Author: Djarjak
Title: The Gladiator - Chapter 1
Date: 2006-06-07 21:56:12
Type: Stories
Synopsis: Djarjak, mul gladiator slave is introduced
Title: The Gladiator - Chapter 1
Date: 2006-06-07 21:56:12
Type: Stories
Synopsis: Djarjak, mul gladiator slave is introduced
The rumbling noise of a thousand people is only a distant murmur here. Clay and stone surrounds Djarjak, the dried grasses strewn here and there are a privilege he has only recently been given. Yet, he is far from the breeding pens and the work stalls where he began. Now he has a room. His Room. Ownership: not something often given to the owned. And, above, the crowds shout his name.
Taking the set of flimsy sticks he has been allowed to practice with in his hands, he begins to dance. Slowly at first, the muscles on his back begin to limber with the activity. Flexibility as important as strength, clarity of mind even moreso, he lets his thoughts drift and loosen with his limbs.
A soft knock comes at the door. Djarjak does not know how long it has been since he began the dancing. Sweat drips slowly from his hairless brow, the torchlight trailing down from the bone-meshed bars above. He looks to the door and lowers his weapons from a posture of practice into that of defense. "Who goes?"
"It's me, Hest" squeaks a voice from the other side of the stone and wood slab. "We need help."
Djarjak grimaces, his face darkened by the artificial twilight."Who is it?"
"Tjan."
"Tjan? Tjan is dead." Small fingers peek around the edge of the door, and the mousy thief's face peers in from the gloom.
The thief shakes his head, "No. Escaped. They caught him. He's hurt pretty badly. Vark needs your help with him."
"Where?"
"The lows. Dunbrek's."
Djarjak nods his head, slinging the sticks over his shoulders in the criss-cross leather sling, and walks into the corridor.
Hest shambles along in front of Djarjak, the thief's leg permanently lamed by a fight with a dujat. Now he hides in the corners of the pits to avoid being thrown into the arena again. Cowardly. But he hides well. It draws an odd sort of respect from the other criminals and the slaves. Even the gladiators have a grudging appreciation of it, but it is not a point of respect. It is they who must risk their hides in the arena instead.
As they walk, the ceiling slopes downward. Shouts from eager gamblers and bloodthirsty laborers wax and wane in a lusty crescendo growing ever more distant beneath the increasing layers of stone. The torchlight flickers blandly off the roughly hewn sandstone and grows dimmer as the air grows warmer and becomes stifling with moisture.
The lows are where the animals are kept. The smell of gortok and gwoshi and blood mingles with dung and sweat. Grunting and hissing noises here and there reveal sign of some darker denizens.
The unruly gladiators are kept here.
Djarjak shudders in spite of himself. 'He who does not obey is deprived the glory of the Highlord.'
There are always rumors.
The overseers seldom watch the lows. Food and water is not provided here. Those who wish to survive must travel for it, or bargain. It is the arena within the arena, where a man will barter his soul to a devil only to have it eaten for his trouble.
It is the only place for slaves to go to avoid the attention of the servants to the King.
A dark shadow passes overhead. Hest and the mul gladiator press themselves hurriedly against the wall as the footsteps rattle on the bone grid ceiling. The silhouette of a human slaver in a sandcloth aba walks stiffly between the hidden slaves and the torches. Djarjak doesn't dare a breath. Quickly, the man passes, yet it is only after a slow count of thirty that the two allow themselves to move from below.
As they peel themselves away from the wall, a voice sounds nearby. "Harrumm. Slack, there, then, letting the spear-chuckers see you."
Djarjak unsheathes the sticks quickly and without thinking, a low growl coming from his throat. Hest lets out a yelp of surprise and leaps behind Djarjak's bulk.
With a grating chuckle, a tall and spidery figure strolls out of the darkness ahead. "Wary, little mul..." smiling,the figure's angular head then swivels on spindly-thin shoulders tos tare at the little thief with almost insectoid intensity, "and...Hest."
"Blast it all, Dunbrek!" Djarjak slaps his sticks against the stone with a dull thwack. "How do you do that?"
"Do what, little mul? Perhaps your eyes only go dim with age, humm?" The wide-set silvery green eyes blink in a picture of innocence from the hatchet-face.
Djarjak growls again, muttering, "Dirty breed."
"Yes, little mul," he nods, "But only half of me. Half of me is half of you. All of us pointy-ears. Pointy-ears, pointy-ears, pointy-ears, harrumm... But you are late. Come."
Setting off in long strides, the almost seven foot tall half-elf assassin strides further into the heat and dark as Djarjak and Hest grudgingly follow.
Dunbrek's cell is a large one, spread with woven mats that few doubt are stolen. Lanterns light the place, and a small chest sits in one corner. Bargains with demons have kept the place intact, and few would risk what awaits them to contest it.
A short, human woman with ratty-blonde hair wearing the torn robes of an ex-pleasure slave bends over a figure lying on the floor. As they enter, she looks up to them, her face grimed and solemnly set.
Hest smiles to her and stammers a bit. "H-hello, Vark. I b-brought him, like you asked."
Her face lightens slightly and her lips curl as she nods. "Thank you. But there is little time. I will need your aid, Djarjak, if you will give it."
Djarjak, his skin dark brown in the torchlight, makes his way to the cot where a mangled figure lies twisted into an impossible shape. The woman turns to look at the figure as she says, "His bones will need to be re-set before I can deal with the rest of his wounds. I need you to help me set them. I'll show you how."
The mul nods, his expression becoming bland as his eyes glaze, and reaches out to grab a leg.
Later, as they walk, Hest says, "they say he made it to the desert, Djarjak." The thief looks up at him and wrings his hands. "Say there's others out there."
Djarjak continues to walk, not looking at the pale little man walking beside him.
"They say Tektolnes can't reach some places, that he..."
"Hisssh!" He turns on Hest with a feral look in his eye. "Don't say such things. You know that they know. They always know!" The mul looks around quickly and walks with a renewed pace.
The thief looks around himself with widened eyes and then stares at the floor with a frown. "What if they're right,Djar?"
Djarjak shrugs his huge shoulders. "Then may we all live to find that place."
Overhead, they do not hear footsteps, and Overseer Teoman Borsail of the jade cross grins in the shadows between torches.
...
Leaping from the depths of sleep and grabbing at his side, Djarjak wakes again from the dream of the bahamet to the sound of raucous laughter from above.
"Time to fight, Djarjak. Wake up!" A soldier with the clawed wooden rod standard to all slave handlers grins at him between the bone mesh. "Today you fight the dune demon. Look, they even brought sand in for you..." a grainy handful of sand filters down into his eyes and mouth, making him sputter.
"Bastards," he croaks, and leaps towards the bars above, gripping them and shaking them violently.
Above, the soldier makes a tsking noise and steps on the mul's fingers, the bone spikes in his boots making Djarjak grimace in pain. "None of that, mul. We will have you moved to the lows and out of your comfortable little home, eh? Now, get up. It is time to fight."
Falling to the floor, Djarjak clutches his bleeding and shredded fingers to his chest and presses out of the door.
A clattering behind him signifies that the claw is retracting, and soon, the footsteps overhead begin following him to the gate.
The great doors of iron-banded hardwood which compose gladiators gate swing open, leaving him to squint in the brilliantly bright light. The claw comes down thrusting him forward, and he falls to his hands and knees outside the gate.
"Behold citizens of Allanak! Blood for Tektolnes!" The crowd's cheers rise to a bloodthirsty height of madness as the overseer shouts an introduction to the fight. "Djarjak, prized fighter of Borsail will take on the feared mass of three anakore!"
Three? Three! Djarjak frowns, beginning to feel genuine fear as he checks the weapon rack: a stone dagger and a primitive obsidian spear. He briefly laments not having his fighting sticks and turns, but the doors are closed behind him.
"Let the fights begin!"
Underneath him, the sand trembles as the beast-gate opens its maw. He sees nothing emerge and contemplates a lunge for the open door, when it begins to close. Quickly, he leaps to the weapon rack and retrieves the tools he has been allowed for the fight.
The spear is thin obsidian, too light to be much good. The dagger is flaky at best. Sharpened too many times by a chipper, it was once perhaps a short-sword judging by the hilt. Grim odds, someone must be punishing him.
Without giving Djarjak further time to contemplate, twin arms with claws almost doubling their length launch out of the ground on either side of him. Sand sprays in all directions, and some of it gets in his eyes. Blinking furiously, he grabs the weapon rack and pulls hard, vaulting himself over the top and out of the way of the demon.
"Bakh!" the spear has fallen and rests just behind the domed head peeking with beady-eyes from beneath the sand. This is not going to go well.
Taking the set of flimsy sticks he has been allowed to practice with in his hands, he begins to dance. Slowly at first, the muscles on his back begin to limber with the activity. Flexibility as important as strength, clarity of mind even moreso, he lets his thoughts drift and loosen with his limbs.
A soft knock comes at the door. Djarjak does not know how long it has been since he began the dancing. Sweat drips slowly from his hairless brow, the torchlight trailing down from the bone-meshed bars above. He looks to the door and lowers his weapons from a posture of practice into that of defense. "Who goes?"
"It's me, Hest" squeaks a voice from the other side of the stone and wood slab. "We need help."
Djarjak grimaces, his face darkened by the artificial twilight."Who is it?"
"Tjan."
"Tjan? Tjan is dead." Small fingers peek around the edge of the door, and the mousy thief's face peers in from the gloom.
The thief shakes his head, "No. Escaped. They caught him. He's hurt pretty badly. Vark needs your help with him."
"Where?"
"The lows. Dunbrek's."
Djarjak nods his head, slinging the sticks over his shoulders in the criss-cross leather sling, and walks into the corridor.
Hest shambles along in front of Djarjak, the thief's leg permanently lamed by a fight with a dujat. Now he hides in the corners of the pits to avoid being thrown into the arena again. Cowardly. But he hides well. It draws an odd sort of respect from the other criminals and the slaves. Even the gladiators have a grudging appreciation of it, but it is not a point of respect. It is they who must risk their hides in the arena instead.
As they walk, the ceiling slopes downward. Shouts from eager gamblers and bloodthirsty laborers wax and wane in a lusty crescendo growing ever more distant beneath the increasing layers of stone. The torchlight flickers blandly off the roughly hewn sandstone and grows dimmer as the air grows warmer and becomes stifling with moisture.
The lows are where the animals are kept. The smell of gortok and gwoshi and blood mingles with dung and sweat. Grunting and hissing noises here and there reveal sign of some darker denizens.
The unruly gladiators are kept here.
Djarjak shudders in spite of himself. 'He who does not obey is deprived the glory of the Highlord.'
There are always rumors.
The overseers seldom watch the lows. Food and water is not provided here. Those who wish to survive must travel for it, or bargain. It is the arena within the arena, where a man will barter his soul to a devil only to have it eaten for his trouble.
It is the only place for slaves to go to avoid the attention of the servants to the King.
A dark shadow passes overhead. Hest and the mul gladiator press themselves hurriedly against the wall as the footsteps rattle on the bone grid ceiling. The silhouette of a human slaver in a sandcloth aba walks stiffly between the hidden slaves and the torches. Djarjak doesn't dare a breath. Quickly, the man passes, yet it is only after a slow count of thirty that the two allow themselves to move from below.
As they peel themselves away from the wall, a voice sounds nearby. "Harrumm. Slack, there, then, letting the spear-chuckers see you."
Djarjak unsheathes the sticks quickly and without thinking, a low growl coming from his throat. Hest lets out a yelp of surprise and leaps behind Djarjak's bulk.
With a grating chuckle, a tall and spidery figure strolls out of the darkness ahead. "Wary, little mul..." smiling,the figure's angular head then swivels on spindly-thin shoulders tos tare at the little thief with almost insectoid intensity, "and...Hest."
"Blast it all, Dunbrek!" Djarjak slaps his sticks against the stone with a dull thwack. "How do you do that?"
"Do what, little mul? Perhaps your eyes only go dim with age, humm?" The wide-set silvery green eyes blink in a picture of innocence from the hatchet-face.
Djarjak growls again, muttering, "Dirty breed."
"Yes, little mul," he nods, "But only half of me. Half of me is half of you. All of us pointy-ears. Pointy-ears, pointy-ears, pointy-ears, harrumm... But you are late. Come."
Setting off in long strides, the almost seven foot tall half-elf assassin strides further into the heat and dark as Djarjak and Hest grudgingly follow.
Dunbrek's cell is a large one, spread with woven mats that few doubt are stolen. Lanterns light the place, and a small chest sits in one corner. Bargains with demons have kept the place intact, and few would risk what awaits them to contest it.
A short, human woman with ratty-blonde hair wearing the torn robes of an ex-pleasure slave bends over a figure lying on the floor. As they enter, she looks up to them, her face grimed and solemnly set.
Hest smiles to her and stammers a bit. "H-hello, Vark. I b-brought him, like you asked."
Her face lightens slightly and her lips curl as she nods. "Thank you. But there is little time. I will need your aid, Djarjak, if you will give it."
Djarjak, his skin dark brown in the torchlight, makes his way to the cot where a mangled figure lies twisted into an impossible shape. The woman turns to look at the figure as she says, "His bones will need to be re-set before I can deal with the rest of his wounds. I need you to help me set them. I'll show you how."
The mul nods, his expression becoming bland as his eyes glaze, and reaches out to grab a leg.
Later, as they walk, Hest says, "they say he made it to the desert, Djarjak." The thief looks up at him and wrings his hands. "Say there's others out there."
Djarjak continues to walk, not looking at the pale little man walking beside him.
"They say Tektolnes can't reach some places, that he..."
"Hisssh!" He turns on Hest with a feral look in his eye. "Don't say such things. You know that they know. They always know!" The mul looks around quickly and walks with a renewed pace.
The thief looks around himself with widened eyes and then stares at the floor with a frown. "What if they're right,Djar?"
Djarjak shrugs his huge shoulders. "Then may we all live to find that place."
Overhead, they do not hear footsteps, and Overseer Teoman Borsail of the jade cross grins in the shadows between torches.
...
Leaping from the depths of sleep and grabbing at his side, Djarjak wakes again from the dream of the bahamet to the sound of raucous laughter from above.
"Time to fight, Djarjak. Wake up!" A soldier with the clawed wooden rod standard to all slave handlers grins at him between the bone mesh. "Today you fight the dune demon. Look, they even brought sand in for you..." a grainy handful of sand filters down into his eyes and mouth, making him sputter.
"Bastards," he croaks, and leaps towards the bars above, gripping them and shaking them violently.
Above, the soldier makes a tsking noise and steps on the mul's fingers, the bone spikes in his boots making Djarjak grimace in pain. "None of that, mul. We will have you moved to the lows and out of your comfortable little home, eh? Now, get up. It is time to fight."
Falling to the floor, Djarjak clutches his bleeding and shredded fingers to his chest and presses out of the door.
A clattering behind him signifies that the claw is retracting, and soon, the footsteps overhead begin following him to the gate.
The great doors of iron-banded hardwood which compose gladiators gate swing open, leaving him to squint in the brilliantly bright light. The claw comes down thrusting him forward, and he falls to his hands and knees outside the gate.
"Behold citizens of Allanak! Blood for Tektolnes!" The crowd's cheers rise to a bloodthirsty height of madness as the overseer shouts an introduction to the fight. "Djarjak, prized fighter of Borsail will take on the feared mass of three anakore!"
Three? Three! Djarjak frowns, beginning to feel genuine fear as he checks the weapon rack: a stone dagger and a primitive obsidian spear. He briefly laments not having his fighting sticks and turns, but the doors are closed behind him.
"Let the fights begin!"
Underneath him, the sand trembles as the beast-gate opens its maw. He sees nothing emerge and contemplates a lunge for the open door, when it begins to close. Quickly, he leaps to the weapon rack and retrieves the tools he has been allowed for the fight.
The spear is thin obsidian, too light to be much good. The dagger is flaky at best. Sharpened too many times by a chipper, it was once perhaps a short-sword judging by the hilt. Grim odds, someone must be punishing him.
Without giving Djarjak further time to contemplate, twin arms with claws almost doubling their length launch out of the ground on either side of him. Sand sprays in all directions, and some of it gets in his eyes. Blinking furiously, he grabs the weapon rack and pulls hard, vaulting himself over the top and out of the way of the demon.
"Bakh!" the spear has fallen and rests just behind the domed head peeking with beady-eyes from beneath the sand. This is not going to go well.