Troy Denning: The Verdant Passage

The wench wore a hemp smock with a wide neckline that hung off both shoulders, and a ragged hem that barely reached the middle of her slender thighs. The smock was the same as those worn by the all the slave girls of the compound, but on Sadira the simple shift seemed as provocative as any noblewoman’s most revealing dress.

When the scullery slave reached Boaz’s side, the trainer laid a pasty hand on her bare shoulder. Sadira cringed as the trainer ran his lecherous fingers over her smooth skin, but did not dare object to his touch. “It will be a pity to blemish such beauty with flogging scars, but if that’s what you want, Rikus-”

“It’s not what I want and you know it,” Rikus said, stopping short of making another threat. “If you’re going to flog someone, flog me. I won’t resist.”

Smirking at Rikus’s submission, Boaz shook his head. “That won’t do at all. You’re much too accustomed to physical pain,” he said. “If we are to teach you anything, your lesson must be of a different kind. So, which one of your friends will pay for your defiance?”

A tense silence followed. “There’s no need to hurry your decision,” Boaz said, pointing toward the center of the fighting pit. “You can choose after you fight the gaj.”

Deciding the trainer’s concession would at least give him thinking time, Rikus faced the center of the pit. The gaj waved its antennae in the mul’s direction, then opened its mandibles and tossed Sizzkus’s body aside with a flick of its head. When the nikaal landed twenty yards away, Rikus made a mental note not to put himself in a position where the beast would be able to throw him around the same way.

“I’ll take your cloak,” offered Sadira, kneeling at the edge of the wall. “You wouldn’t want it torn if the fight moves over here.”

Rikus picked up the robe from the ground and tossed it to the slave-girl. “My thanks.”

Catching the cloak, Sadira whispered, “Rikus, I don’t like the way Boaz is smirking.”

The mul smiled, revealing a set of white teeth. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll tear him apart before I let him lash you.”

Sadira raised her peaked eyebrows in alarm. “No!” she hissed. “That’s not what I meant. I can take a flogging if I have to. I only want you to be careful.”

The beguiling half-elf’s reaction surprised Rikus, for he had thought she would be terrified of being disfigured. Before he could comment on her bravery, however, Neeva stepped to the half-elf’s side. Taking Sadira by the arm and roughly pulling her to her feet, Neeva said, “Tell me what weapon you want, Rikus. Our friend is clacking its pincers.”

“No blades or points,” Boaz interjected, eyeing Rikus. “The gaj is a special surprise for the ziggurat games. Tithian will sell you into the brickyards if you kill it.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the gaj. The strange beast’s mandibles stopped clacking and remained open. After studying his opponent for several moments, the mul turned back to his trainer. “Are you a betting man, Boaz?”

“Perhaps.”

Rikus gave the trainer his most provoking smile and pointed at the gaj. “I’ll fight with nothing but my singing sticks. If I win, you flog me instead of someone else. If I lose, you lash us all.”

“Those pincers will clip your sticks like straw!” Neeva objected.

Rikus ignored her and kept his attention fixed on Boaz. “Do we have a bet?” When the cruel trainer smiled and nodded, the mul looked to his fighting partner. “Get my sticks.”

Neeva refused to move. “They’re too light for that thing,” she said. “I’m not helping you get yourself killed.”

“I’m sure Rikus knows what he’s doing,” Sadira said, moving away from the edge of the pit. “I’ll get the singing sticks.”

Neeva started to follow, but Boaz signaled to his guards and they stopped her with the tips of their spears. A few moments later, Sadira returned with a pair of vermilion sticks about an inch in diameter and two-and-a-half feet long. Made from a fibrous wood that contracted instead of breaking, the sticks were extremely light and relied upon speed rather than mass to generate striking power. They had been carefully carved so that the ends were slightly larger around than the centers, and a special oil made them easy to grip.

Sadira dropped the weapons, and Rikus caught one in each hand. The gladiator turned to face the gaj, simultaneously twirling the sticks in a figure-eight pattern. As the weapons sliced through the air, they emitted the distinctive whistle that gave them their name. Although Rikus seldom used singing sticks in contests to the death, they were his favorite sparring weapon, for their effectiveness depended upon skill and timing rather than strength and brute force.

Deciding that his best attack was against the beast’s head, Rikus started forward, his sticks trilling as he absent-mindedly traced a variety of defensive patterns in the air.

The gaj waited, motionless, its eyes blank and unresponsive.

“Can that thing see me?” Rikus asked.

The only response was an amused chuckle from Boaz.

The gladiator stopped his advance a few yards from the gaj’s head. A sweet, musky odor hung in the air, masking the stench of the entrails that still dangled from the barbs of the creature’s mandibles.

Rikus took another step forward, waving his sticks in front of the gaj’s eyes. It did not react, so he feinted a strike to its head. When there was still no response, he slipped to one side of its wicked mandibles. Holding one stick ready to parry an attack, he flicked the end of the other at one of the red, multi-faceted eyes, striking it with a light tap.

The gaj jerked its head to one side, smashing the outer edge of its mandible into Rikus’s hip and sending him staggering backward. The mul paused and frowned at the beast, trying to figure out what made it so special in Tithian’s eyes. There was no doubt that the creature was powerful, but he was far from impressed so far. Had he been carrying a bladed or pointed weapon, the gaj would have been dead when he made his first feint.

“Something’s wrong with it,” Rikus called over his shoulder. “The hunters must have blinded it when they captured it.”

Boaz erupted into a fit of high-pitched laughter.

Neeva called, “Just hit the damn thing and see what happens.”

Gnashing his teeth at his partner’s sharp tone, Rikus turned back to the gaj. Pointedly ignoring the beast’s vacant red eyes, he strolled to one side of its head. He gave the white sphere a sharp rap, and the stick landed with a dull throb that felt as though he had struck a mattress filled with straw.

One of the hairy antennae lashed out and wrapped itself around the stick, then wrenched the weapon free of Rikus’s hand with an effortless flick. The astonished mul leaped away and somersaulted backward to put more distance between himself and the gaj. As he sprang back to his feet, the guards and Boaz roared with glee. The mul frowned, as angry with himself for allowing the gaj to surprise him as he was with the guards for laughing at his carelessness.

The gaj did not move, although it was using its bristly antenna to swing Rikus’s stick through the air. After a moment of watching the creature, Rikus realized that it was performing an awkward imitation of a defensive figure-eight pattern-the same pattern he had traced through the air after Sadira tossed him the weapons.

Immediately the mul realized two important things about his opponent. First, it seemed the antennae atop its head were more akin to tentacles, for he had never before seen an animal use an antenna as a grasping organ. Second, the gaj was a lot smarter and more observant than it appeared at first glance. The beast was mimicking a formal fighting pattern, and he doubted that it was mere chance.