Land of Shadows (The Legend of the Gate Keeper Book 1) (2 page)

The warrior spun towards the last would-be threat only to find his situation was not so much better than his friends’. The girl appeared to have pulled two daggers out of thin air and was slashing in a circular pattern around the third leather’s head, a tactic Morcel had seen many times to throw an opponent off balance.

The trained mercenary made a quick hand movement towards the inside of his leather armor and produced a dagger of his own, then slashed twice at the girl in what appeared to be one clean, skilled movement. The first slash caught nothing but air, for the girl easily ducked under the lightning-quick strike. The second slash clanged loudly, and was solidly intercepted by the girl’s own dagger. The parry was followed by five snakelike strikes of her own, three of which found their home right across the man’s face.

Knowing her strikes were true, the girl immediately jumped back, holding one knee pressed to the ground while holding both daggers crossed in front of her face—clearly a defensive stance—waiting to see if her opponent would counter. Howling in agony, the leather stumbled backwards as he waved his dagger blindly in the general direction of the girl. She did not pursue her attacker, but watched him fumble around, covered in his own blood. Watching him, she waited...and measured. The very second he slowed down from flailing at nothing, she sent her dagger through the air, like an arrow shot from a long bow. It buried deep into his eye socket. She then closed the distance and quickly retrieved her dagger from its temporary home, slashing across his throat twice with her remaining blade, all with lightning-quick precision.

The corpse jolted, remaining upright for a second longer, then collapsed to the ground. The girl whirled around furiously to make sure there were no other immediate threats.

What did I just see? That was impossible!
Shaking his head in disbelief, Morcel focused his attention on the girl, who was now floating towards him with all the grace of a panther sneaking through tall grass. All common logic told him he couldn’t be in any danger; she was just a young girl. But his internal warrior instincts—instincts built up through many battles—had him on edge, and he could not ignore the alarm going off in his head. Before he’d even realized it, she was face to face with him.

The girl, still gripping both bloody daggers, was rather unassuming: slight of build, with long, black hair flowing down past her shoulders, but her eyes were every bit as intense as Morcel’s. Even in this dark alley, he could see her brilliant, crystal-blue eyes burning with intensity. The two met each other’s gaze unblinkingly. Deep-blue crystals locked with shiny green emeralds.

“Get out of here quickly,” the warrior rumbled, not taking his eyes off the girl for a second. She held his gaze a few more seconds, which felt like minutes, then bowed deeply. She clearly was not afraid of him, and he could not help but wonder if fate somehow had a sense of humor. It seemed, in hindsight, he had helped the one person in the village who needed it the least.

The blue-eyed girl stepped towards the boy, who had not moved a twitch through any of this, then suddenly twirled to face Morcel again. “No!” she screamed.

Crash.

White-hot pain shot though the back of the large warrior’s head. It jolted down his spine and sent dizzying waves of nausea through his whole body.
Wha…what just happened? Who…have to…
His clouded mind couldn’t hold on to a coherent thought. The world seemed to spin all around as the ground came up to meet him with a
thud
. Clinging to consciousness by a thread, he watched as the girl appeared to be sprinting along the wall sideways then disappear into the night.

“Go after the girl!” came a muffled voice from behind him. It sounded far away to his barely conscious mind.

Now even farther away, he heard someone saying, “Kill the boy and take the traitor.”

“What are we going to do with him?” came a fuzzy reply.

“We will say he attacked one of us. No one will question everyone’s word against his. Soon he’ll be just another slave.”

* * *

“Slave! Answer me when I’m talking to you, slave!”

Brought back from his dark memories only to refocus on his even darker reality, the warrior’s eyes came into focus and fell on the fat, hairy specimen standing before him. The monstrosity hovering over him appeared to be more beast than man. A large bald head sat upon a pear-shaped body. That head seemed to be the only part of him that didn’t have hair, as thick, black, wiry fur covered every inch of this beast’s body. Black leather boots were the most functional clothing he seemed to be wearing. A thin black
mawashi
held up by one leather strap that looped around his right shoulder finished the comical attire. Not a battle scar of any kind could be seen on this mushy man’s body. Pushing around slaves was the closest this thing had ever gotten to real combat. Any man could see that.

Morcel did not stand, but raised his head just enough to show he was listening.

“It begins soon, so you better get ready. Pray to whatever it is you pray to and prepare yourself!” shrieked the mountain of flabby skin with eyes, in a voice more fit for a boy than a man, especially a man of his size.

This time, the warrior leapt up to his feet and locked his eerie green eyes on the man. He never changed his expression or uttered a single word.

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. “Alright then, but you have to follow my lead. You understand?”