Chapter Ten - ACTION WITHOUT THOUGHT

The crowds still jeer and cry out with insults but the attention shifts to me as I walk onto the sand of the arena. It must be strange for them to see a soldier walk out of the fighter’s gate, with only one arm and a vibrosword out of its sheath and shining in the bright afternoon sun.

The fighters look at me; I cannot see their expressions as they are still wearing the strange bestial helms, but they cock their heads in what appears to be confusion. One looks at the other and I wonder as to whether they think they are under arrest.

The silent communication is all the distraction I need to begin my butchery. My vibrosword swings over and down, slicing the first man, a Rodian, with the point from where the neck joins the shoulder and down across his bare chest. Blood sprays down him and he staggers. My second blow caves in the side of his helmet, the third penetrating the polished metal, the fourth meeting with his protected shoulder as he falls to his knees. My fifth and sixth blows cut again into his helm until the metal gives way and the point of my blade sinks into his head. His life sprays over my legs and the sand, his arms up pleading for mercy, I think, but that option for him is not in my thoughts. He is dead as my final thrust slices into his back and almost all the way through his body.

I can taste salt on my lips as I look up at the next fighter, a strange warm feeling down the side of my face, which I do not consider. He is backing away, his weapon raised although he appears indecisive.

The crowds have hushed. I thought I heard gasps and cries of alarm as I savagely attacked the first fighter but I am not sure. I approach the second with my vibrosword still gripped in my hand and pointed out ahead of me. He crowd is strangely quiet.

   “Defend yourself!” is my cry as I walk towards him and he still backs away. I cry out again and make a weak thrust to make sure he followed my orders. I know he is loath to fight, battling a soldier of Fedarn in the arena is not done here, for he fears retribution should he kill me. Once again I lash out with my weapon and he parries well with the spear he is using.

   “Fight or die!”

I cannot see his face but I know he is afraid. His hunched shoulders and continuous glances to the gate out of the arena tell me that.

   “Fight me, damn you! Your cowardice mocks this arena!”

The crowds are roaring now, obviously aroused by the emotion on the sand. I hear voices calling across the Master Theatre telling the fighter to fight, and a rhythmic stamping of feet and clapping of hands assaults my ears.

With a sudden change of tactics the fighter, no doubt feeling justified fighting a soldier now that he had been roared at by the spectators to do so, lunges forward with his laserspear. I knock the point away, knowing that he is merely testing my defences but I keep on approaching him. We are walking in circles for we are still close to the gate and still in the area where my friend lies dead. The sweat on my body causes the loose armour to rub painfully, the heat under the helm on my head is incredible beneath the sun even though the huge cloth shades have been pulled out over the top of the outer Master Theatre walls, but I still press my attack.

With a scream of intent the fighter rushes forward, seeing that I am favouring my left side as I am missing an arm. Expecting such a move, I leap sideways, my stump out as the spear passes by and I close my armpit down over the shaft. Although my arm is weak, I do not use that arm as much as my right, it is enough to stop the fighter from immediately pulling back the spear and I hold him. As I complete the manoeuvre the crowds go insane with delight as they witness the spectacle.

The shaft slides back and the widened point cuts into my arm and back but I still hold him. I bring my vibrosword down on the shaft and, although the pain is intense as the force of the blow makes the laser tip cut into my flesh further, I manage to break it so the point is at the wrong angle. Then I raise my arm and the fighter jumps back.

I do not allow him time to recover and rush in, the man trying to fend my attack with the bent weapon but failing. With a mighty thrust I force the vibrosword up under his lower ribs and up into his body. I pull the blade up as he drops to the ground, the weapon jarring against bone, and then pull it free as meat splashes about my feet.

How can I remember so much in such fine detail? I have described the conflict, the words and the actions with such clarity that you must think I am adding to the facts to make my tale seem bolder, grander than reality. Such a thing is true for I am trying to convey what happened and yet make you understand how things were for me, and in some respects, how things were for the people who were present. How can you understand the horror of combat if I simply say that a man is struck and then falls? How can you experience the emotion of the moment if I simply tell you what happened and then add on a feeling to express that emotion? I do embellish. And no doubt these words will be embellished more by others who pass on the tale. In generations to come I will, no doubt, be twice the size of a normal man and able to wrestle an ox to the ground! Or there were not two fighters in the arena, there were twelve and I disposed of them as easily as I would a sick child!

There are certain aspects I remember. Things I recall that I wish not to, such as the combat between others and myself. Such images are not for a man to be burdened by. What would you rather have burned into your mind? The sight of the capital city glittering in the night, or the sight of a man bleeding over your flesh and begging for mercy? It is always the pain that makes the greatest memory. It is always the pain that makes us remember our own mortality.

So do not think I am merely adding to the facts to increase the adventure or my own sense of ego. I am adding to the facts because if I do not it is not a story at all but a mere recounting of probable happenings. Such things do not mean anything to the average man and therefore mean nothing to me. I will not waste your time with mere words.

The crowds are both cheering and jeering as the fight is over too quickly for them. I do not look at them and turn to walk back to my friend.

I would have liked to say he was at peace. I would have liked to look down at him and see a sleeping child, but his face was so contorted I had to look away. If the spectators could see my weeping they did not allude to it as they continued their coarse shouting.

My friend. Once a problem to me, then my only reason for being as I cared for him, nursed him, smiled at him with honesty and not mockery. To die here, with no honour on the arena sand, with no other reason than to please a crowd trying to fight decadence by watching combat to tell themselves they were powerful. I would have given my soul to have any one of them in the arena at this moment so that I could show them true power.

This was not the glory of the Master Theatre as I had heard, not the glory I had watched in amphitheatres across the Ki-Ki Sector. This was simple butcher work.

With reverence I kiss his eyes and try to smooth out his twisted face. I loved you, friend.

   “Son Of Mine,” I whisper to him. “Your name is Son Of Mine.”

At least, in death, he had a name to give the boatman who had come for him.

As I stand I see commotion at the gate. Monima is shouting at a dark-armoured figure I recognise as the Prime Warrior I had conversed with in the lower chambers. It is the death sentence for me, I know that, but there is still one thing I have to do.

Monima.

As I walk towards the gate I sheath my vibrosword and draw my small blaster. Shifting it so my hand was halfway around my back I began to walk towards the gathering crowd at the gate.

Monima was pointing at me, his face painted with anger, and he shoves the Prime Warrior in my direction. Enraged at being manhandled in such a way the guard turns on the trainer and roars something at him that causes the man to shrink under his gaze.

The Prime Warrior turns back to me and starts out into the arena, his hand firmly gripped to his own weapon and I see a hint of silver as he starts to draw it. I do not want to fight him for I have respect for the Prime Warriors and I will defer to his superiority. I wish he would move, though, for he is blocking my path to Monima.

He raises a hand and his visage is stern. “Drop the weapons, legionary, you are under arrest,” he says. His vibrosword is fully drawn now but he does not raise it. The people in the tiers murmur with expectation.

I quickly flip the blaster up. The Prime Warrior does not crouch or falter in his direction and I admire his courage. He does not deviate as I fire the weapon with a cry that echoes around the walls of the Master Theatre.

A stunned cry washes over the crowds as the blaster bolt screams past the Prime Warrior’s head and penetrates Monima. The shot hits his stomach and explodes, the man staggering back and then forward, then down. He does not grab the wound as the strike appears to kill him outright. I am disappointed that he fell so easily; a few moments of realisation and pain would have made my revenge complete.

The Prime Warrior stares at the body in shock and I think I hear someone laughing in the tiers. The crowds do not cheer or sing, they simply fall to muttering in surprised tones. I do not care. It was not for them I killed this man.

Truth be told, I did not know myself why I killed him. Did I kill him for the death of my friend or for my own edification? It was Maru, after all, who had given Son Of Mine to the trainer but I did not kill him. Did I simplify matters by slaughtering the men who had instructed my friend to fight? Perhaps it was not revenge I sought. Somewhere in the back of my thoughts where I placed all my darkest feelings there was a part of me that enjoyed it. The knowledge that someone’s life is in your hands and their fate was yours to decide is overwhelming.

My stray thoughts give the Prime Warrior time to close the gap and seize my arms. I do not resist as I know my fate. I have bought this on myself and I am willing to pay the price for my lack of control.

Balance. I am a believer in balance, I had told Anto, and I make decisions that make sure the balance is kept. But I had already lost my arm because I was a coward in the army. I had become a slave because I had left my sister to fend for herself. Surely, then, I had restored balance by punishing the men who had unjustifiably sent a man with the mind of a child to his death? Surely I should not pay the price of that by allowing my own life to be taken? Where is the balance in that?

   Because you are a coward, Anto had told me. Am I willing to let myself be executed because of what I thought to be right? Perhaps that is why I do not resist the Prime Warrior as he marches me back to the gate. I will not fight him because I do not want the responsibility of choosing my own life’s direction and this is a simple, easy way out.

If I allow myself to be taken, then Anto was right. My belief in balance is flawed and I am a coward.

So perhaps that is why, as we enter the gate, I suddenly drop slightly to throw the Prime Warrior off-guard. As he corrects his own stature I stand straight again and throw my self back. We slam into the gate and he cries out, his grip on my arms loosened.

I strike behind me with my elbow and I feel the blow connect with his face. His facial guards under his helmet sting my flesh but the impact is enough to stun him. As he staggers I turn and bring my knee up into his stomach. He doubles over and my kick to the head sends him sprawling back out onto the sand.

I do not wish to be executed. I do not choose to be executed.

There are no men skilled enough to stop me and they all fall back, some at the back of the small gathering calling for guards. I walk past them at a quick pace, my breath still short after the conflict, and head for the passage I entered through. I am awash with blood and I can feel it on my face. Men move from my hurried footfalls as I emerge into the torchlight of the small area where I had encountered the Prime Warrior for the first time. The guards who were there, mustering with confusion as they hear the shouts from the entrance to the arena, stare at me as I run in. Blood is running from my armour and down my legs where it stands out on my skin like thick veins. I have already decided my actions.

   “Fighters have broken free!” I cry, staggering as if wounded, the blood covering me evidence of my horrific wounds. “Quickly!”

The guards run down the corridor with blasters ready but one does approach me. His face is full of concern and I am almost sorry as I slam the flat of my hand into his face and send him falling back into the table he had just vacated. It is enough to throw him off-guard and I run for the exit.

Whatever confusion I had sown would soon be figured and I knew I was running with very little time left before pursuit. If I could get out into the street maybe I stood a chance. The crowds were thick and, if lucky, I could make it to the gates of the city before alarms were raised and make it out of capital. It was not safe for me here, that much was obvious, but getting out was going to be difficult.

My idea of mingling with the crowd is thwarted, however, as I emerge into the street outside the Master Theatre. A woman’s scream heralds a multitude of shouts as my dusty, bloodied form bursts out into the market place. People move out of my way as I move among them and I see some of the street guards looking in the direction of the commotion. This is not what I wanted at all but there was little chance of me washing before entering the city.

To my left there are several men running in my direction, three of which are guards, the others merely curious citizens. To my right is a mounted soldier, his black riddabeast crying out as the press of bodies increases with the amount of people trying to get out of my way. I take advantage of the loss of control he has over the riddabeast and run forward.

Now that he has noticed me approaching he draws his weapon, the blaster flashing fire across the street. He is still unbalanced on his mount as more people push past him. He appears clumsy and the riddabeast snorts with fright.

I grab a long pole that props up the shade of a stall but I cannot manage it properly. It is heavy and the use of only one arm prohibits effective use as a weapon. The stall collapses and small utensils fall to the ground. One such utensil appears to be a wooden rolling bar for the preparation of dough so I grab it and jump at the mounted soldier.

In controlling the riddabeast the soldier has lost sight of me and he turns about on his mount to locate me. As he turns to my direction I throw the roller, which hits him in the chest but does little else. He grunts and tries to turn the riddabeast towards me. With very little option I leap in front of the riddabeast and wave my arm and stump wildly, yelling in as high a voice as I can muster. Already startled, the riddabeast rears and throws the rider to the ground. His blaster clatters off into the panicking crowd and he tries to get to his feet. A well placed kick to his groin and he stays down.

With a heave I pull myself up into the saddle and rest my weight into the horns that keep me stable. I give the riddabeast a sharp kick and, with another yell that is more of a scream, I force the riddabeast into the crowd.

The other soldiers have managed to push themselves through the people but they are too late. They are met with the sight of a charging black riddabeast, white foam splashing from its mouth as it careers towards them. Soldiers and citizens alike throw themselves away from the wildly screaming beast, over stalls and crashing into pottery. I lean into the neck of the riddabeast as low stand covers come out of the dust and confusion and I urge it onwards.

If I am lucky I will charge past any effective resistance and make it to the gates. If my luck extends further than that, the gates will be open.