves exited through a door into a sun-filled arena. Each time the crowd’s roar would fill the air and then die down again. One by one the lesser priests went out as well, coming back with their hands and feet covered in blood. If someone was wearing the skins, it wasn’t these particular priests.

  When Gathelaus was the third to last man standing, he asked the priest if he could watch from the doorway. Still collared and bound, the priest agreed to allow Gathelaus this mercy.

  The next slave was taken out to a blood spattered stone block, about five feet square and two feet high. It had three steps on the side leading up to its short height. A great ring of iron was fastened in the center of the block. The priest attached a rope from the ring to a manacle about the slave’s left foot. He was then given a small buckler and a wooden paddle, like the type the warriors and guardsmen carried but instead of the flint lined edge this had only feathers.

  The slave looked resigned to his fate and once the first warrior approached he laid down his club and proclaimed in a loud voice, “For this ritual,” pointing at the warrior, “he is as my father, and for him I shall be given to Taloc, the rain god.”

  The warrior facing him across the arena was dressed like a human eagle but with functional armor, his face peered out from the open beak and the obsidian lined club left no doubt to its purpose. “And he is as my beloved son, so I shall not eat of his flesh!” He then charged the prisoner, who knelt, allowing the death-blow to be struck without any resistance.

  Blood gurgled from a clean gash upon his neck, and the slave died. Priests brought a curious beast the size of a small hound out on a leash toward the body. It was shaggy and with long spines coming off its back. Its muzzle was slightly longer than a dog’s and concealed its most horrific aspect. Just as it reached the fallen man, the thing opened its mouth wide and a long tube stretched out and sucked the blood from the corpse.

  “It is like a hound mated with a mosquito,” muttered Gathelaus. “What is that thing?”

  “A kokopelli,” answered the priest. “They are a favored pet of the noble houses of Tultecacan.”

  Once the body was drained, the kokopelli was led off and other priests assisted in skinning the dead slave and salvaging the little blood left into a jade bowl from which the killer drank and also shared with the imposing stone gods surrounding the arena. After the priests skinned the slave, they helped the warrior into his second skin. The front was left as intact as possible while the back had numerous knots where it was stretched and fastened together.

  The sight was worse than Gathelaus had imagined. He swore to himself to end the abominable practice if he had the chance.

  The slayer finished sharing the victim’s blood with the last of the stone gods using a long straw, and then the second-to-last slave was brought out. He was not resigned, and struggled against the priests and guardsmen. This last victim was given another draught of Pulque, which he freely drank as his ankle was affixed to the stone block. His weapons were handed him and he swung, narrowly missing the priests. He spat at the crowd and had no words for the opposing warrior who emerged from the far side. This warrior was dressed like a jaguar or ocelot, his face was seen through the wide open mouth of the jungle cat’s mask. The fitted suit of the spotted cat covered him entirely but for the sneering face.

  Gathelaus mused that the jaguar man was angry over not having a respectful opponent.

  He circled the victim before launching a series of blows which the slave valiantly deflected. The slave even struck the jaguar man once in the brow good enough to make him relent, giving himself time to pick up a small wooden ball left at his feet by the priests. As the slayer came on again, the slave smacked the ball into the face of the jaguar man, knocking him senseless.

  Priests drug the fallen jaguar knight off the field, and a new attacker appeared. This one wore the skins of a wolf and his face, too, looked out from its ravenous mouth. His attack differed, he was slow and deliberate and he was left-handed, making the strikes against the slave that much harder to defend against. Once he had slashed the slave’s arm enough that he could not defend himself, the wolf knight struck a fatal blow upon him. The priests came and repeated the ritual, using the kokopelli creature and afterward giving the remaining blood to the wolf knight who did the same as the eagle knight, but he did not wait to wear the skin of the fallen man, instead going back to the other side of the arena.

  “Your turn,” said the priest to Gathelaus, as he unlocked the collar and bindings, all but the ankle manacle. A guardsman stood behind Gathelaus with his spear in his back. They led Gathelaus out into the arena where he could now fully see the size of the place.

  Hundreds of people thronged to get a good view, they were stacked upon each other but for a small box where Tezomoc and a few other nobles sat, fanned by slave girls. Coco was not among them.

  They marveled at his pale skin and curiously short hair. Everywhere he looked, Gathelaus saw people bartering back and forth amongst each other, all exchanging bets based on his performance.

  The young priest Gathela
us had spoken with earlier said, “It is customary for you to select the god you would be sacrificed for.” He handed Gathelaus his buckler and helped attach it to his left forearm and then handed him his weapon, the same broken oar shaft he had fought with when he’d landed in this strange land.

  Gathelaus grinned. “If you have time priest, bet on me.”

  “Don’t be silly. Which god will you be serving here?”

  “Which does the red dragon signify? I heard it once,” said Gathelaus, swinging his arms to stretch his corded muscles.

  The priest paled. “KuKulacan? You cannot be sacrificed to him. He is forbidden at these rituals.”

  “I will slay for KuKulacan!” shouted Gathelaus, holding his buckler and club high. The crowd roared in all emotions at once and Gathelaus drank in the unleashed fury like a sweet wine.

  “You cannot do that,” slurred the priest. “You dishonor the games. This is for Xipe-Totec and the blood gods, not for the glory of the feathered serpent.”

  “And I told you to bet on me priest. That’s the name of the game,” said Gathelaus, poking the priest in the chest, making him stumble off the gore covered block.

  The opposing jaguar warrior faced Gathelaus, eyeing him cold as frozen hate for the mention of the enemy god. His shield was ornate and larger with feathered decorations running down the center, his club’s obsidian edge glistened black death. His narrow face curled in a snarl.

  “Found a way to get to you did I? Come a little closer,” taunted Gathelaus.

  The jaguar knight charged, trusting his shield to protect him from Gathelaus’s blows, but he grossly underestimated his opponent’s speed and power. The first blow knocked him off balance and the second took his jaw off. He collapsed in a howl of pain, still within reach and found his neck broken.

  “That was cruel,” muttered the priest, coming to drag the defeated jaguar knight away.

  “Did you see his face? What I gave him was mercy.”

  The priest clicked his teeth in doubt and put his arms under the dead knight and hauled him out of the grand gallery.

  The murmuring of the crowd rose. Gathelaus decided he would up the stakes. “KuKulacan! KuKulacan!” shouted Gathelaus, infuriating a large portion of the crowd. But some grew excited at this twist of expectations and were clearly now on his side.

  More goods exchanged hands as the broad shouldered foreigner was reevaluated by the crowd and the bets negotiated yet again.

  A scream alerted Gathelaus to a charging eagle knight. He bore no shield but had a flint lined club in each hand. The wide paddles seemed extensions of his winged costume. He whirled them with bravado and eased into his attack with fluid motion. The two blades chipped away at Gathelaus’s shield and oar haft eating them like a devouring demon. Each blade slammed in timed unison, hammering at his defenses.

  Bringing in his shield and oar to a tight center, Gathelaus backed away from the eagle knight, forcing his opponent to strain his own reach across the slightly elevated block. Timing it just right, Gathelaus swung his shield arm against the flat of the knights attacking left arm forcing its shearing cut at the extended right arm. The force took the eagle knight’s right arm off at the elbow. The knight fell screaming and Gathelaus stood waiting for the next slayer.

  Again the crowd roared and shouts fired back and forth as the unpredictable gambling excited them. Tezomoc leaned forward on his fists, glowering at Gathelaus.

  The third knight that entered the arena was bigger than the others by a large span, he stood taller than Gathelaus by a head and broader by far. His costume, covered in long fur dyed blue, had a short reptilian looking tail trailing behind. Short ram horns decorated the side of his open-faced helm and a mane of green hair erupted from the backside. He looked altogether monstrous, even without the costume of some unknown animal. Approaching slow and deliberate, it was obvious the blue knight was a favorite of the audience. The crowd cheered louder for him than any Gathelaus had previously heard. He carried a single weapon, a club riveted with obsidian along four edges rather than the usual two, it was also much longer and broader than the others. No matter how far on the block Gathelaus might retreat, that weapon could reach him.

  “I will feed your flesh to the gods of the underworld,” spoke the knight, before he laughed in a cavernous tone. He swung his awful club against a skinned corpse, utterly smashing it to a gory pulp.

  Gathelaus knew that club would break his shield and likely the arm behind it. Then he noticed the four heavy wooden balls resting near the edge of the block. The crude missiles were for his use as the earlier slave had used them, too. He picked one up and slugged it with his oar at the big man’s face, but the monster man batted it away. Gathelaus tried a second and it struck the horn, knocking it loose of the helm, leaving it dangling beside his face—and still the blue knight came on. A third ball went wide of the mark and then the blue knight was upon him.

  The saving grace for Gathelaus was the blue knight’s lack of speed, if the brute connected a strike something was bound to break but he was lighter on his restrained feet than the attacker. Gathelaus smashed his oar against the enemy’s head with a solid thud, the heavy armor proving to be too much for his oar. Gouges from near misses bit into the solid stone beside Gathelaus as he dodged right and left to avoid the crushing blows. Obsidian chips from the near misses lay all over the block amid the congealing gore. Gathelaus noticed the dangling short horn beside the brute’s face as he exerted himself with the blows.

  Going right and then a quick hard left, Gathelaus used the flat of the oar blade to knock the short curved horn into the blue knights face. The horn’s point pierced his skin and the big man hesitated, blinded with his own blood. He fell forward against the block, crying out in a rage.

  Gathelaus launched a new attack and hammered the horn into the blue knight’s skull. The big man dropped and the crowd cheered—this time for Gathelaus.

  Tezomoc stood and clapped though his face betrayed his unhappiness. He raised his arms and the lusty crowd went silent. “Mixamaxtla!” Tezomoc cried. “It seems you finally have a worthy opponent. Show him the gods will not be denied.”

  The wolf knight exited the side gates and waited as priests struggled to move the dead blue knight’s body. He faced Tezomoc and said, “I have already slain ten today and demand my rights, let the Amon-Gahela destroy him. As deadly as he may be, I have no desire to slay the pale man. It would sway the gamblers too far.”

  “You have spoken wise and just, noble Mixamaxtla. I will have the Amon-Gahela released and let it feast upon this blasphemer’s bones,” answered Tezomoc. He clapped his hands and a large number of guardsmen disappeared from their stations.

  The majority of the crowd seemed ill at ease with the mention of the Amon-Gahela, several from the safety of the crowds’ anonymity shouted insults at Tezomoc. He ignored them and sat again, staring daggers at Gathelaus.

  Whatever this Amon-Gahela was, it took time to retrieve, giving Gathelaus a much needed rest. He sat down on the stone block, ignoring the gore. The sun, now at its peak, blazed fiercely down on him. Sweat stung his eyes but better that than wounds stealing his life. Gathelaus spied the young priest he had spoken with earlier up in Tezomoc’s covered balcony. The nobleman stared hard at Gathelaus as the priest spoke.

  The crowd grew restless waiting and soon called for some amount of reward for Gathelaus’s performance thus far. Tezomoc relented and allowed a slave boy to bring Gathelaus more Pulque and water. He also had corn cakes and a handful of Chia.

  “This is from the silent lady,” said the boy.

  “I don’t know any silent lady,” said Gathelaus, as he took the handful and swallowed them with a mouthful of Pulque.

  “She knows you.”

  Gathelaus grunted and helped himself to the water and the corn cake. “Boy, what is this Amon-Gahela?”

  The boys eyes went wide with fear. “One of the old ones. A Quinametzin.”

  “What’s that?”

  The
boy couldn’t answer, Tezomoc was addressing the crowd and the excited cheers and screams drowned out anything the boy tried to say. “Now heed me, all of you holy witnesses. The Amon-Gahela comes!”

  Thunder at the gates.

  The boy’s eyes widened in terror, and as the gates at the far end of the arena banged alive with two sudden thumps, he pissed himself right there before Gathelaus.

  Astounded at the heavy dirge pounding the gates, and the boy’s smelly fear, Gathelaus stood and swung the club once to stretch his arms and remind himself that he was the real slayer, a fighting man to be feared.

  The boy and his dripping loincloth stared back at the gate. He could not take his eyes off of it.

  “Go on, get out of here boy,” snapped Gathelaus. But the boy remained frozen in place. Gathelaus rapped him on the head with the flat of his club and the boy came back to his senses. “Get out of here!” The boy nodded and ran, disappearing into the slaves’ entrance.

  The banging on the gates continued and they burst open with the force of a hurricane. Gathelaus stared in awe.

  A mountainous misshapen head peered into the arena. One eye was larger than the other or it was perhaps because a drooping flap of skin concealed most of the other. The ears and nose were small in comparison to the other facial features. It was nearly hairless and wore only a scrap of breech cloth about its loins, but this breech cloth would have been a full blanket for another man. It had to get down on its haunches to make it through the gate. The skin was pale and flabby, covered in scars, and Gathelaus imagined this great being was indeed starving.

  The Amon-Gahela was a man, or looked like the form of a man but perhaps the biggest man in all of creation. It stood at least twice the height of Gathelaus—perhaps even two and half his height. He would have dwarfed even the grey-skinned titans from above the Spine Mountains. The enormous man growled and bellowed turning once to face its keepers who prodded it with long spears and whips.

  Once through the gap and into the arena, the Amon-Gahela lolled its head back and forth gibbering at the mass of people. Its nearly toothless mouth, so like the jaws of hell, drooled obscenely. A whip brought a cry of pain from the giant and it flung its hand backwards, barely tagging the keeper who was thrown against the wall and knocked senseless.