by E B Rose
But not fast enough.
When the crowd gasped in unison, Lion braced himself for the strike.
He was ten feet off the ground, but not high enough to escape from Marzul’s reach when the bear stood up on his hind legs. The swipe of his claw landed on Lion’s back and he felt four sharp claws slicing his skin from shoulder blades to waist.
His scream was lost in the delighted cheer of the spectators. His grip weakened and he slid down a few feet.
He didn’t know if he was lucky, or if it was because they’d kept the bear too hungry for too long, but Marzul stumbled. Unable to stop his charge, he hit head first on the pole, releasing his grip on Lion.
Blood rushed from Lion’s back. The pain blinded him, threatened to steal his consciousness. He pulled himself together and used his only chance to get away from Marzul’s next strike.
Wrapping his legs around the pole, he climbed.
Marzul got up and shook his head in a comical way. The crowd laughed and Lion felt a vicious jolt of satisfaction at humiliation of the ‘bear of Vogros.’ Then, the bear fixed his attention back at Lion and stood up on his hind legs for another strike. This time, Lion was safely out of his reach and the only thing Marzul could get his claws on was the tail, which ripped off easily.
Lion couldn’t say he’d miss that useless thing.
His back on the other hand…
He came so close to fainting and was only able to stay awake by pure willpower. Blood soaked the pole, making it slippery between his legs. The skin on his chest, arms and inner thighs burnt and ached against the hot steel pole. He allowed himself to groan and cry out his pain, but continued to climb in a numb serious of actions; support himself with his legs, reach with his hands, ignore the pain on his back, pull himself up, curse at the heat and friction, repeat.
By the time he got to the top, he was growling and panting almost as loud as Marzul.
There was a round platform on the top of the pole, only wide enough to stand on two feet. Lion pulled himself up on it. As soon as he stood up, the arena started swirling around him. He crouched down, his hands grasping the sides of the platform hard enough to drain his knuckles white.
The height and the blood loss were making him dizzy.
Marzul rose on his hind legs. He hugged the pole with claws the size of a man’s face, and lifted himself up in an attempt to climb.
Lion held his breath.
They are good climbers, Astaldo had told them. But this was a steel pole with a smooth, blood-soaked, slippery surface. An animal that size shouldn’t have been able to climb it…
Marzul managed to lift himself up a couple of feet off the ground, his hind legs clawing the pole frantically, before he slid down helplessly. Next, the bear crouched down and jumped. This time, he reached higher, but no matter how much he hugged and clawed the steel, he slid down on his bottom again. His third try was half-hearted.
Lion’s shoulders sagged as he exhaled slowly. The arena masters wouldn’t have put this pole here if they hadn’t been sure Marzul couldn’t climb on it. Not if they wanted this fight to last longer than five seconds.
Marzul stood up one more time, but instead of another climbing attempt, he hugged the pole and started shaking it.
Lion mouthed one of Badimar’s favourite curses as he threw himself flat on his stomach on the top of the pole. His arms and legs wrapped around the platform.
The spectators let out an amused laughter. He must have looked quite entertaining right now; clinging at the pole like a scared cat, his bare ass to the crowd. They could go to Darkhome. Lion didn’t have the luxury to care about his image.
As the pole swayed violently, air escaped from his lungs in a rough whoosh. He bit his tongue and tasted blood. For a terrifying moment, he imagined Marzul ripping the pole off the ground. Was it him or were the red sands started to gape around the root of the pole already?
Minutes dragged like hours while the spectators jumped up and down with excitement. Their screams pierced Lion’s ears. He didn’t remember ever hearing them this frantic. But then again, he never had to fight without his Kill Word, so he couldn’t really rely on his past recollections.
Marzul finally gave up and fell down on his four with a sullen grunt. Lion climbed back up on the pole and crouched, holding on to the sides tightly. Although he was far from being relaxed, he allowed himself to take a moment to assess his situation.
When he scanned the arena, he spotted the weapons scattered across the outer edge of the battlefield, opposite where Lion had entered. Okay, so, he was not completely unarmed. He was just at least a hundred feet away from the nearest weapon.
Also, trapped at the top of a pole and bleeding heavily. No reason to feel pessimistic at all.
The only feeling he had on his back was wetness. Fear and adrenaline had numbed the pain momentarily. Blood was seeping down his butt, dripping on Marzul’s face and driving him even more enraged.
He was on the brink of unconsciousness. He had to stab his nails at his legs to keep himself from fainting.
Weapons. He needed to get to those weapons…
Marzul circled around the pole, giving it an occasional swipe or a headbutt every now and then. Despite the noise, Lion could hear the sound Marzul’s claws made as they grinded against the steel.
Although the bear hadn’t given up, his attempts to get to his prey were subsiding and this reflected on the spectators immediately. They tolerated this idleness for only about five minutes before yelling their disappointment and frustration.
They could suck it. Lion was nowhere near tired. Badimar used to run stamina exercises on balance poles, far more straining than this. He could remain here for at least several hours; unless Marzul finally broke the pole, or he fainted from blood loss.
Still, it didn’t mean Lion was willing to stay here for several hours. No, he had to find a way to get to those weapons. If only there was a way to distract the bear…
He calculated the time he needed to slide down, run and grab a weapon. He’d need at least half a minute of distraction. How was he going to do that?
A brilliant but not so hopeful idea flashed in his mind: His Kill Word. What if he could call the red mist on his own?
He’d never tried using one of his own Words before - never had a reason to try. He’d have a fighting chance against the bear if he could summon the red mist, and if he’d died, at least it’d be painless.
“Dracis…” he started, but his throat tightened and the rest of the Kill Word didn’t come out.
He coughed, cleared his throat. He could say the Word clearly in his mind. Closing his eyes, he tried to pronounce it out loud again and again, just to get stuck at the same syllable. He even tried breaking the word in two and vocalising it in two parts, but that got him nothing other than a tightened throat either.
So, he couldn’t use his Kill Word on himself then. Shit.
Meanwhile, the crowd was continuing their futile attempts to convince him to ‘get down and fight like a man.’ Lion looked at Marzul, whose teeth were shining with spittle and blood. He’d pass fighting like a man, thank you. Not until he could get a…
A sudden pain on his left arm shattered all his thoughts.
He lost his grip, the force of the blow pushed him forward and cost him his balance. He swung his right arm and grabbed the top of the platform just as he fell.
Marzul and the spectators roared at the same time as Lion hung from the platform with one hand.
Barely.
His fingers were sliding on the platform wet with his blood. He kicked the air desperately, trying to wrap his legs around the pole. Pain had numbed his left arm. He couldn’t move it.
An arrow! An arrow was sticking out of his upper arm!
Fairness was the last thing he’d expected from this fight but seriously? They’d shot an arrow at him! Because he was taking too long to fall?
Marzul backed away from the pole and crouched on his hind legs.
“Shit!” Lion
cursed and pulled his legs up at the last moment.
They jump!
That was the other thing bears could do better than humans. They could jump higher.
Marzul gained speed and jumped, almost running the length of the pole and swinging one of his claws at where Lion’s legs had been a second ago. The bear fell back on his four with a loud thud, almost shaking the whole arena.
Lion released his legs while Marzul prepared for another jump.
As he struggled to hold on, the crowd did something odd: they started booing.
They sounded angry at this intervention. At least half of them. They were on their feet, shaking their fists and yelling how cheap this fight was. They still wanted to see Lion dead, there was no doubt on that. But not like this.
Good. This was an indication that there wouldn’t be a second arrow.
Not that it would matter, because Lion’s fingers were starting to lose their grip one by one.
With a laboured groan, he lifted his left arm up through the pain, and grabbed the edge of the platform. He swung his legs back and forth and wrapped them around the pole just as Marzul jumped again.
The bear missed by a hair.
It took an excruciating amount of time to pull himself back up on the platform, with the pole constantly slipping between his legs and the jolt of pain scouring his arm. Not trusting his balance, he laid on his stomach, locking his legs under the platform.
Blood dripped down the pole, darkening the red sands below. Marzul roared in fury and resumed shaking the pole violently.
Somehow, Lion managed not to pass out. The arrow had punched through his arm, but it seemed to have missed the bone. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to move it at all. Leaving the arrow there seemed like the easiest option; trying to pull it out would have cost too much blood.
If only he’d had a bow... Then it would’ve been worth the risk of pulling the arrow out. One shot at one of Marzul’s eyes. That was all he needed. It may not have killed the bear, but it would certainly give Lion the distraction he needed to get down and…
He raised his head and calculated the distance to the weapons again. A plan had started to shape up in his head. It was a terrifying plan and he couldn’t help but chuckle at its chances of success. But it was the only plan he had.
“Merciful Alunwea,” he prayed, not because he believed in Twelve Riders, only to feel himself closer to Saradra.
With his right hand, he reached for the belt around his waist. He unbuckled it with blind fingers and tied it just above the arrow wound. He used his teeth to tighten the belt so it cut the blood flow.
That’d been the easy part. Now came the fun bit.
The arrowhead poked out at the front of his bicep. He wrapped his fingers around it, took a deep breath, and pulled.
He howled.
Marzul roared and rounded the pole frantically.
Lion cursed, screamed, spat, and cried out, yet kept pulling until the arrow came out. Despite the belt, a surge of blood rushed down his elbow.
He was exhausted. Dark spots appeared in his sight. He was passing out…
The arrow…
He tucked the arrow under his stomach as he lied on the platform.
He couldn’t afford to drop the arrow…
If he did…
Everything would be…
He flinched awake. He must have passed out just for a split second, and somehow, his body had stubbornly held on. He was still lying on his stomach, his arms dangling on one side of the platform, and his legs from the other. The arrow was still safe under his stomach.
He shook his head, trying to regain his strength. He retrieved the arrow, and placed it between his teeth. Carefully, he climbed back up on the platform. To get himself used to the pain, he moved his left arm up and down. If there was any chance his plan would work, he was going to have to use this arm.
Marzul pressed his front paws against the pole and raised his muzzle up at Lion. His wet, black nose twitched as he tried to sniff Lion’s intentions.
Lion took the wooden hairband off his head and held it with his trembling left hand. When he grabbed the arrow with his right and straightened up, the crowd anticipated what he was planning to do.
They started cheering madly, inviting him go ahead and do it. Although they sounded divided - half cheering for the bear and half for Lion now - they all were desperate for some action.
And Lion was ready to finally give them what they wanted.
He turned the sharp end of the arrow to the bear. Holding the hairband from one of the wooden ears, he dangled it in the air.
Marzul opened his mouth.
Taking a deep breath, Lion dropped the hairband. Then jumped right after it.
Marzul’s teeth clamped around the hairband. It broke with a sharp crack.
Lion landed on Marzul’s shoulders before the bear could open his mouth again. He stabbed the arrow in the animal’s eye.
The bear stumbled down with Lion’s sudden weight and roared to the assault on his face. He spat the pieces of the hairband out of his mouth, grabbed Lion with one of his claws and flung him away.
Lion lied in a surge of blackness. Soft, hot sand cradled his body. He could still hear Marzul stumbling and roaring in pain. Although the spectators made more sound than him, Marzul’s was the only one he heard.
He fought to disperse the darkness. He had to get up. He had to get up now.
He rolled on his side, shaking his head, shaking the dizziness out of his eyes. He was noticing a new pain on his side. Blood was rushing out from a new gash. Red sand mixed with blood coated his body.
Marzul was shaking his head, trying to get the arrow out. Lion had lost his sense of direction and had to look around to figure out which way the weapons laid. For a few fearful seconds, he couldn’t see anything but blood and sand. Then, he spotted them and climbed up on his feet.
Blood poured from his newest wound when he stood up. He took two steps and stumbled on his knees, fighting madly not to faint. Putting a hand over the side of his stomach, he broke into something between crawling and running.
The crowd was raving, quite a lot of them cheering for Lion to get up and run. The inflection in their excitement told him that Marzul had just taken the arrow out and was trying to locate him with his one good eye now. The bear roared in triumph and Lion didn’t need to look over his shoulder to see him charging on all fours.
The nearest weapon was a crooked short sword - a Lor’Kas, his favourite weapon as he’d told Saradra one night - but he ran past it. His eyes were fixed on another weapon that might have been more useful against the bear.
Lion grabbed the net and the trident seconds before Marzul was on him.
He barely had enough time to straighten the net before throwing it at the bear. He rolled out of the way while Marzul fell head first, tangled in the net. The weights on the sides of the net were not heavy enough to keep the bear down, but they were enough to distract him while Lion grabbed the only opportunity he could ever get.
With a strength he had no idea he possessed, he jumped up and stabbed the trident on Marzul’s neck.
He’d just enough dexterity left to avoid the dying animal’s blind strikes. He pulled the trident free and stabbed again, just for good measure.
The third strike ended Marzul’s last convulsions and Lion realised he’d been screaming - roaring more likely - at the top of his lungs.
He fell on his back, having difficulty convincing himself that he was still alive. Though his victory might have been the shortest one in the history of Switchblade Arena. Blood was pouring out of his wounds, already creating a dark red puddle around him. He felt weak and cold, his breathing getting rapid and shallow.
He had to go and salute Kastian as he was the King and his Owner, but he couldn’t find the strength to get up.
There was something odd with the crowd. They were cheering for Lion now.
He was used to the treacherous enthusiasm of the arena spectators; they ha
d a tendency to cheer for the competitors whose chances were the highest. Lion was not offended to hear them cheering for Marzul at the start, and he wasn’t surprised to hear his name spilling out from their lips now.
What was odd about the crowd was they also sounded angry. Striking words and phrases such as, ‘Zarall’, ‘Leonis is the true king’, ‘Usurper Vogros’ and ‘fake king on the throne’ were reaching to Lion’s ears.
There was turmoil among the seats as well. Fighting, even blood.
Riot, was his last thought before he passed out. I’ve started a riot.
18
LION
He woke up to a body aching from head to toe, and a sharp smell under his nose.
“He’s up,” someone said, backing away.
“Put him in decent clothes,” a familiar voice grunted. “Hurry up!”
Rough hands grabbed Lion’s arms and pulled him up to a sitting position. He screamed in pain. His upper arm, left side of his stomach and his back were all covered in bandages. Sand mixed with blood had dried hard on his skin. He was swimming in a sea of agony. His head felt heavy. Unconsciousness threatened to take him back, but a forceful slap brought him back to where he was.
Karhad.
That was whom the familiar voice belonged to.
He was back in Castle Brinescar, specifically in the head physician’s room according to the shelves full of books and jars.
Karhad’s earring jingled as he turned his head. “Give him something to sober him up,” he said to the bearded man next to him. “He looks like he’ll faint any moment.”
He was right. Lion felt like he was going to faint at any time, which was something he was looking forward to, given the not-so-pleasant status he was in.
“I could give him pemitoin, but the aftereffects would kill him in this state,” the bearded man responded.
“Anything else?” insisted Karhad. “Anything to keep him up for twenty minutes at least?”
The bearded man, whom Lion believed was the new head physician, rolled his eyes. Nevertheless, he went to his enormous study desk to mix up a drink for the slave. “You better not need him after half an hour,” he said as he worked. “Because he’ll be out for three days.”
