“So, where is Elder now? Being he is such a close friend, I’d think you would have confided in him with your current situation.”
“Dead,” I say dryly.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
So much for avoiding the mood killer. I don’t have too many stories with happy endings, so I ought to just stop talking. And it all leads back to Harris Martelli.
“Don’t be. I was with him when it happened. He was always curious. Courageous too. Though, his curiosity led him into many sticky situations, which I might be confusing with courage. It may have just been stupidity. We were all there—me, Jay and Goose. I regret not being able to say goodbye. Even a burial or something. Something to show my respect. But we had to flee. We had to.”
Astor moves in closer as we meander through the crowds parading about the arena. She wraps her arm around me and I lean in. “Chaos and loss. That’s all you know, isn’t it?” She speaks loudly for me to hear over the buzz of the crowd. “Shall we pass on the Ironball? I hear it’s brutal, and that’s not what you need more of.”
“No way. I would never pass up an opportunity like this. It’s the Iron Eagles. The chance to witness them smash the skulls of the sneaks and cheats that are the Crimson Carnivores. We’re going.” I smile at her. “You’ve already committed. There’s no weaseling out of it now.”
The gates of the arena are swarming with fans trying to get in and peddlers trying to sell them goods, but what stands out more than the others, the Crimson Guard. I haven’t experienced a thick crowd like this since the day Harris incarcerated us—the day Elder died. I tense up and come to a halt.
“Is everything okay, Sto…I mean…Elder?” Astor stumbles on her words.
Guards are posted at every entrance and patrolling the crowds. It doesn’t appear they’re looking for anything or anybody in particular, but I can’t help it. Their presence makes me wary. Some are cloaked in forest green, some donning faded black, and a pair headed straight toward us wears bright white cloaks. The scene resembles that day too much. I tense up even more. But would the Taoiseach utilize his guards to capture me after opening up the way he did? Maybe he wants a public capture. It will be easier for him to carry out my execution. Can I trust an evil tyrant?
“What is it, Elder? What’s going on?”
The two cloaked men have their hoods up, concealing most of their faces. All I can see are the solemn grins they wear. They’re not here on regular duty. They’re too tense themselves. They’re on a mission. Too close now to run away, I throw my own hood up and drop my head. One of them bumps into me and turns to face me. When I don’t look up, he grabs me by the shoulder.
“Hey! It’s him. The student we’ve been looking for.” He nudges his counterpart.
“Who?” his partner responds irritably.
“It’s Elder, right?” the guard inquires, his hand placed firmly on my shoulder.
“Who’s Elder?” the other guard pipes in.
“Y-yes, sir,” I stutter. “What’s your purpose?” I ask, maybe a little too abrasively.
He glares at me. “I heard you bested Master Stormwood. Is that right?”
“Umm…wh…what?” I’m getting too much attention right now.
“Word is you landed Master Stormwood right on his ass with a solid blow to the chest. That’s unheard of. The Master doesn’t hold back with his students. He always stays one step ahead, even as their abilities improve. He’s never let a student handle him that way before. You might do well in the Crimson Guard, lad. Keep it up.” He pats my shoulder and gives a proud grin before turning and going about his business.
Astor stares at me. A frown and intense eyebrows forming on her face.
“I don’t know.” I shrug my shoulders in response to her silence.
“You knocked Master Stormwood to the ground, and you didn’t think it was worth mentioning?” She sounds irritated.
“That’s not how it happened. I landed a blow, but it was minor… It’s no big deal. He destroyed me, like he always does.”
“It is a big deal. That’s amazing, Elder! I’m proud of you.” Astor grabs my hand and starts moving through the crowd again. “Why were you so tense when they approached you?” she probes.
“No reason,” I lie. “It’s just…I’m still not…uh…comfortable around the Crimson Guard yet.” Truthfully, the bustling crowd in the center of the market and the men in white casually approaching—it resembled that day too closely. I froze. I didn’t know what to do. The white cloaks subdued us all so easily when they captured us. Elder, Jay, and me. Even Helios. With just a touch of the flesh. Would they take Astor too this time? Would Harris follow through with the execution promised me so many seasons ago? Would I ever see Jay again? If I admitted my fear, Astor would turn us right around and head back to the cottage. Her love and care for others is deep within her veins, but sometimes it can be overwhelming. Knowing the Taoiseach is aware of my presence, I have no reason to hide anymore. I must move on. At this point I’m just another one of his pawns waiting to be sacrificed. But…what if I make a move out of turn? What if I don’t play his game? “Let’s just get to the grandstand where there are less guard.”
“Certainly.” Astor places a hand on my mid-back. “Let’s get you a piece of your freedom back.”
My stomach flutters, and her smile causes me to forget all other worries.
All the benches at arena level are packed tight with the most boisterous of fans, already loud and unsettled well before the match is to begin. We find our seats high into the grandstand, away from the packed chaos. The view of the entire arena is marvelous, but the action to take place on the hardpacked, sandy field of combat may be a challenge to see from up here.
The stands gradually fill in around us. No sign of any combatants yet. Astor and I both seem content simply watching the crowd around us. The variety of personalities, the bits of intercepted conversations, the many different appearances. The two of us—a fugitive who’s been hiding in a tree and a beautiful, well-presented angel—fit right in. We’re no different than anyone else in this mob.
A chant starts up amongst them. Soft at first but rapidly unfolding to something energetic. It’s hard to make it out, but I believe they’re chanting Iron Valour, the star of the Iron Eagles.
Astor joins in. “I-urn Val-ur. I-urn Val-ur. I-urn Val-ur.” She looks to me and smiles with her fist pumping in the air, followed by a nudge prompting me to join in. At first, I’m irritated, but then I remind myself why we came.
“It’s ‘Val-or,’ not ‘Val-ur,’” I return the smile and join in. “I-urn Val-or. I-urn Val-or.”
Then, the soft chime of cowbells rings steadily, and the crowd calms in anticipation. A few moments pass of the resounding bells accompanied by a silent crowd, then a thriving voice bellows. “And the bass cannon booms!” BOOM! A loud blasting sounds off, and I tense up. I snap my neck around, looking at the crowd, and they all erupt into cheer. A small, brown ball flies high through the air, headed for the middle of the pit. The combatants come hustling into the arena, and the cheers intensify. It’s all part of the show, I remind myself. I look over to see Astor’s reaction and just as all the others are doing, she is yelling as loud as she can with her hands cupped around her mouth. She isn’t screaming anything in particular, just screaming to make noise. Somehow, her elegant beauty remains in full force even with an unsteady rage.
Ten combatants are out on the field, five to each team. Two on either side hold back strategically while the other six rush for the ironwood ball in the center of the arena.
The Iron Eagles are bare chested with armored loin cloths of petrified grey leather. Its function cannot realistically be to protect anything. It’s more so to maintain a level of carnal tension amongst the mobbing crowd. Men and women, or any that fancy the physical perfection of flesh, will have a hard time taking their eyes off the combatants. And it keeps them coming back despite the brutality.
The Crimson Carnivores ha
ve a similar loin cloth infused with a blood-red color. And they’re a bit more vibrant with the use of red war paint. One of the Aggressors has half of his entire body painted deep red from head to toe. Another has red tiger markings across his back, laddering to the top of his bald head. The others are a canvas of abstract designs.
One combatant of the Carnivores is much faster than the others and snatches the ironball, followed by a quick retreat. A large sixteen-digit timepiece located high in the stands above their side of the arena ticks forward. Click…click…click. The crowd roars it’s disapproval as he regroups with the other two Aggressors on his team, all three of which stand a head taller than any of their opponents on the Iron Eagles.
“What is happening?” Astor yells, so I can hear over the boisterous mob.
“Have you never been?” I yell back.
She shakes her head.
My lips form a thin line. This was all for me. Astor doesn’t care about this sport. She’s here to offer me a taste of freedom. That is all. Selfless in so many ways. My tight sneer curls into a half smile and I lean in so I can speak to her. Not yell at her. “You win by maintaining possession of the ironball for as many clicks as is on that timepiece. Time is ticking for the Carnivores. You can see the Iron Eagles timepiece remains frozen.” I point to the timepiece on the opposite side of the arena. “They will do what’s necessary to maintain possession of that ironball.”
She nods her head, not taking her eyes off the field of combat.
“There are three positions. An Aggressor, who attacks and defends. Three of the five combatants play this role, and they’re the primary cause of brutality in the sport. They’re typically Sprhowts and see the majority of the action. Then there’s a Sleeper. His primary function is to defend the ironball, utilizing his Hiberneyt talents to secure it in any manner imaginable. And last, you have the Regenerator. He’s on the field to ensure the game lasts through the entirety of one of those timepieces. He heals any who are injured. If he weren’t on that field, this match would last but four clicks. A quarter of what we get to watch.” I point down to the Regenerator on the Iron Eagles. “That is what I want to be when I get my freedom back.”
She gives me a sidelong glance and smiles a beautiful smile. A sudden warmth consumes me. I want to move in closer. But this isn’t the time. Instead, I fix my gaze back on the arena.
The Aggressor who retrieved the sphere effortlessly tosses it to his Sleeper, who, in turn, puts it atop a wooden perch—which I’m certain wasn’t there a moment ago. Following through his throw, the Aggressor sprints to the wooden perch and grips it firmly with both hands. The perch shoots high into the air and out of reach.
Backs to the perch now, all three Aggressors form a defensive wall to retain the sphere. The Regenerator fumbles with something he pulls from a waist pouch, and the Sleeper caresses the perch, most likely solidifying its structure with petrification. They’ve secured the ironball and are building their defenses.
Meanwhile, the three Aggressors of the Iron Eagles have moved in on the Carnivore’s first line of defense. Not without caution, they fan around the much larger Aggressors of the Carnivores. They refrain from attacking. Instead, they patiently wait.
All six Aggressors from the two opposing teams are in an awkward staredown without any action. There is a low murmur about the crowd with a few flagrant outbursts as they eagerly await. Then, each of the Iron Eagle’s Aggressors discreetly retrieve something from their waist pouches. Either their opponents don’t notice or they’re fearless of what may come of it. It’s a gritty chalk powder of sorts. They rub it in their hands, creating small plumes of dust, and let the grit fall to the sandy arena. The Carnivores wait in their defensive stance, unfazed by the furtive act of the Iron Eagles.
Concurrently, the other two members of the Iron Eagles remain deep to their side of the arena, also chalking up their hands. I’m not sure what they are working toward, but it seems irrelevant to the sport.
My eyes sway back to the Aggressors after an arousal in the crowd. Iron Valour is disemboguing a brown vine toward the wooden perch harnessing the ironball. Once latched on, he gives it a solid tug. Nothing happens. Another Aggressor joins in while the other stands guard, but they remain unsuccessful. The perch must extend deep into the sandy arena floor, otherwise the sphere would be in their possession by now.
The Carnivores entertain their weak attack briefly before one of them hurdles absurdly high and grasps onto the vine about midpoint. His mass overpowers the two Iron Eagles, and they stumble forward into their third Aggressor, all toppling onto one another. In that instance, two Aggressors of the Carnivores move in to attack.
Iron Valour gets kicked in the jaw while on his hands and knees—not a typical position to see him in—and he flops to his side and rolls onto his back. He lies there, motionless.
The other two Aggressors are pinned to the ground with legs and fists swinging at them profusely. With Iron Valour out of commission, they are outnumbered. The sand around them turns a burnt-red hue as blood spatters with each blow. Survival doesn’t look realistic for the Iron Eagles. The crowd is silenced with shock.
“This is not how I anticipated this match to go,” I mutter to Astor quietly, so as not to stir any of the crowd around me with distaste. The Iron Eagles were supposed to dominate, but they’re scheming as if this were their first battle. They look like amateurs, not the professional Ironball combatants we all know them to be. What a disappointment. I hope Astor is still enjoying herself.
“I agree,” she casually replies. “There’s so…much…blood.” She winces with the next blow to the face.
The timepiece above the Carnivores clicks past two. Another fourteen won’t be long at this pace.
The Iron Eagle’s Regenerator bounds toward Iron Valour. The Sleeper right behind him. With only a short-lived window of opportunity before the Carnivores are on him, the Regenerator dives toward his ally and makes solid contact with Iron Valour’s forehead. I get anxious and excited because I know it was a mistake the Carnivores will likely regret. The man awakes and rises to his feet with a resounding replenishment of energy.
Astor notices my delight and raises an eyebrow in my direction.
“What?”
The Sleeper—the largest man on the Iron Eagle squad—rushes the pack of wolves feeding on his teammates. He leaps heedlessly into them with arms and legs stretched to the max. Two of the men go down while the other scuffles out of the way, but in an odd way, almost as if his muscles are tightening and disengaging his ability to move freely. The Sleeper procures enough time for the Regenerator to move in and tend to his teammates, who are a bloody mess. In that quick moment, they gain enough strength to get back to their feet.
The only standing Aggressor of the Carnivores recovers from his awkward movement and grabs the Iron Eagle’s Regenerator by his throat. Just when the Aggressor is about to put his fist deep into the Regenerator’s face, Iron Valour smashes his own fist into the back of the Aggressor’s skull, right behind his ear, and the man drops to his knees, pauses for a moment, and falls forward. The sands turn dark where his face crashes into the arena floor. The crowd roars with excitement.
Four of the five Iron Eagles retreat to their side of the arena, leaving behind the Sleeper that extricated them. “What are they doing?” I shout. That’s not common practice for any team. My doubts about this squad are strong. They have yet to gain possession of the sphere for even a click as the Carnivore’s timepiece clicks to four.
“It doesn’t look like they’re doing very well. Tell me again what the intent of this game is?” Astor inquires.
“First of all, it’s a battle. Or a match. Not a game. These men risk their lives in that arena. They don’t play as you would with your marbles.”
Her face cringes. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“As I mentioned, the first team to gain sixteen clicks on their timepiece is the champion. Or if all the opposing combatants are beaten to a pulp, that will als
o suffice.”
“So, why have they not attempted to gain possession of the ironball yet?”
“That’s the unnerving question at the moment, isn’t it?” I plainly roll my eyes at her.
Just then, all three of the Iron Eagle Aggressors leap into the air in unison and land with one knee down while slamming their fists into the ground simultaneously. The mob screams its approval as a plume of dust kicks up and the men disappear. Walls of vines encapsulate the dust plume, forming a miniature fortress. And several small tree-like beasts, about knee high, sprout from the ground near the Carnivores. The foes immediately take their attention away from the Iron Eagle’s Sleeper as the small beasts scurry all over the ground. They’ve two legs, two arms, hands, and a head just like miniature men, but they are bark colored and topped with a bit of green foliage resembling a hairpiece. The brown vines making up their entirety look almost like sinew and ligaments with the way they flex and retract as they scurry about. I have never seen anything like it. They’re small, but quick. A few of the arbor beasts attempt to climb the Carnivore’s legs only to be booted away. The stumps bounce right back to their feet and continue attacking. Another is kicked and soars into the lower level of the crowd, causing some screams but more so a roar of excitement from the gaping mob. Its appendages get ripped from its trunk when two belligerent men fight over it.
“Ahh… What’s wrong with those creatures? They tore the poor little thing into pieces.”
A part of me feels the same as Astor. It’s an innocent creature. But then I remember it’s just a plant. Plants don’t feel. It’s no different than squashing a vexing insect. Except this insect just re-sprouted its limbs, violated the two assholes in a manner they won’t forget, and leaped back into the arena to face its archenemy, the Carnivores.
“Oh…” Astor squeals at the sight.
Too soon, the Carnivore’s discover a method to permanently mutilate the stumps. One of their Aggressors—clearly a Dihkai, not a Sprhowt—refrains from booting them away or ripping them apart and instead degenerates them back into the dirt from which they were born. Though, with only one strategic move, the Carnivores won’t be able to defend well against the arbor beasts that continue to sprout from the ground.
Season of Sacrifice (Blood of Azure Book 1) Page 56