Slave Unbound Ch. 10

Chapter 10

The Work of Monsters

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Disclaimer: This story is not meant as 'erotica', but dark adventure-fantasy. It may contain material that sensitive readers might find uncomfortable. Please be advised.

From his perch far above the brutal sands of the Grand Arena floor, Verdant Crahka, owner of House Whitebanner, watched with an intense wince as they drug what remained of the gladiator away. He'd never managed to develop much of a stomach for gore and death, though he'd be a liar if he said he'd had not become infected with the general thrill of the place. He'd never imagined himself the head of a gladiatorial house, but he liked to think he'd grown into the role well enough. Still, he would never find pleasure in witnessing butchery.

Of course, he was all too aware that he was in a complete minority on that opinion. The roar of the crowds below his private box was still ringing out, despite the victor of the engagement having long ago been led away out of sight. Of course, it wasn't the winner himself that they cheered for, but the death they'd gotten to see. The mean populace of Solace lived to see people suffer, it seemed.

The midweek events were dedicated to death, being when the government arranged all their Execution Matches, sentencing the condemned to die at the hands of professional gladiators for sport, coin, and the pleasure of the audience. There was never a lack of Houses willing to assign a fighter to play the role of executioner either, as such matches paid very highly and allowed the more ruthless gladiators an opportunity to revel in their own bloodlust.

Being that the Prime Council also often offered special bonuses for particularly foul convicts to not only die, but to do so slowly and with much suffering, one often saw the worst side of the Arena on these days. On these days, the various Houses usually sent out their worst and most violent members. On these days, one saw the work of killers at their best. It also pulled the highest attendance records and most monies from admission on these days.

Easing back into his seat, needing a break from the spectacle for a moment, Verdant gestured to his personal slave and House Recorder, Lanni. "Did we have a wager on that one?" He asked warily. "I want to believe I placed something on Sabrina's man to win."

"Yes, Master Crahka." Lanni replied, consulting a ledger from the stack in the seat beside her. "You put ten on him, at three and two." She added after a moment's searching.

Wincing again, Verdant sighed dismally. Though the idea of Execution Matches were supposed to be the death of the condemned, all too often it was the gladiator who died. Many of those sentenced to die here were competent killers in their own right, thus part of why they were sent here. While he had no love of criminals and little pity for them, he hated to see good men and women perish because there was more money to be made letting murderers fight than just hanging them in a square.

"However, Master, you also put a back-up bet—" Lanni began, obviously trying to soothe her Master's regret.

"Yes, yes, I know." Verdant said, waving a hand. "Enough to cover the loss, but it still means no gain for the House."

From behind him, Ashton cleared his throat subtly. "I think this makes the third time this assassin has killed his opponent, Master Crahka." The lean bodyguard said softly. "Lanni, what does that add to the purse?"

She made some quick notations in the ledger. "This win will add an extra twenty percent...rounded to the closest set of five..." Her quill scratched for a second before whistling. "Forty coren, Mister Ashton."

"Two hundred gold crescents, Master Crahka." Ashton said leadingly. "That would be a nice gain for the House right there."

Verdant breathed a heavy sigh, shaking his head. "No Ashton. I will not put one of our House in something this barbaric. It is risk enough to put them in a common match of sportsmanship, I have no desire to see one of my charges die to a villain like that." He turned to glance at the young man. "Especially not you, my friend, as I'm sure it was yourself that you meant."

"This monster, Sierge, fights with speed and agility, Master Crahka." Asthon ventured, making no effort to deny that final observation. "They keep assigning fighters that are more focused on strength than speed. A warrior like myself—"

"I said no!" Verdant stated, trying to make the words final. "House Whitebanner does not participate in these sorts of events. Bet on them, perhaps, but I'll not send you, or anyone of the House, down there to kill or die!"

Ashton straightened his posture rigidly, taking on a more 'proper' air, meant, more likely, to show respect for him than out of indignation, but Verdant deflated at the sight, instantly feeling sorry for shouting at him. "In addition," He added, making an effort to make his voice softer and soothing. "I would be utterly lost without your guidance, Ashton. I allow you too often, already, to risk yourself. I rely on you."

When Verdant received word that his uncle had passed, leaving him ownership of a gladiatorial House of the Grand Arena, he'd not had much intention of keeping it. He was a man of academics and scholarship, not base violence and sport. He'd arrived to find very little of real worth to sell off, actually, his uncle inadept at both business and understanding what made good fighters. House Whitebanner had only three gladiators remaining in its stable and even fewer House slaves to help maintain the physical structure.

Ignorant of the world of the Arena, Verdant had sold two of the three gladiators as Arena lots, as both had been new acquisitions anyway and he assumed there'd be no real market. The third fighter, Ashton, he almost sold as well, though the young warrior had at least garnered enough prestige to have offers from some of the other Houses. However, he'd taken the time to actually speak to his last gladiator first, had listened when Ashton advised him that he could sell the House assets for much, much more if he took a few months to build it back up a little.

Accepting the advice, he'd decided to keep the House for a few months until he could renovate it. Even more, Verdant allowed Ashton to continue to play the role of council, deferring to the more experienced man's takes on what matches he should be put into and how to best reinstate House Whitebanner. Ashton, having long been severely underrated and underestimated as a gladiator, quickly earned a number of high purses and even higher returns for Verdant at the betting houses.

Verdant purchased two more gladiators, men he believed had good character, as well as skill with arms. While they fared less successful than Ashton, Verdant's manner of treating them with respect garnered significant loyalty to the House from them. What was more, Verdant found himself enjoying the displays of sportsmanship and prowess that existed, unexpectedly, within the Arena. By the end of three months, Verdant began properly staffing the House and enlarging the stable, deciding to remain as its Headmaster.

Ashton quickly became a dear friend, dear enough that, after almost two years of loyal and fierce service as a gladiator of House Whitebanner, Verdant presented him with a sack of silver and his freedom. Though Ashton accepted both with gratitude, he then requested to remain with the House, in the role of Verdant's bodyguard, advisor, and occasional gladiator when the House desperately needed a win to stay afloat.

"I know, Master Crahka." Ashton conceded, looking to him with a more informal expression. Though he'd not worn a collar in over a year, he had to make an effort to not act like a slave. His enduring respect for his former Master making that even harder of a habit to be rid of. "We also very much need to refill our coffers though. We're nearly down to the ferrings, Master."

Verdant turned back to look out at the open Arena, seeing that they were about to begin the next combat. "Bastira's fight tomorrow will earn us some good coin, Ashton. I believe it. She's greatly improved since her last conflict, so her odds are high against her. I think we'll make plenty from her surprise victory alone, if not the purse itself."

He could almost hear Ashton's doubtful expression behind him, likely not as sure of the woman's assured victory as Verdant. In truth, despite the hours she'd put into developing her talents in the training yard, the hours he'd spent with her, trying to bolster her confidence, Verdant wasn't really as sure he didn't agree as he wanted to pretend. Most believed that Verdant's ideology of treating his slaves with respect and compassion made his stable weaker. Personally, he believed that it made them much stronger and more determined. The problem was the gladiators he took in tended to not be very skilled to begin with.

"Who is next, Lanni?" He asked, only half listening as the speaker for the Prime was rattling off the official preamble to the next 'execution by gladiator', as well as a rather robust list of crimes for which the condemned was being sentenced for.

"Houten 'the Big' Mullens is the accused, Master Crahka." She replied, though paused.

Verdant paused too, chewing at his lip. "Versus the Monster of House Warforger." He completed for her after a moment, breathing the words out with disgust.

"Yes, Master." Lanni said meekly, as though she might be in trouble for delivering the bad news.

Verdant sank back into his chair, unsure how to feel. Donovan Solivir purchased the Orling gladiator from the lots auction after what had been an exhibition of utterly vicious carnage. His 'monster' had created a bidding war at the auction, they say, that had never been matched. Well, apparently, up until this past week's, at least. And the beast had originally been one of the two slaves he'd sold as lots. In over three years, the warrior had never lost; or left an opponent alive.

While he would not have wanted something so savage in his own stable, a true monster who fed on blood and fear, he'd sometimes wondered how different things might have been if the creature had remained 'Verdant Crahka's Monster'. Perhaps he'd have been able to control him, tame him, show him that he could more than just some wild animal. He may be half Oruhk, but he was also half human.

He flinched out of his own musing at the sound of the gladiator's traditional crowing bellow below, somehow loud enough to carry cleanly over even the deafening thunder of the assembled on-lookers who loved to watch him kill. Looking down at the sands, he watched Solivir's monster, who'd only bore the nickname 'Crusher' when his uncle had purchased him from gods knew where.

Crusher jogged a lap about the arena, banging his large sword against his spiked shield, whooping and hollering, adding fuel to an already electrified crowd. There could be no mistaking that Crusher loved the Arena, fed on it. A natural disaster on two legs. He was the undisputed star of the Grand Arena.

Verdant braced himself for what would be a scene of utter gore and brutality, but even he couldn't make himself look away. It was always hard to look away when Crusher walked the sands, even if you wanted to.

Far below in the circle of the Arena floor, the Orling gladiator came to a final rest in his antics, settling himself in preparation for what may come out of the gate, Ceribos, across from him. Clad in heavy steel armor plates, all encrusted with short, rough, spikes, he spun the large blade in his hand as easily as one might twirl a dirk. Long streamers trailed from its pummel, once white, not completely stained dark from tides of blood.

The parts of his body not coated in metal bulged with dense and defined muscle, his dark sienna flesh looking almost like a suit of leather beneath the plates. Six and half feet tall with thick and powerful limbs, his shadow often engulfed his competitors; acting as a sort of herald to the shadow of death that would soon follow.

The loud clanking of the iron gate rising, barely audible over the thunder of the audience, all shouting for death and frenzy, heralded the arrival of the criminal, 'Houten the Big', whose name did little justice to his presence and appearance. Nearly eight feet tall, seeming nearly that much wide, Mullens seemed like something out of legend, a giant from the darkest of tales told.

Though not as well armored as his Orling opponent, whose own impressive size seemed minuscule in comparison, Houten carried a massive four-headed flail, each studded ball the size of a man's skull. Verdant had seen that flail crush a woman to pulp with one swing, just a week earlier. The giant had gleefully beat her corpse with it until they'd needed buckets and spades to remove her remains.

That same look of malicious glee was on Mullens' face now as he looked at Crusher waiting for him, shield raised. Slowly, he began swinging the flail back and forth, lowering his own posture, dark, beady eyes glittering with murder. For his part, Crusher merely planted his feet in the sand and tightened his stance, waiting for the call to action.

The speaker for the Prime finally shouted out the command to fight and both men exploded into motion, charging at one another like stampeding bulls. Just before the two met at the center, Houten brought his flail down in a way that made the tails spread out, creating a wide arc of attack right in front of him. However, if he'd expected the armored Orling's own momentum to carry him directly into the swing, he was deeply mistaken.

Crusher's shift in direction was so perfect and so sharp that it seemed like a magic trick, one second he was running headlong forward, right into Houten's path, the next he was strafing to his right, rotating as he moved past, putting his shield in place to ensure that any stray tail was deflected, his blade meeting the back of the giant's meaty ass with a heavy smack. Though he could have managed to make a definitive cut with the slash, the side of the sword is what struck, spanking the condemned.

Houten was able to recover his titanic swing faster than most might expect, but not fast enough. As he spun, dragging the massive flail around to swing, Crusher once again made a seemingly impossible shift in direction, launching himself forward, past Houten's revolving body. Just past him, Crusher dug in a heel, halted his inertia, and snapped himself around, letting his sword arc out and snap hard across the other cheek of Houten's ass.

Reversing direction, the giant roared in anger, bringing the flail back around with the intent of colliding into Crusher before the Orling could change direction again. This time, he managed to get the weapon to his target, but his haste meant that he had spent too much effort in reversing the heavy weapon's path. All four heads came together across Crusher's readied shield, their force too retarded to do more than bring the gladiator to a stop and slide him back a couple feet in the soft sand.

Whatever taking the hit may have cost the Orling, the effort seemed to take more from Houten. It took him a moment to recover the weapon for a new attack, allowing Crusher to step in and drive a long slash down the giant's side and hip. Houten's modest armor kept the weapon from penetrating too deeply, but the blade split the hardened leather of his coat and severed the strap of the cuisses on his right leg, causing the plate to loosen and slide down.

His blade now bloodied, Crusher howled like an animal and lurched away from his foe just as Houten brought the flail about to bear. The heads whistled inches away from the gladiator's chest and head, providing enough tailwind in their wake to flutter the ribbons of his sword. Flowing in like a spill of water behind the swing, Crusher brought his blade down Houten's other side, again splitting coat and thigh-plate strap. Though this second swing failed to penetrate to flesh, Crusher dodged back and to the left with a loud laugh of triumph.

Houten himself retreated back, apparently recognizing that his opponent was far more than the pitiful excuses for challenge that had been fed to him. Both men took a moment to regather themselves and assess their opponents, preparing for the next charge. More wary now, Houten's next rush forward was far more cautious and measured, his weapon kept more agile and adaptable of path. It allowed him to fend off the Orling's own oncoming charge, forcing Crusher to divert and dodge as he shifted his swing to compensate.

One heavy tail managed to clip across Crusher's shoulder on the backswing, knocking him slightly off balance. Houten didn't allow the opportunity to pass, throwing his titanic weight into Crusher, heedless of the jagged spikes on his armor, and forced him to stagger to the side. Stepping back, pivoting, then forward again, he brought the flail upwards with a roar. Crusher only barely managed to intercept the attack with his shield, angling it downwards and recoiling, but the impact lifted him completely off the ground and sent him sailing backwards.

Pressing his attack before the Orling even landed, Houten gave his own bellow of laughter as he brought the flail back down in a mighty arc, huge legs stepping up to bring the weapon down into Crusher's landing body. A lesser warrior might have ended there, stunned by the previous swing alone, if not by landing flat on their back. Crusher, however, was never lesser.

The flail met mostly sand, the gladiator rolling away before he was fully to the ground. One steel ball collided with his spiked helmet, wrenching it off his head, but any pain he may have received from it did nothing to slow him. If anything, it seemed to light something inside him, a fire of rage and primal power that was what everyone waited for.

Bouncing away, he rolled to his feet with only the slightest pause to steady his bearings. The most animalistic parts of facial features fierce and snarling, dark hair wild and splayed like the fur on an angered cat's back. Grinding his feet into the sand, he lowered himself for his next charge, growling like a wolf. Houten turned, ready to meet the charge and end the affair, gathering himself for the kill swing.

As Crusher leapt forward, so did Houten, leaping at the last moment to put maximum force behind his attack. This time, it was obvious that Crusher had no intention of strafing to the side, and he did not. Instead, at the last instant, he rocked himself backwards, keeping his feet sliding forward. As the flail come down, he raised his shield up expertly, angling it perfectly into the swing to not only deflect the blow let it power his own trajectory and add spin to his body. Crusher slid right between Houten the Big's giant legs, angling through them expertly, his sword cleaving deep into the right, unprotected, thigh as he went past.

Clamping in his heels and letting the spikes of his armor dig into the ground, he caught his momentum just past the giant's landing and threw himself up and around, sword slashing through the back of the left thigh. Taking all his massive weight on two brutally injured legs left Houten crashing hard into the ground, unable to remain standing. Rolling over, he lifted a meaty fist to instinctively fend off any attack, but Crusher was already on him, removing the hand at the wrist.

Legs nearly crippled, prone on his back, and now missing a hand, a hand that he needed to properly wield his oversized weapon, Houten howled in fear. The cry become a terrified mewling sound a moment later, as he looked into the face of the Monster of House Warforger and saw the truth of his fate there. His last scream of panic ended with a wet gurgle.

Above it all, Verdant made a wet sound himself, a gagging noise at the sight of what Crusher did next to the massive body of the condemned. Looking away, he fought his stomach to settle, wincing at the painfully loud cacophony of the crowds below. They loved death and Crusher always delivered spectacularly.