The Wanderers of the Water-Realm

by Alan Lawton

  Creon cleared his mouth by spitting a mass of half chewed do-fowl into the witch’s face.

  “Very well!” He replied. “Tend their wounds, but be swift or I’ll have the guards put a whip to your back for delaying our pleasure!”

  A guard took hold of the wisewoman’s chain and led her into the death pit, where she quickly staunched the flow of blood from the men’s wounds with two padded dressings taken from her bag of remedies. She also gave the two men draughts of a restorative cordial and recited the words of a strengthening spell in their ears.

  “Good luck!” She whispered as she refastened the men’s battle garb. “Fight well and try your best to survive, for our situation may not be hopeless. Did you notice that Wilakins head was not amongst those of our poor crewmen? Perhaps he escaped the guards and may somehow bring us succour. I must go now, for this accursed audience is becoming restless and baying for more blood.”

  Myra had hardly resumed her place at the senator’s side when a loud cheer erupted from the audience as Creon’s resident gladiators descended to the floor of the death pit and stepped over the bodies of the unfortunate Hix.

  One of the men wore the traditional helmet and body armour of a Roman soldier of the Caesarean period. Upon his left arm he bore a large rectangular body shield that was ornately decorated with strips of burnished copper and in his right hand he carried a gladius, a type of short stabbing sword often used by the professional fighters in ancient Roman.

  His name, ‘Maximus of Deva,’was chanted over and over again by the blood-thirsty audience who stared eagerly into the pit of death.

  The swordsman’s companion was squat and extremely broad shouldered and wore only the minimum of body armour over his powerfully muscled body. He carried an iron shod club upon his shoulder that was only a little shorter in length than George’s long handled axe.

  The boat hand spat upon his hands meaningfully as the Earth-born pair strode towards their latest opponents.

  “Best if you take yon swordsman,” he hissed to his companion. “And I’ll see if I can chop yonder club-swinger down to size!”

  The combatants rapidly closed together and the two ex-boatmen commenced what proved to be the most dangerous close quarter’s combat of their lives.

  Darryl and the Devan gladiator clashed in a blur of rapid sword play in which the swift footwork of the Earthman, alone, saved him from the darting gladius of his heavily armoured opponent. Meanwhile, George and the squat club-wielding fighter circled each other for a full minute before club and axe clashed together in mid air.

  The men sweated and grunted with effort as they fought for their lives and a good five minutes elapsed before the Devan swordsman slipped upon the blood of a dead Hixian, a mishap causing him to momentarily lose his balance. Darryl instantly seized his opportunity and stepped inside the man’s guard and dashed the spiked boss of his target into the gladiators face before drawing Kingslayer’s sharp edge across the man’s throat.

  George, meanwhile, experienced the greatest difficulty in countering the lightening club-work of his squat opponent and he almost lost his life when the shaft of his axe suddenly shivered in his hands. Fortunately, he escaped the inevitable coup-de-grace by ripping the steel cleaver from his belt and hurling the weapon at the man’s chest with tremendous force. The club-man reacted swiftly and deflected the flying cleaver with the butt end of his club, but the sharp edge of the weapon severed the gladiator’s left hand before burying itself in the wall of the death pit.The giant boat hand grasped the crippled club-wielder by his neck and left thigh and bent the unfortunate man’s spine across his knee until it snapped with a sickening crack.

  Apregnant hush fell over the audience lasting for the space of several heartbeats.

  And the entire chamber rang to the cry of acclamation at the white-skinned Earthmen’s amazing feat of arms.

  Creon turned to the young wisewoman who was seated at his side with tears of relief running down her face.

  “Woman!” He said. “You may attend to your friend’s injuries. Care well for them, for they will provide a deal of profit and amusement for myself and my household.”

  He paused and gave Myra a cold stare causing the witch’s stomach to twist with fear.

  “Remember this!” He said. “You will live and remain unmolested for as long as that pair of fighters survive, but you will die when the last of them perishes in the pit of death. Now woman, go quickly and do your duty!”

  Myra lay back upon her sleeping couch and watched the first red rays of the Water-Realm dawn creeping into the chamber she occupied in Lady Livia’s personal apartment. She was tired and craved sleep; for she had spent the whole of the previous night tending her mistress, who was currently enduring one of her frequent bouts of ill health. Yet sleep evaded her for she was constantly worried by the situation existing in the household of Senator Creon and the dangerous way it was impacting upon herself and her companions from Earth.

  A full cycle had elapsed since George and her twin brother had managed to survive that terrible gladiatorial contest in the senator’s death pit. Since that day, Darryl and the giant boat hand had been regularly matched against the very best professional fighters to be found in the Empire of the Kaa-Rom. So far Darryl had killed six men in single combat, whilst George had slaughtered nine in the same number of contests, for it had often been Creon’s whim to pit him against two opponents at the same time.

  Fortunately, the two Earthmen had escaped serious injury and the hurts, which they had received, had been easily treated during the witch’s daily medical visits the senator’s gladiatorial school, an establishment lying in a secluded wing of the villa and not far from the barracks housing the estate’s force of agricultural slaves.

  Myra recalled the feeling of disgust that she had experienced when she first encountered the sickening stench emanating from that miserable barrack block where the unfortunate creatures dwelt, when they were not tilling the farmlands for the benefit of their master and his extravagant household.

  By contrast, the quarters occupied by the gladiators were comfortable and clean. The food was also plentiful and of excellent quality for Creon required his playthings to be at the peak of fighting fitness at all times. The gladiators, however, were afforded little freedom and a dozen picked guards patrolled the high wall enclosing their training compound, in case any of the doomed fighters should try to escape.

  Darryl and George were the only combatants to be regularly housed within the compound, a few other gladiators had arrived after being purchased from other masters, but none had survived longer than a single brutal contest within the senator’s death pit and the Earthmen had watched their bodies being dragged away for burial. Only the two luckless wanderers could be seen undertaking the daily combat exercises beneath the watchful eye of Yam-Yy-Beel the senator’s chief master-at-arms.

  Myra turned restlessly upon the couch as she gave thought to her mistress condition. The wisewoman had immediately diagnosed that Lady Livia was suffering from one of the chronic post natal problems often suffered by human females in the Water-Realm. Unfortunately, her condition was almost incurable and likely to prove fatal within a cycle or so. Myra had spent a great deal of time with the woman and had gradually gained her confidence and she had learned that Lady Livia was desperately unhappy and quite untroubled by the prospect of her imminent demise.

  Livia, it transpired, was born and raised here on the estate of Klee at a time when the property had been owned by her father, a leading official at the court of the First Tribune.

  Her marriage to Senator Creon had been little more than a matter of cold political expediency. Creon had eventually gained control of the estate of Klee upon the assassination of her father and it pained Livia greatly to see the friends and retainers of her childhood being gradually replaced by her husband’s uncouth relatives, spongers who had drifted in from the distant territories of the nomadic Kaa.

  On one occasion, when the noblewoman had been un
der the influence of a powerful sedative, she had openly declared that her husband’s cruel treatment of the estate’s force of slave labourers was driving them into a state of complete desperation. She feared that Creon was inexorably pushing them into open revolution, if only to obtain the release of death for themselves and their families.

  “Goad the gentlest narr,” the noblewoman had muttered as she lay under the influence of the powerful narcotic. “And it will strike back at you, and harder than you ever thought possible!”

  Once again, Myra turned over upon the couch and tried to clear the concerns of the household from her mind, hoping to take some temporary comfort from the oblivion of sleep; but some indefinable power seemed to be probing at the boundaries of her consciousness.

  The wisewoman considered visiting her medicine bag in order to procure a sleeping draught that would enable her to gain a few hours of much needed rest. But the strange mental irritation continued and seemed to come from some external source and she decided upon a quite different course of action in the hope of identifying the disturbance. She lay back upon the couch and concentrated upon an insubstantial point lying deep within her consciousness and slowly the chamber and her immediate surrounding faded from view as she slipped into a deep shelf induced trance.

  “Myra … Myra …. MYRA!”

  A weak voice began repeating within her mind.

  “Tis I -- Paris, who seeks to make contact with you --- Myra, reach out to me -- Now -- If you feel my presence within your brain.”

  The young wisewoman drew upon her reserves of mental energy and she strove to unite her mind with that of her former lover.

  “Paris, I hear your words -- Are you near? -- Are you safe?”

  The reply came almost immediately.

  “Yes my love -- I am safe in the cabin of a fast passenger galley lying anchored upon the Life River -- Only a small distance from where you and your friends are held captive!”

  Myra had now established a solid link with the overseers mind.

  “How did you know that we are improsined in Creon’s villa?”

  “Wilakin was fortunately in the cabin of the ‘Bonny Barbara’ when the senator’s murderers began killing the crew and he managed to slip over the side undetected and escape the slaughter. he eventually came ashore and made his way to the nearest of the Dark Priest’s Maintenance Depots amd word of Creon’s treachery was immediately despatched to the priests in Holy Ptah. Whiteflower and I myself had returned to the Holy City by this time and ordered aboard a galley, which the Dark Priests were despatching to your aid, for they knew that my telepathic powers would be invaluable in organising your escape my love -- You must now take careful heed to my thoughts -- Aboard this galley are secreted one hundred picked mercenaries, who, when the time comes, will seize and hold the Senator’s riverside quay and bring you to the safety of this vessel. But first the three of you must break clear of Creon’s villa and reach the vicinity of the Life River and ----.”

  Myra broke into the envoy’s train of thought.

  “How is that possible? George and my brother are presently under heavy guard in the gladiator’s compund, whilst I am usually confined to the quarters of the Lady Livia.”

  There was a short pause before the envoy replied.

  “We have an agent within the estate of Klee -- His name is Guis Lupus and he holds the position of Head Blacksmith to the estate. Lupus is said to be extemely clever and he will doubtless be able to devise some means of organising your escape. You must contact him and give the code-word ‘pulla-plant and he will answer ‘on my plate’ -- Now, a word of warning -- We cannot remain at anchor for very long without attracting the attention of the river patrols -- So you must plan to make your escape no later than four nighs from now. I shall wait in my cabin throughout the hours of darkness and be ready to receive your thoughts within my mind -- Long may you live in my heart -- My love -- And now farewell.”

  The mental contact disappeared and Myra lay back upon her couch and mulled over the situation. Gius Lupus certainly appeared to hold the key to her future and that of her friends. But how was she to make contact with the blacksmith without arousing the suspicion of the other members of the household … How?

  The clang of heavy hammers upon metal and the glow of charcoal fires told the young wisewoman the workshop she was now entering contained the forge of Gius Lupus, the head blacksmith. In her hand she held a delicate wound-probe that she had deliberately snapped in two halves, a regrettable sacrifice, but a necessary one if she was to have a plausible excuse for contacting the smith without arousing any suspicion.

  Myra crossed the threshold and was immediately confronted by a red-headed giant whose body was burnt black by the smoke from the forge fires.

  “Would you be Gius Lupus the head smith?” She enquired. She received a sharp nod in reply and opened the palm of her hand in order to show him the broken instrument.

  “I was told that you are probably the only man on the estate with sufficient skill to repair this much valued instrument of mine. Can you help me.?”

  Lupus took the pieces and examined them carefully. “This is work best suited for a jeweller, mistress!” He remarked. “But I will attempt to undertake the repair if you will please follow me into the small forge where I do most of the intricate work.”

  Myra followed the smith into a small workshop lying at the rear of the main forge building and she felt the blast of heat radiating from the hearth as the Herculean smith began pumping the bellows.

  “This heat is enough to dry up a bodies’ throat!” she remarked. “What would I not give for a cool salad of ‘Pulla-plant’ and a beaker of beer to wash it down?”

  The smith never missed a stroke as he began hammering at the broken ends of the wound-probe.

  “Right enough mistress.” He answered. “I to fancy some of that salad, ‘on my plate’!

  The blacksmiths voice then fell to a whisper.

  “How might I serve you, mistress.” He enquired.

  Myra quickly explained the situation to the smith, who ran his fingers through his red beard for a while before replying.

  “It will be extremely difficult to release your brother and his friend from the gladiatorial training compound,” he said. “As the fighters are guarded at all times by at least six armed men; the only way is to create a violent diversion by encouraging the slaves to break out into open revolt upon the very night chosen for the escape.”

  Once again, the smith ran his fingers through his beard.

  “Two of the blacksmiths who work at the forge are perfectly loyal to me and the three of us should be quite sufficient to overpower the remaining compound guards, once their compatriots have been drawn away to deal with the rioting slaves.”

  The young wisewoman seemed doubtful. “Are you quite sure that the agricultural slaves will rise at your command?” She inquired. “For it must mean certain death for them. Even if they gain control of this estate and start a much wider slave uprising, they must eventually fall beneath the weapons of the First Tribune’s legions.”

  “Have no fear lady.” He replied “Most of the slaves, here, will welcome death like an old friend. Better to die in battle than permanently endure the torments of such a heartless and cruel master as Creon of Klee.”

  The smith tossed the broken wound-probe in the palm of his hand.

  “Return for your instrument the day after tomorrow and we will finalize our plans.

  In the meantime, you must warn your two comrades to make ready and prepare to flee for their lives, when the time comes!”

  Darryl and the giant boat hand lay fully dressed upon the cots within their sleeping quarters with the thin sheets hiding their bodies from the prying eyes of the guards and obscuring the broken chair-legs, the only weapons available.

  The two men waited patiently in the darkness and let the hours pass until the quietness of the night was broken by a scream of mortal agony that might well have issued from the throat of a tormen
ted animal rather than a human being. Moments later, the night became alive with the howls of men in combat and the sharp sound of clashing arms. The pair remained quite still beneath the sheets and neither man budged, even when a guard thrust a lighted torch into the chamber to check upon their continued presence. The men only cast aside the coverings and stood upright when they heard a panic stricken voice ordering most of the guards to seize their heavy spears and hasten to the rescue of their outnumbered comrades, who, it appeared, were battling desperately to contain the agricultural slaves who were now in open revolt and rampaging across the estate of Klee with the savage intention of butchering their oppressors to the last man.

  Minutes later, the two men heard a strangled cry from the direction of the exercise yard and the door of their chamber was suddenly flung open and they heard the voice of Lupus the smith calling from the threshold.

  “Quickly now!” The metal worker shouted. “We must make for the armoury of the gladiatorial school and retrieve your personal weapons, then you must hasten to Lady Livia’s quarters in the villa where your sister is waiting for your arrival. Come, you must move with all possible speed if you wish to continue living!”