The Warrior (The Rebellion) (2 page)

C H A P T E R 3

Worse
Bite than Bark

The stage resembled a dessert. Hard, grainy sand composed the floor, which was dotted with the occasional shrub and rock. A lone, black whistle had been placed in the center of the arena for a reason Barst could not comprehend. He looked to the crowd for help, but they were too busy talking to have noticed. The crowd was definitely a large one, filled with people who had just come to see the finale.

People began to sit and the announcer began to call each contestant's name with a voice that was barely audible over the ruckus. In the larger arenas, magic was often used to amplify the announcer's voice, but this was a small city arena that lacked sufficient funds for such an investment.

No opponent had shown himself from the other gate so Barst decided that it must be a surprise—yet another thing a fighter never wanted to have at the arena. Unknown opponents were often the most dangerous. This was going to be one ugly fight.

"RRRRRAAA"

The noise silenced the crowd. The blood froze in Barst's veins. A Devil Hound.

Just as the thought raced through his head the object of his fear bounded through the gate. Larger than its relative the Hell Hound, the Devil Hound had been magically enhanced in every way. It possessed huge paws with extended claws that were the size of knifes. The beast's legs rippled with muscles and were covered by a network of large, pulsing veins. The mouth held more teeth than
seemed expedient, yet they were fearsome nonetheless. A large broken chain hung around its neck, probably just for looks.

After being held captive a mere millisecond Barst and the others sprinted for the whistle that lay in the center of the arena. The hound was faster by far and collided with Josh before Barst took his fourth step. Forcing himself to not look back, Barst lowered his head and commanded his feet to move faster. He glanced up to see Blake stoop down for the whistle and then a thought hit him.

"WAIT!!!!" He shouted.

It was too easy. The scenario makers would never make a finale this simple; it had to be a trap. The same thoughts were donning on the others, and Blake threw the whistle down like it was on fire. The crowd roared with disapproval and the rich, stationed in the balconies, shook their heads, but their jeers didn't affect Barst. He wasn’t here to entertain. He was here to survive. He quickly spun around, just to see a bloody Josh get thrown by the Devil Hound's large paw. Small Josh seemed to have no chance against the beast, which was easily as tall as Josiah and three times as broad. Despite his size and his minute chances, Josh slowly began to push himself off the ground.

With no organization or plan, the team sprinted toward the monster. It turned to face them and then lunged at Nathan, who was in front. Nathan tried to dodge, but was still clipped by the flailing chain tied to the monster's neck with enough force to knock him to the ground. Barst quickly backpedaled, trying to get out of paw range, and began circling the dog to the left. No one on his team had a spear so they would have to get close to inflict any damage. He glanced to his right and saw the others were also warily surrounding the monster. The devil hound stalled and twisted around in the circle, confused and unsure on whom to attack.

The small break gave Josh the time to get out of his supine position and join the others, his face masked with resolve and blood. When the hound twisted towards Barst and Josiah, the twins charged forward at its open flank. With extreme speed, the monster spun and bowled the two back with one swipe of its giant paw. Seeing an opening, Josh darted forward and gave the devil hound a slash across the hackles. The beast roared, but as it turned to confront Josh, Barst stepped in
and landed a slash on the monsters flank. As the beast turned, Barst feigned an-other slice, but then dove out of the way as a paw swiped not a foot over his head. Reacting on instincts, Barst drew a knife from his belt and then embedded it in the paw as he stood up.

The devil hound, in an utter rage, howled and swung at Barst with its uninjured left paw. Caught off balance, Barst was thrown ten yards by the force of the impact. Barst tasted dirt and was temporarily stunned, but quickly recovered from his stupor and flipped onto his back, while pulling out another knife from his belt. The dog though, had been distracted, and it now had Blake on the ground in-between its monstrous paws. Barst didn't even have time to yell before the large mandible bent down and bit through Blake's throat.

Shock took the whole team and they stood and stared as the killer shoved the limp body aside. Rage flushed through Barst and he charged at the Beast. He collided with the devil hound and began to recklessly slash and stab in a wild rhythm. His vision became cloudy, and all he was aware of was the pounding in his ears and the scent of blood that hung in the air. He took out all his hate, anger and fury upon the monster until the sword slipped from his sweat and blood slicked hands, and he collapsed upon his knees, chest heaving.

His vision began to clear and he became aware of the roaring of the crowds. Before him lay a mound of mangled animal covered in blood. The whole team was standing around the beast, except for Nathan who was wailing over his dead brother. Barst felt a twinge of pity, but that was all. Sorrow was an emotion that had been stolen from him by the arena.

C H A P T E R 4

Blood Money

"All right, next time I am going to make sure the dog goes after one of you two." Josh joked with wry smile. His body was dotted with long scratches and dark bruises, but he seemed all right. "I mean, why does the dog go after the one
who's five foot three. There is plenty more meat on fat Josiah over there."

Josiah flashed him a look, but refused to bite. Besides Nathan, the death had affected him the most. Josh took the cue and remained silent.

The three were in the suiting room removing all their gear. All the fighters’ sweat had given the room a thick, humid air. Barst couldn’t wait to get out of it. He finished dressing, changing into his clean clothes, and then threw his equipment into his bag. Barst ran a hand over his sweaty hair and sighed heavily. He got up and silently shook hands with Josiah and then crossed the room and offered Josh his hand.

Josh looked at it quizzically and then asked, "Are we done?"

"Yeah, you can bet Nathan is going to leave and I want to take a few months off as well. Farewell."

Josh took his hand, shook it firmly then quietly went on packing. Barst took a last look at the two then turned and walked out of the room. He made a few turns and then entered a large room that was filled with guards who had placed themselves around a cage. In the cage a thin, pale man sat handing out the fighters pay as they walked up to him. Barst smiled at the thought of inexperienced guards protecting money from trained killers. They were more there for show. If a riot did happen, the accountant wouldn't stand a chance.

Barst got in line and once again let his mind rove back to the ubiquitous past. He had joined the arena as a lone weak coward, accompanied only by sorrow and an utter devastation. Too afraid to take his own life, he had joined with the frail hope of being slain on the hard floor of the stage. Instead, he had become a killer and, when the last of the fear had been driven from him, it was replaced by the hope he had learned to hate.

"Name please." Barst shook himself into the present and walked up to the cage.

"Barst."

"Two fights with a team of five…… that will come out to two gold pieces and three silver."

Barst nodded his head, accepted his money, and left without failing to notice the other bystander’s awed expressions at his pay. The pay was one of the few good things about being an Untouchable.

Barst went into the adjacent room, which was filled with cages like the last enclosure, and collected the bets that he had placed on the first fight. After collecting his money, he made his way up to the surface where the stadium seats were. He entered the sunlight and began trying to locate his owner in the myriad of seats.

Almost every well-known fighter had an owner who was responsible for entering his fighter into fights and providing financial support. The owner would then take a small fraction of his fighter's winnings and also collect the profit from bets placed on his fighter. Some fighters were owned by large corporations, which excelled in developing their "investments" into top trained killers.

Barst was lucky. His owner, Aaron, was a middle class businessman who de-pended on Barst for his income. Aaron was sane, and actually appreciated what Barst did for him, as well as shared his disgust for the arena. Aaron seemed to understand Bart's laconic ways and gave the fighter space when he needed it. Over the years they had worked together, Barst had become more of a family member than an associate. He slept in the same house and ate from the same table and played with Aaron's children; who to Barst, were one of the few lights in his dismal existence.

Aaron had inherited the fighter owning busin
ess from his father and had relished in it in his youth. Then, after years of exposure to the bloodbath that frequented the stage, Aaron had dropped most of his fighters in an attempt to distance himself from the arena. Sadly, having no other skill sets or trades, Aaron was forced to remain with a single fighter to provide his family with income.

A spectator bumped into him, and Barst pushed the man away, eyes searching for Aaron. Finally, after shoving some admirers away, he spotted his owner. The small, frail man was sitting in the wooden bleachers scratching away at a book that contained a profile of every gladiator Aaron had ever seen in the arena. Aaron referred to the book when making bets so he could accurately guess the winner. The book was worth more money than any possession Aaron had, and he treated it as such.

Barst smiled at Aaron's face, which was crinkled in concentration as he scratched his quill pen across the parchment. Aaron looked up at Barst with a smile as Barst's large frame cast a shadow over his work.

"Well done with the whistle." Aaron beamed excitedly, pushing his spectacles up his nose. "You should have seen the look on the scenario—maker’s face. He was furious. You made his bright idea seem simplistic and ruined a great fight."

The scenario maker was responsible for designing the layout of the arena and combining the combatants to best please the crowed. Some had become practical legends and were paid handsomely for their service.

"Right. Great for him. Terrible for me. We lost one without whatever else he was going to send. Oh, by the way, here is your share." Barst flipped his owner a silver coin.

"Thanks." Aaron said while pocketing the coin. "Hmm, he said there were three other dogs waiting for the whistle."

"THREE MORE! That’s not a fight, that’s a slaughter!"

Barst could feel his blood warming as his anger began to build up.

"Aye, but so was your first fight." Aaron said grimly.

Barst visibly recoiled, then collected himself quickly, slightly stung.

"It was, but I would think it would be better being killed by someone who sympathizes for you than some mindless beast." Barst didn’t really believe his own answer, but he needed to rationalize his killing.

Aaron closed his book, tucked his pen away and let out a slow sigh.

"I think, when the moment comes, one doesn’t care who killed him. Why would he? He’s dying."

Barst rubbed a callused hand across his grubby face, "Your probably right. Let's go. I hate this place."

Aaron nodded and stood up, gingerly clutching the book to his chest. Then together they began walking out of the arena.