Glory From Blood

Thanks to my readings of David Gemmel novels for the inspiration for this one.

“Honor and glory.”

Those words echoed in Rancor’s mind as he slowly circled his opponent. This was to be his last bout, the one that would immortalize his name in the annals of gladiatorial history. Rancor found that he would be hard pressed to earn his lasting fame. The fight had been going on for the better part of an hour and the continued physical exertion was beginning to take its toll on the veteran gladiator.

“By the gods, this man is proving to be quite a handful,” thought Rancor. In a sudden flash of steel, Rancor’s opponent thrust his sword towards Rancor’s midsection in an attempt at disembowelment. Half stumbling, Rancor brought his own blade up in a side ways block and then attempted to slide the blade down towards his opponent’s face. At the last second, Rancor’s opponent swayed backwards, the blade missing the bridge of the nose by mere centimeters, and countering with a lightning fast downwards cut. Blood sprayed from the wound that opened in Rancor’s side. The crowd roared its enjoyment, the sound rocking the very foundations of the stone arena. The sound seemed to become an almost tangible wall which staggered both fighters to their very bones.

Rancor took time during the momentary lull in fighting to take stock on his current condition. Along with the cut on his side, Rancor had gashes on both arms, his right thigh, and a cut on the left temple. The cut oozed blood and Rancor had to repeatedly blink to clear the blood from his eyes. Rancor’s muscles were screaming in agony over the prolonged beating he was administering on them. His blade had mysteriously tripled in weight. Every swing was taking monstrous effort as if the blade was being swung through molasses. Rancor could feel his life dripping away with every drop of blood his body expelled.

Sensing a moment’s hesitation, Rancor’s opponent lashed out, this time with an attack aimed towards the neck. Rancor had just enough time to parry the blade and attempt a riposte only to have his own blade blocked with apparent ease. Rancor rolled his blade around his opponent’s then stepped in and shoulder charged the man. His opponent staggered back and Rancor took this time to catch a moment’s breath. His muscles felt like gelatin and it was all he could do to keep from pitching forward into the sand. Every breath came in ragged gasps and Rancor knew that he was at last nearing the end of his prodigious strength.

It was now or death.

His opponent lunged forward.

Sunlight glinted on a sure killing stroke.

And the man lay dead, a pool of blood spreading from the gaping wound in his neck and staining the sand.

At the moment of the lunge, Rancor had swept his own blade in a horizontal arc over his opponent’s blade. There was no thought of defense. It was a move borne of desperation and Rancor was the one left standing. It was fully a moment before the victory could sink in. It was only when the crowd exploded in tumultuous applause that Rancor allowed his sword to drop. He raised his hands and roared in triumph, his exultation complete.

Rancor had won. As his vision slowly faded into black, he was only vaguely aware of a falling sensation and the dimming of all perception. With his death, he had finally reached his immortality.