Arena: Part One Read online

  Arena

  Part One

  D. Michael Withrow

  Contents

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

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  Copyright © 2016 by D. Michael Withrow

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-9978619-0-7

  for Zoe

  1

  The boy stood at the entrance to the filthy, dripping corridor where his father’s fighter had left him before walking to his death. Four protectors encircled the man as he proceeded down the tunnel to the arena entrance. He carried a spear, a gladius and a small, round shield and wore metal armor on one arm and both his legs in the fashion of the Hoplomachi of the ancient Roman gladiatorial games. The protectors all carried pulse rifles and wore carbon fiber armor from head to toe.

  The boy stared after the man until he lost sight of him in the dimly lit tunnel, occasionally still catching a glint of light off the armor that he wore. When he turned away he saw his father staring at him intently from where he sat atop a trainer’s table. His piercing blue eyes and iron-gray beard were striking. The perpetual scowl that he wore was the only thing that kept him from being handsome.

  “You care too much for them, Colston,” he said. “You ought not do that.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “You look at me when you speak to me.”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said, looking up into his father’s eyes.

  His father continued to stare at him for a moment longer. Colston imagined that his father still saw him as a little boy, despite the fact that he was almost fifteen.

  “What’s on your mind, son?” His father seemed to soften a little. “Why are you hanging about the tunnel so?”

  Colston paused for a moment.

  “Well, I just don’t understand why you put Thomas up against the champion. He’s certain to lose.”

  “Ah, that. Well, son, there just wasn’t enough money in it to risk losing Marcus.”

  “So Thomas has to die?”

  “You know they don’t always die,” his father said. “Thomas is just as likely to survive.”

  But they both knew it was a lie. They both knew that even if Thomas somehow survived the ruthless onslaught of the champion, that the crowd would not let him live. It had been too long since a death and the crowd was hungry for one.

  “Let’s get to our box before we miss the fight,” his father said, then jumped down off the table and walked out of the room without ever looking back to see if Colston followed. Colston lingered for a moment at the entrance to the corridor before leaving. There was nothing more he could do for Thomas.

  The building had initially been preserved for historical purposes. Two centuries of care and technology had gone into it just to see interest in the sport it represented wane over time. Owners’ boxes lined the center of the ancient structure. Above and below them were row upon row of fold-down seating wound round in an oval fashion, all facing a large rectangular pit. It had once been known as a stadium and had been used for another game entirely. A game long since lost in the history of his ancestors. The court had been ripped up long ago and replaced with hard-packed earth. Now everyone knew it simply as the arena. A place where they came to see men fight as they had thousands of years before.

  Colston took the elevator that led to a hallway of doors each accessing a different owner’s box. A protector stood at each door at attention with his pulse rifle slung across his chest. His protector moved aside and unlocked the door to his family’s box with an access key embedded in the right glove of his armor. Colston heard the door lock as it closed behind him. He knew he was not locked in, but those that had no love for the owners were most certainly locked out.

  He sat next to his father and did not look at him. Instead he focused on his view of the arena. The sights and sounds of tens of thousands of people always thrilled the boy. More than the fighting ever could. The way they booed or sighed or cried out when something in the arena affected them in some visceral way. This is what Colston enjoyed most about the arena. Not that the fighting did not bring a certain something all its own. But his father was right. He cared too much for their fighters and this always made watching the battles difficult for him.

  He opened the cabinet next to his leather chair and brought out a small holotablet and stylus as well as a pair of binoculars. He ordered a drink from the steward and settled in for his night’s observation of the fights. The call for final seating was announced, and as stragglers made their way to their seats, Colston’s stomach went into knots thinking about Thomas. He was not a bad fighter. He was quite good actually. Tall, young and athletic and swifter than most his size. But he lacked the aggression needed to be great. Colston knew it. His father knew it. And he imagined that Thomas himself knew it.

  The call for silence was announced and the playing of their national anthem commenced. Upon completion, the first fight was announced. Colston had little interest in this fight as he had no fighter in it. “No dog in the fight,” as his father liked to say. He imagined sometimes that his father might actually view these men in that way, as dogs, and it made him angry to think of it.

  Colston watched the first two fights with a detached professional interest. He noted each man’s strengths and weaknesses and any special techniques they employed, at times making notes in his holotablet. No deaths were recorded, which was to be expected. If a death was to take place, it would usually occur during the finale. When the final fight was announced, he put aside the tablet. His drink was long gone and his mouth was dry. But he dared not look away long enough to order another. Thomas was already walking into the arena.

  Racus was the champion and belonged to his father’s most hated rival, Jeremiah Woodley. He had fought in more battles than any living fighter and had won them all. He stood a head taller than Thomas and was twice as thick with muscle. His thighs were as big around as Thomas’ waist. His chest a heaving mass of granite. His face hidden behind a giant metal helmet. He was well-tanned, well-muscled and the meanest thing Colston had ever seen. He carried two gladii and wore metal armor on both arms and legs.

  When Racus was announced, the crowd were on their feet, cheering with delight. Thomas, however, received no such reception. Colston began to feel sick as both fighters moved toward the center of the arena. He was not sure he could watch. When he hung his head to stare at the floor, his father grabbed him by the hair and yanked it back up.

  “You will watch,” was all he said. His father’s guests pretended not to see. Just as they always did.

  The referee stood well back from the men as they faced each other in the center of the arena. When the trumpets sounded each fighter turned and faced the box where the mayor stood watching and bowed to him. When the men faced each other once again the trumpets blew a second time signaling the s
tart of the fight.

  Racus began his assault by raining blows from above with his swords. Thomas backed away as he blocked each blow with the small shield and his own sword. For a moment the crowd was silent. All that could be heard throughout the arena was the sound of clanging metal.

  When Thomas began to feel the presence of the waist-high wall looming behind him he quickly spun to his right and slashed out with his sword. The blade just narrowly missed Racus’ exposed middle. The crowd roared with delight. Colston leaned forward in his seat, allowing the music of the audience to draw him into the battle even more.

  Racus turned to face Thomas and sent a slashing left that grazed Thomas’ cheek. It was a minor wound, but Colston had seen wounds to the face dishearten other fighters. Colston was thankful that the wound was not above the eye as it would have eventually blinded Thomas.

  Thomas did not even bother to wipe at the dripping blood. Instead he launched an attack of his own, slamming his shield against Racus high while chopping at his exposed thighs as the armor that Racus wore only reached his knees. The big man leapt back, causing the blow to miss. Thomas whirled and spun and slashed as Colston had never seen him do before.

  Racus was taken off guard, which seemed to anger him. He stepped back to gather his wits then launched another assault, hacking relentlessly at his opponent. As they approached the wall once more, Thomas feinted as though to spin away once again but instead lunged at Racus and drove his gladius deep into the big man’s gut. The crowd gasped. But before Thomas had time to pull the blade out Racus slashed inward with his sword and took Thomas’ head off in one clean cut.

  Thomas’ head hit the ground and rolled in the sand, leaving a trail of blood in its path. His body slumped to its knees before falling forward onto its chest. Blood pumped out of the open wound at his neck and mixed with the sand to make a ghoulish mud.

  Racus walked around the arena with his arms held high in the air, the blade still sticking out of his belly. The crowd were on their feet cheering as much for the death as for his victory.

  Colston, who seconds earlier believed Thomas had defeated his mighty opponent, slipped off the chair and fell to his knees in disbelief. He stared straight ahead with wide, round eyes. His mouth hanging open as if he might speak. But no words came.

  His father stood and looked down at him. “Colston,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

  2

  They were called debtors and they had borrowed away their freedom, bit by bit, in one manner or another, trying to survive in a world they could not afford. There was another word from history that would have better described them, but it had been outlawed a century ago. No one could say it nor even spell it. No one could write it nor even read it. All were against the law. So they were called debtors, perhaps to help the owners feel less like monsters. But words could not change what they were.

  The city walk was crowded with them and those on their way to becoming them. Most were women on their way to market or the laundry or on some other errand beneath those they served. Colston stayed close to his father so as not to get lost in the crowd. He did not want to be mistaken for one of them. No matter how many times his father had told him it could not happen, he still feared that more than anything.

  His father pushed through the crowd as though he owned them all. Colston could tell he was anxious about today’s auction. He needed a new fighter and good ones were hard to come by. Even those that showed the slightest potential sold quickly and for the highest prices regardless of their level of debt.

  As they neared the auction house the composition of the crowd changed, giving way almost exclusively to free men. His father continued to push through them as he had before. The building grew larger as they drew closer, rising from the ground like some hulking monolith. The entrance some monstrous maw ready to swallow them up. Colston hesitated before entering the giant stone building. It didn’t take long however for his father to snatch him by the arm and drag him inside. Once inside they made their way to the reception desk.

  “Good morning Mr. Carlson,” the man behind the desk beamed.

  “Yes yes,” his father replied as he held out his palm for the sign in scanner.

  “I imagine you’re in the market for a fighter today then,” the man said. “We have some fine ones.”

  They always had fine ones. Or at least they always claimed to. No matter what you were in the market for. No matter if it was true or not. And for a moment Colston understood his father’s impatience with the man.

  “We’ll see,” his father said, then quickly gathered his buyer’s package and walked away. Colston ran after him.

  The interior walls of the auction house were made of black marble. Whereas the floors were white marble. The contrasting colors, combined with the brass accessories, made for an elegant room that whispered of old money. Colston and his father walked to the front of the room near the stage and sat at one of the luxury tables that had been marked and set aside for them. Colston almost felt guilty for not having to sit in one of the long rows of seats that filled the room. When they sat down his father seemed to relax a little.

  The buyer’s package laid on the table in front of them. There was nothing extraordinary about it. It was just a large package wrapped in manila paper with the word “CARLSON” across the front in red letters. Colston’s father opened the package and emptied its contents onto the table. There were the usual items: a bid paddle, a buyer’s jacket and a welcome letter. Colston was momentarily confused however as he saw two bid paddles and two jackets. He quickly realized the numbers were different on the paddles. But this only added to his confusion. Why would his father need two bid paddles? He looked up to see his father watching him.

  “Today is the day,” he said. “Today you buy your first debtor.”

  “But…” Colston paused for a moment. ‘I don’t want to’ were the only words that came to mind. But he could not say that to his father. “Why today?”

  “You’re not a child anymore Colston. It’s time you started acting like it.”

  “But what am I to buy?” Colston asked.

  “You know what we need. Fighters and house servants. You can only buy one though, so choose wisely.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Try on your jacket,” his father said.

  He barely heard his father over the growing din of the room. It had begun to quickly fill with people since they had arrived and was now almost overflowing with others anxious to bid on the same debtors they were there for. Colston put on the jacket. His father had told him once that they had been fashioned after something called a trader’s jacket used on the trading floor of the stock market. Though he knew this only from historical images conjured up by the library database in their home. Colston was unexpectedly drawn to the blue linen jacket which had his name embroidered on it in white script above the pocket which bore his house’s sigil. It fit perfectly. A note to his father’s perfectionism no doubt.

  Colston jumped at the sound of the auction master’s gavel. He was drawn out of his reverie and thrust suddenly into the reality of what he must do. His heart ran wild in his chest and his palms began to sweat. He held a person’s fate in his hands and it made his head spin and his mouth water as if he might be sick. He grabbed his bid paddle and gripped it tightly then tried hard to focus on his breathing as he watched the stage where the debtors would be brought out. When the first of them came out he felt quite dizzy. But slowly he began to feel better as he realized that none of them would suit their needs.

  It was at least forty-five minutes into the auction before the man stepped out onto the stage. A giant of a man, well-muscled and fit with a face so horrifying that Colston had to look away at first. It was the face of a monster, looking as though it had almost been split in half by some implement of destruction.

  He should be dead, Colston thought. But he’s not. He’s tough. He’s a fighter. And then it hit him. He was a fighter. His hand shot up in the air before he even real
ized what he was doing. In it was a bid paddle with the number 417 printed in large bold letters on both sides. There was a stark silence after the auctioneer called out the price in which Colston would have to pay for the bid he had just made. No other bids followed. By the time his father realized what was happening it was too late. The auction master’s gavel had hammered home and Colston had purchased his first debtor. He had sold for his debt alone, but it was a hefty price all the same.

  Before the auction had ended his father had purchased a mother and daughter for little more than their debt. Colston’s paddle had been taken from him and all he could do was sit there quietly so as not to further upset his father. It was a quiet walk back to their transport. Once inside, his father hastily poured himself a drink. Soon the other man would appear. The one Colston was really afraid of. The one that his father became after one too many drinks. He chose to speak now while it wouldn’t cost so much.

  “What did I do wrong?” His father’s gaze fell on him and he regretted asking the question immediately.

  “You bought a broken man, Colston. What do you expect we’ll use him for then?”

  “Well, as a convicted killer doesn’t he, by law, have to become a fighter?”

  “A fighter?” His father practically spit the words. “Did you even look at the man? He probably can’t even see out of one eye. How do you expect he’ll fight with one eye?”

  “I didn’t think…” Colston began.

  “That’s right, you didn’t think.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  His father closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, letting out a long loud breath before speaking again.

  “You will be responsible for training him. I will not have Jacob waste his time on him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And he will have limited time with the other men. I don’t want him wasting their time either. I have real fighters to get trained, Colston. Do you understand?”