Maturation of the Marked

by March McCarron

  “Sit,” the doctor repeated in a tone that brooked no disobedience.

  Ko-Jin clamped his jaw, but after a defiant moment eased himself to the ground. If the doctor meant to patch him up, it could only be to his advantage, after all.

  Zarra took hold of Artello’s collar and murmured soothing nonsense, pulling him a short distance away.

  The Adourran peered into Ko-Jin’s eyes first, his expression all business. He made a slight grunting noise.

  “I’m going to ask you a few questions, but first I need you to remember a short series of numbers. Repeat: three, four, five, two.”

  “Three, four, five, two,” Ko-Jin echoed, lacing the words with contempt.

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “No.”

  “What is your name?”

  “I can’t quite recall.”

  The Dalishman huffed at his sarcastic answer. “What is your age?”

  “Seventy-eight, but I’m living in reverse.”

  “Repeat the numbers I asked you to remember.”

  Ko-Jin’s mouth opened, but to his own surprise he could genuinely not recall, though he had said them a mere moment before. “Two, five?”

  The doctor tapped his chin. “You are correct,” he said over his shoulder. “Concussed, but not seriously. Now let us have a look at the leg.”

  Ko-Jin gritted his teeth. As the doctor cut away the fabric of his trouser leg, Ko-Jin let his hand wander discreetly into the man’s pocket. It was difficult to move fluidly, given the blinding pain in his leg, the feeling of hot blood trailing down his thigh. Even so, he managed. Something smooth and metallic—a folded pocket knife, he suspected—met his touch. With his thumb, he pressed the object flat to his palm and retracted his hand.

  He stifled a smirk. His friend Rinny, who had taught him to pick pockets, would no doubt be proud.

  “Do you want me to remove the bullet?” the doctor asked.

  The Dalishman shook his head. “We just need him to put up a good fight, not live a long life.”

  “Understood.”

  The Adourran threaded a needle and Ko-Jin tried to gird himself, but when the sharp metal pierced his inflamed flesh he could not stop the moan from hissing through his teeth.

  Tears gathered at the corner of his eyes and he arched himself back against the wall. Each tug brought blinding agony. When the wound had been sewn closed, the doctor wrapped his thigh in clean, white gauze.

  “There,” the doctor said, returning his tools to his bag.

  “He will be able to fight in a few hours?”

  “Enough for your purposes.”

  “What about the dog?” the Dalishman asked.

  “It looks fine to me.” He snapped his bag closed. “If you are concerned, call a veterinarian.”

  The sleirdre appeared unsatisfied with this answer, but the doctor was already making his way back out of the cell. They were locked in once again, and the sound of two sets of boots padded up a stairway then receded out of hearing.

  “Are you alright?” Zarra asked.

  Ko-Jin nodded, though the pain was truthfully profound. He held up the doctor’s knife for inspection, flipping the blade open. It was simple, but of good quality. He hefted it—the weight was well balanced for throwing. He might not have yet mastered the sword, but knife throwing he could perform in his sleep.

  Groaning, he hauled himself to his feet to inspect the lock, feeling it with his fingers, his arm stuck awkwardly though the bars. His shoulders sunk—the key hole was too narrow to admit the knife point. Not that he knew much about picking locks.

  “What is it?” Zarra asked.

  He eased himself back to the ground. “I took a blade off the doctor, but it won’t spring the lock.” He jammed the knife into his robe pocket.

  Zara sighed. “A pickpocket, huh?”

  “Just a hobby, not a trade.”

  She smiled, her head rolling back and forth against the wall. “Aren’t you just full of surprises.”

  Above, the din of boots and voices had increased, the place starting to fill once again. Ko-Jin wished he had a watch so he might know how much time had passed since the promise of ‘a few hours.’

  Zarra paced the length of the cell, her hand guiding her along the wall. Artello followed, barking with appreciation, as if he thought they were playing a game.

  “Sounds like a bigger crowd today,” Ko-Jin said darkly, looking up.

  “Yes, well, it will be. A Chisanta and a blind sword master with her giant seeing-eye dog? Every sliedernet will be here, no doubt.”

  “And the fight, it’s always to the death?”

  “It’s not really a fight. We don’t win. It’s only a matter of how much time we last—that is what they bet on.”

  “But what if we did win?”

  She turned sharply to his voice, almost angry. “There is no winning, Sung. You kill what they throw at you first, they release three more.” She cocked her head, so that her ear angled to the ceiling. “Lions, I think it will be.”

  “Excellent, a living childhood nightmare.”

  She stopped pacing. “Oh, right. Big cats. I thought you’d been joking.”

  Ko-Jin shook his head. “Tigers, more specifically, but I imagine your giant felines will be as off-putting as mine. Always hate that noise they make—you know that rumbling in their throat?” He laughed at himself, because it sounded ridiculous. “It was a more reasonable fear when I was young. Tigers that track humans always target the weakest ones. You’d see stories in the papers.”

  “The lion is not the monster, only the weapon. They keep them hungry.”

  “Hope you aren’t turning soft-hearted. I don’t mean to let one eat me just because it’s hungry.”

  She shot air through her nose. “Of course not, me neither.”

  “Any notion what the arena will look like—I assume it’s an arena?”

  “No,” she said. “I have no notion, except that sometimes they call it dal peirra—the hole.”

  Ko-Jin sighed—a hole didn’t sound like a place that would allow easy escape.

  Boots thumped on the stair just out of sight, and Ko-Jin’s stomach plummeted within him.

  “Remember, Sung,” Zarra said, hurried, “use your wits, not just your strength.”

  His mind was buzzing and blank, seemingly witless, but he nodded anyway.

  The door swung wide and Ko-Jin clutched the weapon in his pocket. Five men entered, the two in the lead with pistols. Ko-Jin sighed and released the knife—it seemed there would be no reprieve this day.

  Without ceremony, Ko-Jin found himself dragged to his feet and borne, toes just barely clearing the floor, out of the cell and down the hallway. Behind him, Artello barked and whined. Ko-Jin tried to twist free, but his captors had firm grips and he had little leverage.

  “Stop,” the man to his left said, and kneed Ko-Jin squarely in the wounded thigh. He sagged, incapacitated by pain.

  At the top of the stair, they came to an antechamber. A single door separated them from the immense roar of the audience. Ko-Jin was released, and he sank to his knees, braid swinging over his shoulder. Zarra was deposited beside him a moment later, and finally Artello, who mewled and buried his head in his mistress’s lap.

  Something wooden clattered to the cement floor before him, and Ko-Jin made himself blink and focus.

  “Here are your weapons,” a voice said, sounding distant though Ko-Jin could see the man’s shoes just before him.

  He reached for the waster grimly, his fingers snaking around the hilt as if it were more than a practice weapon.

  He looked up at the man—the same Dalishman as before. Ko-Jin leveled him with a look of pure hatred, his heart thudding unevenly in his chest.

  The gentleman smirked down at him. “Die well.”

  Again, Ko-Jin’s hand slipped into his pocket, around the compact blade. He was tempted to use his one card then and there, to kill this smug bastard where he stood. But to do so would be a waste;
there were men with guns near at hand. He had to believe that, if he was patient, some opportunity for survival might present itself later.

  The men filed back through the door that had admitted them to the small chamber, the last one pulling the thick slab of wood shut behind him. Ko-Jin heard the clink of a key turning and the shifting of an iron bolt. He slumped.

  Zarra’s lips were moving soundlessly, her hand absently soothing Artello. She appeared at peace, the dark planes of her face relaxed, as if she had accepted the death placed before her. Ko-Jin had accepted nothing.

  “We’re not going to die today,” he said, though the words sounded more the refusal of a petulant youth than a promise.

  She lifted a single shoulder, elegant in her insouciance. “It’s not such a bad day to die.” She wetted her lower lip. “If this is how I end, then so be it.”

  “That’s—”

  “I will fight until the last, Sung. Don’t worry.” She turned towards him, her milky eyes cast in shadow. “I fear the dying more than the death. I wonder—”

  She cut short as a booming, theatrical voice sounded on the other side of the door. It was an introduction, Ko-Jin imagined, but he knew too little Adourran to be sure.

  “What do you wonder?” he asked.

  “If I will be able to see in the Spirits’ Home,” she whispered.

  The entry before them started to open gradually upward, spilling light onto their boots. The din of chanting and cheering, of feet drumming and applause, seemed loud and large enough to swallow them whole.

  “That is a question,” Ko-Jin said, trying to stabilize his breathing. Trying, trying to brace himself. “You won’t be answering today.”

  The door disappeared into the ceiling, and the shadows of two men loomed before them, each wielding a pole topped by a wire loop—for slipping around necks, plainly.

  Ko-Jin hobbled forward without physical prompting. He wanted to see the terrain, to assess the possibility of escape. Zarra and a reluctant Artello kept close to his side.

  The ground was hard-packed dirt, sloping up in every direction like a bowl. Above him, many hundreds of people sat on tiered benches. They were so high above that only those on the bottom level were near enough to discern clearly. The dirt gave way, at about shoulder level, to brick. He scanned for any uneven portion that might be climbable, but there was no such flaw, and even if there had been a handhold, the height alone would be prohibitive. High enough that if someone were to jump from the stands down to the bowl, they would likely shatter their legs.

  No, if they were to escape it would have to be either through the passage that had admitted them, or…

  Ko-Jin swallowed as his gaze rested upon the many other openings across from him—barred holes in the wall, where amber eyes glinted. He gripped the wooden sword in his right hand more firmly. They were beautiful animals, all tawny hair and powerful limbs. Ko-Jin’s mouth seemed to have gone totally dry. To be eaten, he reflected, would be a particularly horrific demise. How long could one live while being consumed?

  The same, carrying voice from before resounded from above, still incomprehensible. Ko-Jin traced the contours of a familiar face, the Dalishman who had bid him to ‘die well.’ He perched in a section of the stadium evidently reserved for people of import, on the lowest level just over the lion cages.

  “Sung,” Zarra said, her tone a touch high. “I can barely hear with all this noise. I won’t be able—”

  The cheering increased and the center cage began to open, the barred door sliding upward into the wall.

  Ko-Jin glanced down at his blunt weapon. He needed something sharp, something that could kill. He placed the tip of the waster to the ground, holding it diagonally, and stomped hard on the end with his boot. The wood splintered with a harsh crack, leaving a jagged end. Had they been proper bamboo practice weapons, they would not have broken so easily. These, however, were toys meant for show—meant as a joke, more like.

  Zarra took a breath. “Good idea,” she said, duplicating his action. Their activities earned excited whispers and outcries from the audience above them.

  A cage door cranked upward, and the beast within prowled out before them. It was smaller than Ko-Jin had expected—certainly smaller than a tiger. A female, her ribs visible along her torso. She growled, baring yellowed teeth, wrinkles forming along the ridge of her nose. She crouched, her shoulder blades pointed up, her head low.

  Before either he or the beast moved to attack, the cranking sound began again. Ko-Jin did not move his head, but with his peripheral vision he ascertained that two more cage doors had begun to slide upward. Mentally, he chanted every foul word he knew. To best one might be doable, but three all at once? And with only a pocket knife and some splintered wood to defend himself?

  All too soon, two more female lions joined the first, slinking out from their enclosures like tawny shadows.

  “Three,” he said in a soft but carrying voice, for Zarra.

  “Male or female?”

  “Female.”

  “Bellretha.” Her complexion lost all of its rose. “They hunt in packs, the females. Coordinated. We can’t let them flank us.”

  Artello whimpered. He shook on his slender legs and the hairs on his back stood erect, but he stayed before his mistress.

  “Backs to the wall then,” Ko-Jin said, feeling his mind at last rousing from its stupor.

  He shuffled backwards, gracelessly given his leg. The first beast to enter remained before Ko-Jin, amber eyes fastened with ravenous intensity. The other two, however, began to creep in opposite directions—intending to encircle them, clearly. Ko-Jin reached out for Zarra’s arm and increased his pace, though the pain was nearly enough to topple him. He didn’t stop until the outer wall of the arena pressed flush against his shoulder blades.

  “Anything you see that could help us?” Zarra asked.

  Ko-Jin shook his head. “There are,” he paused to count, “ten cages, three already open. The walls are sloped and high.”

  His lion crept closer and lower. Its ears twitched, and muscles rippled beneath fur. Ko-Jin shifted his weight, centering and rooting himself. He breathed through his nose.

  “Perhaps if we could get inside one of their cages,” he said. “It would be easier to protect our backs. Let’s move to the right, keep—”

  The lion farthest from him sprang with such suddenness, Ko-Jin hardly had time to turn in its direction. He was not the target, however. Nor was Zarra.

  Artello yapped, his long legs tangling beneath him in a graceless attempt to scurry. Too slowly—the lion had its paws around him in a gruesome embrace. Claws caught in his chocolate fur, anchoring the lion as if with tenterhooks. Artello let out a shrill, pained whine.

  “Artello,” Zarra cried. She lunged with her splintered blade, catching one of the lionesses in the breast. It shrieked—a piercing, terrible sound—and skittered away.

  But it was too late. The lioness that gripped the dog sunk talon-like teeth into his neck and ripped her maw back. The other two lions joined the first, tearing at the flesh with abandon.

  Distantly, Ko-Jin heard the clamoring cheers of the crowd. He hoped the Spiritblighter would take the lot of them.

  Zarra made as if to save her seeing-eye dog, but Ko-Jin snagged her elbow and pulled her back.

  “Come,” he said, tugging, “while we can.”

  “Art—”

  “Too late.”

  She made a sound that was almost a sob, but the emotion flashed only briefly over her features. She allowed him to guide her, but resisted when he would have them break into a jog.

  “The less movement we make, the better,” she warned.

  Ko-Jin heeded her advice, and kept his pace to a rapid walk. He might not have managed a run anyway. Behind them, it was impossible not to discern the sound of three lions tearing at Artello’s carcass—bleak, nauseating sounds they were.

  As Ko-Jin limped along the exterior, he passed more cages set into the wall and heard the
rumble of the beasts within, caught the glint of their eyes amidst the gloom.

  “Almost there,” he said, huffing.

  He guided her into the alcove, and was glad that it was sufficiently tall to admit him standing. Having to crouch would have been a substantial disadvantage.

  Zarra extended a hand to feel the wall. Meanwhile, Ko-Jin examined the ill-lit interior. There was dung on the dirt floor and a scattering of old animal bones. Nothing of significance; no exit.

  Ko-Jin returned to the mouth of the enclosure. The lions were still busy eating. Ko-Jin’s eyes shied away from the smear of blood in the dirt.

  He gazed straight up, to where several members of the audience were leaning far over the railing in order to see him. A young woman in a crimson dress sat atop the railing. She leaned forward, holding on by her hands, her feet tucked beneath the lowest bar. The man beside her—the Dalishman who appeared to be in charge—endeavored to persuade her to climb back to safety. She ignored the man, ogling down at Ko-Jin as if he were a fascinating fish in an aquarium.

  “I have an idea,” Ko-Jin said grimly. “But it’s…” Horrible. A dark, twisted thing. He swallowed, and something black leaked into his mind. These people—they had driven him to this point. He hated them for it, but he would not die; he would not let Zarra die, torn to pieces just like her faithful companion.

  “Just tell me what to do,” she said.

  He sighed. “Remain here, keep your ears alert. Then follow my lead.”

  “Sung, what are you—”

  He didn’t want to say; he didn’t want to put into words the thing he meant to do. He squeezed her shoulder with his hand, then loped back out into the ring.

  The lionesses watched him from the other end of the arena, but they continued gnawing at bones, momentarily appeased. To his left, the rotating gears started once more, another cage door rising. He had to act fast.

  Ko-Jin spun, putting his back to the lions—a necessary act of stupidity. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the doctor’s knife, flipped the blade free.

  He took aim carefully, yet quickly. A slight deviation from his mark could spoil all. His arm reared back and snapped forward in a familiar motion. The knife shot from his hand, metal gleaming as it spun end over end. He needn’t hold his breath and hope—he knew his aim had been true as the blade left his fingers.