Scott Kirkman Books

The ale was bitter and thick but tasted like a bit of heaven as Barquark swirled it around his tongue then swallowed. He leaned back in the rough wooden chair and closed his eyes as he turned his face toward the afternoon sun.

Being a top draw in the pits did have some advantages. The day after a good win, Slate usually let him come into town for the afternoon following a morning of relatively light training. His master knew he was smart enough not to run. Being a troll – a rare site in the imperial city – and a collared one besides, meant that he would not get far.

He was stiff and sore through most of his body from the giant’s mauling, and his ankle still stabbed pain up his leg with every step. Still, the ale and relaxation were remarkable tonics.

Barquark took another sip, set his tankard on the heavy four legged table, and watched the traffic working its way along the broad, cobbled street: mostly pedestrians, sweating with the desert heat, and the occasional horse drawn wagon laden with goods for the market or stores for some noble’s kitchen.

Barquark’s status in the city was a bit complex. Being a slave put him below even the lowest cast, and being a troll placed him barely above the beasts in the eyes of most humans in the city, particularly those of the highest casts. In fact, there were plenty who would gladly cut his throat on sight. Fortunately, his collar protected him from that kind of random violence. For the most part, slave owners were wealthy upper casts who had the might of imperial law behind them to come down hard on anyone who dared to damage valuable property. This was true for any slave, but Barquark wore Slate’s collar, and anybody who was anybody in the city knew he was no one to cross.

So Barquark was a troll and a slave, but he was also a winning pit fighter, which made him something of a celebrity, if only with the crowd who followed pit action. This was how he managed to receive service at this particular inn. Most wouldn’t even consider serving a troll, but Henkleson had won substantial coin betting on Barquark in past fights, so he never denied his favorite fighter a tankard. Still, for all Henkleson’s jovial greetings and free ale, he would never allow Barquark to actually enter his inn. This was just fine by Barquark who preferred the outside air over the stench of unwashed human bodies inside.

Barquark’s attention was drawn to a growing commotion up the street to his left. The throng of traffic was being forced aside to make way for some kind of procession. As it drew closer, Barquark was surprised to see red and black imperial banners streaming from pikes held high by two impressive guards, leading an open topped carriage.

The carriage itself was a thing of hand crafted beauty with four tall wheels and inlaid gold, sparking in the blazing sun, detailing almost every inch. Sitting next to the driver was another sharped eyed guard. Behind them, on a luxurious leather bound bench, sat the passengers: a young, plainly dressed woman and a small girl, her large dark eyes set in a delicate oval face seemed to miss nothing as she eagerly soaked up the sights around her carriage.

Barquark wondered for a moment if he might actually be looking at one of the pharaoh’s children. As unlikely as that seemed in this part of the city, the quality of the carriage and the presence of the banners alone made it almost undeniable. For Barquark, the real proof lay in the guards. Any imperial soldier was a cut above the mercenaries usually hired to guard nobles as they maneuvered through the city. But these men were another thing entirely. Barquark could tell by their graceful ease in the saddle, the way their hands were relaxed, but still ready to draw steel, and above all their cool, hawk like expressions, that constantly scanned the crowd and the surrounding buildings. Yes, Barquark was sure, these were imperial bodyguards. The carriage was flanked by a guard on each side. They kept their mounts close to the carriage, just abreast with the back wheels.

As the procession drew closer, horse hooves clattering on the cobbles, Barquark got a good look at the guard captain riding on the side closest to the princess. Recognition hit like a physical blow and memories washed him back more than eight years.

The war. The fall of his beloved city, Incalas. Imperial troops storming the walls. A crossbow bolt ricocheted off a nearby shield and knocked him unconscious.

He woke up to rough hands and sweaty, stinking human bodies holding him, forcing him down onto something hard. To his horror, Barquark realized they were holding him spread eagle on a heavy wooden cross, a crucifixion cross. One of the men held a jagged metal spike against his left palm and another raised a heavy wooden mallet. Barquark let out a terrified, bestial roar as he anticipated the spike piercing his flesh.

“Stop!” The shout rang clear and commanding, compelling everyone within hearing to freeze.

Barquark raised his head. One eye was swollen shut but the other focused on a mounted imperial lieutenant, whose steal gray eyes were fixed on the man with the mallet still raised over his head.

Into the silence he’d created, the lieutenant spoke with icy calm. “Put that hammer down and get that prisoner on his feet.”

The mallet wielder gestured at Barquark with his tool. “But sir, this is a filthy troll. It needs to be put down like any rabid hound.” He turned to raise the mallet again.

Steel rang as the lieutenant drew his sword with practiced speed. “Drop that hammer or I’ll have your arm, soldier.”

The man looked back at the raised sword with disbelief.

Still with deadly calm, the lieutenant said, “Then I’ll have you hanged for disobeying a direct order. Drop that hammer and get the prisoner on his feet. Now!”

With the last barking command, the men scrambled to obey.

The lieutenant dismounted and put his sword back in it’s scabbard, starring at each man in turn.

One of the men said, “It’s just a troll, we were only having a bit of fun with it.”

The officer turned on him. “He is a prisoner of the empire and will be treated with respect. Now, get his arms tied and take him to the stockade with the rest.”

As the men roughly followed their orders, the officer stood in front of Barquark examining his bruised and cut face. Dried blood from the crossbow bolt covered one side of his head.

The lieutenant said, “There are healers there. It may take a while, but they should see to your wounds.”

Barquark’s head was pounding, and his vision was still a bit hazy, but he managed to say in the imperial tongue, “Thank you.”

The officer shook his head, and for a moment Barquark could see a look of genuine sympathy in his young features. “You’re headed for the slave auctions and, by the look of you, into the fighting pits. You may come to curse me for this one day.” With that, he turned and swung back into the saddle and watched as they shoved Barquark into motion.

End – Barquark: Troll pit fighter – Episode 3

Keep an eye out for the next exciting episode!