Warrior Hall

There weren’t always dragons in the valley.

Phillip always passed the graffitied line on his way to the games, its small letters etched in the glass precisely, beautifully. It made an impression: the care the vandelizer took to get each letter just right, and even more so the fact that The Alliance hadn’t caught them. That was rare.

He continued down the dark, narrow streets of Crotaæ, the Old World’s most popular city. The buildings seemed to crowd around him, leaning in overhead towards each other; it made him claustrophobic. He wondered why The Alliance didn’t just raze the city, start fresh, create something modern and bright. Clean.

Ahead light was entering the tunnel that was his small street and the sound of voices could be heard, getting louder as he approached. And then he was there, entering a large clearing with a crowd yelling and cheering.

And in the center stood Warrior Hall.

It looked out of place, an old Roman stadium in the middle of Crotaæ. It was stoic and sturdy, the only give-away of the commotion happening inside were the bits of dust and sand that dislodged as the stadium shook in time to the stomping of the crowd within.

The group of people outside was especially large; they were the overflow, the people who couldn’t get in because the stadium was at capacity, which Phillip had known it would be today. They were gathered around a holographic projection of the fight that was currently taking place. Phillip felt someone nudge his hip and saw a child skirt past him on her way towards a better view.

He turned, avoiding the crush and headed directly to the entrance.

“We’re sold out,” the guard told him, never moving his eyes from the holograph. Phillip remained silent and waited, staring at the guard until he relented and turned his gaze to Phillip. “What’re you, deaf?” His eyes came to rest on Phillip’s small, golden ‘A’ lapel pin, and his demeanor instantly changed. “I’m sorry sir,” he said, stepping aside to allow Phillip to pass. “The Alliance don’t use this door none so–” Phillip didn’t respond or wait for the man to finish, he could hear the announcement that his own kondu had started his fight.

Once in his box, Phillip scanned the crowd around him. Onlookers young and old, rich and poor, Old and New, all gathered together to forget the stress of their small lives and live in the moment.

An arrow raced towards a young boy in the crowd. People gasped and his father jumped automatically to save him, then chuckled embarrassed as the arrow hit the shield, setting off a flourish of sparks before dropping back into The Circle.

Inside The Circle the kondus - warrior slaves - launched arrow after arrow, each trying to land the final, punishing blow.

Phillip’s kondu, Klaus, a wiry German and Hitler’s most decorated assassin, let loose another shot in the direction of his opponent, a pock-marked Blackfoot named Ashook, admired for his nimble movements and his commitment to praying to The Creator before each game. Ashook ducked, the arrow barely missing.

This game’s setting was a “Pine Forest,” and though most of the audience had never seen a real one, they were pleased with the treacherous thorny vines and noisey brush that gave the kondus plenty of obstacles.

What neither kondu could see, but what was clear to the audience, was that the kondus were slowly backing into each other. Each careful step bringing them closer. Closer. The room held its breath. Waiting.

A twig snapped.

Ashook raced behind a rock. But it was too late, Klaus had clocked his opponent, mere feet away. Ashook waited, listening for anything that tell him Klaus’ position, heartbeat thudding in his ears, betraying him in his time of need.

Klaus found a large pinecone near his feet, then lobbed it like a grenade into a bush behind Ashook. It worked. Ashook jumped up and turned immediately towards the noise, his back to Klaus.

From there it was all too easy. Ashook’s attention caught by the noise, Klaus stood, aimed, and drove an arrow through the man’s neck. Ashook’s eyes widened in shock and stayed that way. The veins in his face bulged as he gasped for air.

Klaus watched as Ashook groped uselessly at the arrow. Ever so gradually he sank, down, down, as blood poured out of his neck, drenching his gorgeous deer skin vest, beaded with images of his ancestral gods.

The crowd waited with him. Breathed with him. Unblinking they watched, mouths agape, as with each jagged breath and fresh spurt of blood the Blackfoot’s life seeped out.

When it was finished Klaus looked up towards his master, gave him a bow, then he held his arm up into the air, the victor. The crowd erupted.

Phillip was pleased. He casually looked over to his opponent’s booth to see how she was taking her loss. Lacevia met his gaze and raised her glass, a sportsmanlike toast, and he raised his own with what he hoped wasn’t an overly gleeful smirk.. He had certainly gotten lucky in his purchase of Klaus, no one had expected the kondu to make it very far, much less to Warrior Hall where the premier class championed their best, and most expensive, kondus. And Lacevia was the premier of the premier class, making Phillip’s win even sweeter.

Below them The Circle was cleared and all traces of the forest melted back into the shiny black, gaiinium floor of The Circle. On either side a holding cell was illuminated for the next kondus.

Tompaks started drumming a fast, consuming beat, joined then by a qanun and santurs that gave the stadium a sense of frenzy and anticipation. Out of a giant archway, sparkling with tiny exploding fireworks, the next kondu arrived. Mazdak. He was a muscled Persian who, in his heavy bronze breastplate and helmet over a green silk robe and gobs of gold jewelry looked more like an ornament than a warrior, though anyone who may have thought this was quickly relieved of that notion by his 20 foot-high holographic battle highlights that now played in the center of The Circle. It could take years for a kondu to become established, but Mazdak had climbed the ranks of Warrior Hall in less than 18 months, only dying twice on his way towards the top. Clips played of Mazdak’s mean, meaty grimace as he heavily cornered opponents, sinking various weapons into their throats or faces or chests, his eyes always glistening with a look of hunger. At times the hologram got close enough to feel threatening. It could seem so real and more than one distracted audience member was jolted out of their conversation as a holographic sword tip twirled past their cheek.

Mazdak’s reel ended and the light and music changed--this was the moment they’d all come for. This was the highlight of the evening:

Jayadan. Warrior Hall’s current obsession.

A war drum started throbbing out a calm, steady beat; Jayadan’s signature entry music. Over her entrance arch hung a black silk curtain. As the spotlights hit it it was released and fluttered softly to the ground, revealing that it was in fact not a curtain but a huge cape worn by the small kondu. She slowly raised her head and looked at the audience. A ripple of excitement could be felt shooting through the hall as they were beheld by her famous, mirror-like eyes.

No one was sure of her people, her carbon data and DNA suggested that she may have been with the group that crossed the Bering Strait. She was brilliant, adapting faster than any kondu anyone had yet seen, and she was undefeated, a fact that split the hall into two camps: some believed her talents and skills otherworldly, others believed she was just lucky. Today’s fight would settle the argument. Whatever the reason for her success she was the toast of Warrior Hall, a doll whose porcelain skin and jet-black bob had become all the rage among the women of both worlds.

She approached her cell. Calmly. Methodically. Her step so smooth she appeared to be gliding.

Once she reached her cell she untied and let fall the cape which was immediately sucked backwards and out of sight. Under it she wore a simple, skin-tight uniform of black cotton, her only accent the thin, gold chain of unbreakable gaiinium. All kudus, or slaves, wore some form of chain to signify their status. But Jayadan’s chain was gold, signifying her status as a kondu.

She bowed slightly to her opponent across the wide, wide circle. Mazdak returned it automatically; even the vilest or ill-mannered kondus seemed unable to resist Jayadan’s charm.

The lights shifted again and a spotlight shone in a straight line up the center of The Circle. In the ceiling a trap door slid open and from it lowered a large wheel, ridden by the breathtaking and androgynous wheel-keeper, Rama. He had been around as long as anyone could remember, in fact, he seemed never to age. A thousand stories about his private life were thrown around haphazardly, but no one really seemed to know who he was outside of being the flamboyant dominatrix of Warrior Hall. He smiled and waved seductively to everyone and no one, breaking a dozen jealous hearts with a wink.

The wheel he rode was a sleek matte black with glittering gold lettering that spelled out the names of the weapons that could be used for the match. Short Sword. Mace. Hand to Hand.

On the ground Rama dismounted and strutted around the wheel; he always took his time before spinning. He was famous for teasing the audience, toying with them and revving them up with hip thrusts, grinds, and whip cracks. He knew how to titillate them, to take them to the edge.

At last Rama held a finger to his lips, the crowd shushed instantly. Rama cranked the wheel back and forth as the crowd counted, one!...two...THREE! On three Rama spun the wheel as hard as he could and it twirled so fast it looked like fairy dust in a blackhole. Each member of the crowd called out their weapon of choice as if yelling “spear” or “rock” loud enough would make it stop in time.

Finally, the wheel slowed, bit by bit by bit by bit, crawling to its final choice.

Battle Axe.

Groans of uncertainty from Jayadan’s fans and shouts of approval from Mazdak’s weaved through the crowd. No one had yet seen Jayadan with a battle axe but it was Mazdak’s weapon of choice. A New Worlder dressed like a Viking showed his excitement by waving his own prop axe in the air.

Now the wheel’s lettering shifted and options for terrain were shown: Trenches, Rainforest, Train Station. Rama raised his arms over and over, encouraging the crowd to start calling out what they wanted, and then they helped him countdown the next spin.

The right terrain could be a huge asset for Jayadan; she had shown herself very capable in modern settings whereas Mazdak would sometimes become confused by the artificial materials, unclear if something was hard or soft, useful or dangerous. He had once thrust a sword into a circuit box and ended up electrocuting himself to death.

The wheel slowed, twirling past some cult favorites such as “Submarine” or “Grandma’s Attic.” It finally stopped.

Dilapidated Mining Plant.

Excited chatter rippled through the crowd as they hurried to solidify their bets.

“What’s a mining plant?”

“No idea.”

“Mazdak or–?”

“Mazdak.”

“Jayadan!”

“What about the axe…?”

They finished their bets and turned their attention back to the Wheel Keeper, who bowed and remounted the wheel. Then both wheel and keeper were hoisted back up through the air and the door above. The audience waved goodbye, feigning heartbreak and disappointment as Rama left them, blowing kisses until he was out of sight. Through the door now lowered the weapons, one to each cell, and the kondus were given one minute to familiarize themselves with their battle axes before the fighting began.

Mazdak began to swing and test his axe, looking comfortable. Capable. Jayadan, on the other hand, crouched over her weapon and appeared to be talking to it and massaging its blade.

Phillip looked for her owners, the Filberts, whose very presence was as nauseating as Jayadan’s was majestic. They were among the new money crowd, first generation heirs who had their own reality show, The Filberts, that was hugely popular despite few people actually admitted to watching. They were gorgeous, a gift of various genetic modifications, but their beauty did nothing to hide their piggishness as they brayed and gorged themselves on liver mousse and puff pastries, failing to notice their kondu’s strange weapon worship. A small group of lucky fans surrounded them, entranced. Suddenly, Cory Filbert started choking on the melange of Merlot and caviar-soaked latke he was attempting to swallow without chewing.

“Help him!” his wife, Brittney, screamed, and a flurry of hands rose and patted his back until the morsel was coughed up for re-consumption.

With ten seconds remaining Jayadan stood and lifted her axe. Though she never looked clumsy, it certainly looked heavy in her hands.

Time up.

A bell twinkled sweetly and the kondus were released. The terrain shifted. Between them a mountain with an old building shot up, if you could call it that. It was really the wood and iron skeleton of what had once been a factory built into the mountain side. The front windows and siding had long ago slid down the sheer cliff face in front. It was tall, three-stories, with two slanted roofs, a lower and higher that led to the top and what looked like a tall, steel grain churn complete with a large iron steering wheel and an enclosed chute. Vibrant graffiti covered every inch with symbols, faces, and an ominous “Death Ahead,” in hot pink.

The kondus had to tread carefully. The ground was loose, each step sent dirt and gravel cascading down. Mazkak held his axe easily in one hand, using the handle like a walking stick, whereas Jayadan had to balance it on her shoulder, giving her arms a break until they were needed.

They reached the platform at the same time. Mazdak charged, axe swinging, hungry for a bite. Jayadan ducked behind a post and out of reach. He chased her as she twirled around the post. Again and again he swung, becoming more wild and forceful with every miss.

“He’ll wear himself out,” a man grumbled, “should’ve stuck with Jayadan.”

Suddenly Jayadan tripped over a cement stub and went sprawling forward. Mazdak was immediately above her, axe held high.

“Get up you worthless sack of carbon!!!” Brittney yelled, red faced and furious at her kondu’s error.

Whoosh! Mazdak brought the axe crashing down towards Jayadan’s sternum.

At the last second she rolled. Instead of crunching through her ribs Mazdak’s axe buried itself into a large wooden beam.

He yanked but it was wedged deep into the wood. As he struggled to dislodge it Jayadan ran to an old door frame. She swung her axe up over the door frame, creating a lever she could use to hoist herself upwards. In seconds she was on the first roof.

Mazdak finally retrieved his weapon, scowling at Jayadan’s escape. He was slower but managed to follow her path up, onto the creaky roof, somehow still shingled with rotting wood sheathing. Jayadan was already a few yards ahead of him, making her way towards the second roof.

In three quick bounds he closed the space between them, ruining her chance of escape. He swung and she shielded the blow with her axe handle, losing half immediately. He swung again, taking more of her handle. Soon she would have nothing left but a handless axe head.

Swing. Miss. A board was chopped in two and fell crashing to the cement floor below.

Another swing. And another. And...

A hit.

Blood shot out from above Jayadan’s knee where the axe had left a deep gash. Her mouth opened with pained surprise, though no sound escaped. Instead, the crowd gasped for her.

It was first blood.

Mazdak looked pleased. He lifted his weapon and brought it crashing down towards her head. She countered, swinging what remained of her handle towards him. His blade chopped through it like butter, leaving her holding the axe head. It was all she had left.

Mazdak swung at her trunk. She gripped the sides of her axe head, the steel cutting into her hands, and used it like a shield to block the blow. The force of his hit sent her flying backwards through the air and smashing into an iron beam.

“GET UP!!!” the Filberts screamed.

Crumpled there, a small heap, she looked like a rag-doll someone had discarded. She gasped for air. Struggled to rise.

The Filberts now practically hung out of the front of their box. The shock and rage that their kondu could be doing this poorly showed clearly on their faces.

Jayadan dragged herself up, desperate to stand. Mazdak closed in. Slowly. There was no need to rush.

She finally stood, leaning heavily on the iron beam behind her. And there he was. He brought his axe around towards Jayadan’s neck like an Allstar batter. The entire audience leaned forward, watching the sharp edge splitting the air on its way to its target. She couldn’t run. Couldn’t jump back or up or out of the way. She was trapped.

So she dropped.

It was almost comical, the certainty of death interrupted by her sitting down like a child on the floor. The axe still found her, making a mean cut above her eye. But her head remained intact, attached safely to her neck.

The clang of metal on metal rang through the hall as the axe hit a new target where her neck should have been: the iron beam. The force of the blow caused the handle to split in two, splinters flying like a sparkler.

Mazdak was dazed for a moment, unclear what was happening. But Jayadan was already moving. She wiped away the blood that streamed into her eye as she ran towards the chute in the middle of the factory. It was smooth, a slide for sacks of grain, the end of it hovering 4 meters above the cement floor. A fall that wouldn’t kill her but would certainly break something.

She jumped and landed on the chute, but immediately started sliding towards the pavement below. With her free hand she gripped the chute’s edge, trying to hold on, but her hands were slick with sweat and blood and she kept slipping towards the chute’s edge. Closer. Closer.

There!

Her hand found a crevice and she clung, hanging for a timeless moment. Murmurs went through the crowd. Awe. Annoyance.

She pulled her feet up, taking on the posture of a rock climber. The rusty old chute creaked and swayed under her weight, threatening to drop. Steady. Steady. Once she was stable she balanced the axe head on top of her own like a book, then began inching her way up the chute. It was long, leading above even the second roof to what looked like a giant steel box. If she could get inside that box it would be nearly impossible for Mazdak to reach her. She kept one eye closed and half dragged her injured leg up, up, towards safety.

Mazdak watched her but seemed to realize he couldn’t fit. He looked around for another way up, an opportunity to get to her before she made it into the box. He rushed over to a haphazard set of beams. They were unstable but he took his time, using them like a ladder to climb up onto the second roof.

Jayadan was still climbing up the shoot. If he could get to her in time he could easily finish her, or at the very least send her plummeting down.

But the roof was steep. Far steeper than the first roof. He couldn’t stand erect or he would fall backwards and down, so he used his axe like an ice pick. The going was tedious. More than once a board beneath his axe gave way, sending him scurrying for another hold. But he kept going, working his way up towards the center where the chute and its large, steel casing waited.

Jayadan climbed, paying no attention to Mazdak. Focused on her task. He was close. A few more steps and he could touch her.

She didn’t change her speed, she seemed to know. She pulled herself up, up. And just as he reached her she disappeared inside, a small crimson trail the only trace of her escape.

Mazdak let out a scream of frustration. There were at least 8 feet of open chute that led up to the steel box above, where Jayadan was waiting. He tested the slide. It creaked and groaned under his touch. It would be impossible for him to climb up after her.

He stood, staring a moment. Thinking.

A smile.

The audience leaned in to see what he would do.

He raised his axe up and brought it down on the chute like a mallet. The noise was deafening. But he did it again. And again, the force of which would likely dislodge Jayadan from her hiding spot. Clang! Clang! Clang! The audience covered their ears as the metal shuddered and dented. Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Finally, with an unhappy creak, the old metal chute let go of its hold and crashed down onto the cement platform below.

But no Jayadan.

Mazdak looked up into the steel box that remained, trying to find her. The audience craned its neck, trying to see also.

Where in the world…

And then Mazdak’s face was met with two feet as Jayadan dropped onto him. He dropped his axe and fell sprawling backwards onto an old board and partially through the roof. She landed heavily on an iron support beam a few feet away, her tailbone making a loud crack! that echoed through the hall.

The crowd fidgeted. Even the ones who doubted Jayadan’s abilities seemed to want to root for her; especially in the presence of an opponent so ruthless. So dominating.

Mazdak hurried to get up.

Creak.

He froze. The board he was on was cracking. He was trapped. A sudden move would finish the break and drop him. His only chance would be to shimmy slowly over to a support before the board gave way or Jayadan sent him falling. He lay, like a turtle on its shell, and started to snake slowly towards safety.

Jayadan sat where she had landed. Stunned. Her face was white with pain but somehow she still managed to hold her blade on top of her head.

The audience was silent, anticipation pushing them to the edge of their seats. Mazdak’s board creaked and sagged a bit more.

Jayadan carefully rose, panting and battered. Mazdak’s ax was a few feet away, out of his reach. She limped over to his weapon, picked it up, testing it. The audience was eating it up. The giddiness was palpable--relief that their champion was back on top. All she needed to do now was crack his support and he would fall down the cliffside to his death.

Jayadan leaned towards Mazdak. Their eyes met for an eternal second. Then she whispered something so quiet the microphones couldn’t catch it. But Mazdak heard her. He closed his eyes.

She took her blade from the top of her head and faced her masters, giving them a bow of acknowledgement, blood dripping from her face onto the boards beneath her as she bent. The Filberts smirked, toasting their success.

Then she took a breath, and started spinning. She spun faster and faster like a top. Like a ballerina. Like a discus champion. And released her blade.

It flew in slow motion and the crowd realized seconds after Mazdak’s head should have been severed from his body:

It was going the wrong way.

She missed! The great Jayadan missed!

Her axe head raced out, hitting the shield in a flurry of sparks.

But wait. It didn’t stop. It kept going.

It flew past the shield and spun over the heads of the stunned audience. It twirled and twirled above them with purpose. And that purpose became clear when it sliced through Cory Filbert’s face and then came to rest in Brittney’s neck.

It all happened so fast the Filbert’s didn’t even have time to flinch.

No one moved.

No. One. Moved.

A moment passed before the impossibility of it all sank in.

Jayadan looked up at the crowd and they looked back, fear and disbelief showing in their eyes. Finally, she spoke.

“The Tide is rising.”

Then she picked up Mazdak’s axe and planted it firmly into her own skull.