"The prisoner is secured!"
The driver cracked his whip. The wagon lurched and rolled forward.
The crowd roared as the wagon wheeled slowly through crowded, dusty streets lined by buildings of clay bricks and tiles. Shops had their shutters and doors closed. The merchants and sellers had not brought out their wares, for every nook and cranny of the town was crammed to bursting. Muddy fishermen stood shoulder to shoulder with silk clothed merchants, and even bejeweled nobles dotted the crowds, forced to abandon their palanquins. One and all they crowded together to see history made.
Flags and banners bearing the Red Dragon emblem rippled in the throngs. Those who did not curse Marcellus raised their voices in song. Women waved their arms and shook tambourines, while some of the men beat leather-capped drums as they walked behind the heavily guarded wagon. The crowds surged and pushed against the line of guards, only to be beaten back by cudgels and cracking whips.
All the while they mercilessly rained down anything handy to throw. Marcellus' forehead and right cheek stung with cuts, his half-healed wounds throbbed.
But he refused to cower. He stared straight ahead, heedless of the furious crowd. Time no longer existed, pain was a memory, and the roaring crowd faded into whispers. In time they became mere blurs of movement as he concentrated inwardly, shutting out everything around him.
It was only when the wagon stopped that he realized they had reached their destination: the high-raised walls of the Alaku Ehus—the Dying House. He finally understood why they transferred him from the capitol to the less grand city of Radoth.
So he could die in the arena.
Savage gladiatorial fighting had been outlawed in the provinces of Leodia, replaced by more civilized tourneys and the Great Games. King Lucretius declared gladiator battles a useless exercise in bloodlust that turned men into animals. Though it continued in secret where men could get away with it, the deadliest fighters and their masters had chosen exile beyond the Dragonspine, where in Bruallia they could still perform their opera of death and glory.
No stadium was more notorious than the Alaku Ehus, in the heart of Bruallia where Valdemar Basilis took great delight in orchestrating one bloodbath after another. The most skilled warrior trembled at those gates, where nothing was assured but a grisly death at the hands of men and women so skilled at killing and maiming that at their hands it was an art form.
More lines of soldiers cleared a path to a stone-lined opening outside the wall where large iron-barred doors opened from the ground. Marcellus was unchained and ushered to the steps that led into the belly of the Alaku Ehus. Flickering torches barely illuminated the roughly hewn stone of the walls. Two more armed guards wearing bestial helmets flanked wide, heavy double doors at the end of the tunnel. With them was a very familiar smirking figure.
"The prisoner is to be unshackled before entering." Gile Noman looked as coarse and disheveled as he had when he betrayed Marcellus in battle. As the guards cautiously approached, the traitor directed his good eye to Marcellus. "Good to see you again, m'lord. I trust you've been enjoying the hospitality of our gracious host?" He tilted his head mockingly "Aw, what's the matter, no greeting for your old friend Gile? No?"
His raspy laugh was the only sound as the guards removed Marcellus' bonds. What they saw on his face caused them to reach for their weapons.
Gile's laughter cut off short. He sneered at Marcellus' murderous expression. "Come now, m'lord, don't do anything rash. You're to die out there, and I won't risk Valdemar's wrath to teach you manners. I'm here to present you with the arms you'll take to the field of battle." He picked up two objects that were leaning against the wall and thrust them at Marcellus.
"Much work went into the craftsmanship." A twisted grin spread across his face. "Have a care how you use them."
It was a sword and shield, at least in theory. The sword was a practice weapon; wooden slats tied together with twine and fitted with a handle, such as used by novices training in swordsmanship. The shield was a flimsy round jest, sheetwood encircled by a rim of flattened metal and nailed loosely together. A child's plaything, something he could punch through with his fist.
Valdemar had been telling the truth. It was to be an execution, not a real fight at all.
Marcellus held his calm as he looked at Gile. "I'll use them well."
He swung the practice sword with all his strength. The slats slapped against Gile's shocked face and held for a second before they burst apart, scoring splinters in the man's cheek and forehead and narrowly missing his good eye. The guards pulled Marcellus away before he could shove the jagged remains into Gile's throat.
Gile clutched his face and howled as droplets of blood spattered from between his fingers. "You bleeding sard! I'd strangle you with your own guts if you didn't have worse coming. You're maggot food, you hear me? The buzzards will have their fill of you!" He continued to curse and threaten as he was led away by a pair of guards.
Marcellus ignored Gile as he hefted the shield. Completely useless.
"Don't force us to kill you," one the guards said. Marcellus hadn't noticed the dozen blades glinting dully in the half-lit chamber. A step forward and all his worries and pain would be over.
Death and glory.
The guard gestured to the doors. "You die in here. Or you die out there."
Marcellus nodded. "I'll die out there."
The guard signaled, and the two at the door grasped the great stone handles and pulled. Muscles knotted in their arms as the massive doors slowly opened. Bright daylight and a cloud of grainy dust rushed in along with a savage, guttural roar; the cries of a thousand hate-filled tongues caught in the ecstasy of bloodlust.
It was Marcellus' blood that they called for.
The sound of their animal howling made the crowds he had passed through earlier seem tame by comparison. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward. The doors quickly slammed behind him. He was left to face the fury of the mob in the most fearsome arena made by human hands.
Alaku Ehus was a massive circular monstrosity hacked out of the earth, carved of granite and sandstone with rows of benched seats leading downward to the arena floor where the hapless victims were separated from the crowd by a thick stone wall. Towering poles were erected haphazardly, engraved with every sort of vulgarity and fixed with blades and spikes of various lengths. The only exits were the doors that shut behind him, and the doors on the opposite side where the other contestants would enter.
As Marcellus became visible, the crowd's roars grew even louder, if that were possible. He felt the waves of pure murderous hatred that bore down upon him, invisible hands that crushed his shoulders and gripped his throat, forcing him to breathe nothing but the choking dust that swirled about the arena.
He raised his mock shield in salute to the mob that hated him.
Trumpets sounded from the balconies, and rose petals rained around the far doors. The noise of the crowd changed from hatred to adulation without pause as dragon banners waved to and fro across the stadium. When the far doors slowly opened with a heavy creaking sound, the crowds cheered as though they were the gates to the heavens.
Marcellus' heart tried to beat its way out of his chest.
Now!
Ducking low, he sprinted forward as all eyes turned to the emerging Lord of Bruallia.
Valdemar Basilis emerged from the gloom of the tunnel, a dark god riding on a magnificent fiery-colored steed that stepped as if it were the king of horses. A dragon-emblazoned scarlet surcoat covered the warlord's gleaming black mail. His dragon-engraved helmet was equipped with heavy leather lames that fell to his shoulders. A scarlet-lined silk cape fluttered behind him to complete his look of the triumphant conqueror. As the flower petals drifted upon his head and shoulders, he raised gloved hands to the crowds who worshiped him.