The Hunt for Peace

Chapter 5

"Come on, runts!" hollered the voice of an old man, standing on a balcony, looking at several young golems down below. From the ages of twelve to sixteen, in an organized crowd around a tall, cylindrical cage. The entire room had a mild lighting to it, save for the enormous spotlight at the top of the cage, shining down at several hundred (or was it thousand?) lumens upon the two golems within. "Bounce off the wall, you scraps! I'm not seeing enough blood!"

Another day in the underground of Gale. One of the two dens for the Windsen that ruled the west of the continent. The Den was split into two parts, up above was the typical Den affairs. Barns of livestock, butcheries, offices of which either hunters or soldiers gather, smiths, small monasteries of recollection at the higher peaks, with their ancient fans that harness the winds of the world, and the libraries holding records of those that preceded them. A grand athenaeum to the side of the main administrative building, the Den Hall, where the comitatus of Gale's thanes meet to discuss affairs. Down below however, down below was a testament to golem design. An entire subterranean system that manages to efficiently hold up the lands above while creating a wholly new civilization down below. Connected to the great tunnels left behind by the Drillsen, here laid facilities, with doors leading to various places, be it camps, mines, a mixture of both, or arenas.

Runts gathered together around the battle-cage, watching as two of their fellows combated against each other under the command of their rattler. In the crowd was Rakni, watching it with his very eyes. He was but a small boy of thirteen years, scrawny like the rest, and like the rest he howled, cheering on the fight. His fingers held the chain links of the battle-cage. He places one hand on his forehead to block out the flare of light above, trying to watch the shadowy silhouettes fight in the air. One of them had thrusters on his calves, and powerful thrusters on his back, the other only had the former. Fists clash, the one with less gears getting knocked straight into the walls of the cage before beginning to free fall. They all watched as the lad's body speedily approached the bloody canvas of the floor. Instead of another splatter however, the runt regains his control and activates his thrusters before falling, breaking his fall and then ascending directly upwards back into the fight.

Rakni howled and cheered alongside his friends. All smiles in their faces, some of them applauding the save. A disgruntled voice yelled from the high balcony, "finish him already! You're giving him far too many chances!"

And so the fight was finished. The one with the jetpack evades the vertical tackle, grabbing his attacker by the ankle and then spinning him before sending him straight into the walls of the battle-cage. Before the boy begins to free fall once more, he receives a dropkick to the chest, slamming him back into the steel barrier, and squeezing the breath out of his lungs. The crash onto the floor wasn't as disturbing as the first time Rakni heard it, but he could sense some of the young ones in the distance breaking out in cold sweat.

"Mediocre, you yap! Next time finish it faster! Now drag that waste of parts out of here and bring in the next one!" The old golem snaps his skeletal fingers, and next thing Rakni knows, two of the rattler's lieutenants grab hold of him. Both of them were older than him, larger as well. One of them gives him a noogie, saying "your turn, boy. Let's see if you have the same level of crazy as your Da."

Next thing Rakni knew, he was thrown into the cage, his hands touching the dried blood on the floor. Standing up, he sees another golem thrown in. Rakni's shoulder remained slumped down, his hands were raised up to be in a fighting stance, but they were mostly limp and not all the way up. The same could be said for his opponent. He hears the spectators yell, calling for more blood, for another fight, goading them to engage. Both boys however simply stand there, half of their mind anticipating an attack, and the other half simply too hesitant to lunge forward.