by Bridget Ladd
However freeing the feeling may be, I was still unnerved.
“You’re her arn’t cha?” the boy beside me whispered in a twangy accent reminiscent of Sector 3.
I said nothing to the boy and turned away, pulling my hood further over my face. The action was pretty much an outright admittance to his inquiry after I thought about it. It wouldn’t make a difference if I told him the truth or not. He’d find out sooner or later if my name was called.
“My uncle is Hugo Miller, and he volunteered his name,” the boy said, leaning closer to me as the announcer continued to babble on about the greatness of the Council. The boy crossed his boots and arms as if nothing could bother him today. “My momma says Hugo better win or she’s gonna kick his arse her own self,” he said with a matter-of-fact nod of his head.
I could not help raising my eyebrow. The child was of an interesting sort with his disheveled hair and dirty boots. He leaned even closer as if he trusted me completely to keep a secret. “I’m personally rootin’ for Bubbles McGee to win. He’s my hero.” He smiled at me, but then looked rather worried. “But don’t go tellin’ Momma I said that or she’ll have my hide!”
I smiled and shook my head, letting him know I wouldn’t dare betray his trust. I brought my attention back to the announcer when another round of applause echoed throughout the market square. I was lucky to have even received a seat. Many were made to stand and were continuing to fill the streets and alleyways behind us.
“How about we not waste any more time and get down to business shall we?” the announcer asked as he walked over to his pedestal and waited for the two large men who were carrying the box of Volunteer names. The men sat the golden box on the table before exiting the stage. The announcer smiled and waved his hands in the air to cease the cheering that erupted all around.
“I have here before me all the names of those who volunteered their lives for the greater good of City Prosper.” He surveyed the crowd. “If your name is called, please respond swiftly to the stage so we can have you grouped in your respective pairs.”
My heart raced, and I was making good work of a torn cuticle on my index finger as I waited for him to begin. Who else could’ve volunteered for Sector 8? Judging my luck from the past few days, I may not even receive a partner and end up fighting alone.
That scenario would be . . . unpleasant.
At least I knew for certain I would never be paired with Scottie; he was a Sector 7 native and could only serve under them. I wonder how his nose is holding up? I chuckled inwardly to myself at the snide thought. The pratt deserved it.
“I will now be drawing for each Sector, starting with Sector 1,” the announcer said as he reached into the box. He swiveled his hand back and forth and it looked as though he was having trouble finding any names at all. He finally stopped and smiled as he removed two tiny slips of paper, one after the other, and took a good look at them.
“Affery and Afina Lin!” he bellowed towards the crowd. “It appears that Affery and Afina were the only two brave enough to volunteer for Sector 1. This will be the first pair of siblings to fight alongside one another! Twins, even!” The announcer was thrilled to have found an outlet to provide more drama to the Drawing.
The crowd erupted in applause, heads bobbing excitedly.
I had always respected Sector 1 for their unique and almost exotic nature. They were known as the Oriental Sector in the past—I closed my eyes at the brief memory of the bright and colorful hanging lanterns that lined the narrowed streets on my one and only family visit there.
I believed the announcer to be incorrect in the assumption that Affery and Afina were the only ones brave enough to volunteer for their Sector. It was more likely that Sector 1, as a whole, agreed to place Affery and Afina into the Drawing and no one else. If they knew the twin’s skills to be great, why have any other applicants? That way their fighters were chosen by them and not dictated by the Drawing.
I hoped the Council never catches on to that. Having too much social concurrence in a Sector can be dangerous. If they were not careful, they could one day end up abandoned, broken, and Purged like Sector 9 had during my grandmother’s time. I’d heard stories. All horrible. My stomach clenched again from the dark thought.
I directed my eyes back to the stage. Once the fierce looking Affery, and Afina—with her dark and starkly angled hair—assumed their places on the stage, the announcer went to work on the box once again.
The gears on the box’s side moved and shifted. Any remaining names from Sector 1 would be dispelled into an incineration chamber, so the new ones from Sector 2 could transition into place. There had been no names left for Sector 1, but it was an automatic function that was used as a precaution. Once the names were chosen there was no going back. Either you fought or you forfeited.
More than likely, forfeits resulted in banishment of City Prosper, and the fighters in question were thrown into the Outlands.
Cowards were not to be tolerated.
“I will now be drawing for Sector 2. When called, please come and stand next to Sector 1’s inductees.” He reached into the box, this time with more ease, and again drew two names. “Percival Roberts, and Fin Hughs!”
Two slimy-looking gentlemen stood and began to approach the stage just as Sector 2 burst into applause. The sly smiles on their faces, especially Percival’s, were a bit disturbing, considering they could both die or find themselves exiled to the Outlands in the coming month. They of course knew that. Every applicant did. Some however, volunteered their names simply for the fame of it.
Percival claimed the spot next to Afina and licked his thin lips at her rather suggestively. She paid him no mind. He wasn’t going to get a rise out of her today or any day, judging by her firm and determined stance, eyes straight towards the crowd.
The announcer again waited for the gears to engage before he reached inside and pulled out two more names. “Those who will be fighting for Sector 3 are . . . Gerald Chapman and Hugo Miller!” he bellowed.
The people around me erupted in cheers, hoots, and hollers. The little boy next to me grabbed my hooded jacket and tugged excitedly as he jumped by my side. “That’s my uncle! That’s my uncle!” he shouted to me eagerly.
Against my better judgment, I smiled along with the jubilant 3’s that surrounded me. I could see myself at home in Sector 3. If my name was not called today, I might find a place among them in the future. They were a bit odd with their choice of clothing and twangy accent, but they were good people. They’ve been known to take in strays before.
Perhaps that’s why I choose to sit with them now.
After the ruckus had died down, Hugo and Gerald leisurely made their way to the stage. Though they appeared to only be in their early thirties, they were the oldest inductees chosen so far. The announcer offered them a fake smile, displeased with them taking their time, and prepared the box for Sector 4.
“Sector 4 will have Damaris Wayverie, and Margie Showpak to fight in their honor!”
My jaw dropped as I saw the brutish size of both Damaris and Margie, both of which made guttural grunting sounds as they approached the stage, pounding at their chests with their fists. I would’ve mistaken Margie to be a man if it hadn’t been for the slightly feminine timbre of the growling noises that exuded deep within her chest.
Interesting, I bit at my lip in nervous thought. I never believed this was going to be easy, but these two brutes looked like they’d been raised to fight in the Barrage from infancy. Their eyes lusted for blood.
The only physical activity that I was taught from infancy was the elegant art of dance. That and Blacksmithing, which all Mistresses are required to learn. Blacksmithing would help some, but not much.
I closed my eyes and sighed at the thought.
What have I done?
I clenched my fists by my side. Two desires enabled me to keep it together: My lust for justice and for revenge. I wouldn’t let any of the other inductees unnerve me or distract me from that caus
e. I unclenched my fists and covered my face with fumbling fingers—resting my elbows on my knees and pinching the bridge of my nose to try and relieve the strain. I guess I wasn’t faring too well on that front.
Feeling drained, my mind turned to fog as Sector 5’s inductees were called to the stage. Sir Norbert and Charles Nampier, I think the announcer had said. A pair of stuffy, older gentlemen approached the platform with hands in their pockets and stood next to Margie, swiveling in their shiny shoes to both nod at her before acknowledging the crowd in greeting. Margie snarled at their pleasantry and turned her gaze sharply towards the announcer.
The little boy beside me kicked at my boots, jarring me back into reality just as Sector 6 was about to be called. He crossed his fingers as tightly as he could and quietly mouthed, “Bubbles McGee, Bubbles McGee, Bubbles McGee!” so only I could see.
I rolled my eyes at him and managed a small smile as I waited for the announcer.
“We have three more Sectors to go folks. Hang with me now as I announce those who will be fighting for Sector 6. The two lucky individuals are to be: Henry Harnister and Bubbles McGee!”
The little boy beside me could hardly contain his excitement at hearing those words. He squealed out in his joy before clamping his hand to his mouth in embarrassment. A few of those in Sector 3 turned around, shooting him disapproving looks.
If Margie and Damaris had intimidated me, Bubbles McGee shined a whole new light on the matter of fear. He had to easily be seven-foot tall with forearms as thick as a grown man’s thighs. His handle bar mustache twitched as he grabbed his buddy, Henry, and hauled him one-armed to the stage.
The announcer moved aside to give the two a wide berth as they passed. Bubbles caught on to the announcer’s slight movement and within two strides was at his side, grabbing him up into a massive hug, jostling him around like a rag doll. Bubbles McGee practically bellowed in the announcer’s face in his amusement. Only when Bubbles had enough of his fun did he drop him to the ground. He playfully slapped both sides of the announcer’s face, with a resounding smack, before he strutted back to his spot next to Henry.
The crowd laughed and the announcer looked infuriated and visibly shaken as he walked back to the box. Bubbles had officially succeeded in ruffling his feathers. I smiled. The announcer wanted drama in today’s Drawing? Well he got it all right.
He nervously matched the audience’s enjoyment as he tried to regain his composure. “He’s a jokester, that Bubbles McGee,” he said red-faced. “I have no doubt he will give us a good show this year.”
The announcer flinched as Bubbles roared his consent and raised his massive arm into the air behind him.
Clearing his throat, the announcer remained unusually silent and tapped his foot while he waited for the gears to shift into place. He hastily reached into the opening and removed two more names from the box.
“Those fighting for Sector 7 are Giles, and Scottie Briggins,” he called out rather unenthusiastically—the announcer’s previous verve having deflated after being toyed with.
Great. Scottie was fighting. Not that it really surprised me. No doubt Mr. Briggins had some influence in getting him selected.
Scottie approached the stage with a scummy-looking individual at his side, whom I could only guess was Giles. I studied the pair and smirked at the sight of the centralized black and blue bruise on Scottie’s face.
Giles stood tall and slinky next to Scottie in a worn-out suit and pair of shoes. His dark hair was greased flat against his head and his face, pale and pot-marked. The way he smugly looked over at Scottie sent shivers down my spine. Giles appeared to be another I’d need watch my back around.
The announcer sobered himself, realizing he needed to impress the Council, which he would not achieve through his now dour theatrics. He gleamed a fake bright smile as he waited for the box’s gears to shift into place this one last time.
The Drawing for Sector 8.
Time seemed to slow around me. My heart threatened to race from my chest. I wasn’t sure how, but I knew—I knew without a doubt—that today, I would be chosen to fight.
~
The announcer reached inside the box, anxious to have this over with, and stalled. He circled his hand around and around before finally removing one name only.
He cleared his throat. “It appears Sector 8 has only offered one Volunteer,” he said. A few members in the crowd gasped at his words.
This has never happened before. Was this even in accordance to the Law? The Barrage Code?
The announcer continued, “Lily Emerson!” he shouted. “Come take your place among the other inductees!” he called out cheerfully.
My heart sank. I was the only Volunteer? How could that be?
There was no way I could ever survive the Barrage alone. The Council must’ve had a hand in this. To what purpose, I did not know. They desire to see me fail, that much is clear.
I sighed, accepting my fate. This choice was my mine after all. If I had to fight alone, then I would fight alone. But fight I would.
I would not give in to forfeit.
I started to rise, but hesitated when I spotted a short, rotund man huff his way quickly onto the stage.
I realized then that this was no ordinary individual, but the Magistrate himself—the Magistrate, who oversaw all proceedings of the Barrage. He handed the announcer a piece of paper and whispered something into his ear. The announcer looked at him inquiringly, though shrugged it off as if nothing else could surprise him today.
“It appears that another Volunteer came forth early this morning.”
“That’s ludicrous!” Mr. Briggins shouted from the Council member’s booth. “Only names that reside in the box can be accepted!”
The little rotund Magistrate who was halfway down the stairs stopped and shouted back at him. “Not unless we fail to place it in said box. It is to no fault but our own. The Volunteer shall be accepted.”
Mr. Briggins slumped back into his seat, knowing he had no further say in the matter. The Magistrate’s word was final. He had authority over any and all issues that involved the rules of the Barrage, the Drawing, included.
My breath hitched in my chest from the sudden turn of events. Who? Who? Who? My heart raced in anticipation, thudding frantically against my ribs. Only two minutes ago I had known without a doubt that my name was to be called today.
I, however, almost fell from my seat when I heard the words traverse across the announcer’s lips.
He looked at the card, scrunching his brows as he read the one word name that was scrawled across it. “Lily Emerson is to be paired with—Xander of Sector 8.”
Chapter 9
Dimachaeri
Remaining where I sat, I looked ahead to the stage, dumbfounded—only an audience member taking it all in before the little Sector 3 boy kicked at my shin. “Git up, girl!” he urged. “That’s you! Go.”
Mechanically, I rose and walked towards the stage, ignoring the curious looks and whispers.
“Lily Emerson? The Head’s daughter?” I heard someone say to my right.
I glanced towards my parent’s booth. My mother was nowhere to be seen. My father, cool and calculative as ever, leaned over and gripped the railing of the booth as he looked at me. If he was worried, his face gave nothing away to indicate it.
Scottie and Giles repositioned themselves on the other side of Henry Harnister as I stepped up onto the stage, not wanting to stand by my side, in—what I presumed—a vain attempt to unnerve me.
I couldn’t bring myself to acknowledge Xander. Even when he took his place beside me, I kept my gaze fixed forward. I swallowed and planted my dusty boots onto the stage as I looked out into the curious faces of the crowd.
Everything was happening so fast it hardly seemed real.
There’s no going back now.
It was oddly reassuring to have Xander at my side as I stood a mere foot from the Goliathan that was Bubbles McGee. Not just a Goliath, or a Leviathan . . . Bubbles
was both. Xander’s quiet confidence somehow made me uncomfortable and secure at the same time as I gauged the presence of those around me. Xander. My partner? I cared nothing for Scottie and Giles’ childish maneuver; I was far too curious as to what Xander had running through his head. Did he have a death wish? Why would he volunteer at the last possible moment?
That chivalrous, over-confident . . . idiot, I thought angrily. But then I realized the same could easily be said for myself.
And, all “whys” and “wherefores” aside, was he angry or disappointed that he had been paired with me, the girl who hardly knew how to fight?
Not able to stand it any longer, I chanced a peek at him. He didn’t seem to notice me staring, or at least I didn’t think he did as he stood with a bored nonchalance beside me, arms crossed, watching the crowd. He wore a brown leather vest over a dirty white tunic with sleeves rolled to his elbows as though he had only just sprinted over from the forge. Even when just wearing the traditional blacksmith’s garb, he somehow still managed to look dangerous. I watched as his eyes scanned over each person as though he was looking for something. For someone.
Like the first time I had sat eyes upon him from below the table during my Coronation, I was wrong in my assumptions about him. He had noticed me staring, which was evident by the small, sly smile that curved the corner of his mouth as he continued to casually search the crowd, ever watchful.
I refocused my gaze ahead of me, knowing I had been caught.
Perhaps he volunteered because he felt I could not forge a path to this revolution alone.
Perhaps he pitied me.
Whatever the case may be, Xander had come to my aid twice in two days. His generosity was far too mysterious for me to comprehend and I wasn’t quite confident I understood, or trusted, the origin of such motivation.