The Pit
The crowd screamed, baying for blood, for death, their cries reverberating around the pit, rising to fever pitch as man and beast fought and died.
The sounds were dulled in the caverns beneath the pit, yet audible still to those who waited their turns in the gloom to step forth into the blood stained arena. Soon they would be forced to emerge from the darkness into the blinding sunlight, to fight for their very lives for a crowd who wanted naught but blood and agony and the killing blow. Men and women paced, or checked weapons and armour, anything to prepare themselves, to distract themselves, yet still the dull echo of the baying crowd could be heard. There was no escaping what was to come.
One immense fighter shifted, cloven hooves pawing at the sandy floor. There was exhilaration in the cries from above that mingled with stomach knotting terror to set the heart racing.
Nhakwata tossed his head, sweeping horns scything the air, great nostrils flaring and snorting. His tail slashed behind him as a giant hand fastened at the wolf’s head pendant that hung around his neck over his bare, white furred chest. There were no wolves in these lands Nhakwata had discovered, no wolves to lend him strength or lead him the far, far roads to home.
Jhatar, Jhatar, Jhatar! Nhakwata could hear the cry from the crowd go up. Beast, in their language, their name for him. They were calling for him, the crowd favourite.
An attendant came up to him, barely reaching Nhakwata’s throat. “It is time, Kwaza,” he said respectfully, holding out a small dish which held red dye. Nhakwata dipped a finger into it, using it to daub his face and his horns with the battle marks of his people. Another attendant struggled over with his immense stone hammer. It was the weapon of his people, a cylinder of carved green stone through which the handle ran, carved by his own hand to mark his skill as both a worker of stone and a warrior. He took hold up it, hefting it, feeling its familiar, comforting weight.
“Die well, Kwaza.” The waiting fighters called out to him, pounding fists to their hearts. Die well. Only here, where those that would soon die waited, was he respected. He was no beast to them, but known by the title of his own people, Kwaza, Mighty One. Only in these caverns, in this world so far from his own, had he found brothers, brothers whose lives were cut short by the whims of a fickle, blood lusting crowd.
He walked up the gate that led to the pits, hand gripping tight around his mace. Golden beams of sunlight streamed through gaps in the gate, almost blinding in its intensity. Two guards stood at the gate, in leather jerkins and armed with spears and shields. They nodded to Nhakwata, swinging open the gates. Bright sunlight flooded in and Nhakwata walked into it, out into the baking pit.
Elad staggered out into the pit, unceremoniously shoved through the gates by burly guards. The burning sun hammered down, glaring off sands marred with blood stains. His head throbbed dully, fingers probing at the lump at the side of his head that had caused it. He tried to swallow but his throat was parched and lips cracked.
The crowd was chanting, calling for the Beast. As his eyes accustomed to the glare, he looked up into the stands, the high walls tipped with sharpened wooden stakes. Men, woman and children packed the stands, robed and wearing head scarves to shade them from the sun, dark faces twisted in animalistic fury. Vendors moved amongst the crowds, selling roasted meats, fruits and drinks.
The far gates opened and his opponent emerged, a beast unlike any Elad seen before. It was immense, two and a half metres in height, and heavily built. Though it walked like a man, its feet were cloven hooves and its head was that of a bull, crowned by a pair of great horns. It was unarmoured and shirtless, revealing a hide of pure white, carrying a mace larger than any Elad had seen before. One blow from that weapon would be all that would be required, Elad knew, a blow to smash bones and crush life. The beast had red paint on its face, running down from its forehead between its eyes and down its snout. Further red paint ringed its white horns.
Drums sounded from the stands and the local lord stood up in his pavilion, shaded with red cloth, surrounded by guards and sycophantic aides, ever eagre to please.
“Today,” he called out, “We have an exhibition unlike any that you have seen before. Today, gracing our sands once more comes the ferocious, the undefeated, the Beast!” The crowds rose to their feet, screaming their approval. Elad watched as the beast raised its head, looking up at the crowd, its tail flickering. Elad felt that for a moment the beast looked mournful, saddened by the events unfolding.
“Facing him is one never to have graced our sands before. Behold, I give you one of the last Knights, the outlaw Elad!” The crowd was screaming again, but this time their faces were twisted in hate and fury. Elad managed to spit on the ground to show his contempt, the raising his sword, sweeping it around to point at them. The crowd intensified their hateful screams.
“Gladiators, die well!”
Nhakwata studied the men sent to oppose him as the pair slowly, cautiously circled. He was dark haired, though his skin was pale unlike those who lived in the region. From the north, then, and far from home. Not as far as Nhakwata himself, but far enough. The man’s face was bruised and the hatred exhibited by the crowds gave some indication that the man had been condemned to the pit to die, with no chance to win freedom as some could. A Knight. That was what the lord had called him. In his time in the pits, only rumours had come to him of them. Fierce warriors, they had been mostly destroyed when the old Empire had gone down into ruin and devastation. Few remained, and those that did were disliked, hated even, for they reminded people of a more civilised time, when such entertainment as he was forced into would not have been permitted.
“They hate you, North Man,” Nhakwata said to the man. The man paused, in his step, eyeing Nhakwata warily, looking faintly surprised. He had obviously not expected Nhakwata to speak.
“And they seem to love you, Beast.”
Nhakwata tossed his head. “Only because I kill for them, and am good at it.”
“And they hate me because I kill them and I am good at it.”
The pair has almost stopped their circling, and the crowd were getting restless, screaming for the pair to fight, to kill, yet curiosity stayed their hands.
“Nhakwata, Kwaza of my people, the Stonemaul Tribe.”
“Elad, Knight of the Ardent Flame, formally Lord Elad of Kellat. What manner of creature are you? I have not seen your likes before.”
“Nor will you again. My people are Minotaurs, and we live on a distant world.”
“I had not thought that possible.” The jeers and insults from the crowd continued to rise as the fight ground down to a farcical non-event. Elad turned and gave them a mocking laugh and a bow, which only further incensed them.
“Careful,” Nhakwata warned, speaking quietly, “They like not being taunted.”
“What can they do? Kill me?” Elad asked, still gesturing to the crowd. “I was dead when I entered the pit, and I fear them not.”
The lord had risen to his feet, face livid as he screamed at a nearby guard. Nhakwata knew what was to come. He had seen it before. “The true Beast comes.”
When the Beast, Nhakwata, had spoken, Elad had been surprised. He had not expected words from such an unlikely looking creature, a Minotaur was the word Nhakwata had used. Yet as they spoke, Elad had sensed something in Nhakwata, a strength and nobility of character not yet tainted by the pits or the dying world they wandered.
He should not have taunted the crowd, he knew, but he was damned if he was going to be an accomplice to their pleasure at this spectacle. There would be repercussions, and the only regrets he had were that it would impact upon Nhakwata.
“The true Beast comes,” Nhakwata said, turning to face a vast gate in the south wall of the pit, the beast pits. The gates ground slowly open, groaning as they did. A roaring screech echoed from beyond them, carrying above the sounds of the crowds, momentarily silencing them, before their cheers erupted once more in approval.
The beast thundered through the gates, screeching as it came. Twice the length of a horse, it was stocky and low slung, supported by four wide spread legs. A long, spiked tail lashed behind it, while it had a ripping beak like snout. A fan of spikes sprouted from the back of its head, protecting the neck, while heavy scales covered its body, scales of black and grey and red.
It was a small one. Elad had seen Behemoths three times larger, crushing armoured knights beneath them in their relentless charges, beaks snapping men in twain and bodies soaking up formidable punishment.
The Behemoth saw the pair of them and charged, clawed feet digging deep into the ground, throwing up sand as it ran. Elad exchanged a quick glance with Nhakwata before the pair scattered, running in opposite directions to avoid the charge. The Behemoth pounded after Elad, backing him up against the wall of the pit. The razor sharp beak snapped, Elad diving out of the way just in time as it snapped shut a handspan from him. The crowd screamed their approval, urging the Behemoth on.
As Elad rolled to his feet, he saw Nhakwata move to the side of the Behemoth, and hammer a double handed blow of astonishing power into its side, the heavy stone mace head slamming home with an audible crunch. The Behemoth’s screech was deafening and it whipped around with a speed belying its size, beak snapping at the Minotaur that tormented it.
Its attention distracted, Elad moved behind the Behemoth, leaping as the spiked tail came sweeping around. It clipped his legs, taking them out from under him. Elad fell, sprawling onto the sand, loosing his grip on his sword, which clattered away out of reach.
The Behemoth began to turn, attracted by the noise. Nhakwata stepped up, bellowing a raucous challenge and bringing the mace slamming down again onto his snout. The Behemoth turned its attention back onto Nhakwata, thumping after the Minotaur as he backed off. Elad took advantage of the diversion Nhakwata provided to scramble to his feet and retrieve his sword. The Minotaur was being forced backward by the snapping beak and raking claws, though as yet he remained untouched.
There was only one choice, really, Elad knew. It was reckless and risky, yet there was nothing for it. He ran at the beast, silent until he leapt, when he let out a roar, screaming to challenge the fear that was rising in him. His legs surged, propelling him upwards and he landed heavily on the Behemoth’s back, almost over balancing and stumbling off. The Behemoth thrashed at the weight of Elad on his back, trying to throw the interloper off.
Its attention on the man on his back, Nhakwata resumed his assault on the beast. The cheers of the crowd were distant now, almost unheard. All attention was on the creature before him. The mace rose and then descended, smashing down into one of the fore legs of a beast. There was a grinding crack as the blow struck, and the leg gave way to the sounds of piercing screeches. The mace slammed into the leg again, further crippling it, the beats screeches pitiful now.
Elad pulled himself along the back of the thrashing beast, before rising unsteadily to his feet, bracing himself. Taking a double handed grip on the hilt of his sword, he drove it down with all his strength, screaming as he did. The blow jarred, wrenching his grip from the sword, but it had struck true, driving through the scales of the neck just behind the spined frill. Black blood sprayed from the wound, and the beast crumpled, throwing Elad from his back as it squealed and tossed. Elad landed heavily, driving the breath from his lungs, momentarily dazed.
From where he lay, shaking his head to clear it, Elad saw Nhakwata step up to the Behemoth. The Minotaur raised his mace high, and then with a roaring cry brought the weapon whistling downwards. The stone head smashed into the Behemoth’s head, and the pitiful screeches and thrashing lessened. Once, twice, thrice more the mace slammed down onto the Behemoth’s head until at last it lay still and silent, black blood pooling on the sand and the head crushed out of shape.
There was a shocked silence from the crowd at the death of the Behemoth, unable to believe what they had seen. Elad picked himself up, walked over to the beast and wrenched his sword clear. He gazed up at the crowd, who were once more beginning to shout, and a cunning smile lit up his face.
“You wish to be free, Nhakwata?”
The giant white Minotaur stared at Elad, his face unreadable to the human. “Of course.”
Elad nodded up to where the lord sat in his pavilion. “Think you could get me up there?”
Nhakwata’s laugh was deep, rumbling. “That would be of no great effort.”
The difficulty would not lie in throwing the human, but what would happen beyond that, Nhakwata knew. There would be no leniency shown, yet the human seemed unconcerned by that.
The pair approached the pavilion, as was normal for the victorious to salute the lord.
“Now Nhakwata!” Elad growled. Nhakwata dropped his mace, reaching down with cupped hands. Elad grinned a terrible grin as he placed a foot in Nhakwata’s hand, who then heaved, thrusting Elad upwards.
The man flew upwards as startled cried broke out from amongst the crowd, landing heavily in the pavilion. The lord gaped, mouth opening and shutting as he tried to take in just what was happening.
Elad’s sword sung out in a glittering arc, tearing out the lord corpulent throat before his guards could react. Blood sprayed from the wound, pouring down over the obese body. The lord’s eyes blinked a few time, then his head slumped back, body twitching.
Two guards ran at Elad, swords drawn, their wits recovered from the surprise attack. Blades flashed and rang as they struck each other, then Elad pushed forward, sword whipping at his foes, taking the fight to them. There was the need to defeat them before more arrived and he was overwhelmed. With a mighty bellow, Elad sent one reeling away with a deep cut to the shoulder, and then parried the return thrust from his comrade. The two men stayed motionless, blades locked together as they strained to push the other back.
All of a sudden Elad slammed his head forward, cracking it into the guards face. He felt the man’s nose smash under the force of the blow, sending him staggering back, blood flowing freely with a startled yelp. The blood stained blade rose and fell like an executioner’s axe and the guard crumpled, head cleft.
There was a moment of pause, before the sycophantic aides made a dash for their lives, squealing in terror at the blood stained butcher that had descended into their midst. More guards were on their way to pavilion, though none had yet arrived. Spectators had risen to their feet, craning their necks to see what was going on, and a murmur ran amongst them.
A small brazier sat in the pavilion, despite the heat, there to roast nuts or meat for the lord. Elad reached into it, taking a hold of a glowing coal in it with his left hand. He raised his hand, and flames began to lick around them, the burst into a blaze. The air around him began to shimmer from the heat, flames erupting across the covers of the pavilion.
Elad held out his arms to the crowd, sword in one, flames in the other. “You come for death?” he bellowed at them. “I shall give you death, for I fear it not. I walk amongst the flames and death untouched, for I am Elad, a Master of the Order of the Ardent Flame, and I will show you death!”
A guard ran up the steps towards the pavilion and Elad’s burning hand swung around to point at him. Whips of flame lashed out, enveloping him. The man screamed in agony as he went up like a torch. Staggering backwards, he fell to the sandy floor of the pit, writhing from the pain that racked his body.
Another guard ran from the other side of the pavilion, slashing with his sword as he yeller. Elad blocked the blow, and then swung his sword in a downward arc, taking the guard’s leg out from beneath him. As the man fell back cursing from the pain, Elad drove his sword down, ending the man’s life.
The flames began to intensify, bursting in to full and furious life. As they began to spread from the pavilion across to the rest of arena, the crowd began to panic, their terrified screams splitting the air. They ran, pushing and shoving against each other, impeding guards who sought to reach Elad, trampling underfoot those who fell in the panic. Elad remained in the pavilion, waiting for the guard to come to him.
Nhakwata had watched Elad land in the pavilion, cutting down first the lord then his guards. The sheer audacity of the attack had amazed him, but Elad’s survival could no longer be his concern. He retrieved his mace, striding back towards the gates that lead into the caverns beneath the pits. The gates were remarkably flimsy wooden affairs and Nhakwata hefted his mace into them, splintering wood under the force of the blow. A second strike smashed through. Nhakwata kicked the remnants out of the way, seeing two guards nervously facing him.
“Go now if you wish to live,” Nhakwata rumbled at them. The two men backed away, then ran rather than face the fury of the giant, battle hardened Minotaur that loomed before them.
Another guard, braver than the first two, ran at Nhakwata. A gladiator waiting his turn in the gloom stuck out a leg in the path of the guard, sending him sprawling. A second, shaven headed, gladiator dived on the fallen guard, driving an elbow into the back of his head with a sickening crunch.
There were shouts of alarm from the guards, and vengeful cries from the gladiators as they turned on the guards, overpowering them in a vicious brawl in the darkened caverns, in the sort of brutal close quarter fighting the gladiators excelled in. Guards were brought to the ground and beaten lifeless with rocks, chains, fists and feet, anything that the gladiators could lay hands on. The guards fought back with terrified fury, stabbing and slashing at any that got close, trying to escape.
Cells were wrenched open, chains broken and more gladiators were freed, arming themselves with the weapons of the fallen until the armoury was taken and proper weapons could be equipped.
There were screams and shouts, the sound of iron striking iron or flesh, bodies falling, some lifeless, others moaning or writhing and everywhere blood.
Nhakwata pushed his way through the brawl, stepping over bodies as he headed for the gates leading out of the caverns, the gates to freedom. There at least the guards held sway, six men with spears and shields blocking the gates, before them sprawled the bodies of three men in growing pools of blood. They looked nervous, fearing that at any moment the mass would spill their way, but they stood resolute none the less.
Nhakwata stalked towards them, mace held high. “Be gone,” he rumbled. A few of the guards licked their lips, glancing at each other apprehensively, but none moved. Nhakwata pawed at the ground with his hoof, then bellowed with all his strength, an ear splitting sound that reverberated around the caverns.
He charged. The guards were taken back by the terror of the bellow and the suddenness of the charge, two and a half metres of killing machine bearing down on them in all its fury.
The mace swung around, crushing down on one guards head, reducing it to a battered pulp of bones and blood and gore, broken teeth clattering across the ground. A spear stabbed at Nhakwata, slicing across his chest, crimson blood seeping down over his white fur. Horns arced through the air as Nhakwata tossed his head, slashing open another guard, then a third was down as a backhanded blow smashed aside a shield and crashed into the mans chest.
A woman scream sounded from behind Nhakwata as a gladiator, her hair long and pale, threw herself onto a guard, snarling, clawing and biting. The man staggered back, spear falling from his grip. He tried to draw a dagger as she raked at his eyes, blood swelling from claw marks across his face. The dagger fumbled free and stabbed, driving into the woman’s abdomen. Despite the blow her attacks never faulted until a second then third blow drove into her, while another guard stabbed a spear into her back.
It was the last attack he made, for a massive fist closed around his neck, an iron grip that raised the struggling man off his feet and slammed his face into the wall, leaving a bloody smear.
Other gladiators arrived, joining in as their shouts keened for blood, the last guards dispatched with the brutality born of the vicious existence they had been forced into.
The gates that led to freedom, to the town beyond the pit, were barred by a heavy beam, though it proved no obstacle for Nhakwata. He heaved it up and tossed it aside, while cheering gladiators pulled the gates open. There was a smell of smoke in the air, drifting through the caverns. Somewhere a fire was burning.
The gladiators, lead by Nhakwata, surged through the gates, stolen weapons ready to use if need be. They were in an enclosed courtyard, with high walls and an iron gate at the far end. Through it they could see people running, shoving each other and screaming as panic gripped them. Nhakwata looked back up at the pit, seeing pillars of smoke pouring into the skies, ashes and embers sucked upwards. A figure stood above them, sword in one hand, his other engulfed by fire to the elbow. It was Elad, Nhakwata saw, and for a moment he thought the Knight had become a victim of the fires above. Yet the man showed neither signs of pain nor awareness of the fires on his arm.
Elad stepped from the edge, flames trailing behind him as he fell to a wagon below. The landing was ungainly, sword springing free and Elad tumbling onto his face. The flames at his arm flickered and then the wagon began smouldering. Elad rolled off the wagon, picked up his sword and smiled broadly at Nhakwata. “Shall we be leaving this villainous place?”
“How,” Nhakwata asked “Is that fire not affecting you?”
“I am a Knight of the Ardent Flame,” Elad replied, even as he strode towards the gate. “They do not touch me.”
Nhakwata strode after the knight, the freed gladiators following the giant Minotaur. “But control of fire, that is not possible. At least not where I am from.”
“It is here.” Elad reached the gate, giving it a kick. It rattled, but a heavy lock barred its opening. “Break it down.” Elad ordered. Gladiators leapt onto the gate, hauling it back and forward. Grinds and groans came from the protesting metal but to no avail, for it was wrenched open to cheering.
Elad stepped out of the courtyard into the street beyond, looking either direction. The crowds were gone now apart from a few who lay groaning on the ground, trampled during the stampede. The fires in his hand were flickering, dying out. The rage that sustained them was subsiding. Elad concentrated, willing the fires back to life, feeding them with all the anger and bitterness he could muster from his soul, sweat beading across his brow.
“Soldiers!” someone called out, pointing down the street that lead in the direction to escape town. A unit of men with large shields and spears, faces obscured by full faced helms, were marching down the street. They stopped, lining across the street, blocking the way with a wall of shields.
“It appears that we shall have to go through them,” Nhakwata rumbled. Elad nodded as he studied the enemy. It would not be an easy target to break through. “You and I leading the way?” he suggested.
Nhawkata tapped at the ground with a hoof, scratching at the dirt. He snorted, shaking his head, then raised his mace high. Taking a deep breath, the Minotaur bellowed something in a language that Elad could not understand, but many of the gladiators took up the cry, pumping the air with their weapons. Nhakwata’s cry was defeaning, echoing amongst the streets and buildings. The he roared and charged.
The ground shook under his hooves, his warcry long and loud. The sight would have been terrifying from the other side, Elad knew, a massive horned monster wielding a weapon that few would have the strength to swing, blood staining his white fur, bellowing warcries fit to wake the dead. Elad ran after him, joined by the freed gladiators as they surged behind Nhakwata.
The mace slammed down as Nhawkata reached the lines, the shield it hit shattering under the force of the blow, the man behind it screaming as his arm snapped. Spears stabbed forwad, but Nhakwata was amongst them, pounding, stomping and goring, oblivious to any wounds. Elad screamed at a soldier who was drawing back his spear to stab into Nhakwata’s back, flames erupting from his hands to lick over the soldier. The man went down, writhing, and Elad slashed down with his sword, ending his pain. The gladiators spilled over the wavering wall, screaming their anger and hate as they stabbed, clawed and bludgeoned the stunned soldiers. Men staggered back or fell to the ground, the dirt thick with blood and all around where the cried of battle. Over it all towered Nhakwata, gore soaked mace rising and falling again and again as he hammered back the soldiers, leaving a wake of crushed bodies in his trail.
The soldiers broke. The fury of Nhakwata’s charge, the fires and vengeance that followed in its wake was not that which they were used to and so they ran. Nhakwata leant wearily on his mace, breathing deeply. A score of cuts marred his body and blood flowed freely, yet none were major.
“They will return,” he warned. “We must go.”
“Can you make it?” Elad asked him, studying the wounds. There was a lot of blood that he could see, though a creature as large as Nhakwata would undoubtedly have a lot of blood to loose.
“I am not done yet,” he replied, lips curled in an unusual manner that Elad took for what passed as a smile for a Minotaur.
“Good. Let us be leaving.”
They ran, the wounded carried or aided, far from the town. Across the plains, the burning of the pit could be seen from afar, a vast pillar of smoke and fire that raged unchecked.
They ran until there legs burned and lungs gasped at air and they could run no more. They sheltered in some hills to the south of the town, seeking shade beneath a grove of olive trees. Elad checked on the wounded. Some would not make it, but they would not be left behind for the retribution of the townsfolk. Better to die with comrades than alone at the hands of a vengeful mob.
“I have friends,” Elad announced, “A place were we can be safe, at least for a while.”
“Where were they when you were in the pit?” a narrow-faced, dark-eyed gladiator asked as he tied a bandage around his leg.
“I got careless,” Elad admitted. “And they did not know where I was going.” The gladiator, Elad noticed, looked over to Nhakwata. Most of them did. The Minotaur slowly nodded. “It is a good offer, Abasan. This one is honourable.”
“Then I shall go with him,” Abasan replied.
“You shall all go.”
Abasan’s face narrowed in thought. “But not you?”
“No, not I.”
“Where will you go?” Elad asked him. “These lands are not are for you.”
Nhakwata sighed, then tossed his head to dislodge a fly that buzzed around him. “No they are not. This is why I must seek to return to my home.”
“We will come with you, Kwaza,” Abasan told him, and other gladiators murmured their agreement.
“The way will not be easy,” Nhakwata told him, “Not the likelihood that we shall succeed.”
“We will come with you, nonetheless.”
“Then I will welcome you, brothers. And you, Elad?”
“I will seek for my friends. This is my world and I shall not leave it, even if it goes down in fire and ruin.”
Nhakwata offered Elad his hand. “Die well, Elad.”
“I will, brother. But that is not this day, for today I live.”
