Doom and the Warrior

by Lexy Wolfe

  Doom looked at him, then out at Tiwaz. “Yes, she is.” He looked over his shoulder. “Good night, Master Harther. Sleep well.”

  “Night, lad.”

  Despite the chill in the night air, Tiwaz wore only short pants, a sleeveless shirt, and the simple leather bracers Harther had made for her. After a few hours, he squinted at her closely. He vaulted over the low wall and ran to her, catching her before she collapsed. “Ti!” He lifted one hand, looking at the blood that streaked over her hands and down her arms from under the soaked bandages. “What the hell, Ti? Why didn’t you stop? You’re bleeding!”

  “Sorry.” She looked up and managed a sad smile, touching his cheek in reassurance. “I promise, I am fine. I focused so much on training, I forgot to pay attention that it was the full moon.”

  “The full moon?” He looked up at the silvery disk barely obscured by thin wisps of clouds with a frown. “What does the moon have to do with anything?” The gromek took the training sword from her and flung it into the cart with the rest of the weapons. He scooped her up in his arms. “No more fighting for tonight. You’ve lost too much blood.” He tightened his arms around her in growing worry when she did not argue, simply resting her head on his shoulder. “Ti, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “You do not approve of me,” she said dully. “Of my fighting.”

  Doom sighed, brushing the top of her head with the side of his chin affectionately. “I always hate seeing you hurt, Ti. I hated knowing you suffered to keep me safe when I did not think I was worth—” He fell silent when she touched his mouth with bloody fingers. “I always dreamed you would never need to fight again if we were ever free. I feel like I failed you.”

  “How could you have failed me? Freedom was only a dream you could have. Not me. I have never had memory of what freedom was, so I could never share your dream. I could only try to help you achieve it.

  “I had only ever known slavery. Except for gladiating. I knew it was not just a slave’s occupation. I fought freemen who were gladiators, and I imagine I was like them.” She closed her eyes. “When I fought, I felt capable. I felt whole. I felt powerful. The sands are the only place I feel whole, at least for a while. Fighting on the sands was freedom for me. Then Alimar took that away from me when he forced me to kill.” She sighed heavily, resting her head against the wall as he sat her on the edge of the stonework pool. “I felt free except when the moon was full.”

  Doom unwound the bloody bandages, dropping them in a bowl. He dipped a rag in the warm water and began wiping the blood from her arms and hands. He eyed the lumps writhing more energetically under her skin with a mixture of revulsion and anger. “Was that part of the magic Alimar used on you? When the moon is full you bleed like this?”

  She shook her head, struggling to sit up to unlace and remove her shirt and pants. “The spells are a prison. I do not know what I am, but I know I am not a human.” She looked up at him with sad eyes. “Alimar would not have been so fascinated with me if I were human.”

  “Alimar is a twisted bastard,” Doom growled as he helped her into the warm bath. He sat on the edge, watching her closely. “I remember when he took you away and he brought you back with the gold shackles.” His eyes flashed with deep-seated rage. “I remember your screams when he tortured you.”

  “He was not torturing me,” she sighed. “At least, that was not his direct intent, only a side pleasure for him.” She held up her hands, looking at the sickly, but healing, skin, washed pink with water-drenched blood as the flow eased. “They are magic symbols called glyphs. Runic magic, I think he called it.” She lowered her hands into the water again, eyes on the reflection of light on the ripples. “I learned enough of magic in Alimar’s company to know they were meant to confine…something…within me.”

  Raising her eyes to the full moon framed by the small window, she spoke with a hint of despair. “There has always been something inside me that just wants to burst out. Yearns to break free. During times of the full or new moon, the need is nearly unbearable.” She was silent for so long, he moved to sit by her head. She rested against his thigh as he gently stroked her hair. “It feels like a fist around my heart that just squeezes until I cannot breathe and I just wish I could die so it would stop. Until I remember.”

  “Remember?”

  “Your words. Our promise to each other. To live to see Alimar dead.”

  “I also promised you that you would be free.” He looked at her as she looked up. “The metal was broken, but you still bear his shackles. Somehow, I will make sure you are free of him once and for all.” She smiled and rested her head against his thigh again.

  THE LARGE WAITING area beneath the stands filled with a motley menagerie of fighters. All talked at the top of their lungs in attempts to be heard over the crowd outside and in. Harther stood on a large crate, hands on his hips. He waved to one of his assistants to ring a bell that brought relative silence to the gathered, allowing his booming voice to be clearly heard.

  “All right, you mangy lot, listen up! For those of you who have not fought here before, this is how things work!” He paused for a heartbeat, scanning the sea of faces to make sure everyone’s attention was on him. “The winner of each round of fighting wins a token amount of gold with the overall winner taking the grand prize. Brackets will be filled by lots. The bouts today and tomorrow will be single elimination. You go down today or tomorrow, you will be done! The last three days will be double elimination. If you end up too injured to fight, regardless if you won the bout, you’re eliminated, but you will get that round’s winnings. New brackets are established when each round is done.

  “The rules are simple. Fight to the yield or unconsciousness. This is a reminder,” he added, punctuating his words’ rhythm, “that death matches are forbidden in the Empire! And before you think you might be able to get away with saying, ‘Oops! So sorry, I slipped,’” he added in a mockingly, foppish voice, drawing a rumble of laughter from the fighters, “Be aware! Even if you kill someone purely by accident, you will be disqualified! Any money that might have been owed to you goes to the next of kin or to the city coffers if there are no kin. I’ve no use for wild, undisciplined louts in my arena!

  “The crowd is being informed of this rule! Because if there is even a declaration of a death match, all bets on the fight are immediately forfeit to Dramaden’s coffers. Doesn’t matter if the bet was for the survivor or the poor bastard killed.” Harther crossed his arms. “Once you walk out of my arena, or are thrown out on your ear, you are not my responsibility. I don’t care if there is a mob outside wanting to take their losses out of your miserable hides. So don’t get careless! Understood?” The general response was affirmative. “Good! Samal, bring the lots over here and get these tiers set up! The crowd is getting impatient.”

  He pulled out two disks and held them up, calling out the names on them. “You’re up first! Get on out there!” he told the pair of combatants. The man continued to call out names and assistants marked them on a giant board. Some of the fighters went to benches inside to wait their turn. Others went out to stand in the corridor between the stands and arena along the inner ring wall to watch the fight in progress.

  Halfway through the lots, Harther’s eyes lit up. “Ah, finally. I was wondering…” He held up the disks and called out, “Farn of Allygat and Kiliana of the North!”

  As each fighter stepped forward to acknowledge the pairing, their reactions were polar opposites. “What?!” The man Farn, tall and massive due more to fat than muscle, flushed beneath his unkempt beard when he realized Tiwaz was his opponent. “Are ye shittin’ me? A little girl?! Do ye know who I am?” The man puffed out his chest with self-importance.

  “I know who I am,” Harther drawled, crossing his arms. His tones hinted continued arguing would result in disqualification.

  “It is fine, Arena Master,” Tiwaz stated, her voice clear enough to be heard by those still in the chamber, drawing attention away from Farn to her. “He i
s afraid he’d lose face losing to me. I am willing to take the by until the next round.” Those within earshot burst out into mocking laughter. The man all but exploded in unintelligible, indignant bluster. He stalked off to the side where his friends were waiting, the other men poking fun at him. Harther smirked, offered a nod to Tiwaz and continued with naming off the first pairings.

  Long used to ‘fighting cold,’ Tiwaz opted to not watch the other competitors. She found a secluded corner well away from the others to wait. She crossed her legs, and closed her eyes, settling to meditate until called.

  The woman sensed someone sit beside her, but having no interest in speaking to anyone, attempted to ignore him. His attention was so focused that she finally turned to glare at the man, eyes narrowed in annoyance.

  The attractive man who had been leaning forward with his elbows on his knees smiled brightly when he got her attention. “Hi!” Before she could turn away and ignore him, he offered her his hand in greeting. “I’m Gareth Tavarius.”

  She blinked, looking at his hand blankly. Never having seen nor ever been offered a normal greeting of equals, she had no idea how to respond. The man sighed, lowering his hand. Her eyes raked over him, filled with criticism. “What are you by trade?”

  He looked hurt. “I don’t look like a fighter?”

  “No.”

  The man sighed and shrugged. “Ah, well.” He turned a charming smile towards her. “You might have heard of me. I’m a bard of great renown throughout the Western Empire and Northern Territories.” She just blinked at him. His smile faded into keen puzzlement. “You… do know what a bard is, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Wow, you certainly must have lived a sheltered life,” Gareth commented as he sat up straight and stretched. She glared at him then turned to resume her meditation. “You are not very talkative, are you, She-Who-Fights-Under-The-Name-Kiliana?” He drew back at the sudden, narrow-focused hostility directed towards him, holding his hands up. “Hey, most people take on a stage name for these open fights. It’s nothing unusual.”

  When her lip uncurled from its snarl and she relaxed, he lowered his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. Kiliana is a pretty name, but you don’t really look like a Kiliana.” She opened one eye, arching an eyebrow quizzically at him, then closed her eyes again. “I heard your name pulled, but I didn’t see. Who is your first fight with?”

  She looked in the direction of Farn and his cronies, the man shouting his self-perceived prowess and pounding his chest with self-importance. “Can’t you guess?”

  He followed her gaze and made a face. “Ick. Poor you. Pity, too. You look like you could use a real challenge, not that blustering tavern brawler.”

  Tiwaz’s eyes snapped open and she fixed a hard glare on him. “What do you mean?” Her voice was frigid with hostility. “You think I am a professional?”

  Gareth held up both hands defensively. “It is part of the trade of a bard, being able to read people. I can tell he is just an idiot. One who spends most of his time in bar fights against weaker people, using his size and crude tactics to win. And his smell.” She relaxed, smirking. “And I can tell you had to have had some professional training, just by how you carry yourself.” He was careful not to mention how much training he believed her to possess, given her hostility.

  “I see,” she said slowly, looking away with uncertainty.

  “The only thing I can’t figure out is why a woman as beautiful as you would want to be a fighter.”

  Tiwaz stiffened, her expression incredulous as she looked at Gareth as though he had sprouted an eye stalk from his forehead. “I am not beautiful.”

  Before Gareth could argue with her, Harther walked up. “Yer up next, lass. Good luck to ye.” The arena master gave the bard a look warning him to back off.

  With considerable relief to have a reason to flee this bewildering stranger, Tiwaz got to her feet, checking the security of the very plain short sword she wore. She stiffened when Gareth caught her arm. “See you later?” he asked hopefully, his fascination with her obvious.

  “Not if I can help it.” She shook him off, bowed to Harther and headed towards the arena entrance without a backward glance. She kept well behind Farn who was still blustering.

  Gareth started to follow when Harther moved in his path. “You better think about what you’re doing, bard,” he said in a low voice. “And then forget it. She is not your usual bed flower. If you value remaining intact, I suggest you keep to the tavern wenches and merchant daughters.”

  Watching Harther walk off, Gareth frowned in a mixture of insult and intrigue. “She’s won over the Dramaden arena master? Now I’m even more curious.” He joined many others going to the corridor ringing the arena sands to watch the upcoming battle between Tiwaz and Farn.

  SUNLIGHT BEAT DOWN on the white sands, hot and bright. The air was unusually warm so far into the autumn season. Birds circled above, oblivious to the activities below save for the food they could snatch from the unaware or unwitting. Far above, the ghostly figure of a dragon could be seen flying lazy figure eights.

  Vocal demands for the next match shifted to cheers of anticipation when the gates swung open. Even with the announcer yelling at the top of his lungs, the crowd’s roar reverberated through the bowl-like arena and almost drowned him out. Stepping out first, Farn raised his arms as if he had already won. He scowled when their attention left him in favor of Tiwaz when she appeared. The crowd exploded into a frenzy when the woman walked out exuding confidence, modestly dressed in simple leather tunic, trousers, and boots, her hair loosely gathered into a ponytail hugging the nape of her neck.

  The pair turned for the audience to examine them, the bookies calling out the odds they were offering for each combatant. Tiwaz smiled faintly, not having heard odds so against her since her early days on the circuit.

  “Well, girl, yer a bit taller’n I like ‘em, but ye’ll suit ol’ Farn tonight.” She arched an eyebrow at his leer. “After we’re done, I’ll show ye what a real man can do to ya. I’ll ride ye hard and put ye away wet.”

  Tiwaz frowned with disdain. “This is a gladiatorial arena,” she informed him, flicking her eyes over him with a dismissive expression. In a condescending tone, she added, “And you are not man enough to handle me.”

  Farn’s eyes widened at her dismissive, condescending attitude. He bellowed, “I’ll teach you who’s a man around here, bitch!”

  “How would you know a real man?” she replied in bittersweet tones. “Even those men who bed men have better taste than the likes of you. How much extra do the whores charge you?”

  Farn roared and lunged at Tiwaz with bare hands, not waiting for the announcer to tell them to draw their weapons formally. The breech in protocol unsettled the crowd, but did not daunt Tiwaz. Waiting for him, she stepped aside just before he reached her and tripped him with the composure of a bull fighter taunting a maddened bovine. He went sprawling into the sand face first.

  Pushing himself up and spitting sand, Farn’s rage burned hotter at the roar of laughter that filled the air. He lunged at her again and again and yet again, each time with the same results. When the bettors’ odds started evening out between them, the exhausted brawler finally drew his ragged battle axe.

  Tiwaz ducked at the last possible moment, sliding under his swing and drawing her sword, cutting into the man’s thigh just enough to break his skin. “First blood: Kiliana!” the announcer’s voice rang out, setting off a new round of odds being called and bets being made, now favoring her. The crowd’s cheers for Farn turned to mocking jeers.

  Enraged and humiliated, Farn glared at Tiwaz through a red haze of mindless rage. “I’m gonna kill you, bitch!” he roared, barreling towards her. Abrupt silence overwhelmed the arena before disconcerted chatter rose. The bettors clammed up, taking no new bets, setting no new odds and ripping up the forfeited wager notes. They headed out of the stands to turn over the monies collected for this match’s bets before the stunned c
rowd could think to try to mob them to take their lost money back.

  Worry for Tiwaz colored the myriad of voices. The crowd, having quickly grown fond of this brazen woman for her style and audacity, feared that Farn would succeed in killing her. Fighters and trainers jumped over the wall and ran towards them in an attempt to halt the battle before things went too far.

  The moment Farn shouted, everything changed for Tiwaz, instincts taking over. Her stance shifted subtly and, instead of dodging his swing, she blocked it jarringly against her blade, her off hand bracing the flat of the sword above her head. Stunned briefly, Farn suddenly went on the defensive as she brought the sword around. Before anyone realized it, Tiwaz had Farn backed against the wall, the tip of her sword held at his throat.

  Those who had thought to save Tiwaz came up short, bewildered. “Well, hells,” Gareth grumbled. “Didn’t think we’d have to be saving him.”

  Harther approached slowly. When he was close enough, he put his hand on her sword wrist, keeping his voice low and calm. “Lass. Don’t do it. He isn’t worth it.”

  Gradually, she lowered her weapon, then shoved it back in its sheath. She spat on the ground in front of Farn and turned her back on him, a blatant insult between fighters. The filthy man roared, throwing a knife he had concealed in his boot. His shout ended in a gurgle, his eyes devoid of life and empty hand still outstretched. The bard pulled his short sword free with disgust, turning around in alarm when the crowd started shouting in distress.

  Tiwaz stood, staring at the knife that had embedded itself in her side. While not fatal, it was obviously painful. The men and women on the sands suddenly made way for the looming, heavily cloaked Doom as he strode out onto the sands, scooped Tiwaz up, and carried her out. Unnerved by the strange giant’s unexpected appearance and subsequent disappearance with Tiwaz, the others turned to remove Farn’s body so the matches could continue before the crowd became unruly with agitation.