Sinbad: Rogue of Mars. John Garavaglia
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ceased, and an eerie silence filled the air. It was as if people were trying to figure out whether they’d actually seen what they thought they saw. Not once in Akhdar’s games they have seen a gladiator slay the fearsome moktar. The stillness carried from the first row, to the betting booths, to all the way to Zhar Akhdar’s terrace.
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* * *
The green-skinned ruler was appalled on this incredible feat. His sister Aella shared the same feeling. However, she was eager to see the striking warrior escape the ferocious tribulation.
“Impossible!” Akhdar bellowed. “How could this be? No one has ever bested the moktar—NO ONE!”
“Oh, hush now, brother dear,” soothed Aella, taking his hand. “Don’t you fret. This man—this Sinbad has proven to be quite the cunning warrior. Would you like to see him fight again?”
Akhdar heaved an irritating sigh and managed to squeeze out a patronizing smile. “Well, sister, perhaps you’re right. This oddity might still prove promising.”
One person shouted, “Sinbad!” and then “Sinbad! Sinbad!” over and over again.
The chant was picked up, resounding throughout the audience, and people were clapping and shouting. The guards who had arrived upon the scene, weapons at the ready began to lower them, and joined in the cheers and ovations from all around the arena.
Sinbad remained right where he was for a few moments. Akhdar surveyed the damage his prized beast had sustained. He saw all the wounds and huge lacerations in its body, and the rivulets of dark crimson blood.
Azrak smiled with joy inside his cell. “I-I can’t believe it!” he exclaimed with glee.
“What? What happened?” the elderly Azurian beside him asked groggily
“Sinbad has slain the moktar!” Azrak replied in astonishment.
The old man heard the applause, the shouts, and as crazy as it seemed the name “Sinbad” being chanted over and over again.
He moved around a corner just in time to see Sinbad standing over the vanquished monster.
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The ancient Azurian scratched his head, and had an epiphany. “Perhaps he is the one of whom the prophecy speaks.”
Azrak looked at his elder in uncertainly. Before he could even reply, Azrak’s attention was shifted back into the area as he saw Sinbad tower over the moktar with his sword in his hand.
The immense animal fell onto the bloodstained sand. It breathed heavily and then it became shallow. The crowd cheered in approval. They all go out of their seats and began to chant, “Kill, kill, kill!”
Sinbad took no joy in this victory. There was no thrill of battle. It was all about survival. Before he put the poor beast out of its misery, Sinbad silently prayed to Allah for forgiveness.
He grit his teeth and drove the sword deep. Blood streamed over the blade and his hand, and the monster started to convulse, and then lay back quite still. Sure that life had fled, at least what he understood of it, Sinbad set to work on his grisly task.
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CHAPTER TWO
MISTRUST BEFORE YOU TRUST
Sinbad was brought back to his cell the usual way: thrown on his ear.
“Back to your cage, outlander!” said the guard. “Maybe after your next fight, your friend will have his freedom, eh?”
Sinbad met the ground with a harsh thud, followed by the slamming of the cell’s door.
“Sinbad!” Azrak yelled in worry. He offered Sinbad his hand, but the sailor waved it away. “Let me help.”
“I’m fine, Azrak,” said Sinbad, slowly rising. “Just a little winded.”
“There’s no shame on showing humility, my friend,” retorted Azrak. “You have fought a great battle. You must not strain yourself. You have to rest and keep up your strength.”
“I cannot rest, Azrak. I have to be on my guard at all times. It has kept me alive so far.”
Azrak gave him a dubious look. “You are making a dangerous habit on confusing bravery with arrogance, Sinbad. You will not make it through the next fight unless your wounds are treated and fully recuperated.”
Sinbad knew his friend was right. He was not of use to anyone while being tired and bruised. He felt disappointed in himself for not fulfilling his promise to gain Azrak’s freedom. Sinbad had achieved his share of the given terms, but Akhdar decided to renege on his part.
“You were right about Akhdar,” Sinbad humbly admitted. “I tried playing his game and he decided to change the rules.”
Azrak put his hand on Sinbad’s shoulder. “You had no choice, Sinbad. You did what you had to do. You are not the one in blame. This is all on Akhdar.”
Sinbad paused for a moment. He lifted his head to Azrak and gave him a smile.
“At least you did not say, ‘I told you so.’”
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The sound of the battle conch shell filled the arena. The spectators roared wildly as the primus was about to commence. Sinbad and Azrak turned around to look between the prison bars to see what the disturbance was about.
Sinbad could only make out a guard wrangling a horse. Sinbad had never seen any horses running through Mars before. When the horse advanced further into the arena, Sinbad discovered this creature wasn’t what he thought it was. It wasn’t a wild stallion at all. It was a man.
No, not a man—a centaur!
Sinbad couldn’t believe his eyes. This creature had the upper body of a man and a horse’s lower half. But he did not have the hooves of a horse, but three toes on each foot that resembled those similar of a gorilla. The centaur had a powerful frame. Broad heaving shoulders, massive chest, lean waist, and heavy arms. His skin was grey with a hue of purple, he had brown eyes, and a shock of tousled black hair crowned his balding forehead. Every time it swayed its head, its long ponytail would crack like a whip. The centaur was given a weapon from the guard, a kunai—a sharpened blade attached to a long piece of rope.
Astounded, Sinbad asked Azrak, “What is that?”
“A Kurwani,” Azrak replied implausibly. “I thought they were all dead.”
The elderly Azurian got off his perch and stared at the centaur.
“He is Kar-Tyr,” he said, “the last of his people.”
“Amazing,” Sinbad softly said in awe. He hadn’t seen a creature like that since his Golden Voyage years ago. But the one he encountered was a cyclops, and there wasn’t a griffin to swoop in to attack him as well.
“Kar-Tyr’s race, the Kurwani, valued combat over all things,” continued the elder as Sinbad heeded to every word he said. “They lived to fight and fought to live. For years they were the personal guard of the Dozhakian zhar—never asking for more than to prove themselves in
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battle. When Akhdar gained power, he feared they would revolt.” Then the elder’s voice descended into despair, “He had them hunted and executed one by one. All except for Kar-Tyr. And now the once proud warrior merely serves as entertainment for Akhdar.”
The conch of battle sounded again. The crowd gave out a laundry list of cheers and jeers when the guards pulled open the giant door under Zhar Akhdar’s terrace. The thing that emerged was far greater in height and more horrendous than the