Sir Emerson Lennox

Ballard of Lesia

Mista Savar

You’re a merchant, do the math

The noise made his teeth rattle. The scar where the old stitches were still hard under the skin and burning. The crowd got on their feet, the sun fusing the helm on his covered head and face, old eyes staring behind the engraved gold mask at his opponent. The Issir stumbled back and tossed his cracked shield away. He reached for his second sword and got it out, Troy mirroring him standing four meters away, his sandals sinking in the soft burning sands.

The feeling otherworldly.

The crowd started screaming, when he started moving. People had come from afar, old men and women that had seen him fight in his prime. Kids that had grown up with tales of the ‘Chiliad’ and the finest gladiators to ever step foot in the arena, or the sands outside of it. Everyone had come to bid the mighty ‘Handsome Titan’ a last farewell.

A leap to the right nigh exaggerated, almost like a choreographed dancing move. Muscles rippling in the sun, the muscled cuirass shining blindingly, the arms sprouting out of it devoid of fat and as if carefully carved to match it. Another to the left and he heard the men roaring again, dead friends, countless lovers and a river of gore filled with gems and gold, a thousand steel shields rattling, the rumble of the onrushing armoured horses shaking the earth underfoot and blood exploding out of his ears.

For a moment the screams and songs of the crowd got drown out into the haunting memory. Then Troy was back in the arena, golden sand under his feet and the twin swords in his hands swinging. The Issir blocked the first with his right, parried the second with the left and stepped back to attack in his turn.

Troy went after him leaving him no room to initiate anything. The crowd roared delighted, some jumping from the stands and crashing crippled on the sands, men pissing themselves and women turning feral at the display.

Slash and block.

Cut and parry.

High and low.

An arching swing his panicked opponent missed.

His bloody nose flying above their heads.

Troy stepped aside, went under a return slash, clenched teeth in a maniacal grin and elbowed the man in the face right at the wound. The Issir stumbled back, a hand on his bloody face, the other swinging blind to keep him at bay.

Troy faked a right high cut, switched the grip on his other sword and slashed his opponent above the knee, the blade chipping away part of the bone. The Issir dropped to a knee, a groaning bloody mess and Troy stepped aside in a half circle.

The famed gladiator flipped both swords in his hands, engraved steel vambraces worth ‘as much as the prize them cheap fucking bastards were giving these days’, then stepped forward and delivered a perfect double chop that separated the Issir’s head from his shoulders. It flown upwards and to the left, part of a hand following it, the blood exploding in a torrent that rained over him hot and smelling of iron.

The voices and cries of the crowd making his ears ring and his knees shake as he raised both covered in gore swords high in the air to bask in it.

He drank it all.

Adrenalin.

Fear.

Danger.

Win.

Exultation.

Adulation.

There is nothing like it old man, Troy thought and removed his Imperial Cavalry helm, his scarred face sweaty and bloody underneath, but outrageously handsome still. A full delirious arena all the evidence he ever needed.

His leg wasn’t working at all. Emerson had to make the slow journey down the spacious corridor with the eight tall and very narrow windows grinding his teeth. He used the cane to help him follow after Hasti until they reached the twin highy-decorated hardwood and alabaster doors.

The burly slave with the cleaver-like sword, gold loop through his nostrils pushed the doors open and let them in. Hasti paused next to the doors to close them up again and Emerson seeing the prominent low-height ebony-wood table, stumbled towards the well-dressed men sitting around it on comfortable pillows.

Don-Iv Sopat smiled seeing Hasti staying back and signed for her to approach. The other two men kept their painted eyes on the limping knight. One of them was Lord Tsuparin and the other Chu Bin-Amin. The latter name Emerson had heard being pronounced a couple of ways.

“Ah, lovely Hasti,” Don said, right hand slipping under the slave girl’s short dress. “Just as I was getting utterly bored talking politics. You are a welcomed stimulant. Fetch us another bottle of spiced wine will you dear?” Don frowned as he moved his fingers around. “Hmm, what’s that then? Aww…”

“Sopat I’ve not the stomach to watch your unabashed decadence in my hour of mourning,” Tsuparin spat, his tanned face lined with wrinkles, eyes painted the color of coal.

“Or so early in the morning,” Amin commented with a half-smile. Older than Lord Tsuparin but heavily built, the Cofol stood almost as tall as Emerson.

“Eh, let’s not exaggerate,” Don responded and smacked Hasti’s arse as she hurried away from their table. He brought two of his fingers to his mouth and sucked at them thoroughly afore adding. “If we lose ourselves into work and anxiousness, then all said work would have been for naught.”

“What?” Tsuparin grimaced and glanced at Emerson’s pained expression first, then at Lord Amin. “Is he drunk?”

“Definitely,” Amin replied and eyed Emerson in his turn. “Mista Savar, your win was simply spectacular. I must say I’m impressed.”

“People died,” Emerson rustled through his teeth. “Nothing spectacular to that.”

Amin raised his grey eyebrows high. He’d a full set of short-cut hair on his head, their color matching his ashen-grey eyes.

“I would have to disagree,” He said in fluent Common.

“You would, I reckon. In the same vein, I wouldn’t care one bit.”

“Right,” Don said clapping his ring-adorned hands. “Ballard this old gentleman you’ve just insulted, is Lord Amin of Lai Zel-ka, Commander of Yon Simun Fort and the Khan’s War Leader.”

Emerson grunted neither impressed, nor feeling any remorse about it.

“The esteemed aristocrat to his left is Lord Tsuparin of Fu De-Gar,” Don continued the introductions.

Emerson grimaced, half of it from pain and the rest from anger. “I need to talk to you Sopat.”

“We’re talking,” Don replied with a toothy smile.

Emerson made to answer, but Tsuparin stopped him. “Sopat we’re not here so you can amuse yourself afore getting back to fucking. You came with a proposal and we yielded to it. My first thought was to have my dogs rip you apart, just like you ripped me off.”

“I made a bet, you lost. Was the amount absurd? Some would argue a wagon of coins isn’t that big a sum. Granted that would be mostly members of my family, but we do exist so…” Don countered, in his pompous annoying manner. “Now it’s unfortunate you lost the Gargoyle also, but let us be real here, the Nord had no idea how to make better… gladiators.”

“And this one does?” Tsuparin growled, his face turning red.

“Well, his men kinda wiped the arena with yours,” Don retorted. “By the end I was laughing so hard I soiled myself.”

Lord Amin intervened to calm the tempers down.

“You are a free man Ballard, or Mista Savar. The moniker is yours by right,” He said. “As you understand, we have an offer for you. You’ve got nothing but your freedom and a wooden sword. A less dangerous job will alleviate your waning years, assuming you don’t want to try all this again next year, on a bad leg.”

“What if I refuse?” Emerson grunted, his leg twitching in pain.

“You walk away,” Lord Amin replied with a thin smile. “Please take a seat, no need for you to stand,” He pointed at the pillows.

“I don’t think I can,” Emerson rustled and Don snapped his head up.

“Darn it! Hasti leave the bottle here, run and bring a stool for our friend,” He ordered the returning slave girl. Hasti placed the tray on the table and twirled around with a grin to fetch Emerson a stool. She looked deliriously happy with the changes in her circumstances and Emerson knew she’d worked for that.

“What about Ziba?” Emerson asked.

Tsuparin frowned and looked at Don-Iv. “What is he talking about?”

“Paikan has agreed to sell her to me Ballard,” Don said.

“I’ll take her from you,” Emerson grunted.

“I won’t sell her,” Don replied. “Even if I would, you got no coin for such an expensive slave Ballard.”

Ah.

Emerson glared at the youthful painted face of the Sopat scion.

“Unless,” Don added with a pleased smile and a vein started throbbing on Emerson’s left temple. “You help us out here.”

“Who is you?” Emerson asked, his voice coming out hoarse.

“Lord Amin, Lord Tsuparin, hopefully Lord Letakin,” Don explained and the knight stood back with a grimace.

“I help you out,” Emerson said. “You free Ziba.”

“I sell her to you,” Don replied. “You can do with her what you wish after that.”

Emerson looked at the stool Hasti had brought and grunting sat down on it, keeping his hurt and bandaged leg straight. It was more difficult sitting down than getting up with the help of the cane.

When something is difficult to do, ye train more on it.

“What do you want done?” He asked the Lords of the Peninsula, his heart heavy. You don’t blackmail someone to agree on a deal, unless said deal is abhorrent for one reason, or another.

Lord Tsuparin got a silver pipe out and lit it with a candle, the aromatic smoke reaching Emerson’s nostrils smelling of tobacco, orange, and a whiff of cedar. Don-Iv now in his third goblet was mostly interested in Hasti that was refiling their cups and Chu Bin-Amin waited patiently for his answer.

“A large training ground,” Emerson started, looking at a map of Greenwhale Peninsula. “Built here in Fu De-Gar.”

“We have the structures ready. The old Imperial grounds,” Lord Tsuparin said. “We need someone to command the project.”

“Train gladiators,” Emerson said. “A giant Ludus to dwarf all others.”

“Provide readily trained gladiators to all cities,” Lord Tsuparin explained, but Emerson was staring at Lord Amin’s aged face, the hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth unnerving.

What were they hiding?

“Enough to build a nucleus for a new upstart Lanista, rejuvenate the old schools,” Don added with a burp. “Apologies. Hasti get me something sweet, I think I’ve had enough. Better yet, sit close so you can massage my stomach. Use your feet.”

“How many?” Emerson asked with a grimace, his knee bothering him, almost as much as Don-Iv’s tomfoolery.

“We told you at least a thousand and three hundred before the year is out,” Lord Amin said. “We have a surplus of slaves at the moment.”

“How many gladiators do the Ludi need annually?” Emerson repeated his question, expounding on his meaning.

Don-Iv started chuckling and stretched his legs out under the table.

“A hundred, two at the most,” Lord Tsuparin replied eyeing Emerson warningly. His patience was running thin. Emerson couldn’t care less. All he was interested in was getting Ziba out of their clutches and keep her safe.

“What happens to the rest? Why keep so many men fed and idle? Where’s the profit in that?” He asked one query after the other genuinely curious as to the reason.

A moment of silence followed, the Cofols contemplating his words. Lord Amin had started combing his long goatee with his fingers and Lord Tsuparin worked at his pipe, blowing smoke out of his nostrils.

“You know Lord Reeves,” Don said casually, completely out of the blue. Emerson flinched, almost dropping the cane he kept next to his hurt leg and turned to glare at him.

“What if I do?” He asked.

“I wrote to my brother, mentioned you in passing,” Don replied. “He wrote back urging me to help you Ballard. So our offer is genuine, as is mine regarding Ziba-Ra.”

“Reeves is in Eikenport? With a…” Don stopped him raising a hand.

“Let us talk of this after we finish here.”

Emerson stood back and grunted.

“I want a clear answer,” He told the Cofol Lords sternly.

“We won’t reveal our plans without your word you’ll be onboard Ballard,” Lord Tsuparin hissed, not pleased with his stubbornness. “Whatever that’s worth.”

Emerson pressed his lips into a thin line.

“It’s a matter of caution,” Lord Amin intervened. “Not all Lords have been informed. We shall talk with Lord Letakin, but Lord Elur Sol will never go along with it. Que Ki-La is Prince Nout’s city. The Lord of the Gulf could be a problem.”

“A matter of caution you say, yet whilst you talk of games, market opportunities and gladiators, I still don’t see the profit,” Emerson replied. “Or why you would need the other cities consent for what each one of you could finance on their own.”

Lord Tsuparin went to answer but Emerson stopped him stabbing his cane down.

“I can’t train a thousand, two thousand men,” Emerson rustled. “You have trainers for that, plenty of Ludi here. You want me to make you something different.”

“Your tactics,” Lord Amin said. “Won the games.”

“Bah, there you go,” Emerson grunted. He smacked his lips and eyed the lords present. “Why?”

“Take the job Ballard,” Don-Iv urged him. “Lord Letakin might leave the city soon and take Paikan with him.”

Emerson glared at the perfumed young man. “I don’t take kindly in those forcing my hand Sopat.”

“I’m your best friend. Better than a lover,” Don replied with a cocky grin. “I simply ‘have’ to help you.”

“Buy Ziba, release her,” Emerson retorted. “Then we’ll talk like men.”

“How about I buy this slave and remove a foot of skin from her per day?” Lord Tsuparin growled irate. “Would you agree then?”

Emerson crooked his mouth and reached for Sopat’s goblet with his left hand. He brought it to his lips and tipped it all down. The spices in the wine burning his throat all the way.

“Slaves will win you no plaguing war,” He finally said, his voice crackling like chains inside a tunnel. “Nor will they work for you Tsuparin.”

“Clearly you don’t know my slaves Mista Savar,” Tsuparin grunted.

“Clearly you don’t know me Tsuparin,” Emerson countered.

“I’ll buy the god darn slave,” Tsuparin hissed. “Skin her myself!”

“Gentlemen,” Don said, not liking where this was going.

“Let me give it a try Sopat,” Lord Amin urged him and got up. Emerson noticed he wore a light mail shirt under his opulent ginger-colored robes. He walked towards a map of Greenwhale hanging from a wall, ornamented oil-lamps at its corners to provide light after dark. The edges blackened from the many sessions spend poring over it. Many nights, an old problem and an even older scheme. The War Leader sighed and stared at Lord Tsuparin for a moment, then at Don-Iv who sobered up and stood up straighter. “Hasti, leave us if you please,” Lord Amin said and the comely slave bowed her head and rushed outside of the spacious hall.

The red sun ducked behind the giant flat-top pyramid, dominating the dry rises directly west of the city, what the locals called the Imperial grounds. The arena the Zilan had built now mostly ruins and extending a couple of kilometers in width. Whatever games they hosted in there impossible to gauge centuries later.

Emerson sighed feeling tired and worn-out. The pain in his ruined knee and slowly healing body, a constant reminder he was running out of sunsets. He hadn’t reached forty yet, but his was a hard-lived forty years.

“You’ll have Ziba-Ra,” Don-Iv said an hour after the lords had left them to return to their villas.

“Reeves has a Wyvern,” Emerson rustled staring at the map. “Yet he’s not in Eikenport.”

“He traveled to Wetull,” Don-Iv replied. “It’s been months now.”

Ah, kid. Why would ye do that?

“How do you know he’s alive?” He asked without looking at the young man reclining on the velvet sofa.

“Missives reached Phon-Iv. He’s in Goras.”

“Glen… is in Goras? He crossed the Pale Mountains?”

“He did it through an underground boulevard, found Zilan at the end of it.”

“Where did he found a plaguing Wyvern?” Emerson asked, having trouble believing any of it.

“It doesn’t matter,” Don replied. “He has one. It changes things.”

“You can’t win the Peninsula from the Khan,” Emerson cautioned him. “You’ll need a lot of men.”

“We have men, gold and patience,” Don explained. “A man wielding a Wyvern married to my sister and the luxury of time.”

“You have slaves and a window of opportunity that might close shut, if the Khan wins his war. Glen can’t control a Wyvern. You are asking too much of him.”

“Reeves is not a kid Ballard,” Don retorted. “Not this one.”

“How large are Rin An Pur’s armed forces?”

“The majority of the Khan’s army is beyond the desert.”

“The slaves won’t fight to the death. So you need to account for that,” Emerson insisted. “Marching them to war isn’t the same as sending them to the Arena. How does the Khan maintain his armies?”

“Fear, free plunder and wages. The Khan is a Horselord that settled down, we have always been different Ballard.”

“Free everyone that serves for three years, with benefits.”

“What then? Do it all over again?”

“Issue contracts of service like the Legion, or the Issir Foot. Give them land,” Emerson said. “Most men will return.”

“Are you serious? You are… well,” Don got up from the sofa and stared at his painted blue toes. “This is something I have to work on. It won’t be a popular idea with the other Lords, or my brother.”

“It will be with your army,” Emerson retorted sternly. “You’re a merchant, do the math. You do this and lose, there will be no lords left to complain.”

Troy wore a new hoplite’s muscle cuirass, the details on it exaggerated, the steel gleaming alike silver but for the gold at the nipples.

“It’s an accurate depiction of the thickness underneath it,” The gladiator explained with a cocky grin, long hair gathered in an elaborate bun and eyes painted a garish blue. He sported another golden loop on his other ear.

“I ain’t feeling intimidated,” Emerson grunted and greeted Qathor with a nod of his head.

“You’re not the target audience Ballard,” Troy retorted. “Them ladies though… haha, I have to keep me cock in oils to alleviate the wear and tear!”

“Better start using your arse as well,” Qathor teased. “There’s potential there, just sayin’ you got to keep an open mind.”

“Well, I’ll leave that to you my friend. You’ve the talent for it,” Troy countered and turned to Emerson. “Tsuparin want us to fight for him? He’ll have to pay my muscles in gold for that.”

“We aren’t fighting in the arena again,” Emerson told him.

“Speak for yourself old man,” Troy retorted. “The ‘Handsome Titan’ shall fight again.”

“You’re going to help me train an army here,” Emerson said patiently and Troy frowned. “Both of you.”

“Ah, why would we do that?”

“I can’t do it myself and you owe me,” Emerson replied. “But you won’t do it for that. You’ll help out of the goodness of yer heart. Ayup, you’ll help these men out of slavery.”

Troy stood back dumbfounded. Qathor started laughing seeing his dismayed expression.

“I… you know what I did afore right? Why would I give up… damn you Ballard.”

“You’ve grown as a person,” Emerson explained. “Plus you don’t want to risk your life in the sands.”

“I’m not feeling it, this growth yer talking about,” Troy argued.

“You’ve swollen aplenty Troy,” Emerson taunted and Qathor threw his head back and roared, his laughter reverberating on the walls of the arena. “Time to do something worthy of yer true potential.”

Troy scratched his head. “An army ye say. Who are we fighting Ballard?”

“The Khan most likely.”

Troy pursed his mouth and stared at the sobering up Qathor.

“I want benefits befitting an officer Ballard,” He said turning to him.

“You’re not officer material, but sure.”

“At least two girls servicing me each day. No skinny, toothless bitches. The good stuff!”

“We are not opening a brothel Troy,” Emerson replied patiently. “Nor is this part of an officer’s payment.”

“Fuck them, no officer was a Champion of the fucking Pits!” Troy argued furious at his plans getting squashed. “One girl and the chance to compete again with the next champion. You got to pay to get dis kind of quality mate, look!” He’d stricken a couple of ridiculous poses to showcase his physique, even performing a full split on the sands, with Qathor clapping impressed, white teeth gleaming on his dark Issir face.

Emerson sighed and shook his head right and left.

“Fine, but I just don’t see ye stepping foot on the sands again.”

Sir Emerson while a shrewd and down to earth man, sometimes erred in his predictions and this was one of those times.