A Career Change (Part 2): A Pyrrhus Story

A Career Change (Part 2): A Pyrrhus Story
Pyrrhus looked down at the broken mess that until five minutes ago had been his friend, Spiker, and spat in the dust. This was enough. Already, Gladen the arena master announced his victory to the crowd, and Pyrrhus supposed he should have been grateful for their applause, but he had had enough. The crowd only care that they got to see a man killed, or, that their chosen fighter had won them a few silver, and Gladen for his part only cared that the arena took a cut of the betting, made a profit on the food and trinkets the vendors hawked, and sold a remarkable amount of watered down ale. But for Pyrrhus, this fight meant the death of another friend at his hands.

"That's twelve for you, already, and the week isn't half over," Gladen said with a grin of appreciation. "Keep that up, and you'll have a reputation that'll draw the crowds from the countryside!" But Pyrrhus knew that to Gladen, he might just as easily be a prize bull, or a fast horse. He was just another piece of flesh to please the customers, and if Gladen had in mind to set him up as a champion, it was only to draw more crows in to hoot, and bellow, and sit on the edges of their seats, hoping for his eventual fall. His blood was no more sacred than that of any other men he had sent to their gods.

He also knew the reception his next words would receive, and dreaded it.

"It's over, Gladen. I'm done." Pyrrhus said. His words hung in the air, seemingly stifled into silence by the mid-day heat. Gladen stood looking at him with a look that at once spoke of comprehension and contempt. "Wotcher mean yer done?," he said. "I don' recall you losing a match, an' I'm sure I'd of remembered yer sorry corpse bein' dragged out of here by my boys, so I asks again...wotcher mean, yer done?"

"I mean, I'm done." Pyrrhus spoke again, hoping that his words would sink through Gladen's bony skull without his having to open it first. "I mean I am finished killing men who are my friends. I'm done killing men just for sport. In short, I am leaving the Arena." If that didn't make his intentions clear, nothing would, short of violence. Untucking a small rag from the waistline of his armor, he wiped the length of the short sword that was his favorite weapon. He could swing just bout anything that was longer than it was wide, but this blade, his grandfather's blade, was his weapon of choice. He carefully wiped it clean of Spike's blood, regretting anew death of his friend. It had almost been pre-determined when they entered the Arena. Spike used a two-weapon combination of hook and long dagger, hence his moniker. A deadly enough combination in the right hands, and spike was good at his craft, but he simply didn't have either the length of arm or the reach of weapon need to best a man army-trained in the use of the Gladius. Between advantage of skill, and advantage of weapon, Pyrrhus' victory has been spoken by fate.

"I don't think you understand the nature of yer position here," Gladen was saying, as he began shifting his stance to interpose his body between Pyrrhus and the gates of the Arena. "I mean your still alive, adn we been payin' ya' regular enough. The way I figure, that means yer under contract ot us, right boys?" As if on cue, Gladen's two young "assistants," Dale and Max were moving to back up their boss. Pyrrhus sized them up, trying to see how firm they looked, in tehir intention to back up Gladen. Of the two, Max looked...hesitant.

"C'mon Max," Pyrrhus said, "You don't want any of this. Don't let yourself get dragged into a painful experience unnecessarily." Max was basically a good kid, but sometimes a bit too quick to follow the crowd.

"Just' trying' to make sure I still got a job at the end of this, whic means makin' sure I still got a boss," Max said, holding out his hands palm up.

"Don't worry, Max, I won't kill anybody that doesn't insist on it," Pyrrhus said, meaning it. "I just want to collect my few bits and baubles, and be on my way. But anybody that tries to say, stand between me, and the door, will probably bleed a bit. Fair enough?" Now dale was looking uncertain, but he stood his ground. Max, on the other hand, turned sideways, clearly leaving a path to the gate, if only Gladen would move.

"I'm the master of the Arena, and you don' leave until I say so." Gladen said, with the swagger of a man once mighty, and too used to having his way.

"You know this won't end well, Gladen," Pyrrhus said, steeling himself for an expected rush.

Sure enough, about the time he set his feet, Gladen charged toward him. Pyrrhus stepped aside, and came down with the pommel of his sword on the base of Gladen's skull, hoping it would knock the older man out. "Damn the man's thick skull," he thought to himself as Gladen bellowed in offended pain.

Drawing his own sword, Gladen shook his head and then swung at the younger fighter. Wheeling to meet the strike, Pyrrhus deflected it with relative ease, his hand far more recently practiced than the senior warrior. He brought the flat of his blade down on Gladen's wrist, taking some satisfaction in the sound of snapping bone. Just then, he caught a motion in his peripheral vision, and turning his blade, caught Dale in the neck, just as he brought down an axe. While he felt some respect for the older man, Pyrrhus had no compunction against killing Dale, who hadn't the sense not to involve himself.

Dale dropped to the ground, head lolled to the side, nearly severed by the force of the fighter's blow, spraying the courtyard with a fresh coating of blood. Gladen sat a few feet away, cradling an arm that, though not ruined, would take some time to heal. And Max stood a bit further still, flowing Pyrrhus' every move with a wary eye.

"Take care of him," Pyrrhus said, addressing Max and flipping him a single gold coin. "See to it that that arm is set, and that he's give something for the pain. If there's anything left, get yourself a stiff drink." Pyrrhus gave the youth a steely gaze, before walking past him into the barracks area. Gathering his bedroll and clothes, he glanced one last time at this area where he had lived, and made friends, only to have to face them in combat. Never again, he vowed silently. Never again would he take gold to take up arms against a comrade.

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