Godsgrave

by Jay Kristoff

  “I can feel it . . . ,” Furian breathed. “Your hatred . . .”

  Mia blinked, looked to the man beside her. Furian was looking at her with a mix of horror, fear, pity. Glancing down to the shadow at her feet.

  “Almighty Aa . . . what did they do to you?”

  “Citizens of Itreya!” came the cry. “Behold, your battleground!”

  The crowd stilled as a great, trembling groan ran the length of the entire arena. The four groups of gladiatii, red, white, gold and blue, were positioned at opposite points around the arena’s oblong, clustered together in mobs of fifty or so. As Mia watched, the ground before her split apart, sand cascading down into the arena’s mekwerk belly. The crowd were on their feet, straining for a better look as four great shapes loomed up from beneath the floor. Fifty feet long, heavy ironwood hulls, fantastical beasts carved at their prows, their flanks studded with dozens of gleaming oars.

  “Those are war galleys,” one bewildered gladiatii murmured.

  “But . . . ,” another said. “But . . .”

  “Gladiatii, attend!” the centurion barked, pointing at the rope ladders dangling from their ship’s flank. “All of you, climb! Now! Move!”

  Mia did as she was told immediately, and Furian followed without question, scrambling up the ladders to the deck above. Others climbed along behind, but yet more gladiatii simply stared at the centurion in undisguised bafflement.

  “Ships?” one asked. “Almighty Aa, we’re standing on fucking sand!”

  The ground groaned again, trumpets blaring.

  “I’d do as commanded, were I you,” the centurion said.

  The man turned, and with the rest of his cadre, beat feet back across the sand. Some gladiatii began climbing onto the galleys, others looking about in bewilderment. Mia heard another mekwerk moan, the groan of metal under pressure. Heavy iron shutters clanked down over the cells skirting the arena’s edge, a series of circular grates rose from beneath the sand. And as the crowd watched in wonder, those grates shivered and, with a last hollow metal cough, began spewing water high into the air.

  The mob sighed, cheered, water vapor caught on the swirling breeze and bringing a merciful cool to the arena’s oppressive heat. But within moments, those sighs became delighted roars as the water began gushing forth harder, higher, flooding over the arena floor and swirling about the ships. Soon it was six inches deep. Eight. A foot, rising up the gladiatii’s shins in an inexorable flood.

  “This is salt water,” one said.

  A Lion of Leonides leaned over the railing, shouting at the top of his voice.

  “It’s a naval battle, you stupid bastards, climb, climb!”

  The gladiatii obeyed now, dashing to the ladders and scrambling up the sides. Mia stood at the prow, watching the water rushing and crashing around their keel. Ten feet deep and still rising, their ship beginning to rock in its wooden scaffold as it was buoyed up on the flood. Thanks to Ashlinn’s reconnaissance, Mia had some inkling of what was in store for her on the sands, but to stand among it all . . .

  The girl shook her head, simply awed by the power on display. The ingenuity. The sheer fucking hubris. Instead of sending its citizens to the ocean, the great Republic of Itreya had brought the ocean to its citizens.

  “Citizens of Itreya!” cried the grand editorii. “The Senate and Iron Collegium of our glorious Republic are proud to present to you, the battle of Seawall!”1

  The water was fifteen feet deep now, growing deeper. A great plinth rose in the center of the arena, a stone keep atop it—presumably representing the mighty fortifications at Seawall itself. Mia could see mekwerk catapults atop the crenelated walls, loaded with burning pitch. And looking down into swirling eddies below, Mia saw dozens of dark shapes cruising around their hull.

  Furian peered over the railing, squinting at the serpentine shadows.

  “Are those . . . ?”

  The crowd roared as one of the shapes breached the surface, all blunt snout and dead black eyes and row upon row of razored teeth. Almost fifteen feet long, it cut the water with its massive forked tail before disappearing below the surface.

  “Stormdrakes,” the Unfallen breathed.

  Mia shook her head. Catapults ahead. Enemy ships around. Monsters below.

  And as she looked to the sigils on breastplates and shields on the gladiatii around them, she realized she and Furian were surrounded by Lions of Leonides. At least a dozen, all as big as houses and hard as the iron at her chest.

  “Well,” Mia murmured. “Isn’t this cozy.”

  “Foes on all sides,” Furian whispered.

  “At least my life is consistent.”

  “If it comes down to you and I . . .”

  “I know.”

  “But until then?” He glanced to the blades in her hands, still stained with the blood of those who’d called her friend. “You had duty enough to defend the collegium, put those who betrayed it in the ground. I am hoping perhaps I was wrong about you. That you have learned something of honor, and the way of the gladiatii. Need I worry about your blade at my back?”

  Mia looked at him sidelong, the water about them rising ever higher.

  “There’s only one way this ends,” she said. “And you and I both know it. But I’ll come at you frontways. I can promise you that, at least.”

  The Unfallen nodded, tightened his grip on his blade.

  “So be it. Sanguii e Gloria.”

  Mia shook her head. “You can keep the glory, Furian.”

  She turned her eyes to the consul’s chair.

  “I’m just here for the blood.”

  * * *

  Down in the arena’s belly, Mercurio finished loading the wheelbarrow, dragging the heavy bucket into the tray with a wince. Truth was, he was too old for this kind of rot. His bloody arthritis was playing up again, and walking about down here dressed in rags for the past two turns wasn’t helping his shingles any, either.

  “Next time, I get to dress up in the guard’s kit,” he growled.

  Ashlinn rolled her eyes.

  “Who the ’byss is going to believe you’re a guard, you grumpy old prick?”

  The girl was lurking by the antechamber door, eyes on the hallway outside. She was still dressed in her stolen armor, black leather breastplate and skirt, a plumed helm to cover her face. Mercurio could hear the audience roaring above his head, belly filling with ice and butterflies as he realized the magni was under way.

  Though she kept her face like stone, Järnheim’s daughter seemed to share his concern. She looked to the arena above their heads, sighing.

  “I should be up there,” she whispered.

  “This is important to her,” Mercurio replied.

  “Be that as it may, this whole plan is fucking lunacy.”

  Mercurio sighed. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed yet, girl, but Mia Corvere and lunacy go together like cigarillos and smoke.”

  Ashlinn smiled. “O, aye, I noticed.”

  The bishop of Godsgrave joined her by the doorway, peered out into the corridor.

  “I realize this isn’t the time or place,” he muttered. “But just know, if you hurt her, there’s no place under the suns you can hide that I won’t find you.”

  Ash raised an eyebrow, looked the old man up and down.

  “You know, you really are very sweet for a grumpy old prick.”

  “Fuck off,” Mercurio growled.

  “Sounds like a plan to me. Shall we?”

  “Aye. But as you’re so fond of noting I’m a senior citizen.”

  “So?”

  “So you push the bloody wheelbarrow.”

  Applause echoing on the stone about them, Ashlinn pushing a barrow before them, the pair stole off into the dark.

  The crowd thundered as the trumpets rang, every man, woman, and child on their feet. After five turns of slaughter, five turns of blazing sunslight, five turns of blinding spectacle, the Venatus Magni was under way.

  Leona watched as the catapults in
the Seawall keep loosed their barrels of flaming pitch. The first rounds were simply warning shots, tumbling through the air before plunging into the water with a vicious hiss. But the threat of immolation was enough to send the gladiatii scrambling, chaos breaking out on the decks as brief struggles for command got under way.

  Ragnar of Vaan quickly took leadership of the Gold ship, the crowd thrilling as he ended a brief mutiny from another Wolf of Tacitus by putting his sword through the man’s throat and kicking him over the side. The water beneath the railing turned to foaming red as at least four stormdrakes tore the man to screaming pieces. Roaring to the oarsmen, Ragnar took the helm and steered his ship for the keep.

  Worldeater of the Phillipi took command of the Blue ship soon after, the crew also bending their oars for the fortifications. The deck of the White ship had broken into complete chaos, with the Drakes of Trajan fighting for dominance with gladiatii from three other collegia. The crowd roared as the vessel became a slaughterhouse, blood slicked over the boards.

  Looking to the Reds, Leona saw their galley was under way, the Bloodhawks of Artimedes at the helm. She could see the Crow and Furian at the bow, blades drawn, their ship headed for the fortifications. But as she watched, she saw more than a dozen Lions of Leonides forming up at their backs. Not content to wait until they’d reached the keep, Leonides’s gladiatii looked set to end Leona’s hopes of victory here and now.

  The dona looked to her father, found the man staring back at her, smiling.

  “Just business,” he whispered.

  “They come,” Furian murmured.

  “I know,” Mia replied.

  “Don’t die before I can kill you.”

  “This is not where I die.”

  The Lions charged without ceremony, and Mia and Furian turned to meet them, steel crashing against steel. The crowd thrilled at the sudden and bloody betrayal, Mia and Furian forced across the deck until their backs were to the figurehead at the bow.

  Though outnumbered, they’d chosen their battleground well—the prow was narrow, bottlenecking the Lions and making their numbers count for less. Mia reached out to the shadows at a charging Lion’s feet, but simply couldn’t hold them with all three suns blazing overhead. She was forced to rely on her speed instead, the training she’d endured under Mercurio, Solis, and then Arkades, the turns, weeks, months she’d spent with some kind of blade in her hands.

  That, and the measure of Swoon that Ashlinn had mixed in with the gladiatii’s water supply, of course.

  It hadn’t been a huge dose; not enough to send them dreaming. But she knew anyone who’d swallowed a ladleful would be feeling it by now, and it seemed the Lions charging them had been thirsty before the match. Mia feinted left, the Lion stumbled, cursed as Mia opened up a deep gouge on his thigh with her gladius. He lunged, but she slipped sideways, her blows glancing off his shield, his blade knocked from clumsy fingers and sent clattering to the deck.

  Furian moved like water, long black hair flowing behind him as he battered the charging Lions backward with his broad shield. He met a thrust with his own blade, his counter sending the sword spinning from its owner’s grip and off into the water. The catapults loosed another round, flame streaming through the air and striking their ship’s flank. Fire bloomed, a thunderous boom drowning out the crowd. Men fell screaming to the deck, wailing into the water, drakes’ teeth flashing and gnashing in the foaming red. Black smoke drifted among the dancing sparks, the stench of burning oil and meat. And Mia raised her sword and struck again at her foe.

  The man stumbled, just a touch drunk from the Swoon, but it was enough to give her the edge. A whistling slash from Mia’s blade opened up his windpipe, just as Furian ended his foe with a short, deadly thrust. Despite the carnage, despite the fear, she felt elated, her blood thrilling, her skin prickling. And as she glanced down to the deck, Mia realized her shadow was moving of its own accord, creeping like molasses across the blood-slick wood toward Furian’s. And more, his own was reaching out to hers.

  Like lovers parted.

  Like a puzzle, searching for missing pieces of themselves.

  Mia shook her head. Breathless. Hungry. The deck around them had erupted into chaos, gladiatii turning on each other as the Lions attacked Mia and Furian and their brief allegiance collapsed. Steel crashed against steel, agonized cries splitting the air, another barrel of burning pitch exploding overhead and raining liquid fire down onto the deck. The Lions were beset from behind, Furian and Mia fighting for their lives up against the bow. She realized the Gold ship had reached the fort, the gladiatii seizing control of the mekwerk catapults. The White galley was almost entirely ablaze, the Blue ship almost as bad, timber shrieking and men screaming as it crashed headlong into the keep. The Blues charged with a bloody cry, scrambling up the rope ladders and onto the battlements, the Golds meeting them head on.

  Another fire barrel hit the Red galley, this time onto the aft deck, immolating the gladiatii at the helm. The oarsmen rowed hard, desperate to reach the fort and escape their burning coffin. But with none to steer and the helm ablaze, the ship sailed wide, oars crushed to kindling against the plinth. The vessel shook, Furian stumbling to his knees, Mia almost following.

  “Come on!” Mia cried, sheathing her blades and taking a running leap over the rails. Hands outstretched, she clutched a rope ladder hanging from the battlements, dangling precariously over the water. Furian followed, leaping onto a ladder beside her, oarsmen and other gladiatii following swift suit. A Lion made a desperate leap, seizing the ladder below Furian, only to have the Unfallen’s boot send him down into the churning waters with a scream. Smoke burning her eyes, Mia scrambled up the rope, onto the keep’s walls, the stink of burning oil and sundered guts almost overpowering.

  The crowd was chanting, cheering, awestruck at the slaughter and spectacle. Mia blinked the sweat from her eyes, felt Furian leap over the battlements behind without turning to look at him. Just as when they fought in his room, Mia felt the pull in her own shadow, the hunger inside her swelling like a living thing.

  And looking to her feet, she saw their shadows were completely entwined.

  “What the ’byss is happening?” she gasped.

  Leonides spat a black curse, on his feet and roaring. It was difficult to tell through the pall of smoke, but it seemed the great sanguila had very few warriors left in the battle at all. Leona watched as the Red and White galleys began sinking, oarsmen leaping over the side to take their chances with the drakes rather than burn to death. The water was a churning soup of dorsal fins and forked tails and wails, the crowd baying as the tiny ocean turned red.

  Leona watched the Crow through narrowed eyes. A wrongness chewing at her insides. There was something about the girl . . . something amiss that she couldn’t quite place. Watching her move among the Lions, she’d proved herself every bit the champion Leona had named her. But there was something off about the way she fought. Hacking, slashing, punching, kicking . . .

  . . . but never stabbing . . .

  Leona rose to her feet, squinting through the black haze, watching the Crow fight upon the battlements alongside Furian. The pair were devastating, cutting down all before them and slowly advancing from the fortification’s edge. But her suspicion was right. Even when presented an opening for a thrust with her dagger, the Crow was only using it to block her opponent’s strikes. She’d used the smaller blade with bloody abandon in the execution bout, but now the magni was under way . . .

  “She only strikes with her gladius . . . ,” she whispered.

  Magistrae turned to her mistress. “Domina?”

  Leona felt a chill in her belly. Remembering the turn she presented Crow with her armor, the gladius and dagger of black Liisian steel to match it. Watching the sunslight flash on the silvered blade in the Crow’s hand, and knowing with dread certainty . . .

  “ . . . That is not the dagger I gifted her.”

  Ashlinn and Mercurio walked through the arena’s belly, down wending co
rridors and beneath archways of stone, following the trail of sticky scarlet. They passed patrols of soldiers, cleaners, attendants, but almost anyone with eyes was upstairs watching the magni. They could hear the sounds of the conflict raging above, hollow booms and the howls of the crowd.

  At the end of the hall, they saw a set of broad wooden doors, a pair of distinctly frustrated legionaries standing watch, heads tilted as they listened to the carnage upstairs. The taller one straightened as he saw Mercurio approach, looking the old man up and down before fixing Ashlinn in his stare.

  “You hav—”

  Ashlinn bent low and sent a small white glass globe bouncing across the stone. The pair had time enough to register the wyrdglass before it popped with a hollow bang, a cloud of pale gas filling the end of the hall. Ash and Mercurio waited to see if any came running at the sound, but the volume of the crowd and the conflict above seemed to have successfully drowned out the explosion.

  Tying heavy kerchiefs about their faces, the pair entered the room, sealing it behind them, the carved plaque on the doors now clearly visible.

  MORTUARY.

  Blood on her hands and on her tongue.

  Blood on her blades and in her eyes.

  Mia fought atop the battlements, the stone slippery with gore. Knots of gladiatii hacked and stabbed at one another, steel ringing on steel, war cries filling the air. Worldeater, Champion of the Phillipi, was drenched head to foot in blood, swinging a mighty two-handed mattock and crushing armor and shields like paper. Ragnar of the Tacitus Collegium was still standing, howling like a madman as he bent low and flipped a charging gladiatii over his shoulder, down into the water below.

  The carnage was awful, the bodies piled high, perhaps only twenty gladiatii remaining where almost three hundred had begun. Mia had never seen bloodshed like it in her life. Furian fought beside her, painted to the armpits in red.

  Their shadows were fully entwined now, all four of them, Mia, Mister Kindly, Furian, Eclipse, coalescing in the black beneath their feet. She could hear the crowd dimly, watched her blades dancing in the air almost as if they had minds of their own. But more, she could hear Furian, his heartbeat, his breathing, and beneath that, beneath the blood and the smoke and the deafening roar of the slaughter-drunk crowd, she realized she could hear . . .