by J. A. Ludwig
The magic blocker stands against the wall, his clasped hands shaking slightly. He’s blocking our magic without affecting the Healers. There’s still so much I don’t understand.
“How long have you been fighting in the Arena?” Aya asks Yme.
The other fighters are already asleep, leaving them the only ones awake besides the Healers and the workers assigned to guard them. Most of the torches have been removed to allow the fighters to sleep, and only low amber light dances along the dirt floors.
“Nine years. I was taken from my home when I was sixteen,” Yme answers from the floor.
He refuses to sleep on the beds, but she wraps her blanket around him. “Was it hard?”
“What?”
“Your first fight?”
“I nearly got my head caved in.” He takes a deep breath, pulling the blanket tighter. “The only reason I survived in the beginning was because of Daniil and Kylii.”
A small laugh escapes her lips before she can stop it. His silver eyes catch the low light in the darkness as he glares at her.
“What’s so funny?”
Aya lifts her head from the bed. “Not funny. Sweet. Those two seem kind, but at the same time, they don’t get along with...well, anyone.”
Realizing she isn’t laughing at him, he relaxes a little. “They don’t. Before I was thrown in here, they never thought to talk to any of the other slaves. They kept to themselves and rarely volunteered to fight when given the choice.”
“You changed them.”
“I disagreed with how they chose to live in here. Though, as you probably realized, I didn’t change everything.”
She hesitates, gripping her blanket tightly. “They mentioned those they’ve tried to help in the past. Kylii said most are dead. And I hadn’t realized...they’ve been here longer than you.”
He nods. “There were a few others they became close to besides me. They weren’t Rare Kinds, but the brothers protected them like they were. But it only takes a moment in this place for something irreparable to happen. After a while, they stopped letting themselves feel anything for the other slaves. It’s easier that way.”
A strained silence passes while the sound of patrolling guards checking the Arena’s security soon fades. Aya’s eyelids grow heavy.
“You should get some rest,” Yme says softly. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day and I’m sure Klaeon has more surprises in store.”
She yawns, then smiles. “I should be saying that to you, mister I-won’t-sleep-on-a-bed. It’s not like there aren’t any vacant ones.”
“I don’t deserve comfort.”
She sits up slightly. “Why do you say that?”
“You haven’t been here long. This arena destroys people. Makes us do terrible things. After a while you stop caring about the horrible things you’re doing and about the others around you.”
“Don’t start sounding like those two downstairs. To me, it seems like you still care a lot. If you’re punishing yourself for what you’ve done here, then your spirit and heart haven’t been destroyed yet.” She stretches her arms out to the side and yawns again. “I may not have been here long, but I can see through the little act you put on.”
“What act is that?”
“You know exactly. I don’t need any help. I can take on fifty men all on my own. Splash, whoosh, thump...” She waves her hands in the air.
“Thump?” he laughs, quietly.
“I don’t know what other sound to use for earth slamming into a person.” She hits the wall made of stone, making a dull thud. “There. See? Splash, whoosh, thud.”
“You’re really strange.” He chuckles. Then his eyes close and his head lowers. His breathing calms as he falls asleep.
“No. Just tired.” Her eyelids grow heavy and she rolls onto her back.
Movement catches her eye and a Healer walks towards them with an Arena worker behind her, carrying something metallic in his hand.
Chapter 34
“Time to wake up, slaves!” Seera’s voice booms.
Aya jumps at the sudden noise and raises her right arm to her head. She feels a strange weight and opens her eyes. A metal shackle is on her wrist. She follows the and sees it’s connected to a shackle on Yme’s left arm. She spots another shackle on his left ankle with a chain disappearing beneath her blanket. She throws the blanket off her and sees the chain connecting to a shackle on her right ankle. She touches the metal with her free hand, and she remembers the Healer and worker walking towards them right before she fell asleep. They must have used magic, for everyone to sleep so soundly through the metal and the locks.
The clanking of the chains wakes Yme and he blinks lazily. He glances down at his arm and leg and his eyes widen. He moves his arm roughly, judging the strength of the metal. His sudden movement nearly pulls Aya from the bed and she yelps in surprise. He stops, noticing the chains connecting them.
“Shit.” Sudden understanding fills his face. An odd mixture of fear, anger, and shock.
The other slaves wake up and, finding themselves in similar positions, aim angry questions at Seera. Watching their reactions, excitement glistens in her eyes.
“A special addition our King has requested for the main event,” she says.
“I thought it was a one-on-one tournament. How can we do that chained to another fighter?” one of the other twelve says, angrily.
“Blood King Klaeon realized a simple one-on-one match up wasn’t thrilling enough. So, now you will be chained to each other and you both will be fighting two fighters...who are not chained together.” A sly grin crosses her blunt features.
The slaves talk all at once.
“There’s no decided order you’ll be fighting in,” she blares over them. “Like our lottery tournament, we will draw each fighter before every fight. Your names are in multiple times, and whoever we draw will fight along with their chained partner.”
“So we might be forced to fight more than one round,” Yme says, glaring at Seera. “Based on our luck.”
She nods. “Each of your names will be placed in the lottery based on our audience. They were each given sticks with your names on them. They will put in the names of the fighters they wish most to see. The collection will soon be finished, and Dolus Otho will draw one name for each pair of fighters.”
Aya feels the chains between her and Yme shake with his rage. The other slaves stare at him with hope and relief in their eyes. He is the top fighter, the one the audience adores. It will be a miracle if any of the other fighters’ names are drawn in the lottery.
“Don’t get comfortable.” Seera chides them, clenching the whip at her hip. “Dolus Otho is a professional. If the audience begins to bore, he’ll find a way to reawaken their spirit. He also enjoys building tension, so don’t count yourselves safe simply because of who else is in the lottery.”
With that, the slaves’ calm evaporates. Seera has a talent for eviscerating hope. Now, they eye their own partners with concern and suspicion. Is it worth the risk to fight together? Or should they sabotage the other to get the handicap removed?
“Now you head to the waiting pen. No stops at the armory or for weapons. Everything you’ll need is waiting for you in the arena. Move.” Seera cracks the whip.
Arena workers surround them, and they file out of the Healing Room.
The bowels of the Arena are alive with motion. The change in the day’s schedule means a lot of projects put off can be finished. Men work on strange contraptions, new obstacles for the games. Others make repairs to old machinery needed for future games.
A new caravan, smaller than Jaxon’s Black Caravan, has arrived with yet more fresh slaves. Their cargo is limited, only ten still living. A man with parchment inspects the slaves and offers money for each, ignoring arguments by the caravan leader. Two of the large men she recognizes as the ones who attacked Jaxon. Now they stand eager to silence the caravan leader.
The workers occasionally glance at the passing slaves, but with Seera i
n the lead, their gazes don’t linger. A wagon passes, animal corpses piled on top. Blood flows from deep gash wounds. Broken claws and horns lie strewn and bloody foam dribbles from their mouths. Their bodies still twitch uncontrollably.
Aya recognizes the signs of deadly poisoning. She’d only seen it once in her village. Iria specifically took her to a neighboring village to teach her about poisons. They witnessed a small rodent force-fed poisoned food. Within seconds the animal collapsed, its body twitching and foam filling its mouth. She hated Iria for many days after, not understanding the need to see the poison in effect when he could’ve just told her.
“Stay sharp,” Yme whispers in her ear.
She looks at him, memories fading away.
“Daydreaming is dangerous here.”
“I wasn’t daydreaming. And what should I be worried about, chained to the Arena’s top fighter?” She ensures the sarcasm is thick in her voice, aiming it as a particularly dark joke.
His expression doesn’t make it clear whether he understood her to be sarcastic or accusatory. “There are a lot of things that will kill you if you’re not paying attention.”
They arrive at the large gate and are commanded to stand against the wall. Workers walk up and down the line, cleaning any who appear dirty, a strange courtesy to those about to fight.
The low rumbles of the crowd beyond the gate echo down the corridor. The fighters shift uncomfortably, the chains binding them together clinking softly. Eyes shift towards Yme and Aya.
Seera taps her whip against her thigh, a strange expression crosses her usually strong face. Nervousness. Her usual enjoyment of the oncoming fighting seems to be far from her mind. Aya wonders if it is due to the sudden change in schedule, or something else?
“Seera!” A familiar voice bellows down the hallway from behind. Everyone turns to see Dolus Otho storming towards the gate. He ignores the line of slaves standing against the wall, his focus on the woman in charge of the Arena’s bowels. “Is everything prepared? He’s getting antsy.”
Seera gives a bouncy, cheeky wink. “Are you speaking of our King, or of yourself?”
“No. Not today. This is serious.”
Seera darkens, and pulls him away from the line of slaves. They lower their voices so none can hear them. But Aya recognizes the body language and frantic gestures. They’re arguing, anxious.
Aya turns to the gate leading into the arena. She sees workers pass by a raised platform at the center of the grounds, but it reaches above the top of the gate.
Gripping the manacle around her wrist, she feels the weight of the chains. The cold metal wants to pull her down. Maybe it will be heavy enough to bury her in the earth, escaping the Arena, she thinks. She feels weight on her shoulders, the weight of the words of the other fighters from the night before. This is her fault, and people are going to die.
A gentle tug pulls her attention from the sun-filled arena to the man standing beside her. Yme leans against the wall, his eyes on the two speaking in hushed voices.
“Can you make out what they’re saying?” she asks, leaning next to him.
“I’m observing,” he says. “They’re upset. Nervous. They don’t seem to like the change.” Yme’s silver eyes lock onto her. “Judging from the sweat stains, Otho’s clothes don’t like change, either. And if Seera taps her leg much longer, she’s going to bruise.”
Staring at him in surprise, Aya places her hands behind her back. “Were those attempts at jokes?”
“My humor only kicks in when I’m terrified.”
“Well, I know that’s a joke,” she says, looking away. “Or else I would’ve seen this so-called humor sooner.” She stares at the gate leading into the arena.
She hears the clanking of metal and feels a hand on her arm. It moves down and takes her hand, and she looks at Yme. He avoids her eyes, but gives her hand a comforting squeeze.
Chapter 35
The arena has been transformed.
A large section of the floor has been raised up to eye level of the seating area, encased in a cage the top of which reaches many heads high. Stairs made of stone lead up to a fenced-in waiting area outside of the cage closest to the slaves. Benches are placed along the railing, enough for the fourteen fighters.
The slaves are led up the stairs and ordered to sit on the benches. Aya peers through the bars. Weapons and shields are attached by hooks and straps to the metal of the cage.
A second waiting area, for the fighters the slaves will be facing, is larger and built on the floor of the arena. Shades provide cover from the sun and so the audience can’t see the opponents until they climb the stairs up to the fighting arena. Aya can see that there is also food and water set out for the fighters while they wait.
The excited murmurs of the crowd die out as Blood King Klaeon walks through the curtains and stands at the edge of his private box. His strange eyes hesitate on Yme and Aya. He smiles and sits, signaling for Otho to begin.
Dolus Otho, in his spot above Klaeon’s private box, clears his throat and magic fills the air. “Welcome to the main event. A first for our Bloodfall Arena, a tournament with such excitement we had to let you, our most esteemed fans, participate.” Otho waves his hand at a large bowl filled with sticks. “With your votes, you will determine the order of our fights today. Nineteen pairs of fighters will be fighting our most talented and fiercest slaves in the Cage of Conquest.”
Aya stares at the bowl, noting it clearly isn’t big enough to hold the votes of every single audience member. She doubts the audience cares, as long as the fights are exciting.
The crowd cheers and chants of Yme’s name with their cacophony of voices. The slaves sitting next to Yme and Aya eye the pair with a mixture of relief and fear. Of course, the audience would vote for the top fighter more than them, but Seera’s warning of Dolus Otho’s ability to build tension stifles them with caution.
Otho holds his hands up, silencing the crowd. It takes a moment, but soon they quiet enough so he can continue. “Nineteen fights...not a round number, is it? And so, as a special treat, the twentieth fight will be a special surprise not to be missed. Now, to the rules. The fights will continue until either side is dead, or the professional combatants cede the match. Any and all weapons are allowed, any and all magic is allowed, and there is no time limit. Fight well, fight proud, and fight for your life!”
The crowd erupts, feet stomping the stone floor of the seating area. Aya’s heart pounds and she checks the arena workers standing around them. The magic blocker is at his usual post. Others stand at the top of the stairs. At the bottom an empty cart waits.
Awaiting their dead bodies.
“Our first challengers are anxious for their chance at glory. Welcome to the arena... Granger and Hugh!” Dolus Otho throws his arms in the air.
A small laugh escapes Aya’s lips. It’s hard to feel threatened by a fighter named Hugh.
Two men emerge onto the stairs from beneath the shaded cover. They wear little armor. Broadswords strapped on their backs reveal another truth of the day’s fight: the challengers are allowed their own weaponry, while the slaves must choose from the motley selection ranged across the Arena.
The gates on both sides of the cage are opened. The two men enter. They wave at the audience, smug smiles on both faces. The slaves warily wait. Who will be the ones chosen to fight them? Who will be first?
“And now their match-up,” Dolus Otho says, reaching into the bowl of sticks. Pulling out the first of nineteen draws, the announcer’s eyes narrow to read the name. “Surprises begin early. Our first pair of slaves will be from Cellblock B. Yvette and Chaput.”
The crowd, in a mixture of excitement and disappointment, cheers and mutters.
Yvette stands quickly, the chains connecting her to Chaput rattling. She glares at Aya. “It should’ve been you two.” She and Chaput head for the open door and enter the Cage of Conquest.
I was going to wish you good luck.
The cage doors slam shut.
Hugh and Granger draw their broadswords. They separate, moving to either side of the cage. Yvette and Chaput walk forward, placing their backs together to keep eyes on the two men. The chain connecting their legs drags in the dirt, but they keep the metal from tangling their feet. Hugh and Granger stop moving and hold their swords in front of them, mirroring each other. All four combatants freeze.
The tension in the air is short-lived. The two men rush forward, thrusting their swords at Yvette and Chaput. The slaves hold their ground until it seems like they’re simply waiting for the broadswords to run them through. Then both step to the side as one, splitting apart. Hugh and Granger can’t change direction, but manage to keep from stabbing each other. The moment of confusion is enough, though. Yvette and Chaput whirl about to stab the two men in the chests. The broadswords fall harmlessly to the ground. The blades are followed by their owners as Hugh and Granger collapse.
The audience takes a moment to understand what happened before loud cheers fill the air. The fight was quick, but thrillingly smart.
The bell rings, ending the fight. Yvette and Chaput walk towards the door of the cage, beaming at one another. The door opens and they exit, returning to their seats.
The other slaves congratulate them. Aya watches the workers running to clear the bodies. They pull the swords from the bodies and kick the weapons away. The broadswords that belonged to Hugh and Granger are left in the cage, to her surprise. This could prove to be an advantage.
“Victory to the slaves! Our next challengers are first-time fighters in our Arena. Hailing from the Karrion Desert, welcome the Dongo Brothers, Zid and Kaj!”
The next fighters are already climbing the stairs. Their skin is dark, and masks cover their faces. The weapons on their backs are more elegant...and well-used. They wear letters on their armored chests: Z for Zid and K for Kaj.
“The ones chosen to fight them are,” Dolus draws another stick. “Cellblock D. Leid and his partner, Quin!”