Blood washed into his eyes, and he fell to the ground. He rolled.
Two other men peeled away from a small group to prey upon the fallen. Their swords raised and fell, and in three blows, the Lucia fighter was dead.
Lucan stared for a moment, crimson seeping out onto the sand. That could be me. It could be Hektor. Dreams spurting out in red blood across the sand. Dying to the shrieks of a vicious crowd.
Tiburon bulled in, swinging the mace, hefting his rectangular shield. He bashed Lucan back, and Lucan went sprawling. He caught his balance, righted himself, keeping his legs from tangling in his own net—always a risk for a retiarius. He was on his feet in a flash. He backed up quickly. In two more steps, he could throw.
To one side, a dark figure loomed. No. Not… Menelaus! Lucan jerked back as a slash came for his face. Darksteel blurred by his vision, the point of a longspear, and then spines rippled open along its shaft and hooked him in the chest.
Lucan screamed as they dug in, rooting deep into his flesh. His foe yanked, and Lucan sprawled forward into the sand. Desperation wound through him, stealing his breath, threatening to steal his courage.
A fighter from House Menelaus, a gladiator from the Grand Grotesquerie.
Rumor had it House Menelaus altered their fighters with dark sorcery, twisting their bodies, binding them with steel and the flesh of monsters. A shadow fell over Lucan. Jagged armor rippling with spines like some malevolent kraken come to life on the sand, Vatreus Menelaus, gladiator and Grotesquery stepped in. His bristling helm was every bit as monstrous as Lucan had feared.
He screamed as the spines dug into his flesh, ripping him forward in the sand. His net tangled at his waist.
The shrieks of the crowd turned, turned for his blood. Even now, it was spilling out for their pleasure. For Spectacle.
He narrowed his gaze at the balcony above. She wanted a good show? He would give it to her. He dug in his heels, ignoring the protests of his flesh as it tore beneath the punishing spines.
Vatreus grinned, his helm stretching to accommodate it, a shark’s tooth smile that unnerved Lucan. Still, he fought. If only he could get his net into play.
On the other side, Tiburon sensed his weakness and darted in. Lucan turned, twisting in the sand, and the strike meant to crush his skull glanced off his shoulder. Sand kicked up, choking him in a cloud.
Tiburon raised the mace again, stepping in.
Desperate, Lucan pulled his dagger and drove down. The Lucia fighter screamed as the weapon sank into his foot, pinning him. And then Lucan was dragged forward again. His grip slipped from the dagger, and he watched as Tiburon yanked it from his wounded foot.
So much for cutting the cord, he lamented. His net slipped a measure and wrapped tight around his thighs. Even if he could get loose, he would not be able to stand. And without the dagger to cut free…
This is it, Lucan. The final moment.
If he was killed here, killed by a gladiator of the Grotesquerie—
Lucan’s gaze locked on the spines growing and twitching from the Menelaus’s shoulders, but he could not help his mind from yearning toward Hektor. Lucan had not seen him yet in the blood and the chaos. Then again, he had not looked. He had allowed himself to be blinded.
Another sharp yank, and the spear’s spines tore deeper into Lucan’s arm. The Menelaus pulled a spine from his armor. It writhed, lengthening into a wicked shortspear. Darksteel and dark flesh. To die at the hands of a monster.
A sudden pang from the Ebon deep inside him. The true monster stood on high.
The Empress in all her beauty and glory.
Another reason for Lucan to stay alive. To see her broken and bloody upon the sand, where she cast men’s fates to the wind like the ground glass she ordered strewn across the arena sands… The Ebon flared again.
To see Hektor. To kill the Empress.
Those thoughts galvanized Lucan. They burned through his skin, through his mind. They drove him on. Pain burst through his chest, but the Ebon stayed hidden.
The Menelaus’s sharky grin widened as he hauled Lucan in, leveling the spear.
Galvanized, Lucan dodged the first strike. He grabbed the haft of the spear and thrust back. Straight into the Menelaus’s eye.
A small crunch, and blood spurted. Howling, the Menelaus went down into the sand and writhed, his spines twitching.
A shout as Tiburon charged in, limping, trailing blood. Lucan rolled, and the mace struck the sand. He rolled again, and the second strike grazed his temple. Blinded, he fumbled for something, anything. His hands closed on the spear.
Tiburon’s foot closed down on his hand. Lucan cried out as the bones ground together. The man’s smile white and sharp. “Now you will die, Vulpinius. A wolf falls prey to Priassin.”
“Not likely.”
In the next second, Hektor was on Tiburon, striking him with his shield, knocking him back into the sand. Hektor darted in, short black hair flying with the speed of his movement.
Dazed, Lucan stood. He had barely the wherewithal to free himself of his net, shucking it and letting it fall to a tangled mess on the sand.
Somewhere, iron horns were calling. Four sharp blats. Hektor had told Lucan what that meant. He rubbed a hand over his face, slapped his cheek. Chariots. Once the fight dwindled to twenty, the Empress would order the essedarii charioteers into the arena.
All around the theatre, the remaining fighters looked to the vomitoria. At any moment, thunder would rock the arena. Any moment, the essedarii would emerge, all golden armor and spears and bows.
They would rain death down in the arena.
Hektor was rising, his opponent finished in the sand. His sky-blue eyes were lit with sorrow and regret. And love. Lucan barely dared to see it, to acknowledge it. He was suddenly overwhelmed by his own emotions.
Hektor, the Ebon, the betrayal. It was all too much.
He closed his eyes as the last of the horns faded into the burning day. The crowd hushed. It would come soon.
“Come.” Hektor offered his hand.
Lucan looked at him. Love ached within him, his heart torn wide, but he knew what Stratos meant to do. What he meant to make them do. In the end, Lucan would fight Hektor. He would be forced to hurt him, to kill him, while the crowd screamed for more.
Shaking his head, Lucan backed away. “No. I can’t…”
The pounding of horses’ hooves sounded, distant thunder drawing closer.
“Lucan…”
Sudden tears burned Lucan’s eyes. All around them, the twenty remaining fighters began to pair up—shields and polearms. A few of the other retiarii paired with the secutor, trident and shield making a solid offense and an impenetrable defense. Myrmidons paired with myrmidons as they moved to the sides, clinging to areas near the Hail. They would use the curvature of the theatre to their advantage.
All around the arena, others were teaming up, planning strategies. It would all fall apart once their numbers dwindled, of course. But for the moment, allegiances were key.
Lucan and Hektor were the only two unpaired.
The thunder drove closer, louder, faster. The vomitoria shaking now, the crowd screaming, their shouts rising into the midday heat, the stomping of their feet in the stands enough to send tremors across the Grand Theatre.
“Lucan!”
The horns blew to sound the arrival of the chariots—golden gleams racing into the arena, sand kicking up beneath the horses’ hooves. More than one body was trampled, the shrieks of the masses rising.
Kill or be killed.
“You can kill me after,” Hektor said.
With flashes of gold, they were surrounded, three of the essedarii spying two unpaired fighters in the center. They lifted their golden bows as their charioteers guided their horses to gallop around them in a circle, tightening.
Hissing shafts bit into the sand.
From the other side of the arena, screams of the wounded rose. The crowd came to its feet, roaring in approval at fresh kills
from the essedarii. The fighters all grouped together, and with a shout, the battle began anew.
Hektor stepped in, and an arrow cracked off his shield. He tucked Lucan behind him, moving in a circle as the chariots did, his gaze wary on them.
Behind him, protected, Lucan had never felt more conflicted, more loved. Not even when Hektor had taken him and then held him, stroking his skin tenderly. Lucan reached out now, letting his hand fall to warm, sweaty-streaked flesh.
Despite the flare of the Ebon, he felt a burst of hope inside.
They were alive. They were together. They could do anything.
Hektor glanced back, met Lucan’s eyes, and a wild thought formed in Lucan’s mind. Another shaft cracked in. Lucan ducked, hugging Hektor’s back.
They could not stay here. If they were to die, they would die in glory. He gazed at his lover. There were so many things he wanted to say, but there was no time. “Remain close.”
He burst out from behind Hektor and raced, zigzagging, through the sand. Shafts hissed through the air. One clipped his cheek. Blood flowed warmly down his face. Hektor was behind him, shouting, chasing after.
They raced toward the chariots.
The circle grew tighter, a charioteer wheeling in to cut Lucan off. He barely managed to pull up short before the wheel clipped out his legs. Almost too late, Lucan saw the shortspear. It grazed his shoulder and then cracked off Hektor’s shield.
In the next moment, the chariot was past them.
His lungs on fire, Lucan put on a burst of speed. He could hear the other fighters shouting, seeing what he and Hektor meant to do. He felt them closing in. He put it out of his mind, made catching the chariot his focus. Hektor would have to deal with the others.
Lucan trusted him.
Two more steps, three. His lungs screaming for air.
The essedarii turned, and Lucan leaped desperately. He snagged the back of the man’s armor, dragging him down. They hit the floor of the chariot, the man jabbing back with his elbow. Lucan’s head rocked, blood flooding his mouth. His legs hung from the back of the chariot, sand searing his skin.
Desperate, he clawed for purchase, grappling with the essedarii. The charioteer glanced back. Seeing his gladiator in peril, he swung the horses from left to right, trying to shake Lucan off.
Lucan gritted his teeth and held on. He heard Hektor’s shouts, knew the man was fighting.
Above him, the essedarii reached for his fallen spear. He lashed back and caught Lucan’s shoulder. The smarting blow jostled him. Another blow, another, another. Battered by the jarring gait and sands, he hung on, timing the strikes, saving his strength.
The chariot lurched. The blow came again.
Lucan grabbed the end of the spear and pulled. The essedarii toppled. At the last he tried to catch his balance, but Lucan smashed his knee, and the man went down, tumbling into the sands.
Buoyed by his victory, Lucan dragged himself up. The charioteer was reaching for a short sword, but he was a horseman not a fighter. Lucan dashed the man against the side, and he slumped to the floor. Picking up the reins, Lucan slowed the chariot. The moment he glanced back, Hektor was leaping on board.
“Go, go, go!”
FROM ON HIGH at the Empress’s side, Stratos watched the Grand Melee unfold. Hektor and Lucan made a fine team. Now that they’d gained control of the chariot, they cut a bloody path through their enemies and left men dying or wounded on the field of battle. The combination of Lucan’s skill in driving, Hektor’s expertise with weaponry, and their love swathed them in power.
After only a few moments, the other gladiators edged away from them, taking their fights to the farthest corners. The crowd screamed for more.
A myrmidon in blood-streaked armor leaped onto their chariot, and Hektor struck him in the face. Another, smaller gladiator clung to the side, trying to divest Lucan of his reins. Lucan lifted a stolen gladius, and under his hewing blows, the man went down, clawing uselessly at the chariot’s side. A third man clambered up the other side. He grabbed Lucan and forced him against the rail.
Hektor turned back and struck at him with a fist. Undaunted, the man continued to pummel Lucan. The crowd screamed as they flashed past.
The Empress barely moved. Her servants had labored to bring her dark jade throne to the balcony. Straight and stiff, she sat motionless, like a living doll. The only indication of her interest a slight tilt of her chin, her eyes unblinking, a shade lighter than her throne and fairly glowing in the light of the sun.
At her side stood Alession, his fine tunic pristine, the silken fabric clinging to his muscular chest and corded biceps, to his hips and rounded ass. Stratos could not deny his longing for the man. He wanted to go to his hands and knees and lift that tunic, to suck Alession off while men died in the arena below.
How hot to have Alession’s thick pole ramming down his throat as men struggled for their lives. Sex and death. Stratos could not get enough of them. Perhaps this was why he played this game with men’s hearts. He was already hard.
A chuckle from Alession. And then hot breath plumed across the back of Stratos’s neck. He jerked as Alession’s hands fell to his hips. The hard prod of his cock pressed against Stratos’s ass, and he ground, rubbing himself, using his pole to nudge at Stratos’s ass cheeks.
“You want this, yes?”
The masses roared as Lucan broke free and Hektor threw their opponent off into the sand. Their chariot flashed past the Empress’s balcony.
Alession began to hump Stratos from behind. His cock prodded again.
Sweat slid down Stratos’s back. It had been only days since Alession had fucked him here. It shamed Stratos to admit it, but he had reveled in the fucking, and in the end, he hadn’t cared that it was before her, his most hated enemy.
And now, with Alession behind him, riding his hard cock against Stratos’s ass, straining to gain entry, again, Stratos did not care. Alession was lifting Stratos’s tunic, the hot breeze caressing his bare thighs, stirring the small hairs there. Alession’s hand, slick with oil, parted him.
She’s fucking blind, anyway. What could the bitch possibly see?
Alession prepared him, opening him with two fingers, smearing his oil all around, and then his hot cock-tip prodded Stratos, barely nudging his hole.
Below, Hektor shoved his sword through his opponent’s gut.
Alession speared Stratos forcefully.
Stratos bowed back, and Alession shoved him forward, bending him over the balcony. He paused for a moment, pushed an inch deeper, and then fucked Stratos, riding hard and fast inside his quivering hole as the battle raged in the theatre. Stratos gasped and struggled.
Alession held him easily, grunting as he pounded Stratos with powerful strokes. “This is what you want, isn’t it? My cock in your ass?”
“Yes,” Stratos hissed. He pushed back, shoving himself harder onto Alession’s stiff shaft, debasing himself further. The burn lessened, and Alession pumped him, gliding in and out with ease, stroking Stratos’s prostate. Firmly, he grasped Stratos’s erection and began jerking him.
“I should command them,” Stratos gasped, indicating the two men below.
“Leave them,” Alession said in his ear, his chest rubbing Stratos’s back as he shoved into him with each brutal thrust.
Delirious with pleasure, Stratos tried to keep watch on the fight, but he closed his eyes and rode back, pushing his ass onto that hot pole, taking it as deep as Alession wanted. He could hear the cheers of the crowd, and as he rose to his peak, Alession fucking him, holding him down and using his tight ass, the chants grew hot and fevered, “Hektor! Hektor!” and then “Lucan! Lucan!”
Alession grasped Stratos’s sac and pulled it away from his body, then fondled him anew. His cock rammed into Stratos, heaving him forward against the balcony. He’d have bruises tomorrow.
He didn’t care.
He let Alession take him, have him, fuck him, their thrusts rising in intensity with the roar of the masses. Stratos a
rched his back, reveling in Alession’s touch, the lecherous pinching of his nipples, the questing hand on his iron-hard cock. Another pull, and Stratos was coming, his semen splattering against the wall.
He would have rather loosed it inside Alession.
Soon. He glanced down, to where Lucan was dominating the arena. Once the Empress is dead, Alession and I will rule together.
Alession shuddered, and his cock twitched. Stratos tightened around him, clenching, then releasing, and with a guttural groan, Alession was coming, spurting deep inside him. Stratos held him there as he came, and wrung every drop from Alession. Here, now, he truly owned the man.
Mine. All mine.
Alession collapsed against him, spent, his limbs slack, and Stratos reveled in the weight of the luscious man on his back. Soon, and all for lust, for power. Soon.
A smile curved Stratos’s lips. He glimpsed the two lovers below. Soon they would know what he knew.
There was no love.
There was just lust—men you fucked and men you fucked over.
* * * *
The final blow knocked Lucan from the chariot. Sweat and blood poured into his eyes as the world tilted sideways. He tumbled over and over, Hektor’s shouts in his ears. The sand rushed up hard and fast, and Lucan drove into it, a furrow opening up beneath him as he slid to a final stop.
A few meters away, their opponent, Domitius Zaerus, slowed the chariot and stepped away.
Only the three of them remained.
Groaning, Lucan lay in the sand, his body torn and fatigued, pain arcing inside him, blood running into his eyes.
And then a gentle hand was there, brushing the sticky blond hair from his face.
Lucan gazed up into Hektor’s sky-blue eyes. He reached out, his hand touching Hektor’s. All around them, the sand was stained with blood, bodies strewn about like so much refuse. In an hour the Doomsayer’s acolytes would come and drag them all away. Their armor would be stripped and sold to the sick, the leprous, as powerful healing tokens.
Their names would be inscribed in the outer wall of the Empress’s Grand Theatre. The vanquished, the glorious dead.
In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal Page 23
