Chapter 41: The Maze

In the end, nerves did get to Quentin. The band hadn’t finished playing their set before he got impatient and headed down to the gate he entered the arena for. When Demetrius and the others did their dramatic re-enactment of the Battle of Qali Major, they did it from the other side of the stage, above the maze he’d be fighting in. Rather than watch and cheer his friends on, the executioner headed down early and listened to the action instead.

“The defenders of Orchrisus are looking ragged!” Amicus bellowed, sounding genuinely ecstatic to be commentating on a fixed match. “The Ramali extremists and their Avarastian allies are too many! But wait, what’s this? REINFORCEMENTS!”

The wooden stage thundered as a dozen more people came out to fight. Quentin heard all of this, but saw only the first path of the maze. The ramp opened up and immediately split into two directions. Whatever was past that, he had no clue. He’d have to learn very quickly, very quietly, how to get around without making a racket and to not be ambushed by three and a half foes.

The longer he stared at that bit of wood, hearing the clash of metal on metal and screams of the injured above, the more Quentin’s guts worked themselves into knots. He had to force himself to relax and not grip his mace and shield as hard. Relaxing just made his hands throb more, which made him grip them harder, and

The executioner took a breath. Amicus shouted again, but he forced himself not to listen. This was going to be the fight of his life, and it was going to be good. He’d be cheered on by thousands as he did his job, won, and saved Maria. All that mattered was him, his nerves, and his heartbeat. The rest of the world could wait. He breathed in and out and forcibly relaxed his muscles, from his head to his toes.

That was better. The nerves weren’t gone, but they were far away, running in circles in his head. They were easier to block out now, and focus on his surroundings. The walls of the maze stood about six feet high. The executioner couldn’t easily stand there without bumping his head on the stage above the walls. The top of his head would poke over and give him away if he wasn’t careful. It was hard to tell with only one small section visible to him, but it looked like there would be plenty of space for him to swing his weapon without worrying about hitting the walls. It was the little bits of information like that that helped him get his head into the game.

“And with one final blaze of glory, the Legionnaires broke the Ramali extremists and won the war!” The audience screamed yet again, but it was a bit more subdued than in the past. The thunder of dozens of feet walking along the wood and off the stage had lightning coursing through the executioner’s veins. It was almost time.

“That was but a paltry twenty years ago, and the last war Orchrisus has had to face. Ever since then, the world knew of the folly of attacking us. We control the deserts, the sandstorms, and the water. We control the art and creation envied by all the rest of the world. We are the soldiers and the rangers, patrolling the only safe paths through the great desert, we are the workers eternally building for a better tomorrow. We are…”

“ORCHRISUS!” The crowd shouted. The executioner pounded his shield with the mace. No one could see him, but it didn’t matter. He was part of this hellhole of a city too. The crowd went on for a while, kicking back up when people drew breath to call out again before tapering off into nothing. A silent buzz, as everyone knew what was coming next.

“And now, for the moment everyone’s been waiting for…” Silence, so thick you could taste it.

There was a rumble, and light poured through to the ramp as the stage retracted into the sides of the Colosseum, slaves working together to work the crank that would open the arena back up. Those nearest the ramp peered inward and, upon seeing him, pointed and screamed. The executioner pointed his mace at a woman who looked like she was going to have a heart attack.

“Release the prisoners!” Amicus crowed. The cheers turned to a mix of boos and jeers as the other four were forced up the ramps from the other three locations. For a brief moment, Quentin had the horrifying thought of Maria and Philus going up together, only for him to immediately skewer her on his spear. He banished the thought. There was no point in thinking about what-ifs. Not yet.

“Now...Unleash the BUTCHER!” The gates in front of him swung outwards slowly. The executioner burst forth from the ramp, jogging forward and raising his shield and weapon. The audience went nuts and the closest of them started making a jabbing motion with their fingers. Looking around, he soon realized they were pointing him in the direction of the prisoners.

He tore his eyes away. That would make it easier, but it wouldn’t be a fair battle. That’s something Cervenka would use, not him. The executioner raised his shield and took a left at the first crossroads, which led around a long corner to a place where it forked. The walls of the maze were thick and sturdy. He took a moment to shove on it, and it didn’t move. There was no breaking the maze, or crashing a wall on someone. Good to know.

For all of the ambient sound in the background, things in the arena were muted. The executioner moved through slowly, painfully aware of the crunch of his boot on the sand below. The smart thing to do would be to stay in one place and wait for sounds to get closer, and maybe ambush them. The dumbest thing he could do was go into the middle and present a chance for the prisoners to surround him.

He headed for the center, keeping his head down low and shield up. His mace rested on his shoulder, at ease but ready to bring it crashing down on the first unlucky bastard he came across. Sand gave way to stone and he was grateful for the quiet. Every corner he passed was preceded with a wary look around the corner. A quick glance up and the nearest audience members, little better than colorful blobs, seemed to be pointing somewhere close to him.

Dammit. The executioner rounded the corner to find a small, hunched figure hiding behind a spear. “The Butcher has found Graham Calhoun, child rapist and unrepentant monster!” cried Amicus. Graham panicked, moving backwards even as he jabbed his spear forward. The executioner smacked the spear to the side with his shield and swung his mace. He missed, barely, and the impact of the weapon against the stone shot up his arm, making it numb.

Graham let out a scared cry and scurried away, running around the corner. Quentin picked himself up and charged after him, the dark part of his brain already enjoying the anticipation of the chase. He turned the same corner Graham did and stopped short, just as a spear came right at his face. It brushed the side of his mask as Quentin skidded to a stop. Philus pulled the spear back, grinning at him.

“Look at that, the prisoners are working together to trap the Butcher! Together, they stand a chance. Especially with...Look behind you, Butcher!” Quentin couldn’t help but do as Amicus said, whirling around in time to see Kassim running at him, spear raised. The savant leapt into the air and brought the spear down on his chest. It was too late to move. The executioner braced himself for impact, but nothing came. The copy’s spear went through his chest before the copy disappeared, grinning maliciously.

That was when Philus’ spear stabbed into the back of his armor, piercing the chitin and driving the metal tip into Quentin’s back. A surprised yelp tore its way through his throat and he whirled around again, blocking the next thrust that came his way.

“Doesn’t really seem fair,” Philus shouted to be heard over the crowd. Graham was nowhere to be seen now, but the executioner didn’t judge him to be much of a threat. “You get good armor, and we’re stuck in this shit.” He wore simple leather armor that looked half decent. It was better than what prisoners usually got. “Oh well,” he said. “Still going to avenge Gregor and then I’m gonna go kill Razia too.”

“Here we have Philus the scum of the street. A thief, a bully, a petty killer. But doesn’t he look handy with a spear, folks?” The audience laughed as Philus cried out and thrust out wildly. The executioner backed away from the attack, twisting and pivoting out of the way of several thrusts. Then a small, wiry man jumped on his back and positioned the spear around his throat and pulled.

“Oh oh OH! Kassim Nadir, savant and assassin, jumping on the Butcher’s back and leaving him open to be skewered! Teamwork, people, it gets shit done! Look out, Butcher!” Amicus’ laughter echoed throughout the Colosseum.

Quentin swung his entire body around, trying to dislodge the savant from his back, but Kassim was on good and his grip was tight. The edges of the world grew fuzzy and panic flared in the executioner’s chest as his oxygen was cut off. Philus leveled his spear at his chest and charged forward, roaring.

He swung around again, and the spear went into Kassim’s leg, making the Savant cry out and relax his grip. It was enough for the executioner to elbow the much smaller man and get him off. Quentin sucked in a greedy breath, moving out of the way as Philus stabbed at him again. Blood dripped from the tip of his spear and onto the stone.

“Ooh, almost!” Quentin turned and swung the mace around where he last saw Kassim’s head. The savant raised his own flimsy shield. The mace obliterated it, sending hunks of wood everywhere as the shield shattered. Kassim let out a pained cry as the impact went up his arm. He rolled away, gasping as his injured arm hit the ground. Then he was up and the air shimmered and three of him ran away, dripping blood from his injured leg.

Quentin turned around and raised his shield in time to block Philus’ next thrust. The wiry fighter was tenacious, and he had a hate for the executioner even the savant didn’t have. It was personal for him, and he jabbed again and again. His attacks were wild and it was all Quentin could do to dodge them, breathing heavily with the exertion.

Finally one stab went high and the executioner moved in, swinging his scepter right into Philus’ gut. The man folded in half, letting out a breathless hiss as the wind was knocked out of him. His spear and shield clattered to the ground. He looked up at the executioner with wide eyes, seeing the end coming. Quentin raised his mace, ready to end him. That’s when he heard the scream from the side, terrified and feminine. Cursing, the executioner kicked Philus in the face, taking a sick pleasure from feeling the crunch of his nose again and he took off. “Too easy, much too easy! The Butcher saves him for later, and runs off in search of his real prey.”

The maze was really not much of one. After a few minutes running around in it, it was mostly just twisty and turny and ushered the combatants between tight corridors and a few wide open places to fight. It was one of those, on the sand, where he found Maria battling for her life. Graham was there on one side of her, Kassim on the other. Maria looked close to tears, jolting whenever one of them poked at her.

“Get the fuck away from her,” Quentin bellowed, closing the distance. Once again Graham let out a little yelp and got the hell out of his way. The shrunken older man wasn’t going to be a threat on his own. The executioner let him go in time to see Kassim diving forward with the spear tucked under his arm, the other one cradled uselessly at his side.

“The Butcher goes for the Savant, hunting his prey as they toy with the woman to lure him close. Trap after trap, the Savant is a cunning opponent, and...OH, that looked like it hurt!” Quentin raised his shield but it was too late. The tip pierced his shield arm in the bicep and pain flooded his world, hot and insistent.

Kassim didn’t stop to admire his work. He pulled, yanking out the spear along with a chunk of the executioner’s flesh. Pain was like a haze, blocking out everything but his damaged arm and screaming for Quentin to do something about it. He let out a roar and brought the mace down as Kassim stabbed the point Philus had bored into his armor. There was more pain and then a crunch as the spear was smashed in half by the falling weapon.

Dropping the splintered spear, he took off again, laughing madly. He’d drawn blood. Kassim may have been injured too, but he drew blood against the executioner. Those two wounds weren’t enough to put him down, but they were enough to slow him and tire him. With the second trap, he’d managed to put a time limit on the rest of the match. Either Quentin would end them, or he’d weaken until he couldn’t fight back.

“The Savant dances in and out of the Butcher’s reach, wounding him and retreating before he can be wounded in return. The Butcher and the Savant are one and one now. What will round three have in store?” The fickle crowd cheered louder, excited at the idea that he might lose.

“Are you okay?” Quentin asked Maria, giving his shield arm a test roll. Pain made him stop almost immediately. His shield was going to be largely ornamental for the rest of the battle, if he couldn’t raise it fast enough.

“Y-yeah, I think so. They didn’t do anything to me.” Maria panted, clutching her spear tight to her chest. The leather armor fit poorly on her, and it would’ve looked comical if she wasn’t fighting to stay alive. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll keep out of their way.” Quentin nodded and retreated back into the maze.

He went after the old man first. Kassim, wherever he was, was doubtlessly already laying another trap for the executioner. Philus’ location was entirely unknown, but that was twice Graham was the bait for the trap. It was time to remove him entirely. Going down the same path, the executioner kept his head low and did his best to ignore the burning pain in his arm and his back. He rounded a corner in time to see Graham disappear.

Rather than go for it again, the executioner doubled back and went around. This wasn’t a true labyrinth, where there was only one true path in and out. This maze was meant to be used to hunt one’s opponents, and that applied for him just as much as it did for the prisoners. He found Graham shortly, huddling behind a wall and shivering. The old man didn’t hear him come up. Quentin raised his mace.

“The first kill of the night is…NOW!” Amicus screamed, ruining everything. Graham jolted in place, looking up in time to throw himself forward and miss the heavy hunk of metal coming straight for his head. The mace collided with the wooden wall and the impact nearly made Quentin drop the weapon. Instead he stepped forward, kicking out at Graham’s ass and sending him sprawling.

He wasted no time in stepping on the man. The executioner’s entire body quivered with excitement. He swung the mace up and over, giving it all of his momentum and weight and brought it down on Graham’s skull. The impact was nothing compared to hitting the wall, but unlike the wall there was a sick, wet crunch as the old man’s head caved in and brain and blood spattered everywhere like a popped zit. Blood shot across his mask, his arms, his hands. Quentin raised his bloodied weapon and the crowd screamed his name.

“One down, three to go!” The executioner straightened up, breathing heavily. Satisfaction flooded his senses, but he shook it off. There was no sense in celebrating prematurely. Dragging his mace along the sand to blot up the blood so it wouldn’t drip, he left Graham’s corpse behind.

Now that the first prisoner was dead, the executioner was alert and buzzing with energy. The pain from his wounds burned like ice, cold and distant. He let his instincts take him into the maze, head darting around wildly at the any hint of a sound or vision from the corner of his eye. It was quiet in there, almost as if they were hiding from him now. Well, they couldn’t have that.

“Philus~” Quentin called, dragging his mace along the wooden wall, making a terrible scraping sound. “Where are you? You wanted your vengeance for Gregor right? Come take it. I’m right here. One good fight, you and me, and you can walk free.” Normally he wasn’t the type to taunt a prisoner. But Philus wasn’t just a prisoner. He was a canker sore of a person and this was personal.

The sounds of sand stirring had the executioner looking up. Nothing appeared in his immediate vision, but more sounds started up. Kassim ran in front of him, laughing loudly. He didn’t bother following the copy, instead backing up and taking an alternate route around where the figure had run from. Sure enough, there was Philus, clutching his spear and one side of his ribs delicately.

“Hello Philus,” said Quentin, stepping forward. Philus whirled around on him and thrust the spear hard and fast at his throat. Quentin tilted his upper body to the side and moved past the weapon. Philus had enough time to look shocked as the executioner double gripped the weapon and swung it right into the gang member’s chest.

The wet crunch told him it was a good hit. The way Philus dropped to his ass and gasped for air on the ground confirmed it. He hacked and coughed and struggled for even the tiniest bit of air, coughing up blood. Then there was the look in his eyes, the panicked realization that this was it. There was no rescue or escape coming. Quentin’s pulse quickened. He raised his mace again.

Kassim came for him from the side, charging right into him and sending him sprawling. The savant was not a large man, but he was furious and fast and clambered off of Quentin as soon as they hit the ground. He scrambled for his spear and raised it enough to bring it down. Quentin twisted his arm, crying out with pain from torturous effort, and the shield came up in time to stop the spear from going into his throat. It bit into the wood, burying deep inside until the tip protruded out the back.

Still, Kassim pushed, as if he could bore a way through the shield and right into the executioner’s neck. Quentin pushed, but between his injuries and the weight of his armor and the man above him, he was stuck. Another wriggle, and the hole in the shield widened and the wedge tip protruded further. Another good push and it might go right through.

“Say goodbye, Quentin,” Kassim hissed, shoving down so hard his arms trembled. No one was more surprised than him when Maria showed up, swinging the shaft of her spear like a club into the back of his head. “What’s this? A betrayal from the thieving whore! She’s working against her own team now, no doubt hoping for mercy when it’s all over!” And there was Amicus, setting up sparing her at the end.

That was all Quentin needed to throw him off to the side. He fought to get to his feet, world turning upside down for a second as he righted himself. His arm wasn’t gushing blood but it was bleeding freely, and the burning in his back was getting worse. But now he had the upper hand. “Thanks,” he muttered to Maria, who backed away, holding her spear tightly against her chest.

“N-no problem,” she said, eyes darting around wildly between the savant and the dying street scum. When Kassim got to his feet, Maria let out a yelp and got the hell out of there. Quentin faced the savant, breathing heavily, gripping his mace tightly. He let the man get to his feet. Kassim looked at him and nodded, grateful or at least acknowledging the fair move. He took the spear from the slowly dying Philus, who gurgled something indeterminable at him.

“Look’s like it’s just you and me,” said Quentin, smiling behind his mask. He brought the mace down on the spear sticking out of his shield until only the tip remained, imbedded deeply. “You ready to end this, Kassim?”

“Pft,” Kassim scoffed. “As long as your whore friend is here, it’s not just you and me.”

“She won’t interfere again,” said Quentin, loud enough for Maria to hear him if she hadn’t gone far. “Besides, with you? Never one on one, is it?”

Kassim grinned at him. “No. No, I suppose it isn’t. Come at me then, Butcher. Come and meet your death!”

Amicus said something else, but Quentin was no longer listening. It was just white noise in the background, along with his adoring fans. They didn’t matter now. Only Kassim did, now shimmering and splitting into three different versions of him and sliding across the sand to surround him. The air remained hazy, like the heat shimmer on the midday streets. Even with his copies staying they seemed to pulse and wave, like all three of them were unclear.

This time though, Quentin knew the secret behind the copies. Two of them appeared to be strong, fierce, and ready to put an end to him. One of them was bleeding from a leg wound and favored one arm. The illusions didn’t copy over the damage, and they sure as hell didn’t leave a trail of blood on the ground. They were in an open-ish section of the maze, an intersection of paths that led to the rest of the maze. The Kassims circled him slowly. Quentin turned, body taut and ready to spring into action.

He let the man think he was overwhelmed, head turning around wildly trying to keep up with the hypnotic movement of the three Kassims in motion. When there were two copies in front of him, Quentin let out a fierce cry and raised his weapon. The first copy came at him, then the second. Their spears formed an X, ready to pierce him no matter which way he dodged.

Quentin stepped backward and swung his mace at the real one who had come up to stab him in the back. He had just enough time to see the look of surprise on Kassim’s face as the savant’s forward momentum stopped at the chest but his legs continued forward. The crowd screamed as Kassim went from an almost laying in the air position to being flat on the ground. The copies disappeared.

Panting, Quentin surveyed his work. The savant’s chest was all but caved in. He was struggling to breathe as well, chest hitching violently. A quick glance Philus’ way showed he was no longer moving. He died slow and painfully. Cruelly, really. Quentin wouldn’t let that happen with Kassim.

“May the Darkstar show you fair judgment and mercy,” he said clearly before bringing the mace down on Kassim’s skull.

The audience erupted with joy. Even Amicus was cheering him on. “Orchrisus’ most deadly assassin, now dead at the hands of the Butcher! Three out of four condemned souls dead now, with only a couple of injuries to show for it. One remains, Butcher. Finish her!”

No, that wasn’t going to happen. Quentin threw his weapon to the side. One of the slaves would retrieve it and clean it for him afterward. He didn’t envy the work they had cut out for them. He held his hands up in triumph, ignoring the screaming coming from his left arm. The pain from it and his back returned with a vengeance, and he had a suspicion he was bleeding worse than he thought. Philus had nearly skewered him from behind, and would’ve succeeded if it hadn’t been for his armor.

All these thoughts he put behind him as he went to find Maria. She wasn’t far. She dropped her spear and run up, hugging him, to the confusion of the audience. Quentin didn’t give a damn. He hugged her back and squeezed her tightly. “You should be safe now,” he said. “Amicus promised that if you were the last one standing, I wouldn’t have to kill you.”

Maria laughed. “Well, I’m glad for that. Thank you, Quentin.”

“No, thank you for stopping me from getting killed. Wouldn’t have survived without you.” Quentin grinned and burst out laughing, full of happy relief.

The crowd started up again, but they didn’t matter anymore. They’d done it, and now it was time to get the hell out of here and reunite Maria with her daughter. So when Amicus started up again, Quentin was slow to notice what was being said, and even slower to react.

“What’s this? WHO’S this? An unknown, masked man has come out onto the arena! Look at him move, people, dancing along the tops of the maze!” Quentin looked up, confused.

Right in time to see a tall, lean man wearing light armor, and a helmet with the mask of a grotesque bird, complete with a fierce hooked beak, stop on the length of wall nearest them. The man carried a large bolter, which he aimed down at the two of them. Quentin understood a second too late as the figure fired a bolt directly into Maria’s chest. And then another, and another. Each impact had her stagger backwards, mouth formed in a silent O of surprise and terror.

Maria slumped to the ground, leaving a trail of blood on the wall behind her. Quentin dropped to his knees. “No…” he said, disbelieving what he was seeing. And then the pieces came together.

If she was the last one left, then Quentin wouldn’t have to kill her. See you soon, Cervenka had said.

“Allow me the pleasure of introducing the newest executioner to the Colosseum, the Death Hawk!”