by Alana Khan
His expression is a perpetual sneer. Because of his serpentine DNA, it appears his torso and limbs consist of nothing but muscle. He exhibited prodigious strength on the vids.
Gladiator matches have been around longer than this ancient coliseum. Certain roles and styles of fighting are expected at these games. I fight as a retiarius which means I carry an eight-fierto trident and a net.
This gives me an advantage. I can thrust and prod from a distance and my opponent can’t reach me. The net is designed to cast over an opponent and trip or contain him.
A retiarius often fights a murmillo, which is how Rinn is dressed. The murmillo wears a helmet and carries a sword and shield. His sword is far heavier than my thin spear and he has the protection of helmet and shield. The experts have decreed this to be a fair match of skill and weapons.
A retiarius needs to attack from afar, that’s where my advantage is. Once we’re up close, my trident is all but useless with its length and lack of cutting surface becoming a disadvantage in close hand-to-hand combat.
Rinn’s strengths are many: he’s more muscular than me, he’s excellent with his sword and shield, and despite his appearance, he’s smart. The only weakness I caught on the vids is that he’s not as fast as me.
“Joining him in the arena, Dax from Thrace…”
The rest of the introduction fades into the background as I realize they didn’t introduce me as Vex. Somehow they’ve discovered my true identity, which means not only am I in more danger than the perils of the match itself, but every single one of my comrades is exposed. Dahlia! Dear Gods, I have no way to protect her.
“Get out there drackhole. Don’t tell me you’re scared,” the reptilian guard derides me and is about to put his foot to my ass to push me into the arena when I gather my senses and walk into the blazing sunlight, my arms held high.
There’s nothing I can do to help Dahlia or my friends in the stands. I am powerless over every single thing on this world or any other —save one. I can control how I fight and if I live or die in this circle of sand. The only way I can protect Dahlia is if I win. The stakes couldn’t be more clear.
Ceremonial horns blare, signaling the start of the match. We nod our heads at each other and the fight begins.
My strategy in a Cestus match like the one the other day is to defend. In armed matches like this, I must begin as the aggressor. I need to strike with the trident, and it has to be fast before he gets into close range and gains the advantage.
I attack immediately, poking, thrusting, keeping my opponent on the defensive. Rinn snarls and slashes his sturdy sword at me while his shield protects his chest. This exposes a flash of his flank. In a more humanoid opponent, spearing this small sliver of the abdomen would be deflected by ribs.
Serpent ribs are more numerous and thinner than most humanoids. My strike hits perfectly and pierces through and through. It’s not a deadly shot, but it will slow him down.
Green droplets of blood drip down his hip and descend his scaly legs. He’s favoring his right side. I need to continue my offensive. He’s expert with his shield —he’ll have to be almost dead before he exposes his vital organs. I need to keep chipping away at him.
Feinting to his left, I sprint toward his right and behind him. I pierce my three-pronged spear through his meaty serpentine tail. After pushing all the way through until I hit sand, I retreat and move out of his reach.
He made a high-pitched squealing sound when I skewered his tail. Now he’s hissing, his tail flicking reflexively, spewing green blood every time it bangs on the ground. I must have damaged a nerve because what he’s doing has to hurt and it appears he can’t stop.
“Dracker!” he hisses as he springs at me, heavy sword held high. I jump back almost in time, but he nicks me, drawing a thin line of blood across my abdomen.
I could draw this out, it’s how they taught me to fight. It amuses the crowd. But I want to finish it. If it was to the death, I could administer the killing blow, but this process demands finesse.
I lope far enough away to avoid his sword, then strike his back with my trident. I pierce only a few inces deep, but bring it back and stab forward again and again. Since the trident has three sharp tips, he’s dripping blood from ten or fifteen holes in his back. He’s in pain and now he’s losing a significant amount of blood.
The officials show no sign of stopping the match. Even though I’m winning, if I keep toying with him he’ll have ample time to use his weapon.
I heave my spear into his muscled back. It does as I intended and lodges deep between what, on a more humanoid male, would be his shoulder blades.
When he falls forward to his knees, I retrieve my weapon, then stand back and wait for the officials to terminate the match. Silence from the officials. Not from the crowd.
“End him! Kill him!” They’ve begun a chant.
I stand twenty fiertos away, my body at rest, the sharp prongs of my trident on the sand. I await word from the judges.
“Kill me Thracian. I would kill you if I could,” the Monravian taunts from his position on the ground.
“I’m not you,” is all I say.
The chanting is louder and more insistent, but I don’t move. Whoever’s in charge has to see the game is over.
“Males and females,” the announcer finally breaks in. “Winner Dax from Thrace.”
My pulse hammers as I scan the crowd for Dahlia. I have no idea how I’ll ever find her in a crowd of over 60,000.
“Males and females, the program says this was the final event of the day, but please don’t leave your seat. We have a very special treat for you today. Asher the Ninth from Galgon has graced us with his presence.
“He runs several of the best ludi throughout the galaxy, and we’ve recently discovered he’s the true owner of this runaway slave.
“We’ve entertained you these last few days with the lusty antics of the Thracian and his little red-headed humanoid, but she’s not his owner, she’s his whore.”
My blood runs cold and I sway where I’m standing when I see two uniformed soldiers drag Dahlia through the very archway from which I entered onto these blazing sands.
She wore her flowing, floral dress for me today “so you can find me in the stands,” she said. Now her carefully braided hair is disheveled, her dress is torn, and one perfect breast is exposed for every perverted eye in the stands to leer at.
“Dax!” she calls, but I’m surrounded by four armed soldiers. They’ve snatched my weapon and picked up the Monravian’s sword. They press my knees into the hot sand, two males on either side of me. Between their weapons and their tight grip on my shoulders, I could never fight them off.
Dahlia’s trembling with fear, her fingers shaking as she tries to cover herself. I did this. I did this to her. If I hadn’t accepted this match in anger and haste, she’d be back on the Fool’s Errand chatting with her friends.
Now she’s here in the arena about to watch me die.
Dahlia
I’m so terrified I can barely breathe. The only thing I’m thankful for is that I was on my way to the underground catacombs to collect Dax when the soldiers grabbed me. My friends from the ship must have seen it because I saw them hurrying out of the stands. I can only pray they get to the Fool and hit atmo fast. They have to know that with hundreds of armed guards swarming the area saving Dax and me is a lost cause.
“Asher of Galgon,” the announcer booms.
A humanoid male with pale green skin enters the coliseum on a red and gold chariot drawn by three palomino mroncks in tandem. The six-legged horses don’t hold my attention for more than a moment. I’m taking full stock of the Galgonian. He looks to be seventy, maybe more, but I’ve found it’s impossible to tell age in space. Every species ages differently.
It’s like Spartacus or Ben-Hur. The male’s red cape flows behind him as he rides around the ring several times, basking in the crowd’s applause. I imagine they have no idea who this guy is, nor do I. They’re still fired u
p with bloodlust from the games.
“Males and females, one more round of applause,” the announcer suggests.
Asher steps out of his chariot and raises his hands to accept the accolades.
“I came all this way from Galgon,” he booms, already mic’d before he entered the arena, “to show you, fair citizens, how we deal with runaway slaves and those who aid and abet them.”
No, no, no. I shake my head. This can’t be happening. My heart clenches, my nostrils flare, and I’m crying before I even see what happens next.
“Stand him up,” he orders. The soldiers yank Dax to his feet.
Asher pulls out a small dagger. I breathe a sigh of relief. That little knife can’t kill my Dax. Punishment. He’s meting out punishment in front of eighty thousand people. Okay. We can live through this.
He walks straight over to Dax, who’s now held in place by six soldiers —two hold his arms, two his legs, and two are fisting his hair so he can’t bite or tear away.
Every muscle in Dax’s body is tensed as he pulls with all his might to free himself from the soldiers.
“I’m no one’s slave,” Dax’s defiant voice carries weakly over Asher’s microphone.
Asher punches Dax’s cheek in anger, then thunders, “The punishment? Death!”
He stabs the three-inch knife below Dax’s sternum. Dax drops to his knees and falls forward, his face in the sand. Dead.
The two soldiers at my side lift me under my armpits and set me in front of Asher. My heart is thumping so hard I’m certain the spectators can see it from the farthest row.
I’m swamped with anguish as I look at Dax’s lifeless body in the sand. I’m too terrified to fight, I can barely breathe.
I don’t have time to think further. The Galgonian pulls out a different dagger and plunges it between my breasts.
Chapter Seven
Dahlia
I’m dead. Am I in Hell? I’m conscious. And blind.
Okay, Dahlia, what do you know about Hell? You listened to a thousand lectures from the nuns, you should remember something.
I close my eyes to pay better attention, which is ridiculous because I’m blind.
I sit up from where I’m sprawled. My fingers trace along the floor where I’m sitting. It feels like stones, cool to the touch. Reaching out along the floor, I explore farther, several feet in every direction —nothing.
Smells. Focus on smells. I don’t smell smoke or fire or brimstone. I smell dampness, like a basement. And musty, like fine, old powder that invades your nostrils.
Moaning drifts in from the distance. It echoes so I can’t tell whether it’s one person or many.
This is such a desperate situation that I’m shocked when a flash of memory flies into my mind: Keith Russell quipping in catechism class one day that his idea of Hell is the song “It’s a Small World After All” playing on a never-ending loop.
Get serious Dahlia.
I always hoped I’d go to Heaven, but this isn’t it, that’s for certain. It’s not the Hell described in Catholic school, either. It’s certainly a lot cooler than I expected.
I rise to my feet and take baby steps in one direction, feeling along the floor with the soles of my bare feet. I notice I’m still wearing the filmy creation I was killed in. My right breast is exposed to the dank, chilly air.
I stretch my arms in front of me so I don’t bump into anything. My feet test for safety —I want to avoid hurtling into a deep fiery pit.
I bang into metal bars, first one palm and then the other. One foot bumps into a metal strip on the floor. I’m in a cell. The bars are cool to the touch and the metal feels old and scabby.
Nothing fits exactly into my Catholic-school construct, but the tight squeeze in my chest and the trembling in my lips attests to the horror of this place.
A piercing scream echoes toward me. Now this, this sounds like what I imagined I’d hear in Hell.
Pressing my fingertips into the flat space between my breasts, I examine but don’t feel a stab wound. I’m confused and terrified and decide I need to ignore my pounding pulse and advance cautiously along the bars.
Bumping into a corner where the bars make a ninety-degree angle, I keep hugging the metal enclosure, searching for an exit.
Finding an opening in the bars, I take a deep breath and move out of my cell. Wordless screaming thunders toward me. I bump into another set of bars. It’s like a maze in here, but I keep moving.
Something slithers over my foot.
I was always the one on the trip to the petting zoo who wouldn’t touch snakes or lizards or the fuzzy tarantulas they always tell you are cute and harmless. But deep in my soul, I’m certain that had to be a snake. I can’t control the shriek that erupts from my throat.
Dax
I wake to pitch darkness and a pounding head. I can see nothing. Feeling cool stone blocks under my back, my thoughts fly to Dahlia. Then I shake my head, trying to remember what just happened. Asher of Galgon stabbed me. Why am I here and what’s become of my female?
I hear a panicked scream.
“Dahlia? Dahlia!” As bizarre and disorienting as this place is, I’d know Dahlia’s voice anywhere.
“Dax? Is that you?”
“Dahlia. Can you get to me?”
“Keep talking, I’ll try.”
I keep up an inane stream of chatter all the while trying to determine what’s going on. My head is pounding. I just woke up on the stone floor. My fingers examine my breastbone and don’t find a puncture wound.
“Keep following the sound of my voice. I can’t see. Promise me you won’t jump over anything or do something dangerous.”
I have no idea what pitfalls lie between her and me.
“Promise Dahlia,” I put steel in my voice. I don’t want her harmed any more than she already is.
“Eek!”
“What’s happening?”
Drack, she isn’t responding. My heart pounds while I assess the situation. “Are you okay?”
“Umm,” is all she says.
“Dahlia, explain what’s going on.” I put calm command in my voice in the hope she’ll tune into that rather than whatever is terrifying her right now. Maybe I can help.
“Snakes. Hundreds of them.”
“Describe where you are.”
“There are cells, a long row of them. I’ve been walking in a corridor toward your voice, but there are at least a thousand snakes writhing on the floor in front of me. One slid over my foot and I can hear them hissing in a pile.”
“Okay, can you get back to where you came from?”
“I’ve made too many turns. I think I’m lost.”
Examining my cell, I encounter ancient cool metal bars about five inces apart that surround me on four sides. The bars anchor into a flat metal strip on the bottom and rise as far as I can reach —about ten fiertos. There are horizontal stabilizing bars a fierto and a half above the floor.
“Do the cells near you have a horizontal bar holding them together about a fierto off the floor? Step onto it.”
“Yes. Okay, I’m off the floor.”
I hear the relief in her voice.
“Can you hold on to the bars and make your way toward me, never having to step on the ground?”
“So far, so good.”
I picture her in my mind’s eye, cautiously resting her feet between the vertical bars, moving toward me.
“You doing okay?”
“It’s working. Slow going. I’m not sure how I’ll know when there aren’t any more snakes and I can get back on the floor.”
“The bars near me are peeling. Are yours?”
“Yes.”
“Can you pull off a piece and toss it on the floor? They’ll thrash and you can hear them.”
“It seems like there are at least two thousand snakes right next to me Dax. I’m so scared my hands are sweating and shaking. It’s so gross.”
“Keep coming toward my voice, Dahl.”
Dahlia
Snakes skeeve me out. In the worst way. I think the nuns totally knew what they were talking about when they described Hell as a pit of writhing fucking snakes. Oh, I just cursed. No wonder I’m in Hell. I belong here.
I keep making my way toward what I think is Dax’s voice. Oh my God, what if it’s the devil, just fucking with me?
“Dax, recite that poem from the talent show.” I feel so clever. The devil would never know the words to that poem. Or would he? Did I just trip up the devil, or confuse myself? Crap.