by E B Rose
“Calm down,” Olira frowned. “Stop. Calm down.”
He rolled on his side, thrashing, trying to climb up on his feet. He was disoriented. He accidentally smacked his injured leg and doubled over, crying in pain. Nevertheless, the pain snapped him out of his confused state. He shook violently, blinking at the dark road.
Olira gave him some water. “We can’t stop yet,” she said, hating the apology in her voice. “You have to keep walking.”
She helped him up and told him to hold onto Warrior’s saddle. It was past sunset, and the road seemed different in the dark, but she was sure the inn was just behind the next hill.
She was wrong.
It wasn’t behind the next one either.
The slave collapsed again.
*
“Are you looking with your eyes, or with your mind?” Badimar asked.
“With my eyes, Master.”
“What was your mind looking at?”
When he told him, Badimar ordered him to kneel and take his shirt off. His whip cracked at his back. Blood and sweat mixed together. Pain was hot. His muscles burned.
The woman with cruel eyes snatched the whip off Badimar.
She flogged him until his flesh fell off his bones.
She struck harder and harder…
*
The slave cried out hoarsely. Panic flooded his eyes.
“It’s okay! It’s okay!” Olira repeated.
His fever must have been getting worse; he was talking to himself. He’d said something about his eyes. Olira gave him some space until he calmed down.
“Your fever is getting worse,” Olira said. “But I don’t have anything on me that could help you.”
She knew a few herbs that could be useful to break his fever, but although they were common enough to find, it was too dark to search. She frowned ahead. The next hill was barely visible in the darkness. She wasn’t even confident if the inn was behind that one, or the one after.
Desperation sucked up all her strength.
She helped the slave up again, but this time, she didn’t let go. Her feet ached. She’d been up since early morning, walking with little rest. Her battle to keep the slave safe during his convulsions had left her muscles sore. Her stomach growled. Yet, she supported the slave as best she could, while pulling Warrior’s lead with her other hand.
She led them out of the dirt road, searching for a sheltered place to set up camp for the night.
When the slave collapsed for the last time, Olira knew he wasn’t getting up again tonight.
*
The bear reared on his hind legs. His muscles rippled under his thick, brown coat. He was full-grown, the largest he’d ever seen.
Fierce.
Enraged.
Bloodthirsty.
Marzul’s furious roars mixed with their laughter.
Curious.
Excited.
The bear threw himself against the bars of his cage. He gnawed at them, clawed through them, relentless.
Dark shadows sneaked inside the cage. They filled it, until the bear disappeared amongst them. Marzul’s roars faded. The laughter quietened.
The bars of the cage turned silver. They shone bright. Blinding. Shadows twirled inside; like a thick, black smoke, trapped inside the cage.
Imprisoned.
“Slave,” whispered the darkness behind the bars.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I am what’s left after death.”
“What do you want?”
“The same thing you do.”
*
Olira locked her arms under the slave’s arms and pulled.
Her back hurt. Her feet hurt. Her whole body hurt.
The slave smelled a horrible mixture of sweat, blood, urine, and infection. Olira breathed through her mouth and pulled again. The slave’s heels left a trail on the soil as Olira dragged his unconscious - and considerably heavy - body under a scrawny tree.
She let his head down gently and rubbed her back. This place wouldn’t be her first preference to set up camp, but she’d tried - and failed - to wake the man up again and she couldn’t have dragged him any further.
She unsaddled Warrior and fed him, before fishing a handful of bread for herself and sitting down. She ate enough to quieten her growling stomach. Exhaustion still surged through her body, though she felt a pinch of her strength returning.
She reached to feel the slave’s forehead, pulling her hand back almost instantly. He was burning. His eyes fluttered under his eyelids while his lips moved inaudibly. Dreaming, or having a nightmare. His shirt was coated in sweat. He trembled.
He was dying.
He’d been dying since Olira bought him, maybe even before that. She was in the middle of nowhere, with no resources, not even the faintest idea of how to save him.
He wasn’t going to survive the night.
5
LION OF ZARALL
The old slave had a hand-shaped tattoo on his neck. A house slave. Freeborn. He carried a weathered face, bony fingers and a thinning hairline. Lion didn’t know what name their Owner had given him; they’d never talked, never even acknowledged each other. However, the old slave was the one who dressed Lion before every battle, and his presence gave him an odd sense of comfort.
The old slave pulled the breastplate over Lion’s head, then lifted Lion’s arms up to do the buckles on his sides.
Another house slave - a woman who was as familiar as the old man - was doing Lion’s hair. She’d coated her hands in a light grey paste and was threading her fingers through Lion’s curly blonde hair, giving it a mane-like appearance.
Soon, they were going to put his half mask on, shaped like a lion’s face. It was utterly useless in protecting anywhere other than between Lion’s forehead and upper lip, but it added to the lion’s appearance. He was not allowed to wear any other headgear. His golden mane had to be visible. His Owner was proud of it; willing to sacrifice Lion’s protection for the sake of the image he’d portray in front of the audience.
It was bad enough that Lion carried less armour than the other beast, but his hair also got in his eyes frequently, blinding him. Not to mention, it presented his rivals another hold to grab him.
He supposed there was no use in worrying about how he was equipped. He wasn’t going to be the one who’d do the fighting anyway.
The house slave with the weathered face put Lion’s pauldrons - also shaped like lions leaping from his shoulders - his gauntlets and his greaves on as well. The light leather boots he slipped on Lion’s feet fit snugly, allowing him to move quickly on the sand. When both slaves stepped back after circling around him once, fixing here and there, giving one last touch, Lion started feeling the usual excitement; the anticipation of battle.
“Okay, Lion, sit down,” Badimar said, walking into the dressing room in his usual, fast paced jog.
Badimar dismissed the two house slaves while Lion sat down on the wooden bench.
“Skullsworn will be carrying a heavy shield and a flail,” Badimar said. He stood beside Lion, with one foot on the bench, and his hand on Lion’s shoulder. “He’s extremely efficient with that combination,” he continued. “I’ve spread the rumour that you’ll have a shield and a Lor’Kas, your specialty, but I have something else in my mind.”
He quickly looked around to make sure they were alone in the dressing room. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Since a shield will be ineffective against a flail, I will not burden you with that. I’d rather give your second hand something useful to do.”
Net and trident, Lion thought, though he didn’t speak up.
“I’m giving you the net and trident,” Badimar said. “Use the net to get rid of his weapon. You will only have one chance at that. He takes half a step forward just before he swings that flail. Strike then. Once his weapon is gone, he’ll resort to his shield…”
“I’ve never understood why you bother giving him instructions.”
Lion was expecti
ng a visit from Him, so unlike Badimar, he did not hesitate dropping on his knees as soon as the King walked into the dressing room.
“Your Majesty!” said Badimar. He fell on one knee, his head bowed low, while Lion placed his forehead on the floor.
“Up,” King Leonis said with an impatient gesture of his hand. “You will use his Kill Word anyway,” he continued. “So, what difference are your instructions are going to make?”
He had a point. When his Kill Word was used, the conscious part of Lion’s mind shut down. He’d have no recollection of how he fought, except for brief glimpses and a general feeling. In that state, he fought on pure instincts, with no thoughts and no emotions.
No fear and no hesitation.
Just a perfect… beast.
“I know, Your Majesty.” Badimar looked down, his neck blushing. “I just feel like there is some awareness in him, even in that state. An awareness that remembers the vital information.”
King Leonis waved a hand dismissively. “I said I don’t understand your methods, but I trust your judgement, Master Badimar.”
“I’m honoured, Your Majesty.”
Leonis walked towards the armour rack. He was a scrawny man, with fifty summers burdening his slender shoulders. He had a clean-shaven, symmetrical face and deep-set, blue eyes. He reached with one of his hands, marked by old age, and picked up the lion-shaped half mask.
“Whatever you are doing, Master Badimar, it brought me three victories already,” Leonis drawled out. “I have no doubt I will add another one to my collection.”
“I will not disappoint you, Your Majesty,” Badimar said.
“I know.”
King Leonis turned and twisted the mask in his hand, as he made his way towards Lion. He put the mask on his face and stepped back, appreciating his prized beast’s appearance with a slight nod.
“Lion of Zarall shall not fall.”
*
The passages leading to the waiting room were covered in dirt and red sand.
Badimar’s boots left clear prints on the soft ground. His footsteps were wide apart; evidence of his fast-paced, confident stride. Lion kept his eyes on the ground, watching the footsteps appear, then disturbing them with his own. This was another familiar sight he’d always found comforting.
A group of King Leonis’s personal guards were walking in a box formation around them. Their leader was an aged knight named Sir Dramesh. His vigilant eyes scanned the empty passages. His job was to make sure Master Badimar and Lion of Zarall reached the waiting room under the arena in one piece.
Lion found it amusing to think these soldiers and knights, all free men, were ready to give their lives for a slave, if it came to that.
Badimar’s team of trainers, errand boys and a physician followed after them. They had no further role until after the battle. Lion pushed them out of his mind and focused on Badimar’s footsteps.
They’ve arrived at another passage, which circled around the ground level of the arena. The cheering, applauding sound of the spectators grew louder here.
Behind the dark grey walls on their right, was the Switchblade Arena.
The passage was just beneath the first rows of the seats. The crowd above them held their breaths sharply and let out an astonished howl that echoed through the arena. The previous fight was coming to an end.
The final fight of the Golden Sparrow Tournament neared.
The waiting room was more like a high-walled stall rather than an actual room. Sir Dramesh inspected the room quickly, before letting Badimar and Lion in. The old knight positioned the soldiers outside the room and closed the door. Badimar’s team of trainers and the others proceeded to the box reserved for them upstairs.
There was a weapons rack against the back wall of the waiting room. Lion’s weapons were stacked on it neatly. Rather than bringing whatever weapon he chose for this battle, Badimar brought the whole weapons rack in order to conceal which weapon Lion would carry.
Badimar was paranoid about spies. He took every precaution he could think of in order to conceal their strategies - including choice of weapons - from prying eyes and ears. He wouldn’t even get near the net and the trident until just before Lion was called into the arena.
Lion didn’t know if their opponents actually had any spies - and even if they did, he doubted if they could get past Sir Dramesh’s security - but he knew Badimar himself had a few.
The crowd let out another deafening roar. The screams of “Kill him!” and “Bleed him!” were so loud, Lion couldn’t even hear himself thinking. One of the beasts was having his last moment, right now. Lion wondered if he was a purebred or a freeborn. If he was a purebred, was he on his Kill Word? Did he know he was about to die? Lion always wondered how would it feel to die on his Kill Word. He never remembered anything after the word was spoken. Badimar believed he still had awareness, but Lion doubted it.
If he died in that state, would he even know? Everything would just… end.
The crowd’s excitement built up, until it exploded in a mixture of cheers and applause.
It was over. The beast was dead.
Sir Dramesh knocked on the door and let a young errand boy in. The boy raised himself on his toes and whispered in Badimar’s ear. Badimar nodded and sent the kid back out. He looked pleased, maybe a little relieved. Lion guessed he had just received confirmation regarding the intel he had on Skullsworn’s choice of weapon.
There was an exciting applause and a laugh coming from the spectators. The arena was being cleaned, prepared for the final fight, and the Mid-Game actors were entertaining the crowd with a parody re-enactment of the last fight.
“Start warming up,” Badimar instructed.
Lion started stretching and flexing his muscles. He got down to do some push ups. On his third set, he heard the announcer’s voice command the crowd’s silence on the stage outside.
“Up,” Badimar said. “Take your position.”
Lion stood right in front of the gates leading into the arena. Anticipation of the battle turned his blood into liquid fire. An uncanny eagerness made him shift his weight from one foot to the other. His hands itched to grab a weapon - or nothing but his fists - then get out there and draw some blood. Although a silent part of his mind knew he may not survive this fight, that this could be the one the crowd would cheer for his death, Lion still savoured the euphoria he felt right before a fight.
“Your Majesty,” saluted the announcer outside. “Honourable Lords and Ladies of the court, and good people of Chinderia!”
Badimar handed him his weapons; a weighted net for his left hand and a three-pronged spear for his right.
“I will not take much of your time,” the announcer continued. “… as I know you have been dying to see this fight all week.”
The crowd cheered on and whistled their affirmation. The announcer waited until they were quiet again.
“You will witness two purebred beasts, two perfect weapons, fight and kill to honour the hundredth-year reign of the Zarall family; may they reign for a hundred years more!”
Badimar put one hand on Lion’s left shoulder, squeezed and released it firmly. A dizzying calmness filled Lion’s mind. His restless body stilled; his eyes rolled back as he let out a silent growl. His heartbeat and respiration slowed down.
The announcer kept speaking, but Lion didn’t follow his words anymore. The only word his ears wanted to hear - the only word that mattered - was his Kill Word. He fixed his eyes on the double gates in front of him; at the vertical orange line between the two doors. He was vaguely aware the spectators were cheering to greet the two fighters to the field.
“And here comes…”
Badimar’s grip tightened.
“… Skullsworn the Vicious, aaaaand…”
Badimar brought his mouth to Lion’s ear.
“… the Lion of Zarall!”
“Dracistuecto,” Badimar whispered.
The orange line between the gates widened.
A red mist fi
lled Lion’s sight and took over everything.
*
“I will see you in Farhome.”
*
Lion blinked.
The red mist faded back slowly. It had a way of disappearing as if it’d never been there and Lion had been in control at all times. Hundreds of people who were watching the fight couldn’t say exactly when the Kill Word had lost its effect and when Lion took charge again.
Except maybe Badimar. The Master of the Beast, Lion’s lead trainer, knew him well enough to recognize even the most subtle changes in his body language. He’d know exactly when he woke up.
Lion’s hands were tightly wrapped around his trident. When he looked down, he saw the dead body of his rival. The three prongs of his trident had ruptured the beast’s neck, killing him instantly. Lion pulled the trident back and stared at the dead slave.
Skullsworn’s face was frozen in a subtle smirk, almost as if mocking him. He was much older than Lion, nearing thirty. A long life for a beast. His brown eyes stared at the sky, glassy. He had a white scar next to his left eye.
“I will see you in Farhome.”
Skullsworn’s final words still rang in Lion’s ears. It was spoken a moment before Lion had regained his awareness. He shuddered, feeling sick to his stomach. This shouldn’t have happened. He shouldn’t have heard Skullsworn’s final words. It made no sense, for three reasons:
Purebreds couldn’t speak when they were under their Kill Word.
Purebreds didn’t speak to each other at all, even when they were awake. It wasn’t permitted. It was an Act of Defiance.
Lastly, purebreds didn’t go to Farhome. They couldn’t. They didn’t have rhoas.
Lion snapped his head up, remembering - more like discovering - he was still in the arena. The spectators filled every available space in the rows. No one was sitting. Jumping up and down on their feet, they were all chanting his name, his Owner’s name: “Lion of Zarall.”
Lion twirled back sharply, his eyes locating the higher balcony where the royals were seated. The salute! He’d delayed his salute.
The winning beasts were supposed to salute their Owners after each victory. Lion had been awake for the last few minutes, and still hadn’t saluted his Owner!