The Shattered Sylph

by L. J. McDonald

  The three gladiators spread out, circling. Ril watched, already knowing what they would do. They weren’t afraid, well trained and experienced as they were, but their intentions were obvious to someone who could feel their emotions, who had been hatched and raised specifically for battle. They were hardly a threat to him, but his masters didn’t care. The First had ordered Ril to kill them, and moreover, to take his time and strike only when he felt the crowd’s excitement peak. Ril would rather have killed the men immediately and damn the rules, or better, ignore them completely. That wasn’t an option, though, and he railed at the evil of being ordered to become a murderer. That’s all it was, murder for no reason except someone else’s sick desires, making a mockery of everything he truly was. Ril hated it, but he could no more disobey the First than he could Shalatar, though he hadn’t seen the latter again after that first day.

  The gladiators surrounded him, and Ril dropped into a ready stance, waiting. The man with the halberd charged, the jagged edge of his weapon stabbing toward Ril’s chest. Ril stepped out of the way and brought down his fist, hitting the base of the blade hard enough to snap it off. The crowd roared in approval.

  The man with the net spun and flung it, and Ril jumped clear. He landed close to the third gladiator, who thrust out his spear. Ril arched his back, the point missing just inches from his spine, and when the gladiator brought it around, trying to cut his legs with the spearhead’s sharp edge, he flipped over briefly onto his hands and then again onto his feet. The crowd loved it.

  Ril hated fighting like this. If everything were normal, he’d just blow the three apart with a blast wave, but he didn’t know how many more matches they expected out of him today. He could have shape-shifted into a more efficient form or turned an arm into a weapon, but that hurt as much as the blasts would, and these people didn’t know he could change shape. Convinced of that, they hadn’t ordered him to hold his form as they did other battlers. Ril didn’t know when he’d be able to use that advantage, but he didn’t want to throw it away on a simple encounter in the arena.

  Yet this particular fight reminded him of all those practice sessions with Leon on Southern Dancer, of how easily the man had dropped him onto his butt despite Ril’s greater speed and strength. After all the easy victories he’d had when he first started fighting in the arena, his captors had upped the stakes. These men were nearly as good as Leon. Ril didn’t feel any fear, though. That was saved for those he cared for, not for himself.

  The halberd man came at him again, having reversed his weapon and now swinging the heavy metal ball at the end opposite the blade. At the same time, the spearman swung again at Ril’s legs. Each weapon came from an opposite direction, and he leaped high, somersaulting over his opponents and landing clear while the crowd continued to roar its distracting approval.

  It was the same trick he’d used against Eighty-nine, and a few times in earlier battles. Ril felt their confidence as he landed, so immediately he dove to the side. The net of the swordsman landed right where he’d been standing. He came to his feet again, snarling and backing away.

  Keeping well clear of each other, though not clear enough that Ril could get through them, the gladiators advanced, herding him back toward one of the free-standing walls. Ril sensed that and growled, his lips pulling back from his too-human teeth as he flared his hatred. He projected his absolute loathing for them and heard the screams of those close enough to feel it in the stands, but the gladiators didn’t pause. He could feel their calm and their focus, and the certainty that if they didn’t defeat him they would die. Experienced as they were, his hatred meant nothing.

  Ril shot a quick look up at the emperor’s box. The man watched impassively. He wouldn’t care at all if Ril died. He’d just find a new arena darling.

  Ril hissed and darted behind the wall. Reaching the center, he hit it with his shoulder as hard as he could. The stone rumbled but didn’t fall, so he slammed into it again, feeling something in his shoulder give as the heavy stone tumbled down. But even as it crashed into the sand with a deafening roar, through the resultant dust came the three gladiators, weapons thrusting. They’d had just enough time to get out of the way.

  Ril jumped backward, and his back slammed into the outer wall of the arena. Howling, people above showered him with food and drink—which was too much. Ril roared in rage and focused. A wall of power erupted forth, bursting straight ahead like an invisible punch from a giant. It hit the man with the halberd and he disintegrated, scattering blood and entrails everywhere. His head, still in its helmet, bounced even farther, ending faceup in the sand, staring accusingly at the sky.

  But the use of energy exhausted Ril. Even as the crowd went mad, he dropped to one knee in intense pain. The other two gladiators hesitated, but Ril could barely move and didn’t have it in him for another shot. If only they hadn’t spread out, he might have taken them all.

  Don’t let them get close.

  Ril started at the faint voice in his head. Only one person knew him well enough and long enough to speak right into his mind without him starting the conversation, and he could only do so when he was in close proximity. Ril flashed his awareness back at the man, but no words. They were forbidden, even in his mind. Ril could only send emotions, and the one he sent was that of relief.

  Run, the voice said.

  Ril bolted. Abandoning pride, he sprinted off, the gladiator’s net landing just behind him a second time and nearly catching his foot. He raced along the wall with blinding speed and no idea of where he was going.

  Fight them from a distance, Leon ordered.

  Ril sent back angry impressions. How was he supposed to do that? He didn’t have the power to blast them, and this run was draining the last of his strength. The two surviving gladiators were returning to the main part of the arena, keeping clear of each other so that they wouldn’t form a single target. Ril sprinted around the arena wall, on the far side from them now and already starting to flag. His shoulder hurt as though something in it had been ground up in a mortar.

  Throw rocks at them, came Leon’s suggestion.

  Ril eyed the wall he’d knocked down. It lay broken in a dozen places, edges shattered into rubble that might indeed be small enough. He’d never fought anyone by throwing anything solid at them, but he could remember years before, when Mace had thrown a rock at him hard enough to spear through his wing. He’d managed to forget that. Leon apparently hadn’t.

  Curving away from the wall, he bolted across the center of the arena toward that shattered wall and the two gladiators. They readied themselves, the one with the net swinging it, but Ril chose to zig around the one with the spear. The gladiator lashed out with the sharp blade, and Ril hissed as he felt it cut along his ribs. Something that wasn’t quite blood leaked down his side, but the wound wasn’t deep and then he was past, skidding to a halt beside the wall. The crowd was roaring, all of them on their feet.

  The wall hadn’t broken up enough after all. Ril brought his fist down on a piece, shattering it into bits just the right size as the gladiators charged, perhaps figuring out what he was up to. Ril didn’t care. He picked up a palm-sized shard, cocked his arm, and flung it as hard as he could. It hit the man with the sword and net so hard it went straight through his chest and out the back, throwing him right off his feet and into the sand.

  The spearman kept charging, and Ril’s second shot hit the sand at his feet. The man leaped high and lunged, roaring, but Ril threw himself out of the way and twisted. For a moment the two of them were side by side, Ril falling backward, his opponent lunging forward and extending his spear fully. Each saw the other out of the corner of his eye, and then Ril growled and slammed out his elbow, shattering the man’s helmet and all the bones in his face. The bones splintered, driving into his brain and eyes, and the gladiator fell.

  Ril stumbled to a halt, gasping. He felt awful, but he forced himself to look up at the cheering crowds. He didn’t care about them, or about the emperor who was clapping slo
wly, still pleased with his darling. He searched for Leon instead, and finally saw him in the penny seats, robes pulled tightly around him. His emotions were relieved.

  Ril stared at his master, sending his gratitude. He’d known Leon was alive—there was no way he couldn’t—but he hadn’t known more. Now, considering his fulfilled fantasies with this man’s daughter…He blushed.

  Leon didn’t seem upset with him, though. You did well. Are you all right? the man sent, his voice much clearer now that Ril was focusing.

  Ril shook his head. All he could convey was a feeling of weariness.

  I’m glad you’re not hurt.

  The arena gates were opening, female handlers coming out to collect him. Melorta, the lead handler, came first, beaming in approval. Breathing heavily, Ril let the group surround him, all of them bowing to the emperor and making him prostrate himself on the ground before they led him toward the pens where he’d be fed and rested before his next fight, if there was to be one. Ril hoped not.

  I have a plan to get you out, Ril, Leon sent. I’m still working on getting Lizzy free as well. And Justin. I don’t know if he’s alive.

  His eyes narrowed, Ril sent as sharp an image as he could of Justin in a cage with his tongue torn out. He knew he’d succeeded, at least partially, as he felt Leon’s horror. Then he was led underground into the cooler air of the pens, and the contact was lost.

  The ramp sloped steeply, and he had to lean back to keep his balance. Then he was in the huge stable used to house the battlers. A few he recognized from the harems, but no one appeared the same here as they did there. Ril saw Tooie in the form of some sort of ogre, heavy and hideous, calmly lumbering past toward the ramp. Though that meant his fights were done for the day, he didn’t let himself sag in relief. He wouldn’t be able to do that until Leon came through and there were no more fights ever.

  He was led to his stall, a glorified cell with walls made of heavy woods imported from across the ocean but only reaching halfway to the twenty-foot ceiling. He could have climbed out easily if he hadn’t been ordered against it. The stall was thirty feet square, to make room for the larger shapes the battlers usually took in the arena. Tooie was considered small at ten feet. Ril was tiny. Eighty-nine, he supposed, had been cramped indeed within this place. The floor was marble but had straw scattered on it, as though he were some sort of horse.

  As he was led inside, Ril ignored the three-headed battler in the next cell, who growled over the half wall at him. At least they’d brought him a bed since they’d learned he had to sleep after most of his fights. After heavy combat they would even leave him overnight. Of course, by the time he got to the harem the next day, Lizzy would be frantic. She didn’t know where he went when he left her, and he didn’t want her to know. He couldn’t help needing the sleep, though. Even now he could barely keep his eyes open.

  But there were other things first. Three feeder cages were grouped at one side of his cell, with a man crouched in each. Before he could go to them, however, the door opened and a slave came in bearing towels and clothing. She kept her gaze locked on the floor and was followed by a water sylph. All the elementals in this place took the shape of a pillar of whatever they were, without even a number branded on them to distinguish one from the other. They were forced to work without pause, and without even the illusory freedoms given to battlers in their harems.

  This sylph’s emotions were miserable and lonely as she waited for the slave to strip off Ril’s clothing, and then she flushed her water around him, heated just enough to cool him off without freezing his muscles. Ril closed his eyes and enjoyed it, lifting his arms and turning while the slave washed his body and hair with scented soap. She scrubbed his scalp sensuously.

  Once he was clean, the sylph rinsed him off and the slave rubbed him down with scented oils. Ril yawned, already more than half asleep. All of the battlers got this treatment, and he didn’t want to admit how much he liked it. He needed it as well, since he could no longer turn to smoke and lightning and return as clean and healed as if he’d never been in a fight.

  Once he was oiled, the slave put balm over the cuts on Ril’s side and shoulder and helped him step into fresh clothes, these smelling of desert flowers and falling looser than the leathers in which he’d fought. They were made of silk instead, bearing the emperor’s sigil and showing his regard for his favorite. Bowing deeply, the slave retreated, the water sylph at her side. The straw-covered floor hadn’t even got damp.

  Ril shook himself, feeling more normal but still exhausted, and went to the feeder cages. Sometimes he’d hold out and wait for Lizzy, just pretending to feed on the men’s energy, but now he was too tired to care how bland they tasted. Dropping down in front of the first, he reached a hand through the bars and laid it on the man’s arm. He drank deep, skimming the energy off and into himself. Usually one was enough, but he’d worn himself out and his shoulder still hurt, so he went to the next, missing Leon’s much richer energy even more after hearing the man’s voice. His master would try to rescue him—he already knew that—but he honestly didn’t know how Leon could succeed. He drank from the second feeder and then, though he usually didn’t, this time he even advanced to the third.

  Justin. Eyes red-rimmed and bitter, the boy glared at him hatefully. His energy was bitter as well, but Ril forced himself to drink it anyway, even as he forbade himself from growling. Justin was just as much a prisoner as he was, if not more so. Ril would even have explained about Leon if he could, but he couldn’t and so went over to his bed. Falling across it, he was asleep immediately.

  Ordered to leave him alone when he was sleeping, the handlers let him rest. Ril was unconscious the rest of that day and through the night.

  At the back of his stall, a wide window had been cut. For a penny a visit, people could come down into the pits and see battlers close up. Crowds came to observe the strange new sylph, peering at him through the dirty glass, but while they’d enjoyed seeing his bath—especially the women—they didn’t have much interest in a sleeping man. The other battlers were far more impressive.

  And yet, one man stared at Ril for quite a while, a hood up over his dyed hair, his face calm. He studied the battler and the three feeders imprisoned nearby. Then, reaching out, he tapped the window. The sound echoed loudly through the cell.

  The closest feeder looked up and his eyes widened. Quickly, Leon put a finger to his lips and motioned back toward his battler, intending to keep Justin hopeful. There wasn’t much else he could do at the moment. Except…the passageway he’d come down had cleared, the spectators gone to watch Two-hundred kill the latest batch of prisoners. Their screams sounded in the passageway, echoing down air vents cut in the stone, so Leon took the chance to call “Ril!” several times, loudly.

  His sylph didn’t wake, but he moved, shifting closer in his sleep toward the calls. Ril still responded to him, despite whatever rules he had to be obeying now. Leon smiled grimly and left, eyes on the ground like any other lower-class person. He made his way out of the arena, right past battler guards who didn’t pay any attention to his calm, relaxed thoughts. They let him go even while they searched for him, and he shuffled slowly along in his old, borrowed sandals, not in any rush at all.

  Making his way to the city outskirts, he was soon back where the forgotten lived and the battlers never journeyed.

  Chapter Twenty

  The sylph known as Two-hundred outside of the harem and as Tooie to the people he actually cared about didn’t have guard duty. There were enough battlers who did only that, leaving his sole task to fight in the arena. Thus, his orders were a little different, and he’d never been told to watch for a blue-eyed, blond-haired man wandering the inner city. He could come and go as he pleased, save for the stipulation that he arrive at the arena and harem exactly at the times required, which left him a little leeway. Just a bit.

  Deep in the middle of the night, Tooie lifted his head from the bed he was sharing with Kiala, one of the women in the circle and
the lover of Four-seventeen. Four-seventeen was in a different alcove with Lizzy. Eapha was alone in the main sleeping chamber.

  Tooie rose up silently and padded to the curtains. Careful not to wake Kiala, who just kept snoring, a trickle of drool running down her chin, he peered outside but saw no one. All the other battlers were occupied in alcoves, and the women were either with them or asleep. There was no real day or night in this place, but everyone seemed to slow down in the late hours anyway. That applied to the handlers as well, and Tooie couldn’t sense any of them looking through peepholes.

  He seized the opportunity. Taking his natural shape, a cloud of energy and red eyes with a huge mouth of teeth formed by lightning, he spread out long dark wings but didn’t fly like any bird of this world. Instead, he floated upward, squeezing delicately into the vent that would release him from the harem. But he went with extreme care—there were bells rigged to ring the handlers and announce his departure.

  The alarms stayed silent as he passed, Tooie having gone completely incorporeal. Hurrying on, he spiraled upward through the looping passage, squeezing through gaps a rat would have had trouble traversing, let alone a woman, though he knew some women who had tried. None had gotten past the bells. Eapha had suggested the same once, but he’d dissuaded her. She’d never make it out that way. Worse, if she tried, he was under orders to stop her.

  Tooie rose through a half mile of tunnel, past the offshoot that would take him to the feeder pens, and instead went to the outside. That was his loophole: he had to be at the arena and at the harem at certain, specific times, but he was allowed to go to the feeder pens whenever he wished, without any restrictions on how long he stayed. Nor had he ever been ordered to go directly there. So long as he fed tonight, he wouldn’t be disobeying orders.