Art of War

by Triantafyllou, Petros

  Kill at least one. Fayad couldn’t even pretend she had any chance of killing ten living opponents and being set free.

  The crowd above roared as their current favourite murdered another opponent. Feet stomped, red dust fell from the ceiling.

  Forever undying. A last bright moment in the sun, and then pain and blood and an eternity of misery.

  Fayad glanced at the head she turned to face the wall.

  Shit. She winced in guilt.

  Motionless, forever staring at a wall. What would that be like?

  Word was that when the skull rotted enough, the eyelids were gone, the dead lost the ability to blink, to close their eyes. They saw everything. And having your eyes rot to nothing or be devoured by insects was no escape. Empty sockets stared forever, all part of the necromancy twisting the land.

  Fayad held her eyes open, staring at another one of the heads on the shelf across from her. This one had only grey shreds of tattered flesh clinging to it. Its scalp had slid off one side and lay puddled beside it, maggots, hair, and putrescence.

  Eyes watering, she stared, trying to imagine it lasting forever.

  Finally, tears streaming, she blinked.

  I’ll go insane.

  Closing her eyes, she sat motionless. This might be the last time she got to enjoy darkness.

  Above, the crowds roared, and then fell quiet.

  They’re dragging away the loser, shoving them in a cage with the other dead, saving them for the mad brawl at the end.

  How many could she kill?

  Well, so far in her life, she’d managed to kill exactly one person. While she’d meant to stab him—just a little—she hadn’t intended to kill him. And since she hadn’t known who she was stabbing, she hadn’t meant to kill him.

  The magistrate hadn’t been much impressed with that defence either.

  Fayad heard the shuffling steps of the kennel master before she saw him. He came down the steps one at a time, like a child afraid of falling. A big fucker, he was damned near twice her height, all fat and muscle and stupidity. Grey skin hung slack, his eyes yellow like rotting milk. Upon reaching the last step, he stopped and glared at the floor as if suspecting a trap.

  “Go ahead,” said Fayad, “take the last step. I promise you won’t plummet to your death.”

  He stepped down, saying, “Plummet. Plump bits. Plumb it. Plum tits.”

  He minced over to Fayad, examining her manacled wrists and ankles.

  “The magistrate changed his mind,” she said. “I’m to be let free.”

  “Good. You seem nice.”

  “I am.”

  Grabbing the chain connecting her wrists he lifted her off the bench and into the air so she hung dangling.

  “That’s quite painful,” she informed him through gritted teeth.

  He turned her, looking her over from every angle and for a moment she thought maybe she was going to get raped before someone murdered her.

  “No hidden weapons?” he said. “Sometimes they forget to search and I get stabbed.” He pouted. “I don’t like getting stabbed.”

  Still holding her aloft with a single hand, he lifted his shirt to show her the many stab wounds in his bulging belly. None had healed. None bled. Something white and glistening squirmed in one.

  “You’re dead,” she said.

  “No, I’ll get better.”

  “Right. Good luck.”

  Putting her down, he shoved Fayad toward the steps. “Go.” He pushed her again, sending her stumbling, and followed along behind.

  “How long have you been down here?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “What time is it?”

  “Early afternoon,” she guessed.

  “What day is it?”

  “Fourthday.”

  “What year?”

  “Thirty-two fifteen from the fall of PalTaq.”

  “Oh. Then I don’t know.” He pointed up the stairs with a blunt finger like a boiled sausage. “Go.”

  Up she went.

  “What weapon you want?” he asked from behind her.

  “A ballista and a squad of the duke’s Marching Dead.”

  “What armour?”

  “Full plate and a shield wall.”

  “Fine.”

  “I’m not getting any of that, am I?”

  “Nope. Just curious.”

  “Fuck.”

  “No thanks. Too small. Don’t like skinny.”

  Cresting the stairs, he herded her down a long hall, pushing and prodding with that fat finger. Daylight turned the far end a blinding cloud of dust and sand. The crowd grew in volume with every step.

  Boom! Boom! The stomping of feet.

  “I like to give people some motivation to do well,” he said. “It’s sad when they die too fast. The crowd doesn’t like it.”

  “I’d hate to disappoint.”

  “Some kids threw all the heads in the fourteenth shitter into the pit. They dropped stones on them until they sank.”

  “Oh.” Fayad’s guts turned to water and tried to escape south.

  “All the shelves there are empty.”

  “Fucking fantastic. All motivated. Thank you so much.”

  Placing a monstrous hand on her shoulder, he dragged her to a stop. He turned her to face a table she hadn’t seen. An assortment of crude weapons lay scattered on its surface. Rusty knives. Bent swords. A trident with only two dull-looking barbs. A leather whip.

  “No maul?” she asked.

  The big dead stinky guy looked her up and down as if judging her ability to wield such a weapon. “It’s out for repairs.”

  Noting the rough shape of the supplied weapons, she wondered how many pieces the maul had to be in before it was sent for repairs.

  “I’ll take a sword and a knife.”

  “Going to unchain your hands and feet now,” he said. “No stabbing, please.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  What would be the point? There was nowhere to run, and the big man was already dead. Putting steel in his belly would just upset him, and she figured she had enough problems already.

  When he finished unchaining her, he straightened and flashed a quick smile.

  “The fuck you grinning about?”

  “My knees don’t hurt any more. Neither does my lower back.”

  “The dead feel no pain.”

  “Every turd has a silver lining,” he said, shuffling away in his mincing little steps.

  “What do I do?” Fayad called after him.

  “Go out and die. If you hide in the tunnel, they come get you and break a leg as punishment.”

  “Great.” She had a thought. “Hey!”

  He stopped. “What?”

  “There’s a head facing the wall. Turn it back for me, would you?”

  “Okay.” And off he shuffled.

  Turning back to the bright light and chanting crowds, she shrugged acceptance and set off. Someone out there with a booming voice announced her crime and made accidentally stabbing an ass-grabbing prick sound terribly dramatic.

  Was the duke’s nephew here, somewhere in the Undying Lands? Some wealthy families built elaborate mausoleums—sprawling mansions—where their dead were held as pampered prisoners. No one wanted corpses running free, but many wanted to visit their deceased to ask advice or just visit missed relatives.

  People, she decided, were short-sighted self-centred assholes. No one cared what the dead wanted.

  The announcer wrapped up his spiel as she stumbled into the sunlight. Hot air, desert dry, stank of camels and sweat. Bloodstained patches of the red sand a darker crimson. The colosseum, packed to capacity, dragged her to a halt. Never before had she been the centre of attention for fifty thousand people.

  Fifty thousand people came to watch me die.

  Well, not just her. Her and a bunch of other poor bastards.

  When the crowd spotted her, a slight girl of twenty, bent sword in one hand, rusted dagger in the other, they booed.

  “Fuck you!�
� she screamed at them, voice cracking.

  Though most couldn’t hear her, they seemed to appreciate the sentiment. Across the bloody arena sands stood her opponent. He’d been hurt and limped forward, blood pouring from a long gash in his leg. His left arm looked to have been broken at the elbow and hung swinging.

  The announcer went into great length detailing her opponent’s many crimes. Apparently, he was a thief and a murderer, a pirate and a sell-sword, a spy and an assassin.

  Assassin. Fantastic.

  “And this,” concluded the announcer, “shall be his tenth fight today!”

  Fayad’s heart fell. She faced a man who already killed nine opponents. If he killed her, he walked free.

  If? When.

  He grinned at her, teeth bloody like he killed his last opponent by biting him to death.

  One little girl who accidentally stabbed someone for grabbing her ass against a seasoned killer who was one more wee murder away from freedom.

  The crowd were on their feet now, screaming, a deafening roar of blood lust. The sound felt like a crushing weight, like their hate sucked the air from her lungs. Blood! Blood! Blood!

  They want him to win. They want him to kill me.

  She saw it. She saw his perfect hair and his perfect, if bloody, teeth. She saw that cocky grin, the flat muscled plain of his belly. He was square jawed and handsome, roguishly so.

  And Fayad was going to kill him.

  He limped forward, confident in his victory. And how could he not be?

  Fayad retreated, circling away, and again the crowd booed.

  I’ll let him bleed some more. Hopefully it would slow him, weaken him.

  He followed, calling, “Keep running away and they’ll put an arrow in you to slow you down.”

  Glancing at the towering wall surrounding the arena, she spotted the evenly spaced archers up there. They stood watching, arrows nocked but not drawn.

  Shit.

  Was he lying? Again, she circled away until the nearest archer raised his bow and took aim.

  Scooting closer, she feinted a stab, staying well out of sword range.

  Ignoring the feint, her opponent said, “Sorry, girl.”

  They circled, finding their range and testing each other’s speed and strength. His long arms gave him a decided advantage. He also clearly knew a lot more about sword fighting. Her feints were usually ignored. When she did lunge forward in an attempt to stab him with her bent sword, her attacks were bashed aside with a speed and strength that threatened to send her weapon spinning to the sand.

  Even limping, his balance was perfect. He moved with flawless grace. This was a born killer. Fayad, on the other hand, liked drinking in pubs.

  She considered throwing the rusty knife at him, but had never thrown a knife before. The weight felt awkward in her hand, too heavy in the grip.

  Knocking aside another clumsy attack, he lashed out, leaving a gash across her ribs. It burned like fire, and she staggered away.

  The crowd roared, a deafening crescendo. Blood! Blood! Blood!

  He attacked, a liquid blur of steel, following relentlessly. Her sword sang harsh discordant notes of metallic agony, the blade shedding bright slivers and bending under the onslaught. Once she started retreating, she couldn’t stop. He pressed and pressed, driving her back. Blood poured from a wound in her side, sheening her belly crimson. A splinter of steel flew from her sword, cutting her over her left eye. Still he pressed, stabbing, slashing, ever forward. She blinked sweat and blood, burning her eyes, turning the world red.

  He’s not defending.

  Not in the least. But his ceaseless attacks meant that if she launched her own attack, he’d cut her for sure.

  Already cut. Must—

  Fayad’s sword shattered, the bent blade spinning away to kick up a plume of red sand.

  “Fu—”

  He stabbed her in the belly, ran her through.

  Reaching back, she touched the blade protruding from her back. “Oh.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Life is war, and I’m a warrior. You…” He shrugged.

  The crowd screamed and chanted, but they all seemed so far away.

  He withdrew his sword, and she crumpled, knees folding.

  Fayad lay in sanguine sand, her life pulsing out, adding to the many stains. Knowing it was pointless, she fought to stanch the wound.

  He stood over her, tall and handsome and deadly.

  “In other circumstances,” he said, flashing an apologetic grin.

  In other circumstances I’d have accidentally stabbed you in a shitty tavern.

  “You’re my tenth.” He let out a long sigh. “I go free. The gods,” he winked, “have found me innocent.”

  She blinked up at him, seeing him through blood.

  Not one. She failed to kill a single opponent. They’d cut her head off and stick it in a fucking shitter where she could watch fat old men grunt out craps.

  Forever.

  Or at least until some bored kid tossed her head into the bog. Then she’d sink away, see nothing but shit.

  How many heads were in there? How long did you have to be an undying skull sank in excrement before you went mad? Would insanity be an escape?

  “Belly wound,” he said, moving closer. “I didn’t… That’s a bad way to go. Long and slow.”

  Fayad showed her own bloody grin. “And you can’t leave until I’m dead.”

  He limped closer, grimacing. “True. But I would save you the many hours of agony.”

  He’s lost a lot of blood. He wouldn’t last hours out here in the sun.

  She coughed and pain tore her. Gods, it hurt so much.

  He ran you through. You’re already dead. Why fight it? Let him finish you.

  An eternity in a shit pit.

  Fayad groaned in agony. “Do it. Make it fast.”

  He limped closer. “I take no pleasure in doing this. Life is—”

  “War, I know.” She closed her eyes so she saw only his blurred form through blood and lashes. “Do it now. Hurts too much.”

  He raised his sword.

  Lashing out with the dagger, Fayad slashed his hamstring, and he screamed. Leg buckling, he collapsed to land heavily beside her. She stabbed him in the chest, and he punched her, breaking her nose. For a moment, they wrestled, and then fell apart, gasping. Eyes streaming, Fayad’s world smeared red sand and pain and blood.

  The crowd fell silent, watching, waiting to see who still lived.

  Fayad felt for her knife and couldn’t find it. She’d lost it. Blinking away tears, she saw him beside her, blood pulsing from the wound in his chest. He lay blinking into the sky, watching a bird circle far above.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Life is war.”

  “But you were already dying.”

  She coughed a wet bloody laugh. “In the Undying Lands, death is war, too.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Fuck.”

  “I had to kill one person to earn a better resting place for my head.”

  “Only works if I die first.”

  “Belly wound,” she parroted. “Bad way to die. Long and slow.”

  “Got me there,” he admitted. “I’m going fast.” He turned his head, studying her with dark eyes. “I don’t envy you the next few hours. They won’t end you early. There’s no mercy here.”

  “Once you’re dead, I’ll end it myself. If I can find my damned knife.”

  “Not that easy.” He shifted in the sand, grunting. “I think I landed on your knife.” He rolled to one side, cursing in pain. “Get it.”

  Fayad reclaimed her rusting blade. She considered stabbing him again, but there was no point. He was definitely dying faster than she.

  “How do they do it?” she asked. “How do they take the heads?”

  “Couple living men in full plate come out with axes. It’s the final part of the show, watching the dead get dismembered.”

  “Great.”

  “If you manage to kill one, they give you a
job working for the colosseum. You get to see all the fights.”

  Fayad thought of the big kennel master, the way he stomped back into the tunnels, turning his back on the arena. “Oh, to dream.” She looked around as best she could. “They’re not here yet.” The pain made thought difficult. She wanted to curl around her agony and cry.

  “Soon,” he said.

  “Then we don’t have time to waste.”

  “What?”

  “The war isn’t over.”

  Fayad killed him, stabbing him over and over in the chest until she got his heart. The crowd roared approval, stamping and chanting. Blood! Blood! Blood!

  Now for the hard part. She turned the knife on herself, held it over her heart, cold steel pricking flesh.

  That hurts already.

  “Death is war,” she said, driving the rusty blade into her heart.

  She woke to find him standing over her, sword drawn, wounds no longer bleeding. Offering a hand, he pulled her to her feet.

  “Tell me there’s a plan,” he said.

  She stood, staring at the chanting crowd, the people who just watched her kill both him and herself and who apparently loved the spectacle. The world was grey, muted. She felt nothing, no pain.

  “We fight our way free.”

  “Great plan.”

  “You have something better?”

  “Nope.”

  At the far end of the arena, a huge gate rose. Two men in full plate, huge axes held ready, marched into the arena. The crowd screamed and chanted and stomped. Blood! Blood! Blood!

  The dead don’t bleed.

  “We have two advantages,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Me,” he winked, “and the fact that assholes in plate armour in the desert sun get tired fast. Make them chase you. If an archer hits you, leave the arrow in unless it’s making movement awkward. Save it as a weapon for later when that shitty knife breaks. When you do fight, go for the joints, the neck. Cut and run. Let them bleed.”