Bloodfall Arena

by J. A. Ludwig

  “Life Healer. A true Rare Kind. I’ve heard many stories about Life Healers...haven’t seen one in many, many years. Or heard of any that still lived. Tell me, Aya,” he takes her hand as she sits, pulling her close. “Have you ever brought someone back from the dead?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Have you used your magic to give immortality?”

  A confused shake at his words. “Th-those are only stories, my lord.”

  His eyes search her face for any sign of deceit. Seeing none, he smiles and releases her hand. “But all stories stem from some truth.”

  Immortality? Is it even possible? I’ve just learned what my magic truly is. I’m still learning. Every time I heal someone, I discover something new.

  The arena floor is ready for the tournament to begin. Platforms now cover the floor, surrounding a larger one raised slightly higher than the others. Several of the platforms have ferocious beasts chained at the center. Others have fire pits built at their bases. Many of them have other hazards to make the competition more difficult: traps, spikes, weapons, nets.

  At the center of the largest one is a golden cloth. Each fighter chosen from the lottery is placed at different points around the edge of the platforms. They wave to the excited audience, increasing the anticipation in the air. When they’re ready and in position, Dolus Otho holds his hands up for silence.

  “The rules are simple. The fighters must make their way to the center platform. Whoever claims the golden cloth will be declared the winner and will receive a great reward. However, they are free to interfere with their competitors in any way they see fit. They may choose to ignore everyone, hunt each other down, or team up to ensure survival. But there will only be one winner. No exceptions.” Dolus Otho glances at Klaeon once before lowering his hands. “I wish all of you luck. Now begin the tournament!”

  The bell rings loudly and the fighters spring into action, rushing towards the center. Some have a clearer path than others, but it doesn’t mean it will be easy.

  A female fighter is the first to fall, thrown into the fire pits below. The cheering crowd drowns out her screams, but Aya winces. She can almost feel her own flesh burning.

  The man who threw the female fighter celebrates prematurely as another fighter sneaks up and stabs him in the back. They tussle, but the backstabber manages to toss the other from the platform into spikes protruding from a nearby platform.

  Beasts maul two of the competitors, their screams again covered by the audience. Their blood coats the platform as fangs rip meat from bone.

  A pair of men fighting together climb toward the large platform at the center, but just as they scramble up, the platform they stand on collapses beneath them, revealing a pit of spikes beneath. One manages to grab the edge of the wall, and his partner grabs his leg, climbing his partner’s body, reaching for the edge of the wall. The man yells, “Stop!” but the partner ignores him, and he loses his grip. Slipping, flailing, both fall into the spikes. Their screams linger a moment then stop abruptly.

  Tearing her eyes from the gruesome fighting, Aya realizes Klaeon has been staring at her since the match began, his eyes dancing hungrily over her. Aya’s nerves tense with fear.

  “It’s a shame,” he says, returning his gaze to the fighting. Aya stares at him a moment longer, wondering what he means.

  The bell rings loudly. Aya jumps at the loud noise. In the arena, a man stands holding the gold cloth, a wide smile on his face. The others, still alive, stop what they are doing and stare at the victor in anger.

  Dolus Otho again looks to Blood King Klaeon, uncertain. Klaeon gives a nod, and the announcer swallows a large lump in his throat.

  “Congratulations to our victor! And to those who survived! As I said, today we have a special prize for all who were chosen to fight.”

  Dolus Otho falls silent and steps off his platform, climbing stairs into the crowd. Confusion fills the audience and those still on the arena floor. The workers of the arena leave through the large gates, shutting them.

  “I was hoping the stories about immortality were true,” Klaeon says. “I would’ve been inclined to spare your life.”

  The blood drains from Aya’s face.

  He stands, moving to the edge of his private box. “We can’t have you healing every injured slave. It doesn’t provide much of a show for the crowd. Part of the fun is watching slaves be killed. Fighters, beasts, or other slaves; it doesn’t matter to them.” He gestures to the audience.

  The confusion in the Arena increases. The fighters notice their escape is blocked off, and gather on the center platform. The winner holds the gold cloth tightly, unsure what to do.

  “But if you take the death away...personally, I find it boring. How about you, Teron?”

  “Very boring, my lord,” Teron answers, crossing to Aya and pulling her to her feet. He drags her to stand beside Klaeon, not bothering to do it gently.

  “So, you did bring me here to kill me?” she asks, fear clear in her voice. She winces at the pain in her arm, and struggles against Teron.

  “I already told you, Life Healer, while in the public’s eyes, you’re safe...”

  Screams from the arena floor pull all attention to the large platform. The gold cloth wraps around the victor, covering him from head to toe. He screams, but it only makes it easier for the cloth to enter his mouth.

  The other fighters step away from him, but the gold cloth grows and shoots out towards them. It grabs them by the arm or leg and slowly covers them. Soon all bodies are entombed in the gold cloth, creating golden statues in differing throes of death.

  The audience sits in stunned silence, unsure of what they witnessed.

  “It isn’t fun to kill you here when there are far more creative and entertaining ways,” Klaeon finishes, turning to her. His reddish-brown eye gleams with excitement. He waves his hand at Teron. “Take her back to her cell and inform Seera and Dolus Otho I’d like a small change to tomorrow’s games. I’ll send them more information tonight.”

  Teron bows to his king before dragging her away. She steals a look back at the arena floor, twisting against Teron’s grip.

  The gold statues are disintegrating into dust, blowing away in the wind. Klaeon raises his hand to the crowd and an eruption of thunderous applause greets him.

  Chapter 32

  “He didn’t do anything to you?” Kylii searches her face in disbelief.

  Aya sits on her bed with her knees held tight against her chest. She shakes her head, fear filling every part of her body. “No. But he wants me dead.”

  “Klaeon told Dolus Otho to kill all of those fighters. They weren’t even slaves. And he killed them all,” Aya says. Killed them all to show me his power.

  “He wants all of us dead,” Daniil points out. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”

  Raising her eyes to the brothers, she squeezes her knees. “But why? I don’t understand.”

  “Because he can, because he’s afraid of us, because he hates magic users...take your pick,” Kylii says, leaning back on his bed. “No one leaves the Arena alive.”

  Her eyes narrow and she thinks back at her experience with the Blood King. “How can he hate magic users...?” She trails off, unsure what she’s even thinking.

  Yme stares at her from his habitual spot in the back of the cell. His expression is one of curiosity, but he quickly changes it to a more neutral one. “He saw how you coerced the others into working together. The audience wants bloodshed, not teamwork.”

  Aya glares at him. “I didn’t coerce anyone! Even if I had, he can’t punish everyone for something he believes I did.”

  “He can do whatever he wants,” Kylii points out.

  “You didn’t have a proper teacher, did you?” Yme’s voice is a dark rumble.

  Her anger turns to confusion. “What?”

  “For your healing magic,” Yme clarifies. “You don’t heal the same way as the others.”

  Still confused, but relieved at the change of s
ubject, she nods. “I was the only one in my village who had magic. But our village healer taught me a lot about the human body and how it works. He taught me how to heal without magic, but I practiced my magic on animals for a while before I ever attempted using it on people.”

  “You demonstrated advanced healing techniques on some of the wounded, according to those three Healers. That’s impressive,” he says, his eyes shining with approval. “Natural talent in magic is hard to find. But from what you say, you learned without magic as well.”

  “I apply what I learned, and use that before I go in with my magic. If I didn’t have my village’s healer, I don’t think I would’ve been able to do anything I did out there.” Her voice is ragged, tinged with sadness, remembering.

  “But what about your parents? Surely, they helped you, too?” Daniil asks.

  Her eyes lower and she shakes her head. “My parents died before my magic appeared.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Stories say Life Healers are able to bring the dead back to life and the most powerful can grant immortality,” Kylii says. His brother punches him in the shoulder. “Ow! What?”

  “Learn to read a room, Brother,” Daniil says, angrily.

  The words of the Blood King ring through her thoughts. He’d mentioned stories everyone seemed to know, except for her.

  Sensing her mood, Yme shrugs his shoulders. “Not all stories should be believed. That only leads to ignorance and paranoia.”

  “The King said all stories rise from a grain of truth.”

  “There are tall tales associated with all Rare Kinds. That’s what makes us appear more than we are,” Daniil says.

  “We still bleed die like everyone else,” Kylii adds. “We’re just a little tougher.”

  “And we have to protect each other,” she echoes his words with a small glimmer.

  Banging on metal rings out through the cellblock. Everyone walks to the doors of their cells. Seera and walks with her guards. A wide smile is on her face, but annoyance fills her eyes.

  “Hello, victors, and the rest of you. I hope you’re relaxing and gaining your strength, because there’ve been some changes to tomorrow’s events. Some not surprising, but others very exciting.” Seera’s eyes scan the faces of the slaves eagerly. “The afternoon’s animal fights have been moved to the morning, before the main event.”

  Murmurs rumble through the cellblock. Two guards slam metal poles on the nearest cells, silencing the crowd. Aya looks to the brothers for help, but they appear as confused as she.

  “The afternoon fights are generally the main events. Moving them to the morning doesn’t mean good things for us,” Yme says.

  Waiting for all attention to return to her, Seera clears her throat loudly before continuing. “As for the main event...it will be a first for the Arena. A tournament—”

  Aya’s presses the palms of her hands to her eyes to blot out the sight of the gold cloth wrapping around the screaming fighters.

  “—of one-on-one fighting, open to the public and professional fighters of all levels.”

  The cells fill with voices. Most reflect fear, and the rest a mixture of confusion and excitement. Seera allows the conversations to go on for nearly a full minute before signaling her guards to silence the cellblock.

  “I know what most of you are thinking.” Her smile widens. “How will the fighters be determined? Well, don’t worry about that. Our King has picked random fighters from our extensive lists. And to make the tournament more entertaining and interesting for our crowds, he picked a small number of you to fight. Two from each cellblock.”

  Relief rushes through the cellblock, masked by the screams of terror of those who truly realize what Seera’s words mean.

  Yme slams his hand against the cell door, the clanging echoing loudly in the small cell. Noticing his reaction, Seera walks to the cell.

  “Your cellblock shall be represented by Yme, the top fighter of the Arena,” Seera looks at Aya, “and the Life Healer.”

  A few voices call out, but Seera waves them off. “Our King gave specific instructions. No changes. Fight well tomorrow.” Seera lowers her voice so only Aya and Yme hear her parting shot. “It may be your last.”

  The guards unlock the cell door. One grabs Aya and drags her out roughly. Yme grabs the other guard’s hand and bends two of the man’s fingers back. There is a sickening crack and the man shrieks in pain. Yme releases the man’s disfigured hand and walks out of the cell, a frown darkening his expression.

  The third guard, the magic blocker, takes a step back from the angered mage. He knows that, even with Yme’s magic blocked, he is still dangerous.

  “Where are you taking us?” Yme demands.

  Seera taps the end of her whip against the side of her neck. “To the other fighters. You’re to be kept separate from your cell until after the tournament. If you survive until then.”

  Glaring at her, Yme walks to Aya’s side. He grabs the guard’s wrist, tightening his hand. “Tell him to let her go.” The guard stares at Seera. She nods, and he releases Aya.

  Letting go of the guard’s wrist, Yme moves close to Aya. Seera leads Aya and Yme out of the cellblock, the guards following.

  Chapter 33

  Aya and Yme move through the bowels of the Arena, passing workers frantically preparing for the next day’s change in events. They avoid the chaos of animals being moved and the last of the day’s fighters heading back to their cells. Seera halts at a room filled with beds. Some bear wounded fighters on them, and in the back corner six men and six women huddle together.

  “Head over to your fellow combatants. Guards will be posted at the doorway. I’ll return in the morning to fetch the lot of you when it’s time,” Seera says, leaving the two to wander back to the group. Twelve pairs of eyes turn on them, no surprise in a single one.

  “The one he hates and the one who caused this. Should’ve just been you two,” one of the combatants, an older woman, snarls. “I’m not even a magic user.”

  “Shut your mouth, Yvette. The Bastard King doesn’t care if you have magic or not. You’re here for the same reason as the rest of us, a false king leading people to a false future,” one of the men says. A large scar covering his neck bounces with his speech.

  “And what future would that be, Chaput? The way he throws anyone in here, there won’t be people left to rule soon.”

  “Oh, there will. People who are too afraid to defy him. People who will choose to fight for him to protect themselves.”

  “Or else they end up in here,” Yvette spits, “forced to fight when some stupid, young girl can’t play by the rules.”

  “She’s right,” Aya says, glaring at those around her. “It is my fault, but I don’t understand why. I can’t change who I am, how I was born. Fighting one another won’t help solve the problem.”

  Yvette snorts and glances at Yme. “What do you think, Top Fighter? You agree with the little brat?”

  “What did you call me?” Aya’s hands ball into fists.

  “I do agree with her,” Yme steps in. “Fighting amongst ourselves isn’t helping. If anything, it causes more of us to die and encourages them to keep hunting for more slaves. This tournament was bound to happen sooner or later. Klaeon gets bored easily. Be glad this is the only change...for now.” Yme walks a few beds away and sits on the floor, only the top of his head visible to Aya.

  The group falls silent, trying to think of things besides the coming fight the next day. Feeling Yvette’s angry eyes on her, Aya sits on the bed next to Yme, leaning her back on the wall.

  “Thanks for agreeing with me. Here and with the brothers.”

  A soft grunt comes from him as he leans his head back. His eyes are closed and his breathing slow and methodical.

  “You must be used to people blaming you for Klaeon’s mood swings, huh?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  So she prods. “Before I got here and became his new favorite toy to torture, you probably had to deal
with a lot of unfair fighting, right?”

  He opens one eye and stares at her. “You’re asking me a lot of questions. Why?”

  “Because I’m trying to get to know you.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re comrades, we’re both fighting for our lives, one of us might be dead tomorrow, I’m scared...pick one.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes?” She raises a brow. “Yes, to what?”

  “Yes, I’m used to being blamed for Klaeon’s mood swings and yes, I had to deal with a lot of unfair fighting...on and off the arena floor. There’s a reason Daniil and Kylii said they’d protect you when you first arrived.”

  “They said it was because I’m a Rare Kind like them.”

  He nods. “There are some in the cellblocks that wouldn’t think twice about killing you.”

  “But why?”

  “Because Rare Kinds are treated differently.”

  “Not in a good way,” she grumbles. “Unless they’re jealous of constantly being targeted.”

  “They’re jealous of how others treat us, the constant idolization.”

  Her eyes widen. Memories of the villagers and the journey to the Arena flash before her. Each eye filled with hope and veneration made her uncomfortable and hate herself. She wished only to be normal and treated like everyone else.

  Yme clenches his hands. “They feel jealous that we have magic at all.”

  She moves to sit on the edge of her bed, closer to him. “Do you hate them for thinking that?”

  Opening his eyes, he stares at her with his haunted silver eyes. “Only the ones who think killing us means they’ll escape these walls. The Arena doesn’t work that way.”

  Sensing he doesn’t want to talk any longer, she crawls under her bed’s scratchy, woven blanket. Healers she’s never met before walk from patient to patient. She’s tempted to ask them about their magic, but they probably won’t talk to her.