The Alliance - 4. Chapter 4

Luca made his way through the twisting cobblestone streets of the Nabian capitol, dodging countless vendors and shopkeepers urging him to have a look at their specially priced wares. The street was hot and crowded, filled with the scent of countless spices and roasting meats. Beads, scarves, hulking Nabian citizens, and groups of screaming children playing war games were among the obstacles in his path, which he walked almost subconsciously. It was his fourth year in the city, and he had always hated it during this season. When the gladiatorial games were on, people came from all over Nabius to watch. Officials from the academies of all thirteen Nabian provinces also gathered in the capitol during this time, mostly to swap invented combat strategies and moves that they had picked up or created during their separation. It was often the practice of Nabians to take their children to pick up on these fighting strategies, and the academy officials offered special classes and demonstrations as well.

Luca had been to watch, once, when a Count from one of the southern provinces had bought him for his son for the night. The count’s son, cruel and ill tempered, had wanted to watch a public demonstration of a new kill tactic. Internally, Luca had scoffed when he heard that one of the moves in the skill set was called the iron bloodlilly. Who was afraid of a flower? The name sounded weak even to a peace-loving Ironian. But when the demonstration began and it came time to demonstrate the move, he had been quieted to see that it involved using one man’s splintered arm bone that came through the skin to stab another man in the throat. The young Ironian had been nauseated at the demonstration, and it took every ounce of self-control he had not to lose the contents of his stomach there and then. Needless to say, his bloodthirsty charge for the night was repulsed by this display of weakness. It had not been an enjoyable evening after that. Walking under an elaborate tarp with a black and maroon pattern of swords and bloodlillies on it that supposedly was twenty five percent of its original price, Luca shuddered and hoped that he did not have any unpleasant clients scheduled for the rest of the day. He also hoped that he would have free time in the afternoon to see the tournament that his friend – or so he liked to think of Alex Di Coteau, though that identity was not known at the time – was in. He hoped the older teen survived, as he had so far been one of just a few halfway decent Nabian citizens he encountered.

Turning left down a narrow alleyway, he looked up at the building that had been home for the past four years. Made mostly of black stone covered in ivy, the two-story building’s arched windows looked to him like angry eyes, glaring down at the visitors to the building. Luca knew they could see his sins and failures. The iron door to the place had chipping maroon paint on the front, and Luca sighed when he opened the door to a smoky parlor filled with drunken soldiers and topless women. He turned towards the spiral stone staircase on the inside, and walked through the parlor. About halfway through the room, a drunken soldier that was sprawled out on a velvet chaise lounge stuck his heavy metal boot out, intending to trip the boy. Luca saw it coming far ahead of time because the man was drunk, not moving as quickly as he thought. When Luca sidestepped the boot, the man gave an angry look and placed a massive armored hand in between the boy’s shoulder blades. One violent shove and Luka’s face hit the ground. It didn’t hurt much, but he reddened at the embarrassment. He quietly stood up and walked up the stairs, leaving the drunken soldier and the topless brunette on his lap to giggle about the fall.

At the top of the stairs, he turned right down a long hallway of doors. The second one from the end was his own room, but he paused to knock tentatively at a larger, more decorative door. It was Yonin Meko’s private office. A cruel man with a hooked nose, bald head, and too much perfume, Meko was a city official that owned many of the brothels in the capitol. Luca worked at his main establishment, given that he was desired by many of the noblemen and counts in the city. With the extravagance of Meko’s largest brothel behind him, the teen could easily fetch a hefty price. The whoremaster liked that, so Luca had earned a spot in one of the "finest" establishments in the city. When a terse command to enter prompted Luca through the door, he was nervous to see that Meko was frowning. Bent over logbooks that no doubt told the comings of and goings of patrons and the money they had spent whoring, the man’s foul mood radiated through the room. Luca wanted nothing more than to be in his own room, in his own bed. The whoremaster had a habit of moving in rapid bursts, and the hoops that hung from his ears shook when he glanced at the young boy.

“How was your night with the gladiator? He was rather short, no?” Luca still had some difficulty in deciphering the thick accent that cloaked the man’s speech, but had been getting better. He wasn’t sure where Meko was originally from, but it was not Ironia, Nabius, or Tomacia. He pronounced each syllable with a staccato flair, speaking as quickly as he moved. A jerky incline of his head demanded answers.

“Yes, sir. I think he enjoyed my presence, and I enjoyed his. Even if he was not a big man.” For once, the second part of his statement was actually true.

“I should have asked Evangelo for more. You are one of my best boys eh?” He patted Luca’s check twice with a ringed hand and showed a gold tooth in his efforts to smile. Though he may not have been from Nabius, Nabian values served Yonin Meko well. He valued power as much as any general of the thirteen, and squandered money with the best of the lords of the Nabian underworld. Luca was about to ask for permission to return to his quarters and await his next patron, when something on a page caught Meko’s attention and made him hiss. Luca had heard that noise of extreme disappointment from the man before, and knew what it meant. He stilled, hoping that Meko would forget he was still in the room. Meko looked down at the page, up at the boy, and back down at the page. True to his nature, the bald man then lashed out furiously and with extreme speed. He slugged Luca in the stomach, chest and throat, and then left him on the ground with a resounding slap. The larger man straightened, adjusting his maroon top.

“Your schedule is cleared for the rest of the afternoon, boy. You will be my cup bearer and escort while I watch the games today.” Promptly, Meko walked out of the room and shut the door behind him. As soon as he got back to his room, Luca let finally let loose. He was glad he would not have to work that evening, as he didn’t think he would have been able to handle it. He hated life in the brothel. As tears flowed and the boy tried to stifle his sobs, he thought back on what his life had been like before his region in Ironia was attacked. Even though his room wasn’t much larger, it was infinitely more homely. Then even more depressingly, he realized that his sixteenth year had passed some time in the past week or so.

***

Midday came, and Alexandre was directed from the slave quarters into the crowded streets of the capitol. The place was familiar to him, the sounds and smells bringing back memories of he and a young Talia exploring and attending course after course on advanced fighting techniques with the warriors gathered there. Alex had always enjoyed visits to the capitol, and was eager to learn new formations and techniques of battle that came from the other provinces of Nabius. As a preteen, he absorbed things like a sponge, and even participated in some public demonstrations. Commoners his age watched in awe when he fought like an artist. Boys and girls either wanted to be with him or be him. After all, he was a general's son and a fighting prodigy. The real artists in Alexandre's mind, however, had been the gladiatorial slaves that were put on display in various arenas throughout the city. They illustrated battle with fluid grace, painting the sand at their feet with red. There were one-on-one fights, events that involved wild animals, and reenactments of famous Nabian battles. The Di Coteau children had enjoyed attending the events of the capitol, and usually watched the war games while their parents were attending to business. Each year for almost a month, the games continued until surviving warriors were placed in the grand arena, located at the center of the city. Alex had been there many times, though his visit today would be his first to the inside of the actual arena. He supposed that the view would be very different from what he was used to in the stands. In a way, it was lucky that Alex had been captured just days before the final game. He did not have to endure the month of lesser challenges, and had been drafted immediately as a competitor in the final battle. Unfortunately, Alexandre had not been to the annual festivities for quite some time, and was not kept up to date concerning the games. After turning thirteen, he had found travels pointless. Academy officials and various dignitaries visited the Di Coteau manor often, and any skills they had to offer he had learned there. As they aged, Talia and Alexandre began to loath traveling to see combat. Quite frankly, it was boring, redundant, and something that they saw often in their normal lives anyhow. Focusing on the task at hand, Alex knew the gist of the final war game each year. Though it changed annually, the final war game consisted of gladiators that had survived the month and were all thrown into the ovular stadium like cattle. Each year, they were divided into teams based on how many warriors were left alive. The number of teams never exceeded thirteen, and gladiators were assigned random colors to designate teammates. One year, Alex recalled, the number of survivors had been so large that all gladiatorial slaves were on the same team. Nabian soldiers had plowed chariots through the arena in thirteen sweeps of a glorified, bloody game of sharks and minnows. In the end, the surviving team – or in the case of that particular year, the surviving minnows – were offered their freedom, and the chance to join the Nabian army. If champions were young enough, they were even given the choice to join an academy of their choosing, to be trained as an elite.

I wonder how I got to be here at the end, he thought. Typically, gladiators actually had to survive the entire tournament. As Alex was brand new to Mortisse's team, he should not have been allowed to compete. That being said, he knew that slave owners often held their prize fighters back to have them compete in the later rounds. Judging by his new master's affinity for jewelry, Alex had no doubt that Mortisse held onto enough power and influence to do just that.

Good, he thought. He simply had to survive, and then he could use his freedom to reveal his identity and find passage back to the manor. Odds were one of his uncles were in town for the games, and his mother… well, hopefully his mother didn’t have to be the one to validate who he said he was. He would rather not interact with the woman. Though she would publicly support him, she was unpredictable at best in private. As he neared, Alex focused in on the sight of the massive arena, and noticed he was about to walk below it. He would likely go to a sub-ground area from which warrior slaves could enter into the sand-filled arena. The noise was deafening from the sheer amount of people that were there, and Alexandre knew it would be quite an audience. I will give them a show, he thought. Once he was underground, he noticed that the tall Tomacian whose bed had been near his own in the training quarters. A guard walked past the two men, tossing bundles of cloth to each. These were to be their markers, showing which team he was on. Alex looked into his hands, and found a dirty blue smock fringed in yellow. Blue and gold, he thought. Tomacian colors. Looking around, he saw that most everyone had either blue and gold smocks, white and silver ones, or black and red ones. Most of the slaves had red and black, and only a small minority had white and silver. With a frown, he pondered over the fact that the teams didn’t seem to be well balanced. Slowly, the significance of the colors and amounts dawned on him. These three uniforms bore the colors of Nabius, Tomacia, and Ironia. Because Ironia was already halfway conquered, there were few white and silver smocks about. There were just barely more blue and gold ones, and the Nabians… they outnumbered the rest almost two to one. This was to be a figurative display of Nabian power, and the black and red smocks were set to win. The final war game was going to be a bloody massacre, and Alexandre Di Coteau was on the wrong side.

***

Standing in the arena, a bead of sweat trailed its way down Alexandre’s forehead. The games were to start in two minutes, and Alex entertained himself by looking around the arena. Still standing next to him in a black and red smock was the dangerous Tomacian slave, and all of the rest stood in equidistant spaces. The warrior slaves that would be participating in the games stood in neat rows, absorbing applause from a boisterous crowd. Turning his glance upwards, Alex looked for people that he knew.

He saw a few counts that had visited the manor before, their names escaping him. Seated amongst the common people every so often was a soldier, and many children lined the stands. They were wide-eyed and hyper, eager to satisfy their bloodlust. Scanning with his eyes and moving left, he continued picking up faces. After turning to look at one of the elevated box seat areas reserved for dignitaries, he was surprised to find a recognize a petite blonde boy. Briefly, Alexandre wondered how Luca had managed to get such a good seat. That is, he wondered until he looked to the adjacent seats on either side. To the right sat a plump Evangelo Mortisse. Was Luca his cupbearer? No, he thought. The cupbearer sat at the left hand of his master, and Luca was to the fat man’s right. To Luca’s left was a bald man with a snarl on his face, and obtrusive hoop earrings that dangled whenever he moved his head in rapid jerks. Yonin Meko. The man was vile, and everyone knew that he maintained most of the sex slave industry that rampaged through the city. I see why the poor boy seems so miserable, Alex thought. Moving on, Alex looked to the next raised box in the stands. Another familiar sight, he saw his uncle Damien, commanding general to another northern region of Nabius. To his right was Jezebel Di Coteau, his cousin and another beauty in the Di Coteau family. He had not seen this family for a while, and noticed that Jezebel had developed into quite an attractive young woman. With bronzed skin, emerald eyes, and thick black hair that was pulled into a high ponytail on her head, Jezebel looked every bit the part of seductress. He knew that her favored weapons were a variety of poisons, which she could slip into unknowing victims with deft fingers.

I do not think either of them has recognized me yet. Moving his eyes to a third box, he heard the commentator for the games announce that battle would begin in thirty seconds. Time went still and Alex froze. Seated comfortably in all her warrior’s glory, Madame Ysabel Di Coteau sat motionless. She looked like a lioness ready to pounce at any moment, claws and all. Madame Ysabel’s weapons of choice were ten midnight black and razor-sharp conical blades that fixed to each of her fingers, giving her hands the look of belonging to some kind of animal. Ysabel took a very hands-on approach to fighting, and Alex had seen her literally reach into people and pull out organs. She was the desire of many men’s hearts, and she had probably removed an equal number of them herself. Adding to the image of her being kin to some exotic beast was the well known fact that she had made kills by biting out throats - on more than one occasion. Boasting an incredibly tiny frame and stature, most opponents that did not know her underestimated the Di Coteau woman in fights. She was cunning, fast, and highly intelligent. Talia looks more like her every day, Alex thought. Indeed, Madame Di Coteau left her hair a light pink color, similar to Talia’s. Ysabel was naturally blonde, and her hair fell in one lengthy, silky sheet that hung to the small of her back. When she fought, it swirled around her and often became matted and stained with the blood of her opponents. When mother and son made eye contact, the woman leaned forward in her seat imperceptibly. She waved off a servant offering wine, never breaking the look and opened her tiny mouth just a bit.

Alex knew she would say nothing. Pulling her son out of the fight would mean dishonor on the entire family, and she was certain her son could handle it. Alexandre hoped that she was right. The crowd roared, and Alex barely registered that a flaming arrow had landed in the center of the arena. All around him, men and women sprang to life, seizing at the weapons that littered the arena floor. Alex shook himself of his daze, and his pupils dilated. He took in as much of his environment as he could, and sprang to life himself. A pulse of noise rocked the arena, and he knew that the first kill had just been made. Amidst the blur of running bodies, Alex saw two half swords lying crossed in the dirt. Another slave in an Ironian smock was running full speed at the pair, and he knew that he would not make it to the weapons before the other man did. Pausing to glance full circle around himself, Alex noticed that a throwing dagger had been lobbed at him with terrible accuracy. He picked it up, and started running towards the swords. Just as the other gladiator was about to reach them, Alex chucked the knife. It whistled through the air, and stuck into his throat with a satisfying thud. The crowd roared once again, and the commentator shouted out that the fifth kill had been made. When the loud announcer switched focus and began saying something about a southern Nabian mace style that was being used by another slave, Alexandre gritted his teeth, and, swords in hand, pushed out into the battlefield.

Alex had counted 42 participants at the start of the ceremony, and knew he needed to outlast them. Armed with two swords, he cut through enemies and dodged an array of projectiles with ease. One girl had given him trouble, using a longbow that she could fire relatively well. When he threw one of his swords and it went right through her abdomen, he received substantial applause.

After about fifteen minutes of constant fighting, Alex noticed that all of the slaves in Ironian smocks had been eliminated. The imitation of the Nabian forces were starting to take control, and the number of Tomacian allies he had surrounding him began to dwindle. He needed to do something, and fast. Alex looked desperately around the arena, eager to find anything that would help. When he gazed upon the tall Tomacian in Nabian colors beheading a gladiator in blue and gold, he knew what he had to do. Alex ran over to the man, and engaged. The two fought viciously, using strength and speed and skill at an impressive level. He was pretty sure the crowd had been fixated on their fight, and he was correct. In the pandemonium that was this war, Alex only heard cheering, the clash of steel, and the occasional snippet of what the commentator was saying. The man said something about Alexandre’s position being a northern Nabian dual sword stance called Blackthorn, and that it was almost perfectly matched by the Tomacian’s Stance of the Crown. Furiously going at it, Alexandre felt his blades growing heavy, and that he was losing ground.

This man fights just like Carlin, he thought. Thinking back to the first time he had fought with his new training slave, the face of the handsome man haunted him. The parries, the dodges, the swings… everything fell in line with how the other man had fought. Suddenly, a remembered choice phrase gave Alexandre they key to his victory.

‘I thought it was an impressive technique. On the battlefield, it would have surprised me or any other Tomacian soldier.’ Alex launched up at his opponent, practically shoving the man’s head in between his thighs. With a quick sit up, Alex had perched on the man and slid his blades down into the chest from the tops of the shoulders. The Tomacian crumpled beneath him, and the crowd went wild. He looked up at the stands with disdain, and knew that he was about to woo them further. If you liked that, wait until you see what I’m about to do next. Alex ripped off his shirt, and peeled the black and red smock off of his fallen opponent. This is for keeping me up all night, he thought. Slipping his dead enemy's smock on, the lithe and sweaty young man had switched sides and began attacking with a speed that confused those dressed as Tomacians. The crowd was uncontrollable by then, and Alex risked a glance up at his mother. The faintest hint of a smile touched her lips.

***

When a Nabian girl with short red hair lodged an axe into the final Tomacian’s skull, Alex wanted to fall to his knees in relief. Though the show was just a mockery of real war, the Di Coteau man felt that there was little difference between the two. The horrors of war were still draining, even if there was a supportive crowd. His muscles, head, and heart ached, and he wished he could rinse off in cool water and take a nap. But he did not fall or sigh in relief just yet, for his fight was not over. He looked down and saw a trident lying over a round, convex shield. The non-lethal end was propped up into the air, and Alex knew where he would be standing. Moving to stand in a straight line, the remaining gladiator slaves discarded their colored garments and stood facing the commentator and crowd. They received loud cheers, and Alex heard the commentator mentioning that it was time for any victors to accept their spot in the Nabian army if they so wished. Alex looked to his left and right, and counted eleven survivors. Looking back towards the stands, he noticed that his uncle and Jezebel were looking on with suspicion, but that Madame Ysabel was nowhere to be seen.

A stream of soldiers spewed into the arena, presumably to take pledges. They were behind a rigid lieutenant commander, who was in charge of accepting pledges and taking note of who had decided to join the army after that battle. In the middle of a pledge from the redheaded woman who scored the final kill, Alex made his move and caught everyone off-guard.

Stomping on the upturned end of the trident caused it to bounce up towards him, and Alex gripped the weapon just behind where the wood became three spikes of metal. Taking a few steps forwards, he faced the crowd, threw, and was pleased to see a shocked Evangelo Mortisse pinned through his chest to the back of his chair.. Blood spewed forth from the fat man, and Alex could visibly see the last breath of the man leave his body. Nearby, a stunned Luca looked like he was about to be sick. Sorry kid, Alexandre thought as the swords of the guards surrounding him were drawn and lowered to make a circle around his body. A fuming lieutenant commander stomped over, turned red, and probably spat more than he spoke.

“Do you know what you’ve done boy?!”

“I do, and it was absolutely justified.” Turning to look up at the crowd, Alex raised his voice. “Evangelo Mortisse is guilty of illegal enslavement, thievery, and corruption. In the eyes of Nabian law, he has been rightfully served. When the government fails to uphold its punishment, it falls to the people of Nabius to serve the law. Mortisse is not the only corrupt member of our higher society, and I can assure you this: every one of them will be brought to justice.” Alexandre looked briefly at Meko, and then Luca.

Even angrier now, the lieutenant could hardly speak. “You will face court for this, and you will hang!” He sputtered over what he wanted to say next, and did not make any intelligible sounds.

“And whose court to you propose he face, lieutenant commander?” a soft, feminine voice purred. The lieutenant looked shocked to see that he had been snuck up upon, and paled when he realized whom he was talking to. Ysabel Di Coteau placed a weaponized hand on his shoulder, hints of amusement darting across her face as she looked at this petrified man. “Perhaps his uncle’s? He’s sitting just right there, with his daughter Jezebel. Or maybe his father’s would be more appropriate, considering Alex is technically under the command of my husband Darion.” Her green eyes flashed, and her hand caressed the man’s cheek. Where the point of the blade on her middle finger touched his skin, a single drop of blood drew.

Alex now looked into the eyes of the soldier, and spoke. “I am Alexandre Meridius Di Coteau, son of General Darion Di Coteau of the Thirteen Commander Generals of Nabius. Lower your weapons. Attempt to delay me further, and I will have your head.” Looking up and down the man that still had his sword drawn, Alex narrowed his eyes. “I have had a troublesome day.”

I hope you guys like Luca, because I had originally planned for him to be VERY different. Actually I was going to kill him off pretty quickly  but I decided I was going to go in a different direction at the last minute. Let me know what you think!!!