by Richard Nell
We must be careful, brother. Keep moving, fight one or two at a time, don’t let them cluster. And stop only stabs—the edges of these knives are too dull for cuts to matter. Oh, and take the one with three toes first.
Bukayag breathed and nodded. He had killed before, of course—he had ripped Priestess Kunla apart with his bare hands, his strength monstrous and frightening even to Ruka. But he had never truly fought, not like this, never in battle. It didn’t seem to bother him.
He beat his chest with an open hand, letting the slap of his own flesh echo like a drum. He roared like Noss burning in the mountain, and charged.
* * *
Arun jumped like everyone else when the savage screamed. His voice was deep, but the shout rose in pitch as it lingered. The sound of it stood little hairs on Arun’s neck and arms and he saw the same was true of others. He knew he’d heard it before, or something like it, in nightmares never quite drunk away.
The savage’s shout wasn’t the lust of battle. It was the cry of a husband whose wife was kidnapped; the cry of a father who’d found his family slaughtered by pirates. The giant’s scream was pure horror.
At the sound, the gathered men’s cheers for death fell flat and silent. The other fighters paused or winced back half a step. In the strange, momentary silence and stillness, the giant sprinted out from his gate.
He crossed the distance to Three-Toed Braun in moments, lifting him with one hand on his neck, using the other to stab again and again as he carried then hurled the big pit fighter to smash against a stone wall.
He looked back at the others, face almost bored, then bent down and took a second knife as his prize. He turned on the others, and spit on the ground.
A few fools in the crowd cheered. The other fighters clumped together and wiped sweating brows with forearms, no pretense now that this was anything but a contest of four against one. Still the gamblers remained in near-silence, until a single voice broke the strangeness.
“Kill him! Kill the fucking ape!”
“Get ‘em!” called another pirate, too close to Arun’s ear.
The words sounded harsh with hate, and soon picked up behind a hundred disjointed voices. The insults morphed into ‘demon’ and ‘cum skin’ and a hundred other vile things till they rose to a roar that drowned thought and sound.
Arun remembered to breathe. He remembered his future rested on these knife-tips and the fate of the man or thing below him.
The Savage circled now and kept his distance, seemingly oblivious to the crowd. He lunged and withdrew, as if probing for weakness, but the pit veterans held. At every advance they gathered and held up their knives, at every withdrawal they followed as one. On and on it went as the crowed jeered.
“There’s four of you, take him!” called New Guy. His hands squeezed and thrust in jabs, as if he’d ever killed a man honorably and from the front.
The dance kept on. The pit fighters slowly pushed the gap, trying to direct their enemy towards a wall so they could pin him down. The giant abandoned his attempts and withdrew. He fell back, foolishly, and no doubt just as his enemies hoped. They followed, feet shuffling together in the sand, and Arun felt his hand crushing skin on his forearm as he gripped it.
Near the wall, the giant stooped and seized Three-Toed Braun, or at least his corpse. He lifted it up above his head as if it weighed nothing, blood dripping down to his shoulders and face. Then he lunged forward, arcing the body back then forward like a rock, and he threw it.
Arun at once thought the distance impossible. But the body sailed through the air, the strength to do such a thing incredible, inhuman. Two pit-fighters failed to move, bowling over as they caught it.
The giant raced behind his throw. He hacked with his knives like clubs at the scattered men till the first took a blow and stumbled. The savage kicked him back and stabbed at the rising men, gouging forearms and faces as more blood sprayed to the sands.
Get back! Arun almost screamed at him as the stunned fighters rallied.
They closed and made frenzied swings and jabs of their own, too close and panicked now for skill or coordination. These men had earned their places in the pit, had survived when other men fell. Some few blows connected, hard and fast and spraying blood from the giant’s flesh. But for every hit, he retaliated.
He seized and spun his foes away as he battered and maimed them, planting his feet as he caught arms and gouged throats or chests. The men he struck solidly didn’t rise.
Soon only ‘The Hand’ was left. He plunged his knife in a downwards strike, and the giant dropped his weapons and caught his arm, then the other. He stared down at the smaller man’s eyes as he squeezed both wrists, and the veteran sagged and screamed .
Arun walked towards his bookie. The little man’s booth was down some stairs on another level, the pit only visible there through a grate. He found him pale, and sweating. He licked his lips as Arun approached.
“You don’t look well,” said Arun, extending his ticket. “You might see a physician.”
“Sir, it…the, fight. It isn’t yet…”
A sickening crunch sounded from the pit, and the crowd groaned. Arun kept his ticket out.
“Congratulations, sir,” the bookie whispered, looking increasingly green. He turned away and handed up an exchanger’s chit with the number of a veritable fortune, and his mark.
“Thank you.”
Arun took it with steady hands. He’d redeem it later—much later—when his crew and the other pirates were long gone. There would still be risk of getting robbed, perhaps, but then Arun had little fear of common thugs.
How many men in all the world could kill five veterans of the pit like that?
He had won a small fortune in the space of an afternoon, and yet it was this thought capturing his thoughts as he wandered out to an angry crowd.
He followed the swell of bodies from ‘Trung’s hole’ to a warm sun, wondering who or what this giant was, and where he came from.
His thoughts soon clashed with memories of his teacher, old Master Lo, who’d twist his ear and ask what benefit knowledge served such a stupid boy. But he thought now as then there is always benefit, you ignorant old prune.
Despite the crowd, he pushed his way out from the cave and across the ‘plaza’, which was really just a patch of crushed rock outside Halin city, filled now by scum and the vendors who catered to them. It all connected—the cave, and the pits, and an underground river that came up in Trung’s fortress.
This was just one of many things Arun knew and shouldn’t—one of many secrets he might sell to the right buyer at the right time. Like the secret of The Savage? Or can I somehow sell the man himself?
“Ride to the city, sir?”
A leathery urchin displayed his mouth of broken teeth, carrying a wheeled-cart behind him. Fifty more stood scattered around the plaza shouting for business.
Arun ignored them and walked on through other wretches selling water and rum and sweet meats or pastries covered in flies. Just take the money and run, said a small, hopeless voice in his mind, which he’d never quite sorted as wisdom or fear. But soon enough it went quiet as it always did, ignored behind plans and ambitions that lead to fortune, or ruin.
In truth the dream of his own ship and crew was only a small dream—a consolation, a ‘good enough’ accepted by lesser men with lesser skill and courage. Arun had chosen that dream first because to admit to wanting more seemed laughable, ludicrous, unfounded in reality. And yet...
And yet he had risen from nothing. He had youth, wealth, and ability, and with luck and wit and his own two hands he had already defied his birth, his fate, and the ‘wisdom’ of old men. So why not more? Why not further?
He followed the well-worn path along a high ridge above the sea, then stopped and looked back at the jutting rock that formed Trung’s caves. What is your value, demon of the pit? he wondered. And who would pay it, if they knew?
The answer was clear enough. The giant was worth more than just his
own value. Already Arun ticked through the names of corrupt guards in his mind, and formed a mental map of Halin’s fortress. The sheer boldness of the shaping plan inspired him more than it should, he knew. But a man could only be what he was.
Will you let me save you, Savage? Or will you snarl and bite at my hand?
He would have to act quickly, either way. For who could say how long the barbarian would last in prison? Or if escape was even possible? Or if the pay-off was worth the risk? Should he just tell a man who might be interested, or did he gamble, one more time?
He breathed out and watched sea waves break on rock below. It was an act, he knew, this moment of stillness—a self-delusion perhaps meant to convince himself he had choice. But he had made his choices long ago, and not unhappily.
Arun, ex-master of the Ching, would risk all. He would gamble his essence and fate and match it against any other man or woman in the world, and show his worth, even against a king. That was his Path. His ojas. His Way. And only death would stop him.
Chapter 6
After the pit-fight, Ruka sat in his prison and ate what he thought was chicken.
Starving prisoners brought it and took away the bones with hungry eyes. He wondered how much they’d stolen, but didn’t blame them. They cleaned his shallow cuts and wiped his body down with wet cloth, and they were so miserable-looking he left them to it without a fuss.
This ‘king’ has decided we have more value, brother, but only in the pit. And we won’t last forever.
Bukayag nodded but said nothing. The blood of the fight had seemed to sate him, and in any case there was nothing for him to do. They were still trapped and guarded with no escape; they were still at the mercy of a ruthless butcher who ruled alone and fought men like beasts.
I’ll give him to you, brother, Ruka promised, though I don’t yet know how. He can smolder in the same fires as Kunla.
For now all he could do was wait. In two days by Grove reckoning, the guards returned, this time with hairless dogs.
Kaptin brought them himself, one under each arm. He nodded in a gesture Ruka had decided was respect, and so he returned it. Then the little creatures were released on the floor.
They seemed harmless things—longer in the snout than the fang, with plump, elongated bodies and stretched, weak necks. They bound into the pit without leashes, sniffing at the filth and stains before coming to Ruka’s hands without a shred of fear.
They climbed into his lap, licking his arms and face and chest. Their tongues were rough and wet and he almost laughed at their boldness. He’d always wanted a pet as a child.
“Next year,” his mother always said, and he’d knew she lied but understood. It was hard enough to keep themselves alive.
He let the bizarre, friendly creatures lick him, amazed at their reaction to a stranger. They explored the prison, nibbled each other’s ears and tussled before finally settling down on his lap to rest.
All the while, he felt eyes above.
The pleasure of the animals fell away as the men watched, and he knew it wasn’t allowed in the world of the living—not in a world that ate weakness and spit out.
It’s a test, brother. A trap of the mind. They mean to shackle us with affection.
Bukayag said nothing, perhaps because he felt none.
The men watched Ruka as Ruka watched the dogs. The ‘king’ sat in his padded chair, sipping from a crystal cup and looking down with a cold stare and a cruel smile. For a time, Ruka focused on his Grove.
He sat in his mother’s garden, fighting the hopeless rage and isolation threatening to swallow him. He knew as he had always known that gentle things weren’t allowed. He knew the creatures would be used to control him, to break him—to be taken away or killed once they’d earned his love. He knew he should have ignored them entirely, and had already done too much.
He picked spinach and squash thinking perhaps later he’d teach Stable-boy-From-Alverel how to make his mother’s soup as a break from the forge.
Please, brother, he nearly wept. Do this thing for me. They must see no weakness. But be gentle, please, and be quick.
Bukayag blinked awake and smiled at their captors. He lifted two dogs by their necks as Ruka’s tears fell and trapped in the crooked indents of his face. For a moment the animals yelped and squirmed, then Bukayag crushed their throats. He tossed them away, and yawned.
The king jerked forward, and laughed.
Ruka covered his ears and forced his brother to stare up at the man’s thick, curved lips, his fat belly shaking as he spoke to the others. The watchers settled deeper in their seats, re-filling their drinks and eating round, plump fruits from platters held by half-naked women.
Ruka dug his dirty nails into his palms. When I am free, he thought, I will wipe that smile from your face, and show you the true meaning of suffering.
He sat in the darkness and seethed, but soon couldn’t stop from thinking of Egil and a night of screams. Through the heat of his anger he felt hypocrisy and shame, and thought perhaps such things could never be justified. If so then one day Ruka would pay, and without complaint. But this cruel king would be the last. First he would let Bukayag take this man in his hands like the dogs, and he would not ask for mercy.
For now he sat in misery with the twisted corpses of the animals, wishing he could pet their fur. He had never killed a creature save for a man he did not intend to eat.
Later, the pit’s iron door clicked again.
Bare, brown legs moved into Ruka’s view on the tapping of wooden shoes. He looked up and saw a girl wrapped in soft, dyed fabric that looked cut from a single strip of cloth. It clung to her flawless, smooth skin. Her terrified eyes flit about the pit.
Kaptin entered behind her. His face held a labored calm, and his eyes went at once to the corpses of the dogs. He put a hand to the girl’s shoulder and held her firm, almost in a protective gesture. Then the king barked from above.
Kaptin’s eyes found Ruka’s and held them. It brought memories of a gathering hall in Hulbron, with a knife to a priestess, and a chief testing his resolve.
Oh yes, Ruka wanted to say, I will kill her, chief of the pits. I will kill you, and your king, and the whole world before I fail Beyla, before I become another suffering, helpless slave like you.
But he did not speak their words, so he only growled. The girl shook at the sound, her careful smile breaking beneath her fear.
Ruka was familiar with his effect on women. He had imagined perhaps in this new world he might be seen differently. But he knew this as foolish. He glanced at his blood-stained clothes and manacled legs, the piles of his own waste left in the corner of the room. Here he was a monster rotting in the depths of hell, and he did not blame her.
Kaptin’s arm firmed even as his eyes glazed, and he pushed the girl forward.
Ruka did not know precisely what they intended. Perhaps they meant her to sit with him and remind him of life and the possibility of more than fighting other men in a pit. When she came closer and he did nothing, some of the watchers laughed and made thrusting gestures with their hips.
The girl put a trembling hand to her shoulder and slipped the fabric to the the grimy floor. Ruka blinked, staring at her utter nakedness save for gold rings on her wrists and ankles.
His eyes roamed without thought. They paused and probed in ways that brought heat to his face. It was the first time he’d ever seen a woman without her clothes except for his mother. And all at once, he understood.
The thought struck him numb. They meant to rut them like dogs, or horses.
He had heard of outcast boys being abused in the Ascom in such ways, though he had never seen it. And those were just boys.
In the Ascom, to take a woman in this way was a crime so great, a stain so deep, that a man would suffer forever in the afterlife.
Do you not have mothers? Daughters? Ruka thought with horror. Are there no laws against such things? Are you even men at all?
“I’ll kill her after,” Bukayag wh
ispered, “so our jailer will see no weakness.” He licked his lips. “By now it’s obvious there are no gods to fear.”
Ruka twitched at his brother’s words. They weren’t his, exactly, but they had still come from his mouth.
Doing anything they wish is weakness. And this thing is evil. I won’t let you.
Bukayag curled their hands into fists and squirmed against the wall.
“Why not?” he hissed, and the venom behind it surprised and frightened Ruka. Kaptin startled at the sound, and the girl paled.
Because she could be our mother. There is no difference. What sort of men don’t protect their mothers and daughters from such a thing?
“Outcast men!” Bukayag rattled at his chain. “I’ve never even touched a woman except to kill, brother. Give this to me. All women are daughters, all are mothers. What of it? Ours is dead.”
Ruka found no words in the silence, but his answer was clear. Bukayag stood and kicked a dead dog across the pit.
“I take your pain, I kill your enemies. How am I repaid? We’re in this pit because of you. We should have killed those fat little pigs and escaped before. Now we’re stuck in this fucking stone-trap and we’ll die here. I want a woman before I’m nothing. I want it. I want this. Give it to me!”
Ruka breathed and took control of his body. His brother wasn’t entirely wrong, but that didn’t matter. Ruka would not let his final act be submission and torture. He saw the fear from the girl and the guard, the wonder from the men above. The silence held and Ruka sensed Bukayag struggling uselessly against him.
I can hurt you brother, in ways even you can understand. But you can’t hurt me, not in my Grove. Don’t forget that.
“I haven’t,” Bukayag choked. Ruka seized control now and quieted his brother. He leaned back against the wall as he had after the dogs, as if he didn’t care—as if the girl didn’t interest him.
The king didn’t wait long before he gestured forward, eyes twinkling with pleasure. His fellow watchers stood now with food and drink all but forgotten.
