From Blades to Chains

Two score men milled about in the dark, stinking chamber. Every few yards, a torch burned in a sconce on the stone walls to light L’Beira’s weaving path through the ragtag bunch of gladiators. Some sat leant against walls, bound by chains, and watching in sullen silence. Others, strutted about proclaiming themselves the alpha amongst alphas. One such boaster, bare chested and muscular, shouted to no one in particular that he had been victorious eight times in the coliseum. Some laughed and shook their heads, others shouted vulgar insults, but one man saw him as a challenge.

‘Eight times? Who were you fighting? Must have been crying little girls!’ He roared to the onlooking crowd, much to their delight.

‘And who are you? I see no scars on you, are you a virgin?’ The boaster retorted, closing the distance between them until they were nearly nose to nose.

L’Beira pulled Luthar’s arm, whispering in his ear. ‘This is going to get messy, let’s get out of the way.’

They shouldered their way past more men to a hidden corner of the room. Behind them, the roar of approval told them the two men had come to blows. Luthar turned and he could make out the circle of fighters tightening around the brawl to get a better view.

‘Animals.’ Said L’Beira shaking his head. ‘You could be here some time, so make sure you stay away from that. Kill a man in the arena and you’re a hero. Kill one in here and you’re a criminal, bound only for the dungeons.’

‘You’re from the three kingdoms, aren’t you?’ A voice interrupted from behind Luthar. He turned to find the speaker was a tall, pale Northman wearing his black hair and beard down to his waist. ‘Do you feel like a fish out of water too?’ He smiled, something Luthar hadn’t seen much of since his arrival in Jakai.

‘I do. Everyone is so serious here. At least in the three kingdoms you can share some ale and a joke with people.’

‘Aye, that’s the truth. What’s your name friend?’

‘Luthar Shoresmith, and yourself?’

‘I am Bjorn, from Kursad. Pleasure to meet you Luthar.’ He held out his hand and shook Luthar’s in the three kingdoms fashion.

‘Kursad? I don’t believe I am familiar with it.’ Luthar had never heard the name spoken before, but it sounded typically northern.

‘It’s a good five days ride northeast from Alarston, on the north bank of the great lake. A poor city, but an honest one.’

‘That’s a long way away, how did you end up here?’

‘That is a long story, and not a happy one. How about you tell me yours instead?’

‘There’s not much to tell really. I was born in a tiny village north of Whitestar, near the mountain passes. Joined the guild as soon as I could, then I was sent here for training. The gods only know how I’ve ended up in the coliseum.’

‘They do have a mysterious way of working.’ Bjorn smiled again, his bright blue eyes shining beneath tangled brows.

A herald rang a bell near the gate, quieting the murmur of noise in the room. Whatever had happened between the two men earlier had long since died down. Each man in the chamber eyed him, some nervous, others eager. He peered at the room, apparently enjoying the attention he was receiving. ‘Bjorn of Kursad.’ He called slowly and clearly.

‘My time is here, farewell Luthar. May Heldus bless your blade, and Arrus bring you fortune in the trials to come.’ He turned and walked towards the herald; head ducked under the low stone ceiling.

Luthar turned back to L’Beira who had been observing their conversation in silence. He leaned easily against the wall, giving him a stare that Chadwick would have been proud of.

‘Be careful of who you meet here. Someday you may be on the opposite side of the arena to them. Your compassion for an opponent could be your undoing.’

‘I was only being polite. I’ve always believed manners maketh man.’ Luthar couldn’t see himself ignoring someone who made the effort to speak to him first.

‘Very noble of you Luthar, but what I’m saying is, you’re not here to make friends, you’re here to learn to fight. Kind words serve no purpose toward that end.’

A loud cheer erupted from above them, signalling the two gladiators had entered the arena. The building seemed to shake around them, dirt and dust fell from the low ceiling, settling on their bare skin and in their hair. Moments later the cheer came again, more dirt and dust fell. This was followed by another sound, Luthar strained his ears to hear, it sounded like the crowd booing.

‘That will be for your friend Bjorn. They don’t like men of the kingdoms down here.’ L’Beira explained. ‘You will be fighting your opponent and the crowd.’

‘He’s not my friend, I was just polite.’ Luthar retorted, feeling his ire rising. He didn’t like his manners being questioned in this fashion.

‘So you say.’ A half-smile lingered on L’Beira’s face.

Luthar listened intently for any sound from above, trying to put L’Beira’s mocking tone from his mind. He could just make out the crowd gasping, he tried to visualise the battle in his mind, hoping Bjorn was in control. He sank back against the wall as another cheer rose, the loudest one yet. The very foundations seemed to shake with the joy of fifty-thousand bloodthirsty citizens of Jakai.

Nerves began to tingle inside Luthar’s belly as he imagined whatever grim fate had befallen Bjorn. If someone as big and strong as Bjorn couldn’t win, then what hope did he have? He heaved onto the floor, only managing to spit out some bile.

‘Settle down Luthar, nerves will not help you here.’

Before Luthar could reply, the herald re appeared near the gate ringing his bell once more. As soon as everyone’s focus turned to him, he cleared his throat loudly and announced ‘Luthar Shoresmith!’

The words hit Luthar’s ears like a hammer on an anvil. He stood still for a moment, dumbfounded by what was about to happen. He felt L’Beira’s hand on his shoulder, gently but firmly guiding him towards the gate.

The herald took one look at them both before turning around and marching through the open gate without a word. L’Beira’s hand urged him forward, now in his back. They entered a dark corridor beyond the gate, Luthar couldn’t take in the details as they hurried behind their guide. Another dimly lit room sat at the end, this time occupied only by two mean looking guards with their arms crossed over bare chests, their spears leant against the wall.

Along each wall hung racks of swords, spears and shields of all shapes and sizes. Some still bore the blood of their last victims.

‘Select an item for each hand and be quick about it.’ The herald told Luthar, before turning to L’Beira. ‘You the trainer?’

‘I am.’ L’Beira’s deep, smooth voice contrasted with the sharp rasp of the herald.

‘Wait here, one of my men will show you to the viewing platform.’

Luthar selected his arms carefully, making sure to avoid any that still dripped with blood. He picked up a spear, slightly taller than himself in his right hand, and a wooden buckler in his left. The buckler was worn, but seemed stout, with a steel rim running about its edge. Even armed, Luthar felt exposed without something to cover his chest.

‘Come.’ The herald beckoned Luthar to another gate in the far wall. Beyond it, a dozen stone steps led upward to blue sky. A guard opened the gate, but the herald stopped Luthar with his arm, listening keenly to the noise outside.

‘Good luck Luthar.’ Called L’Beira from across the armoury. Before Luthar could say his thanks, the herald pushed him in the back, towards the stairs.

The noise deafened him as he reached the top of the stairs and headed to the middle of the arena. Something wet hit him in the back as he walked across the scorched sand. Turning, he found it was a rotten tomato, it had slid down his back and onto the ground. Mould sprouted from its flesh, turning putrid in the sun. Trying to ignore it, he marched on toward the centre, where the other man already stood.

He stood side-by-side with his opponent, facing the high chancellor in his shaded pavilion. Guards flanked him on either side, with young women wearing nearly nothing served him food and drink. Without looking away from the serving girls, he waved a cursory arm in the general direction of Luthar and his opponent.

He was a brute of a man, almost as tall as Luthar, but with a gut that sagged over the front of his breeches. His tanned head had been shaved to reveal a black tattoo of a spider’s web that spread down his neck and onto his broad shoulders. He leered at Luthar, showing the gaps in his yellow teeth. He wielded only a spear, no shield or secondary weapon that Luthar could see.

The crowd roared their encouragement as they began. His opponent twirled his spear above his head, edging toward Luthar to bait him into a lunge. Luthar circled, keeping his buckler across his chest, spear at the ready. Luthar dodged the first blow, it was heavy and seemed laboured. A second glanced off the outside of the buckler and flew above his left shoulder. Luthar tried to work an opening, but was shut out each time.

The butt of his opponent’s spear hit Luthar’s thigh, staggering him momentarily. The point slashed downwards towards his bare chest, missing by mere inches. By now Luthar could see the man’s heavy breathing and sweat pouring down his face. He was weighed down by years of overindulgence and his stamina was failing him. The crowd were becoming restless; they were eager to see more blood.

The next blow was slower still, Luthar parried it with his own spear without much trouble. He quickened his pace slightly, hoping to press this newfound advantage. As the man backpedalled out of the way of Luthar’s spear point, he stumbled slightly, exposing his legs. Luthar swiped, drawing blood from his left thigh. He limped back into position, facing Luthar, one hand holding his spear, the other trying to stop the bleeding from his leg. The noise around them increased; blood had been spilled.

His opponent gave one last, desperate lunge towards Luthar, point of his spear destined for his chest. Luthar deflected it with his own spear, before hitting him in the side of the head with the butt. His opponent hit the floor, Luthar stood on his arm, pinning his weapon to the ground.

He looked to the high chancellor for his decision. He’d left his chair and stood at the front of his pavilion, arms outstretched to the crowd. A chorus of boos rang out from each side of the coliseum. Fifty thousand calling for death. The high chancellor duly obliged, holding out his arm, thumb pointing downwards.

‘I’m sorry.’ Luthar told the fallen gladiator, before plunging his spear into his heart. He convulsed momentarily, pleading eyes fixed on Luthar’s own, then lay still. A small trickle of blood had escaped his lips and ran down his cheek.

More boos rang out, drowning out any who still cheered for Luthar. He bowed to the high chancellor, then turned to make his exit. As he walked across the sand to the armoury, more pieces of rotten fruit assaulted him. The hostile crowd were made more raucous by his mere presence. Luthar’s temper rose with the growing bombardment he was facing. A mug of ale hit the side of his head, showering him in sticky brown liquid.

‘What do you want from me?’ He roared at the crowd; arms outstretched. ‘I’ve defeated your best, what more can I give you?’ He took a few steps toward them, arms outstretched.

Luthar knew he had made a mistake, guards stationed in the stands turned to him, drawing crossbows, they gestured towards the armoury, urging him to be on his way. He turned again to leave, trying to focus on getting back to the relative safety of the armoury. He picked up some kind of rotten vegetable and hurled it back the way it had come. As he reached the steps, some men leaned over the barrier and spat in his direction, showering him in saliva.

Luthar had had enough, he lunged upwards with his spear towards the closest man, catching him in the face. Now it was blood that fell upon him, dripping down over his shield. The guards from the armoury rushed up the steps to restrain him, grabbing him and pulling him downwards into the dark. Luthar struggled desperately, but the pair of them were too strong.

The gate slammed behind him, and the guards began berating him in the harsh tongue of Jakai. Luthar was glad he couldn’t tell what they were saying, they looked as angry as he felt.

The far door opened, revealing an out of breath L’Beira, followed by more guards.

‘What on earth were you thinking Luthar? I told you to ignore the crowds!’ He sounded more desperate than angry.

‘I’ve had rotten fruit and vegetables thrown at me and been bathed in someone’s ale! I’ve been spat on and abused. What were they expecting? Me to walk meekly by and ignore it?’ Luthar’s rage threatened to burst from him again.

‘You struck his throat! He died, Luthar. I can’t help you with this. You’re to go before the high chancellor tomorrow.’

Luthar’s rage was replaced by regret. Two men had died today by his hand, neither for any good cause. He let out a shuddering breath and let his spear clatter on the stone floor. His mind clouded by remorse.

L’Beira sighed and put his head in his hands. ‘What a day!’