Nicholas Smith - The Biomass Revolution

The Knight jumped to his feet without hesitation, grabbing his sword and discarding his now useless helmet. He threw it with his free hand at the recovering Samoan and struck him in the face with the rough edge of the sharp helmet. The crowd erupted again, roaring with satisfaction.

“Should I kill him now? Or make him suffer?” Tinus yelled, turning to face the crowd.

“Make him suffer, make him suffer, make him suffer!” the crowd chanted.

Tinus peeled off his chest armor and dropped it to the floor, revealing his own bulging muscles and a scar that ran down the length of his back.

Behind him the dazed Samoan rose to his feet. He raised a hand to the gash on his face and spat out a broken tooth. The gaping wound dripped, adding to the puddle of red on the floor, and his vision swam. It was the first major injury he had sustained in the ring, and it shocked him into motion. He yelled something in a foreign tongue and rushed forward, his face streaked with blood like war paint on his skin.

The immigrant was dangerously skilled with the axe, and although he appeared careless, the power behind his strike was what his opponents feared the most. He had decapitated several of his victims with one swift swing in countless previous matches. But his next swing went wide, allowing Tinus to swing with his own blade. The sword clipped the Samoan’s back and sent blood spraying into the air. He grunted in pain but recovered quickly, turning and swinging his axe with all of his strength.

Tinus moved hastily and much faster now without his armor. He spun around in time to meet his opponent’s axe with his own blade. The metal connected perfectly, sending sparks into the air. For a split second the two warriors stood, their legs firmly planted on the ground, neither yielding ground to the other. Their eyes locked, revealing a combination of pain, fear and anger.

It was at that moment both men knew neither of them was immune to fear. They both felt it. And they both knew the obvious. The fight would be to the death. Both had killed many men, but this battle was different. This battle was to determine whether the Council of Royal Knights would remain undefeated in the arena against the best the immigrants had to offer. Tinus was a man of honor, a man who had spent his entire life defending his country. His scars, his medals, they were parts of him now, telling the story of his career as a Knight.

Tinus, trusting his instincts, pulled his blade out of the stalemate and slid back to the chain fence to regain his footing. He planted his right foot back into the floor and gripped his sword with his left hand.

The Samoan remained in the middle of the arena, snorting and beating his chest with his free hand to tempt the Knight back into the battle. But Tinus was too smart to fall for his mind games. He was used to being taunted, and each time he waited patiently for his opponent to lash out with a careless blow.

The Samoan grew angry and taunted Tinus more, waving at the Knight and motioning him back into the middle of the arena. “What? What waiting for?” he yelled.

Tinus stood, his stance unchanged, gripping his sword with both hands now. He expected that it would be only seconds before the refugee charged him, but both warriors stood their ground. The crowd began to grow impatient. They had come to watch a battle that had been advertised for months as the, “The Fight of the Century.”

There wasn’t supposed to be a stalemate. There would be no truce. The crowd wanted blood. And they didn’t care from whom, as long as it was plentiful.

The crowd’s boos aggravated the Samoan. He wiped the blood off his chin and switched hands with his axe. Seconds turned into minutes, and the Samoan’s patience began to lapse sending him into a fit of rage. He rushed Tinus once again, swinging his axe horizontally, aiming for the Knight’s torso. Tinus simply took a step back, narrowly avoiding the axe. He took in a short breath and struck his sword at the Samoan, slicing a big chunk of flesh out of his leathery back.

The Samoan screamed in pain, sprinting back to his corner, holding his fresh wound with one hand and gripping his axe in the other. The weapon was heavier now, his muscles weaker, his breathing deeper. He was in trouble and he knew it, but it wasn’t his first brush with death, and victory was still in sight. His freedom could still be turned into a reality.

He regained his composure and rushed Tinus again, swinging his axe with a speed that no ordinary man would have been able to match. Once again the Knight danced around the blade and swiftly stabbed the Samoan in his back, opening another deep wound.

Rage . It was painted on the Samoan’s face. The crowd grew silent, watching Tinus cut the man over and over. Blood flowed from the Samoan’s open wounds, staining the floor a bright red. The weaker spectators turned away.

Alexria sat gripping Roni’s hand tightly, but she did not turn away. “How much longer can this go on?” she whispered.

“I’m afraid not much longer; he will bleed out if his wounds aren’t dressed,” Roni replied, his eyes fixed on the warriors below.

What had been promised to be the fight of the century was turning out to be one of the worst slaughters in the history of the arena.

On his fifth attempt the Samoan fell to the ground, his wounds too severe to go on. He lay in a puddle of his own blood, looking up at the great round lights of the arena, watching his chance at freedom slip away.

Tinus approached the fallen warrior, his sword gripped tightly in both hands. The Knight would not be taken off guard. He approached with caution, knowing the savage was like a wounded dog and could still have bite left in him.

“This is it,” Roni whispered to his wife, squeezing her hand tighter.

The Knight stood over the Samoan, raising his sword to finish the man. His hands raised the sword directly above the Samoan’s neck. The crowd was completely silent. No screams of bloodlust, no requests to punish the warrior any more. And as the Samoan looked up into the eyes of Tinus, something unexpected happened, something never done in the history of the arena.

Alexria stood up, dropping her husband’s hand. She cupped her hands and yelled at the top of her lungs. “Mercy! Show him mercy, Royal Knight Tinus!” The words traveled through the packed arena rapidly. State employees stirred, many trying to see the woman who made such an odd request. Even Tinus, who usually remained completely focused on the fight, looked into the dark crowd for a few seconds before peering back down at the savage, who was slipping in and out of consciousness. His hands did not tremble, and he prepared to strike the final blow with his sword.

“Mercy!” Alexria yelled again. This time, Roni grabbed at her hand and hushed her, “What are you doing? Sit back down!” he pleaded.

But Alexria would not be deterred. She repeated her request. “Mercy, Royal Knight Tinus, show him mercy,” she yelled. And then another State employee, a man who Roni and Alexria did not recognize, stood up and yelled the same request. One after another, the crowd began to stand, pleading for the Samoan’s life. They had watched the Samoan fight bravely for his freedom, and many of them had watched him fight many times before. He deserved his freedom, and they would not stand to watch him be executed. Not like this.

As the crowd began to protest, louder and louder, Tinus stood back, his sword dropping to his side. His chest heaved up and down, baring the scars he had suffered in so many fights before. He looked down at the savage, who had slipped into unconsciousness. He had no idea why the crowd was trying to save him. What a pity , Tinus thought, waiting for the announcer to calm the crowd.