MARSIL STOOD BEHIND A WOODEN GATE but he could see the slivers of sunlight sliding through the holes in the wood. He could also hear the roars and shrieks coming from the other end. The voices were a raucous thunder.
The thirst for blood.
Standing in a light-weight silver armor, he discovered he had never felt so much apprehension in his life. Just behind the wooden gate were tens of thousands of people waiting for his entrance. The day was the final combat of the Death Games.
With sheer luck he had managed to survive his previous battles but today's combat was like none other. He was to battle a giant. The sole winner of the past seven games. Seven years the man had conquered all his foes. Marsil was to battle the infamous berserker; Vandal, a 7ft giant.
As he waited for the gates to lift open, the noise of the roaring crowd sent his blood into a frenzy. His heart beat like thundering hooves in his chest. Yes, he was a vampire but he had a heart. A beating heart, which made him think he was something else—or better yet, something more. He gazed down at his silver chain mail, the silver helmet in his hand and the scabbard marking his narrow waist. At this sight, his thoughts went back to the past.
After his unpleasant travel by wagon from Old man Geralt's cellar, he had awoken on a wide table in a place he came to know as Goldstone, one of the four Seer Towers. When he'd opened his eyes, his father was staring at him. He lifted up and Arlon pulled him into an embrace. A human affection, he noted.
Some hours after a refreshing bath and blood feed, he learnt he had been entered into the Death Games. The name alone had sent shivers down his spine.
For the next fourteen days, he'd trained with his father's soldier brother, the Commander Latchlon Pierran. The man had tried to teach him as much as he could during such a short while. Marsil was quick learner and he adapted. He remembered his first game and a slow smile spread his lips.
It was between him and a fiery woman. Latchlon had told him the rules of the games prior to his first combat. There was only one rule.
Kill or be killed.
You could slash your opponent to pieces or hammer them to death. As long as blood rained down on the sand, the watching crowd were happy. Latchlon had told him he had to kill to win but he'd thought it was just a ruse until the woman nearly speared his head off with her javelin. Only by his superhuman speed did he dodge the blow.
He didn't even know he'd killed her until the crowd had roared. Marsil looked down and there was his sword, deep to the hilt in the woman's guts.
And so he'd risen, battling different gladiators, each with their own choice of weapon. For some it was a great axe. Some bore bow and arrows. A few used iron chains and only one man wielded a pitchfork. It was clear he was some poor farmer looking for glory. His death was the shortest fight recorded.
Marsil's weapons had been carved from Seer steel, shapened by the hands of the king's own craftsman. It was a long sword with both sides sharpened to razors and had been doused with green atter for this final match. His armor was one of the finest; light so as not to hinder his speed but strong enough to withstand the blow of a knife. Arlon had gone all out to ensure his safety.
As Marsil had risen in ranks with each conquered combat, he knew the Seers were taking notes on his performances.
The speed of his swipes.
The strength in his killing blows.
The men used the matches to test his abilities. Marsil only hoped the battle before him wouldn't be his last. It was rumored that the man he was about to fight was of great size and it would take more than wits and light feet to best him. The crowd of spectactors called him Vandal the Titan.
Marsil had spotted Arlon praying to the Pantheon before he sent him out to the sands. He even requested the prayers of the Graces; devout men Marsil had grown to like. In the space of a fortnight, Marsil had learnt a great many things about the kingdom. However, he was still hidden from the public. Only men the king trusted were allowed to see him. Most of them shank in fright at his colorless eyes. Marsil only prayed the gods of Arlon go with him. From the deafening roar of the crowd, it was clear his opponent was no small adversary.
The pounding sound filled his ears and Marsil was pulled out of his reminisces. He recognized the booming noise as the screams of people mad with bloodlust and the jamming hands of their palms as they welcomed him. He'd grown to be quite loved among the spectators. With each fight he won, he'd grown more popular, and now he was to undertake the final challenge.
He even heard the people called him 'SILVERHEEL' for his silver armor and quick speed.
The roaring and clapping sounds of the crowd grew louder than ever, drowning every other noise. Apprehension filled his blood and gooseflesh dotted his arms. It wouldn't be long now, he mused. Sure enough, he heard a grating sound and the wooden gate started to slide up. Golden sunlight streamed in and Marsil inhaled deeply.
He lifted his helmet to his head and tugged it in place. Then he took a first step. Then another. The moment he cleared into the open air of the stadium, the crowd went berserk...
Hundreds of people stood to their feet, roaring, screaming and clapping at his entrance. The force alone shook the ground. Chants of Silverheel filled the air as his colorless eyes scanned the crowd for the one person that could give him faith to win the combat. His father, Arlon.
His eyes found him seated on one of the upper tiers of the circular ring. Through the distance, their eyes held. His, pale and witchy. His father's, blue with belief. Marsil gave a slight nod and walked forward to the centre of the sands.
He gripped his swordsheath and stood ready as he waited for Vandal the Titan.