The Unforgiven

By

Mark James

Five thousand years ago a great rock fell from the skies into the oceans of Earth. Waves the size of mountains crashed down on the shores of civilization, destroying the world men had made. From the ashes of destruction, New Earth arose…a brutal, hostile land…

Verik walked down the narrow cobblestone alley of the noisy market. He tried hard to ignore the way men looked at him from the corner of their eyes.

“Fresh vegetables. Best in town!”

Merchants hawked their goods in a singsong shout, holding up their wares to the passing crowd in the bright sunshine.

“Fresh bread. Best prices!”

Wooden stalls crammed close to the ancient black stone walls on both sides of the alley, barely leaving room for men to squeeze by.

Verik looked into all the stalls, savoring his first day of freedom. After five summers behind dull grey walls, the bright colors splashed across his eyes like a blast of icy cold water. Slabs of raw meat hung from hooks; fruits and vegetables filled the stalls with raging color - red, yellow, green. A man cooked succulent lamb on skewers over open fire.

In the stalls, men in coarse sleeveless tunics and heavy cotton trousers haggled over goods, shouting at merchants. The merchants, with their fine silks and their soft, clean hands weren’t locals. No man wore silk in a mining town like Nequir. The grime of the mines clung to the men in the market like a light soot. The delicious smell of roasting meat barely hid the sharp odor of the unwashed men crowded into the small market in the afternoon heat.

The miners walked through the market, men made hard by a ruthless underworld, swords at their side, looking at Verik with wary eyes. Hard labor in unrelenting heat deep under the earth, where one misstep could send a man plummeting to his death, had toughened the men of Nequir; made them harsh and unforgiving like the mines they worked. But even the miners, infamous for their fierce ways, wanted no trouble with Verik the Scythe. A path cleared for the gladiator as men moved out of his way, trying not to stare at the perfect black circle on his forehead.

The tattoo on his forehead was a final parting gift of the Prison Council, condemning him to life among the lowest caste – the Unforgiven, or caijeen, murderer. No one would dare call him caijeen to his face though. Not unless they thought it was a good day to die.

Five summers he’d served for killing a worthless coward who cheated him over dice. He’d do it again in the blink of an eye. But he’d bury the body deeper next time.

When they sentenced him they gave him two choices – ten summers in the rock quarries where men died slow, lingering deaths or five summers in the arena as gladiator where men died swift, hard deaths. He’d chosen the arena and risen to the top fast, a vicious warrior who slit the throats of countless men without a second thought, cheered on by roaring crowds.

“Spare a copper for a poor man Sir.”

A beggar shoved a wooden cup at Verik. The man had only one eye covered with a white, milky film. Men close by watched, pretending to bargain for goods. Only a blind man would beg Verik for anything.

“A silver token for you my friend,” Verik said, dropping a heavy coin into the beggar’s cup. His victories in the arena had made him a rich man. “Mind you guard it