~ 33 ~

More Prepared for Death

The princes dropped into the bloodshed of their people, neither struggling to hit the ground rolling, acquiring the first weapon from the ground, swords for both, as they pushed out from each other.

It was unknown if either would see the other again.

"Sir!" Gero heard the voice from before him, seeing a knight without his armour, holding a halberd. He dropped the colossal weapon and strode closer. "Glad to see you! Announce yourself to your people. Perhaps you can—"

Gero caught the wrist thrusting toward him, disarming the hand of its knife with a flip of the object, stabbing the weapon back into the man. Gero swept the legs out from under the knight, catching him by the back and guiding him to the ground.

"You died without honour," Gero said.

The man chuckled a blob of blood. "Not like I had much choice." His eyes lowered. "Am I a bad man?"

Gero shook his head. "No. You are what you choose to live as." He pulled the blade from the knight's heart. "And not what you were forced into."

The knight's eyes widened, and he smiled, starting to close his eyes.

"Thank you, sir."

Gero released the body and stood and, preparing himself, rushed into the fight.

On the other side of the stadium, Zinnine rushed to the back of another nearly naked man, pushing his sword through the man's back, shoving through his heart before retracting the blade in a swipe.

The knight fell, without knowing who killed him, and that it was his leader who did the deed. Several; feet ahead, another knight slashed the throat of one, ducked to avoid an overhead swing and, while crouched: pointed his blade for the second foe's heart.

He rose while stabbing the threat, raising his foot to the man's stomach and kicking him off the blade. The survivor turned to face Zinnine but was frozen in place upon reorganizing his face.

"Captain? You still live?" A lone chuckle and smile broke from the murderer. "Thank goodness. I hoped I was clearing this place for a good reason." He glanced around the pit, covered in bodies with blood seeped halfway against the corpses. Every stomp step was a splash of something. "I would've hated to have won. There ain't no comin' back."

The survivor tossed aside his blade. "I fear death, but the shame of living through this scares me more. Only cowards and stragglers remain now. Someone of your skill can clear this place with ease." Straightening his back, the man gave a salute. "Tis a shame I will never see what will become of these lands. Listen. I have a wife and son and family back in the homelands."

The man swallowed. "Can you take care of them? Tell them not of what I've done—they won't ever be able to look at my grave the same." He gave an enthusiastic nod. "Thank you, sir!"

Zinnine stood defenceless. Had this man or anyone else charged—he would be dead. But nothing of the sort occurred. In his hesitation, his daughters flashed to his mind. Astria, with hair as black as night. It reminded him of her mother.

Another he had failed to protect.

Forgive me, everyone, for everything I have, and will ever do, in this life.

Zinnine charged forward before he could force his feet to do so, drawing his blade into the survivor's heart, piercing through to the other side, coming to bring his chest to that of the slain. He embraced the man, who stumbled and coughed blood. The man's legs gave out, and Zinnine helped him to the ground. The hug lasted all the way to the floor, and, once Zinnine rose, the honourable man below was no more.

He looked down at the blood across his front, which had been a staple of pride and success, now, swirled vomit in his belly and haunted him with shame. This conquest was a matter of finding bigger, better land for his people to migrate here to live better lives.

And the men who fought for their family now lay dead, killed by their brother's hand.

What was the point? What is the meaning of all of this? What's it all for?

No answer emerged. He ran back into the battle, back into the fight, deflecting swings of axes and clubs, slashing at openings and killing without flinching. So what if he won atop the bodies of his men? Would Tul'mor even let him go? Or would he shove it in his face the weakness of his beliefs, killing Zinnine after twisting him?

Spite.

Something new burned inside the man. Something that burned away all that he had known, turning to ashes important faces. He killed and killed. Going with the motion. Not knowing what all of this was for. Why he was renouncing all that he'd known, killing people that he had loved, all in the vain hope for escape—of distant victory.

And it wasn't before long that only two remained in the arena.

Gero kept his knee to a fallen one's chest, plucking out the blade, but resting his hand on the defeated's slowing heart. Once it had stopped, he rose from the loser. Looking around the curricular nature of the arena, bodies laid in a splatter across it, some of them stacked, with various wounds and numerous weapons buried in cold flesh.

Zinnine slashed right across one man's throat, crouching and cutting across the stomach of the other approaching attacker, rising to smack the back of his sword into the face of the third—before twirling the sword, and diving the sharp end into the same place.

The three fell seconds apart and were the last of Laleen's scout party, slain by leaders. Zinnine whipped his sword to clean it, turning as his brother did the same, the two staring each other down from opposing ends of the stage.

Zinnine's grip weakened on his sword's handle, which slid through his hand, while Gero remained firm. The two faced each other down without advancing. The chanting audience quieted down, their lust for a frenzy since sated.

"Only the strong now remain," Tul'mor's voice filled the silence. "Do you see now where true strength lies? It's in doing what needs to be DONE!"

With the tip of his blade pointed at the ground, Gero glanced up at the giant from over his shoulder. "You know nothing of strength. Your archaic days of mere might are nigh."

"Oh?" Tul'mor questioned. "You speak down to me? After striking down your own men?"

"Barbarians were the first to go in the advancement of humanity," Gero spoke while turning his head away. "Strength and viciousness were sufficient in the beginning. But they refused to develop. And over time, no matter the tribes that joined together, they were smitten by those weaker and smaller."

Tul'mor glared down at the man.

"Our ways weren't prepared for something like this," Gero proclaimed. "We are the middle. The transition from old into new. The moral of the story is that the moral is always a variable. The Laleens will find new strengths and ways to wield them. This, and you, are nothing more than a setback."

Tul'mor growled. "Unimpressive words. Your screams will prove the uselessness of your mouth."

Gero still did not face him. "Then come down here and prove your claim."

"Should you be the last one standing," Tul'mor said with a resume to his grin, "then you may sacrifice your freedom to the end of my club. Show to me this strength you speak of. If it's found in your death or the one you murder."

Gero slashed the ground in a fine strike. He glared at Zinnine. "Are you ready?"

Zinnine closed his eyes, a fault, and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs until they were full, before exhaling all that was woe within. His eyes reopened as he soothed into a stance. He faced down his brother without a chance of regret.

"Never ready," Zinnine answered. "But slightly more prepared."

The two charged forward, one sprinting and one striding, one with a sword held above and another kept at the waist. The two didn't look elsewhere. Not watching for the upcoming attack. Instead, they saw into each other's eyes as if the rest of the word didn't exist.

And, upon meeting at the center, on the backs of fallen knights, the two struck each other.