Out of the Arena

Past due for a good long post. Enjoy! 

 -Paul 

The supplies Storyhearts gave Ankius lasted him all the way to Silvanus, city of temples. Entering a strange city can be dangerous. He hid his sward under his clothes and walked the wide streets taking all the sights, sounds, and smells. This was a large trading center and many languages were spoken. As the afternoon wore on, he realized he better start looking for an inn or other place to stay. Ankius was still young and had not yet learned to control his impulses. He spotted an inn on the other side of a busy street and started to run toward it. He slammed into a small man wearing gold and purple robes knocking him to the ground. In an instant five of the man’s guards jumped Ankius slamming him down on the dusty street.

“Sir, I’m sorry! It was an accident! I meant you no harm.” Ankius protested.

“I’m the exchequer here.” The man said rising to his feet. “I take care of the kingdom’s money and you were trying to rob me.”

“No sir, it was only an accident!”

Several heavily armed soldiers showed up and the Exchequer ordered Ankius taken away.  There were far too many to fight so Ankius had to go along. His sword was taken and he was lead away in chains.

One of the men said “We do not tolerate thieves in our mists and you will most likely be put to death.”

Ankius blood went cold. It looked like his great journey would be cut well short. They took him to a dingy dark dungeon and locked him up. The other prisoners looked close to death and some cried and screamed. Those sent here stayed until death or execution. A speedy execution is seen as an act of mercy. Ankius spent a long sleepless night wondering if he would live to see the sun again much less another night.

The next day a large man with white hair and a long white beard came to Ankius with a few guards. He had the guards take Ankius to a small room upstairs. He waited almost an hour and the same man appeared in the door.

“I am Bartholomus and I have a offer for you. I run the oldest gladiator school in the kingdom and I think it would be a waste for you to simply be beheaded tomorrow at sunrise. If you can fight, I can give you life.”

“I can sir but I am innocent.”

“No… You are guilty. Sorry but an attack on the Exchequer is a capital crime. Who taught you?”

“My father Lord Rivcon.”      

“I’ve herd the name… We will see what you have learned. I think you can be very successful so I’m willing to make an investment in you. Don’t disappoint me or you will wish for the mercy of the executioner’s chopping block”

Bartholomus snapped his fingers and another younger man came around the corner with Ankius’ sward and handed it to him. Ankius had no desire to fight for sport. Killing a man was bad enough in war but he had little choice. Bartholomus paid a few people and took Ankius to his new home.  There he was assigned to learn under Elras, the school’s lead instructor. Ankius asked if there was any path back to freedom. Elras told him he would to kill his way back and it would be like swimming miles across a lake full of warm blood and gore but it could be done. Elras picked up where Rivcon left off teaching the dark arts of gladiatorial hand-to-hand combat. Ankius was almost a third taller than the average man and more than twice as strong but his real strength was in his unnatural quickness. To have these three advantages in one fighter was almost unheard of. Although Ankius trained well he hated the thought of killing others for sport.

The Onyx Arena was ageless and over the centuries was used for many different purposes. It had been a temple to war gods, a house for the performance of plays, a gathering place for the king to speak directly to the people and a place for the best gladiators to do battle for fame fortune and sometimes freedom. The outside was black marble with vertical red columns. It was thirteen levels high and large banners flew from the top.  The sandy floor was the shape of an egg with a large white concrete block that took up most of the wider end. This served both as a stage and an alter. Two massive black poles rose up at either end of the floor topped with large green and purple banners. One was near the back of the stage and the other came out of the sandy floor on the opposite side. The sand was deep and had a reddish tint. It was said this came from all the blood shed. From the sandy floor to the first rows of seats was taller than two men. From the floor the black marble steps that also served as seats seemed to go up forever. Merchants served food all over, slaves could be bought and women sold their bodies to the night. Betters took wagers and everyone made predictions. The place smelled of human waste, gore, stale beer and warm bread. The fighters waited in large stinking cages deep under the arena lit only by dim oil lamps.          

Ankius threw up three times before his first match and seriously considered letting himself be struck down. The man he was to fight, Ironclaw, had a dozen victories to his credit and had a bad habit if defiling the dead bodies of his defeated opponents. Ankius thought of his family and Storyhearts and the pain it would cause them if they ever knew he met his end in such a way. He’d made up his mind, if he had to swim across a lake of blood and gore so be it. He would not die in the Onyx Arena.

The crowd was massive and went up almost as far as Ankius could see. They roared to life as the two men stepped in from opposite sides of the arena. Ironclaw came out swinging an Ironclaw where his right hand had been and a mace in his left. Ankius easily dodged the mad swings and retreated backwards. The crowd cheered Ironclaw expecting a quick finish of the big new comer. The finish was quick but not what they expected… Ankius stepped left into the charging Ironclaw and took one powerful swing with his sward cleanly slicing through his neck sending his head flying into the crowd.  His lifeless body fell to the ground and the crowd was stunned into silence for a few seconds. They rose to their feet cheering the new victorious gladiator. Ankius looked at the now lifeless body of Ironclaw, turned head down and walked back into the now open door from which he entered. He threw up again in the holding tank. 

In time Ankius thought no more of his opponents before cutting them down. He only thought of getting across the lake of gore. He came to like pleasing the swelling crowds and this disturbed something deep inside him. Somehow, he knew better.   The life of a successful fighter can be good. All the women he wanted were his and Bartholomus started splitting the winnings with him making him all the more wealthy with each new victory. The people in the city gave him plenty of room where ever he walked. The Exchequer now waited for Ankius to cross the street. They all looked at him with a combination of awe, fear and jealousy. But no one challenged him outside the Onyx Arena.       

In time, Ankius had become a specialist of sorts. No one man would fight him anymore. This is to be expected after one hundred seventy three victories in a fight to the death in single hand-to-hand combat. Now, Ankius only took on three and five man teams who came from far to test themselves against one of the best fighters who had ever lived. Ankius was a mob favorite who also learned how to bet on himself and soon accumulated far more wealth than he could ever hope to spend. He had no time for spending money. When he was not fighting, he was training with the legendary teacher Elras. He had fought and defeated eight teams so far. Still, three years on, he could not see the shore of the blood filled sea. All the killing was becoming pointless. Defeating those not near ready to face him seemed evil. He decided to fight no more in the arena but how could he escape? At the young age of twenty-seven, those he had killed came to visit each night before he sunk into a troubled sleep. Ankius also had the run of the city but was forbidden from venturing beyond the walls. All the people coming into the arena and leaving behind their gold and silver one way or another made him a valuable prize to be held on to.