Fun

The three men, cladded like gladiators made their way into the arena. Boswa revealed his proto-glaive as he spat, the second, Ghart, who appeared slim and tall among the three only smiled. The third, Tarragan a bit huge like a wrestler bent the iron spear he carried with his bare hand and threw it away as he giggled.

“Dead or alive, missy,” said Dirty Simo in his husky voice, “Together forever, even death can’t do us part!”

Aaricia stared at him disgustingly, for she could smell his mouth from where she stood, yet, remained calm like the desert sand at night. She place the edge of the sword in her left hand. Sighed heavily, caressing the sword as though something she was familiar with. Her mind wandered far away from that which was impendent.

“Does my beautiful sword remind you of something, my lady?” mocked the leader, “Is it not…long enough?”

“I am afraid so!” she said as the reflection from the sword lit her dazzling face.

“Boys, won’t you show this woman, why they call us the Ruinous Roamers!” he added, turning to the young dark haired fellow in a cage, in view of the arena, “I shall do the young thief, myself!”

“Are you going to fight or stand there waiting for your mothers to come breastfeed you, lads?” said Aaricia mildly, as she pulled the rope that held her white cape together, letting it gently fall to the ground, unveiling a gray tunic hooded huntress’ costume, with a lace-up neckline and short hooded cape that had a gold trim. She gently readjusted her buckled shoulder belt that had an embossed golden symbol of a Chrysolophus pictus, the golden Pheasant.

Ghart, the tallest of the three gladiators pulled out a bow from his back which was concealed by the garment he wore, he set his arrow and aimed at Aaricia with such great precision.

“You may do well to cover your hide in the open grounds, woman,” yelled the leader to Aaricia, as he sat on the old wooden chair under the hot sun not far from the arena, “Ghart is our best archer, considering you never gave us enough time to set the rules of the game. You should’ve yearned for our hospitality rather than our desire to harm! And my men?”

“…And like many men,” whispered Aaricia, “Their ego weighs down their advantage.”

His mockery didn’t get to her as she remained focus, her hand tight to the sword with her eyes set on the three men like a lioness who is out to kill for the game. She could hear her own heartbeat.

The mind of the men wondered as her eyes wandered.

For a second there, she knew what she had to do, and considered what she was fighting for; the silent young man whose fate was now in her hand, her virtue, her cause to live and her life.

Fear reeked in the arena, and the archer smirked in triumph, closing one of his eyes. Whether the leader would keep to his end of the bargain was something she chose to handle afterwards, if she would survive the challenge she purported.

Aaricia let a cry out as she ran toward the men, the one with the proto-glaive threw it at her but missed as she front flipped, dodging it, she went head on exasperatedly charging towards them. The archer closed his eyes and desirously set free his thirsty arrow; it got to her, she made an attempt to back flip but unto the ground she fell, motionless and couldn’t flex a muscle as dust fumed from its resting place. There was a moment of silence. The archer gave a self-satisfying smile as he opened his eyes.

“Come on, Ghart!” said Simo, “Don’t you ever let us have fun before you kill your prey?”

Like a wild stallion, Aaricia jumped back to her feet, throwing the arrow with her bare hand straight through Ghart’s throat, the other gladiators turned, watching as his body fall irresistibly to the charm of gravity, by the time they turned to look at her, she had thrust her sword into Tarragan’s chest, pulled it out and slit Boswa’s throat. Their lifeless bodies kissed the soil at the same time.

A pause of silence engulfed the crowd, none of the men could believe their eyes, including the young prisoner, who was speechless in admiration. The leader could not but leave his jaw wide open in amazement. Aaricia bent to her left knee, wiped the blood off her sword with Ghart’s garment as she made her way out of the arena. The leader stood to his feet gently but frightfully, watching her majestic walk, like a feline through the marshes. He swallowed his saliva and coughed a mucus bubble out of his nostril.

“Move!” she commanded walking to the chair, “I kept to my words! I believe you still want your tongue attached to your mouth!” gently, she sat on the chair.

“You’ve proven yourself, woman!” he stated as he nearly missed his steps.

“Set him free!” he said, wiping his dripping nose, “Set him free!”

Four of his men rushed to the cage and broke its lock, setting free the young prisoner.

“Now, you will tell me your name,” she said, “and I shall tell you what I need you to do!”

“Karazan Jazan Kazan,” he answered, “But you may call me the Noose, for my word is my bond, and your wish is my command!” bowing before her, “Tender mercy upon your subjects!” he added.

The entire men were frightened and bedazzled, their mind still trapped and frozen in the moment before the fight began, as they tried to trick their minds into not believing what their own eyes have seen, but the event was as clear and crystal to them as the heat of the hot sun on their weak backs.

Aaricia sank her sword into the soil and held its handle, staring at the men profoundly.