Dazed, with blood gushing from his nose and down his chin, they dragged Lars down the hall. His heart seized at the sounds of a woman’s screams. Josie! He fought his chains, but the trainers were ready for this kind of trouble. They shoved him to the ground, pushing their knees into his back and head until he stopped struggling.
“If you cause trouble,” Slaughterhouse said, “You’ll just make it worse for her.”
His body stilled, but his heart was racing as they yanked him to his feet and made him walk to a closed door at the end of the hall, the place from which the screams were emanating.
There, strapped to a table, was the one person who had kept him going since the loss of Galatians Bunker.
Red tears streaked her pale cheeks.
Three orange-hot irons, each the size of a chunky eraser, were arranged in a triangle on Josie’s abdomen. He could hear her flesh sizzle, making him weak in the knees, while a ball of fury stormed inside his chest.
“Josie!” He lunged, but was mercilessly whipped back by the chains. “Josie!”
A bloody mess dripped down the sole of her right foot. Her right hand was clenched into a fist. At first he thought she was squeezing a tomato, but it was blood.
“They cut off my toe,” she wailed at the sight of Lars. “And they’re going to cut off more of me if I don’t kill Big Clo! But I can’t, Lars. I just can’t!”
“Look at his eyes.” One of the trainers recoiled. “They’re glowing white again. That means the strength of his god is in him. Be extra careful!”
“If the gods had any power at all, they’d have destroyed this sorry world by now. Tell your woman she has to obey me, Lars,” Mr. Bayloo ordered. “Or she’ll die to regret it.”
“I’ll kill you sons-of-bitches,” Lars hissed, trying to attack Mr. Bayloo, but every move was futile; not even the charisma could snap these chains. “Let her go.”
“I will, once she learns that I’m her master.”
“We’re Galatians,” Lars said. “We have no master.”
“I’m your god now,” Mr. Bayloo said, not cracking the slightest smile. “Displease me and I will make your life hell. Please me and I will give you a reward.”
A scuffle at the door made him jerk around. One of the guards dragged Willow into the room by a length of chain. A delicate wing had been shredded. Both antennae were crooked.
“Oh, Josie, my proud friend.” Willow hung her head in sorrow, tears brimming in her green eyes. “I told you a hundred times to bide your time, don’t rock the boat, and now you’ve gone and capsized it.”
“When one of our actors refuses to act, Bitch of Galatia,” Mr. Bayloo explained, “the entire theater company suffers.”
The goons stepped aside as a full-blood, full-sized Gargantuan stooped in the door, taking up a quarter of the room.
“Dort is here,” the goons said, as if nobody had noticed the looming Gargo. The goons backed up a little, allowing Dort to take hold of Lars’s arms. The Gargo’s hands were so big, his grip took up the space from Lars’s elbow to his wrist.
“Careful there, Dort,” Mr. Bayloo warned. “If you break my prize-fighter before I give the order, I’ll break your neck.”
“Let her go,” Lars said. “I’ll fight, do whatever you want me to do, but please don’t hurt her.”
“You’re not the problem,” Mr. Bayloo said. “She is. And I’m going to break her spirit if it’s the last thing I do.”
Dort picked Lars up like a toy, and pushed his head against a slotted table that looked like a torture device, the kind that stretched out a body until bones snapped out of joints and muscles tore. Josie’s fear was washing over him like waves of fire now. Clenching his fingers around a wooden slot, he crushed it between his fingers.
“Whoa,” one of the trainers gasped at the sound of breaking wood. “Dread’s eyes still have the glow—Dort, hold him tight.”
Two guards pressed his cheek against the table and forced a dirt cloth into his mouth. Willow’s head, mouth also stuffed with fabric, was shoved against the table beside him so there was only a few inches between them. Unable to talk, his own horror was reflected back at him in Willow’s wide and worried eyes.
“Go ahead, Josie,” Bayloo said. “Choose life or death.” Josie gasped something that Lars could not hear. “Lars or Willow will die, but which one? I leave the choice to you.”
“I refuse to choose.”
“If you don’t, then both of them will die.”
“You said it yourself that Lars is your prize fighter. You paid a lot for him, for me; you won’t kill him. You’re bluffing.”
“Look here, Galatian. I’ve run across a lot of actors who say they’d rather die than fight, but as soon as I threaten to nip off a piece of them here, they have a change of heart. But every now and then I run across one like you, who means what she says, says what she means. I respect that, I really do, but respect don’t pay no bills. I can’t have unprofitable employees eating my food, taking up valuable space, no matter how much I like ‘em. I’m trying to work with ya here. But I chopped off a toe, I chopped off a finger, and you still won’t fight. Which is why I am forced to drag your friends into it.
“You see, me and Dread here came to an agreement months ago. In return for your protection against the dogs here who will hump anything with tits, he doesn’t give me no trouble. The question is do you care about him as much as he does you? Will you compromise your precious principles to save your man? Or will you hold onto them and let him die?”
Knowing Josie, Lars closed his eyes and prepared to meet his end.
“So, who lives—your man or your cell mate?”
“Both!” Josie said defiantly. “They both get to live!”
“Not an option.” Mr. Bayloo gestured to Slaughterhouse and another trainer called Mayhem. Slaughterhouse raised a large battle ax over Lars’s neck. Mayhem did the same over Willow.
“Your choice is to leave the decision to me then, eh?” Bayloo paused long enough to give Josie a chance to respond. When she didn’t answer, he said, “Very well then. They both die. On the count of three—one...”
“Don’t hurt Lars!” Josie screamed.
“Are you saying you want me to kill the Bezon?”
“Y-yes,” Josie said meekly, her voice choking away into sobs.
Lars watched the Bezon flinch. He felt her sense of betrayal, followed by bitter resignation. Slowly, Willow closed her lovely green eyes. It struck Lars how sad it was to know such beauty was about to disappear forever. The blade came down, severing Willow’s head in one blow. Lars was still pinned down when her head rolled against his. Pieces of her hair caught in his mouth.
“There’s still the matter of Big Clo. Are you going to kill as I ordered or will I have to take the life of lover boy in her place?”
In the silence that followed, as the room held its breath, Lars could almost hear her wrestling with her conscience.
“God forgive me,” Josie said, her voice weak and wavering. “Take me to the arena.”
Bayloo offered to get someone to carry her there, but with a growl, she pushed them away.
“Don’t you touch me!” Lars saw her limp toward the door, and wanted to shout something encouraging, but his mouth was still stuffed with the rag.
The echoes of her sobs faded as she walked toward the arena.
Lars would live to see another day, but his heart twisted in his chest. How could he live with the fact that Willow, a woman with three young daughters at home, had died in his place?
So much for being a hero.
Chapter Thirty
(Larsen Drey Steelsun)
Despite the grisly showdown in the basement, Lars was brought back to the staging area where he waited for his turn in the arena. Still suffering from the beating, Lars contemplated refusing to fight the way Josie had done. But in the end, she had rescinded her moral position so that Lars might live. How could he do any less for her in return?
Closing his eyes, open
ing his channel to the charisma wider, invisible waves of energy flowed into him, soothing his pain, filling the emptiness with its divine strength.
“What in the hell happened to you?” Crash asked on his way in from a victory in the arena, causing Lars’s eyes to flick open. Crash shuddered. “Your eyes got that creepy glow thing going on.” Seeing a friendly face brought an unexpected surge of emotion—Lars’s own anger.
A tear streaked down his cheek and his voice trembled. “They tortured Josie and killed Willow.” He expected the other actors, who were eavesdropping, to make fun of his tear, but all he got was sympathy, even from Crash.
“Oh, son-of-a-bitch, kid. That’s too bad. Willow was a real good-looking gal, too.”
“I’m going to destroy this theater company for what it’s done.”
“Yeah, me too, Galatian. But for now, save that energy for the arena,” Crash advised.
When Lars stepped out into the bright arena, the sun hurt his eyes. Instead of walking to the center and doing the customary fist bump, he was immediately confronted by a whirling Dervish—a creature with purple scales and eight arms arranged like two sets of helicopter blades arranged one over the other.
As Lars planted his feet into the ground, sword up in defense posture, the sound of Josie’s sobbing haunted his thoughts. The stream of charisma began to dwindle, making him falter. Don’t go there, he whispered to himself. Think only of the moment at hand. He concentrated on the opponent in front of him.
The Dervish came closer, rotating and spinning in a circle of decreasing circumference around Lars.
“Are you a cousin to the octopus or the spin brush at the car wash?” Lars asked, as he rotated to keep the creature in view at all time, but of course it didn’t reply.
In each of its many hands, the Dervish held a dagger. Is this what it felt like to be a banana in a blender? As it came within a few feet of his body, and those daggers got ever closer, Lars’s strategy shifted to self-preservation. Simply put, he ran away.
The trainers came to the edge of the arena, blocking the exits, threatening Lars with swords until he faced the crazy thing head on. The Dervish didn’t seem to tire, intent on turning him into mincemeat.
Turns out, the Dervish had more energy than brains.
Once the shock of he situation wore off, Lars’s strategy simplified. He waited until it was a few feet from him and held his sword out. The Dervish spun itself right into the blade, chopping off half of its own arms. The crowd clapped appreciatively.
The fight had gone out of the Dervish as it bled out chunky yellow blood.
It stopped spinning and retreated toward an exit, where it was beaten back into the arena by the trainers.
As he was trained to do, Lars looked up to the special box at the top of the bleachers where Mr. Bayloo sat surrounded by armed men and scantily clad women serving drinks.
Mr. Bayloo broke the stick.
The Dervish’s round blue eyes pleaded with Lars—for life, for death, Lars wasn’t sure which until its intense emotions seeped into him. Sensing its life fading away, the creature wasn’t afraid. No, it was worn out, so very tired and alone, and had wanted to die for a long time now.
Lars hesitated, contemplating scrambling up to the box and taking a shot at Mr. Bayloo instead. That’s when two guards brought Josie to the front of Bayloo’s box atop the arena. Her face looked puffy. The partially severed finger had been bandaged. Her wrists and ankles were cuffed. One of the guards placed the tip of his knife beneath the soft flesh under her chin, though Josie appeared more furious than afraid.
Mr. Bayloo gave the breaking-a-stick gesture again.
“I’m really sorry, Dervish,” Lars whispered. “But that’s my girl up there…”
“I know,” the Dervish replied, surprising him with its ability to speak. “Just do it.”
There really wasn’t a discernible neck, so Lars brought the length of the blade down as hard as he could between the Dervish’s head and body. Blood splattered like mustard across Lars’s face and cheeks. Yellow and blue guts, veins and organs, oozed onto the ground. The smell of dung rose to his nose. Lars’s gag reflex kicked in as the crowd rose to its feet. Josie had killed for him, now he had killed for Josie. Bonded in the blood of their victims, surely their love would last forever.
..............................
(Larsen Drey Steelsun)
Fights were lined up for the next two weeks, with a day or two between each. Lars had to wait to learn Josie’s fate until after the shows were over. When she shuffled past his cell, he had a good idea how the fight had gone. Sometimes she looked as strong as ever, other times bruised, limping or holding a limb. One time she was carried in between two of the trainers, but as always, she had given him the thumbs up sign.
Time was starting to blur together, but it had been over a month since that first fight. Today was Mr. Bayloo’s birthday, so all of the actors were treated to cake during the break. Josie limped off the training field to join Lars on the sidelines, which they were rarely allowed to do. The nearly-severed finger had healed crooked. It no longer straightened and would never be the same. They stood beneath the awning of the weapons shed with the other actors. She seemed to be avoiding his gaze. Was she mad at him or was it life in general?
It bothered him to see that the spark that he cherished so much had gone out of her eyes.
“Uh, how’s your finger?”
“Okay.” She shrugged. “I guess.”
“Surely, Prince Loyl and the others are looking for us by now.” She glanced out over the arena, making no reply. “Josie, come on, talk to me.”
“What can I possibly say that matters anymore? We’re stuck here. The map is out there somewhere, lost forever. Galatia is as good as dead.”
“Josie,” he said, grasping her by both shoulders. “What happened to Willow and Big Clo wasn’t your fault. Quit torturing yourself over things that can’t be changed.”
“Every evening after practice, I go back to an empty cell, knowing my friends are dead because of the choices I made. How can I not torture myself?”
“That’s what Bayloo wants you to think—that killing them was your decision. It wasn’t. It was his—and his alone—because if you truly had a choice in the matter, Big Clo and Willow would still be here. Right?” Taking her chin in his hand, he forced her to look at him. “Right?”
“Well, yeah!”
“In Willow’s last moments, I felt forgiveness radiating from her spirit,” he lied. “She died at peace without a shred of ill will against you.”
A glint of hope lit Josie’s blue eyes.
“Really?”
The trainers barked at them to return to the field. Lars jogged out first, but he felt Josie watching him the whole way. Maybe he shouldn’t have lied, but as he turned back to glance at her, he could almost see the burden of guilt lift from her shoulders.
The rest of practice was a heavy succession of tumbles, flips and somersaults. They began working more with twirling their knives and swords.
“Real soldiers would never let go of their swords on purpose,” Slaughterhouse said, “but the crowd loves the theatrics, so Mr. Bayloo encourages you to use them in all of the shows. If you don’t do at least one flip and a twirl during a show, then you don’t eat. Got it?”
Lars twirled the hilt of his sword through his fingers, tossing it into the air, then deftly caught it with the other hand. “Got it.” He glanced at Josie across the arena with another trainer. She flicked a quick wink at him and waved, melting him on the inside.
“She ain’t your woman anymore,” Slaughterhouse growled. “And you ain’t her man. You both belong to the theater company now, so quit looking at each other.”
Lars wanted to tell Slaughterhouse to booger off, but not wanting any trouble, he made no reply.
Chapter Thirty-One
(Larsen Drey Steelsun)
Next month, the theater company packed up, placed the actors in a prison wagon and rolled
out of town in a caravan heading north. A few weeks later, they arrived at an abandoned lime quarry inside the southern borders of the Kingdom of Tectonia. Long ago it was worked by those in debtors prison. Mr. Bayloo rented it out from the current land owners at about the same time every year.
The actors were housed inside the old prison cells. It seemed pretty much the same scene as the last prison, except the weather was colder here and the birds weren’t as colorful. Crash said this area was the perfect location to draw a large crowd, only a day’s walk from the capital city, also called Tectonia. This was the theater’s most profitable venue of them all. Lars didn’t care about filling Bayloo’s purse, just that they were moving closer to the Blood Map. In the meantime, the show went on.
One day Dregg returned from a fight with a broken ankle.
“Your gal did this to me,” Dregg hobbled to the nearest bench. “But I got her good. I would have killed her, but lucky for her, Mr. Bayloo refused to break the stick. ”
“Lucky for you, you mean,” Lars said between clenched teeth. “If she dies out there, I’ll kill anyone that had anything to do with it.”
Dregg laughed in his face. “You got more balls than brains, Dread.”
“You’ve seen what I can do out there. I’m the undefeated Dread of the West.”
“Ha! You’re good, but not as good as you think. The only reason you’re still alive is because Mr. Bayloo has been arranging it that way.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Lars pretended he had already heard the bad news.
“But not for much longer. Just heard there’s a show, two out from this one, the best seats have already been sold to generals, chieftains, princes, queens and too many noblemen to count. They’re coming to see you to get an idea of what their troops will be up against in Galatia. Come that day, rumor has it that Mr. Bayloo is gonna break his stick all over your ass—your girl’s gonna die in the first act, but they’re saving you for last.”
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