Prison Moon_Ice Heart

by Alexandra Marell

  Laughter rang about the courtyard. Raucous cries for gory slaughter. Four new hovering boxes, covered in riveted sheets of red and silver plates dropped into view. Hexagonal, not square, they spun through the gaggle of warriors, stopping occasionally for a closer view.

  Let them look. A gladiator was well used to being watched.

  Kelskar flexed his arms in rapid motion, pumping muscles with blood. The long blade newly sharpened on a wet stone grasped in his right hand. The gladius in the left. He fought equally well with both.

  Nothing he saw here made him fear for his life. He revelled in taking on multiple opponents.

  The dancing torchlight, filling the pit with glare and confusing shadow, matched well with his luminous eyes and his ability to glean every spark of available light. Each being brought their own advantage to the fray. Quick thinking, nimble feet, and lightning reactions would win the day.

  He ignored the dull ache at the base of his skull. Made note to avoid pulling sharply to the left lest he reopen the knitting chest wound. Kelskar felt the missing armour’s loss like a ghost limb. It had been so much a part of him for too long.

  “They say it’s a good haul this night.” Half his size, a squat creature tilted its thick neck to peer at him through squinted eyes. It would go for the legs and knees, thrusting the weapon up into vulnerable cock and balls. Kelskar made more notes.

  “Good pickings indeed.” Not in the mood for talk, he liked to be still before a fight. The creature persisted.

  “Earth women. The noises they make in coupling. Loama! I win three tonight. Take all at once.”

  “Good fighting to you, then.” Kelskar turned his back, seriously considering throttling the two insistent drummers with his bare hands. Every tuneless thump beat counterpoint to the thudding in his brain. Pulling back his sleeve, he read the new ink blurring at his wrist.

  Janie. Did this name account for the empty space in his chest? The vague knowing of something missing from his life? A nagging feeling too ephemeral to fashion into substance and meaning.

  Had he so carelessly lost something of such great value? The Regian believed so, with loud conviction. The fucker had been running at him all day, accusing him of losing her since they met. Even now the creature hung from the palisade fencing, taunting all who bothered to listen.

  Dark gods, Kelskar willed the boastful creature to bid on every prize he wanted so he could kill him ten times over.

  “Kaboushi. Give you energy for fight.”

  “Caramechola. You fly on this. Feel no pain.”

  Kelskar listened to the background cries of traders wandering through the waiting fighters touting food and mind-altering substances any fighter would be a fool to take. Fighting hungry gave him an edge. He needed no more confusion to add to the swirling in his brain. Inside the arena, the noise amplified, trumpets squeaked out a fanfare. A handful of fighters raced for the gate, jostling to be first to present. Kelskar made inventory.

  A strengthening wind, blowing from the far side of the arena, but so far no rain. The dirt floor dry enough for steady underfoot purchase. Twin moons, high and full in the sky, lending light to the crackling torches dug into the earth at intervals around the pit. Placed, he guessed, for fighters to snatch up as impromptu hand weapons by night’s end.

  Weapons on show ranged from fanged animals, lances and clubs to blades both long and short. Only three of the warrior’s he assessed to be even matches to him. The rest he dismissed. The warrior throng thinned now in number as they threaded through the open gate and entered the pit to screams and roars of approval. A wave of laughter accompanied a being unfortunate enough to humiliate himself before the bouts began. There was always one.

  Then Kelskar stood alone bar the beefy guard he exchanged greeting with at the cages. He took in three deep breaths, reciting the Chan e Wah, in his head. The gladiator’s prayer to death and glory.

  “Lost the nerve to enter?” Dull leathery scales adorned the guard’s face in a semblance of half shift. Fully fledged claws adorned the wyvern guard’s hand, the teeth elongated below the bottom lip. A creature of legend to some, Kelskar fielded vague memory of watching such creature’s fight in his own arena.

  The guard uttered a strange noise that might have been laughter and favoured Kelskar with a scathing appraisal from head to toe. “Decide, coward. I need close that gate.”

  No energy to waste feeling affronted by the creature’s insult. All focus now on the fight to come.

  “I prefer to make a good entrance,” Kelskar said and walked with purpose to the opening. A camera box shadowed every step. Pausing, he waited for the dip in the noise when the crowd realised another fighter stood on the perimeter. He once silenced a whole arena, teasing the expectant crowd with suggestive shadows such that on his entry their roars threatened to blast holes in the walls.

  No different this time. Necks craned towards the fighter lingering at the gate, the din lowered to whisperings. More than one fighter threw death glares in his direction for daring to steal their thunder.

  Gladiator Kelskar stepped with deliberate calm and blank expression into the ear-splitting explosion of noise.

  The pathetic line of human females, their bodies on humiliating display punched straight through his calm demeanour, darkening his vision with rage. What sport in this sad show? He knew. One of his opponents explained with great relish what hid inside the misery cages. But seeing for himself unbalanced him when he needed ice cold calm.

  Focus. Retreat into tunnel vision, all thought on the fight to come.

  Not for him to change this ritual. He couldn’t win them all, nor did he have need of another woman in his life. Not with this empty ache inside that begged for resolution. A crop haired female stood stony-faced, staring ahead as if looking into eternity itself. Most swayed and wept copious tears and gut wrenching sobs as the fighters opened their mouths, groped their breasts and private parts. Two at the end of the line held firmer, the yellow haired female with head high almost daring the fighters to throw down their bids. The other, hair falling like a dark river down her back...

  Kelskar blinked on a flicker of recognition. A tug of memory. Nothing solid yet this female staked him with pleading eyes that asked what? His feet moved through the frenzy of warriors of their own accord, pulled by an invisible force. Like a line from his heart to hers. He slid a bid token from his pocket, knowing where it would land. The Regian threw himself into a backflip and blocked his path. A camera quickly dropped in record the exchange.

  “You see her? You see her? You see my token right at her feet? I win her. Take your woman so hard she split in two.”

  A heavy pressure pulsed in Kelskar’s brain, like a memory forcing through from some dim past. He saw this creature, insulting the dark-haired woman in another time, another place. Where, by the dark gods, where? She watched with anxious eyes, rigid with tension. Fighting to be still. To keep from attracting attention.

  Kelskar lashed out with a fist, more in anger than any planned strategy. The Regian dodged, dropping to the floor in an agile roll to flip upright again.

  “Can’t fight me for her. Not until you drop your bid.” Sticking out his long tongue, he let loose a yodelling yell. “When I done with her, I trade her for good price. If she still lives. If you bid on her then they’ll all bid on her. They all want fight you. To be the one to kill you.”

  “Fuck the rules.” Before Kelskar barely raised the sword to strike the wretch’s head from his body, the red and silver security box swooped between them in warning. With no bid at the woman’s feet, he could not fight the Regian without incurring deadly penalty. Kelskar acknowledged the camera and dropped his sword arm. The creature spoke truth. A man of his stature, a newcomer too, would be too tempting a challenge to beings here. If he bid for this woman, they all would.

  And the more that challenged for her the more he meddled with her fate.

  Kelskar curled his fist about the token. It had to drop somewhere. No bid and they woul
d throw him from the arena in disgrace. Screeching, the Regian twirled around to throw himself at the reed-player, taunting him with beckoning fingers.

  “The dark-haired female. Bid on her. Someone give me a real challenge. I need to kill and kill and kill today.”

  The reed player lifted his upper chin, unable to resist such a public challenge. Another token fell at the dark-haired woman’s feet. “Your name.” The reed player grasped her chin with bony fingers. “I would know your given name.”

  Two tokens and more would follow. A much-desired prize made for a crowd pleasing blood-bath and easily doubled the worth. Kelskar opened his palm.

  “Your name, female.” The reed-player pulled the woman’s face to his, threatening to break her neck with the force of his grip. “A slave answers when the master speaks.”

  “When I see a master, I’ll give my name.” Defiance poured from every cell of the woman’s body. A terrible mistake, though she would not realise the impact of her defiance. Next to her the blonde threw back her head in insolent laughter. Another token fell to join the three at her feet. The contest favourites were making themselves known.

  “You’ll give it now before I wrench your fragile human head from this body.”

  “Have a care with the merchandise, warrior.” Kelskar stepped in, twirling the token through his fingers. Did he imagine the relief flashing across the woman’s face? “She’s not yours yet.”

  “And not yours ever.” The being twisted, fingers fast on the woman’s chin. “I look forward to wrenching this hopeful warrior’s worthless head from his...” The reed player’s mobile lips trembled to a halt. The majestic speech died on his lips. “You’re an incomer?”

  “What of it?” Kelskar studied the wood block in his hand. Inscribed with the first letter of his name, intersected by two circular symbols copied from the central art work adorning his biceps, the crude design held some significance to the man he was. One day, when the mists cleared, he’d know.

  If they ever cleared. Hunkering down, Kelskar placed the block, deliberately touching the reed-players token.

  For a long moment the being studied the four tokens lying in the dust. “What of it you ask? You must know that incomers attract the most challenge. I came here for gain, not death.”

  “A shame then. Now, if you’ve completed your scrutiny, perhaps you’d move aside?” No threat to the woman’s freedom here, but the growing pile of bid tokens sealed her fate with one challenger this night.

  “Ahh, she’s not worth dying for.” The reed player shoved the woman’s face away with such force she staggered, barely keeping her balance. He spat in disgust, stooping to retrieve his token. A lance barred his way.

  “No bid retrievals. Move away from the prize.”

  “It was an accident, I dropped it. Not a bid.”

  “And we haven’t heard that one before.” A flush of florid red crawled across the guard’s bulging cheeks. A grin full of oversized teeth lent a semblance of mirth to his face. “Move, before I make you fight them all, here and now.”

  On a stream of curses, the reed player stomped away, taking out his frustration on a weeping woman barely able to stand. A curse on the creature, now half the fighters in the arena had paused to take interest in this woman, to inspect her bid pile. Some fought for the challenge, others to better their standing as warlords. Others for the soft prizes, easily gained. They all had reasons to be there.

  The woman stood on her mark, rubbing her chin, sending looks of such dark contempt at the retreating flute player Kelskar wondered the being didn’t drop down dead right where he stood.

  Do I know you? I should know you. He wanted to speak aloud. Touch her gently to discover hidden memory in her skin. To ask her the same question as the reed player, but no less than five fighters surrounded her now, studying him, the incomer as much as her.

  A hand span separated them. Her scent unique and at the same time oddly familiar on the night air. He did not ask her name. Whispers carried to those with hearing sensitive enough to hear from the other side of the arena. The drumming giants waited for his scrutiny to end, incited to risk everything by the manic Regian, running circles around them all.

  “Bid on her. Deprive him of the prize. Can’t you see how much he wants her?”

  A blue Alirat tipped his thin head in silent appraisal, his token of gleaming stone catching the burning light.

  “Give him a good fight. But leave the end to me. I want that pleasure.”

  Three more tokens fell at the woman’s feet. Three more challenges to hack his way to her.

  “Give ‘em hell, sugar.” A feisty female, the yellow-haired woman beside her. Kelskar might have bid for her himself if this dark-haired prize had not captured his attention and held it fast with that one glance. So defenceless in the filmy gown, the cock-hardening show of her lush body for all to see. Her hair lifting like a cloaking veil in the wind, giving tantalising glimpses of rosy-tipped breasts, a crop of hair covering the place of a human woman’s sex.

  “Speak,” he said in a voice so low, she swayed toward him to better hear. The need to know, something, anything, warred with the knowledge that everything she said aloud sewed one more stitch into her shroud. Her tongue made a quick, nervous dart over her bottom lip and every muscle in his groin clenched tight.

  His token at her feet. This fight would only end one way. By the end of the night, she would be Kelskar’s woman. He touched her face, shocked to find his fingers locking in place, images and thoughts flowing so fast they jumbled into incomprehension.

  “Lakmi?” By the ten gods, so the murdering concubine met her just reward after all? His fingers flew from her skin as if burned.

  “Not Lakmi.” The words tumbled out in an urgent rush. Then the woman’s lips shaped a silent word and the cacophony ringing around the arena became a thundering in his ears.

  Janie.

  Dark gods. Janie?

  The empty place in his chest. The name blurring at his wrist.

  He had no need to look to confirm that name burning in his brain. Joy surged through him at something precious found, swiftly followed by the grim realisation the prize was yet to be won.

  His woman, but how? Why did detail still elude him?

  “I have her face. Lakmi’s face, remember?” She grimaced at the scaly fingers cupping her breast from behind. “I suffer her fate.”

  The groper lifted the gown, kneeling to press his face to Janie’s bare skin. “Sweet tasting female. A prize worth the fight,” he grunted. A short whittled stick marked with symbols staked his claim in the fight. Trumpets squeaked. The herald screamed above the crowd’s impatient, drumming feet.

  Sweet? Kelskar’s lips tingled, saliva flooded his tongue. Pink and yellow crumbs ghosted his palm. Why did he remember crumbs? He tasted sweetness once. Did it bring him to this?

  The woman mouthed a single, last word.

  Waterfall.

  A word he should know. Something to fight for.

  “Right, you murdering scum, stand back. It’s time to win or die.” Lances fell between the fighters and the women, herding the pumped up warriors into a snaking line. The male at his left squeezed the juice of a fleshy leaf into his mouth. Spines rose in a rippling line at his back. To his right stood the groping drummer who might this moment be dreaming of the sweet woman as his own.

  Foolish man. Already owned. Another man’s scent on her.

  Dark gods, so that was the elusive scent. She smelled of him. Kelskar. He shot a glance up and down the line, counting nine fighting for the name inscribed on his wrist. Eight who must die at his hand.

  Not Lakmi. Janie. Princess Janie? Synapses fired in Kelskar’s head, jumping in confusion, tangling names and faces into one. He knew a princess, a woman with hair of flame and laughing eyes. Another with hair of darkest night. A child, but his brain would not separate them.

  Waterfall. Images of a thundering torrent filled his mind. Naked skin on skin, slick with foam from wash-stones. No time
to smile or indulge the threatening cock-stand. No wall to bash his head, to make these fucking mists clear.

  If he promised a waterfall, she’d have one and consider herself lucky to stand after he emptied himself into her over and over.

  No, not Lakmi. A certainty grew within him, lending purpose to his step when they called out the groups. He fell in line, shoulder to shoulder with the eight he must kill to get to the truth. The guards lumbered about, collecting tokens, slipping them into pouches hung around each woman’s neck. As the fighter’s fell, their token would be removed until only the victor’s remained.

  The rules came back to him. Visions of gladiators in the Ludus Maxim cheering the action on Vidi Views in between the fucking and the fighting.

  Females with the least bids stood as appetiser for the blood bath to come. By the time Janie took the platform, the crowd would be screaming as one, breathing as one body and well gorged on injury, blood, and guts. Fighters still standing faced the grand melee in a hacking free for all of slashing blades and head-splitting cudgels, until only two warriors remained for the grand fight-off.

  Dark gods, pray it be him and the Regian. The final billing had been set in that cage on the bounty hunter ship. Time to hand back the creature’s insults and taunts with deadly interest.

  Fuck. Kelskar swayed back on his heels, scoping out the creature’s back, the dangling third arm absent the hand. That’s how he knew the thing. How the creature knew Janie.

  Janie was the woman Gladiator Kelskar betrayed. The woman he somehow lost and must save again and keep on saving for the rest of his days.

  Fuck. It slammed into Kelskar like a toppling mountain as the chip in his head faltered and sparked, overwhelmed in its weakened state by the heavy update.

  The small female with the pleading eyes was Janie Roberts. The woman he loved.

  Chapter Eighteen

  How many hours had they been fighting? Janie sat at the rear of the platform, huddled in a tight knot with Billie Rae and the remaining prisoners. If hypothermia didn’t get them soon the growing stress of waiting their turn certainly would. Ordered by the enforcers not to cry or speak, they choked down the tears and turned their backs for stolen whispers.