Though it’s hidden under my worn leather pants, I’m always aware of its presence and the reason for it. I glare up at the platform.
A cheer announces the arrival of my opponent, and I pull my eyes from the platform to a man strutting across the Arena toward me like he was born for this moment. Along the way, he stoops to pick up a weapon, and I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.
He is a big man. Even from a distance, I can tell he’s taller than me, and muscles bulge everywhere, each of them fighting for dominance as the man moves through the Arena. It’s like he is made entirely of muscle. How did he get enough food to support all of that muscle?
I glance at the roaring crowd. It is not unusual for goblins to bestow gifts on their favorite gladiators; even I have received a few meals from them. Usually, after the guards had taken what they wanted first from the meagre supplies. Is it possible this man has enough supporters to feed him? Or is he a willing gladiator? The son of a scarlet guard who elected to fight in the Arena for glory?
I push the thoughts away. It doesn’t matter. He is my opponent, willing or not. If I want to survive, it will have to be through his loss.
Scars litter the man's body, clear signs of how many battles he has fought. Or rather how many he has won.
His dark brown pants stand in contrast to his bare chest. Ice blue eyes stare at me, and even from this distance, I find them unnerving.
They look me over, assessing me, deciding if I am a threat. My opponent flashes an easy smile, runs his hands over his short beard and turns to face the crowd.
The beings in the stands go nuts and chant, “2013!” over and over again.
The man spins in a circle holding his arms open as he stares up at the stands, and the creatures there lap it up. As he turns, I notice a slight limp on his left leg. Perhaps it is an existing injury? Using his injury against him is an advantage I will have to consider if I have any hope of making it out of the Arena alive.
I’m not stupid. I can see how strong this man is, and I have little chance of overpowering him. It will be intelligence, not strength that will win me this fight.
The giant man lowers his arms and closes the distance between us. He flips his dagger through each of his fingers with surprising agility, and it settles in his palm.
He grips the knife and sends me a savage grin. “Ready to play?”
I grit my teeth and ignore the question. I ready my dagger and step into a fighting stance, waiting for the battle to begin.
Chapter Two
The Fight
A loud clang echoes through the Arena, signaling the start of the battle. I move my boots through the sand and the crunch as they grind the grains is surprisingly loud. I keep a healthy distance between me and my opponent. He will crush me like a bug if he gets hold of me. And, from the smile on his broad face, he would relish doing it too.
The man misreads me and pounds his chest with his fists. “What’s the matter, Girly? Don’t like playing against the big leagues?”
He reaches for me, and I land a solid punch to his chin, the prickles of his beard grinding against my knuckles.
“This isn’t a game,” I hiss.
The man wipes his lip and laughs darkly. “Oh, but it is. And when I tear you apart, I will enjoy the sweet melody of your screams.” He pauses and winks at me. “Or, maybe I will keep you alive, and request you are given to my biggest goblin supporter.”
He gives me a malicious grin, and his eyes sparkle with a sinister joy. My stomach gives a sickening lurch. This isn’t just trash talk to get inside my head; this deranged man is actually having fun trying to kill me.
I respond too late to his attack. His dagger scrapes my leather tunic and slices the skin along my collarbone just below my throat. I push his arm away and thump him in his injured leg with the butt of my blade. He lets out a bellow and staggers back, his hand awkwardly clutching his thigh.
I stoop to pick up a handful of sand, and the particles cling to the blood on my hand as I rise to my feet.
My opponent rushes towards me. I throw the sand at his face, and it explodes into millions of fine particles, sticking to his skin and clinging to his eyes. He runs blindly, and I am able to effortlessly sidestep his charge as he blunders past. The man bellows in outrage and wipes his face, trying to claw the sand from his streaming eyes.
I steel my courage and dart behind him, swiftly kicking the back of his legs. My sharp jabs send him tumbling to his knees. On his way down his massive hand closes around my forearm and I am dragged forwards. The pungent odor of his sweat bombards me and rivals the metallic scent of the blood in the sand near my feet.
He twists, grains of sand still in his reddened eyes. Using my arm as a guide, he blindly punches. His grip prevents me from escaping, and his gigantic fist fills my vision. Black spots erupt behind my eyes, and I stagger from the force of the blow. He releases his hold on my arm, and I stumble back trying to regain my bearings.
My opponent climbs to his feet, sand still streaking his face. A blotch of red stains his pants where I struck him. I’ve reopened an old wound. He holds my gaze as he lowers his hand to his injured leg. He squeezes the injury, and blood oozes out onto his palm. Horrified, I watch as he wipes the fluid across his face, using the streaked scarlet handprint for war paint.
He laughs and flashes me a grin. “Now we’re matching.”
I wipe my forehead, clearing away the blood as it streams from the gash above my eye.
The man lets out another rumble of dark laughter. I use his distraction to swing my leg around and boot the blade out of his grasp. It sails through the air, making a soft thud as it lands in the sand, too far away for my opponent to reach without turning his back to me.
He reaches for me angrily with his meaty fists. “Come here!”
I step back and slice at him in a wild arc with my dagger. He grunts and retracts his hand. I glance down at my blade—the tip is stained with red.
“You’re in for it now, Girly,” 2013 huffs between large breaths.
With a loud roar, he springs forward, grabs the blade of my dagger in his fist, and wrenches it from my hand. He throws it off into the distance, howling in anger. He turns to me, his massive chest heaving and his eyes glinting with murderous rage.
A single bead of blood squeezes through the wound in his arm, and races to his hand to mingle with the new blood there. It lingers for a moment before it falls to the sand, joining a small pool of crimson at his feet. He clenches his jaw, and a low rumble crawls from his throat.
My heart hammers in my chest and a fresh wave of sweat erupts across my skin. The muscles in my legs twitch against my own violation, and I turn in the gritty sand and bolt. The giant man leaps after me in close pursuit, howling in rage. His anger gives him speed, and I’m not sure I can outrun him for long. There isn’t anywhere to run anyway, every direction leads to a dead end.
I change my path and head for the nearest wall. 2013 is now so close that each pass of his hands skims my shirt. I speed up, my feet slipping in the loose sand. I manage a full sprint as I come upon the wall, doing my best to ignore the goblins peering over the edge. Using my momentum, I run three steps up the barrier and push off hard. I somersault in the air above the angry man and land lightly in the sand behind him.
I pounce on his back and wrap my right arm around his thick neck, using my other to lock it in place. Scrabbling I push my knees into his back and use the angle to increase the amount of force I can apply to his throat.
The big man scratches brutally at my arms, tearing at the flesh. His sharp nails cut through my skin and leave smears of our blood all over me. But his struggles are in vain; I have a grip on him so forceful I cannot be pried off. The fear of what will happen to me if I let go gives me strength. 2013 stops ripping the skin from my arms and tilts his head as if an idea has just struck him. The side profile of his reddened face reveals a glinting bloodshot eye and a wicked smile.
Whatever is causing that smil
e, I'm sure it won’t be good for me.
2013 takes a few steps, staggering under our combined weight. He steadies himself and takes in a deep a breath. Turning he runs at top speed towards the wall and throws himself at it. He twists his body as he jumps, so I'm between him and the wall.
The impact makes a sickening crunch. All the air is forced from my lungs. I grit my teeth and hold on for dear life. A metallic flavor fills my mouth and I spit a mouthful of blood into the sand. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.
But then 2013 falls, grunting as his knees hit the sand. But I can’t let him go until he has lost consciousness.
His ice blue eyes meet mine, and his strangled voice escapes his purple lips. “You fight well, Girly.”
I harden my heart, move my feet to the sand and apply all the pressure I can manage on the big man’s throat.
2013’s arms go slack, and his head rolls forward in my arms.
“I'm sorry,” I whisper to the giant man, as I remove my arms and drop him at my feet. I step back, just in case it’s a trick. I wipe the sweat and blood from my brow, watching and waiting. But the man lays still in the sand.
There is a brand burnt deep into the flesh of his left shoulder: ‘2013’with a large ‘S’ above it for Scarlet Guard. He was a voluntary gladiator. Somehow, that doesn’t provide any consolation for what I have done. I commit the number to memory like so many times before.
I can’t let my gaze linger. I must appear strong at all times. Weak gladiators are publicly executed, or worse, given to the goblins. I’ve been told stories about the goblins and even heard for myself the screams that come from the nearby caverns when they are given a new victim. My neck prickles as the tiny hairs rise, as if trying to put distance between themselves and my thoughts.
Shaking myself out of my dark thoughts, I chance one last glance at the still body at my feet. My stomach churns, and the unpleasant burning of bile climbs up my throat.
I raise my eyes to the stands above, and the deafening roar of the crowd rushes to my ears. The monsters in my vision clap, laugh and fight with each other over lost bets. They love it when smaller gladiators beat the bigger ones.
It’s disgusting.
The electric lights that beat down on my back are hot, and I can feel my tender skin screaming in protest. I lift my arm, taking care to be slow. Even with my delicate movement, a sharp pain stabs my chest. The wall sandwiching must have broken some ribs.
“Great,” I mutter with an eye roll, as I lower my arm and try not to wince.
A moldy green goblin ambles to the edge of the grey platform and waves to get the crowd’s attention. Thanks to magic, the goblin's voice drifts over the stands and drowns out the bickering masses.
“Well, what an exciting match! Gladiator 2013 wasn’t at all prepared for how feisty 1408 is.”
The monstrous crowd laughs and roars its approval. I stare at the ground and my stomach gurgles as if it might throw up the goblin's words in an attempt to expel them forever from my mind and body.
“We are lucky today to be joined by our mighty leader Darkmor, who has decided to flatter us with a few words,” the goblin squeaks, holding out a flabby arm toward Darkmor.
Darkmor rises from his seat and struts to the edge of the platform. His blue skin stands out in contrast to the moldy green goblin beside him. I stare up at the loathsome being as he preens his long black hair around twisted grey horns. I don’t know what Darkmor is. He’s a monster, I’m sure of that, but he doesn’t resemble any other creature in his underworld domain. If it wasn’t for his horns and goat-like legs, he could be human. He is tall and skinny, or maybe that’s just in contrast to the squat goblin beside him.
It is hard to believe a being with such a weak frame can control thousands. Yet, it isn’t his frame that controls us—his magic is what holds us down. His sorcery is what his followers crave.
Darkmor looks out at the crowd of goblins as they wait for him to speak, their excitement palpable.
“This is a momentous occasion,” Darkmor announces in a deep voice. “This is 1408’s one hundredth gladiator match.”
The crowd goes nuts, and my throat tightens. One hundred matches mark me as a mass murderer.
Darkmor smiles and raises his hands. “As you know, not many gladiators make it to one hundred matches, as they have a tendency to die before then.”
The crowd laughs too loudly at his joke, and I have to wait long minutes for their laughter to die down.
Darkmor gestures towards me. “In celebration of her hundredth match, 1408 has been promoted to the status of Prime Gladiator. She will receive extra privileges, new armor, and you will encounter her more often in the Arena!”
What a prize. An increase in the frequency of my gladiator matches is the last thing I need. No one reaches the status of Prime Gladiator and stays there long.
The goblins chant Darkmor’s name like he had just given them a great gift. Darkmor gives a small bow and vanishes in a magical cloud of black light. The goblin announcer squeaks and scampers away as if the black cloud had burnt him.
A gate slams and I turn to see four armed Scarlet Guards enter the Arena. They approach me with caution. Probably because revved up gladiators are extremely dangerous. Or, maybe it’s because I am well-known for giving broken noses to whoever tries to chain me up after a match.
Two of the guards give me a wide berth, each one grabbing an arm of the giant man. They drag him through the Arena towards the exit, his body leaving a deep trail as it scuffs through the sand. I watch them for a moment before turning toward the two remaining guards and holding out my hands.
The older guard shoves the younger one toward me. The man pauses. His armor is much too big for him and hangs over his body awkwardly. He gulps and approaches with short, slow steps, like I’m some kind of wild animal. He holds the iron shackles out, the chain between them clinky softly.
I’m tired, sore, and in no mood for the chaos that will ensue if I break the young guard’s nose. So I stand still and let his shaking hands snap the cold metal around my raw wrists. He fumbles with the lock, and the clasp clicks. He jumps back, his hands over his head and his face scrunched up as he prepares for an attack that never comes.
He opens his eyes a crack, realizes he isn't going to get hit and scampers over to the other guard before I can change my mind. I almost feel sorry for him. Neither man makes a move towards me.
I roll my eyes and trudge towards the Arena exit. The older guard gives me a sharp shove from behind, trying to make it seem like he is in charge of the situation. Apparently, he’s much braver now that I’m restrained, and he’s behind me.
Another shove to my lower back causes me to stumble. A low, frustrated growl arises from my throat as I turn to face the two guards. The look on my face has them taking a few hasty steps back.
After they retreat a respectable distance, I resume the slow walk to the infirmary. The adrenaline is wearing off, and with it comes a sickly tickle in my throat and the uncomfortable churning of my stomach that accompanies it. More sensations to add to the unpleasant pounding in my head and the ache of my ribs.
Blood trickles down my face, rolling across my cheek and down my neck, tugging on every fine hair on its travels, as it does its best to cling to a spot and remain there. It has been many seasons since I was last punched in the face. I really should have seen that blow coming. Under normal circumstances, I would have been more guarded.
Perhaps the subconscious worry about my mother’s upcoming review put me off my best defense. But still, I managed to survive this round, and with any luck, I’ll get out of the infirmary in time to see my mother before her slave shift starts.
With that in mind, I walk a little faster.
Chapter Three
The Nagas’ infirmary
The guards drag me along a worn dirt path lined with high fences of barbed wire. This path is the only one between the Arena and the compound, and in my current state, the short track feels
much longer than it actually is. We weave around the natural pillars that stretch up into the darkness of the cavern. My body is riddled with pain, and walking isn’t a pleasant task, but the guards still shove me. By this point, I am almost too tired to walk.
We make our way towards the infirmary where my medical status is to be assessed by other slaves. Every slave has a job. We are placed into roles based on previous skills or the father’s capabilities. As a slave, you have to do well in the position you are given. If you aren’t useful, you are expendable. Darkmor’s followers are more than happy to witness and participate in public executions and torture of slaves who have outrun their usefulness.
We follow the narrow pathway around the last corner and come face to face with the massive gate that separates the Arena from the slave compound. A high building rises above the thick barbed fencing, so brightly lit it stands out in the darkness like a beacon. This building and the Arena are the only two buildings with power that I have any contact with. On the other side of the Arena stands a large city, a place for Darkmor’s free citizens.
I have been there a few times as gladiators are frequently put on display to allow those who bet in the arena to inspect potential assets at their leisure. The whole city is the brightest thing inside the cavern.
In front of the gate sits a crude little mud hut for the guards who watch the entrance to the compound. The door is open and reveals a glimpse of a cooking fire and a small table. My eyes travel to the four guards posted nearby, all of them looking bored as they sharpen their swords or pick at their teeth with daggers.
A tall, lanky guard rises and stumbles about. Exaggerating the way I walk because of my injuries. His display has the other guards rolling around in laughter, and I have to wait for them to be done snickering at my expense before I am allowed to leave. At last, we pass through the gates, following the rough path to the entrance of the most prominent building within the compound. The guards push me through the heavy wooden doors, and we enter a large white room filled with occupants.
Shadowsoul Page 2
