by Morgan Rice
Thanos looked at Stephania with saddened eyes as tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Do you imagine you are too good for me?” she asked, her bottom lip trembling.
He took a step toward Stephania to comfort her what little he could, but before he reached her, she ran out of the gazebo, hands covering her face as she cried.
The king stood, clearly angered.
“Deny her, son”, he said, his voice suddenly cold and hard, thundering through the gazebo, “and it will be the dungeon for you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Ceres sprinted, weaving through city streets, until she felt her legs would no longer hold her, until her lungs burned so much they might burst, and until she knew with absolute certainty the slaver would never find her.
Finally, she collapsed on the ground in a back alley amongst garbage and rats, arms wrapped around her legs, tears streaming down her hot cheeks. With her father away and her mother wanting to sell her, she had no one. If she remained on the streets and slept in the alleys, she would eventually die of starvation or freeze to death when winter came. Perhaps that would be best.
For hours she sat and cried, her eyes puffy, her mind muddled with despair. Where would she go now? How would she make money to survive?
The day had grown long when finally, she resolved to return home, sneak into the shed, take the few swords that were left, and sell them to the palace. They were expecting her today anyway. That way, she would have money for a few days at least until she could come up with a better plan.
She would also pick up the sword her father had given her and that she had hidden beneath the floorboards in the shed. But she wouldn’t sell that, no. Not until she was staring death in the face would she give up her father’s gift.
She jogged home, carefully watching for any familiar faces or for the slaver’s wagon as she went. When she reached the last hill, she slunk behind the row of houses and into the field, tiptoeing across the parched earth, her eyes scanning for her mother.
A pang of guilt arose when she remembered how she had beaten her mother. She never wanted to hurt her, not even after how cruel her mother had been. Not even with her heart broken and unmendable.
Arriving at the back of their shed, she peeked in through a crack in the wall. Seeing it was empty, she stepped inside the dim shack and gathered the swords. But just as she was about to lift the floorboard where she had hidden the sword, she heard voices coming from outside.
When she stood up and glanced through a small hole in the wall, to her horror, she saw her mother and Sartes walking toward the shed. Her mother had a black eye and a bruise on her cheek, and now seeing her mother alive and well, it almost made Ceres smile knowing she had put it there. All the anger welled up again as she thought about how her mother wanted to sell her.
“If I catch you sneaking any food out to Ceres, I will flog you, do you understand?” her mother snapped as she and Sartes strode by her grandmother’s tree.
When Sartes didn’t answer, her mother slapped him across the face.
“Do you understand, boy?” she said.
“Yes,” Sartes said, looking down, a tear in his eye.
“And if you ever see her, bring her home so I can give her a licking she will never forget.”
They began walking toward the shed again, and Ceres’s heart was suddenly thumping wildly. She gripped the swords and darted toward the back door as quickly and as quietly as she could. Just as she exited, the front door swung open, and she leaned against the outer wall and listened, the wounds from the omnicat’s claws stinging her back.
“Who goes there?” her mother said.
Ceres held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut.
“I know you’re there,” her mother said and waited. “Sartes, go check the back door. It’s ajar.”
Ceres clenched the swords to her chest. She heard Sartes’s footsteps as he walked toward her, and then the door opened with a creak.
Sartes’s eyes widened when he saw her, and he gasped.
“Is there anyone there?” her mother asked.
“Um… no,” Sartes said, his eyes filling with tears as they connected with Ceres’s.
Ceres mouthed a “thank you,” and Sartes gestured with his hand for her to leave.
She nodded, and with a heavy heart, she stole toward the field as the back door to the shed slammed shut. She would come back for her sword later.
*
Ceres stopped at the palace gates sweating, famished, and exhausted, swords in hand. The Empire soldiers standing guard, clearly recognizing her as the girl who delivered her father’s swords, let her pass without questioning her.
She hurried through the cobblestone courtyard and then turned for the blacksmith’s stone cottage behind one of the four towers. She entered.
Standing by the anvil in front of the crackling furnace, the blacksmith hammered away at a glowing blade, the leather apron protecting his clothing from the flying sparks. The concerned expression on his face made Ceres wonder what was wrong. A jovial middle-aged man full of energy, he was rarely worried.
His bald, sweaty head greeted her before he noticed she had entered.
“Good morrow,” he said when he saw her, nodding for her to place the swords on the worktable.
She strode across the hot smoky room and set them down, the metal rattling against a surface of burnt, tattered wood.
He shook his head, clearly troubled.
“What is it?” she asked.
He looked up, concern in his eyes.
“Of all the days to fall ill,” he murmured.
“Bartholomew?” she asked, seeing that the young weapon-keeper of the combatlords wasn’t here as he usually was, frantically preparing the last few weapons before sparring practice.
The blacksmith stopped hammering and looked up with a vexed expression, his bushy eyebrows crinkling.
He shook his head.
“And on sparring day, of all days,” he said. “And not just any sparring day.” He stuffed the blade into the glowing coals in the furnace and wiped his dripping brow with the sleeve of his tunic. “Today, the royals will spar with the combatlords. The king has hand-picked twelve royals to train for the Killings. Three will go on to participate.”
She understood his worry. It was his responsibility to provide the weapon-keepers, and if he didn’t, his job was on the line. Hundreds of blacksmiths would be eager to take his position.
“The king won’t be happy if we are one weapon-keeper short,” she said.
He leaned his hands on his thick thighs and shook his head. Just then, two Empire soldiers entered.
“We are here to retrieve the weapons,” one said, scowling toward Ceres.
Even though it wasn’t forbidden, she knew it was frowned upon for girls to work in weaponry—a man’s field. Yet she had grown accustomed to snide remarks and hateful glares most every time she made deliveries to the palace.
The blacksmith stood up and walked over to three wooden buckets filled with weapons, all ready for the sparring match.
“You will find here the remainder of the weapons the king requested for today,” the blacksmith said to the Empire soldiers.
“And the weapon-keeper?” the Empire soldier demanded.
Just as the blacksmith opened his mouth to speak, Ceres had an idea.
“It is me,” she said, excitement rising in her chest. “I am the standin today and until Bartholomew returns.”
The Empire soldiers looked at her for a moment, startled.
Ceres pinched her lips together and took a step forward.
“I have been working with my father and with the palace my entire life, crafting swords, shields, and all manner of weapons,” she said.
She didn’t know where her courage came from, but she stood tall and stared the soldiers in the eye.
“Ceres…” the blacksmith said, giving her a look of pity.
“Try me,” she said, strengthening her resolve, wanting them to test her
abilities. “There isn’t anyone who can take Bartholomew’s place but me. And if you lack a weapon-keeper today, wouldn’t that make the king rather upset?”
She wasn’t certain, but she figured the Empire soldiers and the blacksmith would do almost anything to keep the king happy. Especially today.
The Empire soldiers looked at the blacksmith, and the blacksmith back at them. The blacksmith thought for a moment. And then another. Finally, he nodded. He laid a plethora of weapons onto the table, after which he gestured to her to proceed.
“Show us, then, Ceres,” the blacksmith said, a twinkle in his eye. “Knowing your father, he probably taught you everything you are not supposed to know.”
“And more,” Ceres said, smiling inside.
She went over each weapon, explaining in great detail their uses and advantages, how one might be better in certain types of battles than others.
When she was finished, the Empire soldiers looked to the blacksmith.
“I suppose it is better to have a girl weapon-keeper than no weapon-keeper,” the blacksmith said. “Let us go and speak to the king. Perhaps he will allow it, seeing there is no other.”
Ceres was so excited she almost threw her arms around the blacksmith as he winked at her. The soldiers still seemed reluctant, but with no other apparent option, they agreed to take her along.
She followed the Empire soldiers out the back door and entered the palace training ground. Ceres was used to the sound of swords colliding, of the combatlords grunting as they sparred, and of the smell of sweat mixed with leather and metal filling the air. But what was quite unique was seeing the royals practicing in the center of the yard, wearing their fancy polished armor, looking as if they needed a lesson—or a hundred—in swordsmanship. Ceres didn’t feel they belonged here. No, it disgusted her to see them on the training ground, all the underlords, counts, and dignitaries watching as they ate from mounds of food and drank from golden goblets. They should go back to their lavish parties, she thought. Not feign courage and honor.
One of the royals, though, stood out from the rest: Thanos. Watching him spar, she noticed how he moved with speed, grace, and agility. To her surprise, he appeared almost as skilled as Brennius; and he wore no armor like the other royals. His hair was different from his royal peers’, too; not neat and pulled back into a low ponytail, but curly, unruly dark hair flying about his face with each move.
Ceres frowned. Perhaps he knew a thing or two about combat, but he was the haughtiest of the royals, always glowering at something or someone, never seeming to want to be a part of anything.
The guards led her to the throne, and when the blacksmith presented Ceres to the king as a standin weapon-keeper, the king paused, and then chuckled a bit as he glanced at his advisors on either side. Ceres didn’t like how he looked at her as if she were an annoyance to be rid of. But in an instant, the king’s expression changed, and his face lit up as if he just had the most brilliant idea.
“Not having anyone else, I see that this must be as you say,” the king said to the blacksmith. “Ceres, you shall assist Prince Thanos.”
The king said it in a way that made Ceres think it was a punishment or a means to shame Prince Thanos, but she didn’t care. Even though she wasn’t particularly happy to be Thanos’s weapon-keeper, she had been assigned, and now she could show her skills in the royal court. It was more than any girl could ever expect.
She bowed toward the king and glanced at the blacksmith as she passed him. The blacksmith nodded, an almost prideful expression on his face, and then he walked back to the chalet.
The Empire soldier escorted Ceres over to Thanos, who stood by a table, and when Thanos glanced at Ceres, his scowl intensified.
“Very well,” he muttered, staring at his uncle across the yard as if daggers were shooting from his eyes. The king gave Thanos a devious smirk, affirming to Ceres that her assignment to Thanos was indeed some form of a punishment.
Thanos stepped in front of Ceres, and she noticed how the neck of his shirt was open, revealing small amounts of curly, dark hair on his muscular chest. Her breath hitched. He looked at her, and when their eyes met, she found his gaze intense—irises darker than the blackest soot. Yet, he didn’t intimidate her. In fact, his bottomless eyes drew her to him, making it impossible to look away.
Once he broke eye contact, Ceres was able to take a breath and think clearly; she again resolved to show him she knew what she was doing.
“I suppose I should trust you if the blacksmith speaks so highly of you,” Thanos said as she laid out the weapons one by one onto the wooden table.
Even though she was a girl, and even though Thanos was undoubtedly smart enough to figure out that what his uncle had done was more of a cruel joke than anything, it surprised her that he gave her the benefit of the doubt.
“I will do my best, sire,” she said, placing a sword onto the wood.
He glanced at her, his smoldering eyes studying her too intimately for her to feel comfortable.
“There is no need for such formalities here. Thanos will do,” he said.
Again, she was surprised by his casual approach. Had she read him wrong? Was he not the arrogant, self-righteous, ungrateful young man she assumed he was?
Once she had laid out all the weapons, an Empire soldier reviewed the rules of combat. First, they watched a few of the combatlords spar, and then it was the royals’ turn. The Empire soldier called upon Lucious, a blond, muscular, but somewhat lanky young man, who stepped up to a combatlord. Thanos leaned over.
“I doubt Lucious will last very long,” he whispered.
“Why do you say that?” Ceres asked, wondering why he would say something like that to her—a stranger—about a fellow royal.
“You’ll see.”
The right side of Thanos’s lips rose, and Ceres liked how he spoke to her as if she were an equal.
Even before the fighting began, Ceres knew Thanos was right. Lucious’s feet were too close together, his grip weak around the hilt, and his eyes too unfocused. It would be an embarrassment, to say the least, to watch him lose rather quickly to such a warrior he was facing.
With the first collision of swords, Ceres looked up and kept her gaze on the cloudy sky instead, keeping them there as she heard grunts and blades clashing. The fighting continued on for a while, and Ceres wondered if perhaps she had judged Lucious too harshly. At least Lucious was holding on, if nothing else.
But when Lucious started to scream a few minutes into the fight, and the onlookers murmured and gasped, she couldn’t help but bring her eyes back onto the fighters again. Lucious was lying on the ground, holding the blade of his sword with one hand, the hilt with the other, struggling to keep the combatlord’s sword away from his face. Blood ran down his arm, and he squealed, begging for the round to end.
“Enough!” the king said, and the combatlord retreated.
Lucious’s weapon-keeper ran over to him and offered him a hand, but Lucious smacked it away.
“I can get up myself!” he yelled between gritted teeth, panting and spewing obscenities.
Lucious held his injured hand with the other and rolled onto his stomach before rising to his feet.
“I said I didn’t want to do this!” he yelled toward the king. “And now look what happened! You have made me a fool!”
He stormed across the yard and vanished through the arching doorway into the palace. Most of the dignitaries had quieted, but some of them laughed
“Always such drama with Lucious,” Thanos said, rolling his eyes.
“Next up is Thanos and Oedifus,” an Empire soldier announced.
“Are you ready?” Thanos asked Ceres.
“Yes. Are you?” she replied.
He paused and gave her a sideways glance before saying, “Always. Let me start with the trident and shield.”
She handed him the shield, and after he had secured it onto his arm, she gave him the trident. Her pulse rose as she watched him walk into the center of the
practice arena, hoping he would win, but bracing herself in the very likely event he would lose. One did not just simply triumph over a combatlord, and especially not with as little training as Ceres assumed these royals had.
The combatlord was around Thanos’s height, but his muscles were fuller, almost monstrously so, Ceres observed. His arms were covered in scars, his face disfigured from past wounds unevenly healed, and he grunted at Thanos even before the match had begun.
With Thanos’s very first strike, Ceres could tell he was a marvelous warrior, and as the battle continued, as hard as he tried, the combatlord couldn’t get to him. Thanos was so quick to swerve, and quick like a rattlesnake to attack, but he also possessed the strength of an omnicat. Not only did he seem to read his opponent’s mind, his feet moved with the ease of a trained dancer.
The entire match, Thanos was one step ahead of the combatlord, causing the onlookers to cheer with excitement. Ceres judged the trident a great choice for him, but from the way he moved, she believed a longsword would be the weapon granting him victory.
With the next move, the combatlord crouched and whipped one leg across the sand in a circular motion, wiping Thanos’s feet from under him, causing him to fall onto his back. He hopped up to his feet again, but his trident had fallen several feet away.
Faster than she could even think, Ceres picked up the longsword and yelled, “Thanos!”
He glanced at her and she threw the sword to him. Catching it mid-air, Thanos didn’t miss a beat and went after the combatlord with full force. Sparks flew as metal collided with metal, and watching Thanos’s face and neck muscles strain, Ceres clenched her fists as she held her breath.
Retreating, the combatlord snarled and panted, saliva gushing from his mouth, but Thanos did not withdraw. Instead, he hit the combatlord’s sword out of his hand and shoved him to the ground so Thanos ended up standing above him with his blade pointed at his challenger’s neck.
With eyes wide open and her heart galloping in her chest, Ceres cheered with the rest of the crowd.
