Episode 12: For Survival and Freedom (Part 1)
"Step aside? Thought we had a wolf cub coming in after so long, but turns out it's just a rabid mutt."
Marcus adjusted his grip on his twin swords and pointed them at Karon. The killing intent emanating from the blades felt sharp enough to pierce right through Karon's chest.
He's strong.
This was Karon's first thought as he fully absorbed Overseer Marcus's murderous aura. Every nerve in his body buzzed with tension, his senses stretched to their limits. The difference between this and his fight with Gletch was astronomical—though the live steel in their hands likely amplified the sensation.
Which side will strike first?
Gladiators struggled to reach the second floor behind Karon. Batia and his men remained conspicuously absent, meaning their arrival was imminent.
Karon advanced in careful increments. His sole advantage lay in days spent memorizing Marcus's dueling patterns against other gladiators—every twitch and feint etched into his mind.
One chance.
Victory required exploiting Marcus's momentary lapse. If the overseer stayed vigilant, all hope vanished.
Karon waited.
"What are you doing? Kill him now! Tear him apart!" Altanic shrieked from the rear, trapped by fear of incoming gladiators.
Marcus broke first. The burden of protecting Altanic tipped the scales.
It happened between heartbeats.
Marcus closed the distance, twin blades arcing in staggered rhythm—one aimed at the shoulder, the other the waist. Unblockable with a shortsword.
He anticipated Karon's retreat. Planned to strike the killing blow as his opponent leaned back. A perfected maneuver.
But Karon knew the sequence.
When Karon's weight shifted backward, Marcus stepped forward—exactly as predicted.
Then—
Karon exploded forward, driving his blade into Marcus's instep. The shoulder strike whistled through empty air as the waist cut merely grazed Karon's back.
Grhh!
Karon swallowed the agony of flayed skin. Marcus froze mid-followthrough—an opening.
Sacrifice flesh to claim bone.
Schlick!
Yanking his sword free, Karon carved upward from groin to sternum. The wound split sideways, gushing blood though failing to cleave Marcus fully.
Thud!
Marcus fell wordlessly. A corpse in one exchange.
Altanic gaped, retreating step by step until Karon wiped blood from his face. Then he fled.
Karon flipped his shortsword and threw. The blade traced a perfect arc into Altanic's buttocks.
Thwack!
"Agh!" Altanic collapsed, clutching his rear. "You fucking mongrel!"
He crawled until Karon materialized like a wraith, gripping the embedded hilt.
"Gyaaah! Slave trash! How dare you—"
"People..." Karon whispered at his ear, still holding the sword. "...treated worse than beasts. Yet cling so desperately to your own life?"
"What? You think I'd equate myself with slaves? Pull it out now!"
Crunch!
Karon twisted the blade.
"GYAAAAH! OUT! PULL IT OUT!"
Bone-grinding shrieks filled the hall.
"Granted."
No time remained—Karon's back wound bled deeper than expected. He yanked the sword free and thrust at Altanic's throat.
Aborted mid-strike.
Karon arched backward with shrimp-like flexibility as a greatsword sheared the air above him, taking a slice of shoulder.
"You mad dog!"
Batia of Triphoras stood there, freshly arrived.
Karon sprang like coiled steel, closing the distance during Batia's swing. A flick of his shortsword—
"Huh?"
—drew a crimson line from chin to cheek.
Splat!
"Grhh! Rat bastard!"
Batia's return swing met empty air. When his vision cleared, Karon fled—unarmed.
The missing blade became apparent as Batia spotted Altanic's corpse, steel buried deep in its throat.
"RRRAAAH! I'LL KILL YOU!!"
Triphoras troops swarmed their roaring captain. "After him! Alive!"
Meanwhile, Karon stumbled from the second-floor exit—collapsing where the training ground's opposite side revealed Triphoras horses massed at what appeared to be ground level.
"Hahk... hahk..."
Each breath cost him. Blood soaked his back and shoulder. His body rebelled.
Batia's black steed caught his eye.
Summoning final reserves, Karon mounted and tore eastward. Horses had been his companions since mercenary childhood.
This one proved exceptional—outpacing pursuers despite Triphoras' numbers. His lighter frame helped.
But complacency killed.
As plains gave way to desert, Karon's breaths turned ragged. Three hours later, the horse collapsed—sand-choked and heat-stricken.
Karon trudged onward until rolling down a dune.
Snap!
Karon awoke facedown on a straw mattress. Forearm-thick poles supported gray fabric walls. Smoked meats and herbs hung from rafters. Acrid smoke stung his nostrils.
Desert's heart... how?
He checked his body—fingers and toes responsive. No hostile presences.
Attempting to rise:
"Grhhk!"
Pain spiked through back and shoulder wounds. He collapsed.
Flutter!
Warm wind dispersed smoke as a gray-shrouded elder entered, wrinkled face framed by white beard. A boy peered behind.
"Awake at last."
Karon's wary scan met the elder retrieving a chair. The boy sat, fascinated.
"Peace. Had we meant harm, we'd have left you buried."
Logical.
The elder continued, "Tribesmen found a dead horse. My grandson spotted your hand in the sand—still breathing. Tenacious life."
Memories connected. "Three days here. Nearly a corpse."
Three days without Triphoras finding him.
"Herbal poultices on your wounds. Lie prone awhile—though you heal unnaturally fast."
Coolness on his back registered. Then thirst overwhelmed.
"Boy. Fetch water."
"Yes, Grandfather!"
The child scampered out, delighted by this break in desert monotony.
