Authors: Leslie Ann Moore
Ashinji gaped in astonishment.
An akuta!
A Gladiator’s Life
Ashinji had first learned about the race of horse people from an old book in his father’s library, but until now, he believed they had died out many years ago. In the ancient past, the akuta had been staunch allies of the elves.
Built like a man from his torso upward, with powerfully muscled arms and broad shoulders, the akuta stood at least a head taller than Ashinji. Just below his waist, where the hips and legs of an elven man would have been, the four-legged body of a horse began. His hide glistened like black satin in the sun. A thick mane of black hair sprouted from his head and cascaded over his shoulders to brush his withers.
A heavy leather harness crisscrossed his upper body and attached to a thick, metal-studded belt encircling his man’s waist. Leather guards covered both forearms. An enormous, curved sword hung at his side.
The akuta’s fathomless black eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Ashinji.
“My heart grieves to see you here, friend,” he rumbled in a voice like distant thunder.
“I had no idea any of the akuta still lived,” Ashinji replied. “Are there many more of you?” He stared in awe at the creature, remembering his dream of several weeks ago.
“We are far fewer in number these days, but we hold our own, much like our old friends the elves do. I am Aruk-cho of the Wakani Clan.”
“I am Ashinji Sakehera.”
“I will see to Ashinji now, Corvin. You may go.” Corvin’s chin shot up and a look of offense twisted his plain features. Without a word, he turned on his heel and stamped back through the gate, disappearing into the garden.
Aruk-cho produced a set of keys from a pouch on his belt and unlocked the manacles on Ashinji’s wrists. Sighing with relief, Ashinji massaged where the metal had chafed his skin.
“Follow me,” the akuta directed as he headed off across the yard toward a long, low building, the manacles swinging from his hand.
“How did you end up here, Aruk-cho?” Ashinji inquired. He had to scramble to keep up with the akuta’s long, rolling stride.
“I was a slave like you, once. I made the mistake of going up against the chieftain of my tribe. I lost, and so found myself in bondage, sold to the Soldarans. That was many years ago.”
“Are you a gladiator?”
“I was, but I earned my freedom. Now, I run this yard for Mistress de Guera, and, occasionally, I fight for prize money. Everything will be explained to you soon.” He paused in front of an open doorway. “Here is where you will sleep.” The akuta had to duck in order to pass through the door. Ashinji followed and found himself in a long barracks. A scarred wooden table filled the center of the space, and an empty fireplace gaped like an open mouth in the wall opposite the door. Shelves lined the walls at the back, each just long and deep enough to hold one body. The sound of snoring filled the hot, still air.
Aruk-cho stamped one massive hoof upon the hard-packed clay floor.
“Up…Up with you!” he bellowed. “Rest time’s over!” He turned to Ashinji. “Everyone in this room is new, like you. Most were brought over from the market just yesterday.” The sleepers began to stir from their shelves, muttering and sniffling. “All of you, out in the yard, now,” Aruk-cho ordered, pointing through the open barracks door. “The mistress will be along shortly to address you.”
Ashinji followed Aruk-cho back out into the shimmering heat of the yard, then stood and watched as his fellow neophyte slaves emerged from the barracks. He counted ten others, all young and apparently fit. Six of them Ashinji recognized as native Soldarans by their skin color and facial features. He knew the rest were human, but of types he had never before seen.
Two of the men had skins the color of a bay horse, with broad, flat noses and hair that hung in long ropes to their waists. Another had skin the color of honey, with narrow, dark eyes and jet-black hair gathered in a topknot at the crown of his head. Ashinji found the last man the most curious of all, for as far as he could tell, this human had no body hair—he even lacked eyebrows—and his pale skin had been seared red by the relentless southern sun. By the way he squinted and hunched his shoulders, Ashinji could tell the direct sunlight pained him much more than it did the others.
Aruk-cho had gone into the barracks directly across the yard and had re-emerged leading a straggling procession of female slaves. He ordered them to form up into rows behind the men. All six of them were Soldarans.
“Hey, you!” a voice hissed to Ashinji’s right. He swiveled his head to see one of the Soldaran males, a boy just coming into manhood, sidle up to stand beside him. “Can you understand me?” the boy asked.
“I can. What is it you want?”
“You’re an elf,” the boy stated.
Ashinji sighed. “Yes,” he answered.
“My ma was half-elf! See? I got pointy ears.” The boy pushed his ruddy brown hair away from the side of his head to display bluntly tapered ears. He grinned. “My ma named me Seijon, after her pa. What’s your name?”
“Ashinji Sakehera. Seijon is a very old elven name. It belonged to one of our greatest kings, many thousands of years ago.” Ashinji could see the boy’s elven blood in the cast of his features, though he could pass for a full-blooded human if he hid his ears.
“I never thought I’d get to meet another one of my grandpa’s people,” Seijon said.
Another?
Ashinji thought.
“I never knew my pa,” the boy continued. “He took off before I was born. It was always just my ma an’ me.” The boy’s voice contained no trace of bitterness.
“Be silent!” Aruk-cho ordered. “The mistress approaches.” Seijon stifled a giggle and made an exaggerated show of shutting up. Mistress de Guera strode toward them, trailed closely by Corvin. She halted beside Aruk-cho, who bowed his head in respect.
“The new slaves are all assembled, Mistress,” he rumbled.
Though Ashinji stood in the front row, Mistress de Guera ignored him. She cleared her throat and began to speak. “My name is Armina Marcela Luiza de Guera. As of this day forward, I control your lives completely. I decide when you eat, when you sleep, when you fight, when you rest. In short, I own each and every one of your bodies, and later this afternoon, you’ll all receive my mark of ownership upon your shoulders. I’m not so foolish or naïve as to believe I own your souls. That is the one thing you still can call your own.”
Mistress de Guera paused to sweep her penetrating gaze over her new property. “I was born on a farm in Thalacia,” she continued. “At the tender age of twelve, my father sold me to a Thalacian horse trader. Too many mouths to feed, and as I was only a girl, all my real value was located between my legs. So off I went. The trader kept me awhile, and after he knocked two kids out of me, he sold me to a Soldaran agent looking for young, healthy females for the arena. I was big and strong for my age, a good candidate for gladiator training.
“Eventually, I ended up here, in Darguinia, a slave like all of you, put up for sale at the central market. I had the good fortune to be purchased by Antonius Sisco himself…yes, I see some of you know of him.”
Several of the Soldarans nodded.
“Sisco was a legend! The greatest trainer of all time,” Seijon whispered to Ashinji.
“Sisco trained me personally,” Mistress de Guera continued. “He made of me a finely crafted fighting machine. I was magnificent. None had seen my like before, nor have since.” She spoke matter-of-factly, without a hint of arrogance, almost as if she praised another person.
“I reigned as Female Champion for three years. During that time, I never lost a match, and by virtue of my skill, I earned my freedom. The day I retired from the arena, I became Sisco’s wife and partner. We were married for twenty five years and I gave Sisco five sons and three daughters. This yard you find yourselves in is the business we built together.”
She paused, and bowed her head for a moment, then raised it. “I lost my dear husband two years ago. The yard is mine now and mine alone, though one day, all that Sisco and I have built will be our legacy for our children.”
“I tell you all this because I wish to inspire you,” Mistress de Guera said. “If you are talented and very, very lucky, you can survive your time here and earn enough money to buy your freedom. It is possible. I did it. I began with nothing, and now, I’m one of this city’s most respected citizens.”
“And so I will make this pledge to you all. Put everything you have into this, fight bravely, obey me and my trainers without question…do all of this for me, and when you die, you will be treated with honor. But, if you
live
…after two years, I will free you, and gift you with a handsome sum for start-up money. You’ll be able to go home if that’s what you wish, or stay and make a go of it here.”
She slowly scanned the ranks of expressionless faces before her. “Aruk-cho will explain the rules of the yard now.” She nodded toward the akuta.
“Everyone gets up at daybreak, except on off days, when you can sleep in if you wish,” Aruk-cho began. “Practice starts after breakfast and will run until midmorning, when you get a half-turn break, then resumes until midday. You eat, then you get free time for three turns. You can rest, if you wish, or occupy yourself with personal tasks. Practice matches begin at three turns past midday and go until sunset, then you’re finished for the day.
“All slaves are on five days, off two. If you live long enough to earn your freedom and you choose to stay on as a prizefighter, you fight as many days as you wish. The Grand Arena runs six days a week. We are but one yard among twenty, but we are also one of the top five; therefore, our contract gives us a lot of days in which we must fill the seats.
“Four days out of six, our yard runs points matches. These are non-lethal, and the fighters earn points for style and skill. They are usually timed, or sometimes go to first blood. Those slaves who are less skilled will fight these matches exclusively, until I decide when he or she is ready to advance. You advance by improving your skills. The better you get, the more points you earn. Points get you rewards. At first, it will be extra privileges, and later on, it will be money.
“The other two days, we run lethal matches. These matches are always between yards, and they end only when all fighters on the opposing side are either dead or so badly wounded, they can no longer fight. Only those slaves who are the most skilled will be put into these matches. If you mortally wound an opponent, or if you, yourself are mortally wounded, the kill is required to be swift and clean. Unnecessary cruelty will be punished by loss of points and esteem. The people come to the arena to see feats of skill and bravery, not butchery.
“You will only be required to fight one lethal match per month until I can see that you stand a decent chance of survival, then you’ll fight one every ten days.”
He paused to make sure he had each slave’s full attention, then continued. “There are special matches put on for Festivals. Whether or not you fight in these depends on your skill and seniority. These matches always carry very large purses and you can earn a lot of money and points, but they are almost always filled up with prizefighters. Only a few slots are generally available for slaves. Always, these matches are lethal.
“Finally, there is the Great Festival of Cheos, Lord Of Heaven. This is the biggest festival on the calendar and it lasts an entire week. The Grand Champions are decided during this series of matches. All fighters, both slave and free, who have accumulated enough points are eligible to participate. The matches run as eliminations, with the winners advancing to the next rounds. The finals are held on the last day. The winners, one man and one woman, will each be named Grand Champion. If he or she is a slave, freedom is the reward, along with a handsome purse.”
Aruk-cho paused again and pushed at the sand with a forefoot. He looked to Mistress de Guera, who just nodded. He continued. “So, that is how things are. Not as bad as you imagined, I’m sure. As slaves go, you are the lucky ones. You will get far better treatment here in the de Guera yard as gladiators than almost anywhere else, including the brothels. It is in the mistress’s best interests to keep her stable well fed and fit. Only healthy, skilled fighters make her money. Not all yard owners are as wise as our mistress. Do your best for me and for her and you can count on both of us to do our best for all of you.
Dismissed!”
Ashinji turned to follow the others back to the barracks.
“Wait, Ashinji!” he heard Aruk-cho call out behind him.
“I’ll go and grab you a bunk next to mine,” Seijon offered. The boy’s whole body quivered with excitement, reminding Ashinji of Jena and Mariso. He sighed and nodded in assent. Seijon’s face broke into an ecstatic grin and he dashed off toward the barracks.
“The boy has attached himself to you, I see,” Aruk-cho commented.
“So it would seem,” Ashinji replied dryly. “Do the Soldarans often sacrifice their children to their blood sports?”
“Seijon will not be participating in any lethal matches. The mistress purchased him as a house slave some months ago, but he kept pestering her to let him learn to fight. Just yesterday, she gave in and sent him to me.”
“What is it you want of me, Aruk-cho?”
“There is someone here that you should meet. Come with me.”