The Gladiator's Reckoning: Eternal Gladiator, #3

By Jon Kiln

Draken, a seasoned warrior, ventures west alongside Jace, a monk whose humor lightens Draken's somber mood. Their surprising destination offers a glimmer of joy to Draken's weary soul.

 

But trouble brews as Pul, Draken's brother, hungers for revenge and contemplates a grim act that could alter their destinies.

 

As the cult of E'ghat spreads fear and worship of the formidable bear god, the time comes for a hero to step forward. Draken must rise to the challenge, harnessing his gladiatorial might to confront the creeping darkness that threatens to consume all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Kiln
• Release date: Nov 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223485179

Book preview

The Gladiator’s Reckoning

Eternal Gladiator: Book Three

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by Jon Kiln

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Epilogue

Chapter 1

The atmosphere was palpable in the holding cells under the arena stands at Ankarak. Chanting and singing from the crowd above echoed down into the cavernous rooms, sounding hollow and cold. A collection of gladiators of all shapes and sizes, as varied as their weapons and distinctive armor, sat in silence, each one lost in his own thoughts.

Every now and then, one of them would glance across to a dark corner where a bear of a man sat staring at them from the semi-darkness. How they knew, was a mystery, because his eyes were obscured by the shadows cast across the top half of his body, but his presence seemed to permeate the room, and the minds of the other men in it, like an overpowering odor.

His two legs, jutting out from the shadows like great tree trunks, commanded the only spot of light shining in from a small window at the very top of the unforgiving stone wall. All the gladiators felt his eyes on them, watching, coolly sizing them up, and none were comfortable with the idea, but they dared not confront him about it.

They all knew any wrong move now would cost them dearly on the arena sands. Not that they expected any mercy to begin with, but there was no sense in making a bad situation worse. His name echoed in every mind as they remembered tales told about him, and shivered inwardly.

Thargon, of Meahdré, in the far southern territories. He had come to the northern circuits of Eda and Drammata only a few months ago, a man of few words and not prone to blowing his own trumpet as the local champion gladiators were in the habit of doing. It only took a few weeks and as many fights, until his reputation began to precede him.

He was as ruthless as he was mute, and many of the news-callers liked to tell how he had no loyalties except to himself. He never said a word at any press meetings or post match parties, and so, with the aid of unfounded claims by news-callers and gossipers, the mystique that surrounded him had grown to the magnitude of myth and legend in the short time that he had been in the territories.

Pul and his posse of riders entered the arena grounds, their bear-mask outfits attracting scant attention as the name of Thargon held the population enraptured. Pul heard a group of stable hands talking about him as the bear-masks tethered their horses in the nearest stalls.

Stopping abruptly as he walked past them in the direction of the arena, he singled out one of them in the group. Who is this ‘Thargon’ everyone is speaking about? he asked, without introduction.

Why, sir, the youngest stable lad was only too happy to answer, he’s only the biggest thing since Old Babe! And a sight more impressive, too.

Pul’s interest was piqued. More impressive than Draken? You mean even in his heyday? he asked the lad skeptically.

Oh, yes, sir. You should see him in action in the arena! Oh, but I guess you will, since you’re here and it’s a fight day. The excitement in the young man’s voice was contagious, but the motivation behind his passion was different to that which was emerging in Pul.

Does he have a manager? Pul asked, hoping that would be general knowledge. It was.

No, sir. No manager, no trainer, no news-caller. Nothing, sir.

So he was just like Draken, only more mysterious. Thank you, boy, Pul said, dismissively, tossing a coin at the lad and walking away. Take good care of our horses and there may be more where that came from, he shot over his shoulder at the grinning boy.

What do you make of that, A’ghel? Pul asked his right hand man, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

Interesting, General, A’ghel said, thoughtfully, not wanting to divulge his true thoughts. He had begun to perceive that he and Pul were not on the same page. Even this seemed like too much coincidence to him. His strategist’s mind was weighing up the likelihood of them coming upon a candidate so soon. What were the priests of E’ghat planning?

Is that all you have to say? Pul’s voice held an edge of irritability, as they reached the arena stands and chose their seats.

Well, I’m just wondering... If he’s such an independent fighter, what are the chances he’ll come to Batgar with us?

So, you think he might be serving some other god?

I don’t know... Such men are difficult to read.

Either way, I’m sure he won’t say no to a fight, and once he feels the rage and power of E’ghat, like Draken did, we’ll have our vessel and I shall be restored to honor again.

I just think it’s—

Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the opening rounds of The Ankarak Duels! the announcer’s booming voice cut in on A’ghel’s sentence, effectively silencing him.

Chapter 2

The crescent moon hung like a huge sickle over the snow-topped peaks of the Nostral Mountains. This high up, the air was thin and crisp. Tyrad could feel it in his injuries, but he wasn’t about to let anything stop him from his mission.

He had bound both his knees tightly with a shirt he had ripped into long strips, and furtively taken some extra bread and cured ham from Frund’s stash of plunder in the wagon, stuffing it into a leather sling bag. He didn’t know how long it would take him to catch up with Draken and his group, and he wasn’t quite in a state fit for hunting.

Moving as stealthily as his aching limbs would allow, he maneuvered his bulk over the front end of the wagon, using the tongue of the wagon to clamber down to the ground. Walking stiffly and slowly, he approached the horses hobbled under the nearest tree. Here, Thwak, he whispered. A strapping chestnut stallion lifted his head and moved towards him, nickering for a treat.

Tyrad loosened his horse’s hobbles, and led him away, the snail’s pace of his movements as much caused by his desire to leave undetected, as by the pain in his heavily protesting knees. He reached the rock he had identified earlier that evening. It jutted out of the mountainside, creating the perfect mounting platform that he could simply walk up, allowing him to ease his injured legs over his horse’s broad back.

Once mounted, he nudged Thwak into a slow walk, still wary of waking his slumbering compatriots. With the weight off his knees, he wasn’t holding his breath any more, nor gritting his teeth against the pain. He moved off quietly into the shadows of the mountainside, away from his slumbering kinsmen.

As he rode, he thought about Draken and the bear-mask girl. He wanted to join them, to leave his senseless life of plunder and pillaging. They seemed like they had something more to live for than just taking what others had.

The fact that they had come to rescue those trainee gladiators and dragged them along with them wherever they were going now, had stirred something in Tyrad. He wanted to know more. His sense of loyalty toward Grof, as well as his tribe, was still intact, but he felt a greater purpose calling him and something about Old Babe told him he would find his answer there, wherever he was going.

Tyrad rode in the typical Aldolfin style, no saddle or bridle, just guiding the horse with his body and his voice, and balancing his huge hulk with surprising agility aboard the swaying frame of the animal. The moon didn’t give much light, but he could make out the outlines of the mountain peaks looking like massive sleeping dragons in the velvety darkness.

In his mind he played over memories of the stories he had listened to when he visited Grof’s house as a boy. They told of mountains that held mysterious creatures hidden in caves, of knights fighting dragons, of princesses melting the stony hearts of great warriors. Above him the stars drifted lazily across the sky until the morning sun began to glitter in the slowly greying east.

The silence was almost tangible, and every footfall of his horse sounded like a drumbeat in his ears. Suddenly he became aware of sounds he had not heard before. A twig snapping, a whisper, hoofbeats sounding behind him.

Stand, he whispered hoarsely to Thwak, leaning forward and tapping the horse’s chest. Straining his ears, while he looked for a place to hide, he tried to determine the direction the sounds had come from. Another twig snapped, a leaf rustled. Tyrad urged Thwak off the mountain path into a small copse of fir trees.

He turned him to face back where they had come from, his eyes straining to differentiate one grey shadow from the next, his mind imagining all manner of loathsome and fearsome mythical creatures coming to devour him and his horse.

Something moved in the patch of trees he had just come from, another twig snapped, another whisper carried to him across the clearing. Now I can’t see him. Will you hurry up, already?

Tyrad noiselessly pulled his longbow from his back, and nocked an arrow, aiming it in the direction of the whisper. I can see you! he shouted, staring at the place where he had seen the movement. It may as well have been a ghost, since the grey shadows had all blended together again. At least the sound of his voice was real, and the smooth wood of his bow in his hand, and the coarse JuriJuri bird feathers at the end of the arrow.

Tyrad, don’t shoot. It’s Frund. His brother’s voice was flat and unemotional.

And Negal, his hidden companion added.

You fools! I could have killed you! Tyrad said, lowering his weapon. Come out now! Where are you?

The two sheepishly emerged from the shadows of the trees, and moved in the direction of Tyrad’s voice. He nudged Thwak, and the stallion moved out from behind the trees. I told you not to come with me. Tyrad was scowling darkly at his brother. Who’s going to tell Mamma that I’m okay?

Oh, don’t worry, Chief Grof’s got that little detail.

The Chief? Good grief, did you tell the whole dang tribe, Frund?

No, Frund felt like they were little boys again. He always did manage to ruffle his younger brother’s feathers. Just the Chief. He sent us after you.

You’re not taking me back. Forget it.

Relax, Negal cut in. Chief said we were to back you up, since you’re bushwhacking with bunged up knees and all.

Yup. We know you well enough to know once you’ve got something in your head, ain’t nothing gonna turn it, not bunged up knees, and not us, affirmed Frund.

Besides, we did say we also wanted an adventure. You can’t be going off and having all the fun by yourself. Negal cuffed his friend in the back of the head as he brought his horse alongside Thwak. Tyrad cuffed him back, and turned his big stallion to continue on his journey, his brother and his friend falling in behind him.

So, Wild Rover, Frund said, you say we’re going west?

That’s right, Tyrad responded reluctantly.

Any idea where exactly in the west? Negal queried.

Nope. But I’m thinking they’ll head for the Goran river.

Chapter 3

Zon snuck into the great cathedral of Mur’ahk’s monastery, drawn by the hypnotic strains of male voices in harmony meandering down the corridors like the fragrance of lavender on a hot summer day. He stood behind a curtain in the balcony, feeling the sound vibrate through him as it resonated throughout the cavernous room.

The melody was strangely familiar, and yet he couldn’t place where he had heard it before. He closed his eyes, letting his body and soul drink in the invisible nectar. A sweet ache filled him as he remembered his parents and grandfather in happier times.

He still couldn’t fully grasp his loss, and the surroundings he found himself in were simultaneously alien and familiar, only adding to his sense of confusion and helplessness. All he could do was ignore the storm inside and be the pillar of support for the younger children in their little group; and hope for rare occasions like this to come when he could just let go and allow grief to overtake him.

He slid down the wall until he sat on the cold stone floor with his knees up against his chest. Wrapping his arms around his folded legs he put his head down and began to weep. His lean body shook like a palm leaf in the moist ocean breeze that used to blow in from the west in his homeland.

He felt himself being carried far, far away on the strains of music and his own longing. He saw his mother’s face, heard her voice singing a lullaby; his father teaching him of the forest and the swamps and the animals that populated them. Most of all he heard his grandfather’s voice, imparting words of wisdom and guidance and strength.

A movement of the curtain and a gossamer touch against his shoulder startled him back to reality. He looked up, his hands flying to his face to wipe away the evidence of his emotional landslide. A small hand rested lightly on his right leg and he looked into two eyes brimming with tears, and yet full of comfort and hope.

Nhala! Zon exclaimed in a loud whisper. You should be asleep. He didn’t mean to sound bossy, but all he really wanted was to be alone.

I came when I heard the singing, she said softly, her face not changing in expression at all. It felt like I had heard it before.

I had that feeling too. Zon’s voice softened and he felt a little twinge of remorse at his earlier reaction.

It’s beautiful, Nhala said, laying her head against Zon’s shoulder, I wish they would sing all night. There was an unexpected comfort in her presence, as if it was her carrying him, and not the other way round, as he had been feeling when he was around all the other children.

He felt a deep gratitude well up inside him for her simple trust and resolute faith in him. He realized, in a flash of clarity, that it was her very faith in him that gave him strength to do what seemed to be beyond his capacity. He laid his head on hers, and drew strength from her closeness while the music wrapped them in its rhapsodic embrace.

Sleep gently overtook them there, side by side, and they didn’t even hear the monks leave silently to their quarters for a night of sleep. The next thing they both knew, the heavy, velvet curtain was being pulled back and a shout went up as blinding sunlight streamed through the lead-glass patterned windows of the cathedral, onto their faces.

Brother Kinlan! I’ve found them! In the cathedral! A young monk shouted irreverently, then suddenly realizing what he was doing, he slapped one hand over his mouth, dropped the curtain again and ran on tiptoes out of the place of worship.

Soon, hasty footsteps echoed in the passage outside as the two stood up and emerged from their hiding place, blinking in the bright morning light. Brother Kinlan entered, a look of utter relief flooding his face.

Thanks be to our Dual Lady, he exclaimed. I thought you had been kidnapped or got lost somehow. I don’t know what I would have said to Brother Jace. But, there now, you’re found. And you must be hungry. Come, we shall eat and then we have some business to attend to. He placed a hand on each one’s shoulder and steered them towards the passage leading to the kitchen area of the monastery.

Nhala smiled sleepily. Oh, we are so sorry, Brother Kinlan. The singing was so beautiful last night, we could simply not stay awake.

Oh, yes, the canto is rather lovely, isn’t it? Brother Kinlan was ushering them into the simple dining hall, where steaming sorghum porridge, dribbled with honey from the monks’ own beehives, awaited. The head monk’s state of excitement was not entirely due to the two’s temporary disappearance, as they were soon to find out.

Young Zon, Kinlan babbled without waiting for his guest to finish his breakfast. We have been doing some tests with the minerals you brought us from your Sacred Swamps.

Zon found it endearing that the monks had listened to their story and taken the trouble to learn all about their homeland. He kept his eyes glued to the older man’s face as he took in what he told him.

One of our brothers miraculously escaped the monastery fire at Dippa, which was Brother Jace’s old monastery, and he found an incendiary device that had fallen in the moat and not exploded. Zon listened as he swallowed the hot, sweet porridge and felt it warm him right down to his chilly