PIRX
Back on the steppes, the morning would sometimes find part of our caribou herd slaughtered. Nights we would hunt, but only a few of us needed to ride, and some of the herd would be left to graze, or to sleep, or rest for the next expedition. But when we’d come back and one had been killed (most often by one of the carnivores from further uphill… the speaking races didn’t make it to our altitude often) there would be cleaning up to do. Scraping the flesh and blood from the vegetation in a way that couldn’t betray our presence here, a few feet below in our hidden wardens. The Daywatchers themselves wouldn’t be assigned such a task, of course, but I wasn’t always a Daywatcher.
There is a smell that fills your nostrils, of blood drained and pus matted on fur, beginning to cake. The meat would be saved, and used. The bones turned to clubs for the grunts. The caribou’s rack carved, and sold downhill on the Manager’s monthly visit for what we couldn't manage ourselves. The smell was overpowering not just because in the crisp mountain air the wind would carry it further than you’d imagine. It was the smell of a loss: part of our brood was gone, one of our resources. And we were impoverished. It was the smell of failure.
I longed for that smell, now. Because this was so much worse. The display had begun only a few minutes ago, and with the shades pulled over the arena to cool the crowd, the orange and red light streaming down looked like the sun was setting, and we goblins could run free, as we had done back home. A dozen of us were released, and as our eyes got used to the flickering light (we now saw the sun’s beams overhead, shining through the coloured sails), we saw the surrounding walls, higher than any of us could jump or toss ourselves. We saw the Praetor in his chair, surrounded by his family out to enjoy a day of sport, distracted by a Tribune who was keen to have his ear during one of the intervals from the gladiators. And we saw the fighters – two of them, beginners, armored and armed, while we had nothing. Nothing. This was to be target practice, nothing more. The gob in front of me was hit with a warlock’s blast before he even made it out of the pit. One down. I scrambled and ran.
The noise of the crowd roared, filling my ears (I have good ears; they don’t miss much), and as I tried to increase the distance, I saw someone in chainmail swing his hammer, and let it fly. It smashed into Pugsley’s head a few feet from me, and showed me the colour of his brain. Two down… no, there. Three and Four. Don’t know who got them. I stood there, waving my arms above my head and screaming, like I had heard the Manager once describe the shrieking monkeys he had once seen in the Lepardi Forest, back before it was reoccupied. And then it hit me, in the head. A dark blast of light from the warlock, only now I couldn’t see. I staggered, and I heard one of them boast, but it was in a language I hadn’t yet learned. I heard another whack of a hammer, and another scream. Five, I made a mental note. Maybe six.
I couldn’t see anything, and the sounds from the crowds were disorienting. I ran to where I am now. This wasn’t the main attraction, and it was clear that the gladiators are just showing off for the crowd. Going for range, or going for two with a single blow.
This wasn’t a sport, and it wasn’t a contest. We gobs were cheaper than pigs, and we made better noises when hit. That's it. Tripping over him, I found another of us, on the ground. Seven? I’m losing count. Grey shapes now, as I try to shake the eyebite’s effect away. The one with the hammer is at the perimeter, I hear him banging along the wall to draw the cheers from the crowd, and get them to respond. Also to get survivors away from the perimeter. More fun if we run.
And then the smell hit me, as my eyes regained focus and I saw Pugsley’s corpse below me – only six, then? – and I smelled him. His bowels had evacuated, and were mixing in the white sand with his blood and his fear and he was my broodmate before we had been captured and there was another scream seven like it matters now anyway and what’s that guy doing with that gob’s leg? is it really better than a hammer? of course not.
I breathed in the smell of failure, and defeat, and death.
But not my death. Not today. I pulled Pugsley or what had been Pugsley on top of me, and shook his corpse every few seconds. Each time, another beam from the warlock, who seemed to think this was a fun game. Not bright enough to wonder why this goblin never went down, but shot after shot from where he stood, into Pugsley’s body as I moved it above me on that hot day in the light of the setting sun but the heat of midday on the sand. Pugsley dripped onto my face, and my chest, and into my memory.
The horn sounded, twin long metal tubes blown by a human slave. In the few minutes these amateurs had managed only to get nine of us, I was to discover. We survivors were herded back into the pit, reprieved for the next time.
That night, I dreamt of the caribou.
Back on the steppes, the morning would sometimes find part of our caribou herd slaughtered. Nights we would hunt, but only a few of us needed to ride, and some of the herd would be left to graze, or to sleep, or rest for the next expedition. But when we’d come back and one had been killed (most often by one of the carnivores from further uphill… the speaking races didn’t make it to our altitude often) there would be cleaning up to do. Scraping the flesh and blood from the vegetation in a way that couldn’t betray our presence here, a few feet below in our hidden wardens. The Daywatchers themselves wouldn’t be assigned such a task, of course, but I wasn’t always a Daywatcher.
There is a smell that fills your nostrils, of blood drained and pus matted on fur, beginning to cake. The meat would be saved, and used. The bones turned to clubs for the grunts. The caribou’s rack carved, and sold downhill on the Manager’s monthly visit for what we couldn't manage ourselves. The smell was overpowering not just because in the crisp mountain air the wind would carry it further than you’d imagine. It was the smell of a loss: part of our brood was gone, one of our resources. And we were impoverished. It was the smell of failure.
I longed for that smell, now. Because this was so much worse. The display had begun only a few minutes ago, and with the shades pulled over the arena to cool the crowd, the orange and red light streaming down looked like the sun was setting, and we goblins could run free, as we had done back home. A dozen of us were released, and as our eyes got used to the flickering light (we now saw the sun’s beams overhead, shining through the coloured sails), we saw the surrounding walls, higher than any of us could jump or toss ourselves. We saw the Praetor in his chair, surrounded by his family out to enjoy a day of sport, distracted by a Tribune who was keen to have his ear during one of the intervals from the gladiators. And we saw the fighters – two of them, beginners, armored and armed, while we had nothing. Nothing. This was to be target practice, nothing more. The gob in front of me was hit with a warlock’s blast before he even made it out of the pit. One down. I scrambled and ran.
The noise of the crowd roared, filling my ears (I have good ears; they don’t miss much), and as I tried to increase the distance, I saw someone in chainmail swing his hammer, and let it fly. It smashed into Pugsley’s head a few feet from me, and showed me the colour of his brain. Two down… no, there. Three and Four. Don’t know who got them. I stood there, waving my arms above my head and screaming, like I had heard the Manager once describe the shrieking monkeys he had once seen in the Lepardi Forest, back before it was reoccupied. And then it hit me, in the head. A dark blast of light from the warlock, only now I couldn’t see. I staggered, and I heard one of them boast, but it was in a language I hadn’t yet learned. I heard another whack of a hammer, and another scream. Five, I made a mental note. Maybe six.
I couldn’t see anything, and the sounds from the crowds were disorienting. I ran to where I am now. This wasn’t the main attraction, and it was clear that the gladiators are just showing off for the crowd. Going for range, or going for two with a single blow.
This wasn’t a sport, and it wasn’t a contest. We gobs were cheaper than pigs, and we made better noises when hit. That's it. Tripping over him, I found another of us, on the ground. Seven? I’m losing count. Grey shapes now, as I try to shake the eyebite’s effect away. The one with the hammer is at the perimeter, I hear him banging along the wall to draw the cheers from the crowd, and get them to respond. Also to get survivors away from the perimeter. More fun if we run.
And then the smell hit me, as my eyes regained focus and I saw Pugsley’s corpse below me – only six, then? – and I smelled him. His bowels had evacuated, and were mixing in the white sand with his blood and his fear and he was my broodmate before we had been captured and there was another scream seven like it matters now anyway and what’s that guy doing with that gob’s leg? is it really better than a hammer? of course not.
I breathed in the smell of failure, and defeat, and death.
But not my death. Not today. I pulled Pugsley or what had been Pugsley on top of me, and shook his corpse every few seconds. Each time, another beam from the warlock, who seemed to think this was a fun game. Not bright enough to wonder why this goblin never went down, but shot after shot from where he stood, into Pugsley’s body as I moved it above me on that hot day in the light of the setting sun but the heat of midday on the sand. Pugsley dripped onto my face, and my chest, and into my memory.
The horn sounded, twin long metal tubes blown by a human slave. In the few minutes these amateurs had managed only to get nine of us, I was to discover. We survivors were herded back into the pit, reprieved for the next time.
That night, I dreamt of the caribou.