The Gladiator's Legacy: Eternal Gladiator, #2

By Jon Kiln

Time has stolen the voices of old friends, and Draken, once a fierce gladiator, now performs in the arena without passion. His world is confined to the clang of swords and the cheer of the crowd—until a sudden shift shakes him to his core.

 

Realizing he's nothing more than a caged entertainer, Draken is struck by a fierce determination to break free. He must take control of his destiny and fight for a life beyond the arena walls or risk dying without ever truly living.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Kiln
• Release date: Nov 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223097075

Book preview

The Gladiator’s Legacy

Eternal Gladiator: Book Two

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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 © 2017.

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 12

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

Chapter 1

Anorah Pylan had once been beautiful. She still was, she thought, on the rare occasion when she happened to catch her unmasked reflection. Even the scars that covered her body could not hide that intrinsic beauty she carried. She had been beautiful and betrothed to a perfectly normal, peace-loving man: the son of a winemaker.

That had been before she had exchanged her past life and worldly wishes for a more divine purpose. Before she had given up her body to become a vessel of the wishes of the great bear god, E’ghat. Wishes that, even at this moment, she was bound to uphold. At least, that was what she told anyone who cared to enquire.

She knocked at the large oaken door twice and waited for an answer, even though she knew she wouldn’t receive one. It was an Initiation Day, a fact that, to any true follower of E’ghat, would have been an inspiration to be awake early and prepared for the ceremony. Draken Wellstroma apparently didn’t fall into that category. He openly despised Initiation Days. They meant that he actually had to work.

She pushed the heavy door open and entered his home, the smell of wine meeting her like a good host at the door. The pungent scent brought back memories of the man who had once promised to be her husband and the life that could have been hers. She suppressed them, gathering her faculties, before opening the door to Draken’s bedroom and finding him, unclothed and asleep in a tangle of covers.

She cleared her throat and he was awake at once. She had to hand it to him, even though he was clearly hung over, he was still one of the quickest responders she’d ever seen. He was up and armed in a matter of seconds, his steel braced for battle.

Ah, so you’re awake, she said through the bear mask that covered her face. Good. You’re needed in the arena. There’s a large group of hopefuls today and we have to weed out the weak, which means we need you at your best. So, sober up—or get drunker. I honestly can’t tell which is which anymore. Just make sure that you show up.

Draken grunted in affirmation and Anorah paused for a second, regarding him thoughtfully, before turning and exiting the room, leaving him to his own devices. He sat back on the bed, both hands moving to his temple, trying to massage away the pressure that seemed to be threatening to explode his forehead.

He sat still for a few minutes, struggling to wade through the haze of sleep and into the land of the living. He was sure he’d been having a wonderful dream just moments ago, but now he couldn’t seem to remember any of it. Maybe it was better that way. His dreams did nothing, lately, but remind him of a life that wasn’t his.

Or worse, a life that had once been his.

He stood up, pushing the thoughts of the past away, much like Anorah had only moments earlier, and lifted to his lips the jug that stood in its customary position beside his bed, alongside his sword. Sobering up was out of the question, so getting drunker seemed to be the only remaining option.

By the time he left the room, the jug was empty, the pressure pounding in his temples had faded to a dull throb, and he was dressed in fighting gear, sword and shield in hand, as he made his way to the arena.

Chapter 2

Draken entered the arena to an outburst of cheering and clamoring that he paid scant attention to. There was a time when he’d lived for the adoration of his fans just as much as he’d lived for the fire that he felt raging inside of him when he fought. Now, the resounding praise of the multitude of fans that had come out to the O’khulan arena to watch him was nothing but a meaningless racket in his ears. The fires of Rada that had once raged like an inferno within him had been quenched and replaced with a belly full of wine.

Let’s get this over with, he said aloud, eyeing the huddle of initiates from across the arena. It seemed like each month more and more people flocked to E’ghat. Their attack on Figa, which had left the city decimated and in ruins, had spread word of the power and strength of not only the bear-masks, but also the god that they served. Before then, this god had been virtually unknown everywhere except in the remote provinces of Eda, being so ancient that most people had forgotten, or never learned of, his existence.

Now, young and old alike were hungry for the chance to be accepted into the cult of the bear god and his die-hard followers. Deep down, Draken sensed many of them were merely desperate not to be on the losing side, vulnerable and exposed. Before they were welcomed into the elite ranks of the cult, however, they had to prove their strength and belief, which included a test of battle.

Draken reflected how different this initiation was from his own. A bit of a sorry imitation, he thought. He wondered if it was meant to put people off from joining or truly test their mettle.

A bear-mask stood up in the Mayor’s box, and the crowd fell silent. Although his face was covered by a mask identical to that of all the rest of the followers of E’ghat, Draken knew who it was. His brother, Pul, the head of the O’khul Chapter of the bear-masks, always said a few words before the Initiation began.

Greetings, he boomed pompously, his voice carrying easily throughout the vast stadium. Today marks yet another day that the great god E’ghat has blessed us to see. And as you know, as long as we are still breathing, our work is not yet done. This was met with grunts and nods of affirmation from the followers of E’ghat who sat among the spectators, and cheers from the more zealous fans in the crowd.

Today, a new group of hopeful initiates stands before you, a little larger than the last. Let’s hope that they’re more skilled in battle too, aye? The crowd laughed and Pul, who had always had a charismatic way with words, laughed with them. As you know, E’ghat is a powerful and wrathful god. He has no use for the weak or fearful. Today is when we separate his true vessels from the useless. Today, a line shall be drawn in blood with the steel of your blades.

Today... he continued, obviously relishing the energy he drew from the crowd, which grew increasingly palpable as he continued. The stomping of their anxious feet seeming to echo the pounding of the waiting initiates’ hearts. You will either be found lacking and sent packing, he paused and grinned, appreciating his own eloquence, or you begin your life with true purpose as we welcome you into the brotherhood of the bear-god! For the glory of E’ghat!

The crowd erupted in a fit of excitement and emotion. Some of them were there for the entertainment that came with watching a mock battle, others were true and devout believers in E’ghat, waiting to see what would become of this new flock of initiates. All of them, though, had felt the emotion in Pul’s words, and it took them a while to quiet down enough for the first battle to begin.

Draken felt nothing as he stood, his eyes glued to the open sky above the arena, as the sun bathed him in its warm rays. Nothing that is, except for the faint desire for more wine. He knew that as time passed the thirst would intensify, thrusting itself to the forefront of his mind until it was all he could think of, but for now, it was manageable. He hoped his tiresome duty would be done before it got past that point.

The first initiate to step into the ring was a balding, portly man. His shield and sword looked clumsy in his meaty hands and there was already sweat beading his forehead and trickling down his sideburns. Draken sighed with boredom as he mechanically readied his weapon and waited for Pul to signal the beginning of the fight.

He remembered, again, his own Initiation, in the sewers below the city of Figa, and the contrast struck him afresh. There had been no watching crowd, save the dozen or so bear-masks who had huddled in the dank, dim waterways.

Another glaring difference was that his initiation had been a fight to the death—at the end of it, only one person would be left standing. He recalled how he had believed that E’ghat had given him the strength to overpower his opponent and emerge victorious. Where he stood now, he didn’t know where his power came from, and he didn’t really believe it mattered much, either.

At the lighting of the ceremonial flame, the portly man began charging towards Draken, his sword held above his head. He moved quicker than Draken had anticipated he would, but his swing was deplorable. Draken lazily sidestepped it, tripping him in the process and sending him crashing to the arena floor on top of the shield he’d been holding so clumsily.

Within seconds, Draken was upon him, his hand gripping him by his round head, exposing his neck to the sharp sting of his blade against it. If he’d wanted, he could have easily severed it from his body in one motion. But there was no need for such violence. Besides, there would have been no fun or honor in killing someone as severely outmatched as this man.

Draken turned him loose, and he staggered away as quickly as he could, leaving his weapons behind.

The next few initiates followed suit, displaying poor form and a general lack of any kind of fighting technique. With the cult gaining such renown, many people saw it as an opportunity to bring meaning to their life, and being dangerously ignorant of the peril and bloodshed that accompanied the following, they took their chances.

Draken dispatched with the line-up of initiates quickly. It seemed to him that today, the whole lot of them would fall without him having to so much as raise his shield. His mind was soon to be changed by the next initiate who stepped into the ring, ready to prove to Draken just how much he had underestimated them.

Chapter 3

From the moment the young man stepped into the sand-covered floor of the arena, Draken could tell that he was unlike the other initiates he’d faced so far. For starters, he carried himself like one who was not altogether unfamiliar with mortal combat.

The man, who looked young enough to still be referred to as a boy, was clearly not from Eda. His skin had the sun-kissed tinge of those from the region of Figa and his long blond hair fell to his shoulders. Even a quick glance at him would be enough for anyone to tell that he had been born under the sky of Shinna, the goddess of beautiful things.

He was equipped with a spear, and by the look of things, he knew how to use it. He held it with both hands, forgoing the use of a shield, and keeping the weight balanced expertly as he twirled it from one side of his body to the next. The spearhead became nothing but a sharp glint in the rays of the sun hanging overhead. Draken caught himself smirking as he watched the man-boy dexterously wield his weapon, displaying his skill in such a boastful and naive manner.

Old Babe! the boy called from across the arena. If he hadn’t had Draken’s full attention before, he certainly had it now. No one used his old arena name any more, except for his brother, and even he only did that when he wanted to get under his skin.

This Initiation Day might prove to be interesting after all.

My father always taught me that before you kill a man, you introduce yourself. He believed a person had the right to know who took their lives so that they could avenge themselves in the next life. Well, Old Babe, my name is Valen Detarse, and I intend to be the man that ends you.

The crowd fell silent. None of them were accustomed to such a display of confidence when it came to matters with Draken. Even though fallen from being the almost unstoppable force he had once been in the arena, it was clear simply in the way he carried himself that he was still a force to be reckoned with.

The southern wind whipped through the arena loudly, as if it too were waiting, almost beckoning forth an answer to Valen’s challenge. After what felt like an eternity, he opened his mouth and laughed, loudly and animatedly. Well, then, he said, quit yapping and kill me already.

Valen wasted no time answering Draken’s challenge, moving deftly towards him, closing the wide gap between the two fighters. The haze of wine had begun to clear from Draken’s mind, affording him the clarity to observe the distinctions between Valen and the lesser fighters.

Valen didn’t charge indiscriminately, throwing everything he had into one desperate, wild blow. In fact, his movements were precise, as if thought out and strategized by the mind of a tactician.

He danced around Draken, moving his feet with elegance and surefootedness. The range of his spear outmatched the length of Draken’s sword and it was clear to Draken he intended to capitalize on this, baiting him into an attack and then striking him while he was exposed. Draken wasn’t about to make it that easy for him, though.

Valen, still out of Draken’s range, twisted his body slightly to the left, and the blunt end of his spear followed with the speed and force of someone twice his size. The blow clanked thunderously against Draken’s shield. The next of his thrusts came not even a second later, this one with the sharp metal head of the spear, aimed lower, hoping to take him out at the knees. Draken once again saw the attack coming, and this time parried it, slicing upward with a fierce swing of his sword.

The blow dislodged the grip of one of Valen’s hands, but the other retained its hold on the spear. Draken could have taken him out then and there; he had left himself completely open to an attack.

That was the problem with two-handed weapons, Draken thought, allowing the opportunity to pass, as Valen regained control of his spear. Admittedly, he was having fun, and didn’t think that any of the other initiates would give him even half as good a time as this one.

A glance passed between the two fighters, speaking in the wordless language that so many of their kind were fluent in. It was as if a sort of connecting of the minds was fostered when two people entered into the pits of the arena, laying it all on the line and battling for glory. Valen’s eyes told Draken that he knew that he had deliberately spared him. Draken’s eyes, beneath the cloud of intoxication, told him that he didn’t care.

That was the second time he would underestimate Valen, and the initiate intended to make him pay for it.

Draken was on the offensive now, the appearance of even the semblance of a worthy opponent setting heat to the long dormant coals of rage that had once burned so hot inside of him. They weren’t quite the fire they used to be, but he could feel a warmth in his stomach that he knew he couldn’t attribute to the wine.

He rushed Valen, paying no mind to the difference in the range of the weapons or the speed that his antagonist had so far displayed. He wanted to see just how far he could push this match.

Draken struck with his sword, a well-timed slice, aimed right at the midsection. Had it connected, it surely would have cut through the thin fabric Valen was wearing and left a deep gash in his abdomen. It didn’t, however, due to a dazzling display of acrobatics on the part of Valen, as he flipped backwards out of the way.

He landed on his feet and spun his spear around his body in a series of flashy twirls and arcs, much to the delight of the crowd. A high-pitched chorus of women could be heard from behind him in the stands, cheering and calling out his name.

For a moment, it distracted Draken, calling his mind back to a time when he had been young and women had fawned all over him as