Daggers in the Dark (Book 3 of Hanthalah)

Chapter 10

This chapter is dedicated to my friend  abusiveblueberries

The gladiator in this chapter is based on her. 

The air was dense and moist. Thick plumes of smoke rose like beefy fingers in a drift upward in the seemingly never-ending abyss that was the roof of the pits. I chafed beneath the layers of cloth and mail as I hefted my shield and blade that seemed to grow heavier by the minute. There was an incessant itch on my chin that I dared not scratch lest I lower my guard.

My shawled opponent whirled in a flash as I panted heavily beneath the blood-spattered tail of my turban slung over my face. Three men had fallen to the bite of my blade that night, three times men had glared up at me with glossy eyes, a silent plea in their eyes to spare their souls. Three times the crowd roared their vile cheers as I showed no clemency. Three times bodies dropped; the crowd always enjoyed the display more when one of the combatants was slain.

A merrier crowd meant more earnings from the bouts, but I cared not for gold nor silver in the depths of the underground. This abominable haven of scum was my last resort in the face of capricious fate, my outlet for a flowing rage that needed to be curbed at every waking hour until I felt as though I were to burst.

No doubt the bets among the onlookers sweating like pigs would be in my favor, for I did not disappoint this evening.

Down there, I was the Desert Warrior. Faceless, bereft of identity. Death given form.

My opponent was half my size, clad all in tight leather garment, a shawl shadowing his face. He bore no shield and swung no sword in his tiny hands; only a pair of razor thin daggers polished to a bright sheen.

There was a brief moment of bliss before the bouts commenced, when our eyes interlocked, and I got a good look at his face. He was a man of the lands far to the east, perhaps the fabled China. His features were delicate, his eyes narrow and slanted, his cheekbones high and shaved soft.

After that brief moment, he was but a whirlwind to my vision, a being of extraordinary agility, surpassing even that of Mundhir.

"Desert Warrior!" I heard a number of spectators call out, urging me on, calling for the blood of my foe.

But though I was exhausted from the day's slaughter, my clothes stained and spattered with pools of enemy blood, the battle drunkenness rushed through me, fueled on by a rage that refused to be quelled and a dozen skins of beer that prompted a numbness of my nerves.

My eyes were fixed on a potentially lethal foe, yet my mind raced with flashes of a horrid memory – of a cheerful boy, oblivious of the cruelty of this world. Dangling in the gleaming sun, kicking joyfully and giggling, hurled away by an inhumane beast.

My eastern foe pranced this way and that, a marvelous display of speed, zooming back and forth across the crowd. The opponents I faced in the pits were almost always slaves, pressed into combat by avaricious masters; no man was sane enough to brave the volatile and all too often erratic nature of the pits. No one wanted to die, alone and forgotten in a gloomy abyss, jeers and uncouth accusations being the last sounds to pound against his ears.

As a result, the slaves were forced to use eccentric means to impress the bloodthirsty crowd. Their masters would only earn a substantial income if the crowd was impressed enough to donate more coin. They used unconventional weaponry, unique garments and equipment, prolonged the death of their enemies by prancing about or performing ridiculous moves. It only served as a hindrance to both stamina and fate. I never failed to capitalize on their shortcomings.