Red Sonja Outmatched Ch. 02

Chapter 2

Fight

Sonja strode down the underground tunnel with confidence, her long legs carrying her with flowing grace. The cool dampness of the air clung to her bare skin, a welcome relief from the sweltering heat outside. Flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows against the rough-hewn walls, carved from the very bedrock beneath the arena stands.

The path sloped gently downward, winding deeper into the earth. From side passages she could hear the snarls of caged beasts and the raucous shouts of men. The pungent smells of animals, sweat, blood and fear permeated the stale air. This was a realm of violence and spectacle, where valor mingled with brutality for the entertainment of the masses above.

Sonja inhaled deeply, feeling her warrior spirit quicken within. It had been too long since she experienced the heady thrill of the arena. Here, her skills could be tested against worthy foes, rather than nameless brigands and highwaymen. Pit fighters and slaves battled for glory, fame, gold or simply survival. Even desperate commoners came seeking fortune, no matter the risk. All were drawn by the siren call of the arena--the chance to cheat death and etch one's name into legend before the roaring crowds.

These tunnels teemed with such hopefuls awaiting their moment in the harsh light above. Sonja passed hulking bare-chested men with scars crisscrossing their flesh, lean swordsmen honing their blades, even exotic beasts with tamers struggling to control them until their time came to unleash savagery upon the sands. All paused to watch the tall warrioress pass, her gleaming armor, confident stride and stark beauty setting her apart. Long looks of appraisal followed in her wake, tinged with awe and wariness, but Sonja paid them no mind. Her focus was singular and unwavering.

At the end of the passage stood a guard at his post before a heavy gate of iron bars. Sonja presented her wooden token, and the guard reached to unlock the portal, allowing her entry to the small preparation room beyond. A dozen other fighters awaited within, pacing and limbering up as the ruckus from above filtered down to them. The contestants were as varied as any she had seen; burly, bare-chested men checking their weapons; a pair of wiry Khitans huddled together in one corner separate from the others; even a lithe dark-skinned woman limbering up cat-like in the shadows, reminding her of Deija. With a flick of her head, Sonja shook that thought out of her mind. She could not afford any distractions in this place, especially not of that kind.

All ceased their preparations to eye the new arrival. Sonja read their gazes in an instant--the men with lusty interest, the Khitans with suspicion, the woman with cold assessment. She met each stare with indifference, letting her imposing physique speak for itself as she found an open space along the side wall. Leaning back against the rough stone, she crossed her arms and waited with easy patience, letting the thrum of the crowds above set her pulse racing.

This backwater town was unworthy of her talents, but that mattered not. Once given the chance, she would gift these crowds a spectacle of martial prowess beyond any they had witnessed before. Straining her ears, she could just make out the announcer's booming voice whipping the audience into greater frenzy between preliminary bouts. Soon that voice would be calling out her name, and the foolish fighters around her would learn why she was legend. The corners of Sonja's lips curled in a hint of a smirk at the thought.

Her gaze fell upon the large gate made of thick timber and iron set into the adjacent wall. Its imposing form dominated the cramped preparation room, the long shadows cast by flickering torchlight only magnifying its intimidating visage. She noted how the other fighters gave it a wide berth, as if the mere proximity to that shut gate would invoke some dire fate. Her eyes traced up along its weathered planks and sturdy iron supports, all the way to the small grated window near the top.

Through the narrow slits she caught glimpses of the darkening sky and blazing arena torches beyond, along with the waving of the crowds seated in the upper rows. The muffled sounds of clashing steel, cries of pain and roars of bloodlust seeped through the opening, sending a spark racing through Sonja's veins. She inhaled deeply, picturing the moment those gates would slowly creak open before her to reveal the packed arena stands and her first opponent awaiting, the rapturous cheers ringing in her ears. A swell of excitement rose within her chest, her body coiled and ready to spring forth into glorious combat once more. But for now she waited, prepared to remind this arena--and all of Hyboria--why she was the greatest swordswoman of the age.

* * *

Deija settled into her seat, casting occasional glances at the well-dressed man beside her. His features remained obscured beneath the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat, though she could make out uneven patches of pale, gnarled flesh covering one side of his face. Old burn scars, she surmised, likely earned in some horrific accident or battle long ago. They gave his visage a sinister cast, especially paired with his brooding silence.

"Governor," she greeted softly, but received no response other than a grim huff, making her wish she had kept quiet.

With a disgruntled mutter of her own, Deija turned her eyes to the arena below, where crowds filed into the roughly hewn stone benches, a steady buzz charging the torch-lit atmosphere. Vendors hawked refreshments up and down the aisles--skin bladders of cheap wine, skewers of charred mystery meat, baskets of fried dough. The smells of smoke, stale sweat, and cooking grease mingled with the underlying tang of old blood soaked into the sand.

Down on the arena floor, contestants warmed up the crowds with displays to prime their bloodlust. Archers lined up along one edge, loosing arrows in trick shots--piercing thrown fruits, splitting wooden poles, even igniting braziers with flaming tips. Muscled fighters paired off in wrestling matches, straining sinew against sinew to the raucous shouts of spectators placing wagers. A few scantily clad dancers undulated along another edge, bare curves gleaming in the torchlight. It was all a thinly veiled prelude to the violence soon to come.

As the stands filled, the energy swelled to fever pitch. Crude cheers and curses rang out, feet stamped the stone in arrhythmic thunder. The air was choked with smoke, sweat, and the metallic bite of anticipation. When the sun finally sank below the crude wooden palisade rimming the pit above, horns sounded to announce the commencement of the tournament's main event. The crowd's roar doubled in force. Down in the cramped fighters' vault underneath, the gate rumbled open in agonizing slowness, eliciting a fresh wave of shouts and stamping feet from above.

Beside her, the scarred man's leathery voice broke the tense silence, leaning in to speak under cover from the noise.

"Did you rub the oil onto her?"

Deija turned, regarding him coolly out of the corner of her eye. This pompous fool was but a pawn, though a useful one. She saw no reason to indulge his curiosity. But the Master's plan hinged upon both their parts being played flawlessly.

"Yes, she is drenched in it," Deija replied evenly. "Not even her formidable powers can overcome that much jurra."

The man seemed satisfied, but pressed further. "Will it kill her? She cannot die so soon. It is of utmost importance that she lives. The Master was specific. He wants her humiliated, her name dragged through the muck before she is destroyed."

Deija suppressed an irritated hiss. Did this dim-witted fool think her an amateur?

"As long as she is washed off after the fight, she will not die. At least not from the oils," she replied tersely.

When he still hesitated, she added, "The poison will dull her reactions, make her slow and weak, but not to the point of being obvious. The onlookers will believe her tired, confused, or out of shape at worst. None will suspect foul play, maybe not even Sonja herself."

The man finally grunted his acceptance and turned his attention back to the arena. Deija exhaled in quiet frustration. Men and their ceaseless questions! She need not explain herself to the likes of him. All that mattered was the final outcome.

Turning her focus back to the tunnel below, she watched a lithe, dark-skinned woman emerge into the smoky torchlight to raucous cheers and lewd shouts from the crowds. She moved with feline grace across the torch-lit sands, long limbs oiled to a high gleam. Deija recognized her as Kushite--likely a slave or captive forced to fight for her life in this arena. The ritual scars on her angular face and the bone piercings adorning her nose and ears marked her tribal origins. She wore only a brief leather loincloth and breast wrapping, leaving the rest of her sleek ebony form uncovered.

The Kushite glided and stretched, playing to the crowd's vulgar shouts and whistles. Sinewy muscles flexed beneath her oiled skin as she twirled a long spear with easy skill. Her bare feet danced across the sand, stirring up tiny puffs of dust as she turned and twisted. The dark beauty moved like liquid night, gaze haughty as she stared down the drunken onlookers. When she halted in a battle-ready pose, the horns sounded again and a towering blonde woman emerged from the opposite tunnel.

This new fighter was a stark contrast--pale and fair where the Kushite was dark as midnight, brawny and thickly muscular to the other's lithe grace. Shaggy fur pelts covered her torso, doing little to conceal the heavy swells of her breasts. The crude garb marked her as a barbarian from the frozen northlands of Asgard. She carried a broad hammer and shield, hefting them with ease despite their impressive size and weight. While the Kushite was oiled to gleaming, this northern giantess exuded raw power carved from her harsh environment. Jagged scars crisscrossed her bare arms and shoulders, speaking of past battles survived through sheer grit. The Aesir's face was a harsh landscape of frigid beauty--high cheekbones carved from unforgiving granite, a sharp aquiline nose like a spearpoint of ice, thin pale lips drawn in an expression of perpetual disdain. Eyes the pale blue of ancient glaciers stared out from beneath a shelf of craggy brow, broadcasting a cold ferocity and ruthlessness born from a life amidst the icy wastes. Sun-bleached flaxen hair streamed behind her in knotted braids interwoven with leather and bone charms as she strode onto the sand and raised her weapons high to meet the crowd's deafening cheers.

Despite the staggering difference between the fighters, only one would emerge alive from this contest. Such was the brutal law of the sands. As they squared off, the odds seemed stacked heavily in the Aesir's favor. She towered more than a head above the Kushite, her hammer and shield dwarfing the slender spear meant for quick strikes. But the crowd had seen enough upsets in this vicious arena to remain on edge, shouting encouragement to both fighters.

At the announcer's signal, the two women clashed in a blur of whirling weapons, primal battlecries and tribal ululations echoing over the onlooker's cheer. The Aesir hammered forward relentlessly, using her superior size and strength to full advantage. But the Kushite was too quick, dancing just outside her reach. Her spear darted and slashed with viper speed, drawing long streaks of red across the blonde giantess' pale limbs wherever they connected. Howls erupted from the stands as first blood was drawn.

But the superficial cuts did little to slow the northern brute's advance. She pressed the attack, backing the Kushite nearer to the arena's edge with each crashing blow of her shield against the warrior's upraised spear. Wood cracked and splintered under the onslaught in loud bangs. The nimbleness that had served the dark-skinned beauty well so far was fast failing her now, the Kushite's artful footwork giving way to desperation. With nowhere left to dance, her fate was sealed.

With a guttural shout, the sun-haired barbarian drove her shield forward, catching her lithe opponent square in the chest and knocking her off-balance. The Kushite's oil-slick legs went out from under her and she sprawled backward onto the sand, spear pieces skittering away. A hush fell over the arena at the deadly shift. Then a roar went up from the crowd as the giantess closed in, everyone sensing the end was nigh.

Fear finally broke through the Kushite's haughty mask as she crab-walked backward, the sand proving just as treacherous as her foe now. She made it only a few feet before her back met the arena's wooden barrier--a palisade of logs lining the rough stone walls. Trapped, she glared up defiantly, still grappling for the crippled spear just beyond her grasp. But the Aesir towered above her, hammer raised for the finishing blow, her giant form cutting off any means of escape.

From her prime seat, Deija saw the Kushite's courage break, lips drawing back from pearl-white teeth in a primal snarl of fear. Black eyes lifted skyward, awaiting the inevitable. In that frozen moment Deija thought she saw regret for a life half-lived, dreams left unfulfilled. Then the hammer fell with awful finality. A wet crack resounded across the arena as it crushed the dark beauty's skull. She slumped lifelessly against the wooden barricade in a growing pool of thick crimson. The Aesir let loose a victorious bellow, pumping her gore-slick hammer overhead. The deafening crowds answered back with fevered screams, drunk on the grisly spectacle.

Lips curling in distaste, Deija looked away as attendants in blood-stained smocks scurried out to drag away the crumpled corpse. They left trailing smears of dark red through the sand, which other workers hastily began to rake and turn over, absorbing the evidence of violence back into the thirsty earth.

Above it all the announcer's voice boomed out the victrix' name, extolling her triumph to the frenzied masses. But the barbarian had already departed below ground, moving with cold efficiency toward her next bout. For most combatants, there was no lasting joy or glory to be found in this vicious crucible--only survival, and the promise of further pain.

Deija's glance flickered down the row to where the governor still sat beside her hunched in the shadows, impassive face hidden by the low brim of his hat. She could sense his building anticipation in the subtle shift of his posture. Let him revel in these bloody delights, she thought disdainfully. His part in this scheme was minor, albeit annoying.

Within heartbeats, the next match was announced, but Deija hardly heard the words over the crowd's fervor. Her thoughts were focused on what awaited beneath the arena, where one more heroic soul was being led to slaughter. But this lioness was in truth a collared pet, though she did not yet know it--a queen of the open plains, momentarily declawed. Soon, Red Sonja would emerge on the blood-soaked sands below, where a very different reception awaited. Deija's breath quickened and she wet her painted lips in anticipation. The waiting game was nearly complete. She need only play her final strokes, then destiny would take hold.

* * *

Sonja stood poised before the hefty door leading into the arena, the cacophonous din filtering through in muffled echoes beyond the weathered planks. She peered intently through the small grated window, keen blue eyes tracking the previous bout's brutal climax unfolding on the blood-soaked sands outside. From her limited vantage, she glimpsed the hulking blonde warrior's final crushing blow upon her unfortunate opponent, eliciting a guttural roar from the encircling masses.

Sonja's grip tightened on her broadsword's leather-wrapped hilt in unconscious mirror of the violence transpiring mere yards away. The familiar metallic tang of freshly spilled blood reached her flared nostrils even through the intervening barriers of wood and stone. She inhaled deeply, pulse quickening in anticipation. Soon it would be her name resounding from those rough-hewn benches, her blade carving through smoke-filled air to the fevered screams of the onlookers. Yet the stark dichotomy of the scene made her frown.

In the harsh lands of Hyboria, women were often seen as lesser--valued only for the sons they could provide and the pleasure they could give men. Their worth was determined by their beauty and fertility alone. They had no voice, no rights. To the men who ruled this savage world, women were tools, slaves, breeders, playthings. Nothing more.

Even here, in this remote arena tucked amidst the Talakma Mountains, this attitude prevailed. The crowd that filled the rough-hewn stone benches was overwhelmingly male. Women scattered the stands in small groups, or clung to the sides of their menfolk. Their muted presence was barely acknowledged amid the raucous shouts and lewd jokes of the men, who spat and swore with impunity in their company.

The bouts staged below in the sand-strewn pit reflected this imbalance of power. Female gladiators were made to fight first, little more than a titillating warm-up before the 'real' events featuring male combatants. They were jeered and ogled by the crowds, who saw them as exotic novelties rather than true warriors. Bets were placed on their exposed flesh as much as their fighting prowess. Many women were made to battle nearly nude, for the viewing pleasure of the masses. Victory mattered little to them, only survival.

The rare women who proved themselves exceptional fighters were still not respected, only resented. The men bristled at the idea of a mere woman besting one of their own. To avoid insulting their egos, female gladiators were almost never paired against men in the arena. The few who dared request such a match were mocked, refused, or met with threats. The message was clear--women had their place, and the sands were not it. They existed only to sate appetites, not challenge men's dominance.

Red Sonja was a grave affront to this unspoken code. Her skill with a blade rivaled the greatest male swordsmen, yet she was undeniably, dangerously female. Tales of her exploits in far off lands had reached even these remote parts, impossible to ignore. She had bested countless male challengers, heedless of their wounded pride. Her beauty stirred men's lust, while her warrior spirit earned their resentment. She was a threat to their supposed supremacy simply by existing. To these men, her womanhood negated her skill. She was a freak, an aberration of nature that needed to be put in her place. They would never accept a mere woman standing as their equal. But they would flock to watch her be humbled and humiliated before their eyes. For Sonja to be defeated by a male gladiator in combat would restore the proper order of things in their minds. It would put this brazen upstart back where she belonged--on her knees before a man.

Such an outcome was highly unlikely, given Sonja's peerless skill. But even if she won, it would be a hollow victory. Thunderous applause would greet a male victor for vanquishing a woman. For Sonja, defeating a man would earn only cold stares and muted mutters. Every match she won would be seen as an affront to manhood. Her name might draw crowds, but it would not draw respect. True glory in the arena was reserved solely for men.

Sonja knew all this, and did not care. She would enter the sands regardless, uncowed by the scornful odds stacked against her. She would battle not for their validation, but for her own satisfaction. For though she was despised by many, she was legend. And her skill would humble even the most scornful onlooker. They would be helpless but to acclaim her prowess, even as they cursed under their breath.