“Are you ready for our entertainment then, dear?” Alaric asks, smiling too widely for Helena’s comfort. “I planned it all especially for you.”
Of course, you did, you bastard. Helena bites her tongue, turning back to face the king. “What did you do?” Helena whimpers, clenching her fists under the table. The sharp bite of her fingernails into her palms helps Helena keep her expression neutral. Show signs of weakness, and Alaric will invent new ways to display his nastiness, just to wriggle deeper under my skin.
“I’ve set up a competition of sorts,” Alaric explains, standing up to get the attention of the entire room. “You know how much I adore a good fight. Bring up the first contestants,” Alaric commands, pointing toward the door on the far-right side of the room.
The heavy doors swing open, and six of Alaric’s heavily armed men march through. Helena watches them stomp through the room, nervously assessing their faces. Not finding Ithel among their ranks brings a small measure of comfort, yet Helena still feels anxiety clinging to her bones. What has Alaric done? she wonders, casting a wary glance at the king.
The six guards suddenly stop their entry, turning to face the crowds huddled around the tables. One of the men steps out of the ranks, working his way around the tables until he finds his prey. Yanking a young woman out of her seat, he drags her along behind him despite the protests of her friends and family. Whispered worries and angry, rioting shouts fill the air as the company makes their way to the empty space in the room. The guards form a circle boundary, pushing the frightened girl into its center.
“What is your name?” Alaric asks, offering the girl the same terrifying grin he had when she whimpered during his grand entrance.
“P…P…P…please, sire, I didn’t mean to disrespect you,” the girl whines, wringing her hands as she cries. Recognizing her anxious habit, she drops her hands to her sides, her fingers immediately curling into the soft green fabric of her skirt. “I’ve been sick, sire, and my throat was tickling. I had to cough; I couldn’t help it. Please don’t—”
“Your name,” Alaric growls, motioning to the guards so they draw their swords.
“Remy,” the girl whispers, sniffling and wiping her nose on her sleeve. Behind her, a man and woman stand in the aisle, clinging to each other as they grieve, already mourning the loss of their child.
Helena pinches the fleshy area between her thumb and first finger, digging her nails into her flesh to keep from crying. My tears would do them no good, she justifies, staring coldly at the young girl while she waits to hear what Alaric has in store for the poor wretch.
“And where is the challenger?” Alaric spreads his arms wide, pointing to the hidden door where the servants slip down to the kitchens. Four more guards appear, dragging a young maid through the doorway. Judging by her rumpled hair, tousled clothes, and hoarse screams, she’s been putting up quite a fight. The guards unceremoniously toss the girl into the ring, jumping out of her way just in case she spins around to attack them.
“Amie,” Helena whispers the servant girl’s name, her hands beginning to shake as her fingernails draw blood.
“What’s that, Helena?” Alaric whispers, fighting to hide his smile.
“Nothing,” Helena snaps, staring straight ahead as her heart breaks for both girls.
“There are five rounds in all,” Alaric explains to the crowd, rubbing his hands together as he lays out his plans. “The last four rounds will require the contestants to fight to decide who will live and who will die. However, for this first round, I wanted to do something special.” Alaric turns, lowering his hands to point to Helena with a winning smile, and a wicked, traitorous fire in his eyes. “As you all know, I am celebrating the return of my wayward daughter. After a few years in the dungeons, she has seen the errors of her old life and regained my good graces. So, to honor her, I will offer her the choice.”
Helena hesitates, staring at the young girls who cower in front of the crowds. “I don’t understand, Your Highness.” Helena works to keep from rolling her eyes as she uses the king’s title to show respect. “What exactly is my choice here?”
“Which one will die, of course!” Alaric exclaims with a light, airy laugh, clapping his hands together a couple times. Then he leans down low, his voice falling to a ruthless, terrible whisper in her ear. “Doesn’t it feel good to know you hold their lives in your hands? Doesn’t it make you feel powerful, knowing you will decide their fates? We are gods among feeble ants, Helena. It’s time you start living up to your legacy.”
“I won’t do this,” Helena snaps, balling up her fists as she prepares to attack the king. She glances at the table, searching for the knife in her place setting. The dulled edge looks like it could barely break the skin of a tomato. Looking back at Alaric’s smug face, Helena decries, “This is barbaric, Alaric. I won’t sentence either of these girls to death.”
“Then I’ll bring Ithel out here, and you’ll watch him die instead,” Alaric shoots back, offering her a dangerous smile. “Will my brood of vipers be dining on one of these lovely ladies for their first course? Or should I send my guards—?”
“You are evil,” Helena hisses, lurching away from Alaric’s nearness.
“And you love too deeply,” Alaric replies, leaning over to whisper in her ear. “Don’t you see, Helena? You’re in this mess because you care too much. I can control you, string you along like a puppet, and manipulate you all because of your feelings. If you really want to be free of me, then let me kill Ithel. Get rid of love, and you’ll find true liberty. Otherwise, I’ll always hold the winning hand.”
Could I do it? Could I watch Ithel die after all he’s done to help me? Helena asks herself even while she tries to find a way out of this mess that keeps everyone alive. “I will fight in Amie’s place,” Helena counters, whispering low so none but the king can hear her proposal.
“Tempting,” Alaric muses, tapping his chin as he feigns to mull over her idea. “But no. I’ve already got my plans for you. Choose now, Helena. Or I’ll send for Ithel.”
“Damn you,” Helena wheezes, quickly assessing each girl in the ring to make her choice. The girl from the crowd is soft, Helena declares, staring at her fleshy, undefined shoulder muscles and dainty hands. She’s probably never had to do a hard day’s work in her life. She’ll never survive a fight, especially in such a flowing skirt. At least Amie is strong—all those days kneading bread, lifting heavy pans, and mixing large bowls of ingredients have toughened her. She stands the best chance. “I’m sorry…,” Helena begins, cutting off her apology when Alaric’s icy hand grips her shoulder. “Amie will stay in the ring and fight.” Helena’s lip trembles, her back going rigid even as a shiver snakes up her spine. “I choose Remy to die.”
“So be it,” Alaric agrees, waving to the guards to pull Remy out of the ring. Her parents wail as they watch their daughter being led over to the side of the hall where the viper pit waits. Tears flow freely down Remy’s face, her knees giving way as fear overpowers her senses. One of the guards picks up her limp form, carrying her to the edge of the pit.
“She paid you a kindness,” the guard whispers, gently setting Remy on the floor. “You’d have died a far more painful death in the ring. The vipers will make quick work of it.”
“Surely a real kindness would have been to speak out against this madness,” Remy accuses, facing the guard in a last, rallying defiance. Leaning around the guard, Remy shouts through the hall accusingly. “Why did you rejoin your father, Helena? Why do you no longer stand against him? He’s just a bully with a crown! When you defied him, you gave the rest of us hope. You stirred rebellion in our hearts, and now by returning to his side, you are condemning us all. You are a coward, Helena!” Before the guards quell her words, Remy faces the viper pit, exclaiming. “I will not be pushed into this death just to be silenced. I will not cower as I face my demise.” Remy’s mother wails, her hands reaching as she
watches her daughter leap into the viper pit, spreading her arms wide as if she was freefalling into a river.
The snakes in the darkness hiss and slither as they coil around their prey. Within a few agonizing heartbeats, the sounds cease. Helena trembles, her face pale as she clings to the edge of the table to keep herself upright.
“You failed,” Alaric coos, echoing the words already rumbling through Helena’s heart. “You still chose your heart over your freedom. I still own you, my daughter. Not that I’m really complaining, but I do wonder if you’ll ever learn.” Waving his hand, Alaric sends for the next contestant who will fight against Amie.
He’s a swarthy, rangy looking man, and judging by his filthy appearance, he’s been locked away in Alaric’s prisons for a long time. “Give her a weapon,” Helena pleads with the king as the man advances on Amie with a wicked grin that exposes his rotting teeth.
“Now that wouldn’t make it a fair fight,” Alaric replies, clicking his tongue as if he were a teacher admonishing a wayward pupil. “If she wants to be the champion, she must earn it just like anyone else.”
The grimy prisoner snaps Amie’s neck within five minutes after he steps into the ring. She never stood a chance either, did she? Helena laments, biting hard into her lip to keep from wailing. Amie’s body falls between two of the guards; without any spoken command, they pick her up and drag her over to the viper pit.
“A winner!” Alaric announces, heedless to the soft cries from the spectators surrounding their tables. “Tell us your name, champion.”
“Thayer,” the prisoner barks, his voice gruff from years of shouting in the dank cells of the dungeon.
“Enjoy a moment’s rest, Thayer. Then we’ll send in your next opponent,” Alaric replies, waving his hands at the crowd, urging them to cheer.
Helena doesn’t notice any of Alaric’s antics; her eyes are transfixed on Amie’s broken body. She gasps as she watches Amie disappear over the rim of the viper pit, joining Remy in her serpentine bed. My fault, she whimpers, wishing Amie was still alive to hear her apology. I put you in danger just by being in proximity to you. I’m so sorry, Amie.
Helena faces Andras, determined not to witness another moment of this disgusting display. Until Alaric’s long fingers clutch her chin, straining her neck as he pulls her face back toward the ring. “You will want to see who is crowned the victor, Helena. You are the prize, after all,” the king sneers, relishing the way Helena’s skin grows cold and clammy under his touch. “Don’t you want to see who wins an evening as your special guest?”
A new competitor appears, this one making Thayer look like a clean, prim member of Alaric’s court. Nauseous waves roil through Helena’s stomach as she watches the fight, unable to decide which of the horrible men she could possibly hope will win. In the end, the new competitor reigns supreme when he bites Thayer’s neck, chewing through skin and sinew despite the blood spraying from the wound.
One more, then the one that really matters. Helena counts through the rounds as she tries not to vomit at the grisly scene. She covers her ears with her hands, hoping to drown out Thayer’s gurgling whimpers as his breathing fades. Time slows, each second grueling and prolonged, as if Thayer has somehow bent the rules of the hours just to prolong his own life. The minutes feel like hours, and Helena twitches in her seat, longing to get away from the sight. The breeze stirs around her as if it can hear her desperate pleas.
I could do it, she decides, subtly twitching her fingers to strengthen the breeze. I could drift out of this place and just disappear into the night. It would be so easy. Helena eases back her chair, widening the gap between her body and the table just enough that she can stand comfortably. When the next fight begins, I will escape, she declares, checking the surroundings for any open door or window she could slip through on the wind. The doorway to the kitchens catches Helena’s eye. A few of the maids have propped it open to peek through the cracks. Perfect, Helena nearly hollers out loud, silently urging the next fighter to provide a distraction for her plans.
Then a sharp, blinding pain erupts between her wrist bones. “Still trying to leave me, hmm?” Alaric mocks, crushing a tiny iron nail deeper into her arm. The tip of the nail pierces her flesh, the metal burning through her blood with a sickening sizzle. “I’ve only driven the nail a few millimeters into your arm, Helena. I realize that’s enough to keep you in your place. But try anything else, and I’ll nail you to the chair just because I can,” Alaric warns, holding a large, heavy mallet close to Helena’s arm.
Helena shudders but does not move, sobbing softly as she turns her attention back to the fighting ring. Thayer has already been removed from the scene. The prisoner who’s just defeated Thayer waves, offering her an exaggerated kiss and a wicked smile. Helena’s face grows cold, sweat beading on her forehead as her injured wrist begins to throb.
“I open the challenge to the guards in the ring. Surely one of you would risk the fight for a night with my daughter,” Alaric announces, waiting to see if any of his men would dare to take on the goliath standing before them.
Thayer’s blood still drips down the monster’s chin. He paces around the ring like an animal in a cage, challenging each guard by his growls. The prisoner spits on some of the guards’ shoes, offering them a bloody smile to try and rile their anger.
One of the guards takes up the challenge and steps out of the circle, ripping off his helmet to expose his bald head. He sneers in Helena’s direction, wagging his eyebrows as he asks, “Remember me, darling?”
The guard who used to watch me bathe in my cell, Helena recalls, a soft whine escaping her tightly controlled mouth. Helena grips her chair’s armrests, hissing as the tension aggravates the damage Alaric’s already done to her wrist.
“Seems you left quite an impression on old Grimshaw,” Alaric muses, grinning widely as he waves the guard forward. “Very well, Commander. Best of luck to you; I’m sure Helena will be rooting for you as well.” Alaric grins as Grimshaw’s bawdy laughter ricochets off the stone walls, growing louder and more maniacal with each echo.
“He can’t win,” Helena pleads to anyone who might be listening, not allowing her mind to wander down the dark possibilities of what would happen if she had to spend a night with this man.
Her stomach drops as the prisoner and Grimshaw face off against one another. Evenly matched in stature, the men in the circle slowly pace around each other, searching for any signs of weakness or vulnerability. The prisoner wipes Thayer’s blood from his chin, flicking the dark, congealing stickiness at his opponent.
Some of the droplets splatter against Grimshaw’s ratty uniform. The guard glances at the stains, unperturbed by the prisoner’s efforts to intimidate. “All that blood will soon be replaced by your own, you dog,” Grimshaw exclaims, lashing out with his fists aimed at the prisoner’s chin.
The prisoner sidesteps the blow easily, skittering over to the opposite side of the ring. On and on, they dance around each other, twirling in their furious waltz for what feels like hours. Helena’s mind wanders far from her body as she offers silent prayers to any of the forgotten deities she read about in her childhood studies. When the crowd’s roaring grows louder, she returns her attention to the fight, only to discover that the men are still clawing away at each other in search of victory.
Andras taps her unhurt arm, whispering low in her ear, “It’s almost over now. The prisoner’s getting tired. He’ll make a careless mistake, and Grimshaw will take him down.”
“No, no, please no,” Helena mumbles under her breath, turning her head just in time to see the prisoner’s protective fist droop down from beside his chin. Grimshaw wastes no time, plowing his fist into the prisoner’s face. Blood spews from the prisoner’s mouth, his eyes rolling back in his head as he drops to the floor.
“One more, my lovely,” Grimshaw taunts, making vulgar gestures at Helena as he dances triumphantly around the ring. “One mor
e, and then you’re mine!”
Helena’s shoulders quake as if she’s sitting outside wearing a thin dress in the dead of winter. She clenches her eyes tight, fighting in vain to keep her breathing steady. Her frayed nerves cause every noise to be magnified; even the slightest scratch of a fork on a plate sets her teeth on edge and causes her to flinch.
“Helena, you have one final chance,” Alaric whispers in her ear, the warmth of his breath making Helena’s skin crawl. “Ask me to send Ithel in the ring. Tell me you are willing to let him die, and I will ensure that Grimshaw doesn’t get his reward.”
Helena hesitates long enough to keep herself from screaming an agreement to the king’s request. Think, she demands, keeping her eyes focused on the wood grain of the table. There’s got to be a way out of this. She traces the patterns under her fingertips while she crafts her reply. I can’t put Ithel in the ring, not after everything he’s done to help me. His training made me strong, though; I can take the risk myself. “I fought once to win my freedom, and I’m willing to do it again,” Helena declares, offering Alaric a forced smile. “Put me in the ring against Grimshaw.”
“We’ve been over this, Helena. I will not allow you to fight. How could you expect me to risk losing my only daughter?” Alaric mocks, placing a hand over his heart as if her words pierced his chest like knives. “I couldn’t bear to face such a future, my dear. Besides, you’re the prize, remember? If you died in the fight, what would Grimshaw win?”
“Then let me fight for her,” Andras pipes up, rising from his seat at the table. “I’ll take my chances against the guard.”
“You’re already facing many months with Helena. Why would you strive to earn one night more with her?” Alaric wonders, tapping his chin as he immediately grows suspicious. “Unless you’ve already formed some romantic attachment to her? Oh, darling daughter, has your heart already turned to another one of my guards?”
Brood of Vipers Page 23
