Child of the Mountain

"Hey! Psst!"

Curly hissed as he crawled across the floor of the compartment towards the unconscious boy who helped him at the pits. The pain of the burns from the warden electro-staves still bit at his back and chest. The runaway slave had gone through much in his life, but the shock delivered by those weapons wasn't something he liked to go through again.

"Hey whelp! You still there?" He rasped, finally reaching the still form of his new friend at the edge of the compartment.

The boy was still breathing, which Curly counted as a good sign.

Through the heavy shackles, he reached for the boy and pulled him upright. As Curly tapped lightly at his cheeks, the dazed and confused child of the mountain slowly regained consciousness. His eyes opened to see another prison around him, although one that he shared with a familiar face. Uttering a low growl, he brought his little hands up.

Upon seeing the shackles, the boy snarled like a cornered wolf and began straining against both star-metal and energy field to free himself.

"That's not going to work very well for you." Curly said, sitting back to watch the boy grunt and howl in frustration. He shrank back in surprise when the shackles suddenly sparked and groaned from the untapped godlike strength of the boy's limbs. It wasn't enough to break them, but it was enough for Curly to realize there was more to him than it seemed. "Gods above! Wish I had that kind of strength, we would've both been freed from the pits!"

The boy sighed heavily, having spent the last of his waning energy from the attempt. He sank back to the floor in a heap and began to weep.

"Hey now, enough of that." Curly scooted over and shoved the sniveling whelp of a lad back to sitting position. "Find your spine, you're better than that. We both are."

The boy whined, but dried his tears just the same. Neither slave knew how long the journey would last, and to spend the rare pause between service to their masters by crying would be a waste, both of tears and of time. The child of the mountain was quick to pick up on this, so he kept a stiff upper lip.

"Do you have a name?" Curly asked.

The boy stared at him silently, not knowing what to say.

The runaway smiled, "No name, I see. Your birth must have offended the gods so much that they left no one to give you one." He beckoned for him to come closer. When he finally did, Curly tapped at the boy's grimy chest. "I will call you 'Little Brother'. The gods have forsaken you by leaving you nameless, I will not. I am Rissio, and whatever hell they put us through, you and I will stand together."

Little Brother grunted. "To...together?"

"That's right." Rissio's smile widened, taking one of his little hands into his scarred and calloused own. "Together, Little Brother."

"Mmm." The boy purred and clutched tightly to his friend's arm. Their world was cruel and unjust. Both were afraid of what was to come, but they felt stronger knowing that neither would face it alone.

Rissio, in an attempt to uplift their spirits, reflected on the bracing match they fought in the pits of the Proving Grounds just hours prior. A hundred souls fought for the slim chance of surviving the day, and not a single one managed to get to the top of the ziggurat. Simplistic as the mind of a slave was, he knew as much as any scholar that it was easy for a man to act like an animal in times of desperation. Very rarely did one resort to cooperation, and the runaway was glad that he met the boy the way he did.

"You're strong, Little Brother. It will be good to have that strength." He said, "Where we're going, you will need it."

Little Brother said nothing.

"Let me ask you, how'd you end up in the pits?"

Again, he said nothing.

Rissio mistook his silence for shame, so he chose not to pry. "I worked the silver mines for my former master, Dominus Kattius. You know what they called the people who ended up working there? Sky people, on account of their skin turning blue. They say the gods of the earth mark them that way for the paradise below, out of pity."

The runaway chuckled, rubbing at the scars on his arms and legs. He picked at a particular one, the old branding scar that bore his master's sigil. "If that's true, it may have been foolish of me to try to run. Paradise awaited me deep within the earth, and I threw it away to pursue a fleeting moment of freedom."

Little Brother didn't understand the words, but he could feel the emotion stirring within Rissio's soul like the warmth of a candle in a cold room. That much, he could understand. Something about the word evoked a strong sensation in the runaway, and the child of the mountain grew curious to its meaning.

"F...F-Freedom?"

"Yes, my friend." Rissio grinned. "It does exist. The gods made man, man made slaves. We were all born free."

"Gods. Slaves." Little Brother grunted, learning each new word rather quickly.

"Hey, what's wrong with you? Can't you talk?" The runaway asked.

The boy stared at him, "Born. Slave."

Rissio grimaced, "Uh...alright then."

After what felt like hours, the transporter halted and the sound of the wardens barking orders to someone reached the slave boys' ears. The door to their compartment was opened, and two gilded wardens glared at them through the opening. Their electro-staves were always within reach, but for some reason they were not poised to strike.

"Out, both of you." One of them commanded.

Rissio and Little Brother exchanged glances, then roared as they sprang up and lunged at the wardens. The shackles couldn't stop them the way that they should have, and the slaves toppled the guards down to the snowy ground.

The cold winds assaulted their naked skin as they relentlessly beat against the armor of the downed wardens. While Rissio fought bravely, he was never strong enough to take on a highly trained fighter like the warden he was fighting with, and hope to win. His friend, however, fought with the savage strength of ten men.

Rissio was subdued in seconds and subjected to another painful reunion with an electro-staff. Little Brother fared a little better, and he caused quite a stir in the Thal'kyr courtyards as more wardens rushed to help.

House Thal'kyr was hosting a banquet in honor of the family's closest friends, and many of the nobles were present at the night gathering within the marble and obsidian halls of the famed Palace Praxica. Some had wandered off into the courtyard and surrounding hanging gardens. The oval architecture of the hanging gardens allowed an unobstructed viewing of the entire courtyard, making it feel as though the guests had entered the stands of the Colosseum Magnus itself.

Little Brother howled as he brought his shackled hands down over and over against the gilded helm of the warden beneath him. His blows shattered the thick protective visor until his face caved in like an eggshell. Blood still coated the boy's cheeks and neck when he rose up to challenge the wardens forming up around him.

It was an unprecedented spectacle, but a welcome one. The death of the warden brought mirth back to what otherwise would have been a serious affair, and the honored guests watching from above applauded the vicious little boy facing off against men that far outnumbered him.

The bloodied youth raised up his shackled hands and strained once again to break free. Already weakened from his first attempt, the star-metal finally submitted, and the shackles exploded into a dozen smoking shards.

A collective 'ooh' escaped the lips of many, save for a few who viewed the spectacle with disdain.

One of them was Lady Poledra Thal'kyr, a revered matriarch in the family and highly decorated patrician in Nuceria's courts. The sight of unruly slaves, no matter how amusing it would seem to her guests, was an unforgivable stain on her house's honor.

As the woman stood at the balcony of her palace home, adorned in flowing red silks and sparkling golden ornaments, she watched disdainfully the terse exchange below her elevated vantage. She knew she had to take control of the situation before it got out of hand.

Her husband, the great Lord Marcellus Thal'kyr, held no such reservations on the spectacle. After spending the last week butting heads with many of his rivals in the Reksium courts, the oligarchic seat of power in Nuceria, the lord was content with a fine showing of bloodshed. When his wife moved to have the wardens put the youth to death for his insolence, Marcellus stayed her hand.

"No, my dear. Let them fight." He said, "Give them a taste of what's to come in the spring games."

Little Brother flung one warden aside after the other, breaking through their formations like a rock would smash against the waves of the sea. But therein lay the problem in his attempt, for even as the waves break upon the rocks, they were as unending as the tide. The wardens kept coming, and they struck the boy again and again with their staves until he collapsed onto all fours. Still, he fought on. His unbreakable will evoked more applause from the guests, another welcome reaction for Lord Marcellus as he hoped to gain favor from many of them.

Even something as simple as entertaining them would open many doors for him in the future.

The show was over moments later, and the two slave boys were dragged off to the ludus gladiatorius to be brought before the doctore, or gladiator teacher. The dead wardens were unceremoniously carried off scene. At the conclusion of the spectacle, the guests chattered excitedly amongst themselves, particularly sharing rumors of the next batch of games House Thal'kyr would bring before the people of Desh'ea.

Both Rissio and Little Brother came to a few minutes later, finding themselves in an unfamiliar dwelling surrounded by other slaves who were gathered the same day from all across the province. Young boys and girls, men and women, all bearing the same resentful and unbowed attitude as the two spiteful youths.

The wardens there were no longer armed with electro-staves, but agoniser whips.

These tools were able to tap into the nervous system of whoever was unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of their bite, and with just one stroke leave them in sanity-shredding agony. One lash was all it took to break most slaves and chase away any willful intentions forever.

"Hey, you alright?" The runaway asked his friend.

The boy responded with a labored sigh. Both were unchained this time, although both now bore the collars of their enslavement.

"Yeah, you look fine." Rissio said, "Good second attempt, I suppose."

The slaves were all lined up before the school stadium, a smaller replica of the arena that they would undoubtedly fight in after they ascended as gladiators. The men were separated from the women into two rows, likewise with the boys from the girls. And even though Rissio and Little Brother came in bearing injuries from their tangle with the wardens, twice over, they were still forced to stand with the other novicii.

The stadium, complete with a sand-covered floor and a ring of seats in which spectators could view from the unobstructed and comfortable positions from on high, would be their classroom. The teacher arrived not long after the slaves were assembled, preceding their dominus, Lord Marcellus Thal'kyr.

Their teacher was a giant, standing at an awesome eight feet with a body wrapped in steely muscle. His arms and chest were bared, and many black scars adorned his skin like trophies. His graying hair was roughly tied together by simple metal rings into braids, as was his beard. Eyes of the brightest blue beheld the slaves with a scrutinizing, judging gaze. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded like the deep thrum of a distant war hymn, a warrior's voice that held both pride and sobriety.

"Doctore Oenomaus." He said to them, "That is my name. Remember it well, for within the walls of this ludus I am both your teacher and the voice of your dominus."

Oenomaus pointed to Lord Marcellus, "Behold, Lord Marcellus Thal'kyr! Bow your heads!"

The slaves reluctantly obeyed, including Rissio and Little Brother. Their obeisance pleased Marcellus, and he left soon after to tend to matters elsewhere. Oenomaus was, after all, his trusted servant. He would leave the teachings of the gladiators in his capable hands.

"You two." The giant pointed to Rissio and his friend, "I heard you are both troublemakers, murderers even. I heard one of you bludgeoned thirteen men in the course of your sale and delivery to my school. Which one of you was responsible for this?"

Rissio stayed silent, as did Little Brother. Their refusal to admit the truth, or the inability to give voice to it, annoyed Oenomaus. The doctore tightened his lips into a thin line and uncoiled his agoniser whip. When he raised it to lash at Rissio, Little Brother caught the whip just as it bent and twisted about to deliver a stinging bite over his friend's back.

It was an impossibly fast move, and Oenomaus looked at the boy with an expression of curiosity. The other slaves kept their distance while the two faced one another in the stadium.

"There's a rebellious fire in your gaze, little one." He observed, "And a strength in your arms that belies their lack of girth."

Little Brother snarled and yanked the whip right out of the teacher's hands.

"Come then, fight me." Oenomaus beckoned with a calm smile.

Little Brother shrieked as he charged at the bigger man, fearlessly tackling him by holding to his legs. He uttered a loud 'oof' as he rebounded from the man, feeling as though he'd just hit a reinforced concrete wall. Oenomaus laughed heartily as the boy sprang up and attacked again.

"All strength, no technique." He deflected the child's blows with ease, then locked his tiny head in his arms in a choke-hold. He glanced up at the other slaves, choosing to turn the struggle into their first lesson. "Observe well, all of you! Strength alone can carry you at some distance, but never far!"

He squeezed tightly against Little Brother's throat until slowly his consciousness slipped away from the lack of air, which proved to happen rather slowly. Before he fainted, Oenomaus released him and let him drop to the ground. The boy retched and coughed violently as he crawled away in defeat.

"Here at the school of House Thal'kyr, you will be trained to fight. Not as mere brawlers like the ones sent to die at the pits of the Proving Grounds, but as gladiators! The finest to ever grace the soil of Nuceria!"

Oenomaus glanced down at Little Brother and shook his head, "Not all of you will become gladiators. But for those who will, glory and riches awaits. Perhaps, if you leave the walls of this ludus and perform well in the arena, you may even attain your freedom...like I did."

Rissio risked the doctore's ire and moved to help his friend up. Oenomaus allowed it, but he was far from finished.

"Where were you two plucked from? Answer me this time, or it's the whip for you."

"We came from the Proving Grounds, Oenomaus." Rissio confessed.

"What are your names?"

"I am called Rissio, and this is Little Brother."

The teacher slowly shook his head, "Now, that won't do. No one's going to respect a gladiator with a name like 'Little Brother'. House Thal'kyr prides itself on the best, and I won't have you introducing yourself as a laughingstock with a ridiculous name like that. No, you'll need a new name."

The boy glared up at the old warrior, which gifted him with the inspiration he needed.

"You came from the mountain of blood and emerged unscathed by the sea of green. From now on, we will call you Angronius. Child of the mountain."