Chapter Seven

One Day Before the Atero Championship

Atero is dominated by five major sectors: the gladiator barracks, where Glatorian and Agori who are scheduled to fight reside, divided according to tribe; the general residences; the gymnasium, as well as practice fields—fields that have grown irrelevant due to general preference of practicing in the Arena Magna itself; a garage that houses vehicles and animals; and the offices that oversee the affairs of Atero.

On the day before the tournament began, Vastus awoke in the Jungle Glatorian residence. He meditated for a while before grabbing a quick bite to eat, cleaning up, and readying his armor. Feeling thoroughly refreshed and eager for whatever the day might bring, he stepped out onto the street and inhaled with the whole of his body. He had slept quite well, and the food the jungle tribe had prepared for him the night before had been particularly delectable.

Agori of all villages and coloring ran to and fro as they finished their last-minute preparations. The cleaning schedule must have fallen behind, for there seemed a greater degree of urgency about the teams that ran here and there. Agori far preferred to have a day or two of rest before the matches began, but that was becoming rarer and rarer with each passing year.

As he reflected upon this, he suddenly became aware of retching noises coming from near the Ice Glatorian residence. Intrigued, he started over the direction they came from.

Rounding the corner to the rear of the building, he was surprised to see not one but three Glatorian standing back there. Strakk appeared to be doubled over in pain while Gresh and Tarix stood above him awkwardly. The trio had accompanied each other on quite a few harrowing adventures of late, and a bond seemed to have formed between them.

“What happened here?” wryly asked Vastus.

“Strakk ate something that didn’t agree with him,” Gresh explained. “We think it wa—”

“It was that Vulcanus dish,” Strakk snarled. “The Cowrie delicacy that chief cook insisted I take. What was his name—Artus, Arti—”

“Aarto,” Tarix offered.

“Yes!” Strakk roared. “I’ll stuff the Cowrie down his throat! Metus always said—”

“Easy, Strakk,” Tarix patted him on the back as he stood. “Come. Let’s get you in the arena. You’ll feel like new.”

“No,” Strakk moaned, leaning on Tarix’s shoulder. “I can’t, too sick…”

“Nonsense,” Tarix insisted. “Let me knock you around a bit as usual and your stomach will be the least of your concerns.”

“Knock—” Strakk stood upright in utter indignance. “You haven’t beaten me once since Gresh was a sapling…”

As the two wandered off, Vastus shook his head. “Poor Strakk. To have eaten spoiled food so close to the tournament.”

Gresh giggled and threw a mischievous grin at Vastus.

“It wasn’t the Cowrie.”

✴        ✴        ✴

An hour later, Strakk and Tarix were in true form, armored up and bristling with energy, and Strakk betrayed not a symptom of illness.

For the experienced Glatorian, an arena match was like an art or an elaborate dance. That was one thing the Skrall failed to understand, which made them very unpopular with the crowds. Glatorian were trained to have enough stamina and endurance to make a match last sometimes for hours, for such a thing pleased the Agori crowds. Skrall tended to throw everything into the first few minutes which was devastating for Glatorian who only knew endurance fighting. However, necessity was forcing Glatorian to learn the Skrall style, and it was only a matter of time before they lost their advantage.

✴        ✴        ✴

Throughout the gargantuan arena, Glatorian were spread out, caught up in individual practice matches. Even some Agori fighters could be seen, though they had limited themselves to a special corner of the arena, well away from the other fighters. Agori physique didn’t lend itself well to athleticism and combat, which is why they didn’t tend to be as popular as premier Glatorian. Still, every once in a while, one or two Agori would rise above the ranks as popular entertainers.

More prominent were regular Glatorian, who inhabited a tier well below Prime and Second Glatorian. As fighters not nearly as powerful as the elite two, they were relegated to minor combats throughout the year, usually over personal squabbles or internal village lawsuits. Unfortunately, because they were never pitted against the premiere Glatorian, they were never given the opportunity to hone their skills against truly veteran warriors. Naturally, this meant their skills were never as good, leaving them to be matched in minor squabbles against Glatorian of their skill level, and so on, in vicious cycle. As such, with rare exception, these Glatorian often remained in their tier all their careers and were usually overlooked. Still, any who remained in this profession so long had come to terms with their employment, and many were perfectly happy leaving the elite Glatorian the pleasure of hacking at each other.

All of this is to say, even if a village may lose its First or Second Glatorian, and even if it musters the courage to call upon a Glatorian untested in the highest tiers of battle, such a Glatorian will often turn the opportunity down. In fact, half of Metus’ job consisted of convincing and recruiting such a Glatorian to go for higher opportunities.

Somewhere in between the two standard ranks of Glatorian lay the vehicle fighters, who were widely celebrated by commonfolk, but on whom snobbish individuals turned up their nose, owing to their reliance on vehicles. Despite any stigma, however, this was always the best opportunity for an Agori or lower Glatorian to gain the affection of a village, as well as occupy a uniquely valued position in the gladiator economy.

Yet above all else, so prized by their villages that they were what amounted to celebrities in the wasteland of Bara Magna, were the Second and Prime Glatorian. Together, these occupied a tier of their own and were lauded for their services to their villages. So mighty were these fighters that often elders grew uncomfortable when both were away from the village, as the Glatorian were seen as essential lines of defense and policing should danger arise.

Some of them grew proud due to their status. Others were wise enough to recognize the total emptiness of their fame.

✴        ✴        ✴

So despite the myriad of fighters scattered throughout the arena, most of the Agori who crowded in the Arena Magna had come to see the various Prime and Second Glatorian train.

In one area, Ackar, Gelu, and Vastus were fully locked in a three-way battle, more for their own entertainment than anything else. In another, Tarix and Strakk were engaged in what was already an hour-long duel. If they kept it up too much longer, they’d both be too sore for the real fight tomorrow. But right now, both of them were enjoying themselves too much to care. This was, after all, the only time out of the year the Glatorian can fight without significant stakes hinging on their victory.

Tarix, especially, needed the distraction. Recent weeks had seen the Prime Glatorian dour and unusually moody. Being in his element again was rejuvenating.

At least, until Strakk accidentally—and innocently—brushed upon a grave subject.

“So where’s Kiina been?” he asked, as he blocked one of Tarix’s axes. “It’s been the talk of the town. Atero is usually her scene. Not like her to—woah!—to miss it.”

At this, Tarix seemed to slow as a shadow crossed his face.

“Kiina is in Tajun. As is our elder, Vapius.”

The way he said it made it clear that it was the best answer Strakk was going to get. He nodded, “Oh.”

The two continued fighting, but even Strakk could tell that something was different. The thrill was gone from Tarix’s face, and he seemed to betray more aggression. The two dueled for a while before the Water Glatorian spoke again.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmured.

Strakk roared at this, bringing his axe down on Tarix who blocked it. “Ha! Then I’ll beat you quick tomorrow and you can go home.”

“You know what I mean,” Tarix said, swinging wide. “A major trade caravan bound for Tajun was wiped out by Bone Hunters. The shipment… we needed it. I should be with my people.”

Strakk brought his axe down hard. “One good blow and I’ll knock you back there!”

Tarix caught the axe between his blades and held it tight. “I’m serious.”

Strakk gulped as the Thornax Launcher that decorated one of the blades was now uncomfortably close to his face.

In a blur of motion, the Water Glatorian twisted his blades, ripping Strakk’s axe from his hands and sending it flying away.

“Hey!”

“Now who’s going to beat who quick?” Tarix grinned, a gleam flashing in his eyes.

Strakk snorted, and then looked away. “What does it matter? As soon as the Skrall show up, they’ll stomp all of us… just like they did last year. If they hadn’t suddenly left and returned north, you likely wouldn’t have won the Championship at all… No one can beat them in the arena.”

“Maybe not,” Tarix said, retrieving Strakk’s axe. “But I haven’t seen one here yet. Wouldn’t be upset if they skipped this one, to be perfectly honest.”

“Why, so you can win?”

Tarix laughed at this, but didn’t respond. As he leaned over, he hesitated and threw a glance in Strakk’s direction. “A better question is, where’s Gresh? I haven’t seen him since we got here. Thought he was going to accompany us to the arena.”

“Who knows. Though I don’t recall him practicing with us last year.” He shrugged. “Kid’s got his quirks.”

“Fair,” Tarix said, handing the axe back to Strakk. “Here. It helps if you hang on to this.”

Strakk smirked. “I’ll remember.”

✴        ✴        ✴

As Solis Magna dipped below the horizon, and as final preparations were being made for the big day tomorrow, Tarduk happened to be wandering through the outskirts of the city when he heard faint scuffling noises. Intrigued, he followed their direction, and as he rounded a bend, he saw Gresh, wielding his newly-repaired shield and practicing elaborate gymnastics.

“Gresh!” Tarduk exclaimed. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Startled, Gresh whirled around, as if he were caught in ambush. Seeing it was only Tarduk, he visibly relaxed.

“Tarduk. What are you doing out here?”

Walking over to his canteen, the Glatorian took a swig before starting again.

Tarduk stepped closer. “Looking for Kirbraz. You wouldn’t happen to have seen him, would you? Or Kirbold? I’m going on an expedition with Crotesius from Vulcanus, and was curious if they were interested.”

“This close to the tournament?” Gresh grunted.

“Yeah. I’ve calculated the length, and theoretically we should make it back in time for the main event.”

Gresh swung his shield as if blocking an attack, then somersaulted backwards and fired his Thornax launcher.

“Can’t say I have. Though Kirbraz and Scodonius probably intend on competing tomorrow.”

“Yeah, probably,” Tarduk nodded. He started to leave, and then paused.

“Mind if I watch?”

“Not at all.”

The Jungle Agori found a nice, safe place to watch from. Tesara’s Second Glatorian moved with seemingly effortless precision—precision nearly matching that of Vastus himself. Tarduk could practically see the hordes of opponents, sweeping around Gresh, throwing their full might against him, only to be thrown off their feet and into the rocks. Nevertheless, the hordes kept coming, and Gresh was ready to fight them.

“Do you always practice your moves alone?”

“I’m not alone. You’re here.”

Tarduk frowned. He knew better than to pry, but he’d been quite interested in learning the answer. All the other Prime and Second Glatorian basked in the attention of the crowds as they practiced with each other. Gresh was the only one of them who hadn’t made an appearance in Atero Magna today.

Gresh seemed to sense Tarduk’s disappointment with his non-answer.

“I’m not a veteran like Strakk or Tarix,” he said between swings. “They have one set of moves they let other Glatorian see in practice, and another they use in the arena.”

Without warning, he leaped into the air and executed a flawless flip forward, landing on his feet and aiming the Thornax launcher straight at the startled Tarduk.

“I need to keep mine secret,” he grinned. “Anyway, why let them know what’s coming?”

“Because what’s coming could be the death of them all.”

Glatorian and Agori gasped and looked around. Gresh threw a glance at Tarduk as if asking if anyone had followed him there. But the Agori’s incredulous expression answered that question in the negative.

“Who’s there?” Gresh demanded.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then, like an apparition materializing from the fog of night, a hulking crimson figure stepped into the moonlight.

“Am I forgotten already, then?” Malum sneered, as several Vorox beasts appeared at his back. “Perhaps I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been in exile.”

Gresh raised his shield, every sense heightened in alarm. As a Glatorian, Malum had been renowned and feared even before he had been exiled. Being forced to survive—and coming to thrive—in the wastelands had only unleashed the madness and unfettered power that had already been there. In the dimness of night, Malum’s red eyes blazed with wrath and ruin.

“Tarduk! Get back inside the city!”

“But—” he protested.

“I said inside! Now!”

As Tarduk scampered off, Malum chuckled softly.

“What are you afraid of… Gresh? My friends? They won’t hurt anyone… Unless I tell them to. And I am not here to cause harm, but to help you.”

“I’ve heard of your kind of help.”

The exile stalked forward, circling Gresh.

“There is a storm coming, Glatorian. Not a windstorm or a sandstorm or anything you can hide from until it has passed. This storm will swallow you whole… You, your friends, your villages, your people.”

Gresh stood still as Malum circled, following him with his eyes. “And are you going to help us weather this… storm? Or are you just here to talk?”

“Oh, Gresh… Gresh, Gresh, Gresh. They said I wasn’t good enough to fight with the likes of you… They said I was a killer, remember?” Malum laughed. “But I will tell you this…”

He stopped directly in front of Gresh.

“This storm has a name. You and yours will be screaming it before too long if you don’t flee now. Run, Gresh—Run fast and hard and hope they don’t find you.”

Gresh shook his head, running his shield through the fire of his torch. “Sorry to disappoint you, Malum. I’m a Glatorian. And Glatorian don’t run.”

“The desert is littered with many dead fools who shared that sentiment,” the exile said, returning to the Vorox and vanishing into the night. “Many dead fools.”

Within minutes, any sign that anyone had been there had disappeared, leaving Gresh to wonder if he’d imagined the entire thing.

As he retrieved his torch and tools and began the walk back to the city, he marveled at what could possibly lead a perfectly normal Glatorian to snap as Malum had—and how close he himself might be to suffering the same fate.