The Liberation Regiment
The tension dwindles as the blade slices through meat, organs, and bone. Blood brims as the eternal dark begins. Shadows pass overhead as the wind breathes its final fatal breath. The agonizing pain subsides into a numbing cold. A guttural wail builds his absent lungs, and his guts spill forward, splattering onto the gritty sands. He looks at the sky, which is so blue, so bright, and so full of promise. His world then blurs in somersaults before his head hits the sand, rolling through the grit. A final release, the taste of blood-soaked grime.
The pit fighters kneel before the decapitated body. The owner’s head rests a few yards away, staring into the sand. A trail of blood traces its flight path.
Ravens peck at the flesh around the neck, pulling away strands of bloody meat, tissue, and leathery skin. Gutted from belly to neck, the ribs are cleaved like pork chops. The ravens hop and pick through the spilled innards, pecking at his lungs and drinking from his heart. The stench of death fills the air.
Nobody intends to die this way.
“Damn good work, Pit Master.” Lord Commander Torrington nods with approval.
The Pit Master, Jorge, walks behind the long line of kneeling fighters. His greasy, bald head glistens with sweat. He counts with his blood-stained hands as he walks.
Jorge’s well-fed belly jiggles on his strong, broad chest. He is not tall but not short, and one eye is missing, bearing a branded X’ scar where a poker seared the flesh. He wipes the dripping blood from his broadsword with a tattered white rag.
“Now, men,” Lord Commander Torrington beams with a nauseatingly suave grin as he polishes his pinned medals. “We’ve established that you have only two choices.” He walks before the long line of kneeling pit fighters, eyeballing them one by one. “Serve your kingdom.” He stops pacing and glances at the splayed remains swimming in gore. “Or die, like this poor fellow.” He swats a buzzing fly in front of his handsome face. “The reward for your service is life, freedom, and one thousand gold Drakes.”
A chorus of murmurs and nods ripples down the kneeling line.
“Your mission is to do what you do best; killing." Torrington runs a hand through his golden hair. “You will reclaim the garrison of Ossan from the Galt’s for the glory of Thiel.”
The kneeling pit fighters erupt in questions.
“Silence. The next man to speak will lose his tongue.” Torrington unsheathes his unused broadsword and holds it up to the autumn sun, where rays of majestic light reflect off the polished blade. “Excellent,” he says, giving a charismatic grin and sheathes his sword. “You will form the liberation regiment.”
“Liber what?” A low-born gutter voice pipes up.
An arrow whistles past Torrington’s ear and slams into the speaker’s mouth. In a series of gagging chokes, the pit fighter falls face-first into the dirt, choking on the arrow shaft.
“Damn good shot, soldier.” He turns to face his armored wall of guards behind him, shining like polished trophies under the sun.
The small battalion’s blue capes, with Thiel’s eagle conquering the world, sigil and flutter in the wind. Their arrows nocked on polished bows with bright silver tips, ready to fly.
“Thank you, Lord Commander.” The soldier steps forward, gives a slight bow, and then steps back into formation.
A wave of anxiety ripples through the chained line of kneeling pit fighters.
“We will have order. You will not question me. You will listen. Those who wish to live will stand. Those who kneel will meet the maker for your crimes.” Lord Commander Torrington paces up and down the long line of criminals. “You are rapists, thieves, brawlers, and murderers. I believe in one case, a horse fucker.”
A snorting snigger escapes a pit fighter's nose before another arrow is loosed. The shot slams straight into the sniggering pit fighter’s eye socket. The dead man mouths to speak but collapses with a heavy crunch, spewing his own blood onto the sand.
“Excellent shot, soldier.”
“Thank you, Lord Commander.”
The pit fighters stare dead ahead in silence.
“As loyal Thielian citizens, it is your sworn duty to liberate the border garrison of Ossan from the Galt’s. You will wreak bloody havoc, and you will leave nonalive.” He stops pacing and looks a pit fighter, dead in the eyes. “If the Galt’s surrender, you will run them through.” Torrington places his hands behind his back and paces up and down the kneeling line. “The great armies of Thiel will be at your back, and Ossan will serve as our most eastern outpost from which we will lead the invasion of Galt. This is your duty, men of Thiel. Questions? You may speak.”
“What if we aren’t Thielian?” A heavy Tivanian-accented voice pipes up.
“Good question. Galt’s, Tivanian’s, Hebend’s, Norgrad’s, Tibian’s, and all other non-Thielian’s, please rise.” Torrington beams his best Lord Commander’s grin. “Stand, that’s an order.”
Chains clatter as three dozen chained pit fighter's rise.
A volley of arrows whistles, then thumps into their flesh. Some lie dead, while others writhe in agony. The second volley thuds into those still living.
“General Olroid,” Lord Commander Torrington spins to look at his horse-mounted general. “Have your men disciplined and drilled. A single volley. There are no second chances on the battlefield.”
General Olroid pulls up his gleaming silver visor on his great helm. “Yes, Lord Commander.” The general’s horse gives a shake of its head with a low snicker.
“Excellent. Now we’ve removed the foreign taint. I assume we’re left with only Thiel’s finest. How many, Pit Master?”
“Call me Jorge, if you will, Lord Commander.” The Pit Master wipes a torrent of sweat from his blood-stained forehead, licks his lips, and counts the heads. His deep voice coughs up a wad of phlegm, which he spits onto the pit floor. “Seventy-six, Lord Commander.”
“Excellent, Captain Jorge.” Torrington gives the Pit Master a commanding nod. “Select your second in command. He must be a man who will follow your orders and ensure compliance within your ranks.”
Jorge walks down the line and taps a monster of a man on the head. “Stand.”
The Ox rises, towering at all eight feet of his height. Massive muscles ripple down his wall of mountainous meat. He gives a silent nod to Jorge, and, with giant steps, he comes to stand at his captain’s side.
“The Ox, Lord Commander. He’s the best fighter we’ve had since that noble cunt, Jain.”
Torrington bristles at hearing the name of Jain before he gives an appreciative nod. “Yes, I’ve seen this Ox fight. He split a man in two like firewood. His crimes?”
“He enjoys killing, Lord Commander. Born and bred for it. None better from this lot.” He gives the Ox a heavy push forward.
“Excellent progress.” Torrington gives a hearty laugh. “Captain Jorge, have your men unchained and armed.” Torrington points to the wooden weapons rack full of battle axes, war hammers, maces, swords, and short blades.
“Yes, Lord Commander.” Jorge rummages for his key and begins unchaining his men.
Lord Commander Torrington raises his neck with pride. “Soldiers, stand.”
“That’s an order from your Lord Commander, and you will respond when spoken to.” The mounted General Olroid kicks his white stallion forward. He gives Torrington a nod, who nods back with an unspoken response of approval. “You will address me as general. You will do as I tell you without question.”
“Yes, general.” The line of pit fighters responds with a resounding chorus, all rising to their feet.
“You will remain within the confines of the arena. Any attempt to flee will result in your immediate death.”
“Yes, general,” murmurs echo around the colosseum as their chains clatter free from their ankles and wrists.
“If you even think about trying to overpower my men, I’ll remove your foolish heads myself.” With a loud grate, the general unsheathes his unused broadsword. He holds it up to the beams of bright sunlight, which dance on its razor edge.
The gleaming royal armored knights fan out to form a shining circle. Arrows are nocked, their blades unsheathed, and visors slam shut.
The mounted general pivots his horse and points to the weapons rack. “Select your weapons of choice, then join your captain.”
The pit fighters gawp at their freed arms and legs. Some eye the nearest escape route, although most salute their good fortune. They stride toward the weapons rack in search of their cruel instruments of choice.
The Ox claims a huge double battle axe as another fighter clasps a great war hammer, which he pulls tight to his chest as you would a loving child. Other pit fighter's claim short swords, spiked maces, and all manner of dark blades designed for even darker deeds.
“They’ll have to do, aye, Captain Jorge.” Commander Torrington marches forward toward Jorge.
“They’ll serve, Lord Commander.” Jorge sucks his gums and gives a broad, foul-toothed, crooked grin.
“Get in a line,” Jorge barks his command, gesturing with his sword for the fighters to line up in the shade of the arena wall.
“Have your men cleaned up, captain.” Torrington finds a condescending grin. “Fresh clothing, armor, ale, and hot food for our new troops.” He rubs his own rumbling belly. “Freemen of Thiel, you will kneel.”
The pit fighters fall to their knees under the shade of the colosseum wall. The line of seventy-six men hangs their heads, looking down to their deathly instruments between their legs.
A black-robed banker labors into the arena with a heavy chest; he cradles it tight, almost lovingly in his arms, as he walks at Torrington’s side. The banker tosses woven purses of coin which thud on the earth before each of the kneeling fighters.
The pit fighter's stare, captivated, up at the radiant Lord Commander as he parades before them.
“Payment, in advance, for your loyal service of one thousand gold Drakes.” The pit fighters look up to Torrington with awe. “More coin than you could earn in a great cycle. Freemen of Thiel, I hereby conscript you into the liberation regiment. You will serve without question, and you will do your duty as commanded by your captain.” He points to Jorge. “Serve our great kingdom, liberate Ossan, and reclaim our glorious land from the invading Galt’s. The last convoy of grain leaves at sunset, and you will escort it to Ossan.”
“Yes, Lord Commander.” Jorge rolls his scarred, squat neck.
“Stand.” Captain Jorge cracks his twisted fingers. “Form up. I said, Form up.” The untrained pit fighters form a half-broken line in rows of five. “Not bad," he says as he walks down the formation rows, eyeballing every man.
The Ox walks behind him, casting a giant, ominous shadow before his captain’s footsteps.
“Captain?” Torrington turns to look at Jorge.
“Yes, Lord Commander Torrington.”
“It’s a five-turn march to Ossan. As captain, you may ride a grain wagon. Take whatever measures are necessary to ensure order in your ranks. Deserters shall be hunted down and beheaded.” Lord Commander Torrington eyeballs the motley crew of mishaps with an almost concerned glance. “Given the chance, they’ll mutiny and gut you, captain.”
“Nah, they won’t.” Jorge breaks out into a rumbling laugh, shaking his head.
“How so?” Torrington raises a single inquisitive brow.
“I ain’t the Pit Master for nothing, Lord Commander. Twenty great cycles I fought in this pit. There’s only one man I met better with a blade, and his name is Jain Adair. I’ll flay these maggots alive if they even look at me wrong.” Jorge turns, facing his men. “Ain’t that right, soldiers?”
“Aye, Jorge.”
“From now on, you shall address me as, captain.”
“Yes, captain.”
“Well, let’s get you ugly bastards cleaned up and well fed. It’s going to be a long march, and you heard the Lord Commander. We leave at sunset.”