Vahti
Vahti closed his eyes and breathed deep. The cacophony of the crowd quieted, leaving the steady rhythm of his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. He felt the sand beneath his feet, the heat of the humid air filling his lungs and the fury of the blazing sun at his back.
‘Do no harm.’
Arridus’ words were as crisp as the old’s monk’s warm smile. You were always so patient with me, Arridus.
Days had become weeks, but the pain of betrayal remained. The matches came and went, and so did the wounded. And after each match, Vahti felt the sting of his teacher’s words.
News quickly spread of the Colosseum’s newest fighter. The Arena Master, Arturo, had seen to that. Everyone wanted to witness a monk from The Denovic Order fight. With the crowd came higher bets and inwardly, Vahti cringed at the level of greed he witnessed.
Colosseum handled money differently inside its high walls. Instead of Seps, chits called an Argen were used. If someone bet in gold, the chits were upgraded into leaf shaped bits called an Arum.
The system was efficient enough, and Libertas could pick from the board and choose whom they wished to fight. They would also enter a random lottery for a larger share of the take. But with that came the risk of fighting an opponent with more experience. Gmork was part of the lottery. The orc’s bounty had gone up to six hundred Arum and fifty Argen. Very few entered the lottery in fear of drawing his or Xanthir’s names.
Vahti opened his eyes, his chest tightening when he laid eyes on the gladiators they approached. They were brutes, their stance and weapons reflecting as much by their movements. Two wielded a shield and a gladius. The third a hooked spear and buckler. Their greaves were leather, with armored kneecaps woven into them, but that was all the protection they had.
The pair wielding sword and shield carried each in opposite hands, mirroring the other. Arturo’s playing dirty. Vahti raised his fists, spreading his legs into a fighting stance. Arridus, I’m sorry.
The trio closed in, spreading out to surrounding him. Their movements were predictable and coordination lacking. It seemed this was their first time fighting together as a team. Regardless, shield users were positioning themselves to herd him toward the spear wielder. The hook attached to the spear needed only one good snare, enough for the other two to attack with a swift stab to the abdomen.
They circled, and as predicted, the shield users pressing in. Vahti dove, gliding past the one to his right and springing to his feet. The gladiator went to turn, gladius swinging, but he was too slow. Vahti let loose a series of quick jabs to the man’s side just above and below the ribs.
He felt something give, and the gladiator screamed, crumpling to the ground. Vahi retreated, instinct kicking in from years of training, just as the spear wielder tried catching him off guard. He danced around the thrust, closing the distance as he wove his arms around the haft, and with it braced, snapped it with the force from his palm.
Not giving the gladiator time to overcome his shock, Vahti laid into him with a series of jabs to the chest. Again, instinct pricked at him and he sidestepped to his opponent’s left, narrowly avoiding the gladius of the other shielded fighter. Vahti watched as the blade sank into the spear bearer’s shoulder and cut across the man’s chest at an angle.
Shock showed on the Gladiator’s face, his eyes lined with regret as he fell to his knees. No… no one had to die… The crowd exploded, cheers filling the air. Vahti curled his lip, the hot summer air filling his lungs. Like gluttons, the crowd drank in the bloodshed.
He tightened his stance, breathing deeply and centering himself. Anger burned within his chest as he drew inward, focusing his energy. The din of the crowd dimmed.
Closing his eyes, Vahti could sense his opponent’s movements. The gladiator closed the distance. He was bringing his sword low in a forward thrust. Vahti blocked, batting his arm away. The gladiator responded by taking his shield and using it as a ram, but Vahti met it with his fist, pouring all his stored energy into the strike.
Like the practice dummies at the monastery, the shield splintered and split. Vahti felt the force of the impact channel itself into the gladiator’s forearm. The man screamed. His arm broken. Following up, keeping with the momentum, Vahti fluidly sidestepped around him, placing his opponent in a chokehold.
The Gladiator flailed, trying awkwardly to bring his gladius to bear, but Vahti kept him off balance as the man slowly went limp. He lowered him gently to the ground, lifting his eyes to the special booth where Arturo and his Inquisitor sat.
Arturo stood, descending the stairs to the platform he often used to address the crowd. It was disgusting to watch. Arturo carried himself down the stairs as if he were the Emperor himself. Rumor had it he had only been Arena Master for six years. His predecessor had come under inquisitorial judgement and replaced.
“Fellow Absonians!” he said, spreading his arms like some grand showman. “Have you ever seen such agility or prowess?”
The crowd cheered.
“What shall we call him? This monk of Hedath who splits shields with his bare fist and graced us with such a magnificent spectacle?”
Vahti paused, noting the murmurs among the crowd. He felt a chill. It was common practice to name a victor after he won a series of matches. Vahti turned to his opponents. One had died, another lay gravely injured, and the last was at his feet unconscious with a broken arm.
Oathbreaker, that’s the only name I deserve. Betrayer is another.
The stillness in the crowd was unsettling. Vahti stepped up to the gladiator cradling his ribs and knelt. He touched the man’s side, the gladiator groaning as Vahti felt where two lower ribs had broken. One wrong move and the broken ribs would puncture his lungs.
If I had one of Arridus’ inscriptions, I could mend this.
“Ironfist!”
The shout was faint, amid the murmurs, but soon the din turned into a chant. The name Ironfist rang over and over in Vahti’s ears and he tensed, bile rising in his throat. This man might die and all you can do is think of what to call me?
He stood, turning to where Arturo stood. The Arena master smiled, elation showing on his face. “Then I give you, the People, Vahti the Ironfist!” he shouted.
The gates on either side of him screeched opened and a pair of Apothecaries entered from either side. They were carrying stretchers, rushing toward the fallen gladiators. One knelt by the gladiator with the broken ribs, reached into a pouch hanging from his belt, and pulled a flat metallic container from it.
Removing the cover, Vahti watched the Apothecary dip his fingers in the clear gel-like substance inside it and rub it onto the wounded gladiator’s side. The man seemed to relax, as if he were no longer in pain.
“Bow to your patrons, Ironfist!”
Vahti blinked, tearing his gaze from the wounded gladiator as they carted him off. The air filled with expectancy and reluctantly; he bowed to the crowd.
‘It’s showmanship Vahti,’ he recalled Shaboh saying. ‘Please the crowd, win their favor and Cairn’s place is assured.’
The gate behind him ground open. It was time to leave. As he crossed the threshold leading to the lower levels, Vahti heard Arturo shout. “Do you want more?” the crowd shouted. “Do you want blood?” They screamed a second time. “Then wait no further, my friends, for He is coming!”
Vahti cringed as the gate shut behind him. It didn’t seem fair. Whatever Gmork’s affliction, using it to entertain the crowd was too cruel.
“Get moving, Ironfist,” the Centurion by the gate sneered.“Either go back to the boards, or collect your pay and go home.”
“Not yet,” Vahti mumbled. “I still have two more matches.”
“Then get to the boards, Gladiator.”
He turned, his ears picking up the bestial sound of an orcish roar. Gmork was facing off against five men. Each armed differently. Gmork held only a battle axe. It wasn’t even sharp, but with unbridled strength, it didn’t need to be.
He’d gained more scars. Arturo refused to allow Gmork any armor, and his pet Inquisitor was always on standby to take him down should the orc grow too difficult to contain. “It’s much too cruel,” Vahti whispered.
“Buy a seat if you want to watch!” the Centurion said.
Vahti nodded, leaving the sound of the battle behind him. Those men were dead, and Gmork’s bounty would only grow higher. How many more vows will I break before I face you, orc?
Gmork
He opened his eyes, the familiar sound of the iron hinges grinding against each other stinging his pointed ears. The iron door swung open, but to his surprise it wasn’t a centurion or one of the guards who stood in the doorway, but the young monk the others whispered about. Though tanned, his complexion was too light to be Absonian.
“Come to view the monster?” he asked. “If the guards catch you, they’ll revoke your status as Libertas.”
“I paid them to look the other way,” the young monk replied.
“Wasted,” Gmork replied wryly. “Less money for your brother.”
The monk tensed. “How do you know about my brother?”
“The guards talk too much, and you humans assume I’m stupid.”
“Forgive me, I meant no disrespect,” Vahti replied.
“It is what it is. Now why are you here?”
“You’re afflicted, so they say. Cursed as I’ve heard the Centurions talk about,” Vahti answered. “How long have you been like this?”
“Since birth. My people call being spiritouched. My affliction, as you call it, was meant for a warrior. At least, that is what I was taught.”
“So it’s being perverted by the Absonians for their own amusement…”
“Who knows,” Gmork replied. “The one who raised me would make arrangements to quell the fury inside me.”
“That’s how you ended up here, isn’t it?”
Gmork leaned against the wall, sliding against to seat himself. “There was no other way. When I was a child, the fits would overtake me. Senkal, my caretaker, would sometimes get hurt.”
“Did Senkal ever tell you what kind of spirit touched you?”
“He told me it was a warrior spirit, but I know he said that only to protect me.”
“I’m sure he meant well.”
Gmork eyed the young monk. Unlike the others, he was oddly genuine, both in demeanor and stance. “So I repeat, boy, what do you want?”
“To help you quell the rage, to master yourself and take control of it.”
“Impossible, Senka tried to teach me the ways of our people, but the rage refused to be quelled.”
“If you’re willing, we can try again. I can teach what my brothers taught me and maybe subvert the influence of the thing that cursed you.”
The rattling of chains drew Gmork’s attention, and hidden in the shadows, sat his ‘other’ self, teasing the blacksteel chains between its fingers. Try as you may, you’ll never be free of me. I’m growing stronger, Gmork.
Gmork narrowed his eyes, then turned to Vahti. “When do we begin?”