by Phoebe Nix
In the front row of the tiered seats watched the Kings and Queens with smiles on their faces. Those who had voted in favor of the Allegiance looked as anxious as Finoa. He turned to the right and locked eyes with Liz. Her eyes were bloodshot from all the crying. His heart went to her as he reluctantly turned away, ready for battle. Jerof could feel his heartbeat thudding in his chest, but he wasn’t nervous. Not anymore. He was ready.
Finoa and Liz, along with many of the spectators, watched through a monocular lens.
“It’s happening, Finoa. I don’t want to watch this.”
“He’ll be fine,” Finoa consoled her, trying her best to be confident for both of them. “It might be the first time he’s been in an arena with tens of Princes, but it’s not his first fight. He’s taken down people twice and thrice his size. He’s well-trained.”
Jerof raised an arm in the air and clenched his fist, making the rowdy cheering quiet down to silence.
“Before we begin, I would like to remind you all of our values. As Hagrans whose ancestors suffered at the hands of whom we now refer to as filthy Swarms,” he hollered.
“We are no saints. None of us are. Each of our Kingdoms has waged a war on innocent people. Each of us have mistreated those who were different from us, those we could not understand and thus were afraid of. Let us not forget our painful histories before we managed to come this far.”
Many in the first row shouted in agreement; there was faint applause.
“Despite our flaws, we have one enemy in common. One threat that we all must abolish. And we will never do that so long as rats linger amongst our own people. Traitors! Murderers who commit abominable crimes in the name of peace!”
The royals banged their staffs on the ground in agreement while the spectators lauded the prince in chants.
“And this is why I must start with this,” Jerof declared as one of the arena’s metal gates slowly lifted.
The crowd’s chaotic cheering toned down to curious humming as the attendees leered at the shadows behind the gate. A man slowly walked out of the cage, revealing himself to be Belut.
“This animal,” Jerof continued, “has attempted to murder one of my guests. Belut, of course, thought he was doing us all a favor. Ridding us of a threat that is an Earthling. A female who had been found freezing to death in the Icelands after a filthy Swarm had endeavored to harvest her.”
The spectators gasped before they started jeering and booing at the prisoner.
Belut’s ankles were bound in a ball and chain, with his hands tied behind his back. He stood with his chin up, adhering to his proud demeanor even with no attire on his naked body.
“Tell me, Belut,” Jerof called out. “Who is your enemy?”
Belut scoffed before spitting next to Jerof’s feet. “You already know the answer to that question,” he mumbled.
“Is it the helpless Earthling who has been targeted by the Swarm like our ancestors once were? Have you forgotten our suffering? Our history?”
“Kill the traitor!” a voice shouted.
“Behead him!” Another one called out.
“Belut of Belugh, I ask you once again,” Jerof paused. “Whose side are you on?”
Belut remained silent and scoffed at the crowd’s reaction.
“We Hagrans,” Jerof said, turning his face away from Belut and walking a few steps further from him. “We value peace first and foremost. And for that reason, no act of betrayal shall be tolerated!”
The Prince spun around as he slid his dagger out of its sheath, diving it through Belut’s throat.
The spectators rose from their seats, some of them jumping as they chanted, “Justice!”
Jerof grabbed Belut’s forehead as he sliced the traitor’s neck in half. Belut spat out blood, his whole body jerking before he fell to his knees. The prince kneeled before him, grabbing the prisoner by the beard and dashing the dagger into his half-severed neck. Belut’s body fell forward, leaving his head hanging upside down from Jerof’s fingers.
“This is no battle for leadership!” Jerof shouted. “This is a fight for justice!”
Eight Kings rose from their seats, applauding Jerof as the spectators in the rows behind them continued to chant his name. All eight Kings bowed before each of them pledged Allegiance, raising their fists in the air.
Jerof bowed back, then wiped his weapon before sheathing it. He gestured for the guards to let the twenty Princes out.
Five metal gates were lifted as four princes marched out in a queue from each of the gates. All of them were clad in pantaloons, atop of which were scabbards that secured their longswords.
The princes then realigned in a horizontal line, waiting for the call for battle.
Jerof looked at them all, trying to see them as enemies, not friends he had either grown up around or had befriended during one battle or the other. If he had to kill them, so be it, but it was not something he was looking forward to.
Suddenly, one prince stepped forward, raised his fist in the air and bowed. “My King swears his allegiance, and so will I.” Jerof remembered the prince. They had fought side by side years ago.
The prince looked up and smiled. “Long live King Jerof of Url.”
The crowd applauded, and Jerof could see the Prince’s father raise his staff in salute.
And just like that, seven more Princes followed suit, the sons of each King still loyal to the Url’San family line. Jerof bowed to each and watched them leave, a small burden lifting itself from him.
He turned to the remaining dozen, waiting to see if any would do the same. They all stared back at him with hunger and murder in their eyes.
So be it.
Jerof took one step back and readied himself.
As soon as the trill of the five horns sounded, the princes sprinted forward. They drew their weapons as they let out their battle cries.
Jerof stood still, his eyes travelling from one opponent to the next. He locked his sight on the fastest target, extending his claws to block the first blow before knocking the prince out with his other hand.
Without turning his head, he drew both of his daggers from his sheaths, forming a cross above his head to block the sword that almost sliced through his skull like butter. He tightened his double daggers like scissors, grabbing the sword and tossing it across the arena.
The princes exchanged glances before retreating to their original positions. But before the prince of Elon could retire to a safe position, Jerof threw both daggers in the air, using his claws to chop off his right arm.
The Prince wailed in agony as blood squirted out of his wound. He foamed at the mouth before falling to the ground.
The other Princes froze.
Jerof paced closer to him. The Prince attempted to climb to a standing position to bow out, but lacked the stamina. With his other hand, he gestured his surrender with a wave before he fell face-down to the ground.
As much as the first stepping stone to victory boosted Jerof’s confidence, he remembered his sister’s advice. He still had nineteen opponents to defeat. His goal was not to kill any of them, but to compel them to bow out. The spectators were enjoying the show, but Jerof wasn’t. His heart ached when that prince screamed in pain. This was going to be more challenging for him than he thought.
But he wasn’t going to let his sympathy be his reason to lose.
One of the Princes who had lost his sword, snapped out of his shock and hurled toward Jerof with his claws, swaying his sharpened talons at Jerof’s face.
Leaning backwards, Jerof missed the attack and thrusted each of his daggers through each of the opponent’s wrists. He wriggled and roared in pain, then screamed when Jerof pulled his weapons out. The Prince of Url leaped in mid-air, sending a kick to the attacker’s chest.
The wounded Prince fell on his back, slowly climbing back to standing position and bowing out before retreating to a corner and letting his weight fall back on the ground. He panted heavily, looking over his shoulder and shaking his head at
his father, who shot him a scornful, unforgiving glare.
Jerof glanced at Liz, her hands covering her mouth. Her eyes were wide with fear. Finoa had started cheering on Jerof with the eight Kings, who were all standing and banging their fists through the air.
Recalling how his father had taught him about emotions blinding a warrior, Jerof turned to his opponents.
“It is okay to give up,” he taunted the eighteen Princes. “How does it feel to be helpless around one single Hagran?” He paused. “You!” He gestured with his chin toward one of them. “You are at least twice my size and you have not inflicted me with a single scratch.”
The Prince hissed before launching an attack. Jerof quickly used his daggers to disarm him and slice an X across the man’s back.
The Prince screeched.
“It is alright,” Jerof teased. “It will heal.”
Suddenly, another prince darted forward and kicked at Jerof’s feet, taking him by surprise and sending him to the ground. The remaining Princes then crowded around him, but each of them was so vengeful, several of them shoved one another as they fought over who would get to land the first blow at him.
Jerof slashed one of his daggers at their ankles as he spun on the ground, then flipped himself backward to a standing position.
They all lurched back, some of them groaning in pain, others tolerating it and pacing closer.
Four of them nodded at one another before they launched a joint assault using their axes and long swords. Jerof dodged their attacks with backflips, blindsiding one of them before stabbing him in the back of his thigh, his dagger easily piercing its way out. As soon as he pulled it out, the prince fell to one knee and bowed out.
Before the other three could swing their weapons at him, he sent one dagger to a knee, another to a foot and used his claws to slice the third’s foot at the ankle.
The opponents began to bow out, one by one, fearing to take any risk that would leave them with a life-long injury – or worse, death.
The last prince standing drew daggers that matched Jerof’s.
It was Ulric, the Prince of Carr.
“You do not have to do this,” Jerof warned. “I really do not want to hurt you.”
“You think you can turn down the Princess of Carr and get away with it? You were offered a priceless gift, but your foul preference led you to the weakest race.”
“Ulric,” Jerof called out. “You know I have nothing against you or your Kingdom. It is just you and I now. If you withdraw, you will be in one piece and I will go back to my Kingdom. We both win.”
“I am no coward,” the Prince hollered, sharpening one dagger with the other, the screeching making Ulric twitch like a madman hungry for violence.
“Suit yourself,” Jerof gave in. “I do not want to kill you, child. Please, do not compel me to do this.”
“How sweet.” The Prince drew an ironic frown on his face. “Such sentiments don’t belong in the ring. Or on the throne.” He spat. “This is exactly why I am here.”
Jerof took in a deep breath and slowly sheathed his daggers. He raised his hands, flipping them to show his opponents he was no longer armed.
Ulric spat again. “The Url’Sans have always disgusted me with their nonsense tirades about peace and love. Hagran has no place for peace and love. We were made to fight to the death.”
Some of the spectators cheered, but it quickly died down. Many of those who had sided with the twelve Kingdoms had switched sides after witnessing Jerof take out the princes without a single scratch.
Jerof didn’t really care much about the man’s life. He could barely take his breath, and Ulric looked just as exhausted. Both of them were going to push themselves to their limits, and the fight was going to be bloody.
Jerof refused to make the first attack, and it seemed like Ulric was stalling as well, waving his daggers about in an attempt to look intimidating. His forehead was dripping in sweat. In the background, the King of Carr and some of the spectators were cheering for him. Jerof could hear some of the shouts urging Ulric to behead him.
With his eyes fixed on Ulric’s frantic movements, Jerof kept his claws drawn, ready to block any of his predicted moves.
His opponent jogged forward before sprinting and leaping into the air. Just as Jerof was about to block the dagger aimed at him, Ulric surprised him with the other hand swinging at his elbow. He flinched just in time to prevent his forearm from being amputated, but it wasn’t without a scratch. His wound sprayed blood on his opponent’s face before he landed gracefully behind Jerof and gave him a kick in the back of the knee.
Jerof fell to his knees, then rolled over to dodge the dagger that was about to dive into his spine.
In the background, he honed in on Liz’s screams.
Ulric was getting frustrated, which was Jerof’s time to flaunt his skill. He stood still, waiting for the next attack, leaning sideways just in time before one of Ulric’s daggers pierced his throat. Jerof grabbed him by the wrist and tugged his weapon out of his hand. Ulric roared, reached for his other holster. He patted around his hip, but there was no weapon to be found.
Jerof raised the dagger that he’d stealthily harvested from Ulric’s sheath and grinned. He waved it in the air before tossing it behind him.
Although out of breath and soaked in his own sweat, Ulric drew his claws and let out a cry as he dashed toward Jerof.
Jerof ducked, gashing his claws along his opponent’s waist. It took the Ulric a moment before he processed the pain. He rocked back and forth as his world grew foggy. Stroking his wound as he knelt down on one knee.
“This isn’t over,” he spat.
“This battle sure is,” Jerof replied. “I did warn you.”
“Burn in hell,” Ulric murmured as his body continued to sway.
Silenced had cloaked the colosseum for a moment, before everyone rose from their seats. They applauded and cheered, some of them chanting Jerof’s name, while others shouted, “Justice is served,” harmoniously.
From afar, Jerof spotted Finoa and Liz embracing as they celebrated Jerof’s survival and victory. The King of Carr remained seated, sending a piercing glower to his son.
“Kings and Queens,” Jerof cried out. “It is time to pledge allegiance and abolish the Swarm threat.”
The cheering grew loud enough to reverberate through the walls of the colosseum. Both Liz and Finoa were in tears of joy.
“He did it!” Liz cried out.
She grabbed Finoa in a tight hug and let the tears flow freely. Across from her, Kings and Queens were leaving their seats, chattering in the Hagran language. All seemed happy, except for one.
“Someone’s upset,” Finoa chuckled.
The two women shot King Urik a sly grin. He scanned them from head to toe scornfully before the loud crowd. The tribal dancing, the music and the chanting continued inside the hall as the Prince of Url twirled around and waved at his people.
On the women’s right sat the King of Nerian, who squeezed his way through the attendees to congratulate the women.
“I must say,” he said, looking at Liz as he offered his hand to shake. He wore a collar on and seemed to have gone all that way just to speak to her. “I knew there was something different about you when I first saw you. There’s something special about you, I see it in your eyes,” he elaborated. “You’re sitting here, watching our people fight for a change, but you seem like the kind of woman who can make an influence without lifting a finger.”
Liz thanked the King and bowed. As soon as he was gone, Finoa nudged her friend and winked at her. “Look who’s saving the world.”
Liz shook her head. “Shut up,” she jokingly replied. “I’m just thrilled Jerof is still in one piece.”
Finoa grinned. “Unlike Belut.”
Chapter 22
Liz rested her head on her hand as she lay across Jerof’s bed, watching him get ready for the coronation. She was smiling despite being a little jealous. Apparently, only Royal families were all
owed to attend.
She gazed at him in disbelief after she had thought she was going to lose him. He was standing right before her, gussying up. Every now and then, she would interrupt him for an embrace, just so she could feel his heartbeat thumping in her ear.
After the Prince of Url’San had won the battle, Liz and Jerof didn’t do much talking. She’d spent the rest of the evening caressing his skin, as though to remind herself that he was still there, and she wasn’t just dreaming. As much as she wanted him, she knew he had to recover from his ordeal.
She slowly blinked as she watched him braid his hair, a smile of relief on her face.
Jerof glanced at her through the reflection of his long mirror, and he smiled.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. I’m just glad you’re still alive. This morning, I was so anxious that I’d wake up and it would all be a dream.”
“You said the same thing about your arrival here, my little Earthling” he said, smiling.
Liz shrugged, her smile not wavering. “I don’t want to go back to that life anymore. But you know what’s weird?”
He shook his head, eyes focused on his thick locks.
“This whole time, you thought that I’d end up saving you, but you saved yourself. It was all you. You were waiting for this call from God who supposedly sent you a woman that would magically defeat your enemies, but all you needed was support.”
Jerof was silent for a moment. As he let his braid go, the tip of his dark, silky hair landed past his buttocks.
“I’ve always had support,” he explained. “But you did save me in a way, Liz. Saving someone isn’t usually as obvious as going into the woods and protecting them from some wild animals.”
He looked at her and smiled. “I didn’t need encouragement as much as I needed a motive. Father was dying, and he was the only person who could push me to touch the skies,” he confessed, ambling toward the bed and sitting beside her. “But then you came along, and I suddenly had another reason to keep fighting.”
