In a Wolf's Eyes, Saga of the Black Wolf
Chapter One, The Bloody Wolf
I staggered to my feet, blinking grit from my eyes.
“Give it up,” my opponent growled. “Stand still and you die quickly.”
Raising my sword, I sidestepped, balanced on the balls of my feet. Blood seeped down my bare belly and dripped onto the sand of the gladiatorial arena. He circled around me, grinning, his illegal dirk slicked red with my blood. My own sword had yet to mark him, and his confidence grew to match his bulk. Impossibly huge, he was one of the largest slaves to fight in the High King’s own home Grand Arena. His name was Silas, but he liked to style himself as Silas the Savage. As though the title would terrify and unman his opponents before they entered the place. If any had been terrified and unmanned, I never heard tell of it. I myself was unimpressed after hearing of him and even less so upon seeing him for the first time. Like many gladiators, Silas carried his brains in his muscles and thought himself invincible.
He wore, like me, a short leather kilt, armored leather boots to the knees and a fighting harness crisscrossing his massive hairy chest. Unlike me, he wore his hair short, with a close-cropped beard. Fierce blue eyes lit his triumphant grin, clearly visible through the sweat and dirt in my eyes. In his home province of Nevalle, in the northern portion of the Federation, he was also a champion. With that title, he carried an ego bigger than he was.
The rules of the arena were simple: one man, one weapon.
He’d concealed the dirk inside his left wrist and I was foolish enough to miss it. Many opponents thought that by killing me they not only inherited my title as reigning champion, they might also gain their freedom. The fact that I, reigning champion, was still as much a slave as they never entered their heads. So many have cheated, I learned long ago to assume they all would cheat. That I missed this one caused me to curse myself and bleed into my battle harness.
He’d managed a clever feint that caught me by surprise, quite a feat considering his brain capacity. I saw the blade, too late to stop it, but managed to deflect it enough that the razor-sharp blade stabbed deep, but not into a vital organ. Few, if any, in the stands had seen it, as his sword hilt crashed into my face and knocked me off my feet headfirst into the sand at the same moment.
Had the arbitrators seen the illegal second blade, they would have stopped the match. Silas would have faced execution by crucifixion posthaste and his owners heavily fined. Hence, I felt surprise that his owners would have dared such an attempt against me, the High King’s own champion. Orders for the dirk had to have come down from on high to pass the many slave handlers and arrive on Silas’s wrist. Unfortunately for me, the wound I took, while not immediately mortal, may yet kill me. Yet, none except me, and the brainless hulk in front of me, knew it.
With a quick shake of my head, I cleared my vision. The crowds in the stands cheered and stomped their feet at my movement, screaming lustily. Most waved small banners carrying the emblem of their favorite: the White Lion of the High King, or the dark red Stallion of Nevalle. Far more Lions than Stallions fluttered amidst the cheering fans.
A few booed. No doubt, I thought dryly, from those who presumed to wager against me: the High King’s own personal slave, the reigning champion and the current hot favorite. Few in the Federation were foolish enough to bet against me. I sent the noise to the back of my head where it belonged, not letting the screams, cheers or yells distract me from business.
“I hear they call you The Wolf,” Silas said. He eyed me up and down, his grin widening. “I mistook you for a whelp still at his dam’s tit.”
He laughed at his own jest, a dry hoarse laugh that held only arrogance.
Without taking my eyes from him, I worked saliva into my dry mouth, bent and spat blood and grit to the arena floor.
His eyes narrowed. “I’ll tear you limb from limb, whelp,” he rumbled.
You talk too much. A pity no one had whipped his handlers for allowing him his voice while fighting. Talking wasted energy and took one’s mind off the business of killing and survival. Had I the inclination, I could have had his intestines around his throat before he finished his sentence.
He charged, fast, his sword raised high to strike at my head, his dirk in his left hand carried low, still concealed from most in the stands. I’m sure he hoped to catch me between the two blades. Rather than meet his rush or parry his sword, I fell back and dropped to the sand. His forward momentum brought him down, where my feet caught him in the gut. I kicked out, sending Silas through the air, harmlessly over me, to land, hard, on his back. Judging by his gasps, I suspected I knocked the wind from him.
While Silas struggled to both get to his feet and get his wind back, I looked to my handlers. Cephas, my Slave Master, gestured subtly, a quick hand movement, instructing me to carry on. I could have killed Silas as he floundered up, helpless and coughing. Had I done so I faced a whipping for not putting on a better show. The fans in the stands wanted a good fight, not a fight that ended within the first round. Timing was everything for a champion. Thus, I couldn’t kill him too soon. If I took too long to kill him, later I’d be whipped for cowardice.
Yet, I knew I would have to kill him before my own strength ran out. The straps of my battle harness thus far kept the lips of my wound together and limited the bleeding. I still bled, however, internally. The creeping weakness told me so. My own impending death did not disturb me much. I needed to win first.
Silas the Savage got his wind back and charged, his sword lifted to hack and kill. His own Slave Master most likely signaled him to end the fight quickly, unwilling to risk a defeat. Bigger and stronger than me, he had as much skill and experience as I did. Without his brains entering the equation, the odds were nearly even. Like me, his slave’s collar bore encrusted jewels. The Duke of Nevalle, Lionel’s chief political opponent, owned Silas. No doubt, the Duke intended a subtle insult, a social victory over the High King, by killing me. If I killed Silas instead, the Duke not only lost face, but may also lose his own head. That was, if Lionel was feeling cranky.
Rather than meet his charge, I ducked and pivoted in the same motion. His weight carried him past, his sword missing me completely. My own sword slashed deep into his thigh. He fell with a guttural groan. The crowd roared.
I gave him a moment, then kicked him full in the face as he started to rise. He fell flat on his back, cursing through the blood filling his mouth. I could kick him all day long as long as I didn’t kill him. I needed to kill him, but held back on the impulse. Past his struggling body, I saw Cephas make another quick gesture, one that both congratulated me and gave me permission to kill.
Silas spat blood and broken teeth, now fully enraged as a bull in rut and parted from his harem. This time I met his rush with my own. We hacked at each other, Silas wasting valuable energy and concentration by swearing while I merely focused on not letting him slaughter me.
My greater speed in thrusting past his guard annoyed him at last. He lashed out with his boot and connected solidly with my groin. Definitely bad form, but it comes with the territory.
The crowd screamed in protest as red fire lanced from my groin, sending my lower body into an inferno. My breath caught on a curse, choking, as the agony spread. Before I could stagger out of reach, his sword pierced my belly, deep.
I twisted away, off his blade before he could drive it in deeper. This is getting out of hand, I thought. He’d kill me before I could kill him, and I would face the gods of my ancestors defeated, shamed. If a stupid savage, with no more intelligence than the average marble statue, skewered me, it would haunt my soul in the afterlife. I must finish him before he finished me.
Blocking another savage slash, I danced out of reach. I spun my sword in a tight swirl, making the steel whistle as though it had a life of its own. Few could spin a sword as I could, though many tried to imitate the technique. Its shrill sound unnerved many of my opponents, creating a mind filled with unease or panic, and making them easy prey for The Wolf. Silas hadn’t the wits to be unnerved.
He followed me, his sword swinging hard and fast. I caught it on my own heavy blade and turned it, but for the first time his strength overcame mine and I could only slow, not entirely deflect, the strike aimed to kill. His cross guard caught me a glancing blow above my left ear. Head ringing, I fell flat on my back. Grinning, he turned away in triumph. Yelling and cheering, the crowd saw what he did not: my struggles to rise once more. From the candle of his eye, he saw me and turned. He sneered.
“Aren’t you dead yet?”
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