barrel of monkeys

The cheering of the crowds fuels his confidence, enough that it almost dispels the tremors in his hands. But tremors or not, he has accepted his duty. One last chance, he thinks, and with a courage he does not feel, beats on his chest and raises his sword to the heavens, pumping it up once, twice, three times to the roar of the audience. He meets the eyes of his squad — his comrades, his friends, his family — and they share a nod.

Then he holds a fist up, and the crowd obligingly goes quiet as a hovering microphone comes down to record and broadcast his words.

"I am Rakat'ul, and these are my clan, humanity's mightiest fighters." He pauses, as they salute, as one, and then continues, "and the Freten have promised that if we win this battle, they will let humanity go free. I am humanity's champion, and I pledge to you today that I will win this battle, and I will win back our freedom."

The crowd — mostly human, and mostly in chains — roars in response.

"You, alone, defeating the monsters that I send at you — if you win, I let humanity go. Are you ready, then, human?" A high, nasally voice responds, rolling across the amphitheater, coming from nowhere in particular.

"Come at me!" He snarls, and the doors at the far end swing open. A figure skitters out towards him, frightfully fast and kicking up dust.

The enemy shoots forward, and he registers for a moment that it looks like nothing more than a giant preying mantis, although twice as tall as he is. At least it was just by itself, he thinks, and then he has no more time, as it's upon him. The insect raises its claws and scythes them at his face—

—but he has not earned his place for nothing, and dives to the side but lets his sword swing up behind him, neatly severing one of the monster's claws.

The creature trills in what must be its incarnation of a scream, and shuffles back a few steps before falling, ichor coming out of the wound as it feebly rakes the air with its remaining claw.

"Is that all you have?" Rakat'ul says, looking upwards, and starting to feel that, perhaps, this would not be as bad as he feared, as the crowd surges to their feet.

In response, another set of doors opens, and something made only of oily, dark goo slowly heaves itself out the doors. And then another door opens, and a swarm of some sort — though with a pulsing center — hovers in front of the door. And then another door opens — a something of many claws and little else — and then another, and another. Rakat'ul slowly takes them in, realizing that they are beings conjured up from humanity's worst fears — monsters made of the dark, of the shadows, of blades and poison, of ooze and suffocation.

"You brought twenty-four humans with you, champion. Do you hope to defeat all twenty four of your enemies?" The voice asks, and it's almost kind. The crowd starts muttering, subdued, knowing that there was no way he would win.

"No," he says, swallowing, realizing that he could barely look at some of the monsters, that he had those fears that they were preying on. But he continues, taking a battle stance, resolving to take them one at a time. "I don't hope. I know I will. Have them come at me, all at once!"

"But that wouldn't be within the rules," the voice drawls, and Rakat'ul despairs: he knows that he can defeat one, two, maybe five of them, but not two dozen. He searches for something else to say, but nothing comes out, and he simply stands there for a moment, sword wavering.

"Then change the rules," Sarai says, her poleaxe ready, as she steps out next to Rakat'ul. "Let the audience see a real fracas, a real melee. Have the battle be joined between all of them, and all of us, at the same time."

Rakat'ul starts, turning to her. She looked much more determined than he did, but how could a grand melee help them? They would simply get slaughtered, all of them, instead of just him. They could've lived another day, trained more, perhaps come back to challenge the Overseer once more. He almost speaks up, but he's interrupted, as a long "hmmm" is heard through the stadium.

"Twenty-four champions against twenty-four monsters," it finally says, after a moment. "Accepted. You may start the battle, champion." And the tone of mockery is back, and Rakat'ul does despair: they have no chance of winning.

Sarai smiles grimly, and just as he's about to ask her what she's done, she calls out to the rest of their squad. "Hydra formation! Left flank forward! Press the attack!"

And suddenly, with blinding clarity, he understands Sarai's plan — their enemies are all monsters from humanity's darkest fears, monsters that he could not hope to defeat alone, but now he doesn't have to. The monsters were strong individually, but their band of brothers and sisters is strong together. They have trained and fought by each others' sides, knew how to support one another completely, and could rotate to face only the monsters they did not fear. By giving them the battle as a whole, Sarai had provided them a crucial strength that they could use. They must fight well, and they must trust one another, and some will fall, but—

"Rakat'ul, brother, lover—" he hears, and he looks forward, sees the missing center of the formation, the others.

They are waiting, and he takes his place, raises his voice in a voiceless roar, and leads the charge.