She ran over to Tol’zen. He was coughing blood, his eyes closed. His chest was ripped apart. Someone who had seen the tiger do its bloody work would have no question that the animal was responsible, though Pashera knew differently.
Grief overwhelmed her. “Tol’zen! Tol’zen! Beloved! Stay with me!” She ran her hands over his face, but only smeared her blood with his. She was bleeding too, she realized. But what did it matter? Tol’zen, the love of her life, was dying right in front of her. And there was nothing she could do to save him.
Tol’zen coughed weakly. His eyes fluttered.
“Avenge him.” Someone said in a soft cracked voice.
Pashera looked around. Orm’rishet was looking at her with one eye. The other eye was a ruin -- her face carved up along with her vitals. But Orm’rishet could still speak, though blood ran from her lips.
“Avenge him,” Orm’rishet said. “Avenge me.”
“What?”
Orm’rishet slowly reached down into the folds of her translucent purple gown, now ripped to shreds. Her hand returned and opened to reveal a pantellion ball. “This,” she said with heaving breaths. “Is the key.”
“The key to what?”
“Kro’tos,” Orm’rishet gasped. “Kro’tos. Doom. His doom is in the pantell…”
And she said no more.
Pashera snatched up the pantellion ball. But she gave no more thought to it because Tol’zen opened his eyes.
He looked at her. His gaze seemed far away. Red clotted in the corner of one eye. “Little monkey,” he said. He smiled through bloody teeth.
“It’s me,” she said. “Your Pashera.”
“My love,” he said.
“Yes,” she answered, tears filling her eyes. “”Yes, my love.”
“Is it time to go home?” he said.
“Yes,” she wept. “It’s time.”
“Good,” he said. “I’m so tired.” And he stopped. And like color fading from the sky at twilight, the light went out of his eyes.
Pashera wept, and wept more. Her tears mixed with the blood on Tol’zen’s face.
She suddenly realized there were feet on the floor all around her. Bird feet. Saurian warriors. She knew she should get away. The pantellion. She couldn’t let them have that.
Pashera lunged for her javelin, or appeared to. While she lurched and reached out with one hand, she moved the other to her mouth and popped the pantellion between her lips. She swallowed it, even as the warriors’ rough hands grabbed her and hauled her to her feet.
She wondered: Will swallowing it kill me?
And her own voice answered her: Does it matter?
The warriors stripped off her battle top and loincloth, and searched her crevices thoroughly as Pashera struggled and hissed. Then they dragged her toward Kro’tos, who was back in his throne-like arena chair.
“No weapons, my lord,” said one warrior.
“You’re sure?” Kro’tos asked, staring from the warrior to Pashera and back again.
“We really looked.”
“Bring her closer then.”
Pashera didn’t look at his eyes. To look at him would mean an uncontrollable urge to kill him. She knew she wouldn’t get away with it. And she also knew that if there was a chance to avenge Tol’zen, it lay in the pantellion now in her belly.
So she stared at the floor.
“Is she conscious?” Kro’tos asked.
Someone slapped her. Hard. Pashera didn’t flinch.
“She took a lot of knocks fighting the tiger, sir.”
“Humph.” Kro’tos seemed very disappointed. “If you can hear me, monkey bitch, know this. That race-traitor Tol’zen is dead. And any twisted hopes you had died with him.”
Pashera couldn’t help herself. She raised her head. “It’s not over,” she croaked.
“Ah, so the she-ape IS awake,” Kro’tos said. “Good. What fun we’re going to have with you.”
Pashera dropped her head again. She’d been a fool – again.
And then she saw it. Beneath Kro’tos’ chair. A shimmering curvature of light, taking shape in the blood that was dripping off her legs and arms.
There, tossed away under Kro’tos’ chair, had to be the blade used by the invisible assassin.
There was a hub-bub of voices. A group of officials approached.
“Oh, what now?” Kro’tos complained. “They’re always getting in the way of my fun. He nodded at Pashera. “Put her in a cage. We’ll have fun tomorrow.”
The warriors, holding Pashera by either arm, dragged her to the nearest cage pole. One of them operated the mechanism. The cage descended. They put Pashera inside, and she didn’t fight. Not now. Not yet.
The cage was very uncomfortable; bare bars beneath her bare skin. But Pashera ached anyway, and bleeding from serious scrapes on both arms and a cut on one leg. Where had she gotten those? Fighting the tiger, perhaps. And the invisible assassin, maybe. She trailed drops of blood as the mechanism cranked the cage into the sky. It was very loud up close. And the herky-jerky motion of the cage gave the impression that it might fall off and plummet at any second.
And her own fear made her think of something: how Kro’tos was so worried that she might have a weapon when she was dragged before him. He was afraid of her.
Big, bad Kro’tos. Afraid of a girl.
Delirious in her pain and sorrow, she laughed. And then she passed out.
She woke up to incredible pain across her back and buttocks. It took her a bit to open her eyes and realize it was the iron bars of the cage. The sun was setting, painting the sky in glorious colors. But for Pashera, the joy had drained out of the world. Painfully, slowly, Pashera rolled over, crouched on her hands and feet, and looked out at the arena.
Looking down was dizzying. Or maybe that was blood loss. No, definitely the height. But she could see Kro’tos in the king’s box. The bodies had been removed, the tiger dragged away. The damage wasn’t repaired, but it was at least cleaned up.
Pashera realized she could potentially spit on Kro’tos if she wanted to. She was that close, and with a favorable wind … or maybe not. He’d just think it was raining, and it would be a waste of spit. Her mouth was so dry. She was so thirsty.
It hit her that Tol’zen was dead. She cried out in anguish, and she saw Kro’tos look up. He smiled wickedly. The big, fat bastard. She’d make him pay. For Tol’zen. Oh, she’d make him pay, alright.
The sands were clear. How did one drag away a dead mammoth? She wondered how the hunt had ended. They’d all been so looking forward to it beforehand. Crazy. They’d all been crazy.
The light in the sky continued to fade. Lights came on around the arena. They’d told her about it, but she couldn’t imagine anything could be so bright at night. These saurians with their mysteries and magic.
She was probably in some kind of blood-loss trauma, she realized. That probably wasn’t good.
Figures appeared on the sand. Under the glare of the artificial lights, she could see a dozen of them. Seven males and seven females. It was the battle royale.
Kro’tos fat, malevolent face appeared in the air, four stories high. From her new perch, his face was much closer, more personal than it had appeared from the sands. “The battle royale is the climax of today’s fighting,” he said through a sono-enhancer. “And we cannot forget today’s tragic losses. I speak, of course, of Lord Tol’zen and his wife, Orm’rishet.
“I looked forward to meeting Lord Tol’zen in the arena of ideas,” Kro’tos said. “But that’s not to be. Fate – tragic fate – has intervened.”
Pashera’s blood boiled.
“So now, I would like to honor him. I dedicate this battle royale – indeed, these entire games – to Lord Tol’zen.”
Applause rippled through the arena. A chant went up: “Tol’zen! Tol’zen! Tol’zen!”
Kro’tos tried to appear magnanimous. But again, his face betrayed him, as his emotions boiled to the surface. He tried to smile benevolently, but it twis
ted into a disapproving sneer.
“Anyway,” he said. “For the honor of Lord Tol’zen. Let the battle begin!”
A circle of fire sprang up behind the gladiators on the sand. Meanwhile, a brilliant beacon illuminated at the top of the column in the middle of the arena. It slowly started its journey to the bottom of the column.
Pashera knew, from what Ang’ess had told her earlier, that when the beacon hit reached the bottom of the column, the circle of flames would tighten. The beacon would then shoot back to the top of the column, and then make the journey down again, only at twice the speed.
And it would keep making the journey – and keep picking up speed, as the circle of flame kept tightening – until there was a winner on the sands.
One of the females moved, running across the sands. Tin’iso. Gwettelen’s friend. It had to be her, tall and thin, and so deadly. She attacked one of the men, hammering away at him even as the others were still pairing off. In a matter of moments, she got her sword through his reach and slashed her sword – its point dulled, but edged with hooks – along the man’s throat. Blood spurted. He fell to his knees. But Tin’iso kept hitting him, hammering at his head with his sword.
The other gladiators stepped back from her. Some of the female gladiators called to her. Pashera knew what they were saying. This wasn’t how it was done. The battle royale is for show.
But does an assassin know any way other to fight than for real, and to kill? Pashera doubted it.
Her first opponent dead, Tin’iso leapt on another man. He, at least, had the benefit of seeing what she’d done to her first opponent. He fought a defensive battle, and seemed content to let her push him out of the circle of fire. Because once he was beyond that circle, he was out of the contest, and Tin’iso, theoretically, couldn’t attack him anymore.
But he didn’t make it. As they approached the edge of the circle of flame, Tin’iso hooked his legs, and toppled him right onto the flames. The man shrieked horribly, and she planted a foot on his chest, and held him there long enough for the flames to engulf him. She released him only when he was burning, and he rolled in the sands, trying to put the fire out.
That was enough. The remaining five male gladiators suddenly broke off their battles and converged on Tin’iso. She gamely attacked the first to approach her, then realized the entire circle was closing around her. She lashed out at incredible speed, leaping from one to the other.
But the gladiators had a few tricks up their sleeves. They formed a cage of whirling steel from which she could not escape. It tightened, and tightened some more as Tin’iso tried frantically to break away. She leaped into the air and tried to jump over them. A sword slapped at her legs and she went down. The circle closed, and the weapons hammered over and over again. Then the male gladiators broke away, leaving Tin’iso’s broken corpse on the ground.
The female gladiators had hung back while Tin’iso met her fate. “The arena is a place to even old scores,” Pashera quoted Ang’kim to no one. Gwettelen, who was on the sands, did not lift a finger to help Tin’iso. Pashera found that interesting indeed.
Now, the female gladiators went to meet the men, and the battle resumed.
The circle of flame jumped inward. The fight went on. Those left on the sands used the time to show off their stuff. Stupendous flips, kicks, whirls and thrusts all formed part of the deadly ballet. Everyone got a chance to please the crowd. Even the new girls tried some moves. Gwettelen got in a high kick and a cartwheel, which was hard to do while holding a sword and shield.
But one of the new girls didn’t show off. Pashera rubbed her eyes. Yep, that hulking figure. That was Dawatana.
Pashera felt a new pang of guilt. There was only one reason Dawatana was in the battle royale, and that was because Pashera wasn’t. Dawatana was obviously a substitute. And not a good one. Pashera could see from the way Dawatana hung back that she was frightened.
Then one of the older female gladiators – Saytas – got in trouble. She was hard-pressed by two men. Dawatana sprang into action, and charged the man, coming at him from behind and to the side. She hit him so hard, he flew through the air and landed on the tightening circle of fire.
The man screamed and rolled, and dragged himself out. Some warning bell went off in Pashera’s mind. Something about “no hits from behind” and “no pouncing.” Had Dawatana pounced?
A male gladiator – the big, red-headed giant who had fought Saytas earlier in the day – walked over and started hammering on Dawatana. She fought back, but had no chance. First he knocked away her sword. Then he took her shield, and seemed to break her arm doing it. Then he raised her shield and smashed it down, over her head. She went down like a dead yast.
“Dawatana!” Pashera screamed. Was she alive? She wasn’t moving. A pair of custodians came with hooks and dragged the big black girl away.
The circle tightened and tightened. More gladiators left the battle spurting blood or were knocked out of the circle. Gwettelen was caught wrong-footed and sent tumbling over the ring of fire by a round-house kick.
Finally, it came down to Saytas and the red-headed giant. They battled at the base of the pillar in the center of the arena. The bright beacon zipped up and down the pillar, tightening the flame pillar ever closer. Saytas lunged and the giant trapped her sword under his arm. He grabbed her by her loincloth, picked her up bodily and threw her across the sand, where she rolled to a stop, arms outstretched in theatrical pose, her chest heaving. The giant walked out of the fire just as the flame circle closed on the pillar, to the wild cheers of the crowd.
Pashera should have appreciated the theater of it. But her grief was overwhelming. Tol’zen was dead. Dawatana was probably dead. Angani was dead, crushed by a mammoth. Tooloosa, who had looked out for her and trained her and told her to be careful – was certainly dead. Everyone she cared for in this accursed city had died in the circle of blood that was the arena.
“Tol’zen, oh, Tol’zen,” she wailed. “Why have you left me in this world of pain?”
Kro’tos’ big fat face appeared in the center of the arena. His face looked flush; drunk, even. “All hail Sazoco,” he said. “Winner of the battle royale!”
There was thunderous applause.
Pashera felt sick to her stomach.
Then she remembered –the pantellion. The pantellion in her stomach held the key to Kro’tos’ doom.
Whatever could it be?
She knew she’d get it back about 12 hours after she swallowed it – assuming they fed her in the cage. Was she supposed to shit through the bars? Surely they wouldn’t want her pooping on people below. They’d probably give her a waste bucket.
But what would she do with the pantellion after she retrieved it? Eat it again? After she’d shit it out? There was certainly no place to spin a pantellion here.
Below, custodians hurried to clear the sands. Meanwhile, on the fourth (highest) tier, scientists in their robes were setting something up.
The fireworks. That’s it. There were fireworks.
Try as she might, Pashera couldn’t think of a way to turn the fireworks against Kro’tos.
But she knew something that could be turned against him. His own face.
Long minutes went by. Pashera shifted her aching body on the bars. The games-master, Ar’daj, appeared in the box beside Kro’tos. Then U’Clee showed up. She knew they’d announce the fireworks soon.
“Hey, Kro’tos,” she called down. “Kro’tos. KRO’TOS!”
He looked up.
“You’re doomed,” she shouted. “When I get out of this cage, you’re doomed.”
Kro’tos and the games-master swapped some words, and they laughed. Probably laughing at the thought of a monkey in a cage getting out and doing any harm to him.
So she tried a different tack. “Tol’zen!” she shouted. “Tol’zen! Tol’zen! TOL’ZEN!”
Saurians around the king’s box looked up. And those closest to her, on the third tier of the arena, also heard her.
She kept at it, chanting: “Tol’zen! Tol’zen! Tol’zen!”
Some of those around her picked it up. “Tol’zen … Tol’zen … Tol’zen!”
The noise rippled around the arena. Tol’zen supporters stood up and chanted. That started some fistfights, as Kro’tos supporters tried to quiet them. But the Tol’zen supporters fought back.
“TOL’ZEN!” the noise echoed around the arena now. “TOL’ZEN! TOL’ZEN!”
The chant swelled, and got louder and louder. And just then, the games-master’s face appeared in the center of the arena. Ar’daj intoned: “We are about to have our grand finale of fireworks. U’Clee, chief scientist of the Cogitorium, will say a few words.”
The image wavered, and U’Clee’s face appeared. He started to speak. But the chant of “Tol’zen”, swelling behind him as it was throughout the arena, was picked up by the sono-enhancer.
U’Clee waited for the noise to subside. It didn’t. He seemed unsure what to do.
“Tol’zen … Tol’zen … Tol’zen!” roared the crowd.
The image floating in the middle of the arena wavered again. Suddenly, it was Kro’tos’ face. “Start the damned fireworks!” he roared.
The crowd never stopped. “Tol’zen … Tol’zen … Tol’zen!”
And once again, Kro’tos wore his emotions on his face. His face twisted. First in anger. Then in fear.
And Pashera laughed and laughed. Because she’d shown the world that Kro’tos was afraid.
Fireworks exploded in the sky. And Pashera sat naked in a cage, and plotted her revenge.
* * *
[1] Short for “yasriti”
[2] The Night King’s speech is slurred because his mouth is not primarily designed to speak the saurian tongue. He’s not speaking English, but would lisp in the appropriate places. This transcript is just representative. The lisp is not indicative of a lack of intelligence. The longer the bat people are removed from saurian control, the more they genetically “drift.” The Night King’s grandsire could speak the saurian tongue very well, but his descendants are losing that ability over time.
Slave in the City of Dragons (Dinosaurs and Gladiators Book 1) Page 42