Montone - The Arena Pyre

[Admiral]

Here's the second installment of Montone's adventures. This one is much longer, and takes place long before The Great Oak. Because of the length, I've split it into short chapters. I'll put up the following chapters by the end of the week.

UPDATE - Done

Montone - The Arena Pyre

1. Brant

Montone scowled, cursing the fool before him under his breath. The arena master, as he was called, stood nearly a full foot shorter than the blonde giant of a man. Yet, to Montone’s disgust, he was the master, and Montone the slave. He had been captured a few days before a few miles past the outskirts of Markom, the future capital of the Markish nation. After a disagreement between the bounty hunters and the local government over the reward, he had been sold to this tiny man to be put into the gladiatorial arena.

The smaller man grinned as he tottered around the chained captive, positively giddy as he took measurements of his new gladiator. The arena was the main attraction and source of income in this small suburban town, and never before had it seen a warrior as large as Montone. The Aigalonian was both annoyed and ashamed that he had been caught and thrown back into chains so soon after leaving them, but aside from that, he did not see the situation to be nearly as bad as the one that he had left. No more than two weeks ago, he had escaped the slave camps of Markom through newly-acquired powers that he had not yet begun to understand. This, he thought, would be an opportunity to test their limits.

Once the arena master had finished marking down the measurements, Montone was sent down into the basement of the arena. It was an expansive stone-walled room of a rectangular shape, with a matching stone floor that sloped gently downward toward a steel grating, and a ceiling of wooden framework with slits placed sporadically for light. Everything was bloodstained, as the basement barracks lay directly below the battleground itself. Dust and dirt, blood and entrails, bits and pieces of shattered armor; all things found their way from the arena floor to the barracks below. Shoddy cots lined the longer parallel of walls while the shorter were marked with a weapon rack on the far side and the entrance across from it. A look at the weapon rack dampened Montone’s spirits. Rudimentary weaponry was scattered carelessly across its shelves. Blunt axes, dull swords with too many nicks in the blades, unbalanced wooden cudgels; nothing was in proper working order. Even the majority of the shields had gaping holes in them, and those that didn’t had their handles broken off or worn through.

The Aigalonian sighed as he took one final look at the equipment that he’d have to learn to use, and then turned to survey the other gladiators. Altogether there were twenty or so, most of which appeared to be in worse shape than the equipment. Discouraged, Montone strode across the basement to an empty cot and laid himself upon it, drifting into an uneasy sleep.

“Wake up!” Montone heard, shaking the grogginess from him as he rose to look at the speaker. He was a smaller man, but toned and tanned by countless days of hard labor. He bore the scars of a man who had fought, and survived, many battles in this place.

“You’re going to miss the fight if you don’t get up,” he said, “and it’s a rare treat to see Brant face off in the arena. Loen of the High Skies knows that the arena master can’t find anyone to face him after his last match.”

“Loen?” asked Montone, sitting up on his cot. He now noticed that all of the other gladiators had pulled their cots from the walls and placed them under the air slits. The view from the stands above showed several seemingly disembodied heads at ground level on the arena floor as they focused on the combatants in the center.

“Ah, I should’ve known better from the look of you. Loen is the god of my people. Most of us here are from the tribes that roam the wastes around Markom and its surrounding cities. But you, I’ve never seen any with eyes like yours. I am Halins, by the way,” he said, giving an odd salute in greeting.

The rows of stone benches that sat above the arena walls were filled nearly to capacity. It was a rare occasion for Brant to fight, and a treat for those on both sides of the fence of enslavement. The arena itself was rectangular and slightly larger on all sides than the basement below. The ground was loosely packed dirt, kept by two long stone walls and two short arches, both of which were blocked by iron portcullises. Behind the arch above the basement weapon rack was a path that led into town, the path that the challengers would take to reach the arena. Behind the second arch was a two-story building, upon which was a balcony that held the arena master and those that he deemed to be valuable connections. Behind this balcony were his quarters, atop the roof of which was a large unlit pyre, reachable by a wooden ladder on the balcony. Below the arena master’s quarters, among other things, was the entrance to the basement and thus the path that the gladiators took to reach the arena floor.

In the center of the cheering crowd, the long walls and short arches, the slits in the ground, and the loosely packed dirt, stood Brant. He was a dark-skinned man, nearly matching the height of Montone but falling short in the breadth. His only garment, a pair of sack-cloth pants, was in tatters and covered in stains of blood and dirt. The lobes of his ears, as well as a nostril, were pierced with long, curved bones, and he had an intricate design of metal imbedded in his skin on his chest and back through what must have been a painful process. His head was bare, and so it shown nearly as brightly in the afternoon sun as the metal in his body. In each hand, a semi-sharpened axe hung loosely.

Brant’s opponents entered from the gate in front of him to a resounding cheer from the crowd. They were three of the town guard, all well-built and armed with long sharpened pikes. They wore no metal armor, but rather had dressed identically in the plain green tunics of their uniforms. They boasted and postured, calling out to faces that they recognized in the crowd as they swaggered about the gate. It appeared as though they had drank heavily the night before, fittingly at the time that the challenge had been made, and had not yet fully recovered from the effects. The lone dark-skinned warrior glowered with silent rage as one of the guards pulled out a six-sided die and began to roll with the other two for first strike at the gladiator. Disgust lingered on Brant’s face as he watched the men treat this bout of life and death as a game.

The winner of the guards’ game of chance stepped forward, thrusting his pike into the air to the crowd’s delight. He continued forward, his pike now firmly set in front of him, and poked a few times in Brant’s direction. The taunt further infuriated the gladiator, but still he stood in place, his axes hanging loosely in his hands. The guard was now nearly close enough to put his long weapon to use. Brant still had not moved. The guard sprinted forward suddenly and lunged, striking high on Brant’s chest. The dark-skinned gladiator moved like liquid. In one fluid movement, he tightened his grip on his axes and sidestepped the incoming pike, hooking the blade of an axe over the shaft of the guard’s weapon and tugging it out of his hands as he went. With the other axe, he spun and caught the blade around his opponent’s neck and pulled him off of his feet. As the man fell, Brant pulled fiercely upward against the guard’s momentum, snapping his neck in the process. The limp body crumpled to the ground, its life extinguished. Brant regained his composure quickly, dropping both axes into their respective pant pockets and picking up the dead guard’s long pike.

He advanced slowly upon the two remaining guards amidst cheers from the heads of the other gladiators. The arena’s crowd was deathly silent, watching on in horror as the guards backed away from the gladiator, cowering against the portcullis. Neither was at all interested in battling their opponent on his own, so they stood side-by-side, whispering hurried plans to one another. Brant took advantage of their carelessness and hurled the pike like a spear across the short distance that remained between them. Before either guard could react, the left-most green-clad warrior had been impaled by the pike and fell to the ground.

The last guard tossed his pike to the ground and dropped to his knees as Brant approached, pleading with him for his life. The gladiator stopped within feet of the groveling man, contemplating his fate. With blinding speed he kicked the man’s pike up into his hand and swung level with the man’s neck. A shriek rang out across the quiet arena, followed by silence, and then a low whimper. Brant had stopped the blade just as it had cut the outermost layer of flesh from the man’s neck. He gathered up the other two pikes and turned away from the still-kneeling guard as blood trickled slowly from the man’s wound. In a few short minutes, he had returned to the basement barracks and had set the three new weapons upon the rack, while the arena master’s crew removed the two bodies and convinced the third that he was still living.

[Admiral]

2. Restraint

Cheers and congratulations, coupled with the scraping of metal frames on stone floors, filled the arena basement. As grave as they had all looked when Montone arrived, he thought now that they looked downright jovial. He tried to participate in the mutual good feeling, but a question was gnawing away at his calm. Unable to quell his curiosity, the Aigalonian strode toward Brant with a surprising quickness for one of his size, parting the crowd with ease as he did.

“Why did you not finish the third man?” asked Montone, making it sound more like a demand than he had intended.

The grins fell from the faces of Brant and many others. The room was nearly as quiet as the arena had been only minutes before. But their looks toward Montone were not of anger. In fact, most did not look in his direction at all, but rather at the floor, the ceiling, or their hands. All had hints of despair painted across their countenances.

“Come on, lads, don’t let a newcomer’s questions ruin your fun,” said Halins quickly. To Montone he whispered, “I’ll explain later.”

“Aye!” shouted Montone to the small mob around him, “Let us celebrate a fine warrior.” The gladiators went back to cheering, though none had been brought completely out of the haze of hopelessness that had filled the room. Their celebrations did not last to the evening as the last match of the day brought back the corpses of two gladiators. Over the evening meal, Halins approached Montone to deliver his explanation.

“It’s their families,” he said as he sat on the cot across from the Aigalonian, “When we were taken, most of us anyway, they didn’t just rob the villages of the men. The women and children were chained as well. Brant and I and a few others were all taken in the same raid and saw our families dragged away into the desert. He was our chieftain, you know, Brant. I firmly believe that if he got the chance he could single-handedly break us out of here.”

“What stays his hand?” asked Montone, “If all here were slain before a messenger was sent, he could reach his family before any punishment or threat could be administered.” The matter seemed simple to the blonde giant of a man, and so the lack of action on the part of the other gladiators frustrated him.

“There is more to it,” said Halins, “Surely you have seen the sizeable pyre built atop this very building.” Montone nodded. “Bregna, for all that he lacks in physical strength, is a clever man. He keeps us in check with that pyre. If it is lit, all of our families will be executed. We are unsure of where they are being kept, but the only place close enough is Markom. It matters not though, there is no escape. Any attempts will likely cause Bregna to light the pyre. He keeps a guard on the roof of his quarters at all times to serve that very purpose. So you see, Brant will not risk the lives of his family and the families of every other gladiator here. Bregna told the both of us when we arrived that any mistakes would result in the pyre being lit. None here are sure of what constitutes a mistake, but my guess is that Brant thought that beheading an unarmed town guard might qualify.”

“I see,” mused Montone, “And you are certain that he, Bregna, is telling the truth?” The Aigalonian did not trust this set up. It seemed too convenient for his captor to have a contingent of loyal guards located in Markom, all watching vigilantly to see if the pyre had been lit.

“Brant and I saw our families bound and dragged away. We cannot risk taking Bregna’s words as anything but truth. The guilt of twenty families would be too hard to bear,” said Halins. “There is also the fate that would await the gladiator himself. There was a man here before you came, he died several months ago, who told tales of a prison operated by the Marks. It is an enormous basin, crafted seamlessly from a block of stone and placed nearly two miles off of the nearest coast. There’s a scaffold up the outside and a rope to lower prisoners into it. There is no sunlight; the food is dropped down from high above. It sounds like hell on earth. That is what awaits those of us who misbehave, thanks to Bregna’s connections with officials in Markom.”

“I don’t know how much of that is true,” continued Halins, “Nor do I know where he got his information, but once more it is a risk that’s not worth taking.” Montone nodded again.

“So a great warrior is hindered by love of his family,” said Montone, motioning toward Brant. “I do not value such weakness, but then I have no family to hinder me. I will aid him. Be prepared, it may be tomorrow or it may be weeks from now. I will not know until the opportunity presents itself.” Montone dropped his crudely made bowl onto the floor and rolled onto his cot while Halins stared in disbelief at this newcomer.

Several days passed, during which Montone had his first match. Wielding no weapons whatsoever, he had defeated an average sized man and had won a long spear for his troubles. The match itself had been one of the most brutal to ever be held in the small arena. The massive Aigalonian had laughed off a gash across his arm and forcibly took the spear from his opponent. The end result included many screams of pain and a lost limb before he had finally finished the man. Another gladiator had died during that time, and a close friend of Halins had sustained a serious wound.

They were down to eighteen able-bodied gladiators on the day that a large contingent of soldiers arrived from Markom. Having heard of Brant’s domination in a three against one match and of a massive Aigalonian slave, they had come to put an end to the arena’s top fighters. The match had been advertised throughout this town, as well as Markom, to the point that Bregna had to have additional seating constructed around the walls. He was also able to get away with doubling the price of admission, which put him in such good spirits that he even agreed with Brant’s requests to let the remaining gladiators stand behind the portcullis so that they could have a clear view of the battle. And ever the clever businessman, Bregna had bargained to have a third gladiator, Halins, join Montone and Brant in their match against the fifteen soldiers, stating that a five to one ratio was much fairer than the previous arrangement.

The time had come for the battle, and the fifteen battle-hardened soldiers were standing inside the arena at the far gate. They were nothing like the guards that Brant had so easily disposed of. All wore full uniform, including a long spear, sword and shield, and steel breastplate, greaves, gauntlets, and boots. Every seat in the stands was filled and many more spectators were standing wherever there was room. The trio of gladiators entered from the opposite side, carrying pikes, a spear for Montone, and axes for the others. The rest of the gladiators stood behind them, separated by the portcullis. They had all brought swords and clubs as well in the off-chance that they were called into the arena should one of the three fall in battle.

“Ladies and gentlemen, quiet please, quiet please!” came the voice of Bregna from high on the balcony. There were several prominent figures surrounding him as he spoke, including one who wore ceremonial robes and had at least two servants on either side. “I bring you an event far greater than any match you have ever witnessed, greater than any that you ever shall witness! On the side of my very own gladiators we have our celebrated hero, Brant, the chieftain of a waste-wandering tribe now brought here to fight for your entertainment,” Cheers erupted from the crowd; many had heard of the dark-skinned man’s battle prowess. “Alongside him we have another of his tribesmen, a man that some of the locals may recognize as Halins,” A considerably lower volume of cheering came from the crowd. Halins was not a great warrior when it came to close combat. In his tribe he had been renowned for his skill with a bow, but he had never gained access to one in the arena. “And finally, we have our newest addition to the arena, a former Aigalonian slave by the name of Montone. I guarantee you; he is the largest man that you will find for miles and miles. I’ve had my sources check far and wide across the lands of the Marks and none have found one matching his measurements,” Very few cheers came from the crowd at Montone’s name. He had only been in one match so far, and the attendance had been low. Those who had been there were frightened of him rather than impressed after seeing his torture of his opponent.

“And now to our challengers!” continued Bregna, “I give you fifteen of Markom’s finest soldiers, all who have come here to avenge the deaths of our very own town guards. What a match-up!” Cheers filled the arena once more as Bregna’s speech concluded.

[Admiral]

3. The Leap

With a word from the balcony above, the battle was started. The soldiers moved in close formation, slowly advancing upon the three gladiators with spears and shields in hand. The situation looked grim for the trio. Their weapons, aside from Montone’s spear, were of poor quality. The pikes, they had found, were deceiving to the eye in both sharpness and sturdiness. Death seemed to be rearing up its head in Montone’s life fairly often these days, but he was unafraid after his last encounter.

“Now is the time,” he said to the others. He had discussed the situation with them earlier that morning and had convinced Brant to encourage all of the other gladiators to bring their weapons with them. While the Markish soldiers continued slowly across the arena floor, Montone stepped forward and turned his back to them, looking up at the balcony. He crouched, gathering himself, and sprung upward, hurling his spear up over the lip of the railing, sending it clear through the body of the guard that stood over the signal pyre. Still in the air from his throw, his feet caught onto the extended shafts of his companions’ pikes, and he was propelled up toward the balcony. He caught onto the floor of the balcony and in one motion had pulled himself up and over the railing so that he faced the half dozen men before him with fists raised.

Bregna was shrieking for the pyre to be lit and one of the servants of the robed man was hastily scrambling up the ladder. Those who had weapons on their person were drawing them, but Montone was far too quick. In a whirl of fists and kicks and one well-placed tackle, he had knocked the ladder, and the servant, over the edge of the balcony and had disabled two of the men on the balcony.

Below, as Montone continued his rampage, Brant and Halins, with the help of several gladiators, had lifted the portcullis high enough to allow the remaining enslaved warriors to enter the arena. Seeing the pyre momentarily unreachable, they descended upon the Markish soldiers with a savagery of months and years of repressed rage. Many died in their recklessness, but not without taking their opponents with them. By the time that Montone had disposed of all but Bregna himself, only Brant, Halins, and two other gladiators remained to face off against four soldiers, and Halins was wounded. The Aigalonian stared looked down on the scene, his fist still clenched around Bregna’s neck.

“Their families are dead,” the small man choked out. “Kill them myself the same day that I brought those two into the arena.” Montone was caught completely off-guard by this, and responded by tightening his grip on Bregna’s throat.

“Then why did you want the pyre lit just now?” he growled.

“To crush their spirits before my guards crush their bodies,” Bregna spat out, “You cannot honestly think that they will escape. I have guards surrounding the building… and there they are.” Sure enough, nearly a dozen more town guards, accompanied by even more Markish soldiers, were proceeding through the raised portcullis on the far end of the arena. “You have fa-”

Though he had crushed Bregna’s throat, Montone did not feel any relief. He had failed once more in an attempt to free the enslaved peoples in his life. And here he had also led them to their deaths or, if the stories were true, to a hellish prison for the two that he had come to know best. Ashamed once more, he leapt from the balcony and crashed into the brush outside of the arena walls and fled.

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And... done. Thus completes the second adventure of Montone, though it comes first chronologically. I know that the third chapter is short, but I prefer it to a longer version where I'd end up dragging out battle details that really don't matter all that much.

I hope you all enjoy it.

[controls]

I stopped reading my book so I could finish the third part. Looking foward to more. =)

[Admiral]

Thanks I don't have any ideas fleshed out at the moment, but I'll probably come up with something in the next few weeks. One such idea involves a prison break from the one described.

Oh, and changing one detail. (Gauti to Markish, I like Markish/Marks better as a name of a people, but I didn't reread to fix any details)

[Nosedagger]

That was total and complete bu-

























-ttsecks.


Why did Montone run? He must have known and prepared to fight his way out with the other gladiators. Did he really dread telling the other gladiators that their families were dead that much? Hmm, that makes sense. (No sarcasm.) I'd want them to die in the faith of the safety of their families, too.

[Admiral]

One thing to keep in mind here is that it's not the same character as the one in the RPG, so he'll act differently. But, here's why:

In a time not so far back in the past in this storyline, Montone was a slave in Markom, working with all of the other Aigalonians to build the city. After a series of events (I have them planned but haven't written it yet), he attempts to lead a rebellion. Many of his people die, and he is the only one to escape because of some new powers that he gained.

He was ashamed (which I think I mentioned in there at the beginning somewhat), so when he gets another chance to try to help people, he goes for it, but he doesn't really know what he's doing. He's maybe 17 or 18 at this point and isn't really sure of himself. When he starts the fight, he figures that all of the gladiators (about 20 total including the 3 named ones) against the 15 soldiers will result in victory. When he sees that so many of them have died, and then hears that there was no chance to save the families anyway, he panics and runs. In addition to fleeing from yet another failure, he also does not want to be imprisoned again, so his freedom comes first.

In later stories I'll have him be capable of developing friendships and following through on it, but at this point he's meant to be immature.

EDIT: And to answer your one question, he does dread telling them, but not because it'll sadden them. It is because, in his mind, it'll be telling them that he failed because a plan that he enacted to save the families did not results in them being saved, regardless of the fact that he had no chance of saving them.