Neeka Featherstone

by R. J. Lucas

  “May I?” Isaiah asks and reaches up to the bandage on Braam’s head. Braam nods and Isaiah pulls off the bandage, showing his wound is healed.

  “How is that possible?” Braam says, annoyed his theory about Isaiah gaming the system could be wrong. “It’s only been a day.”

  I pull my bandage from my side revealing skin that looks as if it had never been slashed, even after I did it the second time.

  “It must be the salve she uses,” Isaiah says. “I don’t know where she gets it, but she puts it on all the injuries, and it heals completely within hours, sometimes minutes.”

  “Did she use a salve on your finger?” Papa asks Braam.

  Braam looks at his hand and then looks at Papa and shakes his head. “I don’t remember, but it doesn’t seem to hurt anymore.”

  “Anyway,” Isaiah shrugs. “I’ve never met a healer like her. Maybe that’s why she is so valuable to the fat man, as she said yesterday.”

  We are interrupted by the sound of the spectators yelling. The arena doors have opened, and we know the fight is over. The guard comes back again with no prisoners. Not even one.

  “What in the world are they fighting?” I ask to no one in particular.

  “Hey, you three… in the corner,” The guard yells, pointing to me, Isaiah and Braam. “Let’s go!”

  “The three of us?” Isaiah mumbles. “What are we fighting indeed?”

  17 - Morning Star

  We step into the center of the arena. The brightness and warmth of daylight embraces us. Under any other circumstance it would be a beautiful day. The sky is a brilliant blue, decorated with sporadic, white puffy clouds. None of them offer relief from the scorching heat of the sun, though.

  The spectators are thirsty for blood, screaming and chanting from the stands. I look into the crowd and focus on one man whose face is twisted and scarred. Spittle flies from his mouth as he screams at us, his face red and burnt from the sun and drooping from too much krum. He wants to see brutality and death.

  “Beg,” he cries. “Beg for mercy you glippy whore.”

  “I hope they cut your lobcocks off!” yells a little girl, too young even to know what she is screaming.

  I think of Papa and wonder if I’ll ever see him again. I know Braam can handle himself and Isaiah must be a good fighter if he has survived this long, but the fat man must know this as well. It seems the spectators like it when the battle is so difficult there is only one survivor among us.

  What will we have to fight?

  I investigate the ground to see if it tells a story of what has come before us. What has been out here, killing every prisoner it met today? Blood stains the dust and scraps of clothing are scattered across the landscape along with broken weapons and metal parts. Vegetation grows from the boulders at the arena’s center and on the walls that contain us. On the far side is a wooden cart of some kind. It’s broken and laying on its side. It wasn’t here yesterday.

  As I continue to scan the arena, I notice Isaiah sitting on the ground beside me, his legs crossed, and his eyes are closed. He has removed his shirt and wound it tightly around his right hand.

  “What are you doing?” I ask him.

  “Preparing for the fight,” he says without looking up at me.

  “Do you not fight standing up?” asks Braam.

  “I’m not fighting. I’m preparing.”

  Braam shakes his head at the nonsense and turns to me. “Don’t you start going sharmootah on me too,” he says.

  I don’t know how to answer him, and I don’t have the time. The gate at the far end of the arena opens. Last time I was here, it was four frenzied men that appeared, like walking through the mouth of Gehenna.

  This time, it’s a baldagaar.

  Twenty-five hands high, built like a tree trunk, and grunting like a bull about to charge. It stomps into the arena with four handlers dragging it forward, yanking it with chains hooked to its oversized collar.

  The beast has a metal band around the top of its head, tipped at an angle so it covers one eye. The other one glows red, like hot coals in a fire. One of its arms is completely mechanical with a large, spiked round ball in the place where a hand should be.

  “Is that a war mace attached to his arm?” I ask to whomever will answer.

  “It’s called a morning star,” says Braam. “Only much bigger than normal.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Be careful. It is likely attached to a chain allowing him to wield it like a whip.”

  “So, after we kill him and inevitably have to share our story with the others, let’s be sure to call it a war mace. Morning star just sounds so wimpy.”

  “Agreed,” says Braam, smiling at me.

  I continue to examine our foe. The creature has no shirt or shoes, and his pants are tattered. His skin is stretched and misshapen, stitched at angles and discolored. Fresh blood decorates its body, splattered in a graffiti-like fashion. It wears a steel collar, not unlike the ones we wear when being escorted to this vile place, except his is much bigger.

  The handlers yank at it and it roars, unhappy with being told what to do. One of the handlers pokes it with a spear and it only makes the baldagaar mad.

  He grabs the weapon and snaps it like a twig before swinging his spiked war mace at the handler. The mace extends from his arm, connected by a long chain, and pummels the handler in the chest. The handler is knocked back against the wall, the life snatched out of him so fast he never had time to scream.

  As the war mace retracts, the other three handlers take advantage of the precious couple of seconds and drop their chains and run out. The gate falls into place behind them.

  I turn to Isaiah, wondering if he is frightened or nervous. But he is gone. Disappeared. I can only imagine he is hiding among the nearby boulders as there is nowhere else to go.

  “That glippy little coward,” Braam says. “I guess it’s just you and me then.”

  I squat into a running stance, the power in my legs waiting to be unleashed. “Just try not to get in my way,” I say. “And try not to let my dust blind you.” I turn to him and smile. Then, I’m off.

  Within seconds, I cover the ground between me and the baldagaar and launch myself at his head. I know a well time kicked to the face is all it will take to end this battle before it even begins.

  The baldagaar howls when it notices me. Just before I hit him, he dodges left. I miss and land just on the other side of him. Before I can fully turn around, his massive fist connects with my back and shoulders, knocking me across the sun-scorched earth. My breath has left me, and I struggle to find it again. The last time I felt such pain was when I lost my legs on the Sacred Platform of the Holy Charter. In an instant, my confidence is shattered. This fight will not be easy.

  I find my breath and struggle to my feet. A war cry pierces the air and I turn to see Braam running at the baldagaar. The creature in turn stomps toward Braam, meeting him halfway. It swipes at him with its natural born hand, followed quickly by his war mace. Braam tumbles out of the way with surprising speed for a man of his size. He grabs one of the flailing chains attached to the creature’s collar and yanks hard causing the baldagaar to stumble.

  For a moment, the two have a tug of war with the chain which surprises and delights the crowd. The muscles in Braam’s arms swell and stretch. His face is twisted and strained. But the baldagaar is clearly stronger and Braam loses ground.

  I seize the moment and circle around to the creature’s blind side while it is distracted by Braam. As I do, the creature notices me and turns to follow my course.

  Braam uses this as an opportunity to swing the end of the chain at the creature’s face.

  He connects and one of the baldagaar’s teeth falls from its mouth. This only angers the beast more and he swings at Braam with his fist, knocking him backward ten lengths of a man into a broken wooden cart. The baldagaar follows through with his war mace, extending it full length. Braam rolls clear just as the spiked ball connects with the wooden cart, pulverizing it in
to a thousand splinters.

  The crowd erupts with excitement as the baldagaar retracts his mace.

  I leap at the beast, aiming my kick for the back of his head.

  He ducks.

  I miss and hit the ground with a tuck and roll. He is on me with surprising speed. Just before his war mace flattens me, I roll out of reach. Sand from his mace hitting the ground, explodes upward, blinding him for a second. I seize the moment and kick him in the chest, knocking him to the ground.

  I look over at Braam and see him moving. Thank the Great Creator he is alive. I turn back to the baldagaar. He is on his feet again, staring at me with that huge, fiendish red eye.

  I run.

  Maybe I can tire him out by making him chase me. I keep my pace slow so he can keep up. Too slow…I realize when he leaps at me. I slide left and dart right just in time. But as I dodge the beast, I feel a sharp pain in my head. An empty krum cup tumbles at my feet and I realize one of the spectators has thrown it at me.

  The distraction serves its intended purpose and the baldagaar grabs me by the neck, lifting me into the air. My legs flail about and my hands grasp his enormous fingers as I try to break free.

  This is it. This is how I die…at the hands of a baldagaar. At least I will go out fighting. I expect him to snap my neck at any second.

  His grip is so tight, I start to see dark spots in the corner of my field of vision. I fight to maintain consciousness. I think I see Papa for a moment. My brother. Solomon laughing.

  But instead of choking me to death, he loosens his grip and I see him pull his mechanical arm back to deliver a killing blow. I only hope people will remember me as the girl that died from a war mace and not a morning star.

  I block the first and second blows with my legs, but the third one hits my ankle mechanism and breaks it. Screws and gears and pieces of steel fall to the ground and I’m thankful it is metal and not flesh. As the beast rears his mechanical arm back for another attempt, he lets out a screech of pain and drops me to the ground.

  I backcrawl away and see Braam has gashed the creature’s leg with a long piece of scrap metal.

  The baldagaar lunges at Braam knocking him to the ground. He swings his war mace down hard and Braam deflects it with his makeshift weapon, driving the steel ball into the sand.

  Braam rolls out of the way and stumbles to his feet. He moves toward me, holding his side.

  He’s injured. How badly? I don’t know.

  I look back at the baldagaar. He’s on his knees shaking his head, trying to get the sand out of his eye. I wonder how much longer we can defend ourselves against this monstrosity. At least I still have one good leg to use.

  “It’s about time you joined us!” I hear Braam yell.

  I turn to see Isaiah running toward the baldagaar, a large rock grasped firmly in his shirt-wrapped hand. I wonder what he is up to.

  He jumps onto the creature’s back and starts pounding it in the eye with the rock. He gets in about three good hits before he is tossed from the baldagaar’s back. He lands hard against a pile of wood and metal scraps. A large splinter penetrates his left thigh, and he screams out in pain.

  The baldagaar roars and flails about like a giant madman, holding his eye with his one natural hand. When he removes it, I can see the whole side of his face is blistered and his eye is swollen shut. In that moment, I realize what Isaiah has done. It wasn’t a rock after all. It was a rozker.

  The beast will not recover from that. It will die a slow and painful death over the next couple of days. I almost feel sorry for it, knowing its fate. No creature deserves to suffer that way.

  As it continues to spin in circles and howl like a wild animal, Braam picks up the handler’s broken spear and drives it through the baldagaar’s chest. I guess he didn’t think it should suffer either.

  The crowd erupts in cheers even louder than before. They wanted entertainment. I guess they got it. In the distance, I notice the fat man, perched at the edge of the wall. I cannot tell if he is happy we have put on a show or furious we’ve killed the baldagaar.

  Braam helps Isaiah to his feet and they both stumble toward me. Braam kneels and scoops me into his arms.

  “So where did you find the rozker?” I ask Isaiah as we make our way to the exit.

  “There are several of them growing among the boulders, hidden in crevices,” He smiles. “How do you think I’ve survived here so long?”

  “So that’s your secret.” I exclaim.

  “You two may have strength and speed, but I have intelligence.”

  “Speaking of intelligence,” says Braam. “Did I ever tell you about the baldagaar I had as a loan shark?”

  I am so exhausted, I don’t respond.

  “I owed him an arm and a leg,” he says, but none of us laugh.

  18 - The North Cell

  As we trudge our way down the dark corridor toward our cell, the fat man appears out of nowhere. He’s angry and out of breath, as if he ran here.

  “Do you have any idea how hard it was to capture that baldagaar?” he grunts.

  “You made the mistake of putting it in there with us,” Isaiah says, unfazed by the fat man’s anger.

  “They don’t just fall from the sky, you know. Lord Solomon designs them to be ferocious. I lost three men capturing it, not including the one it killed today. I thought you were all dead the moment the gate shut.”

  “You thought wrong,” I say.

  The fat man smirks and stands up straight. He glances back and forth between the three of us and his anger seems to fade.

  “Cyrus,” he shouts at one of the guards. “Have you ever seen prisoners fight like this? Surviving for so long? Working in concert?”

  “No,” says Cyrus.

  “Or so good looking?” adds Braam, using the wall to support us.

  “Keep your mouth shut, prisoner,” Cyrus says and raises his blunderbuss to Braam. The fat man quickly knocks it away and slaps Cyrus in the face all in one motion.

  “Don’t damage the merchandise, fool. These are my stars now.” The fat man turns to us with a greedy glint in his eyes.

  Cyrus takes a step back, clearly embarrassed at the scolding.

  “These three will no longer be with the others,” he says to Cyrus, and by extension, the rest of the guards. “I want them taken care of. Put them in the North cell,” he commands before glancing at me with a grin. “You actually get to sleep on a soft cot tonight.”

  He turns to walk away, and the guards grab the three of us, rougher than I’d thought they would, given the fat man’s pronouncement. I look across the cell at Papa who is shoved into the corner with the rest of the prisoners.

  “Papa has to go with us,” I shout a moment before the fat man disappears around the corner.

  “Does he now?”

  “He’s the only one that can repair my proths,” I say.

  “I have prothchanics who can take care of it.”

  “Papa is the only one who can repair my proths,” I say, enunciating each syllable, hoping to communicate the urgency to him.

  “Fair enough,” he says, waving his hand as if approving my request. “But there are only three cots in the North cell. One of you will have to take the floor.”

  I nod and the fat man tells the guards to give Papa access to the scrap pile for parts and any tools he may need.

  “I want her in working condition by tomorrow at main event time.” He looks at Braam and Isaiah, their bodies bruised and bleeding. “Send Amari up to the north cell and allow her all the time she needs to heal them. I want them all at a hundred percent for tomorrow’s event.”

  Arriving at the North Cell, I notice it has a double bar locking system on the outside of the door with a failsafe mechanism to prevent escape. In that respect, it is like a typical prison cell. Other than that, however, it is a place of great comfort. It is a much nicer room than our previous accommodations. There is a large rug on the floor and sulfur lights that brighten the room. There is even a latrine in
the far corner with a door on it.

  I run my hand across the soft material of one of the cots and imagine how nice it will be to sleep on, but even the ground will be more comfortable here since there are extra blankets and head cushions. In the center of the room is a small table with bread and prickly pears. This place is luxury compared to where we were.

  As I take in our lavish new accommodations, the door opens, and Amari enters. She is beautiful, her skin soft and glowing. She seems to float across the floor like a ghostly apparition. The guard looks around and then exits the room, locking the door behind him and leaving Amari alone with us for the first time. She glances at me and makes her way to Braam, the most injured of our trio.

  He goes to sit on the cot and Isaiah scolds him for getting blood everywhere.

  “I can’t help it,” Braam moans.

  He situates himself on the floor and Amari gets to work. She uses salve and bandages, but her hands linger on the wounds as if she is holding something valuable. She holds his lacerated arm in a grip that is surprisingly tight for someone so small and slight. Braam winces at first, then nods, his clenched jaw loosening as the pain subsides.

  “Do you think we could do that again?” Isaiah asks no one and everyone at the same time. “I feel like they’ll get wise to those guerilla tactics pretty quick.”

  “Baldagaars aren’t known for getting wise,” says Braam.

  “But who says we’ll be fighting baldagaars next time?”

  “Who cares? We’ll figure it out.”

  “Baldagaars?” I ask. “You think they’ll make us fight more than one? Fighting one was almost too much for the three of us. More than one—"

  Amari looks up from Braam’s wounds. We make eye contact, and she looks back down.

  “That’s the next logical step,” says Isaiah. “Then they’ll have us fighting guards with various weapons and advantages and if we survive that, they’ll start throwing waves of prisoners at us.”

  “I’m not fighting the other prisoners,” I say.