Slave in the City of Dragons (Dinosaurs and Gladiators Book 1)

by Angela Angelwolf

  “King Kro’tos,” she said. “Normally, the crown underwrites half the games, sometimes more. But even though you have raised your normal gift, your cash amounts to only one-fourth of the total so far.”

  “And there will be more,” Kro’tos rumbled, his eyes shooting darts at Tol’zen. “Kro’brin, my nephew, your Serdar, has scored a major victory against the southern bandits. Even now, he is on his way home with dozens of new prisoners. You can add these to the wild animals my warriors are bringing in from the hills.”

  There was murmuring around the table. Ang’ess nodded. “In light of that, would you like to reduce your monetary gift?” she asked.

  “NEVER!” Kro’tos fairly spit the word. “The Remnant will know their king by the size of his largesse. Keep it. Keep it all, and let me know what else you need.”

  Again there was murmuring, but Ang’ess had moved on. “U’Clee, you scientists have made a substantial cash gift. And you mentioned something more?”

  “The Cogitorium is growing new terrors in the quick-vats,” U’Clee said in his dry-stick voice. “With a month to go, there are uncertainties. But we should have half-a-dozen monstrosities for your games.”

  “And Kis’zor,” she turned to the odd saurian clad in red. “It is rare for the sorcerers to take interest in the games. You have something to contribute?”

  “In such times,” the odd-looking saurian wheezed, then continued on, gasping occasionally, “when the Remnant is divided. It is best for the people to know. Who really rules this city.”

  At this, Kro’tos grimaced uncontrollably. But the sorcerer, Kis’zor, continued: “So we shall provide. Entertainment of a most unique. And violent kind.”

  “Not just fireworks then?” U’Clee asked dryly. “Because we’ve got those covered.”

  Kis’zor smiled. “We do love feats of wonder. And just try and keep us off the sands.” Then he shook his head. “But no. I’m not talking about marvels. I mean terrors both ancient and new. We shall provide two. They must be separate. You may inspect beforehand. And judge however many you wish to perish against them.

  “And one of them.” Kis’zor gasped for breath, but his lips twisted into a smile. “Will involve filling the arena with water. Don’t worry. We’ll handle that, too. Save that for last.”

  Again, the knots of people around the table murmured.

  Ang’kim turned to Bel’orm. “The merchants are making a nice cash gift, I must say. But you said something more …”

  “Indeed I did,” Bel’orm said. “I know the king’s warriors are providing beasts,” and he nodded at Kro’tos, who nodded back. “But we have some more unusual ones. It will make for an exciting afternoon.”

  Pashera had an urge to tie Bel’orm up and shove his feet in a fire. Then she’d see how exciting he found that.

  Finally, Ang’ess turned to Tol’zen.

  “Lord Tol’zen,” she said. “When you first offered your gift, it was received gladly. You can see that you are being outspent by King Kro’tos,” and at these words, the king smiled wolfishly, “so, I put this to you. Do you wish to raise the size of your gift? Or perhaps withdraw?”

  Tol’zen stopped looking at whatever was in his hand. He cleared his throat and said: “I do not have the depth of the royal purse.”

  “Ha!” Kro’tos guffawed.

  “… but I think I’ll stay with what I have, if you’ll allow me a presentation.”

  “Of course,” Ang’kim said. Kro’tos scowled as she continued. “It’s fair to say that without your contribution, we would not see this level of funding.”

  There was a general murmur of assent around the table. Kro’tos scowled at them all.

  Ang’ess laid out her proposed agenda, writing it in chalk on slate set in a wooden frame.

  Day 1: Blood

  Opening ceremonies, with the banners of all underwriting parties in the parade.

  Morning open: New gladiators versus the shamblers.

  Late morning: Prisoners versus monsters.

  Noontime: Weapons masters doing amazing feats.

  Early afternoon: Level 3 challenge, multiple bouts, men vs women.

  Late afternoon: The Hunt of Rare Beasts.

  Twilight: Music and dancing, culminating in the whip dance.

  Evening: A battle royale.

  Night: Cogitorium-sponsored fireworks.

  Day 2: Sacrifice

  Religious opening, with the parade of potentates.

  Morning open: Execution of ordinary criminals, followed by female prisoners and gladiators versus monsters from hell.

  Late morning: First assassin’s challenge

  Noontime: The carnival of cults and the ceremony of the scapegoat

  Early afternoon: Second assassin’s challenge

  Late afternoon: Male versus female battle royale

  Twilight: Pakaian

  Evening: Gladiators versus a Sorcerers’ Terror

  Night: Sorcerers doing feats of wonder. More fireworks.

  Day 3: Honor

  Political Opening with parade of candidates for all offices.

  Morning open: Execution of extraordinary criminals

  Late morning: Staged battle with captive southern bandits

  Noontime: Kro’tos’ political speech, followed by gladiators versus monsters

  Early afternoon: Battle of Kro’tos’ and Tol’zen’s champions

  Late afternoon: Speeches by candidates for minor offices. Vote for the political scapegoat. The political scapegoat would then fight wild animals.

  Twilight: Tol’zen’s political speech, followed by gladiators and prisoners versus more monsters

  Evening: Flooding of the arena, and battle of gladiators versus a Sorcerers’ Terror.

  Night: Closing ceremonies. More fireworks.

  U’Clee shook his head in disgust and looked at the sorcerer with obvious enmity. “Look, if you’re going to try and outdo us on fireworks …”

  “Not fireworks.” The strange sorcerer gasped. “Feats of wonder.”

  “This schedule is too jam-packed,” the merchant Bel’orm said. “When are people supposed to buy food?”

  “Sell them food in the stands from carts,” Ang’ess said. “We’ve done it before.”

  “Not recently,” Bel’orm said. “Because the animals go chasing after the food in the stands.”

  “We’ll take precautions,” Ang’ess said. “We’re erecting a pain barrier around the inside wall of the arena.”

  “Still, the program is too busy,” U’Clee agreed with Bel’orm. “We’ll run till midnight, you’ll see.”

  “The lights can stay on all hours,” Ang’ess said, an edge in her voice. “Any other objections?”

  There were none.

  The meeting attendees filed out. Tol’zen looked at Pashera. His eyes were forlorn. He grasped her arm, and shook it like a comrade. “Fight with honor,” he said loud enough for those close enough to hear.

  Then he was gone.

  U’Chan stopped by. “I’ll be talking to you soon,” he said, and winked.

  Ang’ess kept Pashera behind as the others left.

  “First,” she said. “Don’t be late again, or I’ll whip you hard enough for Dawatana to feel it.”

  “Yes, Teacher,” Pashera said humbly.

  “Second, do you know why you were at this meeting?”

  “No, Teacher.”

  “That event on the third day – the battle of champions. That’s you. You and Gwettelen. It will be your first top-tier fight. You might start figuring out what weapon you’re going to kill her with,” Ang’ess said. “Because she will be doing the same for you.”

  “Yes, Teacher.” Pashera had no intention of fighting Gwettelen; she knew that Tol’zen would pull her out of the arena before then.

  “And I wanted you to see the outline of the games,” she said. “Because I have a job for you.

  “The female prisoners will fight a few times. Day 1 versus the monsters. On Day 2, they will join male
prisoners in the battle with the monsters from hell. And anytime we have a gap, we usually throw some prisoners out there to keep the crowd entertained.

  “What I need you to do,” Ang’ess said. “Is to make it clear to Amaz and the rest of the prisoners that whichever of them fights best gets a pardon. That girl gets to join the ranks of the gladiators.”

  “Join the ranks …” Pashera was boggled. “I thought they were sentenced to death.”

  “There is a clause. The pardon by blood. We do it every year there is a worthy prisoner.” Ang’ess’ voice hardened. “There hasn’t been a worthy prisoner in many years. This year, I want that to change. And that’s your job.”

  “Yes, Teacher.”

  “Fire them up. Give them something to hope for. I want them out there fighting like demons. I want these to be the best games ever. Will you do that?”

  “As you command, Teacher.”

  “Good girl. Now get out of here.”

  Pashera left quickly. Later that night, she briefed the other girls on what she’d heard. Gwettelen sat at a table with the two girls who had arrived with her, and the saurian. She scowled at Pashera, and said little as Pashera laid out the games’ agenda.

  “Two assassins,” Angani said. “That’s not good.”

  “Those aren’t the only assassins we need to worry about,” said another girl. But she received an elbow in the ribs, and was quickly shushed.

  Pashera wondered what the girl meant.

  The next day, weapons training started.

  “There’s only one moon till the games,” Ang’kim said at the start of training. “slacking off now carries its own punishment. Death in the arena.”

  Even though Pashera expected to be rescued, she studied hard. For one thing, what else was she to do? For another, she really enjoyed weapons.

  The first five days was spent learning sword basics. And that was basically learning how to chop, stab, slice and block. Pashera swung a wooden sword until her right arm felt like it would fall off. When that arm got too tired, they made her train with her left arm.

  And when they weren’t training with swords, they trained on speed. Speed was the difference between life and death in the arena, that’s what they hammered into her head. And Ang’kim let it be known at the top of her lungs that far, far too many of the recruits were too damned slow.

  Pashera knew she was too slow for her trainers, but she was faster than most of the recruits.

  Pashera felt she was fairly proficient with the short and medium swords. The long sword took more skill and a lot more practice, because when she made a mistake with a long sword, her trainer would get inside her reach and slap her so hard she saw stars.

  Then, her trainers changed things up. They let her try out the bow and the spear.

  Pashera washed out of bow training very early. She took aim at a target, let loose the arrow, and it sailed over a wall. Pashera and her trainer heard a scream from the other side. Her trainers scowled and sent her off to do punishment drills.

  But she was very good with a spear – a natural, as Tooloosa marveled. Tooloosa was an expert with the spear, and glad to have someone to train.

  And it turned out Pashera could throw a spear as well as stab with it. There were short spears – javelins – meant specifically for throwing. Pashera could fling one with accuracy to 50 strides away. Even one of the big spears she could whip to the center of a target 30 strides away.

  So she concentrated on the spear. Once her trainers had her weapon picked, her training became less frantic. It became more methodical. But it was still lively. Pashera learned to dance with the spear, to play to the crowd, to make theatrical flourishes even as she battled for her life. She learned how to charge a bowman and survive. She learned how to fight multiple opponents with a spear, to become a whirling, leaping dervish of death.

  Just when she thought she had the spear figured out, they added a very small steel shield, or buckler. It fit over her left wrist, attached to a strap that extended to a padded glove. If she stretched out her fingers, they extended to the rim of the buckler. But most of the time, her fingers would be tightened around a spear. The buckler just gave her a way to parry a sword while stabbing with the spear.

  Fighting with the buckler required completely different planning and movement. But Pashera put herself to the task.

  When she wasn’t doing her own training, she was allowed to go help supervise the prisoners. Their training was simplified, and centered around the sword. Amaz was incensed. “We’re going to be fighting men and monsters,” she said. “Of course we need spears.”

  Pashera pled Amaz’s case for spears to Ang’ess. The head trainer said she’d think about it.

  Amaz was grateful to Pashera for getting her out of the cage. And since Amaz was warm to her, the ice melted with the rest of the palace crew as well.

  But Amaz was skeptical at first when Pashera told her about the “pardon by blood.”

  “Do you think she means it?” Amaz asked. “Or is she just trying to get the most out of us?”

  “Teacher has never lied to me,” Pashera said.

  Amaz cocked her head. “That you know of.” She sighed. “But I’ll pass it along to the others. If nothing else, they’ll fight well, and die well. At least that’s something.”

  Twelve days from the games, after a full day of training, Pashera trudged to the back of the storage room, where large gear like her practice spears were stowed. She wearily put a spear away, then her flesh started to tingle. She opened up her senses. That’s when she saw a shadow move behind her. She turned. Gwettelen.

  “Kro’tos sends his regards,” Gwettelen said. Her lip twitched nervously. In her hand was a small knife.

  Pashera tensed for the attack. But it seemed Gwettelen was hesitating.

  “Do it!” Another voice said. Another figure stepped out of the shadows. It was one of the saurians who had joined the school at the same time as Gwettelen. Pashera ran through her mind what she knew about this new opponent. Her name was Tin’iso. She was one of the tallest saurians in the school. Her skin was a deep black, her hair a shock of feathers dyed a riot of colors. Like some other saurians at the school, she said she was a war widow, and looking for adventure.

  But in truth, Tin’iso had said very little during her time at the school. The knife in her hand, a wicked, black, ugly thing, seemed ready to do the talking for her.

  Pashera knew she dare not turn her back on these two. She reached behind her, blindly groping for a practice spear.

  “Do it,” Tin’iso said again to Gwettelen. “Do it, or I will. Then I’ll kill you.”

  Gwettelen was trying to work up to it, Pashera could see it on her face. “You don’t have to, Gwettelen,” she said. “You’re free now. Kro’tos doesn’t own you down here.”

  “I told you before,” Gwettelen said in a thin voice. “I love him.” She worked the knife around in her hand.

  “He doesn’t love you. He threw you away. The gladiator school is a one-way trip, you know that, right?”

  “That’s not true!” Gwettelen said. “He wouldn’t abandon me.”

  “There’s more than one kind of slave,” Pashera told Gwettelen. “There are slaves of the body. And there are slaves of the soul. It’s his choice to own your body, Gwettelen, but it’s your choice if he gets to own your soul.”

  “Enough talk!” Tin’iso barked. “Do it! Or I will!”

  Pashera knew she had to scream. She sucked in a breath, and was just about to scream for her life, when a blur shot out of the shadows and hit the saurian and Gwettelen like sacks of meat. All three figures went plowing into a rack of wooden swords.

  And the figure that hit Gwettelen and Tin’iso roared. It was Dawatana!

  The three on the floor grappled with each other. Pashera knew she had mere seconds to save her friend’s life. She turned, found a practice spear, grabbed it, and pounced on Tin’iso. “Hey, you!” she shouted. Tin’iso turned. Pashera whacked her right betwe
en the eyeballs with the spear butt. Tin’iso’s eyes rolled up.

  Gwettelen bellowed and cursed, and she and Dawatana grappled like a couple of she-bears. Pashera waited, picked her opening, and slammed the butt of her wooden spear right into Gwettelen’s solar plexus. All the air rushed out of her, and the fight went with it.

  Footsteps thundered in the hallway. Figures burst into the room. It was Tooloosa, Orm’ryn, and some of the other girls.

  In an instant, Tooloosa saw the discarded knives on the floor, saw the two half-unconscious attackers, and sized up the situation. “Seize them!” she barked, pointing at Gwettelen and Tin’iso.

  They had to pull Dawatana off Gwettelen, and to do that, they had to stop Dawatana from hitting her. The blonde bitch was worse for wear by the time they accomplished that. Soon, they were all back in the parade yard. Pashera and Dawatana stood at attention, Gwettelen and Tin’iso stood wobbly. Ang’kim turned the blades over and over in her hand.

  “Okay,” she said after a long pause. “Pashera, tell me what happened.”

  Pashera had had time to think about this. So, she took a breath, exhaled, and said: “We were practicing, Teacher.”

  Dawatana, bless her, said nothing, though her eyes looked panicked. But it was the other girls, the ones who had burst into the room, who started shouting angrily about Gwettelen’s crimes. Ang’kim roared at them all to shut up.

  They did. Ang’kim looked at Pashera again. “Are you sure it was just practice?”

  “Pretty sure, Teacher.”

  Ang’kim stood up, and walked in front of Tin’iso and Gwettelen. She dangled a knife in front of them. “The penalty for attacking a fellow student with attempt to murder is death. We’re encouraged to be creative. I could have you skinned – could skin you myself – with this knife. And it doesn’t look very sharp. That could take a while.”

  Gwettelen gulped. Tears leaked out from the corners of her eyes. For her part, Tin’iso tried to remain stoic, but her eyes flitted nervously.

  Ang’kim gestured at Pashera dramatically. “Could skin you yes, but you are saved – by Pashera. She’s what stands between you and death. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Teacher,” Gwettelen and Tin’iso said together. Gwettelen stared at Pashera with a strange look in her eye.