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Join Date: Sep 2005
Posts: 46
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Felwar- Part one
This story is only two parts. It seemed too small to go in the fantasy section.
Felwar-Part one:
His vision narrowed as he shoved the helm upon his sweating head. He always got a cold sweat before battle. They gave him a broken axe and a bent shield. Today may be the day, he thought as he gripped the chipped axe between his callused fingers.
He heard the approach of powerful feet. Two firm, hairy hands gripped his skull. His master held his head and looked in at his brown eyes, “Felwar, if you die today, you die as my best.” He always said that to his warrior slave. It was Felwar’s only comfort, his only hope of a better life- death. He had only thought of death, but he never could let happen. There was always that distant hope of escape.
His master, whose real name he had never heard, was kinder to him than the other slaves, but this business was brutal- deathly brutal. Felwar hated the arena and all its evil, especially those who watched. Before his capture, he was a lowly farmer. Roaming the fields during the day and coming home to his family at night were the only two pleasures in life that he appreciated and wanted. That was gone, taken away forever. A life of blood and blade remained.
He approached the rusted gate and the blowing sand settled upon his black beard. The arena beyond roared with thousands of bloodthirsty voices. The crowd was the worst part. They loved the blood. Many of them wore crimson and held banners of death and war. They had no feeling, only lust for pain upon the lowly.
The horn sounded and the gate rose above him. Felwar inhaled one long, full breath as he entered the light. His average sized body was covered in thick studded leather, fringed from battle. His gray eyes stared forward. The dust gritted between his clenched teeth as he saw his opponent. The man was of sizable stature, built largely in the arms and shoulders. His armor was new, which meant a new, inexperienced fighter. This man cannot take me. Perhaps the next.
The two men approached each other, just short of sword’s reach. A voice yelled from above, “A good fight we have today in the nation of Mald,” the announcer pointed to Felwar, “Reigning champ of the district, Felwar of far away Novial. He will fight the newcomer, Dydrol.”
The word Novial rang in his ears. Home. How dare they mention home. Felwar was not proud to be an arena slave, but to dishonor his homeland by mentioning it in this filthy ritual was unacceptable. His narrow vision tunneled his angry thoughts toward Dydrol.
Dydrol held a large mace, round like his arms. As the announcer yelled to begin, Dydrol lurched forward. Felwar stepped and glanced the mace away. It threw sand up into Dydrol’s eyes as it pummeled the ground. The panicked brute swung again and Felwar ducked and slashed. The axe only scratched the metal. Felwar drew back and dodged again. His sweat fell and sizzled on the hot sand. As he came again to hack, Dydrol quickly swung from the left and Felwar blocked. The mace spikes nailed into his shield and tore up his arm.
He ripped the shield from his torn arm and held it like a disc. The crowd cheered at the blood dripping from his arm. He ran up to Dydrol and threw the shield in his face. With the large man momentarily distracted, Felwar stood next to the large man’s legs and hewed them like a sapling. Dydrol fell like a great timber. He quirmed in the sand, reeling in pain. The crowd laughed and howled. In pity and mercy, Felwar raised his axe and said, “I release you from this endless torment.” With that, Felwar slew him with one stroke.
The crowd erupted like a flaming inferno, cheering at the sight. Felwar took the helm from the head and closed Dydrol’s eyes. The helmet was in good shape, so he chose it as his prize. He pitied Dydrol and envied him. He drearily left the stadium as the mob cheered above. Some threw red roses and his stomach lurched at the color. He stepped back down in his prison and the master gave him a drink and a handshake. Another day to be alive.
Felwar did live another day, and another, and another, and so forth. He surpassed the district and became a national fighter. Banners of red began to bear his name. His master let him emerge from the dark and into the light. Unfortunately, this light was just as dark. Politicians drove their greedy fingers into his armor, pulling him like a puppet for their own twisted agendas. His master sold him for a large sum to the monarchy of the Mald. Felwar now fought with the crest of the king painted red on his back.
Felwar hated it, but to rise up the ranks increased his hope of leaving one day. The king came to him one day, “We have been thinking about releasing you from your slavery.”
“My lord,” yelped Felwar as he dropped to his knee. Finally…
“We believe you could best serve Mald as Captain of our western legion.”
Felwar’s heart fell and he stared at the ground. “I want to go home to my family.”
He knew the king would not agree, but it was all he wanted, even more than life itself.
The king of Mald was a harsh, stubborn man. His fattened face reddened and he growled, “Felwar, you are a slave, not a man. You have no choice. Now that I see your soul is not completely devoted to me, we will hold a tournament. If you survive, I will consider freeing you, and promoting you to captain. Mark my words, only divine devotion to me will save you from what you will experience.” Felwar was removed from the throne room and cast back into the dark dungeon.
It’s hopeless, he stared down at his axe and sighed. No use in killing myself, I will die soon. He chewed on the lean bones they left him and fell asleep on a moldy cot.
Two days later, he was summoned to the wagon. He was prodded into the cage and sat in the corner against the wooden bars. The other warriors kept their distance.
As the wagon rumbled forward, he closed his eyes and remembered years before. The wind was calm that day and the crops basked under the pure light. The children laughed behind the cottage, swinging on the rope. His wife’s warm hand clutched his as she chanted long rhythmic poems of Novial. Her voice was soft and flew away upon drifts of clouds. Felwar squeezed her fingers and his hand grew cold. He released his grip from his axe and stared down at the feet of the silent slaves. His children’s laughs died down and the wooden wheels loudly drove forward.
They arrived at the arena and stood to see. It was the biggest he had ever seen. One slave said it was the Stadium of the King, erected in the last few years. Though Felwar had never seen such a building, he only commented, “It’s a bigger bowl to which our blood will fill.”
They were herded underground. Felwar was separated from the others and led to a private room. He was silently suited in bronze armor from helm to boot. His helm was aflame with orange feathers that stood erect from his head.
Suddenly, the guards pressed him to the ground. It took five before Felwar was thoroughly subdued. The royal advisor stepped out of the dark and cut Felwar’s side open. As the blood slowly poured out, the man painted the crest of the king upon his chest. The cut was shallow but Felwar’s pride was cut deep. The king’s lackey snarled, “Only by this blood do you have a chance. Remove this crest and swift shall be your end.”
The guards released Felwar and left the room. Now my victory will be given to the king. He paused in thought and an epiphany arose within his weary mind. I will win this tournament, and so shall be the end of Mald. Felwar told no one of his plan.
The tournament began with a few skirmishes. The tired, battered winners were then place in the middle of the arena. The king stood and the stadium silenced. He opened his arm and announced, “Behold, Felwar, champion of Mald’s favorite game! Today, he will prove if he can be freed and become a member of my legion!” The crowd erupted into gasps and clatter.
Felwar stepped out into the sun. The crowd was deafening. His axe was sharp and radiant, and his eyes burned with a new brightness. He sneered under his helm.
The group of winners rushed Felwar, hoping to slay the champ. He hewed down the first two with one swing. They fell dead and the others backed off. Like a pack of hungry scavengers, they circled him. Felwar ducked under a thrown spear and killed the one dumb enough to throw it. In rage, he slew all the others. They were easy. He dropped his tainted axe and stared down at his doings.
The crowd cheered his name in unison, “FELWAR! FELWAR! FELWAR!”
The king rose again and the chanting withdrew, “You have proven yourself, Felwar…of Mald.” With those words, he was no longer a slave of the arena. Felwar was now the slave of an even crueler business, the army.
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