Stalwart

Helton City, Winter of Blond Moon. The Crucible: Several Years ago.

I've always loved fighting. My father told me stories of his glorious hunts, and I listened intently. I was so absorbed by his heroic deeds that I never considered second guessing him. As a child, my world revolved around training. Archery, close quarter combat, sword fighting, my hero taught me everything I needed to know. But one day, all my beliefs came crashing down on me. One day, my father, my hero, lost a battle. And with it, my hero faded away.

"You're up boy!" I heard that disgusting voice tear me away from my trip down memory lane.

I hated that man. Not because he was a despicable warmonger. Not because of the fact that he organized underground death fights for the entertainment of the elite. I hated him simply because of his face. He had one of those faces one can't bring himself to like, no matter how hard they tried.

"Don't disappoint me now," he told me as he inspected every inch of my body with his enormous hands. That sixth finger on his left hand always intrigued me. 'Does it move by itself?' I found myself wondering every time he did his little inspection thing, his weird fetish.

"I have a lot of important guests tonight," he told me as his hands were getting comfortable in my nether regions. "Some will want to use this heavy thing of yours. Be sure to keep it intact when the drums are beaten tonight, eh?"

He smiled, revealing his broken teeth. How did anybody this ugly come to control the world's most dangerous underground organizations is beyond me. I couldn't answer him though. You don't speak to the Bloody Hound unless you're asked to. After an uncomfortable inspection and a couple of slaps, the Bloody Hound finally released me to the Pits.

"I've never seen anyone with your guts boy!" the despicable bold man shouted at me as I was walking towards the arena. I was a fighter, a martial artist. That's what they liked to call us. Truth be told, I was a pig sent in for slaughter. Sword in hand, I had nothing on to protect me. Even that had to be earned.

"When you fall into the Hound's hands, it's kill or get killed," a prisoner told me yesterday on the way to this godforsaken hole. "I even heard they send your corpse to those interested in, you know, fucking the dead!"

That prisoner died an hour ago. I found myself hoping they'd just throw him to the dogs. I don't imagine I'd feel something after being dead, but I wouldn't want anybody touching my corpse inappropriately. Thinking back on it now, I find it funny how I started thinking of someone else as I walked to death's door.

It was my turn to be sent to my death. I had a rusty sword on my right hand, and loincloth covering my private parts. "I don't want your cock getting cut in half," the Hound told me as his guards threw the dirty cloth at me. "Bad for business," he explained as he laughed.

The Iron Gate opened and I was welcomed with cheers and bright lights. After spending hours in the darkness, it was hard getting used to light again. I heard them all cheering, shouting words I couldn't comprehend. My eyes were fixed on one thing, the hulk in front of me. I had to look up to see his face, even when he was a few paces away from me.

But I didn't see a face. I saw an iron helmet. On his left hand he held a heavy looking shield. On the right, he held a broadsword, the kind that'll take me two hands to hold. He wore iron armor and he was ready for slaughter. I was naked, a rusted sword in my hand. It was then that I heard what the audience was saying.

They were begging him to spare the face. They were asking for a clean cut, a swift beheading. Perhaps they were tired of the boring show. After all, I wasn't supposed to be the main event. The Hound found his place among the audience then looked at me with his mocking eyes. He gave the signal and the iron hulk ran at me.

Part of me wanted to die that day. Another part kept thinking of what could be done to my body if I died. The broadsword was heavy. I knew that one hit would finish me. The audience expected an execution, and I was willing to give them one. The broadsword came at me at full speed, threatening to show the world my insides.

I dodged to the right. My body mechanically moved. I never liked brutes who charged in without a single thought, underestimating their opponents. I was a soldier, a mercenary. I wasn't going to make that mistake. The missed swing left the brute open. He'd lost his balance and so I rightly punished him for it, cut him behind the knee. Blood gushed and the heavily armored brute fell to the ground, face first.

When you fight a duel, one must always be wary of their weaknesses. I was the underdog. One hit could've killed me. It was easy for him to underestimate me, like he did for the ones he'd executed before me. I cut his other knee pit just to be sure. I could hear the audience gasp at the sudden, unpredicted, development. When I put my rusty sword through the man's throat, I made sure to look the Hound in the eyes.

'You put me into this. I'll make sure I disappoint you all the time!'

I heard the drums beat then guards escorted me outside the arena. The look I saw on the Hound's face was priceless, better than the death I thought I welcomed. I was led through tight dark corridors. The walls were made of gray bricks. Every now and then, we'd pass by a door through which a fighter would peek from then shout some intelligible words. The guards would then shove their long wooden sticks through the small holes in the doors, hitting whoever dared speak in the face.

After a long walk and countless turns in those dark serpentine corridors, I was pushed inside a cell. I only had enough space to lie down in there. An iron bucket was conveniently placed at the corner of the cell. We all know what that was used for. After that short, but eventful fight, sleep had finally found me. That long awaited sleep was cut short after the Hounds guards came to pick me up again.

I was led into the arena, where I was to meet six fingers again. Nobody dared call him that. I was brave enough to think of it, but not stupid to say it out loud. "You cost me a lot of money boy!" I heard him say as soon as I stepped into the empty arena. The fights must have finished. How long have I been asleep?

"Thanks to your little stunt, my lovely clients want to see more of you," he said as he slowly walked around me, inspecting me with his observing eyes.

"You seem strong," he went on. "A slim build, but a nimble fighter you are. Too bad the Church wants you dead. I might've considered making a champion out of you. What do you think boy?"

He was addressing me, I had to answer him. But I didn't know what to say. I knew I deserved to die. But my survival instincts were too strong to let me go without a fight. The bald ugly man was staring at me expectedly.

"This is the Crucible, and you're its master," I replied. "Whoever comes in never leaves, not without your consent. The Church will never know I'm still alive."

"What are you suggesting then?"

"I'm good with a sword. I can entertain your guests better than those good for nothings with iron armor."

"What did you do to the Church to be sent this way?" the Hound asked me. From the way his eyes anxiously looked at me, I knew curiosity had gotten the better of him. "If the Church wanted you to know, they would've told you. Why the sudden interest?" Words came out of my mouth before I could stop them.

My face stung from the punch I received. That bastard's guard had one hell of a strong blow. "You belong to me now, boy." He loved reminding us of the hard truth. "You talk back to me this way next time, and you'll be missing a tongue." He was threatening me. I took it as good news.

"Do I make myself clear?!"

"Yes, master," I replied.

"You'll start training with the other fighters tomorrow. I'll have you fight in a fortnight. You better be ready boy. It won't be like today!" With a wave of his hand, six fingers sent me away with his guards as an escort.

I was led to a different place though. This one really felt like the prison from back home. It was a spacious room where many people were stacked next to each other. They all slept on the floor. They had but a dirty loincloth to cover their private parts.

"Sleep," one of the guards that shoved me in instructed. "And leave the fighting for the pits!"

I got in. My legs were shaking. I could barely raise my arms. Fatigue had taken its toll. I dragged myself to the only available free spot, the middle of the spacious cell. There was a lone torch, lit behind the bars that imprisoned us. I carefully navigated my way to the center of the room then lay down.

In prison, one had to prove his strength on the first night in the cell, lest they wanted to become someone's plaything. In the Crucible, everyone actually slept. No one paid attention to the newcomer. They were all tired from training or just too glad they survived the fight they had.

I lay there, thinking of the Church and their treachery. I'd never questioned the Gods before. But after what happened, not only did I doubt them, but I had also forsaken them. They'd taken everything away from me, yet they denied me death. Taking my life didn't work out for me either.

I tried stabbing a dagger into my stomach. The weapon miraculously broke before even reaching me. I tried throwing myself over a cliff but I was caught by vines or webs. I tried to hang myself but the rope got cut every time I kicked the bucket. I was doomed to live a miserable life. I even believed I had died and got sent to some kind of hell.

"Get up, new blood!" I heard someone shout as I felt a hard kick dig deep into my ribcage. When I opened my eyes, I saw all the prisoners standing. "Guards will come soon. You'd better be standing when they come for us!"

The man who spoke to me was thin. I could see bones showing off against his skin. His legs were so slim I'd mistaken them for arms at first. There were some white lines in his shaggy hair and rough beard. Dark circles made his eyes look hollow. Even the loincloth he wore had to be adjusted every now and then to keep it from falling off.

"I'm Eli," the man told me as the guards approached.

"Call me Stalwart," I said.

"That's a funny name if I've ever seen one," he seemed amused.

"Quit yer yappin and get in line!" The guards had reached us.

"Hey you! What're you still sleeping fer?" One of the prisoners hadn't gotten up in time. Eli looked at me with concern in his eyes. "Don't move, don't blink" he whispered. "You're a stone, don't let them notice you."

The guards opened the door then dragged the sleepy head from his feet. "Stand up!" one of the guards shouted at him. None of the other prisoners dared move a muscle. The frightened prisoner couldn't stand, not because he was tired, but because of fear. I know that because of what happened next.

Four guards surrounded the poor soul. One of them helped him get on his feet. The other three proceeded to deprive him of the ability to walk. They used their thick wooden sticks to break his bones. Everyone watched without as much as a blink. I heard him shout and beg for mercy. He'd told them he was tired from training, but the guards only laughed as they reduced his knees to a squishy bubble.

I wasn't new to the horrors of prison. But I wasn't used to the prisoners' silence either. That kind of treatment would've caused a few laughs here and there. Some would even be cheering for the one getting a beating, urging him to fight back. But in the Crucible, the guards reigned supreme.

That morning I knew, I was definitely in hell, unable to leave or die. I was destined to suffer forever.