The crowd’s cheers rang out, nipping at Shiqe’s ears. Each shout seemed to echo, reverberating off of the circular walls in the gambit arena, and rattling around his head.
The admissions officer stood at the metal chain. Behind Shiqe sat the ancient stone halls of the under pit telling the tales of the countless duels they’d seen over the years.
“Armed combat to the death, your choice of weapon,” Shiqe already knew what type of fight It would be long before It even started. Every fight was a fight to the death, that's what sold the most seats.
He sighed and looked at the weapon rack proudly displayed in the fighter’s deck. Every tool imaginable sat before him, from great-axes to maces, and every sword in between all fresh from the blacksmiths of Adenosse and polished for deadly use.
Among the dozens of weapons, Shiqe’s hand found its way to a curved sword. April held a fondness of the curved blade, and insisted Shiqe use it to compliment his exotic persona in the arena. The reason he chose the weapon was because he liked it, not to please April, but that was a tolerable side effect.
“Ready?” The officer asked as his question hung in the air like a challenge. Shiqe nodded, narrowing his eyes at the gate of the fighter’s deck. Metallic grinding echoed off of the walls as the rusted old gate slowly made its way open.
The opposite deck to Shiqe’s opened simultaneously as the percussionists battered away at their drums. Tum tumtum tug - tum tumtum tata - tum tumtum tug - and so on. His face contorted into a sneer at each beat.
The coarse gravel of the arena parted underneath Shiqe’s shoes as he stepped into the circular prison. Opposite to him stood three fighters.
His eyes danced around them looking for information. The glint of their shields caught the persistent light of the sun shining into Shiqe’s eyes with every movement. Their every action attempted to make them look bigger, gaping at Shiqe like a group of school children. Each one of the men looked like they’d just been fished out of the sewer.
A trumpet sounded. Amon’s nasally voice graced them with Its presence, amplified by the acoustics of the arena, “Welcome one and all, with blessings from his majesty King Wesley, I am here to present to you this month’s week of gambit!” Amon’s muted enthusiasm fueled the already intense excitement of the crowd.
The left most man of the three held a mace in his left hand. The weapon placement could easily become a liability to his allies if he was inexperienced.
The crowd died down with only a hushed murmur of excitement as Amon continued. “On the southern deck of the arena stands Shiqe of the Sands - our exotic Sikandian fighter!” Tugga-tugga ta. The crowd erupted with a medley of cheers and boos, a testament to the general reception Shiqe received. Amon shifted his weight as he sneered at the audience, waiting for them to quiet down.
Shiqe’s biggest threat by far was the man wielding the short spear. A spear and shield meant distance and protection. In an arena without armor a shield is king, and distance his mighty queen.
He held the spear and shield in a perfect bubble of protection. Judging by his stance it wasn’t a far call to say he’d likely served in the military, or at the very least done some fighting.
“On the northern deck of the arena stands three Oueterrian outcasts: Angus of Qico, Fritz of Orlens, and Neff of The Isle Saint Frio!” Toom-tugga-tugga ta. The jeers had left the crowd as they erupted into a cacophony of cheers for their Oueterrian fighters. Oueterrians hardly liked the Essudari, but they treated dark skinned men with even worse scorn. Especially Sikandians.
The man on the right stood with a simple short sword. He was a short pudgy fellow with a large pale stomach that reflected the sun like freshly fallen snow.
Shiqe stretched his legs, first the left then the right, then did the same with his arms across his chest. The first match of the gambit week was always a blood bath, and it seemed this week would be no exception.
The crowd's cheering died down once more, and Amon’s smug smile came back to his boney face. “Without further ado, this gambit shall commence!” Toom toom tugga tugga toom tugga toom.
Shiqe prowled back, his measured steps betraying his anticipation of the three men to strike. His eyes shifted from one man, to another, then the last, holding the gaze of the men who would soon be embracing their own death.
A brief exchange of words passed between the trio, their unheard communication evidenced by confident, synchronized nods.
Shiqe could hear his old commander Milioe in his head; An army outnumbered should always pick the location of the battle. Those who control the location, control the battle itself.
Shiqe expected the spear first, but to his surprise the man with the shortsword was running a little bit ahead of the other two. The sunlight glinted off of his blade as he made his hurried steps to his demise.
The clash of steel echoed throughout the arena as Shiqe’s curved blade met with the shortsword. A shiver went up his arm as the blades grinded against each other, the clash culminating at the shortsword’s handle guard. Shiqe batted the man to his left, making the spearman move in a wide berth.
Within seconds Shiqe had recalibrated his stance and prepared for the next ill-fated attack. The mace ate through the air with a brutal shout behind it. Shiqe ducked under it and glared at the man, feeling the rush of the displaced air against his skin. Their eyes met in a silent challenge to one another as the mace came back for a backswing. Shiqe crouched under it a second time, feeling the hunk of steel brush his hair.
A thunderous clunk rang out as the mace collided with the spearman’s shield, shattering part of it and staggering him a step back.
Shiqe pivoted his feet and used his crouch as a springboard to propel himself to the unguarded spearman. A curved sword wasn’t great for stabbing, but when the target had nothing to protect his chest it didn’t need to be good at it.
The blade penetrated the man right in the center of his torso, just below his chest. Shiqe hoisted the blade upward with his momentum, and buried the blade to the hilt inside of the man's body. The blade twitched slightly as his body tried to reject the metal, but to no avail. He let out a blood curdling scream. Shiqe, in a well practiced motion, spun his now sticky hand around the hilt of the sword and yanked it out, turning to his left with an underhanded swing upward towards the man with the shortsword.
Wide-eyed and forgetful of his shield, the pudgy man stood defenseless before Shiqe. The blade carved across his chest to the bottom of his chin. He instinctively dropped his sword, and clutched at his newly acquired wound.
Gravel jostled behind him, it was either the spearman’s corpse falling, or the maceman coming up behind him. A man caught in chaos is a man caught in between chance, Milieo’s voice ran through Shiqe’s head. He stepped to his right and crouched low, nearly touching his butt to the ground. The pudgy man’s new worry became glaringly apparent as the maceman swung his weapon into his face with ferocious force. His face caved in, displaying the grizzly sight of disfigured flesh and protruding bones. The force of the blow knocked him off his feet leaving behind a mist of crimson in the air.
Shiqe rose and looked at the maceman. The grip on his weapon fell slightly limp as he realized what he’d done. He turned to face Shiqe, wide eyed as the curved blade came down onto his skull. The blade sliced through bone and sinew, splitting open the skull with a haunting crack.
He had been so consumed by the savage battle that he hadn’t even noticed his own hands were shaking. The sound of the crowd cheering entered his head once again. He had unknowingly shut the world out around him, focusing solely on the grim dance of combat.
The three bodies laid mangled on the ground, the one he’d gutted whimpered and gurgled as the other two had the odd spasm, but otherwise were snuffed out completely. Shiqe frowned down at them with nothing but self-contempt.
Amon rose once again from his balcony. “Shiqe of the Sands is your first victor!” He gave a little clap, and met Shiqe’s gaze with a filthy grin.
He hated that man.
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“He seems taller in the arena,” remarked the gaunt man, his skeptical fingers gently stroking his chin as he stared up at Shiqe.
April nodded, “Oh yes, many people say that,” his voice lilted with his Essudari accent, “It’s a consequence of his commanding aura, so potent and overwhelming that one imagines him to have an elevated stature,” his words flowed with conviction as his eyes squinted from his prideful smile.
“I’d offer two thousand clae, if you’d be willing to part with him,” his gaze shifted to April in bright with an expectant gaze.
April shook his head solemnly, “My apologies, but my dear Shiqe is beyond the realm of acquisition,” he stated firmly as his hands gestured to Shiqe. “I’ve tripled my profits since I purchased him, he’s made me a rich man!”
“How long have you had him?”
“Since the war ended, so about eight years.” April put his hands on his hips with a prideful smile. “Can you believe no one would purchase him because of his resplendent dark skin?” He laughed. “Quite the oversight, is it not?”
The nobleman’s response betrayed his apparent skepticism, “Well that, and he’s not very tall,” he muttered under his breath.
“He’s taller than you,” April cocked an eyebrow.
“Yes, but a good gambit fighter is large, leave the small ones for Amon,”
“Piss on Amon, it’s the small ones that make the best shows,” April shook his head. “Ah, you passionate enthusiasts! Forever averse to taking risks, constantly seeking assured satisfaction. Only to be crestfallen by the very nature of the gambit. One cannot have a gambit without risks,”
“Four thousand clae?” He asked.
April’s eyes narrowed as he pinched Shiqe’s cheeks. “Oh my friend, you’re going to have to do a lot better than that if you dare try and pry Shiqe from me,”
A breeze caught at Shiqe as he stood there. He hated the Gambit Hall more than the gambit. All of the fighters were traded back and forth, sold like cattle. It was demeaning. Beyond demeaning. Shiqe was a warrior, a master tactician who helped the Essudari defend Orlens, not some commodity to be traded and displayed in the nude for all of the nobles to see.
Shiqe shifted his attention from his oppressive surroundings to the centerpiece of the great hall; the leaderboard. A spinning mechanical structure, with servants climbing up it every hour to announce the ever-changing value of the fighters.
Shiqe watched as they climbed tall ladders, their movements precise and purposeful, and placed his name into the second place slot, rising from the fifth. His value changed from five thousand clae to eight thousand.
He felt a strange sense of pride to be worth that much, but the pangs of guilt rang through in his utter distaste of the gambit. At the very least it was a reminder of his prowess as a warrior, whatever that meant to him.
He sighed.
April looked up at him, after finally shooing the pest of a noble away. “You look down, Shiqe!” April erupted. “You should feel good, you’ve made me quite a few clae today,”
Shiqe’s lips curled into a disdainful sneer. He did not want to waste his words on such a repugnant man, who’s main joy in life was the sound of his own voice.
“After all of your feats, you still haven’t made it to the top of the leaderboard,” He shook his head as he looked at the center. “But your value is the highest there, and that’s because of yours truly,” He chuckled. “The exotic Shiqe of the Sands,” He waved his hand in front of his face as if he was reading a sign. “A lovely moniker, don’t you think?”
Disregarding the tiny man’s boasting, he looked back to the leaderboard in shock. A new name had appeared; Peter the Traitor. Shiqe furrowed his brow as the memories of the great war flooded into his mind. He watched Peter fall off of the walls in Orlens, how could he have survived?
“Of course you love it,” April said with a large gleam to his face. He smacked his lips. “I’m going to scope out the other competition, I’ll be back soon enough.”
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The day was over, at long last. Shiqe entered his room, still nude, and stared at himself in the full body mirror. His gaze lingered over his body, and all of its scars, recounting all of the stories they told. His fingers traced over the raised scar on his chest from the battle of Orlens. The countless cuts on his arms and shoulders recounting the sacrifices and missteps made during the gambit. The jagged line that marred his face, a lasting symbol of his foolhardy challenge to his brother. Shiqe sighed. A nostalgic pang spread through his gut, it'd been years since his time in Sikandi. It felt like those memories belonged to a separate lifetime. A time he would give anything to go back to.
Shiqe’s attention shifted to his dresser, an old rickety wooden structure given to April on a whim. The worn wood creaked as he opened the top drawer, revealing an assortment of garments.
He selected a button down nightgown, knowing the hardships of slipping a shirt on over the chains that anchored his arms. The only time he was free of them was to fight.
Seeking solace in his nightly ritual, Shiqe grabbed a book from the book shelf that sat atop the dresser. He settled into his worn mattress and opened the latest novel he’d been given. A history of The Freshunt. A book of false gods long forgotten by the rest of the world. It must’ve been a strange world that far north.
He read a page about Frio’s massacre, a battle in which the god of life had brought death upon hundreds of men in service of his enigmatic ally, Slinefore.
Shiqe licked his finger and began to turn the page, only to find himself frozen mid-action. Panic welled within him as he discovered his body was utterly unresponsive, the only part he could move were his eyes, which darted around in futile attempts to understand what was happening.
A shadow that seemed to distort the very air cast its presence over him. Shiqe strained his gaze to catch a glimpse of the intruder. A man with dark, ebony skin dawned in a dark silk robe that swayed with his every movement.
In his left hand he held a staff, intricate runic carvings running down the wood telling words Shiqe could not understand.
The man’s translucent figure wavered in and out of focus, a magical veil shimmering over his presence.
“Shiqe,” The man’s voice was deep and raspy, impregnating the air with the very essence of power. “When the time is right, my employer requests an audience with you,” With measured steps he walked around the room, “Quite the lavish room for a gambit fighter, is it not?” The man stopped in front of his mirror, and stroked his thin beard. To Shiqe’s surprise there was no reflection whatsoever. “I watched your last match, quite the show,” He cleared his throat with a phlegmy cough.
“My employer thinks you will be useful to us, and so I bid you this gift and in exchange you will do what I tell you.” He turned to Shiqe, grabbed the top of his head and turned it to face him. The man’s hand of ethereal quality, feeling cold as if he were a spirit. Now that he got a better view, the man was certainly translucent. He still could not speak.
“A calamitous event will unfold in Orlens, an event of which I’m certain you will be in attendance. If perchance you happen to be present, you will be free from your constraints,”
The man smiled ear to ear in a grin Shiqe found to be unnatural. Shiqe’s instincts told his body to lean backwards, leaving its lack of movement to flood his senses with fear and adrenaline. “Once you are freed, you will be obliged to travel home to Sikandi. When you arrive you must traverse the Hisya Desert until you stumble upon a submerged ruin where the pinnacle of a spire remains unobscured. Once you arrive there we will seek you out. Consider this a beneficial endowment of foresight, dear Shiqe. You will have your freedom, and in return for this knowledge,” The man cut himself short as he smiled.
“Well, I suppose I don’t need to repeat myself, I do get so caught up in things with my old age,” The man’s head turned to the bookshelf on Shiqe’s dresser. His finger traced the spine of every book as he carefully read the titles of the pathetic assortment April had bestowed upon Shiqe. His thin finger rested on a red leather bound book, dusty from lack of use. “History of The Nalamba, an intriguing tale, I suggest you familiarize yourself with its contents, assuming you can comprehend more than simple story books.”
The tall dark skinned man smiled at Shiqe once more, and snapped his fingers. Shiqe dropped his book as his arms fell slack to his sides as if he’d just passed out, and his head with it. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. Upon opening them, the man was gone, and he was alone with his thoughts.
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