The Fifth

“Come on Ishma, today is important.” The Quartermaster says trying to hurry the young woman before him along. She’s clad in thick yet flexible armour moulded to her lithe yet muscular body. His white beard is long and straggly while his grey eyes examine the armour. It’ll be the first time she’s worn the armour since he’s completed the repairs that needed to be carried out in preparation for this big day. Her last fight had been hard fought, but like always she had prevailed. He doesn’t understand it. The woman wants death, but seems unable to die. In the heat of the arena fights it’s like something else boils to the surface and takes over her actions. It’s as though something inside her is desperate to survive and will stop at nothing to achieve victory.

“Why? It’s just another day in the arena.” Ishma asks with a shrug of her shoulders as she cracks her knuckles loudly.

“Today War-King Magnus will be in the stands. You are fighting for his entertainment this day.” The Quartermaster explains. Ishma doesn’t know his name. She’s never bothered to ask as she didn’t see a reason to seeing as she had been so sure that she wouldn’t last long enough for it to matter. But somehow she has survived for two entire years. She wonders if the shift captain knows that she is still alive and whether he laments the sentence he gave her.

“Does that mean I get to die today?” Ishma asks with a serious expression on her face. From any other fighter the Quartermaster would think it some form of arrogant brag about their prowess.  But in the case of Ishma he knows she really means it. He knows her story and while it is unfortunate it is no different than most that pass through his arena for training. Except that Ishma was younger than most dropped upon him.

She seemed to believe that she would be put into the arena the day after her arrival, but he quickly informed her that such things would never happen. This is for no other reason than she would not have offered any real entertainment for the new landlords of Skywall and they demand entertainment. That is why Ishma had instead been trained, like any true warrior of the arena should be.

“Silence girl! Stop talking like that. You have a life to live, many others are not so fortunate.” The Quartermaster replies chastising Ishma.

“Fortune? You speak of fortune when my fate is to die in the arena for others pleasure. These same others are those that conquered my homeland and enslaved those that they did not slaughter without mercy.” Ishma reminds.

“For someone who wants to die so much it sounds a lot like you want to live.” The Quartermaster adds locking eyes with Ishma.

“I did once. But they killed that hope in me and then I was brought here.” Ishma informs. She has never told the Quartermaster of the series of events that brought her to him. Though, she has always suspected that the soldiers that dragged her here weren’t as tight-lipped.

“Tell me about it.” The Quartermaster says with curiosity. He has heard the truth according to the soldiers but doubts that they actually spoke the truth. He knows better than to trust their ilk, which is why he’d asked Ishma her age when she’d been brought to him. The soldiers had claimed her age to be that of an adult, but that had been a lie. It hadn’t surprised him. In fact, he’d have been more surprised had they not altered the truth to benefit their purposes. Especially seeing as the Quartermaster knew that the mine had been under the charge of a particularly vicious captain known as Eremus.

“There isn’t much to tell. I worked the mines. I tried to protect a boy. I was lashed and locked in a deep cell for four days where I discovered a green crystal. I returned to work. I discovered a group of slaves hoping to escape the mine. We trusted the wrong person which got the other children killed, including the traitor, and saw me branded as the ringleader and sentenced to death in the arena.” Ishma recalls giving the short version. She sees no reason to go into detail. The past cannot be changed and nor can her fate. She only wishes death comes for her soon. It is what she deserves and she welcomes it with open arms.

“What happened to this crystal?” The Quartermaster asks while stroking his chin absentmindedly. The guards had elected to leave this detail out of their recanting, along with the presence of a traitor that betrayed Ishma and the others trying to make their escape.

“They destroyed it.” Ishma answers after a pause. It still brings her pain to recall the event, which flashes across her vision making her blood boil in the seconds before she shoves the feelings aside. She chastises herself for daring to care about the events of the past. However, the Quartermaster catches the brief look in her eyes that can be nothing other than defiance. She hasn’t completely admitted defeat, he notes to himself with a smile.

“You planned to use it to buy passage, yes?” The Quartermaster guesses. It’s what he would do in her shoes. He can’t remember a time before the War-King and soldiers occupied his own homeland.

“What I planned doesn’t matter. I am here now and will face my opponent in the arena like I always do.” Ishma answers plainly. The clear defiance in her eyes is gone again, but if she survives today there is a hope that it can be reignited.

“Who am I facing?” Ishma queries after a period of silence.

“That is the decision of the War-King and will only be made once you enter the arena.” The Quartermaster advises while silently mulling over ways in which he can bring Ishma’s flame of defiance back to the fore.

“Better get going then. No reason to keep his majesty waiting.” Ishma concludes sarcastically as she heads for the gateway that leads to the circular arena and the tiered bench seats that wind in rings around it.

The sun is still high in the sky as Ishma wanders out into the middle of the arena, the floor of which is covered in white sand. She doesn’t know where the sand came from or how far it has been moved to bring it here or what beach had to be robbed of its sand for that matter. Though, she knows the purpose of the white sand. It makes the blood stand out.

The new people of Skywall chant and scream eager for the fight and the spilling of blood. Ishma keeps hold of her polearm with one hand. She can feel the warmth of the sun as it shines down on her from the blue cloudless sky as she gently inhales and exhales. Ishma feels calm. She always does when she enters the arena and that makes her a curiosity. Most combatants that enter are fearful even if they don’t want to admit it, but she isn’t. While most dread the idea of dying in the arena, Ishma pleas for it, but up until now her pleas have gone unanswered.

War-King Magnus rises from his wide elaborate golden throne; the cushions on the base and back of the throne are red velvet, soft and overstuffed to ensure the War-King is comfortable. He wears no crown atop his long brown hair which stretches a little beyond his shoulders much like his goatee beard as he looks around at the resembled audience. A smile is spread across his otherwise thin face as he feeds off the joy of the people ready to witness the spilling of blood. In the arena before him the woman, little more than a speck, stands ready to do battle. She doesn’t know her opponent yet but she soon will. The Quartermaster claims she is the best fighter the arenas have ever seen and the War-King wants to test that claim. That is why his champion, Severin, will be her opponent. But first he must carry out his royal duties and introduce this greatest of matches. He spreads his arms wide and high, his loose black robes with gold trim marking him as the greatest among all those present.

“My subjects. Welcome.” War-King Magnus roars proudly with a beaming smile on his face.

The reaction is instant and deafening as his people erupt into thunderous applause almost matched by their screams and chants of elation. The War-King feeds off the energy, there is nothing better than it, except perhaps an arena battle he thinks, as he nods slowly.

“Today we shall see the greatest arena battle in our illustrious history. You have earned this! We have all earned this! We have unified the southern kingdoms in their entirety and claimed much of the northern territories as well! This is your reward from me for your patience and sacrifices!” War-King Magnus bellows as he stretches his arms out toward Ishma, who is still stood at the centre of the arena. The War-King’s words don’t impress her. He isn’t her king, her king is dead, but that doesn’t matter now. What matters is the here and now, which for her is the fight she will soon be one of the central figures in.

“Perhaps the greatest warrior the arenas have ever seen stands before us.” The War-King says after a short pause. The people, his people, hang off his every word as they lean in as though getting closer to their ruler will make a difference.

“And she will face the greatest opponent of all, my champion. Severin!” The War-King declares proudly.

At the mere mention of the champions name the entire arena is consumed in a cacophony of noise as the people cheer and throw their fists above their heads in joy. Ishma doesn’t know who this champion is, but she will face him with the same ferocity that she has faced each and every one of her previous opponents. A champion means nothing to her. They do not know how to fight in the arena; they are soldiers, claimed to be the best of the War-King’s army. She will soon find out if that is true or not.

Ishma rolls her shoulders casually as the gates on the far side of the arena crack open just wide enough for a giant lumbering form to come plodding onto the battlefield. Like all of the War-King’s soldiers he is clad in black armour, she knows the weaknesses and how to exploit them. The armour is not as infallible as those that wear it would like to believe. Though, she has to admit that this champion, Severin, is bigger than her in height as well as muscle mass. Neither surprises her, but she will have to be wary of his reach. Six inches of height advantage will give him a few inches of reach over her and she knows it.

The champion comes to stop a good four metres from her. She can’t see his face and that doesn’t surprise her. But does the champion not know that there are no helmets allowed in the arena? She is sure he does. In that case, am I to take that the rules have been suspended? Ishma asks herself as the armoured man hefts his heavy axe up and onto his shoulder. If the sight of the weapon is supposed to scare her the champion has failed, because it doesn’t. She has no fear of death; the shift captain in the mine made sure of that when he sentenced her to the arena. She wonders if he is among the crowd. She hopes that he is and that he recognises her. She wants him to see this battle, and understand how he would be crushed beneath her if he was stood here instead of this champion. Ishma knows the champion is not the shift captain, the size is all wrong, as is the faceplate and the visage of death that depicts a victim killed by this soldier for the War-King. At one time she would have wondered who the poor soul was, but those days are long gone now and that defiant little girl is dead. All that remains is a tool, trained to kill opponents until she meets her own grizzly end. An end she wishes had already come.

Suddenly Severin grabs his helmet and pulls it free from his head. He knows helmets are not permitted in the arena, but even if they were he would remove his helmet for his opponent. He wonders if she will remember his face. He certainly remembers hers as he smiles wickedly at Ishma. Her eyes go wide and she questions whether the face of the man before her is real or whether she is dreaming.

“You.” Ishma spits after a few moments during which she has come to the conclusion that this is no dream and that the monster that killed her parents is stood before her now. Severin, she hadn’t known his name or that he’d been the War-King’s champion, but now she does. She’s going to enjoy this, of that she is sure.

“Oh good, you remember.” Severin replies with a chuckle while Ishma glares at him menacingly.

“Let the battle…begin!” The War-King announces with an overly wide grin across his face. He knows this will be a battle that will go down in history. He only hopes that it isn’t too short and that Severin doesn’t fell the girl too quickly. It isn’t a fair match, but then War-King Magnus doesn’t care about fair matches, only entertaining matches.

“Come here little girl.” Severin roars as he throws himself toward Ishma who simply pirouettes way leaving his axe to slash empty air. Severin curses. She is faster than he would have anticipated as she thrusts toward his back leg. He knows she is aiming for the joint between the plates of his armour, but he doesn’t care. The head of her polearm jabs between the plates but stops suddenly. Ishma’s eyes blink in shock as she realises that he has adapted his armour so there are plates covering the gap between the joints. Ishma curses as Severin takes a wide swing with his heavy axe. Ishma quickly yanks the polearm back and then leaps away to avoid the attack. The blade of the axe narrowly misses glancing across her figure hugging armour as Severin hauls the axe up into the air ready to bring it slamming down upon the tall woman. Ishma snarls. The champion is trying to trick her into thinking he is slower than he actually is.

She dives sideways to avoid the incoming strike. Severin’s axe comes down hard, cutting through the sand before becoming lodged into the ground below. Ishma smiles. Severin doesn’t know the land, but she does. His axe is stuck because the soil where they built the arena is filled with clay. She knows it won’t hold him for long but it gives her an opening, which she intends to take as she rushes forward.

Severin manages to pull his axe free, but he can’t turn and attack in time. Ishma is simply too close. However, she doesn’t jab at him with her polearm. Instead, leaps high thrusting her knee upward as hard as she can. Her knee connects with Severin’s lower jaw and almost causes him to bite through his own tongue before he stumbles back his eyes filled with stars.

Severin shakes his head trying to regain his vision but he can’t and he no longer has his axe in hand. Instead, it is lying uselessly on the floor a few feet ahead of him. It’s where he had been standing moments prior to Ishma having delivered the knee to his jaw, which is throbbing painfully. Severin ignores the pain as he growls angrily. He won’t let this weak girl beat him. She needs to die, like her parents died and he’ll make that happen, he assures the world as he charges her. His vision is still blurred but he can see enough to be able to aim for her. Ishma isn’t surprised by the champions rash rage fuelled attack. Though, she rolls to the side and then swipes her polearm at his ankles as he charges. The shaft of her polearm shatters and splinters but it has the desired effect as Severin stumbles and then crashes to the floor, sliding a few feet before finally coming to a halt. The champions head is pounding now as he roars. He is angrier than he can ever remember being but before he can move Ishma is on his back, the shattered remains of her polearm in either hand. She stabs at his back looking for a chink in his armour with the haphazardly pointed wooden shaft in her left hand. Severin cackles as he knows she is wasting her time, but her tests of his armour are a ruse. He learns this when he tries to stand and throw her from his back all in a single motion, because instead of being thrown clear Ishma drives the head of the polearm between the back of his neck and the band of armour that protects it. He offered the opening willingly and without thought, so Ishma took the opportunity. It was the opening she was looking for and she smiles deliciously as she kicks herself off his back into a backflip which she lands perfectly. Severin on the other hand crashes back onto his front, but he soon jumps back to his feet before wrenching the head of the polearm from behind his head. He looks at the tip of the blade slick with his blood and snarls.

“You can’t win little girl.” Severin spits angrily as he glares across the gap to Ishma.

“Funny, I was going to say the same thing to you. Cause you sure as hell fight like a girl.” Ishma retorts with an evil grin on her face as she looks back at the hazel eyed black bearded face of Severin. She notes how grey hairs have started to sprout through the mass of his beard and how they hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen him. You killed my parents and for that you have to die, Ishma thinks as she explodes into a run.

Severin drops into a defensive stance ready for her attack. He grips the broken head of the polearm tightly in his right hand. But Ishma doesn’t try and tackle Severin; she knows for a fact that she would lose if she attempted to take him on in such a fashion. So instead, she delivers a rapid spin kick. Her foot and boot slam into his jaw before he can react. His eyes had gone wide when he’d realised what was coming too late for him to evade it. But now he is on the floor again, scrambling about. His head is spinning and panic is setting in. How can she be so strong? Severin hears the voice in his head ask. He doesn’t know, but he refuses to lose. She’s too fast, too strong, we can’t win! The voice in his head screams trying to make the champion see reason, but he refuses to. One of them has to die here today and he has no intention of it being him.

However, Ishma doesn’t care what the champion wants or refuses to do as she hefts his forgotten heavy axe up onto her shoulder. It’s a struggle for her to carry its weight, but it will end the battle one way or another, she knows.

Severin is still scrambling about; he’s found the broken head of her polearm and clutches it. He can see she is approaching him; the angle of the sun is casting her shadow in his direction. She’s getting close, he thinks and when she least expects it I’ll jab this broken weapon into her gut. Her armour won’t be able to withstand that, he thinks as he chuckles silently. However, he is unaware of her possession of his heavy axe, so as he turns to stab the blade into her he is met by the flat edge of the axe. Ishma swings the heavy weapon like a club that collides right into the side of his face. His jaw explodes as it shatters under the force. The tip of the polearm thrown wide as his body is sent rolling over.

Severin, who is lying on his side, coughs blood that stains the white sands covering the arena floor. He tries to move but can’t summon the energy too. Ishma appears; her shadow covers his face and shields it from the brilliant blaze of the sun. He looks up at her with anger in his eyes as blood and spit drip from his open mouth. He grabs her ankle trying to use what energy he can muster to crush her ankle in his iron grip but her moulded armour is too strong and refuses to relent.

“This is for my parents.” Ishma proclaims as she brings the flat top edge of the axe down on Severin’s skull not once or twice but three times. By the third blow Severin’s skull is shattered. His brains are mush and some of his blood is splattered across the white sands, while a pool of blood begins to form around what remains of his head. His eyes are still and glazed over. Ishma knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Severin is dead. She lets go of the axe, which falls with a wet thud as she turns toward the War-King’s royal box. The crowd around her who she has had been paying no mind to continue to cheer. They don’t care who the victor is as long as the fight is brutal and bloody. This one certainly has been, Ishma decides, as she feels the sting of a wound at her side. She takes a quick glance but quickly concludes that the wound is little more than a scratch while her crimson blood seeps from the thin gash. She doesn’t know when Severin got the blow in, but it doesn’t matter now because he’s dead and her parents are avenged. She doesn’t know what will come next, but today was clearly not her day to die. Maybe tomorrow, she thinks as the War-King stands.

“We have our victor!” War-King Magnus declares hiding his shock with a wide smile. He doesn’t know how this woman has done it, but if she can beat his champion, Severin, then she has earned the right for an audience with him, as well as a proposition.

“Your prize will be an audience with your great and powerful War-King!” He declares proudly with his arms spread high and wide. The people, his people, cheer in response to his words before starting to chant War-King over and over. This time the smile that is plastered across his face is real and he takes great pleasure from the unbridled energy that fills the space. His people continuing to applauded and chant as loud as they can.