Lev wasn’t a man to be crossed. Fiercely independent and self-reliant, he needed nobody.
He grew up in Estibane, where his mother died and father committed suicide soon after.
At six, he was without any family and went through a string of orphanages before running away.
He found work in a mine, where he laboured for 14 hours a day, earning two silvers a week.
Lev soon left and tried his hand at sailing. Three years and two shipwrecks later, he learned that it was not for him.
After landing at Mekun, Lev struck North-east, winding up in Weropolis, the city bordering on the Caranib Desert. There he met a man called Garret. The elderly man owned a farm in the desert where he bred ponies.
Lev was given a position and soon found he enjoyed caring, feeding and gentling the animals. Exactly one year after he had joined up with Garret, the farm was sacked by Lekana raiders, outcasts of the Renokan tribe that dwelt in the harsh desert land. They made a living by raiding both Nelwan and Renokan settlements.
Garret and his team of workers had fought with what weapons they could find. Lev had grabbed a pitchfork but the slashing sabre of a Lekana rider had opened a jagged cut from Lev’s forehead down to his jaw. Thanks to his sharp brow, the blade had not taken his eye. He hammered the pitchfork into the tribesman’s gut. The farm tool became trapped in the man’s body, and as he fell the weapon was pulled from Lev’s fingers. A charging horseman slammed his lance high into Lev’s back, through his left shoulder. Three hours after the raid had taken place, with all the inhabitants dead of dying, a section of Nelwan Lancers had appeared.
Lev was barely clinging to life when they found him.
His recovery, the doctor had said, was a miracle. Lev left Weropolis, traveling with a group of circus performers where he worked as driver for one of the wagons.
Along the journey he became acquainted with Arlin, the Knife Thrower. The man’s skill was amazing. In his performance, his wife Gella, would be tied to a circular board witch was attached to wheel. The wheel would then be given a tug and it would turn, creating a moving target. Arlin, 20 metres away and now blind folded, would then send bright knives slashing through the air to thud into the board next to Gella’s head, between her legs, beside her neck, yet not one nick had ever appeared on the pale woman’s flesh.
Between performances Arlin would teach Lev the skill. They had practiced for hours until Lev finally grasped the subtleties.
After five years on the road Lev resigned his services. The circus’ last stop was in Sinane, the capital of the Western kingdom of Altak.
After a month of searching and finding no work, Lev’s savings were low. The city was ruthless and offered outsiders no mercy whatsoever.
One night, in a bar called the Kiss the Dragon, the Nelwan overheard a conversation concerning the city’s massive Arena. The final matches of the Gladiator Games were taking place the next day. The champion would receive over ten thousand gold Werms.
Lev’s mind had difficulty comprehending the sum. He had already been at the Arena. Arlin had performed there along with the rest of the Circus.
The Arena was a masterpiece of modern architecture. A massive oval section of open ground made up the Arena floor. Encircling this was layered rows of seats, each row being higher than the previous to allow for excellent viewing. There was place for over 20000 people.
Lev remembered the Gladiator battles that had taken place after the Circus ended its performance. He had only watched one match. Two men, clad only in a helm and leather kilt, had walked out to the centre of the Arena, where a sand circle had been erected. The names of the fighters had been called but Lev had not taken note. Both men had then turned to the box, where the Emperor sat, bowed and spun back to face one another where they saluted with raised swords. They waited for the command to begin and the crowd became deadly still.
The Emperor rose from his seat, his skinny outstretched hand holding a red handkerchief. As he dropped it the battle began.
At that moment over twenty thousand voices broke the silence. Lev found himself screaming with them. The fight wore on for some minutes, then one of the men went down, his opponent’s sword ripping open his belly and spilling out entrails.
Back in the Kiss the Dragon Lev had finished his drink and left, making his way to the Inn at which he rented a small room. The next day Lev had visited the Arena.
He was met at the main gate by an Altak Soldier.
Lev had told him of his desire to join the Arena in Gladiatorial Combat. The soldier had looked at Lev as he had been then: tall and overweight with a complete lack of muscular structure.
After he had laughed, he led Lev into the Arena Hall. It was a large circular structure with six deep couches and no chairs. The high arched windows allowed a cool breeze to filter into the room, carrying with it the scent of salt from the nearby ocean. Here, the Nelwan was told to wait until summoned.
Lev had done so and the hours rolled by. Before long, his patience had stripped away to be replaced by anger. As he was about to leave, a tall skinny man wearing the garments of a Lord’s Slave approached him.
“Follow me!” he commanded.
Once again Lev obeyed and he was taken from Arena Hall, down a flight of stairs. The gloom of the long passage they had walked down was lit by an occasional torch set into a bracket on the brick walls.
At the end of the passage had been another door. This the slave opened and gestured for Lev to enter.
Beyond it was a medium-sized room, the walls hung with expensive embroidered hunting scenes.
It was bereft of all furniture except a paper-strewn desk behind which sat a large man.
As Lev entered the man leaned back into his chair and the bulge of his belly pulled tight the silk shirt he was wearing.
The slave moved forward, bowing low.
“Thank you Tars.” Said the fat man, his voice deep and rumbling. “Fetch some refreshments for my guest.”
The slave bowed again and left the room.
“Let me welcome you, sir. My name is Benric Validant. I understand there is something you wish to ask of me.”
“I want to be a Gladiator.” Said the Nelwan.
Benric fixed Lev with a quizzical look. “You are serious?”
“Why would I not be?” countered Lev, his anger rising.
Benric smiled then, showing amazingly white teeth. Lev likened the expression to that of jackal bearing its fangs. “Very well, sir. I am up for the challenge if you are.” He looked at the scar running down the left side of Lev’s face. “An interesting wound. Where did you come by it?”
“A Lekana raider gave it to me – before I speared him with a pitchfork.”
“What is your name?”
“I am Lev.” Answered the Nelwan.
The fat man’s eyes slid over Lev’s plump body, before fastening to his eyes once more. “Not anymore. From now on you will be called Mace.”
And from that day to this Lev had been known as Mace.
Now, six years later, in the Sand Circle of the Sinane Arena, stood Mace. The Nelwan fastened the chinstrap of his helm and surveyed the numerous white scars that glistened on the tanned skin of his lean muscular form.
The Emperor rose from his seat, holding up the red handkerchief.
Silence descended on the crowd and, transferring his gladius to his left hand, Mace leaned down and picked up a handful of sand. Slowly he let it flow from his fingers as he looked up at his opponent.
Behind the visor, two ice-blue orbs stared back at him. The lines at his eyes creased and Mace knew that the man was smiling.
The handkerchief dropped – and a wall of sound rose from the throats of the spectators.
Mace took up his gladius and blocked the blistering thrust just before it would have torn into his neck. He stepped back and lowered the face guard of his helm.
The man attacked again and Mace leapt to meet him. Their swords met in hail of slashing blows and blood sprayed into the air. Mace spun away, blocked a sudden lunge and hammered his sword into his opponent’s face. The gladiator staggered back and Mace had time to run his fingers over the long bloody cut that stretched across the ribs of his left side. His hand came away covered in blood.
The two fighters circled. The Nelwan recalled all he had learned of the man facing him. His name was Kulan, a Vermilionite with four years fighting experience. He had killed 22 men in Vermilion, among them the former Champion, Gustav. Having run out of opponents the man had made the three month journey to Altak, where he had heard the man called Mace was gaining stature.
Time and again their swords clashed, the sound muted by the cheering of the crowd. Another wound appeared on Mace’s left forearm. He in turn sent a slashing counter that sliced a wound across Kulan’s broad chest. Attacks came less frequently now as both gladiators began to tire
The baying of the crowd increased as the battle reached its climax.
This time it was Mace who attacked, thrusting his sword towards his opponent’s belly. Kulan sidestepped, tripping the Nelwan as he moved past. Mace fell and rolled. Their swords clashed an inch from Mace’s throat. Mace rolled again and came up fast.
Kulan lunged.
Instead of blocking, Mace stepped in. It was a reckless move and the Vermilionite’s sword slashed his waste, opening the flesh.
Just then Mace’s gladius came up, ramming into Kulan’s gut, ripping through his lungs and piercing his heart.
The gladiator looked into Mace’s eyes once more and the Nelwan watched as the life fled from them.
The Nelwan let the body fall. His sword still jutted from Kulan but it was all but forgotten as he bathed in the cacophonous cheers of the crowd. It flowed through him like an opiate, stealing his control and causing him to feel light-headed. The praise was intoxicating and Mace never seemed to tire of it. This, he knew, was an experience that could be found no where else.
The gladiator removed his helm and turned once more to the Emperor, bowing low. Moving to Kulan’s body he pulled clear his sword and made his way to the arched gateway that led to the medical room. As he strode from the Arena the crowd broke into a thunderous applause.
