by Jason Howard
Zac said, “I’m doing this for more than the money—you know I want an official certificate of citizenship. If I do well in First Blood, I’ll get it, no questions asked.”
Elias turned to Artem and said, “I know you don’t like to talk about what happened before . . . but I have to ask, why are you doing this?”
“Lanthos said that some of the top contestants will be selected to be in a unit tasked with hunting and capturing Roen . . . and interrogating him.”
Artem didn’t add that the interrogation would almost certainly include torture. Artem had already decided upon that. He wanted to take his vengeance slowly and keep taking it long after he had broken Roen.
Elias nodded. “Give me your hands.”
Zac and Artem exchanged a look, then offered their hands. Joined in a circle, they bowed their heads. This was the first they’d heard Elias talk to the Gods.
“I offer you, Mother and Father God, a fighter’s prayer. May you watch our opponents as you watch us. May they bring out the best in us, and may we bring out the best in them. May we both fight unmercifully until we are greater than our flesh and bone, but are the raw fury of our souls, breaking from the shells of our bodies. Remove your hand from us tomorrow and let us fight free. When the violence commences, allow us to overcome ourselves, which is the most important battle. Let our souls have victory even if our bodies do not. Let us fight with passion. Let us fight with the strongest part of our mind, the part that doesn’t speak in words. Give us no mercy, as we will give ourselves and our opponents no mercy, but love us and our enemy throughout the whole fight. Let us fight with honor. When the fight is over, let us have no regrets, whether we have won or lost.”
Elias let go of their hands and walked to his bedroom. The door shut gently, but with subtle finality. Artem and Zac sat in silence for a while.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Coliseum rules:
1. A cushioning enchantment is placed on all fighters’ weapons. Weapons flash bright red upon firm contact with a person’s skin and the striker wins—unless the official decides the strike would not have been fatal or crippling.
2. If a fighter cannot continue due to injury or unconsciousness they lose.
3. First Blood fighters cannot channel magic. In other tourneys and matches the rules about channeling vary.
The coliseum blotted out the sun as Zac and Artem walked toward it. Ascadell’s Steeple stood behind it. In silhouette it looked like an infinite black thread stretching from the top of the coliseum and into the heavens. Zac’s chest tightened even as he let out a slow breath. He let his palms graze the pommels of Razriel. His hands seemed magnetized to the weapons.
***
Althos and Elias followed some guards through the circular hallway inside the coliseum. On the inside wall of the hallway, spaced about every ten paces or so, were entrances that led to stairs. The stairs led down to tiered sections with long benches for spectators.
Althos and Elias were momentarily blinded by the sunlight as they were led through one of the entrances. Their section was on a high parapet. It was a small section enclosed by two thick support columns. They had deemed Althos unsightly and therefore given them one of the smallest, least visible sections to sit in.
The two City Guardsmen that were their escort stopped, and one said, “No one is to be alarmed, do not bother this lizard creature or his master.”
‘Master!’ Althos thought to Elias. ‘You’re not my master, don’t get any ideas.’
“Shut up.”
The guards looked at him, rage coloring their faces.
“Not you!” Elias said quickly. “I was talking to him.”
“But it didn’t make a sound,” one of the guards said.
Rather than explain Althos’s psychic abilities, Elias said, “I . . . he was mewling, you couldn’t hear it, but he was about to really get into it. He’s just a silly creature, but I know his moods well—he would like to sit now. He’s very impatient.”
‘I’m not a silly or impatient!’ Althos thought, but this time Elias did not react at all.
“Well then, sit,” one of the guards said.
The seated spectators shied away from Althos, parting and murmuring amongst themselves.
The guards crisply turned on a heel and strode back up the stairs.
Elias and Althos sat. Elias caught a couple awkward glances from the spectators around them. He decided to try and break the tension.
“It’s too damn hot out for this,” Elias said to the man sitting next to him. “I’m not a young man any more.”
“Yeah, me neither. But I love to see a good tourney. I try to see as many as I can. I come every year to see First Blood. Last year it raining hellish like, the heavens opened up and started pouring buckets of the Gods’ piss all over us.”
Elias took his measure—he had a bushy black beard and a healthy, athletic stoutness to him. Muscles lurked under his bit of extra weight. There was a toothpick sticking out of his lips. Probably a blacksmith or a builder, Elias decided.
“Well I’d rather have a little too much sun than that,” Elias agreed.
“Have you heard about this first pair of fighters?”
Elias could have told him that he knew one of the first fighters well, but he decided not to tip his hand. This one friendly man was his only barrier against the continuing fearful and disdaining stares directed at Althos.
“I’m leaning toward Zac. Although Ryder seems like the favorite.”
Althos was attempting to sit on the bench casually, in imitation of Elias and everyone else. His tail and his horselike size made it precarious.
“Stop that, you look ridiculous,” Elias muttered. Elias looked up and said, “He doesn’t understand me, but I wish he did.”
Althos gave up and laid across the bench, belly down.
“I’d like to hear the story of how ye’ got such a ridiculous pet. But first, I gotta tell ya—”
The man leaned toward Elias and said, “The one named Zac is rumored to be a zell. And worse, he’s illegally in the city. He’s a slave on the loose.”
Elias fixed him with a hard stare. “Where did you hear that?”
“Ryder has a following, and he told his men in the city. Everyone is talking about it. No one knows how he got in the tourney, but Ryder coulda stopped him if he’d told the City Guard. No zell should fight in anything but an alleyway or a basement. Zells are free men in Sal Zerone, isn’t that enough?”
“Aren’t free zells allowed to compete?”
“Well . . . yeah, legally speaking. But none of them do, because they know better. But anyway, Zac not being a free man means he’s got no right to compete.”
“Why didn’t Ryder tell the City Guard?”
“Better ta beat him in front of everyone. And then when he loses . . .”
‘Then when he loses—what?’ Althos thought to the man.
The man was so startled that he leapt to his feet, head craning back and forth.
“Then when he loses—what? Don’t make me repeat myself,” Elias said, covering for Althos.
“What was that? That wasn’t you!”
Althos stood up and wheezed angrily, a string of snot shooting out in an arc and landing on a lady who promptly screamed.
“The freak speaks?” the man said, his toothpick falling from his lips.
Althos leapt onto the man, claws digging into his shoulders and holding him firm, a loud clunk rang out and the man’s boots kicked up into the bench in front of them.
The woman with the spit on her shirt fainted.
‘I’m not a freak! And what happens to Zac if he loses?’
“He’ll be killed!” the man stammered as Althos wheezed a cloud of spittle on him.
“How?” Elias said.
“Ryder’s men are here in the city, an’ House Laveanor is well connected. Ryder, he has been dishonored by that Zac fella. There was a fight before the qualifications. Ryder says that if the slave loses then he dies. I
f he wins then he can live. He said that he has ta’ to prove ‘is worth, and if he doesn’t then he isn’t worthy of is’ life. So everyone is . . .”
“Everyone is what?” Elias roared.
“Everyone is very exited for the fight, sir. I’m sorry. Do you know him er’ somethin?”
***
It was time. Zac nodded to Artem and left him in the preparation room, a dark chamber with two long benches and an open area for warming up and stretching. After a short walk, he entered an even darker tunnel. Cool air hit him like a bag full of razor blades. He couldn’t seem to focus, his nerves were spaghetti, his heart was a screaming drum.
His thoughts disappeared as the crowd roared for blood. He looked up at the carpet of movement and felt the air tremble with their voices and blood lust. He smelled the dry dust his feet had roused. It all melded together. He looked for Althos and Elias, who were somewhere in the stands. He quickly realized that it would be impossible to find his friends in the thousands of faces staring down at him. He had never imagined this many people in one place.
Ivor was sitting next to the king in a private balcony atop a stone column that was three stories tall, and more than ten paces across. It had a thick hood that formed a ceiling of lacquered steel that curved up to make a roof above the king and his entourage. It just inside the edge of the arena floor, set apart from the stands. Since it was standing alone, Zac wondered how the king or any of he retinue had even gotten there. Teleportion? A ladder now hidden? A subterranean path?
Zac turned his attention to the center of the arena where an incredibly muscular official stood. His decadent blue robe couldn’t hide his fierce bulk as it flapped in a breeze. Dust rose in whorls. Ivor’s voice, amplified by a spell, boomed through the air.
“The match is Ryder Laveanor versus Zac Quellson! Ryder, raised in a family of nobility and warriors that can trace their lineage back for ten generations, is son of the great warrior, and Duke of Cloudsaddle, Eli Laveanor. Ryder will show how well he lives up to the legacy of one of the greatest fighters in Ascadellian history. He hopes to bring honor to his name!”
The crowd roared their approval, whistling and cheering.
“His opponent is Zac, a laborer from the outskirts of The City of Emerald Shore. He seeks to make a name for himself and forge a new destiny as a fighter—wish him well!”
It was silent at first. There was a rumble of boots stomping. It sounded like thunder at first, and then voices joined it. Soon the wall of noise began to take shape and become a chant.
They stomped twice, then said, “Kill.” It sent chills all through Zac, chills that seemed to vibrate in his bones.
Stomp, stomp, “The.”
Stomp, stomp, “Zell.”
Zac tried to quell the fear and fury roiling through him. He reminded himself to relax his muscles and keep a balanced stance. He reminded himself to react not just to attacks, but also to openings and opportunities. Offense is defense, defense is offense, he repeated to himself, reciting it exactly as Elias always did during training.
‘Don’t listen to them, Zac!’ Althos thought to him. ‘Ryder had his thugs put them up to this, and if you lose he’ll have them come after you and try to kill you.’
‘What?’ Zac replied.
‘Yeah, someone in the crowd told us. It could be a rumor, but it didn’t seem like it. Elias told me not to tell you till after the fight, but I had to.’
‘Thanks Althos.’
‘Okay. Don’t listen to that horrible chant!’
‘I’m listening—it will only make me fight harder.’
Ryder was walking toward him, dust pluming from his boots as each step landed.
‘You have to let me concentrate now, Althos. It’s time for me to fight.’
‘Okay. We’re here for you, don’t worry about the rest of them!’
Zac smiled at Ryder as the horrible chant descended around him.
The song rang out louder and louder as more of the crowd got into it.
“KILL . . . STOMP-STOMP . . . THE . . . STOMP-STOMP . . . ZELL . . . STOMP-STOMP . . . KILL . . . STOMP-STOMP . . . THE . . . STOMP-STOMP . . . ZELL . . .”
Ivor motioned for the crowd to be silent. The silence was so sudden that the horrible song still rang in Zac’s ears. But he’d lived with their hate for his whole life. Their voices weren’t as bad as chains and whips.
Ivor motioned for them to bow, and when they did, Ryder said, “My father made sure we’d fight in the first round. I couldn’t wait to smash your ugly face in.”
Zac said nothing, just burned Ryder with a sharp stare. They stepped away from each other.
“Stand ready . . . on my mark . . . fight!” Ivor roared, and in the blink of an eye, he disappeared, teleporting into his seat at the right hand of the king.
The crowd salivated as Zac and Ryder circled. Their expectant cheering was like a wall of energy pounding into his ears. It didn’t sound like voices. It sounded like hunger.
Ryder had a midsize long sword. It was an elegant weapon. Zac felt like a fraud as he held Razriel, thinking how strangely mismatched his handaxe and mini-warhammer must look to the crowd. He pushed that thought away, reminding himself that the crowd hated him, and their opinions were irrelevant anyway.
Ryder held his sword with practiced ease. He leapt forward for the first strike, and Zac parried and side-stepped—but Ryder didn’t let up. Zac found himself on his heels, backing up and desperately trying to deflect Ryder’s quick strikes.
Zac dove away and rolled, getting to his feet and unleashing a few fast attacks with Razriel. Ryder blocked these easily. Ryder’s moves were technical and solid. Zac’s were much sloppier and unorthodox.
Ryder attacked again, stringing together a combination of hits that made Zac’s weapons tremble and his arms scream. Ryder got a low swing in and connected hard with the chainmail on Zac’s leg. He stumbled, his leg an inferno of agony. The chainmail had held, but the hit had been precise and powerful.
Zac limped a little as he circled Ryder now. Ryder smirked at him.
Zac pressed the attack, wary of low cuts to his legs now. He advanced but Ryder seemed to divert everything he threw. He found air or steel, again and again. Ryder blocked, spun, and brought a boot up that smashed Zac in the face. The perfectly timed spinning back kick had crunched Zac’s nose. Blood spilled into his mouth, and down, dripping off his chin. Zac pressed forward, but there was a blurring feint that made him drop his guard, and then a fist crashed into his eye.
Blood blurred his vision, and he leapt away from Ryder’s next strike.
“Pathetic,” Ryder muttered as he hounded Zac with another flurry.
Zac blocked the last of that series with his gauntlets, but the strike was so hard that he ended up smashing himself in the face and toppling to his side. He rolled and Ryder’s sword dug into the ground where he’d been. Zac screamed. It was a scream that summoned his concentration and focused his energy. It was filled with a vitality that told Ryder a simple fact: I’m not done yet.
Ryder’s lip twitched into a sneer of disdain and he charged.
Zac rotated his arms into a blurring series of blocks—sparks jumped from his forearms, which were sheathed in the metal of his gauntlets. Zac absorbed the heavy shots by blocking and back-stepping with each one. He backpedaled like this until he hit the wall of the coliseum’s fighting area. Ryder had hoped to capitalize on this, but Zac had been measuring the distance as well. Zac bounced off the wall, using the momentum as he threw a punch. His punch hit Ryder cleanly, ripping the man’s chin to the right. Ryder staggered away and fell to a knee, vision gone, legs turned to jelly.
Zac whipped his hammer into an arcing uppercut that smashed into Ryder’s stomach. Ryder took the blow, but his breath was knocked out.
Ryder crawl-hopped desperately away, seeking a moment to recover. Zac ran after him. Ryder blocked three of the next blows with his sword, but finally, Zac lashed out with a backhanded axe swing—the move tossed Ryder’s swor
d hand wide—then he smashed Ryder’s hand with his hammer. Ryder’s grip failed and he relinquished the sword. Ryder still managed to block Zac’s next downward strike by crossing his arms in an X above his head. But now it was pointless.
Zac leapt atop Ryder, then mounted and pinned him. Zac straightened up, keeping Ryder helpless, stuck under his weight and between his knees. Zac rained down blows with his weapons, until Ryder’s arms were useless. Then Zac swung his axe down into Ryder’s neck. A red flash on his blade ignited as he scored the hit on flesh. Ryder choked, struggling for air. For a moment it seemed that Zac had killed him, caved his throat in despite the safeguard on Razriel. Then Ryder finally managed a breath. Zac turned away from the grim sight and looked up at the crowd, unsure, expecting outrage and boos to rain down on him.
Zac stood up as the crowd’s furious adoration descended on him instead. It was so loud that he could barely hear Ivor’s magically amplified voice. A chant of his name mingled with the hooting, hollering, cheering, whistling, stomping, and clapping. Most of the crowd was on their feet. Some were climbing the steps to leave, refusing to take part in the cheering. He was too delirious to understand why, but later he would realize that those were the ones he would always be a zell to. The rest he had won over, at least temporarily.
Zac started to walk back to his tunnel, looking up at the crowd. He couldn’t see their faces, his vision was veiled with the sting of sweat and he tasted the metallic flavor of blood. He couldn’t hear their words, it was just a crushing blur of sound, and his eyes took in only the melted tapestry of moving arms and hundreds of faces that became one monstrous feeling. He had given them victory. Although it was his victory, they had felt it more keenly. He had gone somewhere far away while he was fighting. He had been in an emotionless place, a place where reaction and controlled passion were the only rules. Now he comprehended his victory, because he could feel it pounding into him from the crowd. He was overwhelmed. In this moment, they loved him . . . but it was a dark, violent love. He had never felt anything like it.
