EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (267 page)

Jumping out of his seat with an axe in both hands while screaming battle cries would not have had a stronger effect. The large man stumbled backwards and then quickly turned to rush away from the chamber through the open wooden door. The large door slammed behind him, followed by the sound of a heavy bolt falling back into place, making a soft thud.
 

Few souls in the dark chamber even noticed the exchange, as each man was completely consumed within his own nightmarish thoughts—thoughts of upcoming pain, which was almost always worse in one’s own mind than it ever was in reality.
 

Morcel’s thoughts began to wander again as he gazed around the chamber, which seemed to change constantly with the flickering torchlight that made shadows dance on the stone walls. His thoughts drifted to the quick mockery of a trial that he’d been given as to whether or not he was a traitor. The whole ordeal could only have ended one way.
 

Morcel was sold into slavery, thus forced to fight in the games. Few people were ever put into a cell for any period of time. The few that found this fate were there for no longer than a week or two, for mostly small crimes that were a very gray area. This was generally frowned upon because there was no profit to be had, and it fact it cost money. A public whipping was also a very legitimate option. However, the number of lashes would depend more on the governor’s mood or how much coin found its way into his pocket, rarely on the crime itself. Most criminals were sent to the games and given the option of execution if they could not bear the idea of fighting in an arena. Almost no one took this option, but wished they had when the time came. A man’s own mind can be his worst enemy if he cannot control the fear of the unknown.
 

The warrior had to admit he could not offer up much of a case as to why he should have been spared from the games. He was a sword for hire, and he hadn’t exactly earned his coin.
 

Morcel had seen his share of death in his lifetime. Countless souls had been sent to the next life by his hand, but this had been different. He hadn’t been able to go through with the massacre. Killing innocent townsfolk had been too much to ask of him.
 

But that young girl...she moved like a trained soldier and killed without hesitation. That she acted from sheer will to survive was not really all that unbelievable. People could do amazing things when they were backed into a corner. But combat skills were learned over a long period of time, and then more training was needed to apply those skills to a real life-and-death situation as opposed to training drills or sparring. The fact that she’d had the mental capacity to stay calm and apply techniques through muscle memory and reflex instead of conscious action was truly amazing.
 

The warrior’s thoughts were interrupted once again when he caught the eye of another man sitting by himself on the bench across from him. Aside from the fact he was staring a hole into Morcel, the large, dark-skinned man stood out simply by being so calm. When surrounded by men screaming like girls covered with centipedes, or who were relieving themselves on the floor constantly because the unrelenting panic didn’t allow them the slightest bit of bodily control, a calm man stands out like he is on fire.
 

The dark-skinned man slowly stood up, never taking his eyes from Morcel as he walked gracefully towards him, stepping over one of the poor souls that was trembling uncontrollably while curled up in a fetal position on the cold stone. “Well met,” came a low, grumbling voice. As if the dark skin and sheer size of the man did not give it away, the thick Dronin accent was unmistakable.
 

“Well met,” Morcel replied, without ever standing up or offering his hand. Basic courtesies seemed as out of place here as a priest in a whorehouse, but he did maintain eye contact throughout the exchange.
 

“Of all the company I be keeping in here, you look the face I might be seeing when dis be over.” The man was actually taller than Morcel and nearly as muscular. In fact, given his cut, lean frame, he appeared to be more muscular. Of course, standing in nothing but the loincloth that was supplied to everyone didn’t leave much to the imagination, as all the slaves in this room were easy to judge from a physical standpoint. Most were thin and seemed to be farmers or laborers.
 

Morcel looked down at his feet for a moment, then replied, “I hope to find a way to pull through this. Of course, if the gods have decided it’s my time, then I go to them with no regrets. Everyone dies, but not everyone gets to choose how. I’ve known for most of my life I would die on a battlefield. However, I did not know it would be for the entertainment of the people I once swore to protect.”
 

“Words of a man who feels he no longer be in control of his own fate,” came the slow, rumbling reply. “I not care if you live or die. It make no difference to me. But I want life. To see me family again. I think you help me do that. We, together, have better chance to live,” the tall stranger pieced the words together as best as he could.
 

Morcel said nothing as his mind raced once more. The mental wall came crashing down, and he now took it all in. The cries and whimpers of terrified men spread throughout the stone room. Fear hung heavy in the air and seemed only to intensify, as the men could now hear the crowd outside getting louder with the taunts of the speaker as he tried to prolong his moment of cheap glory by dragging out the introductions to the upcoming carnage. The man the large Dronin had originally stepped over was now gouging at his own eyes while laughing like a giddy child, stopping only now and then to let out a soft sob. Another mind snapped like a twig.
 

Morcel felt as though the realization that he might not survive this was hitting him for the first time. Perhaps the warrior meditation he learned so many years ago was betraying him and allowing him to really feel the severity of it all. No, that is not why his senses had heightened. The warrior knew this whole time he was doomed, and was resigned to his fate. So what had just changed?
 

He looked up to the Dronin man while he remained seated, only now realizing his gaze had been wandering around the room. He knew a warrior when he saw one, and assumed the other man did as well. This man was giving him hope. It was true; if they teamed up in the arena, they might just have a chance. This was the part of him that wanted to live at all costs; the most primal of instincts that will not take no for an answer, no matter how badly the odds were stacked against success.
 

I can’t take revenge if I’m dead.
And there it was—the sudden blast of clarity and emotion put into one conscious thought. Morcel had no fear of dying, but it needed to be on his terms. Under the circumstances, he and everyone here would be nothing but sacrificial lambs for the entertainment of a mob. No, this is not the storied end of a warrior. He needed to stay alive as long as possible to have any chance at getting back what had been taken from him. Sure, even if he survived this round of the games, it only meant he would be in the next, and the next, and next, until he finally fell.
 

“Steady yourselves,” someone shrieked from behind the wooden door. A small sliding panel on the lower portion of the door slid open as weapons began sliding through the chute. Most were rusty, poor-quality swords and axes, with a few daggers thrown in as well. You would think the mountain of hair was throwing poisonous snakes instead of weapons, the way all the slaves bolted away from the mounting pile. “You can all fight without them for all I care. Bite and scratch if you think it will work better...ha ha.”
 

The small door slid shut, and then it began all over again—the crying and wailing of terrified men filled the room. A few picked up weapons and began slicing at the air, trying to gather as much self-control and courage as they could muster. One slave actually drove one of the swords into his own belly in a futile suicide attempt. All he managed to do was inflict a gaping wound that rendered him nearly useless for combat. He had wanted to die, and would now most certainly get his wish.
 

Morcel gave his attention to the Dronin once again only to see that the big man’s eyes had never left him. His gaze patiently rested on Morcel and, even given the eruption of madness all around, remained calm and focused on the impending answer. “OK, but you have to follow my lead. You understand?”
 

The Dronin just smiled as Morcel sprinted towards the pile of weapons as if he might get stuck without one. Nothing could be farther from the truth, as almost all remained untouched. He picked up a large, rusty axe and banged it loudly against the stone floor several times to make sure it would not crack in half the first time it hit anything solid.
Well, it’s better than a tree branch, I suppose.
 

The Dronin calmly walked up and grabbed two rusty short swords out of the pile. He then tossed them up in the air and caught them on the backs of his wrists. There he balanced them for a while, seemingly to decide whether or not the balance was any good, or at least to decide how to compensate for the imbalance.
 

“When that gate opens, we cut through whatever is in our path until we can take the center of the arena. Then we go back to back. On your word you must parry all blows coming from your side, and I swear to do the same. We cannot dodge any or we will risk injury to the other. Agreed?”
 

The Dronin just smiled and bowed his head. “Whatever be getting me back to me family. I swear on both our lives, as they now be joined.”
 

Then, all of a sudden, a loud, grinding sound could be heard from the large metal door just beside the wooden one. What started as a crack of light at the base grew into a blinding flash of sunlight as the door began to rise. Everyone squinted at the brightness, trying to get their eyes adjusted as daylight came flooding through. Flower petals of all different colors could be seen fluttering down across the doorway. Reds and blues fluttered down like a rainbow of butterflies. The crowd roared in response to the open door. This is what they had all come to see.
 

“OK. This is it. Let’s go!” Morcel boomed in his deep voice. He was the first to run through the open gate. Sprinting through the shower of petals, he could feel his new friend just behind him, and to his surprise, a few others just a few short steps behind them, screaming battle cries of their own. It seemed others wanted to live as well.
 

The crowd roared like a raging waterfall, and Morcel found himself caught up in the energy of the mob. Twirling his axe over his head, he could not help but think,
I will not die this day!

Chapter II

T
HE
RAIN
CAME
DOWN
IN
sheets, battering the rooftops and pounding against the large wooden fence that surrounded the town of Denark. The gusting winds drove the rain sideways for brief moments before dying down, only to pummel the area with hail mixed with the already heavy rain.
 

The guards manning the main gate paced back and forth across the top of the fence on a platform just large enough for two men to pass side by side.

This time of night there were only two guards on duty. Each of them was wearing gray leather armor adorned with a red eagle on the chest piece. The various flags displayed around the fence also bore the red eagle that was synonymous with the town of Denark.
 

Both men wore matching gray hooded cloaks to protect them from the storm. Being completely soaked, the cloaks did little to provide warmth, but did help shield from the stinging raindrops that felt like gravel being thrown every time the wind picked up. Each carried torches that came with metal shielding around the flame to help deal with weather conditions such as these. Even with the shielding, one or the other torch seemed to keep going out in the hurricane-like conditions, while the man with the remaining lit torch would use his to light the other. So far, keeping the torches lit had been the biggest peril they had faced this evening. No travelers seemed to be on the roads this night. Not that many would be out at this hour anyway, but with the current weather conditions, they expected the night to be uneventful.
 

“How much longer are they going to leave us out here?” asked Oben through his thick blond beard and mustache as he pulled the hood over his face as far as he could.
 

The other man just grunted as they passed each other for what seemed to be the thousandth time tonight. Grend was a tall man with a thick black beard and long black hair tied back into a ponytail. A veteran guard, he had seen much worse conditions than this, and was not about to complain just to complain.

Lightning crackled across the sky, illuminating everything in a blinding flash. For a brief second, the rows of trees close to the main gate bent unnaturally in the swirling winds.

Oben seemed to be really struggling to keep his torch lit, constantly trying to shield the sickly flame by covering it with his hood, bringing his face very close to it while at the same time trying to keep his back to the wind. If the flame were to suddenly gain strength, he would surely lose an eyebrow. But the possibility of that seemed quite slim, given the extreme elements.

Grend was now leaning on the edge of the rail with his torch held low so as not to get it slammed by the incoming combination of rain and hail. Another flash of lightning split the sky, and Grend almost jumped out of his skin. Right in front of the main gate, where he just so happened to be staring into the dark, appeared a dark, hooded figure. It only became visible during the flash and then was swallowed up by the blackness once more. He waved frantically to Oben, not really wanting to call out. It seemed that his friend was still losing a mighty battle with his torch, and not paying attention to much else.