Kings Game

Chapter 19 - The reaper (3)

Moving away from Jorgen's corpse, Roran almost tripped over another gladiator. It was the one Jorgen had injured, breaking his ankle before Roran shoved him face first into-

"Please don't kill me!" The pitiful gladiator sobbed. His ankle was a swollen mess and his foot faced the wrong direction. "I don't want to die."

Roran hesitated. He thought back to what Carrick had said. The man before him would die, one way or another. By leaving him here, Roran was prolonging his suffering and putting himself at risk, increasing the likelihood that new elements would be added to the match.

Raising his sword, Roran heard the audience above swell, their cheers rising with his blade. At the top of the arc, Roran paused and the crowd held their breath, waiting for release.

"Please," he whimpered, "I don't want to die."

Roran's sword fell, dropping impotently to his side. The crowd descended into boos and jeers, calling him a coward and a weakling. Roran didn't care. They weren't the ones holding the sword. No matter the consequences, Roran decided he wasn't the type of person to kill an injured man begging for his life. Especially when he shared responsibility in getting that man injured in the first place.

Flicking the blood from his sword, Roran proceeded further through the gauntlet. On his way to the center, Roran passed a couple more bodies and another gladiator on the verge of death. He spared this one as well, much to the audience's displeasure.

Making it to the center, Roran breathed a sigh of relief. While the fighting space was smaller, there was plenty of room between him and the spikes. As long as he watched his footing, he wouldn't end up like Jorgen.

Across from him, two gladiators were sparring. One clearly had the upper hand, backing his opponent into a corner. Roran watched and waited, not wanting to get involved. He stood back and let them finish their feet, all the while keeping his eyes peeled for Morena. The last thing he wanted was to give that bastard a chance to stab him in the back.

Once the two had finished fighting, one of them falling to the ground in a pool of blood, Roran whistled, signaling the winner of his presence. Spotting Roran, the gladiator sighed. He squinted his eyes shut and dropped his head back, letting the sun warm his face. Beads of sweat dripped down his cheeks and his chest heaved with the exertion of the last fight.

Roran continued to wait.

Once his moment was over, he turned to face Roran and hefted his ax. He didn't look scared or angry. He just looked like a man trying to survive. Approaching Roran slowly, he raised the ax and swung at him as soon as he was in range.

Roran danced backwards, avoiding the blow. The man struck again, Roran danced away again. Seeing an opening, Roran moved forward to strike. The man pivoted, swatting Roran's sword away and moving backwards. They paused, both breathing heavy. Wiping the sweat from his brow, the man moved forward again.

Together, they danced back and forth; swing, dodge, riposte. It lasted long enough that Roran began to feel a kinship with the man. He was fighting for his life, just like Roran was. He had people that were watching him, praying for his success. People that had wished him luck, people that had encouraged him, told him he would come out on top. Then he entered the arena and found Roran.

The nameless gladiator overreached and his foot slipped, giving Roran an opening. He took it, moving in and sliding his sword through the gladiator's ribs. The gladiator winced and he locked eyes with Roran as the blade pierced his body.

"Sorry," Roran whispered.

His expression stoic, the gladiator gave Roran a small nod, then fell.

The audience screamed and clapped while Roran flicked more blood from his sword. He was tired of this game and wanted to fight Morena. Whether he lived or died, he wanted it over with.

Roran waited.

Above him the crowd cheered and clapped, their applause acting like a compass, alerting Roran to where fights were occuring around the gauntlet. As time passed, the pauses grew longer and longer, and still no gladiators came to the center. A few times Roran thought he spotted Morena walking between the barriers, his body soaked in blood, but the sightings were brief. Maybe he was just waiting until he was on even footing with Roran. Maybe he was trying to build alliances so he could overwhelm Roran with multiple fighters. Maybe he had made a mistake and died.

As the action lulled, the audience grew ancy. One cruel soul shouted, "We want blood!" and the whole arena took up the chant. Screaming it over and over again.

"We want blood! We want blood! We want blood!"

Roran shuddered, recalling the last time they had called for blood and how Duran had answered. Even if Roran walked free from the Crucible, he would carry the nightmares for the rest of his life.

"We want blood! We want blood! We want-"

The chant was interrupted as another gladiator stumbled into the center. Roran winced at the sight of him, his stomach turning. Several wounds covered his side and he was limping. The gladiator looked as though he had been pushed sideways into the spikes.

Undeterred, he made two valiant strides towards Roran before his leg gave out and he collapsed, blood pouring from a wound in his knee. Roran waited, wondering if he would try to get up again. He didn't. The gladiator rolled over and stared up into the sky, awaiting his fate.

More boos showered down on them. The match was growing boring. Again they called out, "We want blood!"

After a few more minutes, their cries were answered.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The announcer's familiar voice boomed through the arena, echoing round and round again between the stones. This time there was an odd quality to it. A hesitation.

"As much as we love seeing the gladiators demonstrate their skill, I'm afraid to say that the match is winding down. Unfortunately, only one can survive; so the great King Tasos has ordered that a new challenge be added to the round. A new obstacle to put the fallen out of their misery and force the promising few into a glorious finale."

Roran licked his lips, waiting. Carrick had promised him fire or the collapse of the arena or some equally horrible fate. Maybe he would be safe in the center of the arena. Afterall, he was playing the game as intended, mostly.

Once more, the King's landing descended down into the arena, blessing the audience with his presence. He threw his hood back and looked down his nose at the arena, eyeing each combatant in turn. His eyes paused for a second longer on Roran.

Finally, the king spread his arms out wide, threw his head back, and yelled, "Release the hounds!"