by Vi Voxley
None of the champions moved, but Violet saw doubt in the eyes of one or two. The option to quit had always been a comfort of sorts for the weaker competitors. That they could bow out, leave with shame, but keep their lives, train and try again. No Atreen shunned someone who had worked themselves up after suffering a defeat. Now the Overlord was taking that away from them. It was a gamble, one that the Raider Prince would’ve enjoyed, wherever he was.
“You have been stripped of your armors, your weapons, any aid you might use. You are alone with only your own two hands to stop whatever comes through those doors. Those of you who decide to fight, descend to the arena. With that, you will forfeit the right to quit until the trial concludes. Choose now.”
The Overlord sat while a stunned, deafening silence reigned in place of his voice.
Violet was too afraid to look, but even more afraid of not looking.
As could be expected, Grom was the first to bend his huge body and just jump to the arena. He could have used chains or ladders to swing down more gracefully, but Violet guessed showing his strength was a tactic as well. Her eyes bore into the renowned champion. Grom was bald and twice the size of the average Atreen – he looked like someone had stacked huge metal crates together. From his posture it seemed like he carried some of that weight on his shoulders. When he walked, he was a bit hunched over, but he was quicker than he looked. Violet had heard he could rip a man limb from limb without any weapons.
Ronay followed him, not because he hesitated, but because, unlike Grom, he felt no need to show off. Very calmly, his gray eyes determined, he lowered himself down one of the chains. Maige’s favorite was tall as well, with weight to match. He clearly wasn’t built for speed with his big arms and a heavy tread, but his strength was commendable – he had proved that the day before, when he kept his impressive frame on the narrow ledge.
Forial and Reim were the next to follow. Forial descended slowly down the ladder, keeping his strength. Reim swung down to land gracefully on the arena, earning an applause, which he accepted with a smile and a bow. In the absence of the Prince, he was the clear favorite of the crowd. He had a good sense of humor and Violet had to admit that he wasn’t a bad-looking man. Even the calayas had taken notice of him. Both Forial and Reim were leaner than Grom, but, then again, everyone was. Their bodies looked quite alike, but the similarities ended there. Reim was handsome with his smooth smile and gray eyes sparkling under his black curls. Forial was cold, his eyes were almost lifeless and his mouth smiled only when he triumphed over an enemy.
There Violet’s mind stopped, she didn’t dare to peek at the ledge. Other warriors descended now, taking courage from the first, although a few still stood stiff, Areon was standing too.
Violet willed him to stay there, or not… Ugh.
He’ll die, said a part of her. If he doesn’t participate, he can’t win either, said another.
She didn’t know what to think. All her life Violet had wished and hoped for a strong, powerful man as her victor, someone who would protect and take care of her. Killing and kidnapping calayas wasn’t rare and she had no martial skills whatsoever, so her champion had to be able to keep her safe.
Everything had been fine until Areon showed up. She was going to root for the Raider Prince, certain that he was unbeatable.
Looking at him there, standing on the ledge, Violet hesitated.
I miss him.
There, she’d allowed herself to admit that. But she missed a child’s life. Having fun with Areon had been fine and carefree, because the Overlord had protected her then. Now she would have to leave her home and depend on her victor. Could that man, who was still standing on the ledge, really be enough for her?
He’d make you happy, a treacherous part of her said with certainty.
He might, Violet thought back. But I don’t know if I would rather be happy or safe.
She looked at Maige, sitting next to her, beaming for the time being. Violet envied her, she had never thought she would, but she did. Only Maige had it better – Ronay had accepted the challenge at once, he’d been on the arena before Forial! It wasn’t bad at all to root for someone like that.
Areon was moving too now. Violet’s heart skipped a beat as he took a hold of a chain and ended up on the arena. Ended up was the correct term, because he half-slid and half-fell from the ledge. For a crazy, embarrassed moment Violet thought he might actually bloody wave at her again, but he kept his cool.
Her father had said no one would just stumble upon victory in a tournament he hosted. No luck would help Areon when the Overlord designed the trials. Yet a part of Violet was glad. She badly wanted to silence that part, but there it was, grinning ear to ear.
Stop doing that, she told herself again. This is NOT a good thing. Areon is not meant to be on that arena, he’s going to get himself stupidly killed and it’s my fault. Although I told him, I told him not to come back!
But it was her grinning and looking at Areon, her that was so very glad that he’d decided to fight for her. Violet had tried very hard to kill the part of her that had fallen for Areon all those years ago, but there it was, still alive, like a thorn inside her, with the single goal of making her unhappy. Areon had no place in a calaya’s heart because there was no way he’d ever win one. But somehow there he was and Violet was doomed to watch his feeble attempt to do the impossible. She was unable to even give him the comfort of her favor because it had to be reserved for her true victor.
Areon stood on the arena now with the rest of the warriors. And for a second, it seemed to Violet like he belonged there. While he had his back to her, she truly took him for someone powerful – he was too, in body at least. Of all those who had waited for them that morning, Areon had caught her gaze the most.
He was somewhere between Reim’s slenderness and Grom’s brusque roughness, perfectly in the middle. His brown hair was messy, but the gray eyes she loved sparkled with life. There were a few scars on his back, but Violet assumed they were from some accidental fall or something similar. When he flexed his muscles she could see raw strength rippling under his skin. Only what use was strength without the skill to use it? Areon was gorgeous – she was ready to admit that. No longer plain, no longer average, he was the most handsome man on the arena, his body flawless from his broad shoulders to his smooth, flat stomach. And Violet couldn’t lie to herself, she desperately wanted to see what was beneath his pants too. But he was still Areon, still just Areon.
She wondered if it would be the last time she ever saw him. If she should have said something, apologized for what had happened three years ago.
No one else seemed willing to go down to the arena. To Violet’s surprise, almost all of them had and the five or six remaining on the ledge had probably just come to try their luck – and their luck had run out. The Overlord didn’t waste words on them. Heads bowed, they left. The rest cracked their necks and knuckles, preparing for what was to come.
Violet pressed her nails into her seat. Her heart thudded so hard she almost missed the moment everyone quieted down again to hear the Overlord speak once more.
“Good,” he merely said. “It’s encouraging to see so many take this seriously. It’s a pity I do too.”
Violet missed the signal he must have given, because doors opened on the arena. Not all of them, but not all were needed.
Of the hundred or so men on the ground, battle-hardened and powerful, a few screamed. The gnaour emerged – four of them. A single one could stop the advances of smaller raid parties, armed-to-the-teeth raid parties that was.
They were mutant creatures, remnants of ancient experiments with breeding battle changers. The intention had been to create unstoppable and devastating havoc-makers who would be distractions either in battle or during a raid and divert the attention of enemies. It had worked too, but gnaour were almost impossible to control and their usefulness was therefore questionable. Most had been eradicated after that discovery, but not before a decent amount had escaped into the wi
ld. They were rare mostly because no one was mad enough to search one out.
The Overlord had found four.
Violet would have screamed if she’d still had a whiff of breath in her lungs. Her world had swiftly narrowed down to Areon standing before one of the gnaour, unarmed and defenseless. In truth she didn’t even see him. All Violet saw was a huge furry body and four massive legs ready to trample everything in its path and a tongue between fangs as long as a man’s arm. The tongue was infamous for being more poisonous than anything the Atreens had ever encountered or manufactured and, at that moment, it was flung around Areon’s waist.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ronay hadn’t lied, he really had the antidote to gnaour venom with him, close enough to his person so that he could ingest it before they were led to the arena.
I wonder if he wants to be a mercenary, Areon thought. I wouldn’t mind the guy joining my ranks. He truly came prepared.
Indeed, it seemed the lover-boy wasn’t half as hopeless as he’d sounded. When Areon heard of him, both he and Reim had put him down as one of those lovesick types – ready to throw themselves right into a fight, but with no true chance. Ronay seemed different now, he had a goal in sight and he had done everything to prepare himself for the tournament. Areon didn’t need to ask if he brought the antidote to almost every known substance. If he had the gnaour one, he had them all.
He slipped away while Ronay was busy, though getting the warning and the antidote to Reim was easier. They’d also come prepared – the Raider Prince and his second-in-command had a secret sign language they could use in a situation much like this one. Reim’s eyes went wide with surprise when Areon signaled him and he double-checked before finally giving a nod. Then he disappeared to retrieve the antidote.
Areon looked around, sizing up the rest. Gnaour were among the most dangerous creatures the Atreens knew. There was no doubt many would be dead by the day’s end, but he couldn’t warn them all, or rather he wouldn’t. They had chosen to be there, they were his competition and they were all capable of dealing with the threat.
He’d only helped Ronay because, well… Why had he done that? He was probably just getting sentimental, young love and all that. Maybe it was because he himself felt he was denied that. Maybe it was because he’d rather see Ronay win than Grom.
Not that he doubted his own victory for a second, but Areon had learned many hard truths in his life – one was that no one was immortal and thinking that was close to being suicidal. Everyone could die, even the Raider Prince.
But not today, he thought, grinning.
The Overlord gives the best speeches, he thought a while later, standing on the ledge. All happy and cheerful, positive, reinforcing – the man is a born motivational speaker.
He stayed on the ledge for a long time, nonetheless. One by one, his competitors lowered themselves to the arena. Ronay sent him a weird look, but Areon could handle being taken for a coward. It was what he was going for after all, his chosen charade, not to mention his protection. Reim had been right – he had that annoying tendency. If either the Overlord or Grom learned of who he was, he’d become a living trophy to be collected.
So the game had to continue. On the stand, he saw Sarto sitting with some of the Raiders, no doubt to see how their commanders were doing.
You guys are adorable. Don’t give me away now, though.
Finally, the appropriate amount of hesitating later, he dropped himself on the arena.
Another round of inspiring words from the Overlord and then the doors opened. Areon found himself face to face with one of the gnaour. In truth, he hadn’t known how many there were, it was by accident that one of them got out early in the morning. He had no idea how they’d managed to get the creature back inside after he made his hasty departure. That would have been a lovely piece of information.
Four. Ouch. The things I do for you, Violet.
The reason why the gnaour were so dangerous was the damned tongue. Incredibly long, it darted out of the creature’s mouth to wrap itself around him like a whip. The creature’s saliva was the venom. He felt it seeping into his unprotected skin. Despite the antidote, it hurt like all the demons. He made himself scream not to appear miraculously invincible. It took an effort, after he’d put himself through so many years of pain tolerance practice, but it actually helped to channel the pain.
Behind him, Areon could hear others screaming, more real as far as he knew. Almost everyone in the arena was vulnerable to the horrible venom. It worked by flooding the body with incredibly fast-working toxins, making the victim feel like he was burning inside. What is worse, it paralyzes the limb it strikes and spreads slowly from there. The antidote was as good as it got, but it didn’t really render him immune. He felt the pain and his sides were growing numb. He’d have to get out of the creature’s grip soon.
Before he eats me.
Oh yeah, that was the best part. Gnaour ate everything they could get their damn paws on. Of course they liked the meat of the Atreens the most, but they didn’t back down from cannibalism either. The tongue was dragging Areon slowly towards the gnaour’s huge, gaping mouth. They really were enormous – the thing could have swallowed him in one piece. Areon managed to place his feet on its jaws before being dragged in and remained there for a moment – enough to quickly look around to see if anyone could help.
Everyone seemed quite busy though, mostly with dying. Men were screaming around him, holding useless limbs or bleeding from bite wounds.
Bite wounds, Areon thought miserably. When a gnaour bites you, it leaves you with a half of your body, if you’re lucky.
He could see Reim, further away, using the crates to hide and dodge from one of the gnaour. His second-in-command kept looking at him, putting himself in danger by averting his gaze.
Areon didn’t know if he should be upset or moved. All jokes aside, Reim was fiercely loyal to him and clearly waiting for his cue to do everything in his power to help him. Areon shook his head very slightly, hoping the gesture went unnoticed by the rest – or that it looked like twitching.
That was the true him, halfway in the mouth of a hungry gnaour, but still not considering himself to be in too much trouble.
Only in much, much pain. The gnaour venom really was a bitch.
Meanwhile, the creature was starting to figure some things out. Gnaour were dumb to the bone, not bred to think beyond their next meal, but it apparently understood enough and changed its tactic. The tongue stopped pulling and it tried to drag Areon under its gigantic furry feet.
That was more difficult to dodge.
Not for the Raider Prince, of course, but for Areon.
He looked around him quickly, looking for a prospective rescuer again. His lips twitched in a sneer when he saw Grom wielding a makeshift sword. It looked like a metal bar ripped from one of the crates or something, but it seemed passably sharp. In combat it would have been useless, but it helped Grom keep another trampling, wild gnaour away from him.
“Grom!” he yelled.
The champion’s eyes flickered to him. Their look was calculating and cruel, but those happened to be the exact qualities Areon appreciated about him. Grom saw him and dismissed him as little more than another corpse-to-be.
“Grom!” Areon yelled again after he figured the champion had made up his mind.
“How are you still alive?” the champion growled in response, keeping his eyes firmly on his own gnaour.
That was a good question. Areon figured it would also no longer be relevant in a few minutes when he ran out of strength to fight the now-furious creature. The simple prey just refused to die.
“Never mind that,” he yelled, trying to make his voice sound desperate. “Do you want to kill one of these things?”
Now he had Grom’s attention.
It was straight from Areon’s personal book of dealing with egomaniac champions. Rule 1: appeal to their ego. Rule 2: appeal to their sense of superiority. Rule 3: give them a chance to gain a win/troph
y.
He was ticking off all of those like a charm. Before Grom had to admit he was in a fair bit of trouble with his gnaour, Areon explained.
“Cut his tongue,” he called to him.
Grom took a moment to consider that. “Why should I help you?” he snarled, however. “You’re a competitor. My rival.”
“Do I seem like a major threat to you?” Areon shot. “Hurry!”
At least he could read people. Grom made his decision and Areon did something he rather shouldn’t have, but life wasn’t fair, now was it? Most people didn’t even want to see a gnaour, much less come within the reach of their tongues. Much less take a hold of their tongue like that and pull it out of their mouth, taut and ready.
Oh FUCK that hurts. Son of a bitch, this wasn’t one of my better ideas. There isn’t even a single good comparison to the pain! Every expression about pain already has the fucking gnaour in them!
It was true. Gritting his teeth, tears falling from his eyes, Areon settled for “hurts like a gnaour licking you”.
He felt that the people, who came up with the expression, had no true appreciation for actually being licked by a gnaour. He doubted they ever saw the bloody things.
“Grom,” he warned. “This thing thinks I’m his lunch!”
The champion barked a laugh. Areon saw him fool the other gnaour with a quick move and dash towards him. His monster was enraged, but instincts ruled over reason. Instead of trampling him or shaking him loose, the gnaour was trying to wrench its tongue loose. The grip around Areon relaxed, but he still didn’t let go.
God, I’m pulling a gnaour’s tongue. I would pay a lot of money to SEE this happening.
That was all he could think, the rest of his mind was pain, pain, pain. The antidote was doing its best, but it hurt so badly it nearly blinded him – then Grom’s makeshift sword hit.