Games Creatures Play

by Charlaine Harris

  Eleon made a sour face.

  “Come on now, it’s not so bad!” the Egyptian said. “Making a face like an infant—and you some tough pankratiast! Drink it down; it will keep your humors in balance, you lunatic. If you don’t take care, and take your medicine, you’ll run mad again. And lose Keos’s patronage.”

  Eleon was a pankratiast, too?

  Eleon looked like he might slap the cup aside. Instead, he snatched it up, took three great gulps, and then flung the cup from him.

  It landed with a crack of breaking pottery. One of the larger fragments bounced over to me.

  I whimpered. A wave of nausea, and all thought of pursuit left me. I was so dispirited, I wished my life would end. My joints went like wet twine. The very strong felt any physical setback acutely, because they were used to strength. I knew it to be true. My people suffer little illness or lameness, usually dying violently.

  The cup contained whatever was making me so ill. By drinking it, Eleon had gained a kind of power over me. Or rather, my great strength and quick healing were no good against him.

  And yet I needed to get closer. Maybe if I avoided that damned cup . . .

  I circled around, padding lightly. As I did, my head cleared and the strength came back to me. But I could get no nearer to Keos, not with all these people around and Eleon so close to him.

  By the time I’d skirted the edge of the pavilion and dodged a party bent on some private debauchery, I realized that Keos and the Egyptian cupbearer were moving away from the torchlight.

  Keos dismissed Eleon. I turned away, hoping that if Eleon saw anything in the darkness, it would be a man’s form rather than my wolf’s head. He stomped right past me, unseeing, muttering in a childish rage.

  The Egyptian handed Keos a packet; my keen nose wrinkled. Carefully trained to identify the odor and taste of drugs and toxins, I could scent a foreign poison from my hiding spot. And they might have thought themselves out of any mortal’s hearing but could not trick my sharp, pricked-up ears. Progress at last.

  “Sire, if you use that tomorrow night, at the full of the moon, its powers will be at their fullest.”

  “And his death will seem natural?”

  The Egyptian nodded. “Perhaps too much celebrating, a heart attack. No trace at all, nothing that will lead to you.”

  Keos clapped the Egyptian on the shoulder, and the two parted.

  I now knew when and how the murder would be perpetrated. I sneaked down to the river, exchanged my wolf-man form for a man’s, and ran to the Korax’s tent.

  • • •

  “Weak in the knees, huh? Sick to your stomach?” Korax said. “What did I tell you about staying away from women?”

  “It was after she’d gone, and they were beating me. Then later he drank something that made it worse!”

  “No idea what it was?”

  I shook my head.

  “And you couldn’t bring it back, eh?”

  “It made me weak just to breathe it!”

  The old man went to the door and whistled. A kid came running up, and the old man whispered into his ear. “Don’t get caught.”

  About an hour and another bowl of food later, there was a bird whistle from outside the hut. The old man trotted out, and trotted back in almost as quickly, wiping his hands quickly.

  He sat down, looking a century older. “It’s worse than I thought. That stuff in the cup was black hellebore, which is toxic to our kind.” He ran his finger along his nose in a gesture that indicated he meant our secret race. “It’s one of the few things that will weaken or kill us, so keep that piece of knowledge to yourself. It’s used to cure madness—and by your description of his temper, Eleon needs a lot of it. Problem is, it’s not good for mortals, either. So they’re probably making him worse with each dose.”

  He spat. “Damned Egyptian quacks and poisoners! Give me an honest physician from Kos, any day.” He sighed. “The only thing you can do is keep as far away from Eleon as possible.”

  “But he’s going to fight in the pankration tomorrow! Not only will I be fighting . . . as a man . . . but that damned black hellebore of his will make me even weaker!”

  Korax nodded. “Yep. But you have to win to stop Keos and get the proof of his intentions.”

  A tiny grinding click of pebbles under sandals . . .

  Old Korax didn’t hear it over the drunken revelry outside, but I rushed out to look for eavesdroppers. I saw a page in Keos’s livery shoving through the crowd.

  The prostitute, Cythereia, stood right in my path, negotiating with a customer. No way to get around her; there was a juggler on one side and the food vendor packing up for the night on the other.

  I jumped onto the vendor’s stool and vaulted over the john’s shoulders, like one of the bull-dancers of Crete. I landed with barely a stumble, but not in time. I watched as the eavesdropper broke through a hole in the crowd.

  Cythereia brought me back to the here-and-now; I’d driven away her trade. “You’ll jump him in the middle of a crowd, but you won’t give me the time of day? Thanks a lot, mister!”

  That brought laughs from the crowd now gathering around us. With any luck, her antics would help people forget me—I was supposed to be a pankratiast, not a gymnast. I heard some murmured discussion of the pankration bouts tomorrow, and some bets were exchanged. I’d lost my quarry, shown too much of my ability, and suffered a bad blow to my pride, all in one day.

  “Listen, you! What did I say about avoiding women?”

  I turned to see old Korax. “He got away. He must have spied that kid you sent nosing about and followed him back.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Lycos. Anything he heard us discuss of our family business would only confuse him. So your cover’s not blown. Get a good look at him?”

  I nodded. “But I’m sure he heard us. He probably ran straight to Eleon to tell him I’m susceptible to hellebore.” I’d never felt so downcast. Korax led me back to his tent.

  “What if I can avoid the fight—and Eleon?” I said. “I can try to break in tonight and find proof of his master’s treachery. I almost made it earlier. You know my powers.”

  “And you know mine. My vision says there’s no sneaking in. The only way in for you is to beat his favorite at the pankration and be invited to the celebration after. That’s what I saw. My gift gets clearer as we go down this path.”

  I’d had enough of defeat today and was anxious to avoid a fight against that hellebore-swilling Eleon. “This the same gift that tells me to stay away from women?”

  He was a frail old man, but his hand hit my cheek before I could blink, and with such force it knocked me over. I heard a crack of thunder outside. I’d gone too far.

  “That’s for impiety and impudence. You don’t have to like me, but you don’t question my power. An oracle sent you here, and you crossed half the known world to obey him.”

  I didn’t dare correct him: He knew from my letter that our oracle was a woman.

  “Never challenge me again.”

  I prostrated myself. There was no denying that the sound of thunder had accompanied Korax’s displeasure. He was no crank: Zeus was acting through him. “No, Korax. My apologies. Forgive me.”

  “Get up. Get out.”

  I nodded, picked up my blanket and bundle, and turned for the door.

  “Get some rest,” he said gruffly. “Down by the treasuries isn’t too loud. If the gods are willing, you have a long, painful day ahead of you tomorrow.”

  • • •

  Pankration is the most popular sport of the Games—and why not? Two well-muscled young men, naked and fighting in the mud, to the best of their ability? The idea is as beautiful as the reality is brutal. A live match is nothing as pretty as the scenes you see painted on pottery. I’ve heard it compared to being a kind of a dance, but that’s bullshit. Pankration is a
style of fighting so savage, it appealed to the god Alexander’s army and to the bloody Spartans.

  That was why it appealed to me, too.

  The next morning, after prayers, the skamma was prepared: Water was added to the sandy ground where we would fight, making it muddy, unstable, and challenging. A priest passed around the urn filled with the lots. I drew, and didn’t look, but prayed some more. There’s always room for one more prayer, and what better place than at the Games?

  Finally, the lineup was announced. I drew an alpha; I swore. Eleon drew an alternate lot. That meant he could get through all the rounds never having to fight, if he was lucky. He’d be fresh for the last opponent.

  My lot meant that I’d have to go through three or four different bouts, and win them all, before I even stood a chance of facing him. The odds were stacked even higher against me now.

  I almost protested, knowing what I knew about Eleon, his patron Keos, and their plans. There was too much room for cheating, and I had so long to go today. We who are born to the Fang are blessed with stamina and strength, but fighting a series of fresh opponents, under the battering heat of a summer sun in Olympia—while the crowds watched in comfort from the cool, shady hillside, mind you—was a task worthy of the demigod Herakles himself.

  I saw the Korax shake his head ever so slightly. I hadn’t thought he could read my mind, but then, he’s an oracle and I’m no actor. I kept still.

  I sized up my first opponent as we nodded to each other and the prayers were made. He was no great matter. I don’t know how that bare-faced youth thought he would survive today, but it seemed a shame to subject him to a fast defeat. Perhaps he was looking for a new, well-off lover and wanted to impress some older man in the audience. I’d been in that position before myself, so why deny him a chance? I let him make the most of a blow to the chin that caught me by surprise—the inexperienced fighter is the most unpredictable, and therefore dangerous—so he had a moment to shine. Then I submitted him by sweeping him off his feet and into the mud, seizing his ankle in a lock from which he could not escape. I didn’t want it thought I was toying with him.

  The next was another matter altogether: short and squat and all muscle. At first I imagined he would be easy to dispatch. I had a longer reach and legs and was certain I would be the better wrestler. But he surprised me with a speed and nimbleness that literally took my breath away. Before I could blink, he’d flung himself at me and, having thrown me to the ground, was inching his way up my body, never releasing me. He was strong as Hephaestus himself, and just as ugly, with two cauliflower ears and a nose that had been flattened by years of combat. If I didn’t act quickly, he would find a choke hold on me from behind.

  He countered every move of mine, all the while strengthening and solidifying his own position. I tried to sneak a hand under his arm, to break his hold, but his grip was iron, in spite of the oil, sweat, and mud that covered us. Keeping my head tucked was the only reason I’d kept him from sinking that final, match-ending hold. Worse, I had to fight off the urge to transform into my powerful wolf-man form.

  The trick now was to keep moving, keep him busy hanging on until I could find an escape. I drove an elbow into his gut and was rewarded with a grunt. He shifted, losing some of his advantage, so I did it a couple more times. I felt him loosen, just a moment, and twisted hard. I made it to my knees. He managed to stay on my back, though his attack was less organized than before. I braced myself and stood up.

  Then I slammed us both backward.

  The geometers might have had some fancy formula for describing the speed at which he’d hit the ground and the impact he made. I didn’t know the equation, but anyone who moves heavy weights—say, a load of stone—understands the power of falling masses.

  My breath whooshed out as my head slammed into the earth. But as bad as it was, I landed on top of him. I felt his hands fall away from me and his legs go limp. His breath made a whooshing noise that sounded like life leaving a body.

  I staggered to my feet, the world spinning, my stomach sick. It was becoming easier and easier to maintain the pretense of human vulnerability.

  A movement from the ground. I looked down. My opponent had raised his hand weakly and let it drop on my foot. I waited. His eyes were closed, his nose was bleeding—my neck and shoulder were covered in his blood—and there was a swelling in his ankle. He’d twisted it under himself when we fell to the mud. No more Games for him, at best; a lifelong limp, at worst. I could see welts rising on his gut where my elbow had found its mark, and tried not to think of the bruises welling on my body.

  His hand hit my foot a second, then a third time. When he held up his finger, I knew he’d surrendered.

  The priest acknowledged my victory. Cheering from the audience, and money changing hands—I’d made some men rich today and perhaps made others poor. I’d have to watch my back; people weren’t above trying to save their gold by hobbling the fighters.

  I shambled off the skamma. Korax was there and placed a cloth soaked in cool river water on the back of my neck. It was as welcome as it was a shock. “How many left?”

  “One more, in about . . .” He glanced at the other part of the field. “About, say, ten minutes. One of them is very strong, one of them is smart and lucky. Don’t know which I hope you get.”

  I nodded. “And Eleon?”

  “Hasn’t left his bench yet. Fresh as a lily. He might be considering a snack.”

  At the word snack, my stomach growled, despite my hurts. I was as hungry as any of my kind can be. We need a lot of food to sustain us through our exertions, even when in human form.

  Korax and I watched the match that would decide my third opponent. It didn’t take long; I saw a brief struggle in the mud, then a scream. One man hopped up; the other signaled submission and had to be helped away. The loser’s ear had been torn off.

  The victor swaggered to meet me in our match. His body was hard-muscled and showed wear from years training at the gymnasium. But I knew he was trouble because his face was unscarred; he ended his bouts quickly and decisively, before he had the chance to get marked up.

  After the ritual prayer and at the signal, I ran toward him, and he toward me. I moved as if I would kick at him with my left leg, but when he moved to defend himself, I suddenly stepped forward and swung my right knee into his back. He fell forward, and I was on him, grabbing his wrists and planting my foot in the small of his back. I pulled on his arms.

  He wouldn’t submit, never said a word, but there was nothing he could do against me. Finally, the priest ended the bout, declaring me the winner.

  I had no time to enjoy my victory. Another splash of cold water from Korax, a cupful to my lips. “Remember: The hellebore will keep weakening you until he sweats it out. But you have to hang in there, no matter what. Go get him!”

  It was time to meet Eleon.

  Anyone watching from the hillside could have smelled the hellebore on him, but there was no rule against that. Everyone took potions meant to make them stronger.

  I felt dispirited just walking to the skamma. I still hurt from the last bouts, and the hellebore was slowing my usually quick healing.

  The priest had barely signaled the start when Eleon was on me. No greeting, just a hard tackle to my gut.

  Tired and low I may have been, but rudeness was too much. I struggled to resist the urge to transform, but my anger lent fresh strength to my limbs.

  I went back several paces but then found my footing. I drove my feet into the ground like posts, and leaned into him, so that while his hands were around my waist, my entire weight rested on his neck and shoulders. I grabbed his waist. Born to the Fang or not, hellebore or not, a stone-carver has muscles and bulk. I stopped Eleon.

  The problem was, the closer we were, the weaker I became. I lost my grip, his foot slipped, and we broke apart, stumbling away from each other.

  The logic
of fighting told me I must get in close. The logic of not poisoning myself said otherwise.

  I couldn’t let him decide for me. I rushed in, and when he hunkered down for another tackle, I took one last step, pivoted on my foot, and kicked him in the side. He grunted—it was a solid blow—but had the presence of mind to grab my leg.

  My head swam with the hellebore; I didn’t have much time. I kept my balance well enough to stay upright and beat on his head. The blows weren’t accurate, or terribly hard, but they weren’t love-taps, either.

  With a bellow, he shoved me aside. He slammed his fist into my balls.

  A shock of pain through them, and then a hopeful lull, and then a new agony, rushing in a wave through my entire body. I couldn’t breathe. I fell to my knees. My eyes blurred with tears; the world swam. My body refused to obey my commands to get up, get up or face worse.

  A collective, sympathetic groan from the audience. More than one man there instinctively covered his groin and flinched.

  I crawled like a beast, trying to catch a breath, trying not to vomit. Distantly, dimly, I could see Eleon reeling around, blood pouring from the cuts on his head, making his face a gory mask. He wiped at it repeatedly, nearly blinded.

  His weakness pleased and inspired me.

  Pulling myself to my feet, every movement of my legs a chorus of agony through my belly and bruised balls, I lurched over.

  A final rub on his face left a horrible smear. “Come on, donkey! Going to kick me again? Too afraid to wrestle?”

  I noticed that the sickness I felt was now mostly because of his last punch, less from the hellebore, which was leaving his system as he sweated. His exertions were helping me.

  He ran his hand over his face again and slicked his blood-wet hair back. “What are you waiting for?”

  There was something on his right hand that hadn’t been there before. He’d concealed a spiked ring in his hair. I knew in an instant, he’d kill me with it.

  The crowd was getting anxious, and the priests, too, ready to call the bout on Eleon’s behalf if I didn’t start fighting again. That they hadn’t found the weapon concealed on him during the pregame examination suggested the match was fixed. Perhaps they’d even slipped it into his hair when they were supposedly searching him.