Bloodfall Arena

by J. A. Ludwig

  What did these dreams mean? Since she’d been a small child, she dreamed about the shadows. Iria and Mircien always told her they were simply nightmares. But she can’t help feeling they were more.

  Daniil and Kylii’s snoring echoes loudly. She stares at them, a small smile forming on her lips. Sometime during the night, they moved to the same bed, like young children sleeping close together to share warmth. She laughs softly to herself, feeling her first true sense of calm since arriving at the Arena.

  Yme stands at the bars, his eyes attentive as they survey the cell block.

  Standing up, she takes a few hesitant steps towards him. Wondering if he slept at all during the night, she takes a deep breath. “Thank—”

  “It’s time,” he says, startling her.

  Bells ring loudly, cutting short the silence of the holding cells. Daniil and Kylii wake and quickly jump to their feet when they realize they were sleeping in the same bed.

  Arena workers file down the hall, open all the cells containing fresh flesh, and order the slaves out. Aya recognizes the one opening their door as the worker who blocked her magic the day before. Once the door is open, he clasps his hands together with his thumbs aimed at his chest.

  Yme is the first out of the cell. Aya stares after him, realizing it’s the first time she’s heard him speak. Has he been avoiding her? Why?

  Frustration fills her but she follows after him. Daniil and Kylii chase after.

  The workers herd the slaves down the hall where Seera waits for them with her hands on her hips. Her hair is pulled back tight against her head and her whip is tied to her belt. She scrutinizes each prisoner as they approach.

  “Time to wake up and face the Arena. Our first event is for the fresh flesh, a welcoming to our family. I hope you all made peace with your gods. Today, many of you are going to meet them. But don’t worry, you won’t be alone. This fight is open to volunteers, and some of our regulars will be joining you.” Her eyes lock onto Yme and the brothers in a warning. “But don’t expect them to save you. Once you enter the Arena, you’re on your own.”

  Aya feels her body shake with nerves. A hand presses gently into her back and she glances up, expecting to see Daniil or Kylii. She’s surprised to see it’s Yme’s hand on her back. He keeps his attention forward to avoid Seera’s notice.

  “Let’s get you ready. We provide you weapons and armor. Everything else is up to you. No rules. Move!” Seera unties the whip on her belt and cracks it.

  The workers usher the slaves down the hall and up the stairs to the training ground and armory. The heat from the working blacksmiths’ ovens rolls over Aya, sweat beading on her forehead. She eyes the forges and the caged-off holes above them that pull the smoke out.

  Yme walks ahead of the group, distancing himself from the others. The workers let him wander on his own, which appears to be a common occurrence.

  Weapons and armor lean along the walls of a room with long benches. The slaves rush to gather supplies for the Arena, and small shoving matches break out.

  Yme disappears among the excitement and Aya is left with Kylii and Daniil. “Don’t worry about what Seera said,” Daniil says, leaning close to her. “She likes scaring as many as she can. Thinks it helps encourage a better performance.”

  “What, by scaring them to death?”

  “Most of the ‘regulars’ would rather help the new slaves. The more of us there are, the better our chances to survive longer in the Arena.”

  Kylii nods. “Though there a few who would rather use the fresh flesh as shields or distractions. Stay close to us. We’ll protect you.”

  “Why?” she asks.

  “We told you. Rare Kinds have to stick together. There aren’t many of us, because we’re usually the main targets. The people come to see magic users fight, but also to see us die,” Daniil says, bringing Aya to a wall with armor hanging on hooks.

  She stops, forcing the brothers to halt. “But why don’t you help the others?”

  Both brothers’ expressions dissolve into confusion, not understanding. “We can’t help everyone. They have to learn on their own what they’re in for,” Kylii says. “There’re more of them than us.”

  “But you want to help me?”

  “You’re one of us,” Daniil says.

  “But we’re all slaves here.”

  “Some are more valuable than others.”

  She shakes her head and spies Rava and Mava preparing. Each grab light armor and weapons, their expressions grim, but accepting of what they’re about to do.

  “You said the more slaves the better chance of survival,” she speaks softly, her voice trembling with emotion.

  The kindness they’re showing me...is it only because I’m valuable to them? Are they no different than the slave traders?

  “No one helped us when we got here, specifically because we are Rare Kinds. They saw us as distractions they could use during the games to help themselves. Those we rarely chose to help...most are no longer alive.” Kylii fights to keep his emotions calm, but his eyes glow with anger. “This isn’t a community or place for camaraderie. This is a place where the strong survive and the weak die.”

  Daniil places a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “But we still try to help a few Rare Kinds. Otherwise, they will have taken everything from us, even our humanity. The core of who we are.”

  Aya remembers the long journey to the Arena. The lives lost...the few she saved. The spirits slowly being broken. She remembers being separated from the others once Jaxon saw her magic. The expressions on his men’s faces, realizing she was worth more than the others. She remembers living in Oula Village, but never truly feeling part of it once her power appeared. The way the villagers treated her like something else, something other than human. How Iria and Mircien were the only ones who made her feel part of their lives, taking on the role of her family once her parents died.

  “The weak can survive and the strong can die,” Aya states. “Without freedom, we’re all the same. But given the choice, I’d help as many as I could.”

  She doesn’t wait to hear what the brothers have to say, and walks to the wall, staring at the selections of armor and weaponry. She’s never worn armor. This is the first time she’s even seen most of the weapons lining the walls. But going out with nothing would be a death wish.

  The brothers grab a breastplate, arm guards, and two daggers each from the wall. They stand on either side of her and hold the items out to her. She looks from one to the other, trying to gauge their thoughts. Are they angry with her? Or is it still their desire to help her?

  “Just take it,” Kylii says, placing the breastplate in her hands, ending her mental debate. He moves further down the wall, searching for his own armor choice.

  Daniil watches his brother knowingly before returning his attention to Aya. “We’ve been here a long time and seen different tides of slaves come and go. We’ve even heard the very words you spoke...a few times. Kylii is tired of having feelings for others, only to be unable to save them.”

  Aya attempts to get the breastplate on, struggling with the ties in the back. Daniil helps and she reaches for the arm guards. “I can’t pretend to find it fair you’re willing to help me and not the others.”

  He grabs her wrist as she takes the arm guards. “There is no fair in the Arena. Remember that when you think about throwing your life away to save someone. Especially when you’ve only staved off death until the next game.” He releases her wrist, places the daggers on the bench in front of her, and follows after his brother.

  She picks up the blades. His words cut her deep.

  Chapter 26

  Aya attaches the arm guards before carefully placing the daggers in her belt. She thinks back on the dagger her parents left her and a rush of anger fills her, knowing Jaxon has probably sold it somewhere in this cruel city. She imagines him laughing, eating and drinking and buying women with the profit.

  To calm herself, she rolls her shoulders and moves her arms ar
ound, judging how much her movements are constricted. The armor is lighter than other pieces on the wall, but wearing it feels stiff and unfamiliar.

  Daniil and Kylii put light armor on their shoulders, arms, and legs. The only weapons they grab are throwing knives. Murmurs fill the crowded hall. Kylii glares at his brother. Daniil’s hands make large gestures and he shoves Kylii. Kylii rolls his eyes before nodding and waving his brother ahead of him.

  They walk over and sit on either side of her. Kylii avoids her, but judging by the subdued glow in his eyes, he’s calmer.

  “Aren’t you going to put on more than that?” she asks, gesturing at their minimal armor.

  “Too much armor only slows the body down,” Daniil says.

  Kylii motions to the other slaves with his head. “First mistake newcomers make is to load up on armor and weapons. The Arena isn’t just about strength but outsmarting your opponents.”

  “They’ll be the first targets, because they won’t be able to escape. And armor can only protect against so much.”

  Yme sits on the end of the opposite bench alone. He hasn’t grabbed any armor or weapons, and sits with his arms crossed, waiting.

  “What about him? Isn’t he going to put anything on?” she asks.

  Kylii laughs and shakes his head. “Not Yme. There hasn’t been a fighter yet to even come close to killing him.”

  “Believe me. His magic is the only protection he needs,” Daniil adds.

  Seera cracks her whip to grab everyone’s attention. “Time to head for the arena. Listen. The people are already chanting for you.”

  Aya focuses, sorting out the buzz and noise and shrieks until she realizes what the audience is calling out.

  Fresh flesh. Fresh flesh.

  Her stomach tightens as the slaves line up in rows and follow Seera through the bowels of the arena. They enter a long, rising tunnel. Cheers echo as they turn a corner to where a large gate blocks the entrance into the arena.

  Seera faces them. “You’ll enter as a group. Those you’ll be fighting will be on the other side. Before the fighting begins, both groups will face the Blood King’s private box. Once he’s entered and given the signal, combat will begin, and continue until the bell rings. There is no goal other than to survive. I find it helpful to think of this as your chance to show the audience your strengths.”

  I find it helpful... everyone else is entirely focused on the view of arena sand through the bars, but Aya catches this little slip. Was Seera once a slave here, too? Has she survived to rise through the ranks? Is that possible? How much of this squalid life is she familiar with?

  Her thoughts slough away when drums beat loudly. The gate rises. Anxiety rumbles through the slaves, quick breaths and nervous whining giving away their unease. When the gate cranks to a stop, the Arena workers yell at the slaves to move. A few screech in surprise and fear.

  The worker blocking their magic releases his hands and steps back. The reconnection to her magic fills Aya with relief. She sees Daniil and Kylii open and close their hands with excitement.

  Seera relishes them with an eager smile on her face as the group leaves the tunnel. Her eyes almost glow as Aya passes her. “Good luck, Life Healer.” She pats Aya on the back, hard.

  Aya winces at the sting and, as they emerge from the tunnel, at the bright sun. Once her eyes adjust, she peers upward. Her mouth gapes open at the size of the Arena. Now, out in the open, she’s in awe at the difference standing on the arena floor makes.

  The towering walls reach into the sky, making her feel like an insect compared to those sitting above. A large bell and drums stand on a platform built beneath the highest level of the Arena. Thousands of people fill the seats of the Arena, cheering for the fresh flesh—and fresh blood.

  The slaves forget their formation and mob together. Daniil and Kylii stand close to Aya. Yme appears at her side seemingly from nowhere. He meets the brothers’ eyes and they move closer, forming a defensive wall of bodies behind her.

  Across the arena floor, the second group enters: large men covered in spiked armor, carrying large weapons. Unlike the men who fought the day before, their armor matches in aesthetic only. And, from what Aya can make out at this distance, their weapons appear forged by multiple hands.

  “Who’re they? More Arena slaves?” she asks.

  “These men volunteer to fight. Unlike professional fighters, who train their entire lives to fight in arenas around the world, volunteer fighters receive no payment,” Kylii says.

  Daniil nods. “But it’s considered a great honor to fight in Bloodfall Arena. It’s a chance to fight before the Blood King and receive favor.”

  “Most of the time it’s just a way to be killed,” Kylii adds out of the side of his mouth.

  The drums stop and the crowd becomes quiet. The silence is deafening. Everyone turns to the empty seating box Aya noticed the day before. The single, now cushioned, chair stands in the box in front of closed red curtains. On the curtains is a single symbol.

  Aya’s breath catches in her throat and her hands shake uncontrollably. Images from her nightmares flash through her mind. She’s seen that symbol above the head of one of the shadows, wrapped in chains and dripping with blood.

  A lone drum bangs once and Aya shrieks. The slaves turn to her. She throws her hands over her mouth. She feels Yme’s confused eyes and Daniil and Kylii lean close, asking if she’s all right. She keeps her mouth covered and shakes her head, refusing to answer. The drum sounds again.

  Men in heavy, blood-red armor appear through the curtain and fill the sides of the box. One of them, with a black sash around his waist, moves through the curtain carrying his helmet under his arm. He stands behind and to the right of the chair. He signals to two others who grab the curtains and hold them open.

  Aya raises her eyes as the Blood King enters. His hair is the color of coal and curls against his ears. He moves to the front of the box and raises his hand. The crowd erupts in cheers.

  The blood drains from Aya’s face and the shaking in her hands moves to her entire body, every inch of her embraced in terror.

  This man is going to kill me. He’s going to kill me if he sees me. Aya’s thoughts gallop through her mind.

  She sees the gates are still open as workers from the Arena check spikes and extra weapons around the wall.

  She moves to run for the opening, but a hand grabs her before she can get too far. Terror shoots through her and her legs nearly give out. Strong arms pull her close to a chest and she peers up into Yme’s angry face.

  “Don’t draw his attention. Rare Kinds are his favorite to kill. If he finds out you can heal those close to death, he’ll set his sights on you.”

  Tears fill her eyes and she barely holds back her terrified sobs, but she slowly turns towards the Blood King.

  She remembers feeling eyes on her after the fight the day before. Now she knows those eyes belonged to the Blood King.

  The Blood King’s smile changes to a vulpine grin.

  “Too late.” Yme tightens his hold on her. “He knows.”

  Chapter 27

  “Welcome to Bloodfall Arena!”

  A voice fills the vast space. Above the Blood King’s box, in another section blocked off from the rest of the seating area, a man stands with others sitting behind him. He waves his hands as he speaks, his voice amplified with magic.

  “I am the Voice of the Arena, Dolus Otho! We have many fresh faces among our fighters today. It will be an exciting first game of the day, we can be sure. I’m excited to see which of our new competitors will be victorious and which will see their gods today. Welcome to the Arena our volunteer fighters, the Bloody Butchers!”

  The audience’s excited frenzy reminds Aya of a raging thunderstorm. The volume fluctuates and occasionally she hears specific words. The men in spiked armor raise their weapons above their heads and show off to the crowd. The workers finish their preparations and close the gates around the arena floor. The screeching of metal bars signals no m
ore escape.

  They must fight or die.

  “Let’s hope they fare better than the Screaming Skewers from yesterday, eh?” the one who called himself The Voice says with a laugh, the audience laughing and cheering in response. He eyes the King’s box. The Blood King waves his hand, encouraging him to move on, and his laughter becomes nervous. “Enough talk. Let the fighting begin!”

  The bell rings from above and the volunteer fighters, the Bloody Butchers, slam their weapons on their armor and shields, roaring with excitement. The slaves immediately split into two notable groups, the fighters and the cowards.

  The cowards run back to the closed gate where they entered, pleading to be allowed back in. Arena workers push them back or poke weapons through the gate. Some slaves are wounded, and one frantic slave is impaled by a spear, then shaken off like a dead rat.

  The audience seated above the gate call down to the frightened slaves, a few throwing anything they can get their hands on onto the sand. The slaves, realizing they have no choice but to fight, grab weapons from the walls and turn to fight.

  The more experienced slaves face the opposing group and raise their weapons or slam their weapons on the ground to entice the combatants. The most eager to fight run at each other, and skirmishes flare up. Metal hitting metal, metal hitting flesh, yells and shrieks fill the air. The metallic smell of blood mixes with sweat and body odor. Magic users band together to create protective barriers against the Butchers or to defend the weaker slaves.

  The chaos exploding all around her makes Aya’s heart pound. Many of those dying are ones she spent so long travelling within the caravan. But she can’t do anything; her feet refuse to move beneath her.

  Yme hands Aya to the twins. “Watch her. Don’t let anyone get close.” He leans down to her and places his hands on her shoulders. “Stay with them. They’ll protect you.”

  She furrows her brow. Why is he suddenly interested in my wellbeing? What changed from last night to this morning?