Spark City

by Robert J Power

  All the girls were watching.

  And then the counter attack came. He leapt in, his single club, barbaric and brutal hammered loudly against Erroh’s, and they struggled for ground. Not for very long though. Erroh was beaten back, and the larger man pushed home the advantage. The grunts and growls replaced the clatter of wood and steel and it was Erroh’s own groans which were loudest. Through the thin slits in his helm, he somehow met each strike, blocking and parrying and pushing himself until sweat drenched his brow, his arms and then his back, but still they charged back and forth like a pendulum counting the world’s moments, impossible to separate. Just when Erroh felt he couldn’t take any more violent strikes, his opponent began to weaken. Just enough that each blow did not steal his breath. Just enough that Erroh could move a little easier. Just enough that he began to believe again. This fight was not done. He had a chance after all. The women would see his prowess once more.

  In ill-fitting armour as well.

  And then a glancing blow, no more than a desperate counter, grazed Erroh’s helmet and shifted the heavy piece just enough to tear his skin open. It only felt like a scrape and Erroh struck out, striking his opponent across the knuckles. It wasn’t enough to break, just enough to neutralise. The taller Alpha screamed and retreated, holding his hand. The club clattered loudly on the ground but Erroh did not attempt to attack. He was distracted by a mild case of blindness. Warm fluid streamed down the inside of his helmet and Erroh wiped uselessly at his face. It was no scrape after all.

  Seeing Erroh’s hesitation, the Alpha leapt forward and struck. Perhaps he could smell blood. Erroh attempted to deflect but the damage was done, the dye had been cast, and bones had been broken. Or at least fractured.

  He heard the terrible blow across his ribs before he felt it. It sounded like a crack. And when he did feel the devastating strike, he was already collapsing in a terrible suffocating heap. He couldn’t think, couldn’t scream, couldn’t do anything, but gasp pathetically as the pain tore him apart from the inside.

  But it did not end.

  His opponent reached down and gripped him in a powerful fist and if he spoke words, Erroh didn’t hear; he was lost in his own pain. At least he didn’t cry out. At least they did not hear his agony. His vision darkened and more blood streamed into his eyes. He felt a massive injured hand lock behind his neck. It held him, kept him in place. And then he felt a second terrible blow to the same area of his ribs and this time he did cry out. It sounded like tears. Erroh swung madly with his fists, knowing the attempts were futile. He struck bone but there was nothing behind it. He gasped and sucked in what cold air he could and he waited to die. For this was the Cull and it was likely such things occurred in the Cull. Just nobody spoke of it. If the Alpha ended his life, he could do nothing. That sudden thought stirred him and he tried to rise again. He was broken but still he tried desperately to crawl. Away from his vanquisher or towards him, he couldn’t tell. Lea had quite the justice gifted to her. They would make quite the couple, he thought bitterly.

  “Enough Aymon,” roared Dia and the room blazed to brightness.

  He saw the Alpha now, standing at the far side of the room, breathing in deeply and staring up at the leader of the world with dull worship. With the fight done and Erroh having failed to cover himself in glory, he gave up. He lay in a ruined heap, gasping for air. He couldn’t hear anything but mumblings between Alpha and Primary. He simply lay there wondering if any helpful Wolves, eager to take away unwanted waste, would come along and remove him from the arena.

  And someone did.

  With little care, two guards carried him to the backroom and placed him sitting up against the wall. He attempted gratitude but neither man was interested to engage in conversation. They remembered his brutality. He was certain to be the butt of many jests this evening. He removed the helmet and enjoyed the warm sensation of blood running down his face. It was showing little sign of slowing. A fine flow altogether. Lea was not waiting but he wasn’t terribly bothered. What bothered him was trying to catch his breath. An underrated task on the best of days, he mused bitterly. Eventually when he did catch it, what remained was the searing pain along his side and it did not subside in the least. What a disastrous showing.

  Magnus would not have lost that way.

  His father would have found a way to attain victory, and Erroh cursed loudly and then felt a pang of homesickness. Aye his father was brutal and feared by many, but he was also kinder than most and some of his kindness would be welcome. Perhaps just a quick reassuring jest, as he pulled him to his feet. When such childish thoughts offered little comfort, Erroh stripped some fabric from his shirt and placed it across his brow. It was something to do while he waited for the scorned female Lea to return to him, as she said she would.

  Punished

  He waited for quite a time but Lea never returned.

  Of course she didn’t. It was so predictable.

  He cast his chest plate aside in disgust. It would take a week to recover from this hiding, perhaps two. He poked at the damage and his body responded by jerking violently. Perhaps three. Time flows differently when alone, aggrieved and melancholic, but after what felt like an hour a diminutive young girl appeared at the doorway.

  “The next testing will be in half an hour or so,” she whispered formally and spun on anxious heels back towards the corridor.

  “What do you mean?” he shouted before she made her escape. She glanced longingly at the exit before turning back to face him. Some blood dripped down from his eyebrow again. He swiped it away irritably. Her eyes followed the drips as they took flight and her face turned a little pale.

  “The next test will be in around a half hour sir,” she repeated slowly while edging ever so subtly out the doorway and Erroh could only stare at her in astonishment. Well played Lea, well played indeed. You witch.

  He almost delivered a fine whirlwind of profanity and opinions at the young girl, an outburst of such an injustice that even the gods themselves would take note, but instead he dropped his head in grim acceptance and nodded a few times.

  “Get back your pride little cub,” whispered an imaginary voice in his head.

  Ah, pride. It was such a dangerous thing at the best of times and Erroh suffered greatly from it. With pride came strength of will. They came hand in painful hand, and were always desperate to drag the greatest men and women down to the depths of wretchedness. He swallowed deeply and the pain almost sent him to the ground.

  “Can you get me some bandages and anything to help with my little scrape?” he asked dejectedly.

  She nodded and ran from the room.

  “Thank you,” he called after her and leaned back against the wall. He never saw her again. A different young girl arrived and handed him a long metal box before disappearing. The small rusty hinges creaked when he opened the medical case. It contained nothing more than a few old bandages and a small capsule. He placed a piece of fabric against the cut and dabbed the deep hole before popping the cork and pouring in some brown liquid. He assumed it was disinfectant. He hoped it was disinfectant. Painful tears streamed down from his eyes, so it was probably disinfectant. He finished off the repairs by cleaning away the dried blood with a little water. He felt like a new man.

  Until he set foot back in the arena.

  The bald brute matched Erroh in height but slower in movement. With arms the size of tree trunks and probably as sturdy, every attack that Erroh blocked, sent him crashing from one side of the room to the next. He tried in his ill-fitting armour, he really did, but early in the skirmish, his fierce opponent discovered his weakness. Perhaps it was the wheezing panting in every break; perhaps it was the feeble squeals every time he defended his ribs. Whatever it was, his opponent soon hunted him down as though he were a chess player terrified to step away from protecting his king. With the last of his energy, Erroh turned to flight. It wasn’t the noblest form of warfare but it was all he had left. He slowed the pace as best he could and kept cl
ear of strikes. It simply added to the boredom of the contest and the silent audience knew it.

  As with great things and some not so great, things must end. After a handful of dull moments, Erroh finally let fatigue get the better of him. He halted his pathetic retreat and met an attack as both clubs clattered loudly in the dark. His attack was mistimed and his Alpha opponent broke through his guard and knocked him to the ground with a blow across his shoulder. It was hardly a glorious killing blow but Erroh fell to his knees gasping in front of the girls letting his weapons roll free of his grip.

  “Enough, Doran,” the Primary ordered in her great booming voice.

  The lights blazed to life and then Erroh lost sight of his opponent. He gasped for air and thought about rising when suddenly something grabbed him from behind and the world went painfully dark.

  Darkness.

  Movement.

  Scraping.

  The ceiling was moving and scraping at the same time. There was pain and he was dimly aware that he was not having a good day. He was struggling to breathe and his arms were outstretched. He could definitely hear a scraping sound. Something seemed terribly wrong. He could feel his senses returning slowly. Something told him that this confused state, was a finer place to be than in the cold light of awareness. It was his fingers making the scraping sound. That didn’t seem to make any sense at all. He tried to focus his vision and he suspected he was bleeding. It certainly tasted like it. He tried to remember and it hurt. He stopped trying to remember. Everything seemed dark grey and painful. Like the grey of the city. There was a flicker of recollection. Something about the city, had he reached it already? He still couldn’t quite grasp it but he was close. So close, if only the scraping sound would cease. Then he felt something new. It was a pulling sensation at the legs. He looked down and saw two black demons dragging him to his doom. That wasn’t a great omen at all. Had he lived a good life? Had he died a believer in the gods? Did it matter? He felt his conscious mind knocking at the door of this terrible daze. He tried to kick out but he was dragged into darkness. Then his eyes burned as somebody ignited the sun in front of his eyes. And then he remembered. The two Black Guards left him lying in the middle of the floor and stepped noisily into the hallway. The sound of a heavy door slamming signalled their departure. They were getting quite skilled at removing him from the arena. It was an underrated skill, he imagined. Struggling to his feet, he shook his head and regretted it immediately. He gripped the wall behind him like a demented living scarecrow and waited for the world to stop spinning. When this failed, he crumpled to his seat and threw up all over himself. This was no simple task with shattered ribs. Between each horrific retch, he allowed himself a brief moan. When his body was satisfied that it could betray him no further, he crumpled to the floor and hated the city and every nasty female living in it. He saved a special little piece of bitterness for Lea. There would be reparation and such a thought granted him comfort. Maybe he would throw her in a river.

  Enjoying wonderful thoughts in his mind, he pulled the armour free of his body. The clamour echoed around the halls and throughout the silent building. Good, he hoped the noise broke into the Primary’s speech. She could fuk right off as well.

  His head continued to spin and his stomach began to churn once more. He managed to make it to the bucket of waste this time though and took full advantage of it. Spitting out the last of his stomach contents, he leant against the wall and contented himself with waiting for death. Fuk the Cull. Fuk the city. Fuk everybody.

  He missed home, his family, and it wasn’t too long before he thought of the one female in the city who did care about him. Was his younger sister available yet to meet with him? Was it not a peculiar thing to come this far to see kin and she had not yet appeared? So many things about this place were so unsettling. He wanted to leave this very day, to escape back into the green of the wastes and walk the road as a fierce predator. Such childish thoughts. He shook his head in frustration and felt pulsating stabs of burning pain. He reached behind and felt a wound. Aye it was small and already the blood had stopped but it was volatile to the touch, as if some fiend had struck him from behind when the lights had come on. So much for honour in battle.

  Eventually he heard the familiar sound of a hundred female feet shuffling around once again. He heard a door open and bursts of giddy excitable laughter and conversation. They really were having a great time. It was at this moment that a prophetic and expected thought occurred to him. He was not built for these people, he was not built for the city, and he would find no mate. He would leave the Cull a failure. Such liberating thoughts brought him little comfort and he felt a loss unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. He felt tears but kept them at bay. He was not broken yet; he was only beaten. That is, until he heard the delicate footsteps of another young female not old enough to torment any young men. He already knew what she would say before she said it.

  “The final testing will commence whenever you desire,” the young girl said from the doorway. She lingered, taking him in. He could see concern. He thought her a good actor.

  “Is there anything you need?” she whispered in an eastern accent familiar to his own. He growled something inaudible and she took the hint. Charming Erroh.

  He tore the last of the armour from his tenderised body and threw it into the corner, vowing never to don the black ever again. The one consolation was that Dia would probably shout at Lea over the matter of him fighting in plain clothing.

  He knew he had a concussion but he didn’t care anymore. Let them see what they did to him. He grabbed his weapons and shuffled to the doorway one final time. He would fall and he would fall terribly but it would be magnificent.

  Wynn rubbed his arms in the cold air and stretched them out. An attack was coming. It wasn’t just the club at his feet; it was the sage bit of advice gifted to him from his father upon leaving his wing. Although Marvel may have lied about that as well. He wasn’t above such things. Wynn sighed loudly in the darkness and wondered how the females above him kept so quiet. Maybe that was another lie. He could feel the adrenaline gathering within him. It urged him to move, to tap his foot, to call out, to do anything at all. He was never able to sit in silence for too long yet here he was, standing in the dark for quite a time behaving as though his future was at stake. At least the complimentary bottle of wine they’d left for him in his lavish quarters was fine for settling his nerves. He’d drunk just about enough to relax but not enough to sway his judgement or ability. It was a decent vintage as well; perhaps he would indulge once the test was completed. His father had told him he would be treated like royalty despite their family ties to the east, and so far the city was living up to his expectations. He heard footsteps from beyond and reached for the club just as the door opened and a ruin of a young man charged through in search of blood.

  Excellent, Wynn thought. Movement, at last.

  Erroh didn’t care just how much of a wretch he presented himself as. It was only a little blood, sweat, and bile after all. What mattered was the weight lifted. His body ached and struggled but at least he could move without hindrance. His opponent gave off the appearance of a god, if Erroh believed in such things. Dressed in brown leather garments from head to toe, he gripped the club like a master of the blade. His blazing dark eyes stared in pure concentration, studying Erroh for a weakness, a confident grin upon his face. His neat ponytail whipped out behind him as he struck and he struck quicker than either man before. Within moments, it was evident for all hidden eyes to see that Erroh was meeting his third Alphaline of the day and they had saved the finest until last. Wonderful news.

  They clashed loudly in the dark, each club hammering loudly as they met, parried, blocked, countered and withdrew and begun the cycle again. He did not share Erroh’s aggression but his style was graceful, accomplished, and pleasing to the eye. Erroh could imagine the females swooning over his chiselled features as he grinned with every feint and strike. Erroh didn’t like that grin, he
didn’t like that grin at all. It was far too confident and assured.

  They struck back and forth and the silent room watched and held excitable breaths.

  “You are completely fuked,” Wynn uttered between scuffles. It wasn’t a threat and it wasn’t mocking, it was just simple observation.

  “Aye,” Erroh wittily replied, charging forward, tasting fresh blood in his mouth, and hoping it was not from his lungs. Erroh swung loosely and a swiping counterblow caught the bandaging above his eyebrow, not tearing it free but pulling it across his vision, ending any chance of victory. But the final blow did not come; instead, his opponent lowered his blade and stepped back.

  “No way to win,” Wynn said quietly. He was putting on quite the show and Erroh nodded in appreciation. It was an honourable move. He tore the bandage free and wiped away the fresh stream of blood. He had plenty to spare.

  Once again, the two figures charged each other in a brutal storm of barbaric weapons but it was Erroh who faltered first. The pain had crippled his mind and no amount of lightened burden could compensate. He was weary. Weary and ready to lose. Finally, after one last fine display of violence, he could take no more. Erroh’s hand dropped too low and the ponytailed Alpha leapt in, only to meet a fist to the chin. Perhaps had Erroh been stronger he may have done more damage than a slight welt but as it was, the strike did little more than daze his opponent. Off balance, Erroh tried to strike once more but his body simply collapsed forward and his opponent calmly stepped out of the way, as he crumpled on the floor.