Fallout: Montana

by MoKidd

Cain Lone-Elk comes from a land of hardship, a land of fierce rules, a land where only the strong survive. In the ruins of the Old World and amid the backdrop of the majestic Rocky Mountains, he and his tribe eke out a living where few others dare to tread, but a new threat is looming on the horizon. A fierce enemy from the south is coming to their doorstep. Is he ready to face it?

21. Chapter 21

I don't know how long I was out. An hour? A day? Who knows. All I remember is the stink that filled the air when I opened my eyes again. It permeated the air and flooded my nostrils the moment I returned to the world. It the stink of animal dung, of rotten hides and putrid meat, of human waste left to decay in a shallow pit, and of old blood and gangrene. I was on the ground when I awoke, face down in the dust and the straw that lined the floor of the little hut where we were being kept. We? Yes, I was sure that there was at least one other person there with me. I could hear their breathing and occasionally a labored grunt and the shuffle of their movements on the straw. I started to sit up and a lightning bolt of pain shot through me from head to toe. My hands were chained and my clothes were different. I had been wearing my buckskins and moccasins, but now I was dressed in rough burlap rags and was barefoot. My weapons were gone.

Carefully and tentatively I managed to get myself into a sitting position, being careful to move slowly to spare myself as much pain as possible. I put a hand to my head and found a gash almost even with the hairline above the left temple, now caked in dried blood, and when I touched it a shot of pain went clean through me. Whatever left it must have been long and wide, like Lanius' sword. He must have used the flat of his blade to knock me out. Looking myself over I found a rough bandage tied across my chest for the wound on my shoulders, as well as two more that were tied around my left bicep and right forearm. All three were made from dirty rags and were colored with dried blood. I found four more cuts and bruises, all minor in comparison, that had been left to scab over. I only recalled receiving the wound on the shoulders. I must not have felt others through the rush of combat. It was no new thing. I had seen men take a dozen wounds in the heat of a battle and not feel it until later when the adrenaline wore off. With an effort I staggered to my feet and managed to get myself upright, my head swimming and my legs less than steady underneath me, and I had a look around.

Near as I could tell, I was in some kind of storage hut. There were no cells or chains that made it look like this was a place for keeping prisoners, but there were signs that people had been living here for some time. There were scraps of dried bread, a few kernels of rice, and there were tracks of at least two dozen people in the trampled and loose dirt. The walls were made of reeds and thatch, as was the roof, and there were places that were dark with what appeared to be blood. I could hear voices outside the hut speaking in the Legion tongue and accompanied by the clatter of trace chains, the pounding of a hammer against steel and anvil, the sounds of animals being herded or moved, and many other sounds that one would expect from a military camp. I could smell the faint smells of Brahmin, leather, and food cooking mixed in with the acrid stink of the place. The food was different from what I had become used to, more subtle, hot, spicy. I remembered the spicy rice and the strong tea that I had eaten after riding into Arizona. There was the smell of meat cooking as well and as I smelled it I felt my stomach growl like an angry Yao Guai. How long since I had eaten?

The hut was barely five and a half feet tall and I had to stoop to keep from bumping my head. Obviously it had been built for smaller men. The one room was long and circular and the only light came from a hole in the conical roof or sifted through the cracks in the thatch. The hole was obviously meant to allow smoke to rise from the central fire pit, although there was no evidence of a fire pit or that there had ever been a fire here at all. The room was also devoid of any and all furnishings. That was strange. Men had lived here, and for quite a while, but there were no cooking utensils, no fire pits, no bedding, and no personal belongings of any kind. Had it been cleared out for us? If so, then they were especially careful to leave no trace of whoever had been here before. The air had a slight chill to it and the light that drifted it was pale and clear, so I guessed that it was morning or midmorning. The meal cooking outside would be breakfast, then. I had no idea of what the Legion ate for breakfast, but I hoped they would bring us some soon. My stomach was starting to think that my throat had been cut.

Feeling my way through the darkness of the room and allowing my eyes to adjust to the dusty and shadowy confines of the room, I made my way over to where the groans had been coming from. I could see a dark shape there, the shape of a man dressed in dark garments and sitting against the wall of the hut. He was a big man and he wore military style boots with a good tread to them. Not a Copache or a legionnaire, then. I came closer and carefully kneeled beside the man and saw that his face was covered in bruises and gashes and that one eye was purple and swollen completely shut, and there was a bandage no better than my own wrapped around his head. His face was turned away from me, but a moment after I knelt down beside him he stirred and turned to look at me. It was Mack.

It was strange to see him in such a state. Mack had always been meticulous about his appearance to the point that it sometimes became annoying to the rest of us. Every morning he brushed his uniform, cut and combed his hair, and shaved with a fine razor and soap and that he had brought with him. The rest of us often went unshaven and some of us had taken up Copache garb in our time with the Tribals, but not Mack. He was a BOS soldier through and through and he would be damned if he went a day without following the Brotherhood's regulations to the letter. Now his uniform was in shambles, covered in dirt, blood, and cut or torn in several places. There was a long cut across his chest and I peered through the fabric, expecting to find a wound underneath, but found nothing there. He must have ducked away from the blow just in time. There was about a day's stubble on his face and our wounds had been tended at least that long ago, judging by the bandages and the wounds themselves, so we had been here for at least a day. Suddenly I wondered about the others and hoped that they had made it out of that damned valley alive. Boone, Aaron, Brooks and Reynolds, Many Scars, and all the rest. They were our friends and I hoped that they yet lived, but something in the back of my mind warned me against trusting to a fool's hope.

Mack turned his head and saw me, and on instinct he drew back and raised his arms to fend off an attack. I held my hands up palms out and talked him down, for he was wild-eyed and searched the hut for enemies before finally settling down. His side hurt him and he grabbed at it after his sudden move, and when I looked closer I saw that there was a bullet wound there. His black uniform had masked the blood stain and the bullet had gone clean through his left side just under the ribs. Someone had put a plain bandage on it under his tunic, but from the looks of it they had been more interested in stopping the bleeding than actually treating it.

"Mack," I said to him, "Mack, what do you remember? Do you know where we are?"

"Of course I do, damn it! We're in the goddamn Legion camp."

"Do you remember how we got here?"

"I remember charging up the hill. We had the Legion on the run, but then we got over the hill and they were all down in the valley with guns on us."

"I remember that too. They cut us to pieces."

"We were on the right flank when they opened up on us. They cut down half my command in the first few seconds, then they charged. They were on us before we could retreat after you and the others. I saw Brooks go down, but I saw Reynolds get away. They came down on me and I know I got at least ten of them before they dragged me down and stripped off my armor. I don't know why they didn't kill me. I didn't think the Legion took prisoners."

"Neither did I. You say they got Brooks?"

"He's dead for sure. He too two in the chest and one in the throat all at once. Reynolds was hit hard, but he was still riding when last I saw him."

"And the rest of your men?"

"Dead, all dead. Those Legion bastards shot 'em all down without a chance. What happened after you guys fell back?"

I told him what had happened down in the valley, about the flight down the hill and regrouping in the hollow, about the fast retreat toward the east, and about Ten Bulls and the other group of Copache riding us down before the Legion charge.

"Copache attacked us? Why would they do that?"

"Not everyone was happy about this war. I've heard that a couple of the chiefs think it would be better to surrender and join the Legion. He must have talked a few of them into joining him after we ran him off."

"You should have killed that little shit when you had the chance."

"Woulda, coudla, shoulda. How's that wound?"

"Fine for now. I'll live to bury a few of these assholes."

A few minutes passed and the door was unbarred from the outside and three legionnaires came inside. Two of them stepped to either side of the door and stood with their hands near their Machetes while the third came toward us carrying two clay bowls and a clay jug. He came up to us and kicked Mack's foot hard, raising a yelp from him. I sprang to my feet and meant to snap his neck for his insolence, but the two others came forward and drew their blades. I knew I could get the big man with the bowls, maybe one of the others, but in such a small place it was a cinch that they would get me in the end. I stepped back and squatted down beside Mack.

"Here," the big Veteran with the bowls said through a snarling grin, "eat, slave dogs! The Caesar wants you nice and healthy for your audience tomorrow."

"Audience? What is that supposed to mean?"

"Silence, profligate trash!"

He shoved the two bowls into our hands and all but slammed the jug on the ground between us, sloshing brown water from the top. The bowls were filled with rice, plain and barely cooked. It was just barely softened and half the grains were hard and without color. He brought no utensils with which to eat. I lifted the jug for a drink, for I was desperately thirsty, and when I looked into it I saw that the water was a muddy brown and looked like it was fresh out of the river.

"What is this slop? This isn't fit for a Mole Rat!"

"Slave scum eat slave rations, profligate. Either eat it or you starve, it makes no difference to me. We can throw you on the pyre with the rest of your painted savages."

"Keep talking, big man. It'll be my pleasure to ram those words down your throat."

"Perhaps, but not today!"

He backhanded me across the face with a gauntleted hand. The leather and metal stung and he was a strong man besides. It was all I could do not to go back a step when he hit me. I felt my lip split and I tasted blood, and when I glared back at his smug smile I felt drops of it run down my chin.

"No, but soon," I said to him. It was not a threat, per se, I just said it sort of conversationally as if I were telling him when I would return a tool.

He wanted to hit me again, I could see that in his eyes, but something stopped him. He was a big man and a powerful one, but anyone could see that I had at least twenty pounds on him and the burlap tunic I wore left nothing to the imagination. My bare arms, browned by the sun, were packed with muscle and my barrel chest showed through cut that did for a collar. And more than that, he could see the hatred that filled my eyes and he must have known that I would kill him. He had struck me and insulted me and my friend, and if he tried to do so again I was going to tear him apart piece by piece. I was still alive and I still knew that I had a job to do as long as I lived, but at that moment I just didn't care. He turned without a word and the three of them left, sliding the bar back into place.

The rice was cold and tasteless, but it was food. The bowl went fast, each one containing little more than a ladle full, and the water tasted of dirt and grime and I could feel the silt and grit as I drank it. We wouldn't last long on rations like these. We were both big men who liked to eat and we had been accustomed to having fat meat at hand. I could still smell meat cooking and tea boiling outside and the scent of it nearly drove me mad. The legionnaires outside were feasting their victory with that meat, feasting the destruction of our friends and their tribe, and the thought of it burned like a hot coal inside me. I have never been a hating man, but right now I had a burning hatred for those men out there and all that they stood for and all that I wanted to do was to slaughter them to a man. Soon enough, I told myself, soon enough.

Day faded into night and the inside of our hut was, for a brief moment, brilliantly lit by the red and gold light of dusk and the warm sunlight was a boon in the hot, close environment of the thatch prison. The sun sank behind the western hills and the fires flared up outside, casting weird shadows through the spaces in the thatch and giving off a heat that permeated the air. We were allowed no fire of our own. We sat in silence and darkness with only the light that drifted in from outside to see by. We could hear them celebrating outside, singing, laughing, joking, drinking their strong tea and what smelled like some kind of beer out of clay jars and cups that rattled and clanked in the darkness between fires, and feasting on the meat that had been torturing our bellies all day with its heavenly aroma. I desperately wanted something to eat besides the rancid rice that we had been given, but there was nothing for it now. We were prisoners here and, from what I had heard, the Legion had never been the type to treat their prisoners well.

I bathed Mack's wounds as well as I could with the water we had been given and a rag that I tore from my own rough tunic. The bullet in his side appeared to have gone through and left a clean wound tract, damaging nothing vital. Flies had gotten into the wound and there were maggots in the torn flesh and I left them where they were. Maggots love to feast on dead and rotting tissue and will eat away any infection or dead flesh that would otherwise turn septic and prove fatal. I was more concerned about his head wound. He had taken a bad beating, that much was for sure, and as the night wore on he would sometimes drift in and out of consciousness or mumble something incoherent now and then. I touched his brow and found it boiling hot. He had a fever and a possible concussion. He was in bad shape and he needed treatment, but I had nothing with which to treat him and I knew better than to ask the bastards outside for help. He would have to pull through on his own. He was a strong man and a stubborn one, though, and if anyone could do it I had a hunch it would be him.

Sleep was difficult. The shouts and songs outside made it almost impossible and the legionnaires weren't shy about tormenting us. Several times men or groups of men came by the hut and threw jars at the thatch walls and shouted curses and oaths at us, one group even stepping up to the wall and relieving themselves all over it. I wanted to teach them a lesson in manners, but a word from the guards and a sharp rap on the thatching with a rifle butt changed my mind. We were being watched carefully and I doubted that they cared if we were kept alive or not.

Escape was an option, but it would be difficult if we tried. Mack was in bad shape and in no condition for a hard run, I was barefoot and without a horse, and we were in the middle of a camp of hundreds, perhaps thousands of Legion troops. I was handicapped by my chains, but they could be a weapon if used properly and creatively. Those men outside had blades and probably guns as well. If only I could get one of them alone and close enough! Even as I thought about it, I knew it wouldn't happen. These men were too well trained to make such a mistake. They never went anywhere alone and there was always at least one man ready to attack. Even if I did kill one and take his weapons, there were dozens more within shouting distance and from what I could see through the cracks in the walls the camp was open and bare in this area and offered almost no cover for at least thirty or forty feet. The nearest, best cover was a large tent that looked like it would sleep about thirty men, and that was on the other side of a bonfire where a dozen men were laughing and eating.

When I finally got to sleep, I have no idea, but somewhere along the line I fell asleep and was immediately engulfed by the great battle that had haunted my dreams since leaving Montana. I saw the Fire Hairs and the Plainsmen charging into a seething red mass of Legion forces, with the white-painted bodies of the White Legs mixed in among them, and when I looked to the left and right I could see armies of the Black Hands and the Eaters of Men charging down the hill with the warriors of the Fire Hairs. We were all in full regalia and painted blue and white to signal our readiness for death in battle. The earth shook and thundered the hooves of thousands of horses and the air was shrill with the battle cries and war whoops of thousands and thousands of warriors. We crashed into the red ranks of the Legion and slaughtered them to a man, but then suddenly the battle turned and we were in retreat. Rather, the others were in retreat. I found myself alone on the battlefield and surrounded by the dead and dying, encircled by a blazing ring of fire that must have been a quarter of a mile across, and out of the flames a hulking figure strode as if he walked through leaves. He was tall, broad, and covered in armor, his face was covered with a shaped steel mask, and in his hands he held a giant sword of wrought iron. His eyes burned like the coals of hell within the mask. Lanius, Caesar of the Legion, the Blade of the East.

The metallic screech of the bar being pulled away at the door awakened me. I sprang to my knees, ready for anything, just as the door swung open and the big Veteran and his friends came in again. The other two held position at the door once again and the Veteran came up to me with a wooden baton in his hand. His machete was in the sheath at his belt.

"On your feet, dog. The Caesar wishes to speak to you."

"Sorry, but I must respectfully decline his invitation."

He swung the baton hard and fast and it was hitting me in the side of the face before I even saw it move. He was stout and strong, and he was fast to boot. I felt the skin break and a second later felt the warm trickle of blood running down my cheek. I didn't wince or cry out, I just looked into his eyes and showed the same contempt for him that he showed for me. He looked away and stepped to the side, motioning for me to get up and follow the others. I didn't want to see the Caesar and I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me in pain and in rags. I wanted nothing to do with that bastard at all. But I knew what he would do if I didn't go. They would beat me or beat Mack until I agreed to go and then they would beat us again for spite . . . or for pleasure. I rose to my feet and cricked my neck, fixed the front of my shirt and swept the straw from my hair and my shirt front, and I started for the door.

"Cain!", Mack shouted from across the hut, "Be careful, Cain."

"Always, brother."

The two men at the door grabbed me by the arms and pulled me out of the hut and into the cool night air. The feast was still in full swing and there were legionnaires everywhere I looked. There were great fires burning about every dozen yards, other fires burned under the roasting sides of Brahmin and Bighorners and twice I saw the charred carcasses of horses, and the smells of the meat, spiced rice, and their strong tea was refreshing after the sickening stench of our hut. The cool air felt good and the heat of the fires was a good, familiar feeling. We passed several groups of men that were huddled around the fires, eating and drinking and joking, and every time they came out and chided, insulted, and hurled scraps of food at me. They called me "savage", "profligate", "scum", everything that the Veteran had called me and more. I let them have their fun. I didn't give them the privilege of seeing me angered.

It didn't take me long to see that this army was much larger than the one we had been sent to fight. Jubal had said that Lanius had marched into Texas with two thousand men. This army was at least twice that size. Rows of red tents stretched away into the distance and across the length of the valley I could see the fires burning in their own neat rows. The tents were the large ones that would sleep about twenty men apiece. Around the camp I could see a wooden wall that stood about twelve feet tall, built out of poles and prefabricated sections that needed only to be set up and staked into the ground for speedy construction. Towers stood at regular intervals, about thirty or forty feet apart, and I could see four gates at the center of all four sides. I had heard from our scouts that the Legion often deployed traps and entrenchments outside of their camps to delay an enemy's attack.

My three escorts led through the camp, its lanes and pathways like the intricate network of streets and roads that I had seen in some Old World cities, until we came to the large square parade ground at the center of the complex. The ground had been mown and leveled here so that the units could march and drill in perfect formation, and at the far end of the parade ground was a huge tent that was much finer than any of the others. It was a deep red color and was trimmed with blue and gold, and at the front of the large flap that did for a door there were two more Praetorians that stood as straight and erect as living statues. They pulled the flaps back and we entered into the most lavish domicile that I have ever seen in my life. Even Jubal's penthouse had nothing on this place. There was a huge four-poster bed in the back of the tent, which was easily thirty or forty yards across, a long mahogany table to my left with a dozen chairs or more set up along both sides, a small office area to my right that held a few smaller tables and some book cases that were filed with books and folders and at the far end stood a tall, extravagant throne made from dark wood and gilded in intricate golden inlays and carvings.

Everywhere I looked there were slaves. I could see at least a dozen men, most of them about age thirty or older, all dressed in dirty rags and lean and frail as old men, that were performing some task or carrying trays or just standing at the ready waiting to be called. There were twice as many women, but their circumstances seemed to be a little better. Most of them were young, mid teens to maybe early twenties, and they were dressed either in skimpy dresses that left little to the imagination or in some cases merely a lacy skirt and nothing else above the waist. They were some of the most beautiful women that I had ever seen. They were young, well endowed, and their one purpose seemed to simply be there and be appealing. Some of them stood near the throne with large palm leaves in their hands that they used as fans for the hulking form that sat upon it.

One look and I could see that it could only be Lanius. His gigantic sword was beside him and leaning against a wooden stand which also held his armor and helmet. He sat there in his purple silk tunic and trousers, leather cuffs on both wrists and heavy leather boots on both feet. Two Praetorians stood at attention on either side of him and there was a very good looking brunette at his feet whose skin was like fresh milk and whose breasts were just barely covered by the twin locks of jet black hair that fell down her chest. Lanius was even more imposing now than he had been on the battlefield. His body was a solid mass of muscle. His chest was deep and broad, his arms were like gnarled old oaks and were covered with deep scars, and his brown hair was braided Greek-style and tied behind his head. His hands were large and thick, heavy with muscle and likewise covered with scars from many fights. His helmet was on the stand with the rest of his armor, but he still wore his mask that covered his face.

The Veteran pushed me along with his baton until we stood before the Caesar. The big man didn't stir. He simply looked down at me with eyes like burning coals behind his steel mask. The brunette was giving me the "fuck me" eyes, but I didn't notice that much.

"Kneel before Caesar Lanius, profligate scum!", the Veteran shouted.

I didn't move. I had been captured, beaten, and degraded, but I would be damned before I would kneel before any man. They could kill me if they wished, but I would die with my honor intact.

"I said kneel, slave dog!"

He hit me hard across the backs of my knees with his baton. My legs buckled and I sank to my knees and when I turned to answer his rebuke he backhanded me again. I didn't grunt or cry out. He would get his, I told myself, sooner or later he would get his.

"Soldier," Lanius said in a deep, raspy, thundering voice that sent chills down my spine, "did I order you to strike that prisoner?"

"No, great Caesar, but the dog failed to show you the proper respect."

"I will decide when I have been shown the proper respect and by whom."

"I understand, great Caesar, but-"

I heard the soft rustle of a blade leaving a sheath, saw Lanius' hand flash in a blinding whirl of movement, and heard the shrill whistle of a knife sailing over my head all in the same instant. I heard a dull thud behind me accompanied by a grunt and the warm spatter of blood on my hair and neck. The Veteran sank to his knees and hit the packed earth floor of the tent on his side, a ten-inch knife half-buried in his chest.

"Apologies," Lanius said as he stood up from his throne, "for the conduct of my men. He was weak and weak men make poor hosts. Guards, get rid of that. Mister Lone-Elk, please join me."

He snapped his fingers and the two Praetorians came down from his little platform and unceremoniously dragged the dead man out through the front flap, while at the same time several of the male slaves came alive and disappeared into a separate kitchen tent and returned a moment later carrying huge silver and gold trays that were heaped high with food of all kinds. Lanius took a seat at the head of the table and I was seated on his left. My chains were taken off and one of the Praetorians stood behind me as I sat down. One of the slaves laid a silver platter in front of me and some silver forks and spoons, then a silver goblet that another slave filled with dark, sweet smelling wine from a clay vessel. The trays that were scattered across the table were mounded with food and prepared by someone who obviously knew their craft.

Back home, this much food would feed several families for at least a month. There were Brahmin steaks, yucca fruit, deep bowls of fresh greens, tomatoes, baked and mashed potatoes, rice and beans, plain rice drenched in some kind of spicy-smelling sauce, and three pots that would hold at least a gallon each of water, coffee, and the strong Legion tea that I had seen and tasted before. There was even a tray that held what looked and smelled like Radbuff meat and three or four pieces that looked like the tongues and sweetbreads, both great delicacies. A slave built a plate for Lanius and brought it to him. It was heaped high with meat, tomatoes, baked potatoes, and some of the fruits. Another slave poured him a goblet of wine from the clay vessel she held. The plates and silverware were laid out before me and I tentatively reached out and gathered food for myself.

"You seem troubled. Please, sit and eat and drink your fill. You are my guest."

"Is this how you treat all of your guests?"

"Only those whom I deem worthy. I saw you on the battlefield, my friend. You stood and fought while the rest of that painted rabble ran in cowardice. Even when you were surrounded and outnumbered you continued to fight. I believe that you would have fought to the death had I not found a better use for you."

"And what use might that be? Entertaining your troops?"

"For the moment. That will be more of a test. I see skill and great potential in you, friend, but that will come in due time. Come now, enjoy your food. I'm sure you must be famished."

It was true that I was hungry. The meat smelled good and the wine and water were enticing, but there was still the fact that I was sitting with the enemy. Not even a normal enemy, but the enemy commander and king. My comrades were either dead, dying, or scattered to the winds and running and hiding on the plains scared, starving, and hunted like animals. My friend Mack was wounded and possibly dying in that shithole hut they had put us in and was suffering from pain and blood loss, possibly even infection. I looked at the food before me on the silver plate and the wine and water that were in their gilded goblets and suddenly even my empty stomach had lost its appetite.

"No thank you, sir. I'm fine."

"I know what they feed the slaves, Fire Hair, and the few times that we have taken prisoners. You can't tell me that you aren't hungry."

"I can, and I am."

"Are you refusing an order from your Caesar?"

"You are not my Caesar."

"Even if it would mean your death?"

"If so, so be it."

He lifted his goblet and took a long drink through the space in his helmet, leaning back in his chair and looking me over. I could see his eyes through the teardrop-shaped slots and I could almost feel his eyes on me. I'm not afraid to admit that I didn't like it. I've looked into the eyes of many men that wanted me dead, men that wanted to make me suffer and bleed, but never had I seen eyes like those on this hulking man before me. His manner was cordial enough, but there was something else below the façade that really had me worried. It was more than just the stories I had heard of his cruelty and ferocity. There were more than a few stories among other tribes that made me out to be a monster myself, but this was different. This man was a caged Yao Guai, a pure beast that lived for destruction and carnage. He was a monster through and through. What could such a man want with me? Why was he keeping me and Mack alive? More important, where was Adrian? I hadn't seen him yet, only the slaves and the Praetorians. Was he dead? Was he a slave himself? My mind was racing with so many questions that I couldn't put a handle on just one.

He put down his wine and ate in silence, emptying his plate and another goblet of wine before a slave came and refilled his plate. I never touched my food, although I desperately wanted to, but he scarcely seemed to notice. The slaves neither moved nor spoke. Every one of them stood at perfect attention at their posts. It was only now that I noticed that every one of them had a strange mechanical collar around their necks. At first I thought they were some sort of simple restraint, but upon closer examination I saw they had some kind of bleeping light that was connected to a small control port. The collars looked heavy and cumbersome and I could see where the skin of the slaves' necks were red and swollen from the tight fit. I remembered Boone telling me about the explosive collars that the Legion put on their slaves. It was a barbaric manner of keeping servants, but I was coming to expect nothing less from the Legion.

"Fire Hair," Lanius said in that deep, raspy, thundering voice of his behind his helmet, "tell me about your lands. I am very curious about them. My scouts tell me that your people are formidable warriors and hunters."

"Your scouts? You mean the men that came into our lands and stole our people? Who massacred our villages and carted our children off to be slaves?"

"Do your tribes not raid one another?"

"Only for horses and plunder. We do not wipe one another out as you seem determined to do with every culture you encounter."

"The great Caesar once said, 'We expand or we die.' I have carried on that teaching."

"Another Caesar said that long ago, Lanius, a ruler of the ancient Roman Empire. Their empire crumbled on itself, just as yours will someday."

"You speak boldly in the presence of your betters."

"I don't see any betters. I've seen what you do to your own people. You have a banquet here that would easily feed many families, all for your own supper. You tax your people to the breaking point to finance your wars and build your armies, take the young men that are need to do the vital work at home to fight those wars, and you kill your own men at the slightest provocation. Some might call you a ruler, but all I see is a tyrant with no regard for his subjects. Look at your slaves. They look like they're about to fall over from exhaustion."

"They are slaves. Their lives are insignificant. They live only to serve their masters and when they die they are replaced with more. That is why we 'steal your children', as you say. We take our slaves from the lands we conquer and put them in their rightful place. Only men of the Legion are fit to do battle against the profligates of the world, and only children and weak old men are fit to waste their lives in the fields or in some shop. Their lives belong to me, their Caesar, and they live only to serve. After all, what are the lives of soldiers but so many chickens?

"You talk of wiping out cultures? You seem to know something of history, so you must know that this is nothing new. There have been many peoples here before us and they have all been conquered or destroyed by another. The Comanches conquered the tribes that roamed these plains, the Spanish and the Mexicans took it from them, the Texans took it from them, the Americans took it from them, and when the Americans destroyed themselves and the Vaults opened, the profligate tribes laid claim to it again. These Copache you fight for are the latest in a long line of ignorant savages who have claimed this land. We are purifying it, building a better society from the ashes of the Old World. You have seen the chaos that reigns here. My Legion offers order, stability, and strength. Soon the Copache will come to realize this and they will fight with us to bring order to others."

"Once you've wiped them out and brainwashed their children into psychotic killers?"

I've never seen anyone so large move so fast. No sooner had the words left my mouth than Lanius leapt from his chair and in two huge strides he was beside me and backhanded me across the face. It was a terrific blow that knocked me sidewise, chair and all. I hit the ground hard and started to rise, ready to fight, but as soon as I began to move I felt two large sets of hands close around my shoulders while two others held my arms. A blade flashed and I saw Lanius' hand lower a knife to my throat, the keen blade and needle-pointed tip touching the skin of my throat. I felt the edge and knew that that knife was sharp enough to split a hair. One quick flick of his wrist would be all that was needed for him to end my days.

"You speak out of turn, profligate. Remember that I am your Caesar and that you live only by my good graces. You will soon learn to respect your masters, slave. Take him away!"

The Praetorians drug me out of the tent and took me back to the hut, throwing me bodily through the door. I heard legionnaires laughing and chiding me as I rolled into the tiny room, then heard the door scrape shut and the bar being closed. Mack was still propped up against the far wall and seemed to have been asleep when I was brought back, and when I rolled into the hut he sprang awake and looked as if he was ready to fight. I saw his face in the flickering firelight and I saw fresh cuts and bruises. They had been at him while I was gone. Bastards.

"Welcome home, Cain," he said through is smashed lips, "how was your trip?"

"All things considered, I'd rather be in Montana."

"I found out why it stinks so bad in here. I guess they put us in the suite next to the junk pile. They've been throwing scraps and chamber pots on there all damn night."

"It looks like you had yourself a little go-around."

"Yeah. Our hosts are quite accommodating."

I used the last of the water to bathe the cuts on his face, then we just sat there against the scratchy thatch wall. My face was still partially numb from Lanius' blow. I hoped that my jaw wasn't broken. I knew only too well what adrenaline and shock could do to delay pain. I rubbed my jaw and felt the bone underneath, finding it solid. The skin was raw and there was a split along my cheekbone that I didn't remember feeling before.

I still couldn't believe the speed with which Lanius had attacked me. He was a hulking monster of a man, a mountain of muscle that was built of pure raw power and brute strength, but he was also incredibly fast. I'd seen men that moved swiftly and deliberately and was thought of as an uncommonly swift man myself, but I had never seen anyone move like he had. A man with his kind of strength and speed was a truly dangerous man, a man to be avoided at all costs. It dawned on me that I might someday have to fight that man, a fight which only one of us would survive, and suddenly I had doubts as to which of us that would be.

"So what did the Great One have to say?"

"Not much, Mack. He wanted me to eat with him and tell him about home."

"I hope you ate something for me. That rice didn't exactly hit the spot."

"I didn't eat. It was despicable. The man had more food laid out for him than I could eat in a month and he had slaves carrying out his every whim. They all had those bomb collars that we've heard about."

"That sounds like him. He wanted to know about home? You mean your home?"

"Yeah, back in Montana."

"Montana . . . I've always wanted to go there. I've heard that its beautiful."

"It is. There are mountains up there that hold snow the year 'round, herds of Radbuffs and Radstags and Bighorners and all kinds of other game, trails that go on forever into ancient valleys and ruins that haven't seen a footprint since before the Great War, if even then. Rolling plains that go on into the horizon, oceans of grass as green as you can imagine just rolling in the wind, like down here, and big, crystal clear rivers of the sweetest water you've ever tasted."

"Sounds like heaven. I've heard that there's a Brotherhood chapter up there somewhere. They've been dark for a long time, so long that some don't even think they exist anymore. They were supposed to be somewhere in the Rocky Mountains in an old Pre-War bunker. I've always thought of just heading up there and trying to find them. Have you ever heard of them?"

"No. Rumors and old stories, but nothing definite. I'll make you a deal, Mack, if we get out of this I'll take you up there myself and we'll go look as much as you want."

"Sounds good."

The ruckus outside was starting to die down. The cheers were less frequent and the fires were burning low, and from the smell I guessed that most of the food had been eaten and the tea and beer were gone. Our little hut grew darker and darker, and after a while we both huddled into the corner with the most straw and slept. The old dream haunted me again and my sleep was fitful. When I awoke it was with a start, and as I rose up I could still smell the dust and the blood and the sweat and feel the heat of the battlefield.

Outside the sun was already up and shining brightly outside, great streaks of light filtering in through the thatch and blinding my tired eyes. Peering through the cracks, I could see that the camp was all but deserted. There were a few legionnaires milling around here and yon, stumbling and bloated from last night's feasting, but for the most part there was no one around. The fires that had been roaring the night before were just smoldering piles of ash now, the spits that had hung low with meat and cauldrons were now bare and charred, and the tent flaps were flopping in the wind and the tents themselves were vacant. At first I assumed that the morning exercises were going on, as our scouts had often observed, but a look at the sun told me that it was much too late in the day for that. I guessed that it was about ten in the morning or so. I rubbed my eyes to dig out the sleep and to get my bearings. I'd grown accustomed to a cup of coffee and a hearty breakfast in the morning. I guess one could say that that had made me soft.

In the distance I could hear what sounded like cheering. I listened more closely, thinking that perhaps the blow last night was still making my ears ring, but I heard it again. Cheering, muffled by distance and by some obstruction, hundreds of men cheering wildly. An audience? Was that the audience that the guards had mentioned last night? In the put of my stomach I had a feeling that it was. There were two guards outside the door, or at least two that I could hear talking, but they spoke in their own tongue and I understood little of it. I went through my usual morning exercises, doing some crunches, some pull-ups from the rafters, and about a hundred pushups to get the blood flowing. Mack sat in the corner nursing his wounds. He was the kind that never missed a morning workout, but the wounds made it almost impossible. He was in bad shape, but he was a tough one that would never let the pain show.

The sun climbed higher and the day grew hotter. The hut was poorly ventilated, probably on purpose, being slaves' quarters, and as the heat rose the tiny structure became almost stifling. I was worried about Mack. His wounds didn't look good and he had the makings of a fever, and the water was gone. Another day of this and he would have a serious infection, which in this heat and these squalid conditions would easily mean death. The guards listened to him moan as they brought us our food around noon, more of the barely cooked rice and brown water. The rice was cold and soggy this time, probably leftover from last night's batch, and was just barely edible.

I could hear the cheering for most of the morning, then there was a lull around the noon hour when the camp filled up again and the midday meal was prepared. The men were in good spirits and seemed to be having a good time at whatever the sport was. I saw coins changing hands as I watched them eat through the cracks in the wall, some of them bickering over the wager or the amount or just pissing and moaning about paying up. The fires were rekindled and the meals were prepared, meat and rice were eaten and tea was brewed and drank, and then they filed out back to whatever had been entertaining them. I had a feeling that this was our time to "entertain" them, and when the cheering started again our door was unbarred and four guards burst in with their usual loud brusqueness.

"On your feet, profligate!", a tall Veteran who was just as ugly as the last one said as he pulled me to my feet, "Time to see what you're made of!"

They grabbed Mack too, although I didn't know why. He was in such bad shape that he could barely walk, so bad that two of the guards had to help him walk. They shoved me ahead of them and we walked through the bare, deserted lanes of the camp until we came to the square once again. I could see the line of tents that bordered the parade ground, Lanius' lavish red tent, and at the far side of the square I saw something that I hadn't seen before. Somehow I hadn't seen it before, whether because of the darkness or because I'd had other things on my mind, but there it was just ahead of us and I knew that we were being led toward it. It was an amphitheater, an arena, and as we came closer I could hear the ring of clashing steel and the screams of wounded and dying men just before they were drowned out by more cheering that seemed to shake the very ground.

The arena was hastily constructed and built out of poles and thick wooden paneling between them, the seats built in neat sections that could be easily laid into place and fastened down. The wall encircling the arena floor was ten feet high and the circle itself was all of thirty feet wide. The grass had been beaten down by many feet and was little more than bare earth now. There were stains in many places that I knew at once to be blood. We came in through a side door and the guards led us through a narrow hallway that led under the stands and into a small room that was closed at one end by a barred door. It was more of a cubby than a room, barely big enough for a man to stand alone.

"Get in, maggot!"

The guard shoved me into the cubby and took the bonds from my hands. My wrists were sore and chafed from the tight cords and I worked my hands and fingers to restore circulation and loosen them up. I could hear the crowd cheering beyond the door, so loud that the door itself and the very walls of the cubby shook with the tumult. I could also hear the sound of clashing arms and the cries of a man wounded and dying. A thunderous roar sounded above the fight and the cheers and then there was a sound like a fatal wound being delivered, then the crowd roared once again and there was a crash of applause.

The door groaned and swung open and a sandaled foot shoved me into the arena. The air was hot and still down in the arena floor and the first thing I saw was a man in Legion armor standing over a Copache warrior on the ground, bloody and crying out for mercy. Lanius stood in a special booth at the head of the oval arena and as the legionnaire looked up at him he lifted his thumb and drew it across his neck under his chin. The legionnaire nodded and lifted his machete, swung it downward, and I saw the Copache's head roll away as the crowd erupted in thunderous cheers once more. The victorious legionnaire picked up the severed head by the hair and held it aloft, then tossed it away as two slaves ran out and drug the dead man away.

"My legions," Lanius called out in his booming voice, "you have fought bravely and gloriously against the profligate heathens and we have seen them shamed in defeat! Today we have seen their weakness as their greatest champions have fallen to our warriors upon the sands! We have seen their weakness before the strength and steel of the mighty Legion!"

The troops cheered again, raising a noise like a gathering storm so loud that my ears rang.

"Now, in celebration of our victory, I offer you this new spectacle. Behold, a warrior from the northern lands of the vicious Fire Hairs! He who led the Copache dogs against us, who traversed the vast plains to reach our borders, and he who violated our sacred soil with his heathen ways! His people are known for their strength and cunning in their own lands, so now let us see how his strength compares with that of the Legion's finest!"

More cheers, followed by curses and rebukes from the spectators and a barrage of rotten vegetables, scraps of bread and half-eaten meat from the stands. The legionnaire turned to face me and I saw that his armor was spattered with fresh blood, mingled with other stains that looked hours old. So this is what they had been doing all morning. They had been forcing their prisoners to fight in the arena for the pleasure of the troops. Bastards! A slave ran out of one of the cubbies and tossed a machete at my feet, then darted away without a word. The machete was old, the blade was rusted in several places, and as I lifted it and looked at the edge I could tell that it hadn't been sharpened in quite some time. I would be surprised if it could cut at all.

"Here, in this arena, is where men prove their strength and honor," Lanius continued, "here there is only blood and glory! Here there is but one rule; only one man survives!"

"Only one survives!"

"Now, warriors, fight and die with honor!"

It was strange, but as he shouted his speech to the crowd and the men hidden behind the walls of the arena, I found myself thinking of the green fields and the cold slopes of home. What season was it now? They all seemed the same down here and I had lost track. It must be autumn or winter by now. The men would be laying in winter stores and hunting the last of the Radbuffs that had lingered in the north and running down the elk and deer and Radstags that would be hiding in the mountains, the women would be making warm clothes from the summer hides, and the children would be listening to the elders tell stories around the fires. The mares would be foaling and the young colts would be trained for the saddle. The raids would be beginning, the Black Hands would be scouting our camps and those of the Plainsmen and the White Legs, and in the south the cities of the Eaters of Men would be lit with their great fires and ringing with the sound of their drums. Such was the way it had always been, such was the way I had always known it to be.

I wasn't afraid. If anything, I was excited. My every muscle was tense, my breath came in great gasps and as I listened to the clamor and roar of the crowd I felt the adrenaline fill my veins. I was ready. My opponent was smiling, convinced of his own strength and skill and sure of an easy victory. His blade shone bright and sharp, much better than my own, and as Lanius spoke he swung it this way and that to limber his arm up. I could see every detail of his features with perfect clarity, I could detect every scent on the air, and I could feel the ground move and shake under my bare feet. My hand closed around the leather-wrapped handle of my machete so hard that the leather strips groaned at the sheer force I applied. My every sense was sharp and alert, my mind was already working through every scenario, and I could feel the old fire rising in my chest that I hadn't felt in years. I had an enemy before me, a weapon in my hand, and a single purpose for which to fight. I was alive. This, I knew, was what I was born for.

The crowd cheered as Lanius finished his rhetoric and no sooner had he finished than the legionnaire before me lifted his machete and charged at me. I stood my ground, watching him come, my blade held low at my side. He charged me like a crazed Brahmin, but I stood my ground. He was a bull, expecting me to come at him or cower down like the others had. I stood and looked him the eye as he came at me. He screamed a war cry and had a maddened look in his eye that had been stoked by the fights of the morning. He was sure of a kill, confident in his own ability, convinced of his own superiority. He came closer and closer and lifted his machete for a death strike. He was on me now, not ten feet away and coming at a dead run. The blade came down and he could almost taste my blood. I sidestepped and slashed hard with my machete, felt the spray of warm blood, and heard the visceral gurgling sound of the man trying to scream. He dropped his weapon and clutched at his torn throat, fell to his knees, let out a choking, stifled scream, then fell face down into the churned earth.

I tossed away the rusty machete and scooped up his, stepping over him. He was still trying to scream and his wound was gushing blood out onto the dark earth. The crowd that had been roaring in applause a moment ago was now silent. There was only a low murmur and the shocked exclamations of hundreds of soldiers whose champion had been so easily vanquished. Champion? I doubted it. Any truly seasoned warrior knew better than to charge an opponent like that. He had been skilled enough to defeat the unfortunate Copache and perhaps several others, but he had not been a truly skilled fighter.

The same two slaves came out and drug his lifeless body away into the door at the far side of the arena, while two more doors opened up on either side of the arena floor and more men came out. Two Veterans came into view, one armed with a Machete Gladius and the other with a Thermic Lance. They came at me and moved to flank me on both sides. The dead legionnaire's machete was much better than the one I had been given, heftier and sturdier and with a far keener blade. The balance was a little off, but I could make do. What I wouldn't give for my knife and tomahawk right now!

I watched them circling me, watching me carefully and studiously. They had seen me kill their comrade with relative ease and they wouldn't be making the same mistakes as he had. I held the machete ready and kept my off hand ready to block an attack. I tried to watch the both of them, but they spread out too far and I couldn't see them both at once. They came circled me warily, the one with the lance feigned an attack but I didn't take the bait, and then I heard sandals scraping on the dirt and spun around just in time to parry the strike made by the one with the Gladius. He was a strong man and the blade was a heavy one, striking hard against my own and forcing me back a step. I parried and pushed the blade away, recovered, and slashed at his arm and left a red line across his bicep. The other man came at me as well and it was only the crackle of the Thermic Lance that saved me. I recovered from my slash and dropped to one knee just as the electrified tip passed over my head. Had I still been standing, it would have skewered me and fried my insides to a crisp.

My knee hit the ground and immediately struck out hard with my other foot. I felt my heel slam against the Veteran's knee and I heard an ugly pop, then saw him crumple and fall to one knee himself. He dropped his lance and I struck at his neck, felt the blade bite deep, and saw his head fall to one side at an unnatural angle just before he went down. The other Veteran came at me again and I barely had time to get to my feet before he slashed at my head, meaning to take it off, and I stepped back just in time and made a swing for his arm that he parried with ease and then followed with a stab for my groin. I slapped the blade away with my left hand and spun on my heel as he was carried forward by his own inertia. I hit him hard in the face with my right hand, still gripping the machete, and in his momentary daze he never saw the slash that cleaved through his throat and unleashed a crimson torrent onto his armor and tunic. His body fell to the ground and was soon surrounded by a growing red pool.

By now the crowd was going wild. Here I was killing their comrades, possibly their friends and brothers, and yet they were cheering. The slave boys came out again and dragged the two bodies away, leaving bloody trails behind them. There was a brief lull and I took the time to catch my breath and pick up the dead Veteran's Machete Gladius. The blade was much heavier and more unwieldy than the plain Machete, so I tossed it aside. There was a Combat Knife in a sheath on one of the dead men's belts and I took that just before the slaves drug him away. The crowd cheered and shouted and cursed at me for what must have been two or three minutes, then Lanius stood up in his booth and with a wave of his hands silenced the troops.

"The Fire Hair has fought well," he called out in his deep voice, "he has proven his strength and his valor against our warriors. How may he compare to our strongest fighters, you ask? Let us test him further!"

The doors on the far side of the arena groaned open and a tall, broad man in a full suit of steel armor came out into the sunlight. He wore a Machete Gladius at his belt and in his hands he carried a Super Sledge. It was a deadly weapon that could crush a man to pulp with a single blow in the hands of a strong warrior. This man was broad and powerful and his arms were as thick as an average man's legs, powerfully muscled, as well as his neck and shoulders. His armor was of the finest quality and he wore the SPQR of a commander on his chest, his weapon was well kept and in good repair, and the horizontal plume on his helmet marked him as a Centurion. This was the first Centurion that I had seen up close and I could see that their reputation as the fiercest of the Legion's fighting men was well deserved. He lifted the Super Sledge and held it high, an easy move that made the massive weapon look light and easy in his hands, and the crowd roared in raucous applause once more. Lanius announced him by name and the troops cheered once again. I didn't hear the man's name, nor did I wish to. I was completely focused on him, measuring him, studying his movements with care, searching for any weakness I could find.

I rolled my shoulders and swung my weapons to and fro, limbering up for the fight to come. I was tired, I was hungry, and I was hot under the noonday sun. My robes were scratchy and soaked with sweat. The stubble on my face was itchy and sweat trickled down the back of my neck and my back. I was thirsty. But more than that, I was alert, my every muscle was taut, and my senses were heightened and alert. I watched him carefully, studying his every move for any advantage, any possible opening. He was big and he was strong, but he was also slow and overconfident, like most Legion fighters. His weapon was heavy and unwieldy, although he was no doubt adept at its use, and would take time to recover between swings. His armor was finely made from polished steel plate. I would have to find a chink in that suit of his, some gap that I could exploit. The crowd cheered and he turned to face me, shouted something to me in their tongue, then he lifted his Super Sledge and came at me like a bull.

He was a big man and very strong, but like most big men he was slow and predictable. He swung his Super Sledge in one hand to one side and then another, building momentum and power as he came at me. He was a powerful man and I knew that he meant to crush me with one swing, an easy feat with that weapon, and I could see his strategy already. I let him come. He let out a battle cry and took the Sledge in both hands, wound up for a swing, and as he brought it down I sidestepped and swung hard for his belly.

I felt my blade hit something solid and heard the clang of metal on metal. I had swung hard and upward with all my strength, but it didn't seem to slow him down at all. He was carried forward by his own inertia and went past me, but he recovered quickly and came at me again. He was more careful this time, swinging deliberately and in a shorter arc. I ducked under the blow and tried another swing, but he brought the steel shaft up and parried. I feigned an attack and flicked a fast stab at his neck, but he ducked back just in time and the blade just barely cut his cheek. He came in fast and tried to hit me with the shaft of the Sledge, but I dropped to the ground and rolled out of his way. I lashed out with my knife and saw a bloody cut on his thigh when I got to the my feet. He grunted as he spun to face me but otherwise showed no outward signs of pain.

We circled each other, each of us wary of the other. He had a slight limp on his wounded leg and he looked like he was getting tired. I was dead on my feet and my tunic was stained with blood, I desperately wanted water and a rest, and my palms were slick with sweat as they gripped the leather-bound handle of the Machete, but didn't dare slow down or let him see my weakness. My one chance now was to be faster and smarter than him. He came at me again, swinging hard with the Sledge, and this time I didn't sidestep or jump away. I had an idea, a crazy idea, but it was my only chance of gaining an advantage. I focused on the head of the Super Sledge and saw the way it pulsated and popped in and out of its steel sheath, I saw the motor on the back of it, and I saw the thick red and blue wires that ran from it. Maybe, just maybe . . .

The massive head came down at me and I chopped at the wires with the tip of the Machete. There was a metallic clang and a shower of sparks and electrical current. The pneumatic system went dead and the dull throbbing sounds fell silent. The weapons was dead now, just another useless hunk of steel. The Centurion cursed and swung hard at me and this time I stepped away and slashed at his arm. My blade cut deep and he cried out, dropping the Sledge, but in a lightning fast move he drew of Machete Gladius and slashed wildly at my legs. The move took me by surprise and I jumped back to fast that I lost balance and fell. He jumped to his feet and came for me, stabbing at the ground while I rolled frantically away. His blade stuck in the loose earth and I rolled back onto it before he could get it free, I slashed with my knife at his face and neck, and as he drew back I kneed him in the face and got one leg over his head. He stood up, lifting me completely off the ground. I dropped my Machete and put a thumb in his eye, felt it pop as he screamed, then with all the strength I could muster I plunged my knife into the junction of his neck and shoulder.

Warm blood flowed over my hand and my tunic and I saw his eyes roll back into his head. He let out a long breath that trailed off into nothing, then he crumpled to his knees and fell face first into the dirt as I rolled away. My breath came in great gasps and my arms and chest were sore from the effort, but I was alive. My enemy's lifeless body lay before me, my clothes were covered in blood, and the crowd roared in cheers around me. I heard the doors swing open and I knew that the slaves were coming for the body. Not yet. Not yet!

"Aaaaaahhhhhh!", I screamed at the top of my lungs, "Legion! I am Cain Lone-Elk of the Black Wolf Clan of the Fire Hairs! Behold my strength and know that I am a warrior!" I kicked the helmet from the dead man's head and grabbed a handful of hair, jerked his head up and in a single movement I drew my knife across the turf of his hair and felt his scalp come free. I held it aloft and turned slowly around so that every man in the arena could see the bloody tuft of hair. "Who else dares to face me?!"

The audience fell silent. The cheering, the cursing, all talk stopped. They looked down at me and there was something on their faces that looked akin to fear and amazement. They had likely never seen such a thing before. One of their commanders had been killed in hand combat by what they considered to be a weak, ignorant savage, and they were staring down at not just a dead Centurion but at his bloody scalp in the hand of that same Centurion held aloft like a grisly prize, which it was. Back home such a scalp would bring me much honor and prestige, for killing and scalping such a might enemy was a sign of great prowess and bravery. The slave boys came out and drug the big dead man away, with much effort, and I tossed away the bloody scalp and stood ready for another attack. I was dead tired and covered in blood, sweat, and dirt, my muscles were sore and stiff, but I had to be ready.

Seconds ticked away and no attack came. At any moment I expected another enemy to come out of the woodwork, perhaps more than one, but as I waited I could see no sign of another foe. My breath was hard and raspy and I was unsteady on my feet. Fatigue and poor rations were taking their toll on me. I was weak and they all knew it. Why didn't they just finish me? Why all this pomp for a simple execution? Why waste men like this? Was this some sick form of entertainment for them?

Lanius clapped his massive hands slowly and loudly, the sound reverberating throughout the silent arena. He lifted his hands and signaled for the troops to rise, which they did, and as they did so I heard every door of the arena floor swing open and the sound of many running feet. I looked around and saw more than a dozen Praetorians coming up all around me, their Power Fists ready for use, and they closed in around me in a tight circle. One of them, obviously the captain, stepped forward and told me to drop my weapons. I hesitated a moment, mostly from fatigue, and he tapped me on the arm with his Power Fist. I had never felt pain like that before. My every muscle seized up and I went to my knees, pain shooting through every fiber of my body in a split second that seemed like an eternity of agony. My hands closed around the hilts of the Machete and the Combat Knife in a vicious death grip.

"Drop your weapons or die, profligate. Choose now."

I dropped them in the dirt and then went to all fours and emptied my stomach into the mud. It took a few minutes for the effects of the shock to wear off and while I was still retching and my limbs were still twitching and vibrating two of the Praetorians took me by the arms and drug me back to the door through which I had entered. They tossed me down in the mud and they walked away laughing. Thankfully, their laughter was drowned out by the cheers of the crowd and the sound of stomping feet in the stands.

There were more matches after mine, but none that were as long or as enjoyed by the crowd. A Centurion fought two Copache men and killed them both within seconds, a Veteran in battle scarred armor faced off against a Golden Gecko fresh from the wild, and for the better part of two hours there were fights between animals. A Golden Gecko against a Fire Gecko, two Radscorpions against each other, and even a Radbuff bull against a Yao Guai. The fights were long and brutal and by the time they were over the arena was covered in a thick red covering of blood. Lanius presided over them all, making speeches about strength and honor and conquest as the combatants faced off with each other, and then watching quietly from his booth.

After a while my muscles eased up and the pain subsided. I had never felt such a shock or such a torrent of pain go through me before. I knew that the Praetorian had intentionally grazed me with his Power Fist and that he could have easily killed me if he wanted to. No wonder they didn't use guns. With a weapon like that, what need would they have of firearms? They gave me water but no food and after a couple of hours my stomach started to think that my throat had been cut. It growled loudly and the men assigned to guard me poked fun at me and had a good laugh at my expense. We listened to the fights and they let me watch them through a gap in the wall. I watched the legionnaires and their skill with the heavy blades they used and I knew that I had gotten lucky with my opponents. The long hours of practice with Aaron had certainly paid off, but I was still far from being skilled and there were men in this army who could end me in half a breath if we were ever to meet on their terms. With a knife and tomahawk I would have a chance, but with a Machete I was still awkward.

The sun sank toward the west and still the games drew on. After the matches ended there was a brief pause for the midday meal to be served, followed by a drill march and exhibition by the Praetorian Guard and two other units who evidently had somehow distinguished themselves in the battle. They made speeches and the commanders told inflated tales of running down scared and routed Copache heathens and of slaying or capturing great numbers of them, all for the glory of the Caesar of course, and then the troops emptied out of the arena and the drums beat once more to announce the primus. This was what the guards called the last match of the day. Lanius made another long winded speech about strength and honor and the glory of the Legion, then he lifted his arm and called for the combatants. The doors swung open on opposite ends of the arena and two figures came out, one accompanied by two Praetorians. I knew by the black and grey clothes and the limp that this was Mack. He was weak, almost too weak to stand, but he still had the bearing and posture of a soldier. I had never seen a man so strong or so dedicated.

The other man, if such he could be called, was much different. He was very young, possibly not even in his teens, but he was well built and his bare arms were packed with lean muscle. He carried himself like a soldier many times his senior, he had a sort of swagger that reminded me of Centurions and Decanii I had seen around camp, and he spun and twirled the Machete in his hand like it was a toy. He swung it a few times to limber up his arm and he moved with a grace that was rare to see in any man and with an ease born of long familiarity with his weapon. He wore the helmet and goggles of a Veteran but his armor was of high quality and a different style than the rest of the Legion. I had a sculpted breastplate that showed a muscular chest and core, pauldrons that covered his shoulders and tapered to menacing points, and he wore greaves on both arms over fingerless leather gloves. He wore all of this over a purple tunic and tall laced boots that came almost to his knees.

"Brothers!", Lanius thundered from his booth, "we come at last to the day's final showing! Look now on the visage of our great enemy to the west, the verminous Nevada Federation, a Knight of the Brotherhood of Steel and lapdog to the Courier of New Vegas. See now a coward who hides behind technology, too weak to fight for himself, sent to teach the profligate savages how to fight against us. As in all things, they have failed. Now we shall see if the great steel warriors of the west can compare with a true man, a true soldier or the Legion!"

A wave of cheers for their emperor and boos for the poor wounded man in the arena filled the air, silenced by an uplifted hand from Lanius.

"Facing this profligate dog," he continued, "a man that many of you know well. A true son of the Legion and a warrior of great renown. Second in command of my Praetorians, one of the finest swordsmen of the Guard, and slayer of many foes, my own son Commodus!"

Thundering applause followed and I saw one of the Praetorians jab Mack in the ribs, bringing him down to his knees, while the other tossed a Machete on the ground a few feet from him. The guards walked away laughing and were soon out of sight. The younger man held up his arms and seemed to bask in the adoration of the crowd, waving his Machete around and calling out to his fans in the Legion tongue. Mack got up slowly to one knee, wobbling just a little and slowly he reached down and picked up the Machete left for him. He held it awkwardly in unskilled hands and they could all see it. The young Commodus taunted him, pointing his blade, and smiled as he spoke.

"Begin!"

The boy stepped forward, almost casually strolling, toward Mack as the older man stumbled forward and swung his Machete hard. It was an obvious attack, poorly done and easily seen, and Commodus easily stepped to the side and avoided the blade. Mack recovered and swung sidewise, then again at the younger man's head. Each time the boy moved or ducked away from the slash and laughed at Mack, who was growing weaker by the minute. Mack swung hard again and Commodus parried, twisted Mack's blade with his own, and as he maneuvered the blade away he slapped Mack across the face. Any other time it would have been a slight blow, but in his weakened state Mack was knocked off balance and he fell into the churned and bloody earth. He swung feebly for the legs, but Commodus blocked the blow with his Machete and landed a kick to Mack's ribs that made him cry out.

Anyone could see that this was a set up job. Any other time on any other day, Mack could have taken this arrogant kid apart without breaking a sweat. That was why he had been beaten, starved, and refused medical care. They wanted him to be weak enough to pose no threat to their little prince but not so weak that it would end too quickly. This was no fight. This was an execution.

Mack got to his feet shakily, unsteady on his feet. Commodus let him stand and said something that I couldn't hear, then stepped in and swung hard with his weapon. The blades clashed and steel rang as Mack blocked the attack, then another, then swept aside a thrust that had been meant for his ribs. For a moment it almost looked like he was holding his own. The guards and legionnaires laughed and I heard the clinking of coins as wagers were made. It was then that I understood; Commodus was toying with him, putting on a show for the crowd. The boy easily blocked or avoided the feeble attacks that my friend made, occasionally flicking his blade and drawing blood from Mack's arms, chest, and face. Soon blood was flowing over that dirty black uniform and we could all see Mack getting weaker.

All the while the crowd taunted, insulted, and called down to the two men in the mud. Cheers were raised for Commodus, boos and rebukes for Mack. None of them had an ounce of mercy in them. Several times I heard the guards around me or the men in the stands call out things like "make him bleed", "cut him deep", or "end him slow!" More than anything I wanted to burst through the doors and run to the aid of my old friend, to strike down that hateful little shit Commodus and feel his throat crushed under my bare hands, but the Guard kept a close watch on me and I knew that I would never make it to the sand. I had to sit and watch as Commodus danced effortlessly around the big man in black, his blade darting this way and that and making a dozen or more small cuts that slowly drained the life from my friend, brave Knight of the Brotherhood.

Finally, after several minutes of torture, it was ended. Mack spun this way and that, trying to catch Commodus before he could cut him, swinging his Machete into either empty or the blade of the boy's weapon. His strength waned more and more until finally he sank to his knees and dropped his Machete. His breath was ragged and his chest heaved with effort, his head low on his chest, and his arms were limp at his sides. The crowd roared and Commodus waved his arms in the air to encourage them as he stepped up behind the kneeling older man. My chest pounded as I looked at Mack, trying to will him to get up and continue to fight, and he looked back at me and our eyes met. He looked me dead in the eye and I swear that I saw as mile creep across his face. I'd never seen him smile, not once. The last rays of the sun flashed on a polished blade and I saw Mack's head fly from his neck in a red fountain of blood. The crowd erupted in applause like the center of some great tempest, Lanius stood shouting and cheering from his lavish throne, and I saw Commodus standing at the center of the arena with his Machete held high in his right hand while his left held Mack's head.

My heart sank and I felt the old coldness come over me. My stomach seemed to be twisting within me and for a moment I felt that I might purge, but I held it down. I watched the boy Commodus toss the blood head aside as he strutted toward the doors, proud as a young stallion who had just had his first coupling, and right then I wanted nothing more than to have a weapon in my hand and that little bastard in front of me. I wanted to kill him, I wanted to kill Lanius, I wanted to kill every last man that wore the red of the Legion and swore fealty to their perverted ideals. I wanted to kill them one and all, and I wanted to die with them so that I could tell the souls of my friends and my brothers that they had been avenged.

"My son the victor!", Lanius shouted, "Brothers of the mighty Legion, behold your champion!"

Commodus stopped and turned to face the Caesar's booth and lifted his weapon in salute, then with his left hand he lifted the helm and goggles free. In that moment I fell to my knees and felt warm tears flow from my eyes, pouring like tiny rivers over my soiled cheeks and dirty clothes. The face I saw now was not the face I had expected at all. It was not the face of a cold blooded killer or of a deranged psychopath, or of a spoiled prince raised to hate all who did not bow to his name. It was the face that I remembered from a smoky Fire Hair lodge long ago and far away in the Northern Lands. I remembered the bright eyes, the infectious grin, the laugh that had brightened many a cold winter's day with its joy. This was not the monster I had wanted to see. It was Adrian.