by Lisa Daniels
She rolled over and saw something etched into the bedpost. Lettering carved into the wood. Most didn’t make sense. But one name jumped out at Elise.
Isera. Isera’s name had seared itself into the wood. The blackened name was ringed out and indented slightly, like the ashes from a fire. Or as if someone had used a burning matchstick to engrave the name.
Elise sat bolt upright, excitement brewing within. This was Isera’s room? Her friend had once slept here, carving her name into the wood?
How strange. And what a coincidence. Elise’s heartbeat seemed to double. She held her palm against it. Maybe the sugar affected her too much. She heard every heartbeat as a drum against her ribcage. Sighing, she leaned over to plug the hole of the bathtub, and began running the water.
Elise had questions. She also intended to get Brann or the servants to answer them. Which should be possible, as long as she survived her first time singing, cementing her place in the mansion.
Chapter Three
The arena hummed with activity. Surprise etched across Elise’s face. She didn’t know what to expect with such an event. Located in the basement of the mansion, it stretched across hundreds of yards, with spectator seats running along the sides. In the center lay a kind of fighting ring – designed in a square shape, with mesh wiring on all sides, extending up to the ceiling. A cage for fighters. Somewhere for people to hurt one another, maybe even kill. Certainly wouldn't put it past the wyrms to do something like that.
The arena could likely host several events at once, and Elise flinched as wyrms walked past her, talking to one another. Brann stood by her side, amused at her skittishness.
“You’re with me. They won’t hurt you. Not unless you give them reason to.” He lightly tapped her on the shoulder, probably meant as a reassuring gesture.
“Since when do I need to give a wyrm reason to hurt me?” Elise hissed, still flinching when others passed.
“True.” Brann shrugged. Come to think of it, he had an impressive physique and towered above most other wyrms there. Elise wasn’t exactly small herself. In fact, she stood quite tall for a woman, but Brann dwarfed everyone. Seriously – he resembled a hunk of muscle with a scowling, scarred face. Those eyes went hot and cold within one breath, making her think of warm days and cold, shivering nights. He carried himself as if he knew how to use every inch of his strength, as if his awareness pumped through his blood, making his arms and legs think. Such a powerful presence. The kind that filled up a room and buffeted people away just by existing.
Some people really did seem larger than life.
By his side, people had a higher tendency to ignore Elise. What a relief, in a way. Getting used to her new surroundings threatened to overwhelm her at every second. None of the familiar clank and thuds of the axes in the background existed, or the rumbling grind of wheelbarrows, the huffs of breath, the occasional high tweet of a canary. The conversation here came rowdy, bold, unafraid of being caught. In the mines, it came hushed, as if every word had the potential to get you killed.
Which was also why Elise tended to hum under her breath for tunes, or in the quiet of her tiny hut, clutching Ratty.
The main attraction of the arena, the cage, seemed to jut out ominously. Some parts of the mesh wiring were colored darker than others. Blood stains? It did have the taint of rust, the splatter of despair about it. She shivered. Yes. Death must happen here.
Brann gave her a nudge. For some reason, that elbow of his jabbed at her painfully. She expected it to be softened because of the muscles. Not the case at all. “So, here's what's up. You’ll be seated next to Tarken. He'll announce when it’s time for you to sing. I can’t be with you, since I’m in the cage. Looking for some extra money,” he said, with a hard, flinty set to his lips. Elise blinked rapidly as she processed the information.
“You fight in that thing?” She scrutinized the ruined flesh upon his chin. It looked like someone made a good attempt at ripping the skin from his jaw. The flesh had healed in uneven patches, leaving swathes of white-pink scars. “Is that how you got your scars?”
He didn’t answer that one. Perhaps too invasive. He did, however, give her a wan smile before he nudged her over to Lord Tarken. The wyrm curtly bowed to Brann.
“Best of luck, Brann. I’ve bet a lot on you.”
“You know me. I don’t need luck.”
They both gave thin, venomous smiles at one another. Did they not like each other? Or did they know of no other way to interact? Now Tarken turned his yellow eyes upon Elise. “Hello, little songbird. You’re singing in twenty. Do you have three songs prepared?” A distinct hint of you better have them ready lingered in his deep tone. Brann had a lower voice, somehow. More rumbly, as if a fire burned in his throat.
Elise nodded. “Yes, sir.” She figured to keep it respectful, like how she heard the servants address the wyrms. Tarken didn’t seem inclined to impulsive, radical beatings, but Elise knew not to expect anything. Not to trust any glimmers of kindness she saw. Wyrms hated humans. Always.
It was about the only reliable thing she knew.
“Good. There can be a regular spot for you if you play it right. Better than the mines, right?” His yellow eyes turned into slits. His daughter sat down, fanning her cheeks theatrically. She looked uncomfortable in the wooden seat, and shot Elise jealous glares.
She might be trouble for me later.
“Daddy, do we have to let her sing? I can sing instead, I’m much better.”
“No, petal. I've already told you why. This is for your own good.” Tarken shook his head. “Now, my advice, human. Be quiet. And only answer when you’re spoken to. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” God, Elise wanted to hurt him. The impulse flashed in her mind, visceral and strong. She shrugged it off and sat next to him, stiff and nervous.
She’d practised her songs in the bath. She knew all of them from before, including the sad one. However, knowing the songs wasn't enough. You needed to know your audience as well. If you gave them the wrong song that didn't reflect their mood, or attacked it too fast, it grated against the soul. Gauging the crowd, Elise sensed that ending her set with a rousing, soul-stirring tune would be the best way for it. Especially if the fights didn’t start until after her.
It needed to be last. She twiddled her thumbs, and the tips of them tickled. Meaning she’d better drop Fallen from the list.
This was her chance to not work in the mines, to not feel her lungs slowly dissolve into nothing. The fresher air did wonders for her breathing – already her capacity had strengthened. Making her more capable.
I can do this. Three tunes. Just Breathe. Holding the Rhythm. And Warrior, instead of Falling. She hadn’t practised Warrior, and now started humming it quietly under her breath. Reminding herself of the words, the beat. Elise had once sung this one in front of Isera. Not so long before her friend disappeared, actually, so it remained a sore point. Elise remembered the fire burning in Isera’s eyes after she’d finished.
Yes. This one would work. Just thinking about it stirred her blood up. Thinking of Isera's reaction reminded her of its power.
Tarken didn’t seem to notice her growing excitement as he stood up to greet some noblewyrm. Soon, the gathering had reached a good size and an announcer from outside the cage, by the single door there, bellowed through a kind of trumpet device which magnified his voice over the arena.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen! Tonight, we have four things for you. We have, of course, our prize fighters, all competing in matchups in the hope of earning themselves some gold. We have five matches tonight, and we have an old favorite returning – the indestructible Ozun!” The announcer, a plump, wobbly male wyrm with a double chin indicated a beast of a fighter, who must have been twice as wide as he was tall, all decked out with muscles.
I hope Brann's not against that monster.
Ozun’s yellow eyes flickered over the crowd as he bowed and accepted their cheers. His olive skin suggested he came from a distant city
, further than the pale-skinned wyrms Elise had seen, and the pale people she was used to, gaunt and white because of their time spent in the mines. She examined her hands for a second.
Under the lighting from the gas lamps, they appeared even more pale. Even with the hardened tissue and rough cracks where dirt sometimes seeped in. She missed some of the announcer's babble, and tuned back in to listen.
“... But before the fighting, we have three singing acts for you! One of them is a new one – a human discovered in the mines, a diamond in the rough!”
There were boos from the crowd.
“Yes, yes,” the commentator said, “we all know what humans are like. Lord Tarken assures me, though, that we’ll be surprised. But we’ll have to wait! First up, the vivacious… Madam Songe!” He flicked a gesture with his wrists, indicating a new singer.
An obvious pseudonym. A busty, thick-lipped wyrm singer, probably hitting her middle years, stepped up to a small wooden platform just behind the cage. Just behind the possible blood stains, which had a way of tugging at Elise's attention. Making her wonder what tale lay behind them.
A strange device lay upon the stage, and Elise noticed how Madam Songe gripped the device, not unlike a metal rod, and held it close to her lips. Also upon the stage was another drake – one who sat in front of a piano. Songe began crooning into the device, possessing a rough, husky voice. Sometimes the notes sounded off, but overall, Elise’s finely attuned ears appreciated the music.
Elise noticed and understood that the pianist improvised upon the song. He followed the tune and added a melody that suited it. That there was talent. Elise found herself nodding, admiring the drake’s playing more than Songe’s voice. Would that drake be there for Elise, too? Would he pick the perfect sadness and vigor for her songs, or would he butcher them?
It did seem that the device Madam Songe held enhanced her voice, in the same manner as for the commentator. It reverberated off the walls of the basement, more like a vast cavern than anything else. The walls were black and red and gold, the floor gray stone. Elise bit her lip, watching. Now would not be the time to flake out at the thought of performing in front of a large, reluctant crowd.
The first singer finished. Now one stepped up called Lord Ikken.
He had a low, growling voice, and sang in the style of a ballad, strumming a lyre as he did so. Elise had never mastered any instrument other than her voice, and she wondered if her words would be too weak. Not able to carry around the basement and for all those who listened.
When Ikken finished, Tarken prodded her to go, since the announcer simply referred to her as “The human.” It prompted some jeering, and she saw Tarken examine the crowd in contempt.
She tried not to let her legs give way as she went to the tiny stage to sing. She presumed the singers were distractions before the events as the last of the bets on the fighters rattled out – she spotted people crowding around a circular counter, some of them waving cash in the air, clutched in pudgy fists. Others took themselves up in a storm of last-minute betting.
She started off with Holding the Rhythm, a perfect test song for the amplifier, so she could see how it affected her voice. The jolly, jaunty tune rang out loud, high and clear. She didn’t focus on anyone in the stands, concentrating instead on surviving the first song. Some of the crowd started clapping, which meant they liked it. Good. The lack of jeering encouraged her to put more spirit into it.
She finished, and went with the sad tune. The one designed to pull down everyone’s mood. Then to finish off with Warrior. Hoping she had gauged the atmosphere right.
Again, Just Breathe had a strange effect on the audience, like the pain in her heart had found a way to transfer itself over. The room, which had filled with conversation, again fell into silence.
Maybe I should rename the tune The Silence.
After finishing Just Breathe, allowing the last note to linger, she closed her eyes for a moment.
“One more song,” she said, and her announcement shattered the bubble of quiet.
Her heart pounded faster with the new tune, from the fire it lit inside.
There is blood in the water
And on the fields
It’ll be washed away by the rain –
By slaughter, a lingering stain
These warriors
They fought, they lived, they died
With cold steel in their hearts
And their fierce, burning eyes
That become glass upon the hills
Under an anvil sky
Swords in their hands and death on their lips
There’s a dark river under
Slipping them down
Only the brave have this fate
Those who don’t hesitate
Who throw away their desperate life
For something more
Through a field of death
An impossible war
Through adversary
Such misery...
March on, brave ones!
Falter and you’re nothing
Or live like a legend
Falter and be nothing
Or live like a legend
You’re a warrior
A fighter
Not another ghost in the background
And though the dust will become you
The grass grow over you
A legend never dies
A warrior thrives
March on, brave ones!
Falter and you’re nothing
Or live like a legend
Falter and be nothing
Or live like a legend
You will be remembered...
By the end, the crowd stomped their feet and roared, many of them clapping their hands in thunderous ovation. Elise’s eyes settled on Brann, who looked fired up, energized, ready to fight, to kill.
Good. The concept of war always fascinated Elise, because she wanted to know how they happened. What drove people into them, to be slaughtered in the thousands. The concept of mass death terrified her as much as fascinated.
The song, of course, was meant for the human rebellions that had cropped up over the centuries, taught to her by the few elders who knew how to read, and also by Isera. Isera knew how to read.
Not that the wyrms needed to know that.
She left the stage to tumultuous cheers, and sat again next to Tarken, who leaned to say with a low, rustling voice, “Nicely done, human. It’s a shame you are human, really, you have a talent. A glorious one. Ah. Well, you can be sure these peasants will think twice about mocking you again.”
That was probably the closest thing she could ever expect as a compliment.
She thanked him with that cautious politeness, and then followed the fights that went down in the cage.
The first fight was between a youthful, skinny wyrm who was tall and gangly and looked as if he didn’t know what do to with himself. His opponent: an older wyrm who must have been in his fifties. Elise noticed that the fighters went for a precise style. They wore elbow and knee protection, and also a type of metal glove upon their hands. Elbow guard, shin guard, hand guard.
The fight didn’t take long. The youth mostly fought on the defensive, whilst the wily older wyrm used his experience to constantly gain the upper hand. It ended with the youth forfeiting, having taken too many blows on his body.
“A straightforward match,” Tarken informed her. “No one is seriously hurt, and we have someone forfeit because they're too far behind in points and too outclassed. We'll see another one of these, I should imagine.”
Tarken proved himself correct. The second fight was the same setup – a veteran versus a newcomer. Then two newcomers. Then two veterans. Elise knew by the fourth fight that Brann would be fighting the meat mountain of a champion, and wasn’t sure what to think about that. Perhaps some anxiety, because he had treated her nicely in their brief interactions together. Brann, with his scar, his tall and compacted body, versus a boulder of a wyrm. The kind of beast who
might withstand any kind of blow without budging.
“Brann’s a relatively new fighter in this world,” Tarken said to her, still mining his information vein. Probably because he wanted to explain, and his daughter acted disinterested, aside from the evil stares she occasionally gave Elise. That girl could cause a winter by herself. “He’s been in it for two years. There’s many fighters, and if Brann beats this champion, he’ll end up having more fights.” He examined Elise's reaction.
“Right. So this is his big chance,” Elise said.
“Rather like yours.” Apart from the whole being executed issue if she failed her singing, obviously. “Eventually, he might compete in the city tournament against world-class fighters. And I’ll be his patron.”
Tarken paused, watching as Elise examined Brann. “Yes, he’s one to watch, isn’t he?”
“Yes sir,” Elise said, answering the question. She risked adding more. “He looks as though he has fought before, sir. Before doing this. He has eyes that have seen death.”
Was that too much information? Would Tarken snarl at her for such audacity? Karris certainly glared at them both, angry at Elise for daring to speak to her father. Even the other wyrms seemed mildly curious at the fact Tarken spoke so openly to Elise.
Elise processed all the information, considering what it meant.
“Yes, yes, you’re quite right,” Tarken said, nodding thoughtfully. “And he has been near death, too. It was what drew me to him. I saw him in the fight that gave him that wound, in a tiny, nameless pit. What resilience.” He sounded admiring of Brann.
Yes. That scar covers a wound that must have almost killed him.
She couldn't help but notice how unusually receptive the lord was to her. Honestly, Elise had never gone longer than five seconds with a wyrm without getting some scathing, awful remark about her or the people she worked with. Yet Tarken actually spoke to her, conveyed information. And seemed perfectly happy to do so.