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

by Angela Angelwolf

  The second tier was for the wannabes of the Remnant society – up-and-coming social climbers, including ranked warriors who weren’t on the first tier, the rest of the religious castes, and those merchants who couldn’t afford the best seats.

  The third tier was for ordinary citizens. This included saurian of low-rank, riff-raff and freed slaves of good standing.

  There was a fourth tier, which normally wasn’t used except in the quarterly festivals like this one. This took in the overflow from the third-tier cheap seats, as well as any slaves who could sneak away from their duties.

  She thought the first contest of the morning wouldn’t be well attended. She was wrong. The stadium was packed. Those nearer the sands wore rich clothing, waved wine around in silver goblets, and their women were outfitted impossibly styled topfeathers, matching paint, an array of sheer and dazzling outfits and coordinated slaves.

  Pashera craned her neck, looking for Tol’zen. She saw a huge banner with his colors on the second tier, but couldn’t make out if he was there.

  Smaller banners showing Tol’zen’s purple dragon against a yellow-red sun dotted the crowd. These were matched by a roughly equal number of red dragons on a field of white – the symbol of Kro’tos. Unlike the hastily painted banners Pashera had seen on that first day when she’d gone to join the gladiators, these new banners were well-made, often from fine linen.

  The female gladiators stood at one end of the arena. The males, divided into two groups stood at the other. There was a smaller group, which Orm’ryn told her were the career professionals from Guadalquivir. They seemed proud and fierce, but also quiet.

  The other group was outsiders – champions of other towns, or perhaps retired gladiators down on their luck. There were even southern tribesmen, with their peacock arrays of feathers stuck in their garishly colored war costumes. Some of these yelled and waved to the gathered crowd, in stark contrast to the quiet professionals.

  Suddenly one of the male gladiators, an older saurian, stepped forward, faced his fellows, and lifted his arm above his head. They yelled, a long, rippling sound that raised the hairs on the back of Pashera’s neck.

  The crowd went wild.

  Orm’ryn stepped out and stood in front of the female gladiators. “Are we going to let them get away with that, ladies?”

  The women shrieked a war cry that would peel the flesh off the dead. Pashera felt her voice joining the others like it leapt out of her throat on its own volition, it was bigger than her, and the sound echoed off the walls of the arena and set her blood to boiling.

  The men started marching toward them. Orm’ryn raised her arm and signaled them forward. The men and women met in the center, close enough that Pashera could see the sweat on the men in the first rank. They began clashing their weapons, hooting and howling, and screaming like they would shatter the sky and bring it tumbling down.

  Trumpets sounded. The ranks of the men turned and faced away; the women did the same. The great set of doors opened, and the parade started.

  It was led by a female saurian called the Sun Queen. Pashera had heard there was a great contest for this role every year. Being in the school, the female gladiators had seen none of it. Pashera supposed by saurian standards, the Sun Queen was a beauty. Her top feathers were clipped short – unusual for a female – and looked downy soft. They’d been dyed bright orange. Her skin was colored gold, with streaks of orange and blue. Jewels were glued in eye-catching patterns over her skin. Except for a purple, jewel-studded triangle of fabric at her crotch, she was nude.

  A floating projection of a head appeared in the center of the arena, three stories tall. This was the games-master, a saurian hand-picked by the biggest patron (in this case, Kro’tos). This corpulent fellow described each part of the parade in glowing terms. The really unnerving thing about the floating head, for Pashera and anyone else who wasn’t used to it, is that it always seemed to be looking straight at you.

  “Welcome to the summer games,” the floating head said. “I am your master of ceremonies, Ar’daj. All hail the summer games. All hail our king, Kro’tos!”

  There were cheers. But Pashera also heard some outright boos at this – obviously Tol’zen supporters in the stands. Ar’daj hurriedly continued. “Behold, the gorgeous Sun Queen. Lovely Shya’sha, most radiant among females, be in awe of her glory. Males come alive as she passes, and women weep, for her beauty is unobtainable for all but a few. Every curve is grace, every feather in place. You grace us with your presence, Shya’sha!”

  The Sun Queen bowed to the giant floating head and continued walking around the stadium. Males bowed to her, and extended their arms, which Orm’ryn told Pashera was part of the mating rituals.

  The floating head was replaced by projected images of the Sun Queen in all her glory. The projection flickered from one image to the next, as the parade procession continued in the arena.

  Next came a saurian warrior wielding a flaming sword. He was also nearly nude, except that he wore gold wings strapped to his back and wore a golden helmet shaped like a dragon. This was the Dragon Champion. He was tall and enormously muscled. The other girls told Pashera that all the warriors competed for this honor. Ar’daj waxed rhapsodically about him, too. Perhaps even more so.

  Next came the first float. It was a dragon as well, all black and silver, with wings that flapped. Every few seconds, it exhaled fire.

  “Real dragons don’t breathe fire,” one of the older girls told Pashera. “Not that anyone’s seen one lately.”

  “Oh, haven’t they?” Pashera demurred.

  Saurian children dressed as dragons clambered about the float, throwing treats and trinkets at the first row of spectators. Since the first row was the wealthiest, this meant that those receiving all the treats didn’t need them, Pashera mused.

  Then came the first sponsor banner. This was King Kro’tos. His banner was followed by a float with a model of the palace on it. The float was stocked with his supporters, some of whom used catapults and air cannons to get the trinkets and goodies to the upper tiers and back rows of the arena.

  Next came another float; this seemed to be represent some kind of harvest theme, though in garish colors that were never seen in nature. That was followed by the banner for the Cogitorium. The scientists followed this with a walking mechanical monstrosity that clanked and clanged its way dangerously over the sands.

  The floats alternated with sponsors – the sorcerers, merchants and Lord Tol’zen each had their section. A bunch of saurians Pashera didn’t know marched behind Tol’zen’s banner. They all wore the purple dragon, and she touched the insignia on her chest as she saw it.

  Prisoners also marched behind Tol’zen's banner. Pashera saw the little chief of the sky pirates, as well as half-dozen of his people, all in chains. A lump formed in her throat for all that had gone wrong during that battle – especially the deaths of the helpless human pilots of the flyers – and how much death she had been a part of without meaning it. The crowd cheered uproariously at seeing their enemies in chains. “Tol-zen, Tol-zen, Tol-zen” they chanted.

  More floats followed. There was a float of old Hrothrawl, it had to be. What other giant green leatherback with one arm ending in a blackened stump could there be? There were elephants and giraffes, and many other great beasts of the southern frontier. Groups of citizens came through, each group dressed in identical costumes. Pashera guessed that they were dressed as birds, with all the feathers on display, but they also were costumed in glitter, and jeweled crowns, and sheer cloth that added to the allure.

  And say what you want about saurians, Pashera thought to herself, but they sure could dance. There were three different bands on the sands of the arena at the same time. When they played the same tune, the blasts from the trumpets hurt her ears. When they played different tunes, it was a cacophony of noise. And still the saurians danced, danced and danced some more. The spectators in the stands danced along with them.

  There was another group of priso
ners near the end. These were tall, muscular, black-skinned, and kinky-haired . They were all naked and in chains, and most looked terrified. All save three or four at the head of the group; they looked around the arena with eyes filled with anger and hatred.

  “Southern bandits,” one of the girls said. “I heard we beat them.”

  “We didn’t do anything,” another corrected her. “It’s Kro’brin.”

  Just as she said it, a giant float came in, barely squeezing in the doors. This was designed to look like a fortress. On the battlements of the faux fortress was none other than Kro’brin. He waved and beamed at the crowd, and they adored him.

  “The Great Kro’brin,” the floating head of Ar’daj shouted triumphantly. “Our enemies look on him and despair, for he is the mighty fist of the Remnant!”

  More prisoners followed. These looked even more sorry than the previous lot.

  Then came individual floats sponsored by merchants. Some of these were quite hokey, but many aspired to beauty. One thing they all had in common is a sharp-eyed fellow, usually perched up top, who used some kind of catapult-gun to shoot goodies up to the second and third tiers. The scramble for these treats was madcap. Saurians pushed, shoved, bit and punched each other over baubles.

  The last of the floats made its way around the arena and back out the door. The male gladiators saluted and most of them left, leaving younger more inexperienced fighters. The women saluted as well. Orm’ryn faced Pashera and the other young girls. “You’ll be facing the shamblers. Don’t let them bite you. Human bites are the worst, their mouths are very unclean.”

  Humans? Pashera had thought the shamblers were anything but.

  “They’re faster than they look. Sometimes very fast. Stay in groups. Don’t get separated. Stay by the males. Let them break the charge if there is one.” With that, Orm’ryn saluted, turned, and led the older female gladiators back through the gate.

  A dozen females were left on the sand. Among them were Gwettelen, the other human woman who joined with her (one hadn’t made the final cut), and the saurian assassin. They’d already formed into a fighting group. Gwettelen had a sword and shield, and the assassin Tin’isio had a long sword and arm-guards.

  Pashera looked around. There was Dawatana, shaking like a leaf, and other new girls, including Angani and Enara, who both looked scared as hell. “Everybody, form up behind the men,” Pashera said.

  “Hey, scrag you, you bitch,” one of the men said. He had a mean-looking, cut-throat appearance. His head was shaved, though not recently, and he had a black eye that added to his surly and questionable charm. “You think I’m going to be your wall of meat?”

  Pashera swallowed and faced the girls again. “Everybody, form up on me. We’ll let the men hide in the corner.”

  Most of the men laughed at this; either because the round arena had no corners or they just admired her grit. The man who had talked to her scowled and spit. But the girls started to line up with her. Even Gwettelen’s group shouldered up beside them.

  Men were already walking in front. “Men with shields on me,” one of them yelled. He was a huge brute armed with a broadsword and shield, his dark hair was a furry mop that fell across his face. “Women with shields, too. Let’s break ’em, stop ‘em, slice ‘em and dice ‘em.”

  “Remember,” he said, turning to look at them. “You’re doing them a favor.”

  The tall fellow rearranged them in two U-shaped lines. Dawatana, with her shield, was pushed forward, though she didn’t want to go. Pashera wanted to stand beside her, but the mop-haired giant said she’d do more good in the second rank. Pashera stuck close to Dawatana, encouraging her. “I’ll be right behind you, Sweetie,” she said. “I’ll stick any of ‘em with a spear as they come close to you.”

  One of the gates at the arena wall slowly started to open. This was not the gate the parade had come through. This one was known as the “Hellgate,” and led into the dungeons and animal pits.

  The gate finished clank-clanking its way up. There was silence. Suddenly, a woman’s scream cut across the sands. Then a man’s scream. Then a howling noise made by many voices, it sounded like a thousand lost souls boiling up from the deepest pit of hell.

  A moving mass of people appeared at the opening of the Hellgate. The crowd flowed forward rather than running. The people in it run, danced, skipped, lurched, fell down and got right back up again. They got closer. Most were naked, though some wore rags. Pashera could see their faces now. They had the eyes of the truly lost – mad, gone-to-the-brink-and-beyond. The eyes were set in drooling, slobbering, teeth-gnashing faces topped with stringy mats of hair. They were deadly skinny, though some were obviously hellishly strong. And the smell – as they closed in, Pashera smelled the stench of someone who has lain in his or her own filth for a long time.

  They picked up speed.

  “Brace yourselves,” the mop-haired giant yelled.

  “Mama,” Dawatana squeaked.

  “Courage,” Pashera replied.

  And then the wave of flesh hit them.

  Afterward, Pashera remembered very little about the broader battle. She was focused on the area right around Dawatana, protecting her friend from the ravenous teeth and claw-like fingers that tried to close in around her. They’d taught Pashera the art of fast-stabbing her spear; now, she punched it like a devil was at the pointy end.

  The shamblers weren’t devils. They bled. They screamed when they were stabbed. But they also screamed when they weren’t cut, and they screamed when they were trying to bite your face off or sink their filthy, twisted fingers into your skin. They also raved, gibbering and giggling, but nothing coherent – it was the babble of the truly insane.

  The gladiators hacked away. One of the men in the front line stuck his sword too deeply into one of the shamblers; the creature, dying pulled down on the sword and pulled the gladiator forward. Other eager hands reached forward and dragged him, yelling and cursing, into the boil of bodies. The gladiator behind him stepped forward, and the fight pressed on.

  Then Dawatana got in trouble. Her sword was pulled away. “Punch them,” Pashera screamed in her ear. “Punch the faroos-suckers before they bite you.” Dawatana punched and flailed, but one of shamblers sank his teeth deep right into her wrist. She howled like a burned wolf. Pashera shish-kabobbed the biter through his left eyeball, then pulled Dawatana back as his teeth let go.

  Pashera stepped forward, taking Dawatana’s place. Stab, stab, stab, she made her thrusts overhand to get more leverage. “Stab the bastards in the face!” she yelled, thrusting her spear through the screaming mouth of a mad, filthy woman. Grasping hands reached for her, but she beat them back with her buckler.

  More screams and curses from the gladiators. More were pulled into the crowd. Then, as the remaining gladiators hacked and thrust furiously, the shamblers suddenly broke and ran off in different directions. They left the sand coated with their dead.

  “Split into teams of three and get after them,” the big fellow shouted. “Don’t let them regroup!”

  Pashera left Dawatana, blubbering, behind, as she instinctively teamed up with the big fellow on her left and the supposed assassin, Tin’iso, on her right. They marched forward, stepping on bodies at first because there was no other way, stabbing any that showed signs of life.

  One of the gladiators that had been pulled forward was still alive, barely. He moaned, his flesh stripped from his face and big chunks of his arms bitten away. “That’ll need a bandage,” the big man said, with grim humor. They spotted a half-dozen shamblers starting to cluster and, all three gladiators sprinted forward, slashing and stabbing.

  “To your left!” Tin’iso hissed. The big man looked to see a trio of shamblers bearing down on him. He turned and with one slice took an arm off one of them; that shambler fell to the ground, wailing. The big man’s next thrust went through the neck of the other fellow. The third shambler, a woman, had her head separated from her shoulders by Tin’iso’s sword.

&n
bsp; “More over there!” Pashera shouted, pointing with her spear. Offal dipped from the spear’s tip as she shook it. The three of them took off like hellions in pursuit of more shamblers.

  The whole thing was over in 15 minutes.

  “There was no sport in that,” Pashera said with disgust, as the gladiators regrouped in the middle. The crowd cheered wildly. Some of the gladiators picked up sliced-off hands and ears and threw them to the crowd. Fights erupted in the stands to claim the trophies.

  “It wasn’t about sport,” said the big man. “It was about seeing if the new fish would fight. If not, we’d find out quick.”

  The big man leaned close to Pashera. “My name is Rakum. I like your style.”

  “Pashera,” she said, dipping her spear in salute.

  “Oh-ho,” Rakum said. “You’ll be meeting my big brother, Therold, in the battle royale tonight. I’ll tell him to take it easy on you.” And then he winked.

  Ah, he knows. Pashera said: “If he’s your big brother, he must be the size of a mountain. But don’t worry. He doesn’t have to take it easy. I can handle myself.”

  Rakum laughed loudly. When he laughed, he suddenly seemed much younger. Not more older than she was, probably.

  When they marched back into the She-Devil Gate, as it was known, that led to the staging area for the female gladiators, the older girls applauded and cheered. But Pashera was too busy to pay much notice. Dawatana was in some serious pain. The bite looked bad. And one of the other new girls, Angani, had two big bites out of her arm.

  As Pashera helped ease Dawatana down on a medic’s bench, Orm’ryn came up to her. “Did you see the assassin fight?” she asked.

  “I was rather busy.”

  “She fought like a demon. Every slash or thrust connected. She left a pile of limbs in front of her, and then went after the heads.”

  “So she’s an assassin,” Pashera said. “I have more immediate problems.”

  She hurried the medic along to help Dawatana, and helped in any way she could. What she could do most was keep Dawatana calm.