Paul Kane: Broken Arrow

His second, dressed in his usual sharp suit, got out first and opened the car's back door; there was the merest glint from the sickle hanging at his belt. Xue hopped out next to check that it was safe for their important passenger. He watched the tight black leather of her outfit mould itself to her body as she did so, sword up and ready almost before she cleared the car. Her head appeared then, nodding that it was safe for him to get out. The Tsar's own red leather outfit — more military-based than hers — creaked as he stood up, and he pulled his greatcoat around him. Then he placed the peaked cap on his head, tugging it firmly down. Ying wasn't far behind, as elegant as her sister, and just as dangerous. With the specially trained guards now in tow, the group entered the building, striding through a series of corridors and climbing steps to reach a converted office with an open front; a good fifteen feet or more above ground level. It had once been used to oversee production at this facility, but now it was his official box. The noise drifted up to meet them even before stepping out onto this: raised voices, whistling and whooping.

Once they were sure it was safe to do so, Bohuslav and Xue parted, allowing The Tsar to stand at the front, viewing his subjects below.

Crammed into the warehouse were dozens on dozens of people, and in the centre itself was a raised, cordoned-off ring. Inside this were two men, each armed with axes and shields. One was taller and bulkier than the other, the vest he wore showing off his well-developed biceps. His dyed-blond hair was spiky, and his fair eyebrows made it look like he had none at all — giving him a slightly alien appearance. In spite of his size, he moved like a cat, dodging a blow from the other man, whose clothes were virtually rags. His tattered shirt and trousers, coupled with his untidy beard, made him look like a tramp. He was certainly no athlete like his opponent, and that was also clear from the way they both moved. One of them had done this before… and it wasn't him.

The man in the vest avoided yet another clumsy blow, much to the crowd's delight. They cheered again for their favourite, for The Tsar's favourite: Glazkov.

He was pleased they hadn't missed the first kill of the evening. Sitting down on what could only be called a throne, The Tsar watched the match. It was yet another idea he'd taken from Kabulov and the orphanage; a way for his subjects to let off steam. It was just like the fights in the playground, except this was organised. It gave his people something to look forward to and indulged their bloodlust, turning it away from any thoughts of rebellion which might arise. This way he could control them more easily, and it made his iron rule much more palatable. It was also a good way to get rid of the dregs of humanity who didn't fit into his vision of a future Russia.

Sometimes the men would fight with their fists alone, sometimes — like tonight — they would be given weapons like the gladiators of old. At any rate, it provided much needed entertainment, not only for the crowds, but for The Tsar. Nobody had even noticed he was here yet, and he would have been well within his rights to draw their attention to the fact he was observing. The fact that they should all be saluting. But he was loathe to stop the proceedings at this critical juncture. After all, he'd granted permission for them to start without him while he oversaw some pressing issues of state.

Glazkov was obviously having fun with this one, dancing round, tiring him out before having his turn.

Which came now, as the tramp swung his axe again, and missed. Glazkov pivoted, hitting the man on the back with the flat of the blade — sending him sprawling across the ring onto his hands and knees. Glazkov smirked at the audience's bellows and claps. His opponent picked himself up, and came running back for more. He growled as he swung his axe again and Glazkov easily blocked it with his shield. This time, though, Glazkov struck with the sharpened edge of his axe, plunging it into the tramp's thigh. It buried itself deep; so deep that when Glazkov yanked it out, a warm redness came jetting out with it. The man let out a cry, immediately dropping his own shield to clutch at his wound. He hobbled back out of Glazkov's reach.

At the sight of the blood the crowd went wild, chanting Glazkov's name over and over. He held up his bloodied axe triumphantly, and they cheered even more.

The Tsar leaned forward in his throne, hand on his chin.

Tossing his shield aside, Glazkov was on the offensive. He ran at the wounded man, twirling his axe like Fred Astaire with a cane. The tramp's survival instinct kicked in, urging him to meet the next blow with his own axe. They clashed together, but it only succeeded in pushing the weaker man back once more. He barely avoided the blow that followed, aimed at his chest, the wind whistling as the blade swiped through the air.

Glazkov was all for a good show, but it was time to finish this and get on with the next fight. Perhaps it would offer him more of a challenge. Springing forward, he swung the axe twice again, this time almost severing his opponent's arm below the elbow, causing him to drop his weapon. The tramp shrieked in pain, looking from the damaged appendage — hanging by threads of tendons — to Glazkov's face in disbelief.

Before there was any more time to react, Glazkov spun around, planting the blade of the axe in the tramp's stomach, causing him to double over. Glazkov supported his weight for a moment or two, then dragged the axe backwards and forwards in a sawing motion. When he let the injured man go and pulled out his axe, the tramp's guts came with it.

Rolling around on the floor, the man was still alive and — given enough time in a working operating theatre, and with the right doctors (an extremely slim hope in these times) — might yet pull through. But that wasn't an option. Glazkov held the axe high above his head, ready to bring it down on his felled adversary. The throng around the ring were whipped into a frenzy.

" GLAZKOV!" came a voice, cutting through the atmosphere like the axe had through the tramp. The crowd, who had been baying for blood only seconds before, were instantly quiet. Glazkov stayed his hand, breathing deeply, the sweat pouring over his face and arms. Even the tramp on the floor dampened down his cries. For they all knew who the voice belonged to. And with whose authority he spoke.

Bohuslav was at the railing of the office. He didn't have to say any more, because everyone below him could now see that The Tsar was in residence. Their Lord and Master had arrived. And when he was present, it was his say who lived and who died. Glazkov waited patiently for the outcome. Did The Tsar want him to finish this specimen off, put him out of his misery, or leave him alive for some reason — possibly so he could die more slowly? Glazkov wouldn't be surprised by that one, although it would leave a sour taste in his mouth after working up an appetite for killing.

The Tsar stood, approaching the rail. All eyes were now on him, everybody wanting to know what he would decide. He was not so pretentious that he would use the old symbol of a thumb up or down. No, The Tsar would simply shake his head or nod: life or death, as if there was really a choice. Today he felt lenient. He ordered the swift execution of the injured man. The crowd roared with delight.

Glazkov smiled and finally brought down the axe, cleaving the tramp's head from his body. It rolled across the ring, coming to a standstill near a little boy in the crowd, its eyes staring wildly into his. (And did it blink a couple of times or was that the child's imagination?).

The Tsar took his seat again as Glazkov was relieved of his weapon and given a towel to dry himself. The victor risked a glance up as he rubbed his face, but not at his master — rather at the twins that flanked him, appraising first one, then the other. The Tsar noted this, and the looks of admiration Xue and Ying returned: whether they just admired his fighting ability or his physique, he couldn't be certain, but he would watch what developed with interest from now on. The twins were his and his alone.