Broken Arrow

The man in the vest avoided yet another clumsy blow, much to the crowd's delight. They cheered again for their favourite, for The Tsar's favourite: Glazkov.

He was pleased they hadn't missed the first kill of the evening. Sitting down on what could only be called a throne, The Tsar watched the match. It was yet another idea he'd taken from Kabulov and the orphanage; a way for his subjects to let off steam. It was just like the fights in the playground, except this was organised. It gave his people something to look forward to and indulged their bloodlust, turning it away from any thoughts of rebellion which might arise. This way he could control them more easily, and it made his iron rule much more palatable. It was also a good way to get rid of the dregs of humanity who didn't fit into his vision of a future Russia.

Sometimes the men would fight with their fists alone, sometimes — like tonight — they would be given weapons like the gladiators of old. At any rate, it provided much needed entertainment, not only for the crowds, but for The Tsar. Nobody had even noticed he was here yet, and he would have been well within his rights to draw their attention to the fact he was observing. The fact that they should all be saluting. But he was loathe to stop the proceedings at this critical juncture. After all, he'd granted permission for them to start without him while he oversaw some pressing issues of state.

Glazkov was obviously having fun with this one, dancing round, tiring him out before having his turn.

Which came now, as the tramp swung his axe again, and missed. Glazkov pivoted, hitting the man on the back with the flat of the blade — sending him sprawling across the ring onto his hands and knees. Glazkov smirked at the audience's bellows and claps. His opponent picked himself up, and came running back for more. He growled as he swung his axe again and Glazkov easily blocked it with his shield. This time, though, Glazkov struck with the sharpened edge of his axe, plunging it into the tramp's thigh. It buried itself deep; so deep that when Glazkov yanked it out, a warm redness came jetting out with it. The man let out a cry, immediately dropping his own shield to clutch at his wound. He hobbled back out of Glazkov's reach.

At the sight of the blood the crowd went wild, chanting Glazkov's name over and over. He held up his bloodied axe triumphantly, and they cheered even more.

The Tsar leaned forward in his throne, hand on his chin.

Tossing his shield aside, Glazkov was on the offensive. He ran at the wounded man, twirling his axe like Fred Astaire with a cane. The tramp's survival instinct kicked in, urging him to meet the next blow with his own axe. They clashed together, but it only succeeded in pushing the weaker man back once more. He barely avoided the blow that followed, aimed at his chest, the wind whistling as the blade swiped through the air.

Glazkov was all for a good show, but it was time to finish this and get on with the next fight. Perhaps it would offer him more of a challenge. Springing forward, he swung the axe twice again, this time almost severing his opponent's arm below the elbow, causing him to drop his weapon. The tramp shrieked in pain, looking from the damaged appendage — hanging by threads of tendons — to Glazkov's face in disbelief.

Before there was any more time to react, Glazkov spun around, planting the blade of the axe in the tramp's stomach, causing him to double over. Glazkov supported his weight for a moment or two, then dragged the axe backwards and forwards in a sawing motion. When he let the injured man go and pulled out his axe, the tramp's guts came with it.

Rolling around on the floor, the man was still alive and — given enough time in a working operating theatre, and with the right doctors (an extremely slim hope in these times) — might yet pull through. But that wasn't an option. Glazkov held the axe high above his head, ready to bring it down on his felled adversary. The throng around the ring were whipped into a frenzy.

'GLAZKOV!' came a voice, cutting through the atmosphere like the axe had through the tramp. The crowd, who had been baying for blood only seconds before, were instantly quiet. Glazkov stayed his hand, breathing deeply, the sweat pouring over his face and arms. Even the tramp on the floor dampened down his cries. For they all knew who the voice belonged to. And with whose authority he spoke.

Bohuslav was at the railing of the office. He didn't have to say any more, because everyone below him could now see that The Tsar was in residence. Their Lord and Master had arrived. And when he was present, it was his say who lived and who died. Glazkov waited patiently for the outcome. Did The Tsar want him to finish this specimen off, put him out of his misery, or leave him alive for some reason — possibly so he could die more slowly? Glazkov wouldn't be surprised by that one, although it would leave a sour taste in his mouth after working up an appetite for killing.

The Tsar stood, approaching the rail. All eyes were now on him, everybody wanting to know what he would decide. He was not so pretentious that he would use the old symbol of a thumb up or down. No, The Tsar would simply shake his head or nod: life or death, as if there was really a choice. Today he felt lenient. He ordered the swift execution of the injured man. The crowd roared with delight.

Glazkov smiled and finally brought down the axe, cleaving the tramp's head from his body. It rolled across the ring, coming to a standstill near a little boy in the crowd, its eyes staring wildly into his. (And did it blink a couple of times or was that the child's imagination?).

The Tsar took his seat again as Glazkov was relieved of his weapon and given a towel to dry himself. The victor risked a glance up as he rubbed his face, but not at his master — rather at the twins that flanked him, appraising first one, then the other. The Tsar noted this, and the looks of admiration Xue and Ying returned: whether they just admired his fighting ability or his physique, he couldn't be certain, but he would watch what developed with interest from now on. The twins were his and his alone.

There was a brief pause in the proceedings, during which Glazkov took a seat on the stool in his corner of the ring — sipping from a water bottle — and the body of the tramp was gathered up. This respite didn't last long, however, because by his yawns it was clear The Tsar was eager for more action. He saw very little himself these days, instead getting his fill of killing vicariously. But he missed it, oh God how he missed it. Maybe if Glazkov kept looking at his bodyguards that way he would find himself facing The Tsar in the ring? The thought both excited and troubled him.

But that wouldn't be tonight. Because the next participant was already being forced to the ring, the crowds parting so that he could be brought through. The man wore what looked to be sacking or a large blanket and appeared to be in even worse condition than the previous fighter. Obviously picked up off the streets, like the majority of them, his long, greasy hair was straggly and he was having trouble standing, limping into the centre of the ring.

In fact, it looked like this newcomer was about to collapse.

Glazkov rose from his stool, spitting out a mouthful of water. He wandered over to the man, looking down on him in disdain. Rubbing his hands together, Glazkov got started, much to the audience's satisfaction. He threw a punch that landed squarely in the man's kidneys. Then Glazkov clasped his hands together, leaping up and bringing them down hard on the man's back. The figure toppled onto the floor.

The Tsar yawned again. This fight was barely going to be worth watching; it would be over in seconds at this rate.

The people's champion kicked this beggar creature in the side, rolling him over once, twice, so that again he faced the floor. Then Glazkov raised his booted foot to bring it stomping down on the man's head.

Only it stopped in mid-trample. Glazkov looked down the length of his leg, realising that this man, this frail example of street scum, had actually caught his foot and was holding it fast.

Pushing, the man toppled Glazkov over. He landed on his back, an explosion of air being forced out of him. The spiky-haired gladiator scrambled about, clambering to get up quickly; he wasn't used to being the one on the floor. And it wasn't good for the crowd to see him that way.

As he was rising, so too was his new foe. Only this one kept rising, and rising… and rising. Letting go of the sacks and blankets he'd wrapped around him, Glazkov's opposite number revealed his true size for the first time.

He stood a good few feet above the champion, and his muscles, visible beneath the khaki T-shirt he wore, were easily bigger than Glazkov's — as impressive as those were. The crowd, who'd been cheering, though not quite as loudly as they had in the previous match, suddenly took notice of what had happened. There was deathly silence.

The Tsar frowned and inched forward in his seat. Bohuslav placed both hands on the rail and peered down while the twins looked on. It was like they were all watching the miracle of birth, and in a sense they were. A transformation akin to a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. Only this insect was olive-skinned and, as he swept back his greasy black hair, he sneered first at the people in the 'royal box', then at Glazkov.