~ 31 ~

Doing What We Must... No Matter the Cost

[In a land still deciding the strong, two weak factions meet, making the victor stronger for their next battle. What occurs, occurred some time ago, when the Old Dragons lingered, and Humans had yet to commit to their formations.]

The cave entrance dipped into the depths of the earth, with unending tunnels that split and sprawled in countless directions to varying heights and depths. Wide and tall tunnels allowed horses with trim carts to pass through. Others were smaller, some requiring one to crawl.

The sound of thrusting spikes awoke Zinnine from his slumber. His back was pulled across the ground as rope was tied around his legs. Rocks along the way cut at his neck and throat. In his hazy consciousness, all he could register was pain and laughter.

"Another?"

"Must be Sobom," another answered. "Ties 'em loose. Lets 'em get lost. Let 'em think crawl spaces are safest." Someone spat. "Hard to yank 'em off the spikes. Lost another prisoner in resetting the trap."

There was another click and thrust of metal, a scream before a crunch, both echoing through the tunnel as the one behind them ceased to be. More pebbles slashed at Zinnine. His head shook against the destroyed ground.

"Keep still."

It wasn't the voice of the strange creatures. It was the whisper of one more than a friend—one more than a brother. Something clasped his wrist, squeezing it, channelling calmness and infusing strength into Zinnine's hollowed frame. Not chancing exposed contact, the hand pulled away once the spell was done.

"G..." the breath fell away from Zinnine. His lungs swelled to pump out the rest of the word, but a horrible cough had stolen him instead. He seeped back into unconsciousness.

"You're safe," the voice whispered as the person behind it began to settle. "We'll make it out of this."

An unknown amount of time had passed. Zinnine felt like a floating consciousness without a body to habit—until steel batted into his frame. His head and chest were knocked against bars, slick bars, glossed in cold blood.

Something tumbled behind him with the sounds of a cage being shut. Rope was then pulled, and their vessel rose, being strung and hung in the air. More cells closed, more cords were drawn, and soon there were more people closer to the ceiling than those to the ground.

"I'm afraid this marks the end to your slumber," the kind voice whispered again. Soft fingers pressed into Zinnine's neck. Magic flushed into him, its quantity barely a trickle. But its quality was unmatched. His lungs flexed open as air filled freely into them. Sensations returned—as did the throbbing, collective ache of his body.

Zinnine's eyes finally opened to the blurriness of silver. The back of his hand wiped his face, removing filth. Testing his vision again, he saw the bars of his prison and the open, circular nature of the chamber around them. Bumpy red rocks composed the walls, and above, at the center of it all, a hole showered in light from the land beyond.

"Drop it... the first cage... drop it..." a voice hissed from somewhere below and forward.

Zinnine wiggled in a panic, but the hand on his neck fell to his shoulder, gripping it. His partner spoke in a hushed voice once more. "Calmness. Do not fret. Everything is lost once you have lost your internal rhythm. Remember the teachings of Father."

Zinnine finally struggled out the words. "G-Gero?"

"Don't give away our names," Gero answered him. "Muddle yourself quickly. Let us be mistaken for once in our lives." Gero's hand rubbed against the bars, collecting the much-coloured slime. Then he rubbed it through Zinnine's hair and face, the coldness evoking vomit.

"Cease," Gero said at Zinnine's first gag. "Don't give a cause for attention. Dirty yourself. I'll develop a plan."

Zinnine's hands moved on their own, grabbing the bars, sliding up and down, the cold, mushy feeling drawing another gag. He swallowed and closed his eyes, steeling himself. Then he spread the matter over himself, dulling the black of his bangs and hiding the nobility in his face.

Gero did no such things, searching the chamber and seeing a colosseum's nature below. A hundred cages were strung across the ceiling, with a gladiator pit below, the lone, shining light from above, illuminating the battle area. In the vast spectator stands, hundreds of brown-coated creatures hopped like monkeys, jumping on one of their three legs.

They were called the Numankos, fast and strong, smaller and weaker than a human—but three of them could charge and pile onto a human in less than five seconds. Unless perfectly slashed during their pounce, they would cling to a person, and tear away at them.

What they lacked in strength, they doubled in viciousness.

Regular humans were intermixed with the Numankos, those belonging to the Mofasos, which gained control over the creatures. All were beasts as they cheered for the first lowering cage. Five numankos, set next to the levers and cogs, fed the rope back to the mechanism in the ceiling.

"Nineteen visible exits," Gero muttered off as Zinnine finished with himself. "Unknown which lead to where—and how many will end you for taking it. Maybe some will leave during the fight? Doubtful."

Zinnine matched his brother's gaze in looking at the hulking cavern exits. They were a row above and behind the highest stadium seats. There was no special marking on any. None that gave them any distinction. Had the Mofasos memorized the tunnels? Or did they simply not care for those who met a dead end?

Once the first cage had been lowered to the big pit, the numankos released the rope, letting the cell drop and explode against the ground. The men inside bounced into freedom, slack on the floor.

And from the crowds rained the storm of steel.

The men cowered as axes and halberds, swords and daggers, dirtied and bloodied, clattered over and around them. Weapons looted from previous conquests returned to their owners. But the opponent they were to be used against—had now changed.

At the front of the stadium, sitting on the highest seat above them all, a mountain of a man sat on a throne and, next to him, a single numanko with a crown on his head, a red cape around his shoulders, and a gold sceptre tucked in his hand. The man had nothing but a thick patch of brown cloth over his chest and covering his personal regions.

"SIIII-LEEANN-CE!" the man thundered as his bass vibrated against the walls. Everything grew quiet as stomping feet ceased, and only the swinging cages made any sound. "Tonight! The numankos will feast and dine to their delight on all who do not survive!"

An unaccompanied chorus of cheers from the creatures ended as quickly as it had begun.

"Tonight! The Mofasos will be privileged with the wealth, land, and pride of the Laleens! They shame our strength! Bemoan our willingness for viciousness in this Age of Dragons! Show me, where, their nobility has led?"

Humans and creatures, monsters without distinction, held out their arms slowly. Collectively they pointed upward at the honourable, noble men, who'd come to this land in hopes to expand in their ways. The winners pointed at the losers.

Just before the games were to begin.

However, one of Laleens in the stadium picked up a knife and chucked it up at the leader. It struck the wall below his post. It earned the attention of all as the prisoner thrust his arms out to the side. "Only because you dishonoured us! Your kind would be dead in a normal fight. Had we known—"

"You would have learned from your mistake to not trust our kind again," the man on the throne answered. "But unlike you, we do not allow our foes to learn from their mistakes. And you will never have the chance to test your dexterity against our strength."

The man allowed himself a grin. "But you're free to demonstrate it against your fellow brother."

Horrified shock enraptured the two men as, around, a flourish of cheers rose. Then the chant, that of one word, harmonized in its shouting.

"Kill! Kill! Kill!" started the left side of the stadium. "Kill! Kill! Kill!" carried on those on the right side. "Kill! Kill! Kill!" those in the back cried out with flying spit. "Kill," spoke the ones in front, with a calmness wrapped in fury.

"Tonight's event will be about unravelling a Laleen!" the leader spoke above the ablaze chanting. "To see if they are all that they preach! A hundred hang, but only one shall be set free! Strength respects strength! Only the strongest will be allowed to leave."

The leader settled comfortably back into his throne. "Will all of you die with your honour? Or will you come to renounce that which has stricken you with weakness? Begin the fight! Show us this strength beyond muscle and brawn!"