by Ruby Dixon
Though if this is a war god’s temple, why am I here? Why does their prelate want a tart? And what the hell is a cleaver bride? A nun of some kind?
Of course, I’ve been asking the same question for two days. Ten bucks says I’m not going to get an answer anytime soon.
I stare at the statue. If I’m in a new world, maybe the gods can send me home. “I’ll be your best friend, Aron,” I whisper. “Just get me back to Chicago.”
Sinon gets up. He wipes his brow, sweating like a pig in his heavy armor. I move into place behind him. My neck is throbbing from how many times my chain has been yanked, and I’m tempted to pull a Princess Leia on this guy and grab my chain, loop it around his neck, and choke the life out of him.
We head into the temple itself, past columns shaped like swords and statue after statue of the scarred, angry-looking god.
A pair of men in red robes wait by the portcullis. One raises a hand to us. “Halt.”
My owner stops and effects an ornate bow. “Sword Sinon Dantali, here for the annual Anticipation.” He straightens and then gestures at me. “I’ve brought an offering for the prelate.”
“A blonde, I see,” one of the men says with a smirk. “Original.”
“The prelate knows what he likes,” Sinon says.
“Truth. And it’s not like the Butcher God will show his face tonight.” The soldiers bark-laughs, and then one grabs my lead from Sinon. “Put her in with the other offerings.”
4
In the antechamber, it’s immediately obvious who the other “offerings” are.
The room is filled with women of every shape and size, all attractive. Some have huge breasts, some are waif thin. Some are older than me, and some look barely old enough to be in high school. They’re all dressed in the long white loincloth and belt that I’m in.
They all have blonde hair.
The other slaves barely spare me a glance. Most gossip in low voices, oiling their skin and smoothing their hair. Some frolic near a fountain in the tiled courtyard, giggling. It’s almost like I’m backstage at a beauty pageant, waiting for my turn to go on.
“Got any mascara?” I ask the girl nearest me.
“What?” She frowns in my direction and moves away.
“Never mind. It was a bad joke.” I sigh to myself, looking for a friendly face in the room. “I guess I’m just talking for the sake of talking.”
Another woman stares at me as she walks past.
The antechamber tiles of the floor are cool beneath my dirty feet as I walk around. There’s a colonnade along each wall with more of the sword-shaped pillars, and I study the others. There must be at least thirty or forty blondes. Cleaver brides, I wonder?
Now if I just knew what those were…
A young girl sits by the wall, her legs tucked under her, tits out, her blonde curls pulled into an artful knot atop her head. She looks way too young to be here, but I’m guessing no one asked for ID at the slave pens. Still, she seems approachable, so I make a beeline toward her, smiling. No pageant jokes this time, Faith, I remind myself. You’re totally from this place, remember?
When she casts a timid smile in my direction, I smile back and thump down on the ground to sit next to her. “Hi there! I’m Faith.” I offer her my hand. “I’m new here.”
Her brows draw together and she tilts her head charmingly. “An unusual name. Where are you from?”
“Oh, here and there.” I wave a hand airily, because I know trying to explain that I’m from the US and from Earth will just be a mistake. “You?”
“Avalla. From Glistentide.”
“Totally one of my favorite places,” I lie, keeping my tone friendly. I sit down next to her and fold my legs under me in the same prim stance, my hands on my lap. “You’re far from home, I think. How’d you end up here?”
“In Aventine?” She bites her lip and ducks her head, looking so shy and awkward it hurts me to think of her in the same situation I’m in. “My parents sold me to a traveling merchant. He was very kind but I did not enjoy his advances much. He was very old and I admit I had foolish dreams like any young maiden.” She shrugs and her smile grows wider. “So he brought me here and then gave me as an offering to the temple, to be a cleaver bride. It is a great honor.”
Avalla says the words, but her smile is a little forced, the look in her eyes a little too blank.
Yikes.
I lean in close. “Like I said, I’m new here. Is it really an honor or are we screwed? Be honest.”
She looks startled at my words, and then her lip trembles. Her eyes become glassy with unshed tears and she blinks rapidly, wiping at the corners of her eyes with her fingers. “You will make me weep and then I will be blotchy.”
Yeah, I’m pretty sure if this was an honor, she wouldn’t be crying. Not crying like that, anyhow. That tells me everything I need to know. Cleaver bride is not a good thing to be. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right. I just want to look my best for when we meet the prelate at the choosing.”
“Choosing?”
Avalla gives me a curious look. “The temple’s choosing…for the Anticipation? You have not heard of such a thing?”
I shrug. “Really, really not from here.”
“But surely your land has gods. It is the Anticipation.” She says it as if there’s a “duh” at the end.
“Well, I’m sure anticipating learning what it is,” I joke.
She wrinkles her nose. “Your accent is strange,” she agrees. “Are you from across the seas?”
“Something like that.” I gesture with my hand, indicating she should continue. “Tell me more about this choosing? There are a lot of women here. Are we all being chosen?”
“Oh no. Just one. The others will become cleaver brides.”
Just one. Not great odds, and I’m definitely not the hottest babe in the room. “So what happens to that one? The girl that’s chosen?”
“She will be the servant to the prelate for the next year. He is the chosen priest of Aron of the Cleaver, and as such, she will serve all his needs until the next Anticipation day. After that, she is paid richly and can live a life of leisure having satisfied the gods.”
All right, so it’s clearly a religious thing. Sounds like a personal slave for the local priest, and then freedom. Hard pass. I’ve had enough of slaving. “Life of leisure sounds great and all,” I begin.
“Oh yes. It is a position of great honor.” Avalla’s pretty face is hopeful.
“And everyone else becomes cleaver brides? What is that, like a nun? Spend the rest of our lives serving the gods?” Maybe I can escape a nunnery.”
“You…you don’t know what a cleaver bride is?”
“No.”
She pales and swallows hard. “Cleaver brides are offerings to the god.”
There’s that word again. I’m starting to hate it as much as “tart.” “Offerings?”
“Sacrifices.” She swallows hard and tries to smile, but it has a glassy look to it. “It is a great honor.”
Ok, that is definitely gonna be a problem.
5
There’s a huge knot in my throat and I clamp Avalla’s hand in mine. I’m trying not to panic.
Sacrificed.
To a god.
Me and all these women in this room are going to die if we’re not chosen to serve the prelate. I’m guessing we’re not going to be “serving” like a waitress but more like serving in bed.
So it’s either that or death. Shit is hitting the fan.
Choices, choices.
I look around the room, at the crowd of women. Their merriment seems to have a hard edge to it, and I realize some of the laughter is forced. In the corner, there’s a girl weeping though she’s doing her best to conceal it. Another one’s staring at the fountain so intently I’d swear she wants to drown herself in it.
“We have to get out of here,” I whisper to Avalla. “I need to get home.”
Her eyes go wide. “We cannot. We would be s
hamed before the gods.”
“I’ll eat my stupid skirt if the gods actually know what’s going on here.” I squeeze her hand again. “And that’s the only thing I have to wear. Come on. Do you want to die here?”
“No.” Her voice is so small I can barely hear it.
“Then let’s think. Do you know this temple? Is there a way out of here?”
She shakes her head, her movements jerky with fear. “My master brought me here last night. I am a stranger to this place, as you are.” The look on her face becomes bleak. She looks ready to cry. “Do you think I will be a cleaver bride, then?”
“Of course not. You’re awesome.” I give her a faint smile and wipe her cheek when a tear slides down it. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll think of something. When’s this ceremony?”
“Tonight. At sundown. The hour of storms.”
That means nothing to me other than we don’t have much time. An afternoon isn’t going to be enough. But I squeeze her hand. “We’ll figure something out.”
I might have overstated my abilities to figure something out.
There’s no exit and the crowded room is heavily guarded. Best I can do? Try to help Avalla become slave numero uno, because she wants it so badly. She keeps talking about the prelate and how she’d love to serve him, so I want her to win.
Unfortunately for her, the only coaching I can come up with is to tell her to bite her lip and bat her lashes. I’m worse than a pageant coach. It’s clear that there are a lot of experienced women in this room and some great beauties, so Avalla’s got earnestness and that’s about it.
I don’t even have that. I’m all right looking, but I’m definitely no Helen of Troy. I think I passed her by the fountain. Spoiler—she’s blonde.
Since I can’t escape, I decide I’m going to go down fighting. That means I need a weapon. I look around for one all day, and eventually find a chink of broken tile in a corner that has a hard edge and clutch it tightly in my hand. It’s about the size of my finger, but it’ll have to do.
I can always peck someone to death like the world’s angriest blonde chicken.
Because I’m not going to smile all the way to my funeral pyre. I did not end up on some strange podunk Game of Thrones ripoff world just to be part of the Million Blonde Funeral March.
I am getting the fuck out of this place, one way or another.
As the sun goes down, a familiar thrumming drumbeat begins. Goosebumps prick my bare arms and Avalla clutches my hand nervously. I grit my teeth, because it’s the same drumbeat I heard back in the apartment. It’s all tied to this somehow.
“You’ll do great,” I promise her as more guards file into the room. “Big smile. Fluttery lashes. Thrust your chest out. Smize.”
It must be time. The women are lined up, and one of the guards swoops up and down the row, rearranging us by height, and my grip tightens on Avalla’s hand. She’s shorter than me. I hate that we’re going to get separated, because it was nice to have someone to talk to for a change. Someone that didn’t call me “tart” or try to feel my tits.
I’ve felt so alone and friendless in this strange place. It was nice to have a buddy.
“You. This way,” the guard says, indicating that Avalla should follow him. She looks at me nervously and I give her an encouraging two thumbs up.
She moves forward in the line, sandwiched between two very busty and older-looking women. Really, that’s a win for her, because she’s going to look youthful and nubile and all those great, creepy things that a sex slave is supposed to be. I’m sandwiched between two beauties, but I don’t care because I don’t plan on being “picked.”
Of course, I haven’t figured out plan B yet, but I’m hoping something will come to me.
The drum beats continue, and then the line of women marches forward, heads bent. I mimic them automatically, though I’m peeking around as we walk down the long, dark corridors. There’s a scent of rain in the air, and I can hear thunder. It messes up the steady rhythm of the drums, which is more than a little jarring. There also seem to be even more people in this building than before. Not all of them are wearing the long red robes, but the number of soldiers seems to be greater, as does the number of civilians dressed in simple tunics. It’s like everyone’s turning out for a party.
I can just bet what the entertainment’s going to be.
The line of blondes winds through the crowded corridor, and then we’re led into a very large, smoky chamber. The drummers wait at the edges of the room, staring ahead, tapping out their rhythm.
The crowd is packed in here, and the humidity is making more than one sweat. There’s a faint body odor stink in the room, but no one’s leaving. If anything, more people are crowding in. The entire room is wall to wall people except for the back wall, which is a massive feast table laden with foods of every kind. Up ahead at the front of the room, I catch a glimpse of a large stone throne up on a dais. It’s empty, as if we’re waiting for the guest of honor.
Behind the dais is a banner of sumptuous red cloth with the battleaxe symbol and a lightning bolt going through it. I scan the room, looking for my pear-headed owner. He’s off talking to a few soldiers squeezed into a corner, but I notice he keeps looking in this direction. I want to make a break for it, but I’m being watched.
Suddenly, everything goes silent.
There’s an ominous rumble of thunder, but the drums are quiet, the people are quiet, everything in the temple is quiet. A man strolls forward and the crowd—already packed to the gills—tries to part for him. People squeeze against one another to give him room to pass. He moves forward, heading to the row of blondes, and I get a good look at him.
He’s not old. He’s tanned and has a stern face that could be fifty or a hard thirty. He looks like he’s in relatively good shape, and his head is completely shaven. Not my type, but maybe Avalla’s. As he approaches, I notice his robes have a different sweep to them, and I realize his are crusted with gems and what looks like gold along the cuffs and hem. Fancy. Prelating must pay well.
The prelate moves in the mix of people, then raises his hands into the air.
Everyone drops to their knees, bowing their heads.
Well, shit. I clench my bit of broken tile tightly and kneel like all the others, bending my head. Instead of praying, though, I look for exits.
If I’m going to make a break for it, it needs to be soon.
“Rise,” the prelate says. “Rise and let us celebrate the Lord of Storms, Aron of the Cleaver, Butcher God of Battle in his chosen hour, the hour of storms. Today is the day we celebrate the Anticipation.”
Blah blah Anticipation. No one looks excited about anything except the food. There are looks of boredom on everyone’s faces. I guess no one’s “anticipating” all that much.
Ha.
The red-robed man raises his arms into the air again, like a preacher without a pulpit. “Every year upon this day, we celebrate in the hopes that the gods will send an Aspect, as it is told in the sacred scrolls. This temple is dedicated to Aron of the Cleaver, our Lord of Storms, the butcher of battle, but we welcome any of the twelve gods if they should honor us with their presence.”
He turns and bows to the empty throne which remains, you guessed it, empty.
There’s a bit of polite clapping. Everyone still looks bored.
The prelate turns back to the crowd once more. “In honor of this day and our Lord of Storms, we will feast in his name.”
That makes people happy. A cheer goes up.
The prelate turns toward us. “One maiden will be chosen to serve me in the Lord of Storms’s honor. The rest shall be given as cleaver brides.”
No one responds. Someone makes an impatient noise. Another man rolls his eyes.
I’m thinking the Anticipation is a big let-down every year. I bet it’s a lot like Christmas, when your parents promise that Santa Claus is on his way and then you find out he’s not real. Maybe Aron of the Cleaver is about as real as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reind
eer and that’s why no one seems to give a crap about this particular holiday except for the food.
“I shall choose the maiden to serve me,” the prelate says, dragging my attention back to the center of the room. “Once I have picked the honored one, we will say the invocation and proceed to the feasting.”
The prelate moves to the end of the row and begins to eyeball the blonde offerings. One by one, he looks them up and down, and I’m acutely aware that most women are half-naked. Everyone wears the same skirt, but I’m the only one with it hiked up to my tits. This is so incredibly creepy, especially when he reaches out to finger one girl’s curly hair and brushes his fingers over the shoulder of the next, as if judging how smooth her skin is.
Ugh.
He continues down the row, and the room is quiet, the only sound the low murmur of the audience, as if they’re making bets on who he’ll pick. I notice that Sinon is staring at me from afar and I resist the urge to shoot him the finger. That won’t do any good.
I mean, it’d feel good, but I’m in enough trouble as it is.
I’m toward the end of the line, so it doesn’t take long for him to get to me. I slide my hands behind my back before he arrives, hiding the chunk of tile I’m holding. When he moves near, I catch a heavy whiff of herbs, as if he’s bathing in this world’s version of deodorant under those robes.
“Why do your ears have holes?”
I blink. That’s a weird question. “My ears?”
He nods. “Your ears have holes. Why?”
Oh. “They’re pierced? You wear jewelry in them.”
The prelate wrinkles his nose. “Barbaric.”
Is it? I didn’t realize the people here didn’t wear ear jewelry. What a strange thing to notice.
He flicks a hand at the front of my skirt-dress. “I should like to see your breasts. Disrobe.”
So much for being chipper and accommodating. I clutch the front of my dress. “No thanks.”
“What?”
“I mean…no?” I try to smile sweetly. “But ‘no’ in the nicest way, of course.”