by Alec Hutson
“Good,” I agree, forcing a smile. “And for weapons . . .”
The lizard man grins again, more fiercely than before. He raises a massive hand, examining his long, curving talons. “These are the only weapons allowed.” His arm flashes out, claws shrieking against the iron bars of my cell.
I try to avoid looking at the chunk he has just gouged out of the metal.
“Prepare yourself.”
10
A bell clanging somewhere in the distance wakes me.
I roll from the pile of stale rushes and stand, trying to stretch my stiff and aching back. A gray dawn suffuses the small window, and in the pale light the details of our prison have started to resolve: the blacksmith’s dark shape is curled against the far wall, and Bell is still hunched over in the same spot where she had been last night. I don’t think she’s asleep, though – faint sniffles and muffled sobs are coming from her cell, just audible beneath the blacksmith’s rumbling snores.
“Are you all right?” I whisper, and the muted crying stops.
She raises her face, and though it’s still dark I can see how red and swollen her eyes are, and the tear tracks scarring her cheeks.
“No,” she says thickly.
“What’s the matter?”
She blinks and wipes angrily at her eyes. “What’s the matter?” she says incredulously. “What’s the matter? You’re going to be killed today.”
“Maybe. I don’t remember too much about myself, but I’ve found that I’m pretty hard to kill.”
“Going into a ring with an alethian is suicide,” she says. “It’s the foundation of their entire culture. I just . . . I just can’t believe you’re . . .” Whatever she’s about to say disintegrates into more sobbing.
I’m trying to decide on the most comforting thing I could say when the prison door swings open and the fat guard waddles inside holding a tray.
“Here ya go,” he says, placing it on the floor outside my cell. “Seneschal wants you strong for the fight.”
There’s a loaf of crusty brown bread, still steaming from the ovens, a speckled, hard-boiled egg the size of my fist, and a thick slice of what looks to be ham. There’s also a mug of some frothy drink. Not a bad final meal, if that’s what it ends up being.
I nod my thanks and the guardsman’s face scrunches up – clearly, he hasn’t completely forgiven me for my dishonesty in bringing the alethian here. But he does pause before leaving, turning back to me.
“May the saints favor you today,” he says simply, sketching a symbol in the air with his finger. “The seneschal wants the fight to start as soon as the sun has risen. So eat quickly.”
I chew slowly, savoring the food as the gray dawn lightens outside the window and rosy fingers begin to creep across the stone floor. The tankard I leave untouched – a quick sniff tells me that it’s likely ale, and I want to keep my senses as sharp as possible. Bell has turned away from me to face the wall, but the blacksmith has awoken and is again pressed against the bars of his cell, staring with an intense yearning at my drink.
“You don’t want that?” he asks, and I shake my head. “D’ya think you could try and slide it across to me?”
I glance skeptically at the dozen paces separating our cells. It might as well be a chasm. “I don’t think that would work.”
“Just try.”
I place the tray on the floor outside my cell with the tankard in the middle. The man’s eyes are wide with excitement.
“Pray to your gods,” I tell him, and to my amusement I actually see his lips intoning some mantra. Then I give the tray a shove in his direction and it scrapes across the stone, the drink lurching precariously, ale slopping over the rim. The tray strikes the edge of his cell and the tankard topples over but the blacksmith’s hand flashes out and somehow he catches it before too much of what’s inside ends up splattered all over the stone.
That was . . . mildly impressive.
The man brings the tankard through the bars, gazing in such rapt joy that he could be lifting his newborn son for the first time. He drinks deep, then wipes his mouth. “Oh, by the saints,” he moans. “That’s delicious.” The blacksmith raises the tankard in my direction. “I’ll be cheering for your victory today, stranger.”
The door bangs open, and my heart catches in my throat. “It’s time,” the portly guard says, stumping inside. He produces a key but hesitates before unlocking my door. “Don’t do nothing stupid,” he warns. “I can’t unlock the chains around your ankles, so you ain’t going far even if you knock me upside the head.”
The key clanks in the lock and my cell door opens. I do consider bashing the tiny helmet squeezing his fat head, but the thought of trying to make my escape by hopping through the town with Bell seems even less appealing than fighting a giant lizard. He grabs my arm and I let him pull me to my feet. As he leads me past the blacksmith’s cell the man toasts me again and winks.
“Bell, I’ll come back for you,” I cry as the guard ushers me through the door. She doesn’t respond, still curled up and facing the wall.
As I’m marched down a dank corridor – though ‘marched’ might be the wrong word, since I’m only able to take short, shuffling steps – I turn to the guard. “You should also bring some food for my friend and the blacksmith. There wasn’t any supper last night.”
“Breakfast is only for those who’re going to be executed,” the guard says flatly.
“You don’t have much confidence in me.”
The guard chuckles, his jowls quivering. “Ha. You seen that lizard? His mama was a pure-blood dragon, no doubt about it.” Then he pauses and glances at me quizzically. “Wait, what blacksmith?”
“The one in the cell across from me.”
The guard’s face twists in confusion. “You messing with me? Ain’t nobody in the gaol ‘sept you and the girl.”
“What?” I twist around to stare at the door receding behind us. “But I talked to him. Gave him my ale.”
The guard shakes his head. “Knew you had to be crazy,” he murmurs sadly.
Not many of the townspeople have ventured out so early this morning to watch me fight the alethian. Or perhaps my challenge was late enough last night that the word hadn’t spread before they went to sleep. There’s only a handful of folk hovering at the edge of the ring, staring at me with the sort of enthralled horror usually reserved for when a watcher knows something terrible will soon transpire and they are incapable of stopping it or looking away. A few scrawny boys are crouched just beyond the rocks, the sticks they’d been fighting with when I emerged from the gaol dangling limp in their hands. Several serving girls carrying tubs of water have stopped to watch, as well as an old farmer pulling a wheelbarrow piled with vegetables. The alethian must have spoken to someone about the fight, though, as a very incongruous-looking divan has been placed beside the ring. It’s wide and low with an ornate gilt frame, mounded with velvet cushions. Sprawled upon the couch is the beautiful woman with the red skin who had been standing yesterday with the alethian. As she runs her fingers through her long indigo hair she catches me looking at her and gives me a secret little smile.
Odd.
Not all of the dark-armored warriors have departed with the pale woman, as a pair of them are slouched beside the divan. Both wear sour expressions, and from their constant yawning it looks like they’ve been dragged here from their beds. The alethian, on the other hand, appears positively joyful. He is squatting in the center of the ring, his eyes bright and his smile broad and terrifying as he scoops up dirt and rubs it all over the scales of his bare chest and arms. His slow and deliberate movements make me think this is a ritual of some sort – also, he’s murmuring something to himself in a harsh, sibilant language that the gray scholar occupying my brain-space apparently never learned.
Finally, he finishes and rises, his merciless yellow eyes finding me. “Man,” he rasps, his crest of spines flaring higher, “when you have made your peace with your spirits or your saints take off your s
hirt and enter the ring. Be warned: you cannot leave it until I am dead, and if you do your life is forfeit.” He flicks a taloned finger in the direction of the sleepy warriors and one of them approaches me and bends down to remove my leg shackles. I notice he has a brooch pinned to his dark armor of a red, three-petaled flower. A quick glance shows me his companion shares the same.
“Thanks,” I say, but he ignores me as he straightens and begins walking back to his companion.
The alethian beckons at me. “Come, man. Do not fear your fate. A long and winding path has led you here to offer your life to the spirits. It is the best way to die.”
I pull off my shirt and toss it aside. “I’m not planning on dying today,” I say, stepping over the rocks and into the ring. “I hope you’re on good terms with your spirits, lizard.”
The alethian gives a croaking chuckle and his tail thumps the ground in anticipation.
I breathe out slowly, mastering my nerves. Although I have no memories, when I allowed my instincts to take over I’d shown myself to be a skilled swordsman. I can only hope that I’ve had similar training in unarmed combat – particularly against scaled opponents with daggers grafted to their fingers who weigh twice as much as me.
The lizard man stalks closer and I take a few steps forward to get away from the edge of the ring. I’d like some space to retreat if he rushes me, and my understanding is that the watching warriors will help in killing me if I end up outside the stones.
We circle each other. His saurian face is swaying back and forth on his long neck, almost hypnotically, his tongue flickering. I’ve seen snakes do this before to distract their prey, but even though I expect it to come his sudden movement still surprises me. The alethian lunges forward, swiping with a hand. I dance backwards but his claws come dangerously close to opening my flesh. His reptilian grin returns – he knows he almost caught me.
The lizard man mock-lunges, and I move backwards again. I can’t help but be wary, as his claws and reach give him a tremendous advantage – my thoughts are frantic, trying to imagine what I can do to land a blow without exposing myself to his flensing talons. My only hope is my quickness.
We continue to move around the ring, the alethian approaching as I retreat. He isn’t fast enough to close the distance and catch me, but I am worried about the ground – it’s churned and uneven after hosting so many other fights. If I stumble he’ll soon be raising my dripping heart out of my shattered chest cavity and offering it to the sky.
Or perhaps . . .
I let my foot catch on a clump of dirt and make it appear like I’ve lost my balance. The lizard man pounces, his talons arcing, but my actions are a ruse and I twist out of the way of his flashing claws, coming close enough within his guard that I’m able to slam my fist against the side of his face. He recoils in shock and I dart back.
Gods, that hurt. My hand feels like I’ve just punched a stone wall.
He is rubbing at his snout, and a little thrill goes through me because there’s blood darkening his fingers. I’m just about to taunt him to try and make him lose his composure, but that turns out to be unnecessary as he roars a bestial challenge and charges.
“Hells!” I cry, scrambling backwards. Desperately I try and avoid his claws, but there’s too much momentum behind him now so I have to throw myself to the side, rolling in the trampled grass. I bounce back up immediately and his bulk slams where I’d been just a moment before, shaking the ground. Red agony engulfs my leg as something sharp pierces my flesh. Ignoring the pain, I turn and dash across the ring. Then I whirl around, expecting the alethian to be just steps behind me, but he has slowed his pursuit again, stalking me with the patience of a hunter who knows his prey is wounded and has nowhere to run.
I glance down at my leg – the breeches are shredded, and blood is welling up through the tattered cloth. The cut doesn’t seem to have severed anything vital or scored the muscles too deeply, as I’m still able to stand and put some weight on it. But blood loss will start to make me sluggish very soon – my time is running out.
What can I do? His scales are like armor, and his talons are blades. I reach down, my fingers scrabbling in the dirt, and find a jagged rock a little smaller than my fist. Perhaps I can smash his eye with this . . .
He charges again. I tense, ready to dodge his swiping arms and hit his face with the stone, but he slows before he reaches me, nearly stopping, and twists around violently. His tail sweeps for my legs, and I have only a moment to react. Despite the pulsing ache in my leg, I gather myself and jump and his ridged tail passes beneath me. Instinctually I lash out with my fist while I’m still in the air and I feel it strike something hard and there’s a short, explosive cry of pain from the lizard man. Then my feet are on the ground again, but everything is moving too fast and his arms are suddenly around me like bands of iron, crushing me against his scaled chest. I scream in pain as his talons dig into my back and his grip tightens, grinding me until I feel like my bones are going to shatter. His hot breath is in my ear.
“You fight like a warrior born, man. Your spirit will be celebrated in the next life.”
Searing pain. My ribs are about to collapse; I can’t breathe, there’s fire in my lungs, racing through my veins, burning me up . . .
With tremendous effort my hand squirms free of the lizard man’s encircling arms. I strike the side of his head, but he only hisses in irritation and squeezes me tighter. The rock I’d been holding in my hand is gone, and my fingers clutch weakly at the bony protrusion fringing his eyes. Darkness is seeping across my vision.
My hand stretches higher, closing around something smooth and hard. One of his crest spines. With all my faltering strength I pull. At first nothing happens, but then it shifts slightly and there’s a crack as it comes free.
The alethian howls in pain. I can’t feel anything except for the spike in my slicked grip and I drive it as hard as I can into the lizard man’s head.
The pressure vanishes and I’m falling. The ground rushes up to greet me as I draw in a shuddering breath, my chest burning. My fingers clutch at the dirt, and I’m sure in moments rending talons are going to gouge my back.
But they don’t come. I raise my trembling head and see a green mound crumpled beside me. The alethian, unmoving, the head-spine I had snapped off buried in his eye socket.
The elation I should be feeling is having trouble working its way through my blinding pain. But he’s dead. I’ve won.
I fall into shadow, the sun blotted above me. “What?” I murmur, raising a shaking hand to shield my eyes. One of the dark armored warriors looms over me, and there’s anger and grim resolve in his face.
“No,” I murmur as he raises his sword above me. “Not fair. I won . . .”
Hands emerge from behind the warrior and grip the sides of his head. His eyes widen in surprise, and then his neck jerks to the side and there’s a popping sound. He collapses beside me, his face only a span from my own, his eyes now glazed in death. There’s shuffling in the grass and a cry of pain, a man’s cry, and from what seems like far away I can hear another body fall to the ground.
“What . . .” I murmur, trying to understand what’s happening.
Someone grips me under my arms and lifts me effortlessly. I’m being dragged somewhere, my feet trailing in the grass. My bleary vision focuses on the hands that are holding me. The fingers are long and fine-boned, feminine, adorned with jade and silver rings. But the skin of my savior is what’s most striking.
It’s red.
11
I’m floating above a bed. The room is hazy, but I think it’s filled with furniture carved from dark wood.
No, I’m not floating – I’m lying on top of a scratchy woolen blanket. Halos of pulsing light surround the glass lanterns that hang from ornate holders. Their radiance dims and brightens in time to my breathing. In, and darkness gathers. Out, and light fills the room, creeping across the table with its dusky green glass bottles, the tilted painting of cloud-shrouded mountai
ns hanging on the wall, and the red woman sitting in the chair watching me.
I blink. The fog swirling in my head clears a little. “Where am I?” I manage, and the effort of that question exhausts me.
The woman quirks a slight smile, rising to her feet. She seems to fill the room – she’s not only tall, with broad shoulders and impressive curves, but there’s a presence about her that draws my attention like a lodestone. The details of this room fade away as I focus on her.
She sways closer. The movement of her hips is hypnotic. “You are in the Canted Cow, the inn in this town. I brought you here to rest and recover after your fight.” Her voice is sultry, flavored by some strange accent.
Stuttering images swim up through the haze that’s enveloped my thoughts. A massive man covered in green scales charging towards me. The same man twitching in death, his own cracked head spine jutting from his eye. Another snarling warrior looming over me, his sword upraised, and then surprise shivering his face as red hands grip his head and twist violently . . .
“You saved me,” I murmur as she comes to stand beside the bed, looking down at me.
“Yes,” she says simply. Her pale amethyst eyes hold mine, unblinking.
The tingling is getting stronger, like there are a hundred little spiders crawling along the inside of my skull. “I’m sorry,” I say, almost slurring. “I can’t . . . I don’t feel right.”
“I’ve given you something to help with your pain.”
I shake my head and it clears slightly. “How . . . how hurt was I?”
She glances down at my leg, and I follow her gaze. It’s swaddled in white cloth, and if I concentrate I can feel a dull pulsing ache radiating from beneath the bandages. “You will be fine. The cut on your leg was long, but not deep. I believe you have several bruised ribs, but your spine is intact. A day of rest and you will be on your feet again.”