The Steel Lord: Book 01 - BannerFall

by Jason McWhirter

  “Take off vest,” Tangar ordered.

  Brant obeyed, and he noticed the other fighters doing the same. Most of the men had scars, and one, a tall man with long blonde hair, had a Schulg brand on his chest. He had never seen such a big man with such light blonde hair. He wondered where he had come from. Tangar dragged Brant to line up with the others, facing the majority of the crowd. Everyone was talking, but Brant’s grasp of the Schulg language was not yet refined enough to pick up on the quick discussions.

  “Turn around,” Tangar said. The other owners were telling their fighters the same thing. A young boy with a bucket of something red moved down the line. Brant could see him painting something quickly on the backs of each fighter.

  “What is that?”

  “Blood mixed with red dust ground from rock. He is painting my symbol on your back.”

  “Symbol?”

  “Symbol. It mean dog, or,” Tangar was stumbling for the right word, “hound. Everyone bets. Need markers. Do not move.” Tangar left his side and met with a handful of others nearby. They were talking and picking various things from a bowl. It only took a few moments and Tangar was back at his side.

  “What is going on?” Brant was glad that Tangar didn’t seem to mind his questions.

  “We each put in something valuable…gold, gem, diamond. We draw. Whoever’s object we pick is who we fight. All the offerings then go to the chief who hosts the fight.”

  “Who am I fighting?”

  “The big Saricon.”

  “Which one is the Saricon?”

  Tangar looked at him. “You have never met a Saricon?”

  “No.” Brant was perturbed, as he had been with Kaan when he had said something similar to him. Apparently everyone knew who the Saricons were except for him.

  Tangar lifted his head, indicating a warrior several men down. “The big one with light hair.”

  “He has a brand,” Jonas said.

  “Yes. He has won seven fights. You kill him, you get brand.”

  “I thought I had to win five fights.”

  “You do, or kill one who already has. Now be quiet” Tangar said. He then tapped the side of his head. “Prepare for fight.”

  Tangar told Brant that he was to fight third. Brant heard the sudden roar of the crowd and knew that the first fight had begun. Tangar then pulled him away from the arena behind several nearby bilts. He gave him some water and several pieces of urba, a round red fruit about the size of a child’s fist. Underneath the bright red peel was a juicy red center, sweet but tangy.

  “Fight start with no weapons. If no winner, or crowd or chiefs not like, weapons added. Do not show mercy, or you die,” Tangar warned.

  “What do you know of the Saricon?”

  “Only hear of him. He strong, and fast. Don’t know how skilled. You all those things, and smart,” Tangar said, tapping his head. “You kill him,” he added confidently. Tangar untied his hands. “Shake body, get warm. Move through Ga’ton.”

  That was a funny thing to say considering how hot it was. But he understood what Tangar meant. Brant shook his arms and rotated them in long wide circles, warming up his shoulders, back, and chest. He was already sweating, but he felt good. Then he slowly went through the Ga’ton, accentuating the end of each position with a burst of speed and power. His movements were getting more fluid and stronger, just as Tangar said they would. As he had progressed through the Ga’ton, Tangar had shown him its application. The movements of the Ga’ton not only helped with balance, strength, and speed, but they were also important positions in hand fighting as well as sword work. Brant’s skill in the Ga’ton had improved, and each day Tangar had instructed him further how the positions could aid his fighting. It hadn’t taken long for Brant to see the truth in it, thus he had worked harder than ever in improving his Ga’ton. As he concentrated on the positions he tried not to think about the upcoming fight. He knew that he had an edge on these men, that more than likely none of them possessed the Way. But he also knew that he had to be careful in using it. Kulvar Rand had warned him. He would have to use it sparingly.

  By the time Brant finished the Ga’ton, Tangar informed him it was time. He guided Brant through the crowd into the center of the circle. Once there, he unlocked the shackles around his ankles. The crowd was howling but Brant heard only a muted roar. He looked at the Saricon who stood before him wearing nothing but loose leggings and sandals similar to his own. The big fighter was staring back at him, his face expressionless.

  A Schulg stepped before them. “Start when horn blow. If you hear another blow, stop fighting. If you not stop, we kill you both,” he said. Then he moved away. Brant took several steps back, trying to get some distance between them. Taking a few deep breaths, he widened his legs and brought forth his aura energy, pushing small amounts into his legs, arms, and fists.

  Then the horn blew. The Saricon rushed him like a charging bull. One moment he was calm, still, emotionless…the next he was a ferocious roaring beast running at him with lightning speed.

  Brant had only a few heartbeats to react. The man was a full head taller than him and more heavily muscled. It seemed obvious that he was planning on simply tackling him and using his massive weight and strength to pound him into the ground. So Brant did something that most fighters would never think of doing when facing someone that size. He crouched low, balancing on the balls of his feet, then shot forward, violently hurling himself into the Saricons legs. If he hadn’t fortified his muscles with his aura energy the move would have flattened him, probably breaking his bones in the process. Instead, Brant roared and powered through the warrior, lifting him with one great surge of energy and using his opponent’s forward momentum to turn sideways in the air, rotating backwards and slamming him to his back. The Saricon grunted as Brant rained fist after fist upon his face and body. Several blows struck home but he managed to use his meaty forearms to block most of them. Suddenly, in an explosion of power, the warrior managed to push his arms out, grab Brant’s body and lift him in the air. He then felt the power of the Saricon’s leg as he kicked out with his foot, catching Brant in his chest and launching him backwards.

  Brant miraculously landed on his feet, skidding to a stop as the warrior scurried to his feet. The big man wiped the blood from his lip, tasting it with his fingers as he sneered at Brant. Moving forward more slowly this time, the Saricon lifted his fists protectively before him. They traded blows and blocks, jabbing and punching. Brant had let his aura energy recede, saving it for an attack or a powerful punch. But he could see that his opponent had become more wary, having tasted his strength and power. But Brant saw an opening appear quickly when the warrior used his jab to set up a powerful right handed cross. He blocked the jab, the strength of the punch delivering a searing pain to the side of his arm, but saw the cross coming just in time. He ducked, narrowly avoiding the blow. Brant gave a low growl as he directed energy into his body, concentrating it in his fists; then he lunged forward, snapping his right fist forward and striking the Saricon in his exposed stomach. And though it felt as if he had struck a stone wall, Brant’s enhanced strength broke through the man’s formidable muscles, knocking the wind from him.

  The Saricon bellied over, but sensing another attack he continued forward, rolling across the ground and narrowly avoiding Brant’s kick. Recovering quickly, he turned to face him. This time there was no sneer. They came together again. Fists snapped forward. They blocked and punched, their bodies dancing across the clearing. Brant took a couple punches to the side of his head, painful punches that wrenched his head to the side, reminding him of the power of the man he was facing. One solid hit from him and it would all be over.

  Two horn blows stopped them in their tracks. Both warriors backed away, their eyes guardedly watching one another. The Schulg that had begun the fight was shouting something into the crowd. Tangar appeared quickly at his side.

  “Each man get weapon from rack,” Tangar said, pointing to a weapons rack off to the side
. There were two swords, one giant axe, one oswith, one hammer, and two spears. “What weapon you want?”

  The axe was far too big. He was good with a blade, but he had practiced more with the oswith. He had also practiced very little with a spear. “I’ll take the oswith.”

  Tangar grunted. “The crowd will like.”

  And they did. When Tangar brought Brant the oswith the crowd went crazy. Naturally, the Saricon took the axe. Brant had a feeling that the weapon had been placed there just for him.

  They faced each other again. The Schulg came forward. “Only one live. Understand?”

  They both acknowledged that they did. Then he blew the horn again. The Saricon resorted to his original tactic, feeling more confident with the axe in his hand. Running forward he swung the axe in a great sideways arc. He was incredibly fast for his size and it was all Brant could do, despite his energized limbs, to leap back and avoid the deadly blow. But he had no time to ponder his luck as the Saricon had quickly reversed his swing.

  Acting on instinct, Brant shot more energy into his body and snapped his left foot forward, striking the warriors wrists as the axe headed his way. The Saricon howled as Brant broke his lead wrist, the axe falling to the ground. Following his kick, Brant lunged forward with the back blade of the oswith leading the way. Crouching low and moving incredibly quickly, Brant raced by the astonished warrior, the sharp blade slicing across his exposed belly.

  The Saricon grunted in pain, his good hand clamping down over the gaping wound, in a futile attempt to literally hold himself together. Blood poured down his legs forming a crimson pool around his feet. But instead of faltering, the Saricon shouted a word that Brant had never heard. “Heln!” he screamed, and charged him with his bare hands.

  Brant was so taken aback that he barely got his weapon up in time. Working the duel blades back and forth, Brant sliced the Saricon across his outstretched arms and chest as he backed away from the enraged and mortally wounded warrior. Finally he stumbled to his knees, bathed in blood from his countless wounds. He looked up at Brant for a few moments, then fell face first into the dust.

  The crowd roared and Brant dropped the bloody oswith to the ground. He had just killed a man for sport. He was angry. He was angry at the crowd for their bloodlust. He was angry at the men who had forced him to do it. But he was angrier at himself. He was angry at the exhilarating rush he felt from the power that surged through his body. He was angry at himself for how much he had enjoyed it.

  Tangar walked over to Brant from the edge of the crowd. His face was his usual mask, showing no emotion whatsoever, but he nodded his head and grunted, acknowledging Brant’s victory. Then the Schulg with the horn was beside him, holding a red hot branding iron. Tangar directed him to hold open his arms. Brant looked at the iron and back at Tangar and held his arms out wide, directing some aura energy into his chest in an attempt to reduce the pain. The nomad stepped forward and placed the red hot brand just above his nipple on the right side of his chest. He felt a brief searing pain, but the aura energy numbed it some. He grimaced but made no sound; he simply stared grimly at the nomad as the Schulg held the brand firmly in place. A wisp of smoke carrying the odor of cooked flesh rose from his chest. Then it was gone.

  Brant looked down and saw a red, raised burn. Like the symbols he had seen etched on other elite fighters, it was the symbol for honor. Honor? He looked over at the dead Saricon. He didn’t feel so honorable.

  Over the next six months Brant trained, ate, and fought. He won eight more bouts and earned another brand. Earned? He found it disturbing that the term “earned” was used to describe how he had won his fights. He had killed nine men, and the brand signified that he had earned those victories. Perhaps he had. After all he had pushed his body further than he thought possible, training in weapons, strength, and endurance. Maybe he had worked harder than everyone else, or maybe he was just better. Obviously having the ability to Merg had given him an advantage. He had used it sparingly and thus far no one had seemed to notice. They just thought he was fast. The point was he didn’t have a choice. He had not found a way to escape. The problem was the hounds. Even if he were able to get away they would easily hunt him down and kill him. He needed a way to eliminate them. But until then, he needed to stay alive, and the only way to do that was to continue to train and learn from Tangar, who was perhaps the finest fighter he had yet seen.

  Brant had learned that Tangar was the sixth son of the chief of their tribe, who he had only seen from a distance at some of the fights. It had become fairly obvious that the Schulg were a war-like race, learning to fight as soon as they could walk. They were often at war with other nomads, taking land, slaves and women. Most Dy’ainians thought of the Schulg as one unified race, when in fact they were made up of hundreds of distinct tribes scattered across the steppes, each with their own chiefs and alliances. Some tribes even spoke slightly different dialects. Brant had learned many things when they had traveled an entire week to a distant fight. He had earned his third brand that day by killing the other chief’s warrior. He had also earned a prominent scar that began from his right cheek and extended all the way to his shoulder, adding to the growing collection of battle scars he had collected over the last year.

  His friendship with Uln had deepened during this time as well. They rarely spoke during the day, but in the evenings, sitting around the fire in their cave, the eyes of Gar’gon and the hounds constantly on them, they quietly talked. Tangar, as the chief’s son, had other tribal responsibilities, so he was not always with them. But Gar’gon was always there, his long whip not far away. Brant had grown to tolerate Tangar, but he loathed Gar’gon. The stocky nomad had no redeeming qualities. It was as if he enjoyed causing them discomfort or pain. On the contrary, Tangar seemed to respect both Brant and Uln. He was not particularly kind to them, but neither was he cruel. He trained them, fed them well, and had thus far kept them alive, earning a lot of coin in the process. Brant had never seen anyone as skilled with a blade, or any weapon for that matter, as Tangar. He was not just extremely skilled, but his incredible speed and agility made it difficult for Brant to imagine anyone better, even Kulvar Rand. He had learned a lot from the warrior, but he knew there was much more the nomad could teach him, and the odds of him staying alive improved the more he was willing to learn.

  Uln knew a little Newain, but over time they both learned the Schulg language and it was easier to communicate that way. Uln now had six of the strange symbols burned across his massive chest. But Brant never saw him at the fights and he wondered why. One evening around the fire he asked him.

  “Why do you never participate in the fights?”

  Uln looked up solemnly from the coals. Brant was still impressed at his size. The man he had fought in his first bout was the largest man he had seen, but this Varga before him was at least a head taller than the Saricon. His unnaturally green eyes had disturbed him at first, but now he saw something else. Beneath Uln’s massively musclebound exterior, was something else, something gentle. Brant could see it in his eyes. “You so eager to die, Dy’ainian.” Uln was smiling however.

  “You think killing me would be that easy.”

  “It is never easy killing anything.” This time the Varga was not smiling; he seemed to be thinking about something. He looked up again. “I am what you call champion. The Schulg call it Ull Therm, which mean Master Killer. Once one reach Ull Therm, you fight others who are Ull Therm. Last fight was five months ago. No one yet reach that rank.” Uln looked at Brant’s chest and the meaning was clear.

  “So if I earn three more marks, then you and I will have to fight?”

  “Yes, unless fighter reach before you and kill me.”

  “I would not fight you,” Brant said adamantly.

  Uln looked at him for a few moments. “You would rather die?”

  “Of course not, but there has to be another way,” Brant argued.

  “I wish there was. But, friend Brant, if we ever fight in arena, promise
me you will fight hard.”

  “Why would you want that?” Brant asked.

  “I cannot die. I must see family again. I would not like, but I would try to kill you. It would hurt me badly if I knew I killed you and you not try. It would sully my victory and dishonor us both.”

  “And if I kill you?”

  “It would be an honor to die by your blade. You are great warrior. I have never seen a human fight like you.”

  Brant smiled. “Well I’ve never even seen a Varga except for you.”

  Uln returned his smile. “I told you. We don’t like humans. You are ugly, smell strange, and cannot be trusted. However, you are an exception; you are just ugly.”

  They both laughed, their minds drifting to other thoughts as they stared into the burning embers.

  Three months later Brant stood before the Bullgon that he had seen at his very first fight. Brant now had four brands and the Bullgon had five. They each wore loose leggings and sandals, their bare torsos crisscrossed with scars. It had taken them over three weeks to reach this village and Tangar had told Brant that the fight had been arranged. Most of the time the fights were arranged through the random selection process, but sometimes the handlers arranged them, hoping to make a lot of money on the upcoming event. This fight had been in the making for some time as both warriors had made a name for themselves. It was a big gamble for each handler since one of them would lose a top fighter. However, if their man won they could earn an exorbitant amount on the fight. They were both willing to take the chance.

  The Bullgon held a massive mace in his right hand, as if it were a child’s toy. Stepping closer, the creature spoke, its strange yellow eyes gazing intently at Brant. “What is name?” he asked in stunted Newain, his voice deep and guttural.

  “Brant,” he replied, gripping his weapon of choice, an oswith, in his right hand.