by S E Turner
They could see an arrangement of chairs being set out for the Emperor's guests, so they climbed into their jerkins and breeches, and the group split into four teams of five. Dainn decided to take the two smaller boys, Rufus and Zeno, with Siri and Storm. That left his three comrades to team up with Suma and Targ. The Clan of the Mountain Lion then split into two further teams: Namir, Lyall, Ronu, Clebe and Wyn were in one, and Bagwa, Silva, Hali, Hass and Norg were in the other.
Outside, they marched into the raw January day to entertain the Emperor and his guests. Their breaths created clouds of condensation, and the swollen grey sky looked as if it was going to burst with snow. They would all compete together, and the two finalists would then battle it out. The game wouldn't take long—the Emperor wouldn't want his guests out for hours, even though they were covered in layers of furs and skeletal maids stood shivering to death delivering mugs of hot soup for the dignitaries.
Each lad was given a role by the team leader, and each one listened intently to their instructions. So engrossed were they in their activity, that they didn't notice Scowler preparing to remove a huge cover from the centre of the arena. It had a diameter of five foot and a depth of the same. But the grinding noise of the monstrous mouth being dragged from its resting place filtered through the air. Piercing abrasive sounds filled the arena where each boy in turn stopped and gawped at its origination. Determined faces, glowing and warmed from the good food and outdoor excursion, now froze in terror as the blood drained quickly from their young complexions. What on earth was inside the pit?
'Snakes,' yelled out the Emperor in response to their shocked expressions. 'Huge, venomous snakes.'
'Snakes kill, right?' whispered Lyall to Namir.
'Yes, they do.'
'But they are dormant now,' hissed the Emperor. 'They are sleeping.' Then he carved a cruel smile. 'They were fed well in the last games.'
The audience of overly indulged men allowed their contemptuous arrogant smirks to emerge through swollen red cheeks, and their excited commentaries hissed like their counter parts concealed in the stone-cold tomb.
'In your summer games, they will wake again—they will become active and they will be very hungry.' The Emperor smiled at his audience, relishing in his knowledge and the boys fear. 'They will bite and kill you, then they will feast on your pitiful bodies. But for now, this is just a little game for you, and a little entertainment for us.' He settled back into the folds of his ageing chin and signalled for the tug of war to begin.
The boys had lost their gaiety now. The sweat of fear hung like frigid icicles on their sunken cheeks. Was the Emperor telling the truth? Were the snakes really dormant? Doesn't everything need food in the winter months? It suddenly became a game of life and death, and no one wanted to be pulled into the pit. The first team was put into position. The rope twitched over the hibernaculum and silence hovered over the fear of waking the contents. Scowler whipped Rufus on the legs to get things moving. He screamed in pain and yanked at the rope in a reflex action. Suma and Targ's team responded and pulled back in response.
'Dig deep,' came a cry from Tay at the back. 'Use your legs, not your arms.'
Both teams pulled, both teams sat low on their haunches, thighs skimming the ground. The observing teams could only watch—they couldn't find the cheer or encouragement. They were as silent as the snakes in the pit.
'Pull boys, pull,' Tay continued.
Extreme tests of strength and endurance were now pitched. Some of the gorged boys felt sick with the exertion. They shouldn't have eaten so much. They should have been sensible. They should have waited. Cramps hit others. Indigestion set in and severe abdominal pain attacked both teams. Siri threw up his breakfast. Zeno skidded on it. Rufus lost his balance and clutched on to Dainn. The whole team lost their focus and fell into the pit. The snakes moved. They started to hiss. The younger boys screamed. Storm leapt out quickly, followed by Siri, and they pulled the others out by the arms. The snakes were warmer now.
'Next teams,' called Poxface, delirious with excitement. 'Quickly, we don't want them getting too cold.'
'Which snakes are you talking about?' sneered Lyall.
'Good luck, men,' called out Namir.
There was nothing much they could do. Their stomachs were already full. They could see a few of the other boys on the perimeter vomiting. Others were writhing in agony on the floor. The rest just stood clutching their sides.
'Dig deep,' cried out Lyall. 'Remember our strategy in the clan games.'
But it was useless—no amount of instruction and expertise could overpower the deteriorating performance of the body in these conditions.
'Don't you even think about giving up,' yelled out Namir.
The Emperor looked impressed, and the dignitaries lightly applauded and cocked a grin. Namir's team pulled with all their might and resisted the poisonous pit. Their winning team helped the others out. The snakes began to move a bit more. No one had been bitten, but the pit was awake. They were less docile from a mixture of sweaty bodies and vomit. It could be dangerous now.
Two maids suddenly appeared, crouched under flimsy mop caps. They carried a tray of piping hot beverages and handed them to Scowler. Their thin tunics and soft slippers did little to protect them from the freezing cold, so they bowed quickly before scurrying back to the kitchens.
'The final will resume in a few minutes after the Emperor has taken a rest.' Poxface called out the farcical instructions as Scowler passed around the hot broth amongst the overly portly grotesque men. Jovial comments were exchanged as they expressed their dismay if the Emperor was telling the truth about the hibernating snakes. The Emperor had begun to look chilled under all his furs. He knocked back the last few drops of broth and signalled to Poxface .
'Savages… into position!' The guard's throaty snarl was delivered through two missing teeth.
The teams dragged themselves up. Most were covered in sick, and the rest were consumed with pain.
'This is for you, Mother and Father,' seethed Lyall. 'I won't ever let an evil wretch get the better of me.'
The onlookers waited for a response from the Emperor.
'Savage language,' he mused. 'They don't know what they are saying most of the time... continue.' He circled his hand to speed up the entertainment.
'Come on now, men,' Lyall urged. 'Stay focused. Stay strong.'
Namir was at the front with his feet firmly in the sand. His legs were in the squatting position. His arms were out straight.
'Follow Namir's stance,' he called out.
'Ready boys, take the strain, dig deep with those legs and push hard into the ground.'
The rope snatched tight. The other team were still strong despite having thrown up the entire contents of their stomachs. They began pulling and shouting. Froth and vomit burst from bellowing mouths. Sweat poured down agonised faces.
'Stay focused,' Lyall called out. 'Dig deep. Keep pushing into the ground.'
The tension of the rope edged towards Namir's team as the opponents grew weary. Their puke drenched hands were losing the grip. Still Lyall wouldn't give up. 'Come on, Ronu. Dig deep, Clebe. Don't let Wyn fall in the pit. '
The smug look on the Emperor’s face gave Lyall all the strength that he needed. His team responded to his roars with their own deep guttural growls. Goodness knows where they found the strength from, but Lyall pulled as if he was pulling his mother to safety.
'Don't give up now. Don't you dare give up. One more pull... come on... come on.'
With one last pull, Suma and Targ's team toppled into the pit. The other two teams had to come and get them out. The two finalists were spent. No energy left. Only Durg and Malik got hit by the irritated end of a viper's tail. But that was all—no bites, and certainly no deaths. The cover was hauled back on, and the snakes returned to their comatose state.
'Bravo! Bravo! I look forward to the summer games!' The Emperor's jubilation wobbled on his chins, and he ushered his entourage away from the arena and b
ack into the warmth of the palace.
Lyall watched him leave. 'One day I will get my revenge, you evil wretch, and it will be oh so sweet.'
Chapter Eighteen
Roma came to see Skyrah at the same time each day. Duties in the palace ran on a tight schedule, and so Skyrah worked tirelessly during her hours of free time. Gradually, she won the trust of the girl and would speak to her often about her family, her life in the palace, and her hopes for the future. Skyrah had asked about the layout of the building.
'It's a new year gift for the Emperor,' she said. 'A thank you gift for treating me so well.'
'He will like that,' assured the maid.
Fortunately, with an abundance of time at her disposal, she was able to draw out a perfectly scaled drawing of the palace. The young maid was particularly helpful as she rambled on about herself, and obligingly conversed at length about everything else.
'It's nice to talk to you, Skyrah. Not many people have the time to.'
'Do you have any friends, Roma?'
'The stable boys and grooms are very nice. They come from the village, so I know most of them. The guards are not so pleasant.'
'Why, what do they do?'
'They think they are far too important, so they don't speak to any of us. I don't know where they come from either. They complained to the General that their breakfast was too late, so now we have to make it in the evening and have it ready at first light. It means our day is very long now.'
'More power, higher expectations.'
'Yes, you are right, Skyrah.'
The clan girl conversed daily about the maid's life in the palace and built up a detailed picture in her mind. To everyone concerned, she was just being friendly. Even if the General was listening outside, he would never have known that a plan was taking shape. Skyrah was being the dutiful dancing partner to him at dusk and a listening partner to Roma in the day, and all the while working on her exit strategy.
Three times a week, she would spend the evening dancing with the General, and she did her very best to please him, making sure she looked her finest and that she smelled divine. She didn't even flinch when he got too close or stroked her raven hair now.
He supplied her with the most beautiful gowns to wear—rich silks and taffetas enhanced with layers of organza and lace and decorated with trimmings of exquisite precious stones. They were always off the shoulder or scooped low at the back, so he could smell her tender, young skin and feel the warmth of her touch.
The General had summoned her to dance with him at the new-year celebrations and provided a very sleek and flowing silk organza dress that felt cool on her body and brushed against the floor like a wind's whisper. The concubines had flirted and fluttered around the charismatic General, but he only had eyes for his regular dancing partner.
The bass of a drum beat began the sequence, then the string quartet strummed in with its delicate chords, followed by the fine reeds of the wind instruments. Skyrah showed great excitement at this accolade and thanked him continually as she span round on the tips of her ivory satin slippers, enjoying the swirl of her silk dress as it flared and settled around her body.
At first, she would follow his lead, but now with so many sessions, she could almost do another dance alongside him as he twirled her around. Now, as they both looked at each other, she didn't see the blood thirsty General and he didn't see a savage. Now, they didn't avert their eyes. Instead, they held the gaze. The enchanting tune took them to another place, another dimension in time where they forgot about why they were together in the first place. They let themselves move gracefully to the music. Like an eagle with its wings spread wide, she felt like she could fly high in the sky and do anything she wanted. She responded freely to his touch and he was entranced by her.
But being locked in her room for the rest of the time brought her back down to earth and she remembered that she was his captive—a frightened little bird in a cage that he could discard at any moment.
Chapter Nineteen
Skyrah had waited patiently for the onset of spring. The cold winter months had gone on for too long. Everything had been crystallised with frost or snow, and even the animals darted quickly in and out of their warm nests. But now she could smell the richness of the air around her as the gentle wind blew in the pulse of new growth. Wild herbs and trees full of blossom were stretching out their stems to the skies. Small shrubs exposed themselves, revealing a patchwork of fragile posies and fauna. Flowers appeared, heralding the onset of milder temperatures, and an abundance of brightly coloured blooms offered themselves to the insects for a reward of nectar and pollen. It was a beautiful sight and a perfect setting, because now, her desired plants were surfacing.
The General had allowed Skyrah to paint, as requested, and Roma was permitted to bring in fresh winter blooms: snowdrops, crocuses, holly, ivy, ferns. She spent the days painting and getting Roma familiar with the range of flowers she particularly desired. Once a week, she would present the General with a small painting of one of the flowers, as a thank you gift for his kindness. One was given to Roma once a month.
She also spent her time sewing. She used the lining of the curtains, the lining of her dresses, the under sheet on her bed. She carefully picked away at the threads to re-use. She painstakingly made needles from the stiff brushes she was given for her painting and began to make clothes for the boys. She had moved the chest of drawers and pulled back the carpet. This exposed the wooden floorboards and made an excellent hiding place. She had managed to free a few panels with the provided cutlery and stuffed the garments inside. They would have to blend in with the villagers. For if they escaped, as they were, they would be recognised straight away. The hairless stable boys and grooms all wore baggy white shirts and brown coloured britches—she watched them daily and took detailed notes of the size and style. She dyed the britches with the colours from the red poppies and purple aconitum flowers that she was given, and the shirts were loose that slipped over the head.
Eventually, she requested laburnum and azalea blooms. She used a lot of them and soaked the petals in a bowl of water she had stowed away. They would take a long time to ferment—the petals of the laburnum tree were especially temperamental. She had fresh flowers everywhere in her room, so the pungent smell didn't raise suspicion from Roma or the General. She just had to wait until the petals were ready. Impatience would mean failure.
In the dormitories, the boys were down to ten beds. All of them were sharing now, top to toe, and dreading the setting sun, for it meant another unsettled night of disturbing dreams, and another day closer to the games and certain death.
Every evening, Lyall looked out of the window up to the palace. 'What are you doing up there, Skyrah? Hurry, please hurry and save us. We don't have much time left.'
And every evening, Namir looked to the hare in the moon to give Skyrah the strength she needed.
The boys had trained hard for months now. But rather than be well developed with muscled physiques, they were actually skeletal with malnourished bodies. Inadequate food had carved out that failing. Hope had gone as well. Many had thought they would have escaped by now—been lucky enough to outwit a guard and make a brave get away or run off to the hills when no one was looking. But they weren't strong enough. And besides, the guards were too well trained or too scared themselves to let anything like that happen. Most of the captives surmised that Skyrah had been disposed of and ruled out any chance of escape with her aid. So, for many, it really was hopeless. In reality, the only way out was to survive the games.
Chapter Twenty
June arrived and deep cushioned chairs were placed on the terraces leading up to the arena. Yards of gauze was secured to a twelve-foot square rail that served to separate the stage from the viewing gallery. Futile in its construction, it was a pathetic attempt to obscure the reality. The deception of disguise was abhorrently obvious.
Huge displays of bountiful flowers had been arranged in rows alongside the seating arrangement
. The fountains on the lawns were set to gushing heights and exuded a range of vibrant colours. Musicians and singers began to practise in the arena. Their conductor, fastidious for the perfect pitch, brought tears to the eyes of those in attendance. The cooks and chefs were busy creating mountains of mouth-watering temptations for the many guests that would attend that afternoon, and all the while, in the dormitory, all but two prisoners were at breaking point.
'I told you that you wouldn't escape,' said Targ, gloating. ' It's too late now. The games will start tomorrow, and you will all start to die.'
'Shut up, Targ. Nothing but vile excrement comes out of your mouth,' Ronu vented.
Targ only smirked this time. 'Vengeance will be mine, and you will be the one excreting vile excrement.'
Ronu walked away. Targ continued to smirk. The others were at a loss.
'The only thing any of us can do is to seek strength from our totems and our loved ones,' said Dainn, looking over at Rufus.
'He's right,' said Siri.
'I still live in hope,' said a subdued Lyall. 'I just cannot see myself killing anyone here.' He looked over at the two misfits and whispered behind his breath. 'Not even those two.'
'The stimulants do that for you,' snarled Suma. 'You will be amazed what you are capable of.'
'Shut up!' cried out the captives in unison.
Suma and Targ crept off like a couple of conniving hyenas and kept themselves out of the way for the duration.
