Scott Kirkman Books

Barquark stood on his balcony overlooking the torchlit courtyard three stories below. His balcony outside his quarters. He still couldn’t get his head around all that had happened today.
He had known that something profound was brewing from the moment Master Slate marched onto the practice ground with Miss Trindle on his heals. The stormy look in Slate’s steely blue eyes sent a chill down Barquark’s back, and he prepared himself for the lash. But in only a few clipped words, Slate had impassively said that Barquark had been sold, to the Pharaoh if that could be fathomed, and that he go to the smithy for the collar exchange.
Barquark’s meaty fingers once again reached up to touch the new collar. More slender and considerably lighter, the Pharaoh’s slave collar had detailed, almost delicate, engravings around its entire circumference.
When the collar was secure and they prepared to leave, Slate had pulled Barquark aside and said, “I know not what they have planned for you, but beware: You’re stepping into a pit more deadly than any you’ve know.”
Barquark had studied Slate’s face. Was that real concern mingling with the slave master’s normally reptilian manner? Barquark had no time to ponder this further as he was rushed into the carriage next to Miss Trindle.
To ride through the city in a carriage!
Miss Trindle had insisted that master Bleekhas ride outside with the driver. A request he reluctantly complied with, leaving Barquark alone with the young woman. During that surreal ride, Miss Trindle had explained Barquark’s new position. He was literally to replace captain Shendant. Given his motivation for helping the princess, Barquark couldn’t decide if this was the sweetest justice or the cruelest irony. Either way, he couldn’t help but feel something he’d almost forgot was possible: hope. For so long, he’d been forced to live a day by day existence, not thinking farther ahead than his next pit fight. He tried to temper his natural optimism against his long and brutal experience with humans, but it was proving difficult. Whatever was happening, it was something very different, and that was exciting.
The rest of the ride had passed in a blur until the carriage slowed as it passed through the gate in the massive wall that surrounded the imperial compound. He’d seen only distant glimpses of the Pharaoh’s magnificent stone palace and the surrounding structures before, but nothing could have prepared him for the shear scale and breathtaking beauty. He had to hand it to humans. They really knew how to build on a grand scale, even if it was mostly built on the backs of slaves. His people preferred a more natural existence, one that harmonized with nature. Even their cities flowed in and around the natural features of the land and would hardly be called such by humans.
He had been given no time to study the palace grounds further as Miss Trindle ushered him quickly from the carriage into the office of his new commander. To Barquark’s great surprise, this turned out to be the prince heir himself.
As prince Kamunteht rose from his chair and rounded the desk to greet his guests, Barquark had to admit that he was a striking figure who moved with an easy grace that belied his size.
The prince exchanged a formal greeting with miss Trindle, but Barquark noticed a genuine warmth in both their smiles and some color flush into the young woman’s cheeks as their eyes met.
As the prince turned to face Barquark, his demeanor changed completely, his posture stiffened, and his face grew stern. Barquark realized that he was now facing Kamunteht the general.
Kamunteht said, “Captain Barquark, you have my deepest gratitude for saving the live of my baby sister.”
Barquark had no idea how to respond to the prince. Only this morning, if he had even made eye contact with someone so high above his station, he would have gotten the lash. Was he to answer? To speak freely?
The prince said, “You have my permission to speak. Now and while you remain under my command. I cannot have an officer afraid to talk or meet my eyes.”
Barquark said, “Thank you, highness. I’m only glad I was there, your highness. ”
Kamunteht nodded once. “Right. To business. Your new command has been…severely diminished, to put it mildly. There is only one guardsman still officially in Sirraa’s detail, and he is bedridden with his injuries and may not recover. There were three who remained after the attack, but they resigned once they heard you would be captain.” Seeing the question in Barquark’s eyes, the prince said, “The imperial guard is a volunteer force. I don’t believe body guards can be forced into service. They could never be truly effective.”
Barquark nodded and slurped drool as he said, “So, I am effectively on my own.”
“You are free and expected to recruit and train new guards. Including yourself, Sirraa’s detail should number eight.”
“What about the other details? Might a few be reassigned temporarily until I can…”
The prince held up a hand. “That is out of the question. Even if willing volunteers could be found, the Pharaoh has forbidden it.”
Barquark considered arguing. Was it not the little princess who had been attacked most recently? But he decided it best to hold his tongue.
The prince eyed him for a long moment, a twinkle showing in his dark eyes. “You question the wisdom of this, but you’re smart enough to keep your mouth shut. Good. It is not your place to question the Pharaoh. Still, I like my officers to be informed, so I will explain. Nobody knows yet why Sirraa was attacked, but the Pharaoh believes the most likely reason to be that it was actually one part in a broad attempt to take the throne and wipe out our entire family. That there were assassin teams targeting all of us. When the attempt on Sirraa failed, the whole mission was scrapped.”
Barquark nodded. This theory made as much sense as any. For the Pharaoh, it represented a worst case, so it was prudent for him to assume it was so. Still, for Barquark, it left too many unanswered questions.
Kamunteht took a deep breath then fixed his stare on Barquark. “I hope you realize that it will not be easy for you to make your place here.” He glanced at Miss Trindle for a moment then back to the troll. “Very few people think your appointment is…wise. Most will regard you with suspicion and resentment at best. Of course I will not tolerate open disrespect to your office as Sirraa’s captain. I’ve already made this clear to my other officers. Still, there are countless ways your efforts can be undermined, or perhaps even your life placed in danger. Do you think you are up to this challenge?
Barquark slurped back some drool, then shrugged a shoulder. “I’d say I’ve learned a thing or two about surviving in a hostile environment over the past eight years.”
The prince furrowed his dark brows. “I suppose you have at that. Be warned though: I will tolerate no incompetence no matter the reason.” He turned his eyes on Miss Trindle again. “Ultimately, it is my baby sister’s life at stake.”
Barquark said, “I understand, your highness and take full responsibility. I am grateful and humbled by your trust.” He bowed low.
“Fine. Now if you have no other questions, I’ll have a runner show you around the palace and grounds. You need to learn your way around as quickly as possible.” With that, his first meeting with the prince heir and his commanding officer had come to an end.
Barquark turned from his balcony and moved back into his quarters. They were sparse compared with others in the palace but lavish compared to a blanket sized space in the slave pens. The heavy, iron clad, wooden door from the hallway led into the main room, furnished with a desk, two sturdy chairs, and a standing cabinet. Opposite the door, was the small balcony. Through a small door on the left was the privy room, another unbelievable luxury. On the right wall was the door into his sleeping room. It contained only a raised bed with a clean straw mattress, a small table with a pitcher and wash basin, and another standing cabinet for cloths. Opposite the door was another heavy, iron clad door leading directly into the princess’ suite. The rooms were designed this way so a nighttime intruder would need to get past the sleeping guard captain to gain access to his charge. Barquark knew from his tour that Miss Trindle’s equally modest quarters were on the other side of the princess’, with identical access directly between her bedroom and Sirraa’s.
Miss Trindle. He had no doubt that she was behind his appointment. Seeing her with the prince had answered the question of how she had managed it. Barquark didn’t know what their relationship was, but it was something that gave her no small amount of influence. Honestly, he didn’t care about how. He was more interested in why. She had some respect for his people, which implied some knowledge beyond the normal imperial propaganda. It was also clear from her attitude toward master Slate that she had strong feelings against slavery. On top of this, she was obviously grateful for his life saving intervention. Could she simply be trying to repay some perceived dept? Barquark doubted she would risk so much to help a troll slave. No, whatever her reasons, he knew one thing for certain, they would benefit the princess. Miss Trindle’s love for the girl was obvious. You didn’t charge a trained killer with nothing but a snarl for just another student.
Still, Barquark knew he was being used. That was nothing new. Although he didn’t know the true reasons yet, at least this time it was to protect an innocent little girl instead of lining the pockets of human criminals. For now, this was fine with him.

End – Barquark: Troll pit fighter – Episode 9
Keep an eye out for the next exciting episode!

Kamunteht said, “Little sister. Don’t make the mistake of thinking my patience for disrespect is endless, or you will end up looking for your answers with the kitchen scullery gossips.”
She rolled her eyes and huffed a breath. “Fine. Dear brother, will you please explain the wisdom of this appointment? My feeble girl’s brain cannot comprehend it’s brilliance.”
Kamunteht quirked a half smile and wondered if she was actually more rude then she was trying to be polite.
“Maybe you don’t realize that Sirraa’s guard is more than devastated. They are gone. All killed in that street. Only three remain and those recruits still in training. Captain Shendant felt they were too raw even for routine street duty, which is why they were left behind. None even knows the job properly let alone could lead.”
“What about lieutenant Amunraht? I understood that he survived the attack.”
The prince nodded. “True. And he is indeed capable. But his injuries are grave. One bolt broke his leg and another shattered his collar bone before puncturing a lung. The healers aren’t even sure he will survive. If he does live, his recovery time will be many weeks with no guarantee he will be fully fit for duty.”
Vahratti’s face turned thoughtful. “I didn’t know.” She paused. “But Kamunteht…a pit fighter and a troll? How is this a good idea?”
“This Barquark stepped in and risked his own life and saved Sirraa. He’s already proven he has what a guard needs most: the courage to put himself in harms way to save his charge. Most of the imperial guard haven’t been tested this way, in a real fight. And all this when it wasn’t even his place to do so.”
“He’s a beast. They say he was just reacting instinctively to the battle and the scent of blood.”

Kamunteht shook his head. “Use your head. He ran into a hail of arrows using a table as a shield then stood over Sirraa. These are not the actions of a blood crazed beast.”
How can you be sure that is true? I’ve heard at least half a dozen versions so far.”
“Miss Trindle was there. I trust her account.”
Vahratti gave her brother a knowing look. “She is a level headed girl. But what about father? Surely he won’t tolerate this.”

The prince barked a laugh. “Father loves the idea. He sees Mr. Barquark as some kind of vicious but loyal guard dog who will follow at Sirraa’s heals and rip the head off anybody who comes close.”

Vahratti shook her head slowly. “He should know better.”

“Perhaps he does. The news from the north has him preoccupied.” He paused. “As if he cares. We both know that he’s scarcely spared her two thoughts since she was born.”

Vahratti huffed a short breath and quirked a half smile. “True enough. Mother has been no better.” she paused. “I’d just like to know why.”
“Why what?”
Vahratti rolled her eyes. “Why he intervened. What’s in it for him?”
“Perhaps he simply didn’t want to see an innocent little girl get murdered. ”
Vahratti shook her head. “Only you would think that, my brother. ”
Kamunteht frowned as he studied his sister. Her expression was one of true contempt. His sister had some good qualities, but at her core was ambition, cynicism, and cruelty. He needed to remember this. He tended to see the young girl he had grown up with not the scheming woman she had become, what their parents had created.
He said, “Honestly, I don’t see another realistic motive. I can’t imagine that he anticipated this outcome. And so what if he had? So what if his only motive was to seek the Pharaoh’s favor? He’s succeeded in dramatically improving his lot, and if he is indeed that clever, he knows the best way to maintain his new situation is to keep Sirraa alive.”
“I suppose so.” She paused, a frown darkening her delicate features. “I’m not sure I like that idea.”
“What idea?”
“That he is clever.”
“Why is that?”
“Kamunteht, he’s an enemy slave we’ve allowed inside the household. That idea alone should give us pause. If he is also clever enough to scheme, then he becomes something else I need to worry about and plan for.”
Kamunteht again shook his head. “I’ll let you worry about the schemes, little sister.”
She turned on him sharply. “You better learn to worry about them. You are to be Pharaoh. There’s more to ruling an empire than winning wars and bashing big men with swords.”
Kamunteht held up a hand. This was an old argument, and he had no energy for it today. “I know, Vahratti, I know.” He smiled. “Now, let’s see what the cooks have prepared for lunch. Bashing big men with swords has made me famished.”

End – Barquark: Troll pit fighter – Episode 8

Keep an eye out for the next exciting episode!

Prince Kamunteht, heir to the Pharaoh and future ruler of the empire, prowled the practice ground, his bare feet moving lightly over the hard packed sand, despite his six-foot-three-inch frame. He wore only a plain linen kilt. Sweat glistened on his well muscled body in the already hot mid morning sun. His rugged jaw, dark brows, and richly black almond shaped eyes only added to his mystique, like his father’s, of a god made flesh.

He held two swords, a matched set, blades slightly curved with only one sharpened edge. Two men stalked opposite, bodies tense, their cautious steps nearly a perfect mirror to his.

Dehrmun moved on the prince’s right. Built on a smaller frame than Kamunteht, Dehrmun’s weathered body was all whip cord muscle. He was older, a former arms instructor to the prince and now a trusted lieutenant and friend. Dehrmun had driven the chariot that had hurled a fifteen year old Kamunteht into his first battle. Since that terrifying, exhilarating day, almost eight years ago, how many battles and border skirmishes had they seen together? The prince could not easily count.

Dehrmun was armed with the short double edged sword and small round shield he preferred. His dark, weather wrinkled face had that determined look Kamunteht knew so well.

On the prince’s left was a hulking brute of a man. Even taller than the prince and more heavily muscled, Horrtoeh was a newer recruit. Although quick for his size, his technique lacked grace. Still, the prince had high hopes. Horrtoeh had all the right building blocks, including the right attitude, to make an excellent soldier.

The three men continued circling, waiting for the moment to strike. Their weapon edges were sheathed in heavy leather practice guards. As usual, when the prince was fighting, a small group had gathered to watch silently from a safe distance.

Without warning, Dehrmun struck. Leading with a feint of his shield, he lunged with the sword. Kamunteht’s response was a blur. Not fooled by the shield feint, he sidestepped Dehrmun’s lunge, deflecting the blade with a downward sweep of his own. Another quick half step brought him just behind Dehrmun. Before the veteran could turn, the prince pivoted and slashed his other blade across the back of Dehrmun’s legs.

With naked blades, the cut would have crippled him, so Dehrmun collapsed to the ground, not needing to fake the wince of pain. Practice or not, you knew when the prince tagged you.

The prince spun away from Dehrmun as Horrtoeh charged in, raising his double edged broadsword. The heavy blade came down with enough force to crack the prince’s skull but was stopped with a muffled clang by the scissor block of the prince’s twin blades. The prince twisted his wrists as he pivoted away, wrenching the sword from Horrtoeh’s grip. Continuing his turn, the prince reversed grip on his sword and drove a backhanded thrust into Horrtoeh’s chest. The blunted point hit with enough force to knock the big man onto his back.

The prince straightened and studied Horrtoeh who was gasping for breath, blood welling at the point of impact. The blow had been excessive, but calculated. Horrtoeh’s own attack could have been lethal even with the protected blade. He needed to learn control.

Dehrmun slowly got to his feet, a smirk just lifting the corner of his mouth.

The prince took a step toward Dehrmun, but was stopped by a young woman striding into the practice yard, her raven hair bouncing with each quick, purposeful step. She planted herself directly in front of the prince, clenched fists thrust against her thin waist. She wore a simple one piece wrap of the highest quality linen that somehow showed every enticing curve of her body without appearing overt.

She scowled at the prince, narrowing her almond shaped eyes. Eyes that were the mirror of his own. She said, “Have you gone insane!?”

“And a good morning to you as well, sweet sister.” The prince’s smile was indulgent.

“Don’t you sweet sister me…”

Still holding his sword, Kamunteht held up a finger to silence his younger sister. “A moment please.” Then he turned to Dehrmun. “You alright?”

Dehrmun only nodded.

The prince walked to Horrtoeh and held out his hand. Horrtoeh took it, and the prince pulled him easily to his feet.

“You were a half step late in your attack,” the prince said. “It cost your life and the life of your partner.”

Horrtoeh lowered his head, fixing his eyes on the sand.

“You were late because you weren’t in tune with your partner. You’re still thinking like a lone fighter. The purpose of this exercise was teamwork.”

“Yes, Highness.”

“Nobody doubts your abilities as a warrior, but we are training an army of soldiers. There’s a difference. It’s the difference between winning a street fight and winning a war. It’s something you still need to learn.”

“Yes, Highness.” Horrtoeh said again, with an even lower tone.

The prince smiled then, and grabbed Horrtoeh by the back of his thick neck and shook him with affection. “But this is why we train, eh? To lean.”

Horrtoeh glanced at his prince for just a moment before looking down again. “Yes, highness. I’ll learn”

“Good. Now go find Master Tallamerh and let him see to that wound, then two bells of forms.”

“Yes, highness.” Horrtoeh turned, picked up his sword, and marched off toward the officer’s quarters.

Dehrmun watched him go and thought, Kamunteht has won himself another.

The prince walked over to Dehrmun and handed him the pair of swords. “Take these for me. I must attend to the Princess.”

Dehrmun bowed his head slightly and took the swords. “Highness.” He then walked off toward the armory.

Only then did the prince look at his sister. “Come, sister. Walk with me.”

The princess fell into step next to her brother. She opened her mouth to speak and was cut off again by the prince’s raised finger. “I’ve warned you before about speaking to me disrespectfully in front of my troops. When we are alone or with the family that is one thing, but…”

The Princess rolled her eyes. “Oh, spare me the speech about how a general must look infallible, or something, in the eyes of his army. Your troops would follow you into the depths of the Duarg, and you know it.”

The prince let out a sigh but also quirked just a hint of a smile at his sister. “What has you so upset this time?”

“Don’t play innocent with me! What by all the gods are you thinking!” She stopped and turned, scowling up at her brother. His unflappable calm sometimes inflamed her own volatile temper, but this time it had the opposite affect. She took a deep breath. “Look, I know you have a kind of…thing…for Sirraa’s nanny, but this is our little sister’s safety. How can you possibly believe that drooling, vicious beast can be captain of her guard?”

End – Barquark: Troll pit fighter – Episode 7

Keep an eye out for the next exciting episode!

It took Slate only about three heartbeats to regain his composure. He smiled, an expression that did not reach his eyes. He rolled up the parchment and handed it back to Bleekhas. “My apologies, but the troll is not for sale.”

Bleekhas said, “Surly the price is fair.”

Slate shrugged one shoulder. “Yes. The price is fair for a proven pit fighter. For the top draw in the capital city? I think not.”

Bleekhas took a deep breath, a determined look appearing on his face. Clearly, he was in his element, negotiating prices. “Master Slate, you know your business far better than do I. Still, we both know that fighters at this level can fall at anytime. In fact, didn’t the troll barely survive his last match?”

“This is true, but I cleared nearly your asking price in his last bout alone.”

“Well, there you have the fairness. You are assured the payoff of at least one more fight.”

Slate shook his head. “But that doesn’t…”

“I fail to see why there is negotiating,” Miss Trindle said. She fixed Slate with a cool stare. “This buyer is not another slave merchant.” Her voice held undisguised contempt for the title. “This is the Pharaoh of the Empire, a god made flesh. Everything in the empire exists for his pleasure, including me, you and Mr. Barquark. Indeed, it is more than fair that he offer any compensation at all let alone a price that is arguably fair.”

Slates sharp eyes darted at Bleekhas for a moment. The buyer’s eyes had grown wide with alarm with the young woman’s speech.

Slate’s face took on that cold smile. “Nobody would doubt that the Pharaoh is well within his rights to claim the troll. Still, Mr. Bleekhas can explain the potential negative consequences for the empire’s economy if the Pharaoh began the wholesale confiscation of valuable property.”

Bleekhas’ mouth was working but he made no sound, sweat pebbling his brow.

Miss Trindle narrowed her eyes. “Negative consequences?”

“Of course. Instability is disaster for any economy. If the merchant class begins to fear the sudden loss of their most valuable property…”

“Wholesale confiscation seems a bit hyperbolic.” Miss Trindle said. “Besides, we’re talking about one slave. How would the merchant class even find out?”

Again, the cold smile. “I would consider it my duty as a guild master to notify my peers.”

“Are you threatening the Pharaoh?”

“Do you claim to speak for him?”

Bleekhas finally found his voice. “Please, please. There is no need for the conversation to become heated.” He paused and wiped the sweat from his bald head. “I’m sure we can find a settlement that would be acceptable for all.”

Slate relaxed his posture but kept his eyes fixed on Miss Trindle. “Quite right, Master Bleekhas, quite right.” He turned to Bleekhas. “If you wouldn’t mind, I would like a private word with Miss Trindle.”

Bleekhas hesitated, eyes darting between the two.

“It’s fine, Master Bleekhas.” Miss Trindle said. “Please do as he asks.”

Bleekhas paused for another few heartbeats, then turned for the door.

When the door closed behind Bleekhas, Slate said, “Please, have a seat,” then moved behind his desk and took his own chair.

Miss Trindle decided there was no profit in being unnecessarily belligerent and sat down in the chair facing the desk.

Slate Steepled his fingers. “Why do you want him?”

Miss Trindle’s eyebrows rose in a question. “Me? No, the Pharaoh…”

“I didn’t realize that your duties as nanny and teacher included purchasing slaves.” He paused. “Please, I am no fool. Yesterday, the troll saved your life and that of the princess, and today you are here with the Pharaoh’s chief buyer. I know this is your doing. Frankly, I’m surprised you have the influence and would dearly like to know how, but for now, I will settle for what you want with Barquark.”

Miss Trindle’s face remained stoney. “That is the Pharaoh’s concern.”

Slate’s expression betrayed only the slightest annoyance. “You cannot set him free. You know this. My collar is the only thing that has kept him alive in the city. I imagine the Pharaoh’s collar will provide almost as much protection, but without one, they would tear him to shreds. And even a powerful owner’s collar will not protect him on his own in the border territories.”

Miss Trindle released a small sigh. “I am well aware of the dangers.”

Slate studied the young woman for a few moments. “Your feelings of gratitude are understandable but misplaced.”

“Really?”

“The troll’s actions may have appeared heroic, but I assure you his intentions were not.”

“How so?”

“Trolls are barbaric creatures, barely more than wild beasts. And Barquark’s years in the pits have only…encouraged his bloodthirsty nature. I’m sure he was only reacting instinctively to the frenzy of battle and the smell of blood.”

Miss Trindle actually laughed at this. “Master Slate, you insult me and embarrass yourself when you regurgitate that wartime propaganda.” She paused and shook her head. “The trolls are an ancient race. They were developing a written language, mapping the stars, and treating their sick with effective medicines when our ancestors were struggling to master fire and using crude stone tools. So, please, spare me the bloodthirsty beast.”

Slate raised his eyebrows. “Really? I had no idea.”

“Unfortunately, that’s true for most people within the empire.”

“Most people haven’t benefited from an advanced education at the Amundah University.”

Miss Trindle bowed her head, conceding the point. She was surprised and a little disturbed to find that Slate knew anything about her background. Recovering, she said, “Still, you’ve owned Mr. Barquark for how long now?”

“Almost two years.”

“In all that time, you must have had some interactions with him, perhaps a few conversations even. You need only look into his eyes to see he is no wild animal. Come now, Mr. Slate, you’ve let him roam the city alone.”

Slate closed his eyes for a few moments while he took a deep breath. “I admit that Mr. Barquark has surprised me at times with his…awareness.”

Miss Trindle raised her delicate eyebrows. “Any other arguments? I will not be dissuaded and, really, you cannot deny the Pharaoh. You know this. I believe you are too smart to engage in any kind of prideful power play.”

Slate raised both hands, palms out toward Miss Trindle before placing them flat on his desk. “Fine. You are indeed a formidable young lady. I will accept Master Bleekhas’ offer if only to satisfy my own curiosity. You still refuse to tell me what you want with him?”

Miss Trindle’s mouth turned a half smile. “You’ll find out.”

End – Barquark: Troll pit fighter – Episode 6

Keep an eye out for the next exciting episode!

Barquark’s eyelids grew heavy and his head began to droop. When sleep swallowed him more deeply, his legs buckled and pain lanced through his wrists and shoulders as the straps binding him to the whipping posts drew tight. Shocked fully awake, he stood as tall as possible, even rising onto his toes to try and relieve the agonizing ache in his arms and shoulders.

He glanced at the night sky and tried to determine the time. The first and second moons were already high and the third was just breaking above the rooftops of the eastern horizon. Perhaps three hours before midnight, Barquark thought.

Word of the fight had proceeded him back to his master’s compound. The troll had been seized and tied to the whipping posts just after returning. Barquark had expected to see Mr. Dwell, the discipline master, appear behind him at any moment, the multi-corded lash swinging at the end of his long and burly arm. Sweat had begun to run in heavy drops from Barquark’s face and back as he anticipated the blinding pain of the lash, but master Dwell had not appeared. So, baking hot afternoon had turned to sultry evening and now the dead of night, and Barquark still waited.

This was just like Slate, Barquark decided: immediate containment of the situation, in this case Barquark, then gather as much information as possible. Barquark knew that Slate would have his people all over the city, prying fact from rumor, and figuring the implications, if any, to Slate and his dealings. By now, Slate probably knew more about what had happened than the imperial inquisitors. Once satisfied he had learned everything possible, he would come to hear Barquark’s version.

Barquark dozed off a few more times, jerking the straps painfully on his wrists, before Slate finally arrived. As usual, he was flanked by Barns and Bracknal. All three men wore kilts with light cloaks over their shoulders to ward against the chill which had risen with the third moon. Barquark caught movement in his peripheral vision and turned to see master Dwell take up position at his back. With a lazy, but menacing, motion, he gently slapped the lash cords into his palm. The soft clapping sound seemed to echo in the silent yard and drew out beads of sweat all over Barquark’s body, despite the chill.

Slate drew to within an arm’s reach of Barquark, the harsh lines of his boney face stark in the torch light.

“Do you know why Master Dwell has not yet stripped the flesh from your back?”

Rhetorical question, Barquark knew, but still he shook his head. Reflexively, he started to slurp back drool that wasn’t there, his mouth too dry.

Slate continued to stare at Barquark, his intense eyes shining despite the poor light, as if they had their own light source. “Because I’m curious. Because I know you know what I think about my slaves risking their own lives. Your life is my property. Today, you not only risked a valuable piece of my property, you performed a free show for the masses. Do you know what people pay to see you fight?”

Slate shook his head and sighed. “But you do know. You know and understand all of this. Still, you jumped into a street fight, hopelessly outnumbered, and I want to know why.” He paused again. “And if you tell me it was to save the get of the man who conquered your lands and enslaved your people, Master Dwell will start on you right now.”

Barquark swallowed heavily and glanced at his master before returning his eyes to the dirt. Master Dwell’s rhythmic slapping continued. Barquark had no reason not to tell Slate the whole truth. It was just that he didn’t completely understand himself.

“Well?” State said.

Barquark took a deep breath. “The guard captain. In the street today, before the attack, I recognized him.” Barquark paused. “He saved my live. In the war, after Incalas fell.”

Barquark went on to briefly describe the events of his near crucifixion.

Bracknal snorted and shook his head. “Shendant. Bloody typical.”

Slate turned, fixing his man with a stare. “You knew Captain Shendant?”

“Aye, Sir. Back in the day. Early in the war. This sounds just like him. Goody, goody, always strictly by the book. He was forever busting us down for minor infractions.”

Now it was Barns who snorted. “Minor infractions? You were stealing supplies and selling them on the black market.”

Bracknal shrugged. “Nothing important. It was just high spirits, like a prank.”

Barns continued shaking his head, a slight chuckle rumbling his deep bass voice. “Right, harmless. Good steel and medical supplies. Nothing important. And when Shendant confronted you, you tired to kill him. Instead, you ended up on your back out cold.”

“He got lucky.”

“And after all that, he only busted down your rank and kept you too busy to make any more mischief. Any other officer would have hanged your sorry hide.” Barns turned to Slate. “He was a good man, a good officer. The kind of man who leads from the front. His men, the good ones, that is, loved him for it.”

“I see,” said Slate. He turned back to Barquark. “But Shendant was already dead when you barreled in. What did you think you were accomplishing?”

Barquark closed his eyes and shook his head. “Master, it is difficult for me to understand myself, let alone put into words.” He opened his eyes but kept them focused on his feet. “Acting only on his honor, his sense of duty, he saved my life and treated me with some measure of kindness when it would have been so much easier for him to simply look the other way. Today, I watched him give his life, not just to save that little girl, but for his duty. His honor was more important to him than his own life. I felt that if I could protect the girl, I was fulfilling his duty, protecting his honor, and to him, this would be the greatest repayment of my dept.” Barquark glance up to meet Slate’s eyes. “Can you understand this, Master?”

Slate narrowed his eyes and stared at Barquark for a few long, slow breaths. Dwell’s lash continued it’s methodical slap, slap, the only break in the silence.

“Yes,” Slate said. “I can understand.” He paused and took deep breath. “You continue to surprise me, Barquark.” He took a step back and raised a hand to master Dwell. “Master Dwell, cut him down and see to it that he gets plenty of water and something to eat.” Turning his gaze back to Barquark, he said, “I’ve spared you the lash tonight, but I trust there will be no repeat street performances.”

A near giddy sense of relief was waring with Barquark’s profound thirst, hunger, and fatigue. The mixture of sensations was making his mind spin, so he almost didn’t hear Slate. After a moment, he said, “No master.”

“Good. Better get yourself what rest you can tonight. I’m off to speak with the training master. When he gets done with you tomorrow, you may find yourself longing for the lash.” He grinned coldly, then turned and walked away, Barns and Bracknal trailing a step behind.

Slate sat at his desk. The morning sun streaming through the open window was already hot on his back. He was trying to focus on the latest account figures, but his mind kept wandering back to the previous days events. The attack on the princess was no direct concern of his. He cared little for the girl’s life or any of those killed. Truth be told, the whole business was likely to benefit him. News had spread like wild fire, and Barquark’s fame had already grown beyond just those who followed pit action. Slate knew he would be able to charge a significant premium for the troll’s next fight.

What distracted him like an itch he couldn’t scratch, were the many unanswered questions. Nothing about the attack made any sense. The assassin crew were professionals. That was certain, but not one of them alive or dead could be identified. This meant that they must have been brought from a great distance. The biggest mystery was: why? Why kill the youngest of the Pharaoh’s five children?

Slate could easily imagine the princess Trialla, a cunning and vicious young woman of nineteen years, plotting to kill her elder brother of two years, the crown prince Phetro. But would she kill all of her siblings in some kind of purge? It seemed unlikely.

The attack was clearly not an attempted kidnapping. All the witnesses concurred with the troll; the first volley of cross bow bolts had been intended for the princess. Only the quick and brave action of the captain had saved her life.

Could this have been some kind of orchestrated attempt to kill all five heirs, or perhaps the entire imperial family, in one simultaneous strike? The other attacks called off somehow after the failure? This made some sense based solely on motives. Still, the scale of such a plan, and the unlikelihood of success, made it shear madness.

His musings were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Slate looked up. “Come.”

His secretary, Valmorh, poked his round, bald head past the barely opened door. “You have visitors, Master Slate, from the imperial household: Master Bleekhas and a young woman, along with two guardsman.

“Guardsman?” Slate said. Bleekhas was a buyer, a kind of quartermaster for the imperial house. He came regularly to purchase supplies, usually slaves, but he never brought guards into the office. “Who is the woman?”

“Master Bleekhas introduced her as Miss Trindle, governess to the young princess.”

“Trindle.” Slate’s curiosity was now peaked. “Very well, show them in. But the guards stay outside. Send for Mr. Barns and Mr. Bracknal. They can keep the guards company while we talk here.”

“Yes, Master Slate.”

Bleekhas came through the door first. He was a man of late middle years, his thinning gray hair in contrast to the thick tufts of hair that were his eyebrows. His narrow face came to a point with a large hooked nose. His eyes were dark and never stopped moving. Slate knew him as a shrewd negotiator. One couldn’t rise to be principal buyer for the Pharaoh’s estate otherwise. Still, Slate never knew him to be unfair.

Bleekhas wore a simple full length kilt, belted at the waist. The young woman followed him. She was thin with dark hair, attractive, but not beautiful. Her dark, almond shaped eyes were bright with intelligence. Slate had heard how she’d charged into the fight, and he couldn’t reconcile that image with this wisp of a girl.
Slate rose from his desk, fixing Bleekhas with a broad smile. “Master Beekhas. A pleasure to see you again.”
Bleekhas smiled and bowed slightly. “The pleasure is mine, Master Slate. Allow me to introduce Miss Trindle. She is governess to the Princess Sirah.”

Slate turned to Miss Trindle. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Trindle. May I first say that I was shocked and appalled to hear about the terrible events of yesterday.”

Miss Trindle nodded. “You are kind to say so, Sir. It was a cowardly act.”

“Indeed. Despicable.” Slate paused. “And how do you fair? And the young Princess? I hope she was not overly traumatized?”

“She does as well as can be expected. She is strong beyond her years.”

“That is good news as least.”

Bleekhas said, “Ah, the resilience of youth.”

Slate said, “Miss Trindle, the city is also buzzing about your heroic actions during the attack. Many say the princess has you to thank, at least in part, for her life.”

Miss Trindle shook her head. “I did nothing. Captain Shendant and the guard are the heroes. Their sacrifice saved the princess’ life.”

“Indeed,” Slate said, “a terrible loss.”

Miss Trindle said, “Still, without the intervention of the troll, Mr. Barquark, the killers would have prevailed.”

Slate nodded slowly. “So I’ve been told.” He paused, shaking his head and staring at nothing, lost in thought. “Unbelievable.”

An uncomfortable silence lingered as the others waited for Slate to elaborate. Finally, Bleekhas said, “Well, shall we move on to business?”

Slate snapped his attention back to his guests, gaze fixing on Bleekhas. “Of course, Master Bleekhas. My apologies. What brings you here this morning?”

Bleekhas removed a rolled parchment from his satchel and handed it to Slate. “This should be self explanatory.”

Slate unrolled the document and began to read. “Ah, transfer of property contract…for a single slave.” He glanced up at Bleekhas, a look of shrewd suspicion crossing his face for an instant. “You came down here in person for a single slave?” His sharp eyes shifted to Miss Trindle for a moment before continuing to read. After another long moment, his head came up sharply, a hint of genuine surprise on his cold features. “This is for the troll. The Pharaoh wants to purchase Barquark?

End – Barquark: Troll pit fighter – Episode 5

Keep an eye out for the next exciting episode!

Now, sitting in front of Henkleson’s inn, Barquark was staring into the same steel gray eyes. The face was weathered with lines and a touch of silver dusted his close cropped hair, but he was still lean and rode straight backed in the saddle.

A loud noise followed by angry cursing drew Barquark’s attention away from the captain. Ahead of the princess’ carriage, a heavily loaded wagon had lost a wheel. It tipped precariously, spilling part of its load and forced the two horse team to pivot sideways where horses, wagon and mess blocked both directions of traffic.

Somewhere deep in Barquark’s gut, a survival instinct was screaming a warning: something was not right.

An instant later, the captain bellowed, “Cover!” He dove from his saddle, knocking the young woman out of the carriage. He enveloped the girl, driving her to the floor of the carriage, just as three cross bow bolts sprang from his broad back. The driver and guard barely had time to react before more bolts from the surrounding rooftops took them down.

Barquark’s mind could barely register what what happening. It was an ambush, an attempt to assassinate the princess.

The guard who had been opposite the captain was nowhere in sight. The two banner men in front were both down along with two other men. Men with the broken wagon must have drawn weapons hidden in the cargo and fell on the two mounted guards. The battle had been quick but brutal. Three assassins now remained, and they closed on the carriage, weapons held ready. One moved to the carriage team. The two horses were rearing and snorting, eyes rolling wildly with the smell of blood and the loss of their driver. The assassin grabbed their bridles and quieted them with practiced efficiency as his companions advanced on either side of the carriage.

The young woman got to her feet, white linen shendyt streaked with dirt, strands of black hair loose from her braid. With a guttural snarl, she charged the assassin.

The woman was fast, and the assassin was forced to take a step back before he knocked her to the ground with a savage backhand blow. He brandished his short sword at her. “Stay down and you can live. No more warnings.” But he could tell by the wild look in her eyes that she would not listen.

She spat blood onto the dusty cobbles and started to rise.

The assassin pivoted to meet her charge, this time with the point of his blade, when the table slammed into the side of his head and sent him sprawling. He bounced off the carriage wheel to land in a boneless heap.

Barquark hefted the table onto his head, grabbed one leg to steady it, and looked down at the astonished woman. “Get under the carriage, now!” He turned and saw the other assassin already in the carriage. He held a long dagger and was reaching for the captain’s body. As Barquark leaped into the carriage, he felt the bone jarring thuds of multiple cross bow bolts hammering into his table.

The assassin only had a moment to glance at the troll before Barquark’s bare foot caught him in the chest. The powerful kick knocked him clean out of the carriage. He landed with an audible thump on this back in the cobbles. Barquark felt more bolts slam into the table. One just clipped the corner closest to his head, sending an explosion of splinters flying in all directions. Another just missed his foot, burying itself into the polished hardwood floor of the carriage. Are these clowns ever going to run out of bolts? Barquark wondered.

Maintaining his forward momentum, Barquark planted a foot on the seat and launched himself after the assassin. As he landed in the street, the man was already rolling to his feet. Barquark no longer felt bolts slamming his table, so he decided to take a chance. Besides, he had no chance against this trained killer one handed trying to balance a table on his head. He reached up with his free hand and grabbed the other table leg. Taking a skipping half step, he flipped the table off his head and brought it crashing down on the assassin.

The heavy table would have been a dangerous weapon by itself, but bristling with stiff shafted cross bow bolts, it was frightening.

One shaft drove deep into the man’s shoulder and another pierced clean through the meat of his forearm before the wood cracked over his upraised arms and flattened him to the cobbles.

Barquark stood over the downed man and the broken pieces of table, his skin crawling with the anticipation of cross bow bolts about to sink into his flesh. He was just starting to think the rooftop archers had finally run out of bolts or run away, when he heard the high pitched call.

“Look out!”

Instinctively, Barquark pitched himself sideways and dove for the ground just as the ax cleaved the air where his spine had been. He rolled to his feet and saw the assassin who had been with the horse team coming at him with an ax. The man moved with purpose but not rushed, holding the ax high with both hands.

Barquark continued backing up, maintaining the distance. He thought, What is it with axes lately!

He spared a glance around, searching for some kind of weapon or anything to block an ax strike, when he heard the crack ring out over the street. The assassin’s head whipped forward and he took a stumbling step toward Barquark. Like a striking snake, Barquark’s left hand shot out, grabbed the ax handle, and yanked. As the assassin stumbled further off balance, his jaw met with a meaty troll fist. His head jerked back, and he crumpled to the cobbles.

To his astonishment, Barquark saw the young woman standing there, still clutching one of the guards’ spears. Her face was a mixture of fear, triumph, and white hot rage.

Barquark, still holding the ax, pointed toward the carriage. “I thought I told you to stay under the carriage.”

Her expression turned instantly to indignation as she opened her mouth to respond.

Barquark raised a hand. “Sorry, it’s my sense of humor. ‘Gets me in trouble all the time.” He paused and looked down at the unconscious ax man, then back at the woman. “Actually, I owe you thanks. You saved my skin.”

The woman shook her head. “No, sir. It is I…and the princess, who…”

Another disturbance up the street drew their attention. Armed men were pushing through the crowd.

“Oh, here we go,” Barquark said under his breath, then tossed the ax. He wiped drool from his chin with the back of his hand and flung the results into the street. Then, mechanically, he dropped to his knees and locked his fingers together on top of his head.

It was the city watch. The rank and file were mostly thugs and bullies, and not even good ones. The best muscle easily found employment with the crime bosses, where the work was easier and the pay was better. The watch was good at one thing however, and that was crowd control. Most of the dozen watchmen were fanning out and, with practiced efficiency, pushing back the crowds, which had started to surge toward the princess’ carriage now that the danger seemed to be past.

Three watchmen came toward Barquark and the woman. They carried the long hardwood clubs the watch was infamous for applying too liberally to the city’s poor. The one in the lead also whore a short sword sheathed at his hip from a wide leather belt. This marked him a sergeant.

The woman looked at the watchmen and then Barquark in his obvious position of surrender and quickly stepped between the men and the troll.

The sergeant waved his club at the woman. “Get yourself clear, miss! That beast has gone wild! Can’t you see the bodies?” He waved his arms around. “This is no place for gawking!” He turned to his men. “Get her out of here.”

The woman raised an arm, palm out. “Stop!” Her voice carried such authority that all three men stopped dead in their tracks. “It is you, sir, who needs to look around. The princess’ carriage was ambushed. This troll came to our rescue.” She gestured toward Barquark. “If he hadn’t intervened, the princess would most certainly be dead!”

Barquark was surprised at the passion with which she defended him.

The sergeant simply stared at her, open mouthed. She might well have just told him the great pyramid was floating away. He pointed again at Barquark with his club. “That’s a troll. Trolls are wild b…”

“Moron! This was an assassination attempt. Well planned and professionally executed. Not the rampaging of a wild beast! Most of the dead were felled by cross bow fire from the rooftops. Open your eyes, man!” She thrust slender arms wide.

The sergeant’s look of disbelief turned to one of anger. “Miss. If you don’t stand aside, I’ll have my men remove you bodily.

The woman shifted her weight to the balls of her feet and let her arms drop, relaxed, to her sides. It was was a subtle change in stance, something the watchman failed to notice, but Barquark caught it. She’s had training, Barquark thought, in at least one of the fighting arts.

“Stop!” It was the same high pitched voice that had warned Barquark of the ax man. He looked up to see a small girl standing in the carriage. Her raven black hair was a tangled mess and her fine shendyt was rumpled and streaked with blood, but her almond shaped eyes were sharp.

“Sirraa!” The woman said, and rushed to embrace the girl, nearly pulling her off the carriage. They held each other for several long moments, and Barquark reflected that this was more than just teacher and student or even caretaker and child. This was love.

The woman released the girl and held her at arms length. “You told me that you were unhurt! What is this blood? Where are you bleeding?”

“Stop. I’m fine. This is Captain Shendant’s blood.” She looked back at the captain’s body still slumped on the carriage floor, cross bow bolts standing up in his back. The girls eyes filled with tears and the woman hugged her tight again.

“Enough,” the girl whispered, then louder, she said, “Help me down.”

The woman lifted her easily from the carriage and the two walked to stand in front of the three watchmen, who quickly dropped to one knee and bowed their heads.

“Sergeant,” Sirraa said. “Do you recognize me? Do you know who I am?”

The princess’ voice was high and thin, with all the adorable qualities of a seven year old girl’s, but it carried a weight of maturity and authority beyond her years.

“Aye, ‘highness,” the sergeant said. “You are Princess Sirraa.”

“Good. My governess and teacher, Miss Trindle, speaks for me. She has explained what happened here, so there is no further need for talk or questions.” She turned to stand in front of Barquark, without fear or hesitation. “Rise, Mr. Troll. Rise and be on your way with our deepest thanks.”

Barquark stood up and bowed his head. “You’re welcome, and thank you, highness. If you hadn’t called out that warning, he would have cut me in half.”

“Then Miss Trindle whacked him!” Sirraa mimed the motion with her thin little arms, the edge of authority gone from her voice, the excited little girl squeaking out.

“Aye, highness.” Barquark said with a smile and slurped back some drool.

“Yes!” the princess said. “We three make a good team, uh?”

Barquark returned her infectious smile then noticed that Miss Trindle was not smiling. She was looking at Barquark but not seeing him. Her face wore a distant expression, as if she’d just thought of something important. The look gave him an uneasy feeling.

The princess’ expression turned grave once again as she turned to look back at her carriage. “Sergeant. You will release Mr…” She paused and looked at Barquark.

“Barquark, highness.”

“Yes, you will release Mr. Barquark, then detail your men to take Captain Shendant’s body along with the rest of my fallen guards back to the palace immediatel…” Her voice broke, and Barquark’s heart went out to her as she fought to control her tears. She was so tiny. “They gave their lives for me today. The day grows hot and I want their bodies under cover before…” Her voice broke again, and Miss Trindle gripped her shoulders and began to steer her toward the carriage. She looked back once more and met Barquark’s eye. “Thank you again, Mr. Barquark. You have done a great thing here today. Farewell.”

Barquark simply nodded once, then returned the princess’ wave as he noticed her little hand and face peer around Miss Trindle’s waist.

Miss Trindle turned to the sergeant and pointed to the ax man. “Sergeant, I believe that one and another by the carriage are still alive. Take those two into custody and collect the bodies of the others. The palace inquisitors will want them dead or alive, I suspect. Oh, and collect their weapons and all the cross bow bolts you can. It might be useful if their maker can be determined.”

Barquark studied the young Miss Trindle. There was more to her than meets the eye.

End – Barquark: Troll pit fighter – Episode 4

Keep an eye out for the next exciting episode!

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!

Barquark tilted his head back and let the cool water splash into his face and run down his aching body.

The water poured from a huge barrel suspended above the cobbled yard behind the stables. Designed to wash down the master’s many horses, the barrel was one of the few joys in Barkquark’s life. He liked nothing more than to wash off the grime and blood after a fight. The cold water also helped to sooth his many and frequent injuries from the pit. He wore only a rough spun linen loincloth now soaked with water.

He raised his arms to pull back his thin shoulder length hair and winced. This left arm and shoulder throbbed with pain as did his ribs on that side from the giant’s tremendous blow. Barquark shook his head. Lucky the shield had stuck to that ax or I would be in two separate pieces now. He shifted his weight to let the water fall on his back and winced again at the pain in his ankle. It was swollen and he could see angry bruises already forming in the shape of giant’s fingers.

Barquark gripped the slippery cobble stones with the dexterous toes of his wide, leather tough feet. Unlike a human, he could grip and manipulate things well with his feet. Not so good as an ape, but it was a skill that frequently came in handy. His legs were shorter than most human’s, but stockier and more powerfully built. His arms, by contrast, were much longer than a human’s and hands much bigger. If it wasn’t for his long torso, his muscular arms would hang nearly to the ground when he walked. All in all, he stood shorter than, but outweighed, most humans. His head was large with a thick brow and a wide flat nose, crooked from many breaks. It was an appearance that made most humans think him dim witted, something he did nothing to dissuade. Most of the time it was an advantage to be underestimated.

Barquark continued to let the cool water trickle onto his back and studied the activity in the courtyard. People moved about their work, slaves mostly, but a few were free workers. They tended the horses and their gear or were busy with the constant cleaning and maintenance of a place so busy with the beautiful animals. All were familiar faces. Some had greeted him upon his arrival or congratulated his victory but most ignored him.

Victory. Barquark scoffed to himself then heaved a heavy sign. His fights were getting decidedly more difficult. Not because of age. For a troll, he was still relatively young. Not even because of injury, although after eight years in the pits his list was indeed long. It was simply the quality of his opponents: the giant had been the toughest yet, although his last three had been nearly has bad.

He was a champion, a top draw in the capital city, and his opponents could be no less. Among fighters at his level, a fight could go either way. Despite what most humans though, Barquark was no fool. He knew his days were numbered.

There were advantages to fighting at his level. He had his own modest quarters, and these days he rarely fought more than two or three times per moon cycle. In the border territories, he had sometimes fought three times a night.

“Barquark, there you are.”

Barquark’s heart skipped a beat with the sound of the voice. He released the water chain and glanced up only for a moment to see Johan Slate approaching before turning his eyes downward as was appropriate for a slave in the presence of his master.

Slate was flanked by his body guards and chief enforcers. On his right, wearing only a wrap around, knee height, linen kilt, belted at the waist, was Runick Barns. He was a giant of a man, with arms like tree trunks and a chest like an draft horse. For all his size, he moved well, walking with easy, economic strides.

On Barns’ left, in a similar belted kilt, slid Thomas Bracknal. Where Barns was brute force and shear power, Bracknal was lithe grace and blinding speed. A fencing champion of no small renown in years past, he was deadly with any type of blade, in hand or thrown. He also had a reputation for cruelty bordering on sadistic.

Both men were former military from the officer ranks. Second, third, or possibly fourth sons of noble houses, they were well educated, but with no chance of inheritance, they had joined the military at young ages. This was common among the nobility and provided the pharaoh’s armies with a strong pool of potential leaders.

Slate approached Barquark, his two guards a step behind. Nearly as tall as Barns, but skeletal thin, he also wore only a linen kilt belted at the waist. Barns’ kilt, however, was pleated and hung to his calves. It was a fine garment and hinted at his wealth. Still, it bore no jewels, colors, or other finery like some of the garments favored by many in Barns’ circle. As one of the top pit promoters and slave dealers, as well as the master mind of a criminal empire, he was one of the most powerful men in the empire. Still, one would never guess by his appearance.

Barns looked down at the top of Barquarks bowed head. A smile cracked his thin face, which showed every contour of the skull underneath. He ran one long, boney fingered hand through shoulder length gray hair. He had a sharp widows peak that had not receded so much as an inch in all of his sixty years.

“Barquark, you magnificent, drooling beast!”

Again with the drool. thought Barquark wryly. It’s a medical condition. You try growing four inch tusks from your lower jaw and see if you can keep the spit in your mouth.

“Do you know how much coin you made me today?!”

Again, Barquark did not answer. He simply stood rigid, eyes downcast. He knew that his master expected no answers.

“Another excellent match,” Slate said, “and the finish! What daring, what panache to risk the choke out instead of just going for the quick kill. Fabulous! The crowd went insane, eh?” He paused to slap Barns in the ribs with the back of his hand. The big man nodded with a grin.

“But I’m curious, Barquark.” he lifted the troll’s head with a bony finger to the chin and locked steel blue eyes on Barquark’s, “Why not just bash in its skull?”

Barquark flinched inwardly. This was not one of the master’s rhetorical questions. Although he had been expecting this, still his mouth went dry.

His first thought had been to tell Slate that he’d done it to make for better theater, but he knew his master would see through that lie in an instant. Barquark had never been known for playing to the crowd.

“Master,” Barquark said, returning his gaze to the cobbles, “I thought it best for business in the long run, master.”

“How so?”

“Master,” Barquark said, inwardly cursing the human tongue as he struggled to form the words with thick lips around jutting tusks. “The giant is also a top draw and very popular with the people. I thought a rematch might net even higher profits. Provided he recovers sufficiently, master.”

“And? I suspect you’re still holding something back, troll. Don’t presume too much on my good mood.”

Barquark nodded. “Master, aye…Master Regek loves that giant nearly as much as his favorite hunting dog. I thought he might feel he owes you a favor once he learns of your…instructions to spare its life if possible, master.”

“I see. A highly lucrative rematch and a powerful man’s favor, is it?” Slate paused and fixed Barquark with another cool stare. “And a favor that just might save your skin one day, eh, troll?”

Barquark shrugged.

“Very well, Barquark. Some say you’re a dumb beast, but don’t ever forget that I know better. So long as your motivation was not mercy. You’ve been around long enough to know what happens to slaves in the pits who show mercy.”

Barquark nodded, and memory flashed again of a human boy facing him in the pits, so terrified he simply dropped his weapon and rolled into a ball on the killing ground. Barquark, still new to the pits, had refused to kill him. He shuddered internally, remembering the pain as the lash ripped into his back. It was more pain than he thought possible, then it got worse with the other forty-nine. Later, face down in the muddy straw of the slave pens, nearly delirious with pain and fever, his masters had made sure he knew that the boy had died a long and horrible death.“Yes, master. No mercy, master.”

End – Barquark: Troll pit fighter – Episode 2

Keep an eye out for the next exciting episode!

The ax bit deep into the heavy wooden shield, slicing clean through part of the metal banding. The impact buckled even Barquark’s stout, muscular legs, and drove him to one knee. His arm went numb to the shoulder as he struggled to keep the shield over his head. He planted his other fist in the tightly packed sand to steady himself, still gripping tight to the hard wood handle of the flail.

With a bellowing roar, the giant heaved the ax upward, taking the shield with it. Barquark let it go and swung the flail low. Five pounds of wickedly spiked steal whipped out at the end of its chain, arcing toward the giant’s thick knee. To Barquark’s astonishment, the huge creature leaped back, nimbly raising its leg to let the ball pass just under its knee. Barquark recovered instantly. In one fluid movement, he rose to his feet, continuing the arch of his flail and swept arm over head to bring the spiked ball around for another blow. Before he could even take aim, blinding pain exploded across the whole left side of his body. His vision flashed bright white as he felt himself hurling through space. He lost grip on his flail and landed with a bone jarring thumpf in the hard pack. Instinct forced him to roll to his feet and stagger back a step. The motion brought a wave of pain and nausea, and his vision grayed out to a mere pinpoint. He took another step back and shook his head trying to clear his mind. His back slammed against the tall rough wood wall, and he nearly stumbled back down on this butt.

He recovered just enough to see the giant rushing toward him with long purposeful strides. The long handled ax, shield still stuck fast to the blade, swung at its side. The giant swung ax and shield into a huge circular motion before bringing it crashing toward Barquark, still weak kneed against the wall. He dropped and dove clear just as the ax smashed into the wall. With an ear shattering crack, the shield finally broke apart, wood fragments flying in all directions.

Barquark scrambled on hands and knees, his only thought to get clear of this monster, when he spotted a long fragment of splintered wood with a stiletto sharp tip.

The massive blade had stuck deep in the wall, and the giant was pulling with both hands to free it.

Barquark dove for the wood shard. He snatched it up and rolled into a crouch before driving the point deep into the giant’s leg, just behind the knee.

The giant bellowed with rage and pain. It let go of the ax and turned to grab for Barquark, but when the huge creature pivoted and put weight on its leg, the ruined knee joint buckled and the giant came down with a crash that shook the ground.

Barquark spotted his flail and scrambled toward it, still on hands and knees. He lunged, but was jerked short, feeling the giant’s massive fist grip his ankle. The giant, now sprawled flat on its stomach, started to pull Barquark away from his weapon. The giant squeezed tightly, the knuckles on its hairy fist turning white with the effort. Pain shot through Barquark’s entire leg. If he had been human, no doubt all the bones in his ankle would have splintered. Barquark clawed at the dirt with both hands and his free foot. Corded muscle quivered all over his body, and drool sprayed around his tusks with each labored breath, but it was like fighting against a team of oxen.

Another few inches and the giant would get both hands on him; that would be that.

With his free foot, Barquark scraped up as much loose sand as he could and flung it into the giant’s sweaty face. The giant reflexively jerked its head away. At the same moment, Barquark replanted his free foot and heaved for his flail. The giant didn’t release his foot entirely, but stopped pulling long enough for Barquark to make some ground back to his weapon. He lunged, long arm stretching. He landed hard, fingertips just brushing the long spikes on the flail ball, enough to roll it closer. He snatched up the ball, chain and handle clanking behind and brought it crashing down on the giant’s fist, still gripping white knuckled on his ankle.

To Barquark’s horror, the fist didn’t release him. Instead he felt himself being dragged on his butt toward the giant’s howling face, twisted with rage and pain. The spiked ball crunched into the giant’s fist again, then a third time, before the bloody pulp finally became slack, and Barquark was able to pull free and tumble backward. He rolled to his feet in a cloud of dust, chest heaving, and took up his flail by the handle. The giant’s fist was a bloody mess as was its knee, the jagged piece of wood still stuck through. It wobbled as the huge creature slowly dragged itself after Barquark. Something must have broken within the knee because the giant didn’t seem capable of bending it.

Barquark’s first instinct was to spin his flail around in one long arch and cave in the back of the giant’s scull. Instead, for reasons he didn’t really understand, he began stalking around the giant, away from its good arm.

With tiny black eyes, the giant watched him, teeth bared in a grimace of pain and fury, dirt clinging to its bald head beaded with sweat. Its nostrils flared with each ragged breath, like some bull about to charge. With a roar, the giant tried to heave itself up, and Barquark rushed in. As he sprang onto the giant’s back, he looped the flail’s chain around the creature’s thick neck. Simultaneously, he wrenched on the chain and drove his knee into the giant’s spine. The force of it drove the creature back into the hard pack and all the breath out of its lungs. The giant writhed and tried to pitch Barquark off, but it was already exhausted and weak from loss of blood. Barquark strained at the chain, muscles and veins standing out across his long arms and back.

The giant planted its good hand in the dirt and pushed, trying to flip itself over, but Barquark kicked out, crashing his heal into the massive elbow. After several blows, the giant’s arm finally gave way and it collapsed face down in the dirt. It was making low gurgling sounds as it tried unsuccessfully to drag air into its lungs, face turning from red to a blotchy shade of purple.

Barquark’s own exhaustion was telling as his arms and legs began to quiver with the effort. Finally, Barquark felt the giant’s body go limp. Immediately, he released pressure and slid the chain free. He jumped from the giant’s still body and backed a safe distance away, chest heaving.

With the immediate danger passed, the razor sharp hyper-focus that always gripped him during a fight began to subside. The outside world flooded back in. The roar of the crowd was first to assault his senses. Some cheered, some booed, some even chanted his name. A few brawls had broken out, no doubt both coin and drink were involved. It was a seething, bloodthirsty mass of humanity. They packed the bleacher seating, which rose steeply from behind the rot iron railing that topped the high wooden walls around the killing ground.

The pit.

In truth this was a pit in name only. Well within the capital city, with a killing ground more than fifty yards in diameter and a seating capacity of nearly twenty thousand, it was perhaps the finest venue of its type in all the empire. A far cry from the true fighting pits of the frontier towns and border territories. Places Barquark knew all too well. He shuddered at the memory of that first time, still so clear, even after eight winters: being thrown into that muddy hole, already beaten, without a weapon. He reached up and touched the iron collar welded around his neck. Had it really been eight winters?

He looked up at the still roaring crowd, the late afternoon sun obscuring his vision. His work was not done for the day. He knew what they wanted, what was expected of him. With an inward sigh he raised both long arms and began to spin his flail in long, whistling arcs. Roaring with animal triumph, he circled slowly while the crowd’s frenzy grew even greater. After a few turns, he dropped his weary arms, looped the chain and spiked ball around the handle, and walked back into the fighter’s tunnel.

End – Barquark: Troll pit fighter – Episode 1

Keep an eye out for the next exciting episode!

Barquark is a fantasy adventure serial posted FREE of charge solely for the enjoyment of visitors to my website and blog. My intention is to post a new episode at least two or three times a month. Please think of these episodes as rough, first drafts and forgive the occasional editorial slippage.

As I start this, I have only the vaguest idea of where Barquark is headed. Hopefully, we can find out together.