As he walked toward the iron gate, one of the men started clapping in a slow, steady beat. Others began to join in as the warrior marched on. Each man rose from his seat as the warrior passed by. He had fought beside these men, watched them die. They were his brothers. Soon all were clapping in the same slow rhythm as the constant single beat thundered through the chamber. Some picked up shields and began banging on them with swords.
The public speaker was making the announcement for the upcoming battle, but no one could hear him inside the tunnel. The steady beat had ended. The gladiators were now roaring wildly. This was the last time he would see his brothers. He would either be free and never return, or die in the most glorious way a warrior can. The next minutes of his life would decide all of that.
The mob roared as the iron gate rose with a grinding creak that echoed off the stone walls. Brightly colored flower petals rained like a downpour over the entrance as Morcel sprinted through the shower with his great axe hung over his shoulder. Dashing to the center of the arena, he threw it onto the sand where he stood.
If this was to be his end, he would go out with a level of honor and reverence worthy of song and poetry for years to come. He made four separated turns followed by four separate bows to acknowledge the mob that had cheered him on for years now. Each bow sent a storm of applause rising from that section, only to be outdone by the next. Some wanted to see him kill. Others wanted to see him die. But in the end, they’d all come to watch him.
His heightened sense of awareness took in everything: the smoldering heat that sent drops of sweat running down his forehead, stinging his eyes; the roaring crowd now sounding like thunder from a distant storm rumbling low, long after the hot flash of lightning cuts the air; the fly buzzing past his face in slow motion as its clear wings pumped up and down. Time moved at the speed of melting ice as his mind floated in nothingness.
He picked up his great axe, raising it slowly until it was pointing toward the other iron gate on the far side. The long second that passed seemed an eternity before he spoke what would possibly the last words he would ever say, words that boomed as if spoken by a God: “Send me your demon!” The words rang through the arena with power and clarity.
The mob broke into a chaotic frenzy as the iron gate slowly rose. The gears creaked as the grinding noise screeched in the ears of all above it. Morcel stared into the black tunnel as the mob who had bordered on rioting not a moment ago now went deathly quiet. Embrace death. His rhythmic heartbeat thumped in his ears. Meet your end unblinking. Time flowed like melting ice. Every man dies. His mind floated in nothingness. But not every man chooses to face it!
The gurgling roar that echoed from the tunnel was blood-curdling. The nightmare that emerged would have taken the heart of any other warrior, but not a warrior that grinned when facing death. The gorbel was over ten feet tall. A single eye seemed to glow red against its dark, leathery face. The giant had four thick massive arms, each holding crude wooden clubs. It roared again, flexing its huge muscles on its almost human-looking torso.
As its head cocked back with a bone-chilling scream, rows and rows of pointed sharp teeth that appeared to line its entire throat gleamed in the sunlight. It wiped the long, stringy black hair from its face as it charged. Everyone gasped at the nightmarish sight, unable to speak, including Jade as she turned her head, not wanting to see the inevitable carnage.
Morcel only grinned and let out a blood-curdling war cry of his own as he returned the charge. Neither showed hesitation as the beasts sprinted toward each other like wild animals. As they engaged, the gorbel used its reach to strike first, bringing down all four of its weapons at once. Morcel went from a dead sprint to a sideways roll, easily avoiding the barrage that sank deep into the sand.
He spun from one knee as he slashed at the beast’s leg, but was too far away, catching nothing but air. He knew he was out of range even as he missed by several feet, but he had to keep mounting some kind of offence. He needed to find a way to keep this beast honest as he looked for his opening.
The gorbel showed no signs of defending itself. It swung wildly at Morcel. He dodged and rolled repeatedly, trying to get his feet under him so he could mount some kind of attack as club strikes pummeled the ground around him. The range was too much; he couldn’t get inside the arm length of the beast!
The warrior no longer held his axe with both hands on the handle. He now had one hand on the handle and one just under the blade to reinforce the weapon so he could use it to block, but with the explosive force behind those blows, a full parry would be a last resort. Morcel didn’t want to become defensive, but he had no choice.