independent writing 1

The Pit
"Now, you little half-breed, there are only two ways out of the Pit; with your shield or on it."
With that disparaging remark the Boss spit into the ground between the recruit’s feet. Every face in the narrow annex was marked with fear. These were the rawest of recruits, never tested, half of them wouldn’t even see the sunset and half again would never see morning. The rest had nothing to look foreword to except another round the next day.
At either end of the chamber was a door; one led out to the Pit, the other led out to the cages. They all came from the cages. Prisoners mostly, some were slaves, others had just wandered too far from the more hospitable centers of the city. It didn’t really matter where they came from, right now they were waiting to enter the Pit and in all likelihood they would never leave.
The particular pug at whom the Boss had shouted was indeed a half-breed. He was half-Citizen, half-Elselander. The Boss was part Elselander himself, but no one would dare point it out. The half-breed was unique among the pugs. While the rest of the litter was weeping and convulsing in silent terror, he sat unfazed despite the fetid stench of sweat and piss. It was that mute concord that so concerned the Boss. The pugs were usually fodder for the real fighters, but on occasion a veteran soldier would end up on the wrong side of the Pit and do some very expensive damage. It was the Boss’ job to make sure that happened as rarely as possible. He had a very short time to measure the half-breed before he was sent in. Each pug was forced through the far door in turn. Than a crescendo of cheers. Then the Vultures would drag the corpse through annex where the other’s waited and back out to the cages, there they would lay dead or dying until the rest had had their fight. Then the next would be thrown screaming through the far doors.
The Boss finally decided that the half-breed would have to go in. Soldier or not, he would have to fight in his turn. Once the rest had been exhausted he rest he pulled the half-breed to his feet.
"Now is your time." The Boss was decided; he would give the audience a show. "Stand before the door and draw arms."
Once the pug was in position the Boss kicked the door open and let the light of day slice into the dark, cramped chamber. He stepped out into the sand of the Pit and threw back his head, basking in the thunderous applause of the crowd. Once the crowd had hushed down he bellowed out. Proclaiming to the audience that the last combatant was a foreign warrior who had brought down dozens of Citizen-soldiers before finally being brought down. The Boss had been doing his job for a very long time, and he was good at it, he knew how to rally the crowd against a fighter. This half-breed was a real trophy. If he won, the crowd would herald him as the great Elselander Champion and if he was destroyed than the crowd could take comfort in the superiority of their people against the others. Once his work was done he stepped back through the door and forced the half-breed out onto the sand.
Once outside, the door was shut and bolted. The half-breed was alone with the Wolves; seasoned professional killers. The silence of the stadium was oppressive and the scorching heat baked the blood and sweat of the day into the sand. Across the blood-caked arena circled the Wolves: a retiarius, a hoplomachus, and a murmillo. Each man glanced at the other two, their predatory instincts evident in each violent jerk and twitch. Slowly they closed in on the half-breed brandishing arms. Circling like sharks they pushed the half-breed against the farthest wall. Soon they were within striking range but still they held back. All three killers surrounded their single opponent making feigned gestures of attack, but the half-breed stood his ground. Finally the retiarius thrust, easily piercing the man’s chest and allowing the other two Wolves to simultaneously slice into his vulnerable legs and stomach. The crowd erupted into cheers as the bloodied Elselander fell to his knees clutching his badly bleeding body, weapon and shield forgotten in the sand.
The Boss was watching from the annex as the man who had sat so quietly while others died in screaming agony knelt silently bleeding into the mud. There were no victims in the pit. Only the weak; only those who fell at the tip of a spear. There was no mistrial in the Pit, no poets, this was not the place for celebration. The gods’ justice was final and absolute.
As the Murmillo raised his sword to dispatch the Elselander in the traditions of a clean execution, the light of the sun gleamed off of the blood-marked blade of his xiphos. His muscles tensed and readied to give purchase, blade tip resting just above the collarbone.
The crowed rose to better view what was about to happen. With a thin whistling a black dart shot the length of the sandy stage. The beast stood frozen where he stood. A look of anguish coupled with slow revelation crept onto the soldier’s face as he registered what had happened. The rules of the games had come into play. No man would die in the Pit whose life was worthy; the Elselander’s was not to be forfeit.
The linothorax-clad combatant fell to his knees with nothing but dumb shock plastered across his face. He fell level into a pool of his own vomit, the bolt between his shoulder blades quivered to a rest. Across the Pit in the shadows of the terrace the Boss lowered his arbalest and pulled a second bolt.
"Now you two best be stepping away from that fighter." While he spoke he cranked back the windlasses. "He has my protection."
In an unprecedented display of mercy the Boss had decided that this pug was worth keeping. Laying their respective instruments in the bloody muck about their feet the undamaged wolves respectfully bowed low. The Boss slowly paced out the length of the arena, lifted the now-convulsing pug, and carried him back to the annex. Straight through the cadges to the cloisters wherein the wolves resided. This would be his home now. He was the Boss’ new apprentice. His story was only just beginning, but before he could take on that challenge he had a long road of healing ahead of him. A long and painful road.