The Prologue: http://writersandlitlovers.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/the-prologue-to-stormsrock-by-mark.html
Crooked Pass: http://writersandlitlovers.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/crooked-pass-from-stormsrock-by-mark.html
The
grinding cacophony of the heavy steel gates being raised was almost drowned out
by the thunder of voices. Dreskar stood in stony silence, gripping the shaft of
his spear tightly, his expression emotionless. How many people are watching? He wondered. Five hundred? Six hundred? After a certain point the numbers became
meaningless, amalgamating into a single faceless entity, watching his every
move. He had to mentally remove himself away from his surroundings, and
concentrate purely on himself and his opponent. Directly opposite him, he could see what he
was up against. It was a tsornian, a reptilian bird-like creature, three feet
taller than him. He had fought one before, but not alone, and the last time he
did so he was left with a deep cut along his side. If he had been alone, he
would have died for sure. Dreskar stepped forward into the arena, his boots
sinking slightly in the sand. The roar of the crowd was almost deafening, but
Dreskar could barely hear it. His eyes were fixed upon the tsornian, carefully
watching its every move. The tsornian did the same to him, its red eyes
following the tip of his spear. Dreskar knew that this would be a tough fight,
his toughest yet, perhaps. Tsornians were a step above the mindless beasts that
he usually fought, they were devious. The last one he fought had entered the
battle pretending to be injured, causing him to be severely wounded, and his
fighting partner, Rasha, killed. They had underestimated it, a crucial mistake.
But he had never been more ready for this fight. The majority of his time out
of the arena was spent training, and he was at peak physical fitness.
This time Dreskar would not take any
chances against his foe. He would need all of his concentration and skill to
become triumphant. Their eyes still locked together, Dreskar and the tsornian
began to circle one another. Strike
first, he thought. The tsornian obviously had the same thought, as it
charged forward, trying to catch Dreskar with its beak. It turned to face him,
but by the time it had Dreskar had leapt underneath it, trying to stab its
vulnerable underbelly. The spearhead pierced the flesh, but it seemed to have
little effect on the creature. He ripped out the spear, and ducked underneath a
swipe from one of its claws. The other claw came striking down from above, and
Dreskar leapt to the side, and as the claw rose again for another strike,
Dreskar’s spear was thrust deep into the creature’s arm. Die already! It might take Dreskar a dozen attacks to incapacitate
the tsornian, but he knew that the creature would be able to slaughter him with
a single well-placed claw. The spear was still firmly planted in the tsorian’s flesh,
and when its arm rose into the air, Dreskar rose with it. The creature shook
its arm violently, and Dreskar lost his grip on the spears shaft, and he felt a
sudden feeling of weightlessness as he was catapulted into the air. He smashed
into the roof of the cage, before falling back towards the ground. He hit the
sand with a thud, but before the pain
could register Dreskar was back onto his feet. Without my spear I’m in big trouble. The crowd was divided between
looking onto the fight, horrified and in silence, and chanting voraciously for
the tsornian to finish Dreskar off. They wanted bloodshed. That was what they
came to the arena for. Seeing its opponent’s vulnerability, the tsornian
charged once again. Again, Dreskar dodged out its way, but this time by less
than an inch. Out of all of the arena fighters, Dreskar was one of the
quickest, and he often used this to his advantage. But being quick won’t win me this fight if I don’t have a weapon.
He needed his spear back. He let the tsornian approach him, his spear coming
closer to his reach. The tsornian stopped in front of him. It’s either trying to lull me into a false sense of security, or it’s
afraid I’m luring it into a trap. However, he had no secret weapon to use
against the Tsornian. Combatants could only take one weapon into the arena with
them, and it had to be approved beforehand. He leapt towards the spear, and
tried to rip it out of the tsornians arm, but it was stuck fast. The creatures
other claw came at him, and he managed to dodge the attack, but its claw caught
the shaft of the spear, and broke it in two, the base remaining in the
tsornians arm. Dreskar snatched his now significantly shorter spear out of the
sand, and drew back, analysing his options. Now
I can’t rely on staying out of its reach and dodging away when it gets too
close. I can’t attack unless I’m right next to it. The tsornian’s scaled
tail whipped round, almost knocking Dreskar to the ground. However, he managed
to jump over it, and stab his spear into it as it came past. Again, Dreskar was
carried by his spear, but this time he did not let go. Clinging on tightly, he
started to work his way up the tail, and onto the tsornian’s back. He used his
spear as a handhold, and as he past it, he wrenched it out of the tsornian’s
tail and thrust it straight back into its back. The beast let out a cry of
pain, but the shriek was drowned out by the crowd’s deafening noise. To his
delight, it soon dawned on Dreskar that on the creatures back, he was out of
its reach; its arms could not bend backwards and no matter how vigorously it
shook, Dreskar would not slacken his grip. He twisted the spear around, feeling
the spearhead dig through the creature’s body. It was evident from the amount
of blood seeping from its back and soaking his white garment, and the noise the
Tsornian made when the spear had entered its body, that he had pierced
something important. He could feel the tsornian’s body grow weaker underneath
him, and he pitied it. It doesn’t want to
fight me. It was captured from the wild and brought here, just so that it could
be slaughtered in front of all of these people. In that moment, he was disgusted
by the jeering crowd, but also by himself. I’m
more a part of this than any of them. I’ll give you a quick death, it’s the
best I can do. He clambered further up the tsornian’s back, and swiftly
finished it off with a final stab into the back of its skull. It dropped to the
floor, dead. He had won.
Dreskar
wrenched his spear out of the tsornian’s skull, and only now did his ears
become attuned to the roar of the crowd around him. He took a quick bow, and
with his head held high, exited the arena. He did not want to be amongst these
people for any longer than he had to be.
As
he exited the arena, he was greeted by a man, who reluctantly tossed him a
small pouch of coins. Dreskar opened the pouch, and counted ten iron shonos.
Elated, he strapped the pouch to his waist, the white cloth of his tunic soaked
in the thick blood of the tsornian.
“Don’t tell me you wanted the tsornian to
win,” said Dreskar, noting the bitterness of the other man.
“You don’t have to pay tsornians. At least I
didn’t bet on you to lose.”
“You didn’t? I’m flattered.”
“Whether I like it or not, you’re an
annoyingly good fighter. You’re through to the next round.”
“When is it?”
“Three days’ time, at sunrise. You’ll be
fighting whoever wins tomorrows fight.” Dreskar nodded, before leaving. He was
competing in the Gresvensgal Flaming Fist tournament, which attracted some of
the best fighters locally and from all across the Peninsula. The tournament’s
name originated from the first victor, who became triumphant by setting his arm
on fire and beating his opponent to death. Dreskar was one of the favourites to
win, and his performance against the tsornian supported his ranking. This year
there was forty-eight entrants, but as Dreskar had not been paired up with
another fighter, he had been pitted against a tsornian. That had been his third
fight, and now there were only fifteen entrants remaining, and there would be
twelve by the time he next fought. But he did not have to worry about that now.
Now he could relax, for the time being anyway.
The sky was entirely clouded over as
Dreskar emerged from the underground, bathing the city of Gresvensgal in a
gloomy light. The city walls were so high that they blocked out most of the
sun, so even on the brightest of days Gresvensgal looked dull. The monotonous grey colour scheme did not
help improve the city’s appeal. But in truth, Gresvensgal was closer to a fort
than a city, and it had been deemed impregnable by the city’s rulers. Dreskar
did not believe this, however. Everything
has a weakness. He had changed out of his bloody fighter’s garbs and into
more casual clothes, and he had left his spear in his locker back at the arena,
alongside his other weapons. The regulators forbid the possession of weapons
around the city, but Dreskar had a small dirk strapped to the inside of his leg.
It’s too dangerous to travel without one,
especially now. There was always the chance that another combatant would
try and take Dreskar out of the tournament early.
He headed to The Burnt Fly, an inn where he had for two years rented a room for
himself. As he entered, he glanced around for familiar faces. Almost
immediately, he saw two men he knew, Jett and Hachi, and sat down beside them.
Tonight, he could easily afford a warm meal, drinks, and a bed. As an
accomplished fighter, Dreskar was rarely short of money, but it had not always
been so. He could remember many cold nights living on the streets, constantly
trying to find the warmest and driest places to stay that would not get him
killed. It had all changed when he had been caught up in a fight against
another homeless man, and he recognised that he possessed a natural flair for
combat. The next day he had signed up for a fourteen-to-eighteen years age
restricted tournament, and he became the champion almost effortlessly. Many saw
the teenager fights as barbaric and cruel, but for Dreskar it had provided a
much-needed lifeline.
“You fought damn well,” Jett said, greeting
him. “When you lost your spear I thought you were as good as dead, but you
pulled it around. Let me buy you a drink.” Dreskar was reluctant, but Jett
insisted. “It’s the least I can do; I made a small fortune today betting on
you.”
Dreskar courteously accepted, and Jett stood
up, and stumbled towards the bar. Jett’s state of mind was hardly surprising,
Dreskar could not remember a single time he had seen him sober.
“Sounds like a terrific performance,” Hachi
said, raising a flagon of beer to his lips.
“You didn’t make it?”
“I couldn’t get in. It was packed full. You
know, you’re the first person since Halgor the Hunter to slay a tsornian by
yourself in the arena. People are saying that you might win this thing, you
know.”
“I can’t let myself get overconfident, that’s
when I’ll make mistakes, which could get me killed.”
“Indeed. Who’s your next fight against, then?”
“Whoever wins tomorrow morning’s fight. It’ll
either be Falio of Solomsburg, or Jorren, who I’ve fought against before. One
of the strongest men I’ve ever fought, but certainly not the quickest.”
Hachi smirked. “Jorren calls himself the
Skullcrusher, does he not?”
“That’s right. But I don’t intend on letting
that huge obsidian hammer of his come anywhere close to my head.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a
serving woman approaching them. “Food, anyone?”
“What’s cooking?” Dreskar asked.
“Lamb and potato stew. Killed the lamb
myself, yesterday.”
“We’ll have three bowls.” Dreskar paid her
and the woman left, just as Jett arrived back, slamming down a flagon of beer
down on the table in front of Dreskar, so hard that some of the liquid jumped
into the air and onto the wooden table.
Jett raised his cup. “Here’s to Dreskar, the
greatest fighter the peninsula has ever seen.” The three of them clashed their
drinks together and drank deeply, and they continued to drink late into the
night, only stopping when Jett passed out, so Dreskar and Hachi together hauled
him into a bed upstairs, and then they too decided to retire for the night.
No comments:
Post a Comment