Darya trudged in step with the guard in front of her, haphazardly strapping on the bits of armor she had cleaned before her fight. Breastplate, helmet, and greaves. She preferred to keep her arms free and unimpeded, lest she sacrifice speed for mild bits of protection. The hard leather she wore on top of her shirt and trousers, yet under the fine metal pieces, would suffice today. She didn’t plan on losing. Tournament fighting always seemed so boring to her, as killing wasn’t the primary goal. You were there to win, not to kill, not to cleave flesh from bone, but to put on a good show. Make sure the citizens of the land had something to argue about in the pubs, and the fields, and wherever else they spent their lives. Darya didn’t much care for conversation, but tournament prize purses allowed her to indulge in whichever sins she desired. Seemed strange that people would pay for bloodshed but not necessarily killing, at least not the common folk. This was entertainment for entertainment’s sake, keep the people happy and they don’t spend their time plotting revolutions, or coups, or whatever dastardly machinations come from an idle, and angry population. Satiate the needs of the many, to protect the lives of the few.

What did that boy say again? Harlok, the brute with a great axe. Darya chuckled quietly to herself, not only at the fact that great axes were slow, encumbering weapons, but the fact that the blacksmith boy almost pissed himself talking about it. At least he did a good job cleaning my armor.

“Soldier, what’s your name?”

“Foster, and I’m not a soldier. At least not anymore, no wars mean no soldiers. And no wars mean shit pay from shit jobs.” Understandably grumpy. Guard work was boring, an uneventful employment leaving those who had grown scarred from battle to grow weak with inactivity. Darya did not envy any ex-soldier in any job. Especially not one as grizzled as Foster here. War provided an experience that most cannot handle, but for those who relish in it, the ones who find exuberance in battle, there was no other job that would satisfy them. That’s why most men like Foster joined bandit groups or enlisted to be in the Emperor’s hawker units. The pay tended to be better, and you still got to wet your blade with blood, and flesh.

“What can you tell me about Harlok, Foster?” A question Darya didn’t exactly care about. An opponent was an opponent, no matter how big or how fast.

“Good fighter, seen ’em win quite a few tournaments around these parts, mostly unsanctioned ones. No idea how a vicious man like that get invited to these things, with all the people he’s killed.”

Darya didn’t know Harlok by name, but she certainly knew the world of underground fighting. Sewer rats, cutthroats, disgraced knights, you never knew who your opponent would be in one of those things. The purses tended to be lighter but so were the rules. Had you felled an opponent without killing them, they were likely to get up and knife you in the back, mid-celebration. Most tourney winners from these events were barred from more proper tournaments for the viciousness, and unchecked barbarism they displayed to their opponents. How many hands had been cleaved off from surrendering fighters by men or women who just wanted blood, and the gold that came with it? So, it was rather strange to hear that Harlok had made his way from seedy pit fighting to a more legitimate tournament event.

“He kill anyone I would know?”

“Don’t know who you know,” mumbled Foster. Guess that was his way of saying if you want any more information, there better be payment. Darya, light on money herself, had no intention of continuing. That’s half the reason she joined this tournament anyway. She made a point to check her blades, the sound of steel on sharpening stone indicated that this conversation was over.

“We’re here.” Foster led her into a dome shaped room with a large stone basin in the center. The basin, about four feet off the ground, held, cool clean water and was illuminated by a hole in the ceiling. The mid-day sun burned translucent and unyieldingly through the opening giving a slight glimmer to the water. Benches lined the walls broken up by various weapon and armor racks, featuring all manner of cold, formed steel. As Darya edged closer to the pool, she found that the water was not as clear as she had perceived, this basin had one express purpose. Cleaning. Cleaning the blood, guts, dirt, sand, and sweat of every fighter to have entered this room. Now, less-likely than ever to quench her thirst, Darya moved across the room to the large wooden door. Her hand gripped the cold iron ring, anticipation slowly enveloping her. She had been waiting for this, this was why she was here. To fight, to win, to earn her prize.

“They’re waiting on you fighter, best not make them wait any longer,” Foster offered as he left the way they’d came in.

Darya affixed her helmet, carefully knotting her hair into a neat bun before hiding it beneath. Her hands strayed from her head, mindlessly checking straps on her armor, she found cold steel, rugged leather and the familiar hilts of her blades. She filled with a long, deep breath, closed her eyes, and pushed through the heavy doorway.

Immediately she was met with the cacophony of a roaring crowd, and the heat of a mid-summer’s day. She shielded her eyes as the sun burned hot, and bright engulfing her in its embrace. Adjusting quickly to the change of light she scanned the circular arena, her eyes making notes of the high stone walls. About ten feet give or take, smoothed and cut down to make them nigh on climbable. The tops marked with various spikes, made from wood, stone, to prevent any kind of exit. Directly at the top stood around 12 guards, spread to cover about seven feet each. This arena felt more like a prison than a dedicated fighting pit. Behind the guards stood scores of unruly peasants, already mid-frenzy, they jeered, yelled, and screamed as she entered the arena. Those who could afford it sat higher, in private boxes, designed to remind the occupants that they did indeed have more money than those around them. And of course, directly across from where she stood, on top of the arena sat King (Redacted). Surrounded by all types of nobles, guards, and harem members, King (Redacted) sat atop his throne much like a child would. King only in title, this man was barely north of eighteen years, and he did his kingly impression as you would expect. Frivolous, immature, and insatiable, he spent his days couped inside with all the food and drink you could imagine, and all of the pleasurable company coin could muster. His rule, nigh a year old at this day, marked the trappings of a boy forced to replace his father. Forced by the Emperor to swear fealty with the severed heads of his family before him. The Emperor was fond of making examples of those he found sympathetic to the heretics he was convinced still roamed the lands. Darya couldn’t blame the lad, he did what every person does. Fuck, kill, drink, eat, sing, build, whatever one had to do to not face the terrors inside. The terrors of a life thrust from youth into the savagery, and responsibility of adulthood. This was the third tournament of the fortnight, and the young King had plans for more. He knew how to keep his people engaged, that much was obvious.

Darya unsheathed her two blades, a long sword and a fighting knife, and made her salute to the crowd. With a flash of theatrics, she spun about her blades twirling, glinting in the mid-day sun as they moved from hand to hand with deftness that would make an assassin blush. In an almost juggling-like motion, she carefully and precisely flipped whilst catching both blades in one hand, the sword pointing to the sky, dagger pointing to the ground. With a bow the crowd erupted, cheering echoed off the smooth stone walls as hundreds upon hundreds of patrons screamed with adulation. Even a few nobles clapped at her flourish. Long had it been since Darya the Red had shown for a tournament, long had it been since the folk hero made an appearance. As she spun to drink in the adoration, her opponent sauntered through the opposite door.

Harlok was, a large and detestable man. More than a head taller than the guard that closed the door behind him, his bald head nearly scraping the stone door frame as he managed his way through. His round face, punctuated by two large oak-colored eyes, was covered with scars. Scars that suggested a great many had try to kill him, and a great many had failed. His shoulders we’re broad and uncovered as he wore nothing but a vest and trousers. Cocky thought Darya.

She heard the great axe before she saw it. A grating, untenable sound emitted from the stone room behind him as he carelessly dragged his weapon across the floor and into the arena. Six feet from haft to blade, the axe was black in color and sported one-foot blades on both sides of the shaft. Designed not for maiming, but for obliterating opponents, cleaving men and presumably trees in a single swing. With not even a scratch on it, Darya could tell this blade was made from the Emporer’s personal armory, the black steel a hallmark of the smelting process. How could a man like this, get a weapon like that? The crowd slowly realizing Harlok’s entrance whipped into a frenzy, the cheering ringing throughout the arena, hallmarking the brute’s salacious reputation. This is why they are here, bloodshed, the cruel and precise ending of a human life, with no regard for anything else. Die for us, the screams seem to echo. Darya gritted her teeth and walked towards the center of the arena.