Posted by AlOmega on January 20, 2000 at 18:54:45:
In Reply to: Coliseum - Chapter 1 - Shield Maiden posted by AlOmega on January 20, 2000 at 18:53:06:
COLISEUM
CHAPTER 2
Another Day
by
AlOmega
She didn’t fear death. She had been taught that death was her friend. Does one fear a friend? Death brought many things - promises of release from this perpetual battle for life and survival, promises of peace and tranquility, promises of joining loved ones in the afterlife she prayed must exist. But she did have one fear.
The sounds of the big cats still echoed through the pens. She hardly heard them now. One more event and her turn would be next. For her it hardly mattered. Time passes slowly for those ensconced in the slave pens. The meals were good, she thought. Better than when she was a field hand. She smiled remembering They had brought her inside the Barbarian household when one of the family scions noticed her. Figured she would make a good bed mate. Kept anyone from touching her at first. And the life was good until he brought her to his bedchamber the first time.
Her laughter at his nakedness brought on the expected banishment to the kitchen. That was when she came to the notice of another - his last notice. One shouldn’t try rape in the kitchen. Too many impliments. First a cleaver than a thin blade. She could have sworn his voice was raised an octave or two though he remained silent - probably due to the slim carving knife thrust up under the ribs into his heart. Fortunately blood was not uncommon in the kitchen. Since then, she had found that her initial assumption of vocal change in males was untrue. But with the anamnesis came that feeling of discomfiture at the smell of blood. It was not for the last time.
The next group began assembling which told her the sands had been reraked. Not a big bill she thought. She hated when the Barbarian had feast days. Many events, many people dying as well as beasts. She had even seen a mock sea battle inacted in the harbor. Her masters had wanted her to be part of that; however, when she became seasick, they reevaluated but let her watch. By then she was a valued commodity. Whatever else, the Barbarians treasured their property.
She had heard rumors of Letters of Freedom. But those were rare and never given to women. The clank of metal indicated the group of male fighters were preparing for battle. She smiled at the sounds. No conversations. Maybe with some luck, half of those here would survive, she thought placing her own leathers over shin and breast. Those who survived might be missing limbs or fingers or ears. One rarely returned unscathed from the Sands of Death. She had fought men such as these. They preferred metal for protection rather than the leathers she wore. Only foolish men would do that, she believed. True fighters one-on-one knew that swiftness and silence was better than protection. Heavy metal slowed one down. Besides, their metal was too smooth to turn sword or lance or trident. It was true that some wore leather like she did. But few placed bits of metal in the leathers. And they sewed the metal to the leather. One never sewed metal into leather. There were glues and the leather itself. She remember her first leathers when she became a Shield Maiden. Complete from the single hide of a herd beast they were. Small studs pressed into the fresh skin as it dried and glued with material from the same herd beast. That was the secret. For metal would catch a sword or lance or turn them away; and, with some luck while the foe was detracted, one could slash through wrist, weapon, or shield. Either way they would be incapacitated without shield or sword or arm to defend with. She had managed to cajole one of the Keepers into letting her Strike the Hammer as it was called in the old days so that she could make her leathers, sword, and shield proper. The shield was as important as her sword. The shield was like a second weapon which could if effectivly used, put her opponent off guard.
But as she went through her exercises - the ones she had learned from her Druid-Master long ago - those memories of blood came to her again. It was something that haunted her anew as fresh blood splashed on the sands. Always a low growl escaped her throat though she repressed the other urge - that of overpowering her foe and drinking the blood that flowed. It was something within her that wouldn’t be denied. She dreaded that sometime the craving woule bubble to the surface as she battled. Would it happen this day?
At first she suspected she was Berserker - one of the warriors that was looked on favorably by the gods. But she was female and berserkers were rare enough male. Neither her Druid-Master nor Druid-Teacher had ever heard of a Berserker-female. They had pondered for a time and concluded such a thing was beyond the nature of female-kind. Besides blood was not the only thing that spurred berserkers, battle was the main catalyst. Yet, if she were not Berserker, whence came these sensations? They had bothered her more of late because she had begun dreaming strange dreams. To her, dreams meant more than to most. Most dreams meant nothing. The Druid-Master knew of those. Even the Priests said most dreams were nothing more than the settlement of the mind-spirit of the problems of the day. But according to most Druids - Teacher, Priest, Weaponsmaster, Scholar - some Dreams came from the depths of the person’s Life-Spirit which dwelt deep within a person until Called to Valhalla. The last such Dream had been worse than most.
She remembered waking in the Dream and sitting much as she had always sat waiting to enter the Arena. She hardly remembered entering the Arena. But her faceless opponent, rushing toward her with weapons drawn, stopped short terrified at what he saw. A sound of rent fabric and many warrior women blended into one as she fought on and on. She woke startled. But everything seemed normal. A breeze cooled the sweat sticking to her body and her sword arm ached. But in the starlight that barely outlined the bars of her cell, she saw that bits of flesh and blood caked her fingers.
There was always much to muse on when one waited to enter the Arena. She was roughly roused out of her revere by the clattering of metal and the entrance of a new warrior into the waiting room. Another sacrifice to the barbarous horde. Another opponent to meet her own blades.
Or to direct her own death.
That was always the way it was in the Arena. One lived. Rarely two.
But something was different here. Something. Or some One. She looked closely at her opponent. Was it? could it truly be? But no! She had escaped. And yet her own eyes bore evidence that it was true. She was to fight someone she loved dearly. And who had loved her so long ago in a land far, far from here.
Barbanne.