By Thornshield
Heavy boots resounded as Burzurk strode through the arena's dimly lit passages, descending lower and lower as though into hell itself. A fitting atmosphere; given the arena's seedy nature. The muscular warrior garnered stares and heckling as he passed, from the arena's combatants and gamblers, but he paid no heed to them. They were beneath him after all. He had watched the fights above and found them to be too tame for his liking. He heard news that there was something more vicious, a cage pit underground, which he then sought out. Even that was too dull. What he was looking for now were the true owners of this establishment; a mercenary group who were talked about in hushed whispers.
Pushing open a massive oaken door with ease, Burzurk stepped into a cavernous room, filled with dozens of people, men and women alike. They appeared to be hardened combatants, a step above the common brawler or fist fighter. Most were armed to the teeth, and they turned in unison as he appeared. They studied his armour-clad frame, the massive axe strapped across his back. But they appeared unimpressed. Unfazed, he strode forward, his confidence sweeping a path clear for him, till he stood in the centre, and the room's occupants lining the walls.
"I'm looking for a job," he called out, his voice deep yet emotionless.
"Can ye fight?" replied a man in the corner.
"Try me," replied Burzurk, without turning to look.
A hushed murmur rippled through the crowd, but no one made a move to challenge the armour-clad stranger. Just when Burzurk was about to open his mouth to utter a degrading taunt, someone stepped forward. He was tall and lean, with a shaven head. He was clad in a leather jerkin and sported a single-edged sabre, with a decorative hilt that contrasted greatly against his mercenary appearance. “Bolt” he called himself, taking pride in his dexterity.
Bolt pointed his weapon at Burzurk and commanded, “Draw your weapon.”
“I don’t need it. Not against the likes of you,” retorted the red-haired warrior derisively.
“You’re a cocky one,” sneered his opponent, “Well then, I don’t go easy on anyone!”
In a second, Bolt lived up to his nickname, pouncing at Burzurk with incredible speed. Even quicker was his blade; cutting a brilliant arc overhead as it hurtled down towards Burzurk’s left shoulder. Unexpectedly, Burzurk’s gauntleted left hand shot up and grabbed the blade in mid-air. While the force was strong enough to cut through the armoured pads and draw blood, the warrior shrugged the wound off and swung his other fist at Bolt’s face while maintaining a firm grip on the sword. With a sickening crack, the punch connected and the mercenary was sent tumbling to the ground several metres away.
“Get him another weapon,” uttered Burzurk as he flipped the sabre from his bloodied left hand to his right, “This one’s mine now.”
Groaning, Bolt got to his feet and accepted a longsword from a comrade. Any normal person would have been knocked unconscious, but he was stronger, having lived through countless raids and scuffles. Spitting out several loose teeth, he focused his gaze on his opponent, shuffling into an offensive position. Gotta get a clean strike to his vitals…
But it was too late. Burzurk had made the first move. Despite his large frame, he had drawn incredibly close in an instant. Bolt could barely parry off the other’s wild strikes which seemed to come from all directions at once. And with such inhuman might! Each blow felt like a hammer falling, and he could feel his stamina waning quickly. In his desperation, Bolt lunged forward the moment he noticed an opening. Burzurk was prepared however, and side-stepped the incoming attack. Caught up in his momentum, Bolt could not stop as he moved forward and dreadfully turned his head round, only to catch the sight of Burzurk slamming the pommel of his stolen weapon into Bolt’s exposed neck.
As the challenger crumpled to the ground, the crowd was abuzz with excitement.
“Bloody hell!”
“He’s gonna slaughter the competition if we put him in the arena!”
“My bets on him if he joins the cage!”
A vicious grin spread across Burzurk’s face, knowing that he had gained their respect. He cast a sidelong glance at Bolt, who was stirring slightly, when a voice caught his attention. It rang clear above the others, with a hint of arrogance and plenty of confidence. And most surprisingly, was feminine.
“Well done warrior.”
Stepping forward, the speaker revealed herself to be a strong-built woman in green, about Burzurk’s height. She had olive, tanned skin with pale, emerald green hair and had a gauntleted hand resting on her waist as she studied him. Burzurk could tell that she was different from the rest here, not just from the way she carried herself, nor the large greatsword sheathed in a scabbard behind her back. This one was evil. Pure, unadulterated evil.
“I am Devaena, leader of the mercenary group you see here,” she announced proudly, “And proud owner of the Bleak Barrens Arena.”
She stepped forward and began circling Burzurk slowly, who remained still, with the exception of his eyes following her movements. His grin had faded into a stern expression, masking the curiosity he had within.
“I understand that you are looking for a job,” she continued, “It must be your lucky day, as I’m in need of a strong man like you, one who can fight like a beast. One who can kill without hesitation.”
As though on cue, Bolt struggled to get up, but found himself lacking of strength.
“Can you do that? Could you strike down that pitiful man, when he’s helpless and unarmed?” she asked with a devious half-smile as she stared Burzurk in the face.
After a moment’s pause, Burzurk laughed lightly. Stepping towards Bolt, he pressed a foot upon the man’s back, and looked back at Devaena.
“I’ve killed hundreds before,” he said, reversing his grip on the sword so that the blade pointed at Bolt’s exposed back. “What’s another death on my hands?”
It was Devaena’s turn to laugh contentedly, as a spray of blood spurted upwards.
“Wonderful. Welcome to the group Burzurk.”
