Anthology - Untold Adventures - A Dungeons and Dragons Anthology

Koram just looked at the man who had caused him so much pain. “Why don’t you face me yourself in the arena? Then I would show you how much I want to fight.”

Yvoluk raised his hand, threatening to strike him again, but Koram merely strode past and headed to the large underground complex of cells where the gladiators lived. It was not, and would never be, his home. But it was all he had.

Koram had been optimistic once; he had wanted to help the people of Balic. In the showy democracy espoused by the sorcerer-king, ordinary citizens were supposed to have the freedom to speak; they were allowed to run for the office of praetor, whether or not the Council of Patricians or Andropinis approved. Koram had been so naive, so foolish.

An “unapproved” candidate who managed to be elected praetor typically met with an unfortunate accident before long. In his own case, Koram had asked too many questions in the first months, and Yvoluk had orchestrated his downfall, disgracing him with accusations of graft, turning public opinion against Koram, who had been their favorite only weeks before. Though there was no proof in the charges against him, the people did not believe Koram’s vehement denials. He was arrested and stripped of his rank. His wife and son were sold to slave traders for a long march to work Tyr’s mines, where they died within weeks. Koram was thrown into the gladiator arena, where he did not have the good sense to die. Seven months later, he continued to fight and kill.

His fellow warriors sulked in their rooms, brooding over their fates. Some oiled their muscles or strapped on armor in preparation for upcoming matches in the arena. A pair of dwarves sparred enthusiastically to hone their fighting skills. A newly captured goliath hunkered on a stone seat in his cell, rocking back and forth, holding his knees; his misery was even larger than his body. An insectile thri-kreen tracker, separated from his two psychically bonded clutch mates, recited poetry through stony mandibles to drown out the goliath’s moans. The sandy, chittering thri-kreen claimed to be a nihilistic philosopher, and he accepted his undoubtedly short life as a gladiator.

Koram had befriended none of his comrades. They would be pitted against one another when monster combatants were in short supply, and if Praetor Yvoluk happened to notice that Koram cared for any particular gladiator, he would take great pleasure in arranging for a death match.

Koram sat on a stone bench and used oil, sand, and a scraper to remove the blood and grit from his skin. He no longer noticed the scabs and scars; all of his motions were mechanical. Another fight, another day.

Before he could lie back and rest on his pallet, however, a call to arms echoed through the barracks beneath the Criterion. Dimly heard through the stone block walls, the crowds in the stands roared with a sound that was definitely not cheering.

The gladiators stood, looking around in alarm; even the moaning Goliath climbed to his feet, keeping his head and shoulders bent so as not to strike his shaggy head against the ceiling. The two sparring dwarves stopped and listened. They recognized the sound of the alarm. “Balic is under attack.”

The thri-kreen nihilist changed his song. “Today, our deaths may come in a different manner, but it is death nonetheless.” Koram knew that the thri-kreen had been renowned as one of the most skilled trackers in his tribe, but his skills were wasted in the arena.

Though the guards had taken his sword, Koram painstakingly strapped his petrified wood armor on. Alarms continued to sound outside in the city, gongs and bells ringing. He didn’t hurry.

With a clatter of boots and armor, soldiers marched along the stone-tiled tunnels, led by a dark-visaged Yvoluk. The goliath wrung his hands together and lurched out of his chamber. “Praetor! What is happening?”

Yvoluk’s expression soured, as if an olive pit had caught in his throat. “The Skull Wearer leads an army of beast giants to the walls down by the estuary. They’ve destroyed one of the dictator’s forts on the Dragon’s Palate, and now they mean to take the city.” At a signal from the praetor, the guards lashed their whips, making loud cracks against the stone walls. Yvoluk continued to shout. “Gladiators, our beloved Andropinis demands that you defend the city. You will be armed and sent to the walls. You are our bravest fighters. You will save Balic!”

“Why should we?” Koram asked. At another time, he would have been ready to leap into action, but his city had failed him.

Yvoluk curled his purple lips in a tempting smile. “You need incentive? Drive back the beast giants, and I will ask Andropinis to grant you your freedom. Fight for us this day, and you need never fight in the Criterion again!”

The goliath made a delighted sound, while the sparring dwarves squared their shoulders and grinned. The soldiers handed the gladiators their familiar weapons and rushed them out of the barracks and into the city streets. Koram intentionally wadded the sash that marked him as a fighter for Andropinis and left it behind on the bench in his cell.

The thri-kreen tracker matched Koram’s pace, leaning over to whisper, “Do you trust Praetor Yvoluk to follow through on his promise?”

“As much as I would trust a footpath across the open Sea of Silt.”

Behind them, the goliath moaned again.

From across the city, soldiers were mustering toward the wall that overlooked the dry estuary where hundreds of faded, dusty silt skimmers tied up to the docks. Yvoluk led the hapless gladiators to the top of the stone barricade, confident in his power.

A deafening tumult thundered from the harbor below. Koram and the gladiators gazed down upon a large army of towering monsters. Hundreds of beast-head giants waded the silt shallows, slogging through parched, pale depths that would have drowned any man. The giants’ heavy armor weighed them down, but they plodded ahead, stirring up clouds of fine dust. Their heads were a menagerie of ferocious creatures, fanged feline predators, reptilian saurians, bloodthirsty lupine monsters, sharp-beaked birds of prey.

At the lead of the encroaching army stood a dominating figure, a huge giant with a necklace of skulls that dangled from a thick cord at his throat. The most fearsome of the beast giants, Skull Wearer supposedly drew power from the spirits of those he had slain-and he had slain many. With legendary animosity toward the civilized inhabitants of Balic, he had led many previous raids against the city, but Koram had never seen an army like this before. Dark energy thrummed around the giant leader as he let out a roar of challenge; the hundreds of beast giants marching through the silt echoed the shout.

“Skull Wearer has long hated Andropinis,” Yvoluk said. “You must protect our sorcerer-king and save Balic!”

Below, the beast giants reached the docks, ripped the silt skimmers free of their moorings and smashed the hulls. Pressing their shoulders against the pilings, two reptile-headed giants shattered a sturdy dock, tearing it down. The attackers swarmed forward in a frenzy, wrecking all of the boats.

Most of the silt sailors had evacuated as the enemy army approached, but a last few men ran toward the gates, desperate to get inside. The Balic guards refused to open the reinforced barriers, despite the ever-increasing pleas. Beast giants grabbed the frantic sailors and battered them into ooze against the wall.

Skull Wearer shouted another challenge for Dictator Andropinis. More giants pressed forward like the waves of a long-forgotten tide. It seemed impossible that anyone could protect the city against such an invasion; Koram could see that he and his comrades would all die in the first line of defense. He glanced at the dwarves, the thri-kreen tracker, even the miserable goliath; they all realized the hopelessness of their position, as well.