Chronoblood Chronicles - Prophecy of the Gladiator, Page 2

CHAPTER ONE

  The Book of the Child

  The city of Skul’haven was once a thriving trader’s outpost, which laid just beyond the borders of the Golden Empire. It was hailed as the last stop before entering the Veil of Shadows, but safely rested in a region where the fiery red sun endlessly illuminated the western horizon. Yet in recent years, darkness crept further into the land and the flourishing trade routes became plagued by flesh fiends and other creatures of the night. The dangers quickly became too overwhelming for importers to make the long journey to Skul’haven and suddenly the city’s steady stream of commerce ran dry. Merchants and citizens alike abandoned the outpost and moved on to better lives in cities that still basked in the protection of bright, unending daylight.

  Those who remained in Skul’haven were simply too poor to leave, and were forced to miserably watch their city crumble around them. Vibrant shops and businesses were now vacant buildings of rotting timber, and entire neighborhoods were replaced with the ragged tent camps of the homeless. Sadly, there was no charity for the downtrodden. Their only guarantee in life, was a brutal end met by starvation, disease or homicide.

  The lack of a legitimate economy caused a vicious black market to arise. Soon, outlaws from throughout Terrynmen rode their griff motorbikes through the stunted foliage of the surrounding wasteland, to enter the city for its growing reputation of sinful pleasures and illegal dealings. Guilds of high rollers and shysters also began to flock to the city to bet on death matches and other barbaric games of chance, which were forbidden in the rest of the Golden Empire. They all came with visions of fortune, but most left with broken dreams; usually due to bad deals, lost bets or bandit’s blade.

  One of these miscreants who came to this city for ill gains, was a scourge of a man named Cliven. He was nothing but a common street thug, who wore the tattered clothes of a pauper and had the shake of someone who was obviously addicted to the devilish drug called Djinndust. Yet somehow, he sat quite smugly in the exclusive box seats of a makeshift coliseum, known as the Skul’haven Pits. There he watched what was becoming a very bloody gladiator match and cheered alongside of some of the most prominent (and unscrupulous) people in the city. This scrawny sleaze couldn’t believe his good fortune and lightly elbowed a fat nobleman from a distant land, “This is the life, huh?”

  The finely dressed aristocrat pulled away and wiped himself with a handkerchief, “Don’t touch me, you scum.”

  “Bah,” Cliven muttered and thoughtlessly waved away the nobleman’s disgust.

  The wealthy snob then looked to a large, dark-skinned fight promoter who was the owner of the box seats and ranted, “Barnabas, this piece of garbage is certainly no high roller and has no place amongst us! Why did you ever invite him here?

  The promoter leaned forward in his seat, causing his many beaded dreadlocks to fall into his face. He spoke in a deep, boisterous voice, “Cliven may be no high roller—at least in the traditional sense, but he wagered something on this fight, which most men would consider too precious to lose. So for now, he deserves to be here.”

  The nobleman rolled his eyes and griped, “I am sure he only made the bet so he could win some gold to buy his next fix.”

  “Who am I to judge?” Barnabas said before he took a long drink out of a jewel encrusted goblet.

  The nobleman was not satisfied and whined, "Still, can’t he observe from afar? I can hardly bear his vomitus stench!”

  Barnabas gave the rich man an intimidating stare, “Watching him irritate you is just as entertaining to me as the gladiator match below.” The fight promoter then chuckled and looked to Cliven, “Also, if I lose this bet, I am sure our filthy guest will want to be as close as possible to all of his newly acquired winnings.”

  This made Cliven smile and caused visions of gold to dance before his eyes. The nobleman laughed at Cliven’s temporary happiness, “You fool! You made a bet with Barnabas Xuva, the ‘luckiest man in Skul’haven’. You’re not going to win anything-- except maybe further problems. He has kept you close to be sure that you honor your agreement, which I highly recommend you do, because Barnabas has a reputation of feeding delinquent debtors to the flesh fiends!”

  Just then Barnabas’ guards escorted a woman and a small boy into the boxed area. They were just as dirty as Cliven and seemed extremely malnourished. Their ashy, chocolate brown skin peered through the many holes in their tattered clothes and exposed many abrasions that happened well before Barnabas’ men had them in their custody. The young boy had black, fluffy hair that framed his bruised face like a halo. The woman’s lip was busted, but healing. She gritted her chipped teeth and cried out in a raspy voice, “By the Crimson Saint, what further terror have you brought upon our family, Cliven?”

  “I have this under control, wench!” Cliven bellowed. He then pointed his finger menacingly, “Clea, if you or Maxtix get in my way, I warn you--”

  “Now, now, Cliven, that is no way to speak to your wife and child,” Barnabas interrupted and then looked with surprising kindness to his newest guests. “Please have a seat and enjoy yourselves.”

  The fat nobleman scooted over with a nauseated expression, as the woman and child huddled together in fear and sat down. Cliven then began to passive-aggressively ignore their presence and engrossed himself in the heavy-weight gladiator match below. He watched with great anticipation as his chosen warrior, Bothogus, clashed with Barnabas’ fighter, named Tovo.

  Tovo was barely twenty years old, but what he lacked in age, he made up for in speed and strength. He effortlessly wore heavy bronze armor without it hindering his movement and easily wielded an enormous two-handed sword. Yet as burly as Tovo was, he paled in comparisons to Bothogus, who was especially large for his canine-like species, known as the Unari. This dog-man’s overly muscular body was covered in greasy black fur and his Rottweiler-like head growled ferociously, with a mouth full of foam-covered, yellow fangs.

  Tovo wasn’t the least bit frightened. He pointed his sword and shouted, “It seems your bark is worse than you bite.”

  He then charged full speed towards the dog-man with the hopes of putting him down. Bothogus charged also, and his iron armor clacked and crashed like a freight train, as he ran towards his human opponent. When the two warriors collided, Tovo caught the brunt of the blow and was disarmed as he hit the ground with a massive thud. Bothogus then prepared his battle ax and loomed over the downed fighter.

  When Cliven saw this, he ecstatically clenched the caged fence that separated the audience from the battleground and gave a deranged shout, “Bothogus, split ‘em open like rotten fruit! Take his head, so I can take my winnings!”

  But Cliven’s bloodthirsty excitement was abruptly interrupted by his six-year-old son. The boy apprehensively tugged his father’s pant leg and curiously asked, “Why do you want that man to die? Has he wronged you? Is he a criminal?”

  “Enough with your constant questions, Maxtix! Shut up!” Cliven roared as he raised the back of his hand to threaten his son.

  The boy instinctively closed his eyes and turned away to avoid yet another beating from his father. The child waited for the blows to come, but when they didn’t, he opened his eyes and accidently fixed his gaze upon the blood soaked sands below. He watched as Tovo rolled on the ground to dodge Bothogus’ axe, which plunged into the dirt as it missed its mark. Tovo rolled once again and quickly grabbed his dislodged sword, but Bothogus stomped on the flat of the blade and snapped it in half. The fierce canine then continued his onslaught by brutally kicking the downed warrior in the face.

  Clea quickly grabbed Maxtix and shielded his eyes with her embrace. She again pleaded to her husband, “The boy shouldn’t be seeing this. He shouldn’t even be here—“

  “I said shut up, Clea! You’re gonna jinx this bet!” Cliven screamed to his poor, battered wife.

  Clea bravely continued questioning her brute of a husband, “We have nothing left for you to gamble away, Cliven! How can you ever think that you’ll actua
lly win?”

  Cliven angrily retorted, “Because the odds are ten-to-one in my favor and Bothogus is about to claim the victory! I can’t lose, you dolt!”

  Cliven shoved Clea out of the way so he could have a better look at the fight. His cold heart beat with anticipation, as Bothogus let out a conquering battle howl and raised his axe for a final blow. Cliven then excitedly grabbed the fat nobleman by his silk robes and screamed, “This is it! This is where I win!”

  But suddenly, Tovo got to a crouching position, pulled a hidden knife from his boot and jammed it deep into Bothogus’ side. When the dog-man instinctively lowered his axe-wielding arm in pain, Tovo slashed the tendons of Bothogus’ wrist, which forced the Unari to drop his axe. The human warrior tried to lunge again with his dagger, but Bothogus countered by tackling him back to the ground. They both rolled in the sand and scrambled for a dominant position. Bothogus ended up on top and Tovo had once again become disarmed in the scuffle. The dog-man was also still unarmed and resorted to using his powerful snapping jaw in an attempt to rip out his opponent’s throat. Tovo frantically pushed away the foam covered fangs with his bronze bracer.

  The human warrior knew that he could only hold back the Unari for so long. So with his free arm he reached out desperately to find his lost dagger, but only found a handful of dust. In the meantime, Bothogus had used his weight and sheer power to push himself within an inch of Tovo’s face and was about to finally sink his teeth into victory.

  “Yes! Kill him!” Cliven shouted as he stomped his feet with excitement.

  The human warrior’s time was running out; he frantically reached out again to find his dagger, but instead found the broken blade of his sword. Tovo gratefully picked it up and severely cut his own hand as he plunged the metal shard straight through the Unari. Bothogus let out a whimpering yelp, rolled to his side and then died on the scarlet sand of the arena floor. It was all over, Cliven had lost the bet.

  “No!” Cliven screamed with disbelief and horror, as he watched Tovo raise his bloody hands victoriously.

  The fat nobleman began to laugh at Cliven’s misfortune and Clea put her hand over her mouth with great concern. She whispered, “By the Saint…”

  “You!” Cliven growled and pointed to his wife, “This is all your fault! You’re bad luck! A jinx!”

  Maxtix frightfully asked, “What happened, Father?”

  Cliven was so enraged by his loss that he answered his son by striking him across the face. When the small boy fell to the floor, his entire world went silent. He watched helplessly, in deaf slow-motion, as his father turned his aggression onto his mother. He could see her mouth move, but could not hear her scream. Then sound and speed returned to Maxtix, just as Barnabas’ men rushed over to pry Cliven off of Clea. The guards beat the angered addict to the floor, kicked him in the ribs and then carried him away in disgrace.

  Clea wiped away her tears and scowled at Barnabas, “You knew! You knew that the dog-man would lose!”

  The fight promoter snickered, “You are smarter than you look. Yes, I most certainly knew. Only a fool would have bet on an Unari in a gladiator match. Some of them may appear intimidating, but the entire species is far better suited as sorcerers than fighters. It appears that Bothogus was adept at neither. That’s how he became a slave in the first place.”

  “But why make this bet with Cliven?” Clea asked, “What could he have wagered that had any value?”

  Barnabas walked over to the broken family with a smile of satisfaction and said, “He wagered the two of you, of course. Congratulations, you now belong to me.”

  The boy frightfully hugged his mother and then looked up to her with his big brown eyes, knowing that he’d never see his abusive father again. He didn’t know whether to cry or smile. He just held his mother tighter and asked, “What is going to happen to us?”

  Clea held her son in a vain attempt to protect him from their dire and uncertain future. She then gently kissed his head and whispered, “I don’t know, Maxtix, but whatever happens, know that I love you.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  Max and his mother were escorted out of the arena as slaves, but they were not shackled; their fright and disbelief were sufficient enough to imprison them. Clea and Maxtix went from being treated like pieces of garbage by Cliven, to pieces of property by Barnabas. The slave master locked the mother and son in a shack better suited for farm animals than people. Yet somehow, they were ironically appreciative to sleep here. It was the first actual shelter they had stayed under since coming to Skul’haven. Unfortunately this coop for livestock would not be their permanent home. The fight promoter had bigger ideas for his newly acquired investments.

  After a few short hours of sleep, Maxtix and his mother were awoken by a thunderous knock at the door. It then quickly swung open, and Barnabas stood in the doorway, framed with the outside light of the eternal sunset. The dark-skinned man stood tall and strong; he had once been a fighter himself and still retained the large muscular arms and the barreled chest of a warrior. He walked in with purpose and grabbed the six-year-old by his arm. He then turned to Clea and spoke softly, “You may be his mother, but the boy is now mine.”

  Barnabas then turned to the door, with the child in tow. Clea ran desperately screaming after her son. She wailed with panic, “No! You can’t have him! No!”

  Maxtix cried into the chaos, “Mama! Mama!”

  Clea dove and wrapped her arms around her bawling son, “You can’t have him! You’ll have to kill me first!”

  Barnabas grinned and cast her away with little effort, “Is that what you want? Do you want me to kill you right here, right now, in front of your child? Bite your tongue woman, before you choke yourself with it! He is of more value to me than you are. I am going to take your son, but not far. Behave woman! If you play by my rules and know your role, I might just let you see him again. Be a good dog and I will throw you a bone.” 

  With those cold, closing remarks, Barnabas dragged the shrieking child out of the shack. Clea got to her knees, but did not have the life in her to stand. Tears poured down her face like rivers of pain. “I am sorry, baby! I am sorry! I love you. I am sorry!”

  Barnabas shoved Maxtix into a waiting carriage. The child struggled and immediately rushed to the back of the vehicle, jumped upon the seat and pressed his face to the rear window. There he watched his mother wilt and become smaller in the distance as carriage pulled away. With every breath, he wailed, “Mama!”

  The black carriage moved forward without the assistance of a horse, and appeared quite menacing as it rolled down the broken streets of Skul’haven. Its shadowy oak exterior was outfitted with dark plates of armor, and its outside driver’s bench was manned by two constables who swore an oath to protect and serve the city, but instead were playing a roles of escort and chauffer. One held a heavy pike, while the other ran his hands around a small glass orb that not only steered the vehicle, it also manipulated an unseen fire elemental that was conjured to power the engine of the carriage.

  The inside of the craft was quite luxurious, with white leather benches to sit upon, small jeweled chests for storage and silk pillows that added extra comfort. A small enchanted shell dangled from the ceiling by short gold chain and magically played delightful music, but the lovely sounds were completely drowned out by the screams of the kidnapped child. Barnabas was hardly phased by the cacophony. He smiled and calmly asked, “Maxtix? That is your name correct?”

  The child did not answer; he continued to look through the window, over the horizon and sobbed. Barnabas continued, “Maxtix, I want you to listen and understand what I say. No longer are you to crave the warmth of your mother’s bosom. Soon you will only desire the warmth of your opponent’s blood. You are no longer a mere child. Today is the first step on your path to becoming more than a man. You are destined to become a gladiator. Perhaps even a legend. Now stop crying before the other boys see you.”

  Maxtix eventually stopped sobbing, but his cheek
s still glistened with the salt of freshly dried tears. He quickly discovered that he was not the first child that Barnabas had owned. The fight promoter brought him to an academy that he’d started, called the War Chest, which trained Barnabas’ child-slaves in the ways of blood and blade.

  Max looked from the carriage at the massive, wooden walls that separated the pristine academy from the sleazy grime of the rest of the city. The War Chest was designed like a fortress and was very threatening to all those on the outside. High towers stood at the corners, and a deep trench of spikes and broken glass surrounded the perimeter of the campus. A small drawbridge was lowered that led to a heavy, grated gate, which was manned by several grimacing sentries. They frightened the child and made him feel like he was entering a prison instead of a school… perhaps he was right.

  The escorting constable with the pike leapt from the driver’s bench, and politely opened the door of the carriage. He bowed his head, “Sir, we have arrived.”

  Barnabas exited the vehicle first and Maxtix followed with little resistance. The two then began to cross the narrow drawbridge, and upon their approach a guard shouted from the other side of the entryway, “Hail, Master Xuva.”

  Barnabas raised his hand, “Lift the gate. We have a new student!”

  The gate elevated with the sound of rotating gears. Master Xuva led his newest pupil along a winding path through various huts and barracks. There were other boys there, ranging from children to teenagers, but Max was by far the youngest. They were all scarred and battle hardened, appearing more like seasoned warriors than kids. Every time Max walked past one of them, they’d bump into him hard with their shoulders or elbows. The frightened six-year-old looked to Barnabas for protection, but the fight promoter just ignored the aggression of the other children. As Max went further into the camp, there were more students that snarled at him like he was fresh meat. Each step the boy took seemed to lead further into a lions’ den.

  They made their way to a courtyard that was very well lit by small, flaming caldrons, which hung from chains on iron stands. In the center was a vast, white mat surrounded by sand. Sitting on the mat, were two rows of children that were approximately ten-years-old. At the end of mat, was a very stocky griff, with a blood-stained, blonde beard, who was instructing the students.

  Max had never seen a griff before. He was shocked and afraid of the creature, which naturally had four arms. The instructor appeared very powerful, but only stood four feet tall; although, he had a blonde Mohawk that made him look a foot taller. The shaved sides of his head blatantly displayed his cauliflower ears that were crumpled up like balls of paper. He wore faded black pants and a dingy white coat. The jacket was open and exposed a series of tribal tattoos that ran from his muscular chest, up his neck and to his scalp. Max was certain that the tattoos also continued onto the trainer’s four arms, but were concealed by the sleeves of the dingy coat.

  Barnabas slid off his shoes before he drew any closer. He was about to tell Maxtix to do the same, but looked down to dirty, little feet that have not worn shoes in a very long time. Barnabas stepped on to the mat and bowed. He then looked to Max, “Child, every time we enter or leave this mat, we bow in honor of all of the blood, sweat and time that has been invested in it. Do you understand?”

  Maxtix spoke to Barnabas for the first time, “Yes… yes, sir.” He then stepped onto the mat and bowed.

  The instructor shouted with a deep Brizzlebane accent, “Master Xuva, you have brought a new student I presume?”

  “Yes, Professor Darrogg. I acquired him several hours ago,” Barnabas replied. “He is small, but I have a good feeling about this one.”

  The griff looked slightly offended, “I do not care if he’s small. I only care about the fire that burns inside of him. Is there a flame in his heart?”

  Barnabas raised his eyebrows and smiled, “We shall see. May I have a word in private with you?”

  “You may, sir.” Professor Darrogg said as he cracked his knuckles. He then looked sternly at his class, “While I am speaking to Master Xuva, I want you all to stay seated or I guarantee that you will receive a relentless beating.”

  Barnabas pushed down on Maxtix’s shoulders, “That goes for you too, boy. Be seated.”

  Maxtix sat down, as Barnabas and Darrogg bowed to the mat and then walked into darkness. Once the two adults were completely out of sight, the rows of boys instantly stood and rushed Maxtix, like piranhas sensing blood in the water. A larger, tanned-skinned child with black hair and a hideous scar that dug diagonally across his face, was the first to speak, “Look at this runt! Do you think you deserve to be here, boy? Look at you! You are nothing!”

  Max didn’t answer. He only sat like Barnabas asked.

  A redheaded child with a cleft lip, pulled at Max’s fluffy hair. The six-year-old winced, but didn’t move from the mat. The bully snickered, “Ebarro, this has to be the smallest kid that Master Xuva has ever brought to the War Chest!”

  The large child with the scar answered, “He’s nothing, but a small pile of dung.”

  Another boy got in his Max’s face, “Hey fellas, it looks like he’s been crying. Have you been crying baby girl?”

  Again, Max didn’t speak, he just looked through the other boys, distantly into his own thoughts.

  “What are you a mute or something? Answer him, crybaby!” Ebarro screamed and slapped Maxtix across the face.

  When Maxtix still didn’t respond, Ebarro paced back and forth, like a frustrated, feral cat, “Fine don’t answer! If we can’t make you speak, then maybe we can make you scream!”

  Meanwhile, from the distance, Barnabas and Darrogg watched from the secluded darkness. Darrogg shook his head, “Where do you find these street urchins, Master Xuva? I think that this boy may have been an unwise use of your gold. Where is his fire? He just sits there as the others taunt him!”

  Barnabas confidently turned towards his short colleague, “Oh, Professor Darrogg, ye of little faith. I didn’t pay anything for him. I won him in a bet. That being said, how much do you want to gamble that your pupils will be unable to break him?”

  “Ha! You’re on,” Darrogg exclaimed. “You’re going to fill my pockets!”

  Barnabas smiled, “Who is unwise now, Professor?”

  As Barnabas and Darrogg sorted out the arrangements of their wager, Maxtix became tightly encircled by all nine of the other children. Ebarro was still the main aggressor and loomed over the sitting child, “You’re just a cockroach, and like all bugs, you need to be crushed!”

  The large bully then tried to stomp on Maxtix, but the six-year-old rolled out of the way and sprung to his feet. “Leave me alone!” Max furiously yelled, “Go away!”

  The child with the cleft lip mocked him, “Go away! Ha, I think he is going to cry again!”

  Before any other words were said, Ebarro punched Maxtix in the stomach, which caused him to double over. The bully then kicked the small child in the face so hard, that he fell off the mat, rolled into the dirt and knocked over one of the lantern stands. The chained, flaming cauldron landed inches away from his face.

  The bullies expected the six-year-old to lay in the sand and cry, but they were sadly mistaken. Max had spent his whole life in the dirt, abused by his father. Being there again, ignited him with pure, burning rage! The anger boiled over inside of him until his mind exploded in a stream of agonizing memories, in which he felt every horrible moment of his short, miserable life. He relived all of the beatings that Cliven had given him. He recalled being hit with the buckle-end of a belt and how it tore him to shreds. Most of all, he remembered how being beat in such a way reduced him to nothing. So Maxtix decided to do the same thing to his attackers, but this time with the caldron-end of the chained lantern.

  As Max tightly held the chain in his hands and scowled at his attackers, he began to drown in his wave of anger and suddenly, everything went silent again. The whole world seemed to pause at the small child’s wrath, as if the universe decel
erated in a surreal display of slowed reality. The flames in the cauldron twisted sluggishly like red ink dispersing in water. The sand that blew in the wind, hung in the air like the winter fog. The furious flood of his attackers now approached with the speed of statues. It was at that moment, the six-year-old discovered that the world wasn’t moving slower, he was moving faster and the angrier he became, the faster he went.

  In a temper tantrum, Maxtix sprung back to the mat for his sonic counterattack. He screamed with ravenous bloodlust, yet no sound could be heard. He angrily swung the small, flaming cauldron around his head like a morning star and struck Ebarro across the face. Max could see the impact slowly ripple across the bully’s cheek and watched as the dislodged cinders from the cauldron hung in the air like stars in the night. Before Ebarro fell to the ground, Max had already hit five of his other attackers.

  Outside of the madness, Barnabas and Darrogg watched on from the distance. Barnabas grabbed the griff by the sleeve with great excitement, “Did you see that! Have you ever seen a child move so fast?”

  Darrogg looked very troubled, “I’ve never seen any adults that move that fast.”

  By time the griff completed that sentence, the fight was over. All nine of the aggressors laid defeated on the mat. Maxtix’s perception of the world returned to normal. The flames from the lanterns began to quickly strobe in the dusk sky and the cries of Max’s enemies finally crossed the courtyard. The bewildered six-year-old tossed the chained lantern to the side, and with great exhaustion collapsed to the mat.

  Darrogg and Barnabas bowed and returned to the scene of the fight. Barnabas clapped as he stepped over the broken bodies of Max’s attackers. Many of them had minor burns on their faces and bodies. Their downfall only made the fight promoter laugh, “Ha! Is that enough fire for you, Professor Darrogg?”

  A few of the older boys that were still conscious, groaned in crumpled heaps, but Darrogg scolded them for showing their pain, “I guaranteed you a beating if you got up out of your seats. You should have heeded my warning!

  Barnabas strolled over to Maxtix who was now sitting on the floor. He helped the child to his feet and then raised his arm as the victor, “Behold our winner! Well my little fighter, do you have anything to say for yourself?” 

  Maxtix responded, completely out of breath, “Sorry sir, I forgot to bow when I reentered the mat.”

  Barnabas chuckled, “Today, there are no apologies needed, especially since you are going to make me a lot of gold. In fact, you have already started, isn’t that right Professor Darrogg?”

  The unsettled griff tossed a small leather bag to Barnabas. Darrogg grimaced at the carnage on his training mats, “This child is enchanted, if I’ve ever seen it! You might as well have put these boys in an arena with a dragon! It will be an unfair match for all he fights.”

  Barnabas hushed his trainer, “Now, now Professor. This is Skul’haven; only suckers and tourists expect a fair fight. We need to keep this our little secret. One day, he will be fighting in the arena and on that day, he will be making the War Chest very, very rich. You wouldn’t want to kill the goose that laid the golden egg, would you?”

  Darrogg looked down with guilt, “The War Chest will be rich in gold, but broke in honor. That is a disturbing thought.”

  “As your liege, your honor is to me,” Barnabas said as he placed his hand on the griff’s shoulder. “Although, you should be proud that I repay your loyalty with gold instead of honor, otherwise you’d starve. Honor is a tool to make a man a slave, but gold will make that same man a king. Let us be like kings, Professor Darrogg.”

  The griff shook his head, “Curse you Barnabas. I will train him, but let us pray that you haven’t brought destruction to us all.”

  Barnabas could only scoff, “Bah, the only thing that this boy will bring us is fortune. The faster you prepare him for the big show, the faster we’ll all be spending that fortune.”

  The fight promoter then departed to focus on other business and left the little trainer with his smallest fighter. The griff leaned forward and inspected the child, “We weren’t formally introduced. My name is Professor Darrogg Backcracker. I am the Honored High Master of Combat here at the War Chest. And you… You got a name, kid?”

  He looked up to the griff, “Maxtix, sir. My name is Maxtix.”

  Darrogg twisted his blonde beard in concentration, “Well Maxtix, I suppose we should get started.”

  The Professor gave his student a white set of pants and training jacket. He then introduced the newcomer to basics of grip fighting, which the four-handed man was extremely proficient at. Soon some of the other boys regained consciousness and humbly joined their former enemy in the lesson. The others that were not so lucky, including Ebarro, spent the rest of the day mending in the infirmary.

  After countless hours of combat orientation, Maxtix was finally shown to the meager barracks that would be his new home. He laid down on a cot on the floor, but there was no attempt for comfort. There was no pillow, no blanket; he had only loneliness to wrap himself in. It was Max’s first night without his mother and he was desperately heartsick. After his rough introduction to the War Chest, he didn’t fear what the other boys thought and shamelessly cried himself to sleep.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞