No Return

by Zachary Jernigan

  He reached the Black Suit camp, where his brothers and sisters welcomed him in full companionship. They shared food and space. They introduced themselves and exchanged histories, began songs and dancing. More than a few offered their flesh, but Vedas felt no temptation to accept. Sharez, a lithe northern Castan woman who had caused her suit to grow spiraling horns on her head, made a seam split in her suit, revealing her womanhood. Briefly stricken immobile, he watched as she took his hand and guided it to her.

  “Hey,” she said when he snatched it away. “Why not enjoy yourself?”

  She was beautiful, and he answered honestly: “I don’t know.”

  Though he knew abstinence was not required or even normal in most orders, the sexual abandon of the camp shocked him. He forced himself to interrupt an intimate discussion in order to borrow a razor, shaved his face and head, and then went to bed alone, apparently the only one to do so.

  In the White Suit camp, the situation was undoubtedly much the same. Celebrations had a universal nature. For the first time, Vedas understood how odd it was that he had never formed a sexual relationship, never experimented beyond masturbation. Surely, he did not still carry the wounds of youth! He had never looked upon the act of sex with revulsion. Instead, he simply did not consider it an option. But what if he had stayed with Churls? Would she have rented a room, shown him the error of his thinking?

  Unable to sleep, he touched himself through his suit. Facing the tent wall, separated from reveling brothers and sisters by a thin sheet of nearly translucent cloth at his back, he knew what he did was ordinary, unremarkable, but as the erection grew under his hand he fought the irrational fear of being observed. Peering over his shoulder, he half expected to find her waiting for him. Smiling so that the gap in her teeth showed. Bending over, peeling leather pants from muscular hips. Running her hands up her backside, lifting her skirt.

  Strangely, the paranoia coupled with fantasy produced the most intense orgasm he had experienced in some time. His legs shook and he curled in around the sensation, seeking to hold it in. He gasped unintentionally. A moan escaped his lips.

  The sadness thereafter seemed inevitable, an aftereffect of wishing too hard. The cavity he had opened by giving vent to his longing now threatened to consume him. The immensity of the void constricted his chest, stung his eyes. He marveled at all the things he had never experienced, all the things he had never allowed as possibilities.

  Traveling with Churls, having her close, had opened the world around him, yet he still struggled to give his desire a voice.

  Yes... Yes. Without a doubt he wanted her.

  He wanted her for more than sex—more than mere friendship or respect.

  Suddenly, the thought of winning the tournament, of returning to his apartment in the abbey and reassuming his routine, seemed an awful fate.

  ‡

  A squat White Suit came out of the crowd. The opposition’s official. “You’re due,” he said.

  Vedas raised his arms and spread his feet for the weapons inspection. He closed his eyes as hard hands flowed over his sculpted body, uncomfortable lest he meet the stares of his brothers and sisters. They would smile, nod encouragement. One or two might spit at the official’s feet or say something foul. Vedas needed none of that at the moment. Best he avoid all distraction, go into the fight feeling as little as possible.

  Emotion slows reaction , Abse had always said. Anger just as much as fear. Vedas thought of Churls one last time, resigning himself to the woman’s absence before banishing her from his mind—a blessedly simple action now that the fight was nearly begun. Familiar sensations flooded his system, focusing his awareness. His pulse expanded to fill his body, drumming a simple beat from head to toe. His suit tightened around him. He did not feel so much as a twinge as his broken finger curled in with the others to make a fist.

  The official put his hand between Vedas’s legs, ran the tip of a finger along his perineum. He cupped Vedas’s genitals, squeezed lightly, and then stood.

  “Finished. Let’s go.”

  The crowd parted for them. Vedas looked neither left nor right, and kept his eyes on the floor. He touched no outstretched fingers for luck. His brothers and sisters forgave such things, apparently, for they cheered as he stepped into the packed earth ring:

  “Vedas!”

  “Vedas!”

  “Vedas!”

  The bass throb of a drum underscored the two-syllable chant, though it could easily have been meant for the opposition, who shouted the name of their champion just as loudly. To Vedas, the words lost all clarity and became a simple rhythm.

  Opposing factions, shouting with a single voice.

  Vedas tipped his head from side to side, loosening his neck. Though no material boundary kept the Black Suits and the Whites from mixing, to either side an arrow-straight line separated them. Once in a while a hand shot out with a rude gesture from one side and someone from the other slapped at it, but this was the extent of their interaction.

  Afterwards, however—maybe then someone would push at the border.

  And what about the others, the ones who stood behind the gathered orders? Onlookers, gamblers, Adrashi and Anadrashi of a hundred kinds. What would they do if he won, if he lost? And then there were the others waiting outside the tent. The entire population of Danoor, waiting for word of the outcome. The Tomen, encamped in the hills...

  Enough, Vedas told himself. Concentrate on the task at hand.

  He lifted his head and looked at his opponent for the first time. What he saw surprised him, but his features remained blank. Knowing how much even a glance revealed to a smart fighter, he took in details of build and stance without moving his eyes.

  She did the same.

  For some reason, he had not imagined a woman. Perhaps he had not thought a woman capable of making it all the way to the final bout, but this did not ring true. More likely, he had simply gone with the odds. Sisters comprised less than a quarter of the combatants.

  Grey stood an inch or two taller than Vedas, and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. Her breasts were large, but so flattened by the stiffness of her suit that they looked like immense pectoral muscles. Her gut was a tight drum, her legs barrels of smooth muscle. Her shoulders sloped like a bear’s, and her hands were massive. They alone moved, alternating fists opening and closing. Vedas looked last at her face, which was large but not at all unattractive. Together with the build, her unlined olive complexion revealed her as a native of northern Dareth Hlum, a close relative of the Vunni, perhaps.

  The head official of the tournament, an impartial representative from the city council, stepped between the two combatants. He reached inside his robes and produced a vial, which he dropped and then broke under the butt of his staff. Vedas’s ears popped.

  “Silence, please,” the official said, voice amplified so that all could hear. “This will be the final bout of this tournament, the final bout of the year. Tonight marks the last day of the half-millennium, and tomorrow the city will begin hosting celebratory games. Whatever the outcome tonight, you will end it peaceably and not sully the merrymaking.”

  Boos sounded from both sides.

  The official frowned. “Battalions are stationed in this camp, at the coliseum, and within the city itself. No leniency will be shown to rioters, regardless of race, class, place of birth, or faith.”

  “What of the Tomen?” someone shouted.

  The official’s frown deepened. “A battalion is stationed below them. Another two companies are arriving as we speak. Ample men to quash any violence the Tomen may intend.” He bowed to Grey and Vedas. “Good fight.”

  Vedas’s hood flowed to cover his face. Grey did not mask her face completely, but caused her suit to form bars that rose from her chin to the armored bridge of her nose. Shelf-like eyebrow ridges formed and the eldercloth thickened visibly over her ears.

  Transformations complete, they bowed to one another.

  The fight began.

  ‡


  Vedas was the first to move.

  Grey merely widened her stance, turning to follow him as he circled. He kept his distance, watching her smoothly shift weight from foot to foot. She had lowered her center of gravity without bending her back, as if she were squatting over a latrine hole. Though he could not rely upon it as fact, nine times out of ten this posture communicated an unwillingness to reach farther than arm’s length for an opponent.

  She would wait for him to bridge the gap between them. From there she would try to take him to the floor, counting on her bulk to overcome him. She had probably caused her suit to texture, especially along the forearms and inner thighs, creating a gripping surface to counter the smoothness of her opponent’s suit. A conservative strategy, sound but ultimately limiting: Her suit and thick build granted her a great deal of protection against close range attacks, but unless she proved faster than Vedas she would be unable to get a grip on him.

  In his experience, the majority of fights ended up on the ground. He knew himself to be a capable grappler, but this time it would not be wise to end up on his back.

  Neither would it be wise to rely on one strategy alone.

  He limbered up as he circled, purposefully avoiding a fixed stance in order to throw her off. The ragged approach made him uncomfortable, but he thought it wise not to mirror her solid, unchanging posture. He held his fists just below his collarbones in a loose boxer’s guard. He spiraled ever nearer to her. She gave nothing away.

  Crouching, he swept his right foot at her left calf. She lifted her foot and stamped down, far too slowly to touch him. Otherwise, she had not changed position. Unless she was purposefully holding back, this told him something about her reaction time.

  He continued circling. As he shortened the distance between them, her forearms rose. She opened both plate-sized hands and held them out from her body at the height of his biceps. He bobbed up and down and her hands followed exactly.

  He shuffled in and jabbed at the right one. Her fingertips brushed the back of his hand, but could not close around his fist.

  Quicker that time. Not abnormally agile, but definitely quick.

  He continued moving, looking for openings. She continued biding her time, waiting for him to get overanxious and make a mistake. He darted in again and jabbed with his left. She nearly caught it. Her expression never changed.

  They watched each other. This could go on for quite some time, he knew.

  The crowd made dissatisfied noises. The fighters were silent.

  He feinted in, pulling short a right jab. Reaching for his fist and grasping air, she threw her right shoulder forward slightly. He grasped her leading forearm with both hands and pulled diagonally across his chest, trying to throw her off balance. Her weight only shifted slightly, and he backed away before her other hand came into play.

  Not fast enough.

  Before he was out of range, she darted in for contact. It was a clumsy slapstrike, and the back of her left fist only glanced off his temple. He staggered but recovered his feet, shaking the stars from his eyes. She settled back into her stance. He resumed circling, noting that she now hobbled slightly on her right foot. Though her offensive movement had seemed slight, it had apparently rekindled a previous injury.

  He decided to do a foolish thing. Take a calculated risk.

  Hoping to catch her off guard, he repeated his last attack exactly. She was not fooled, however. Instead of reaching for his incoming fist, she lifted her right hand above it and closed her fingers in an overhand grip around his wrist. She levered his arm down, slamming her left palm into his elbow—the exact move he had planned for her, only far, far faster than he could have imagined. His right foot came off the ground, followed by the left. His face hit the dirt.

  Though his suit hardened around his arm, as she pushed his chest to the ground her weight overcame the resistance.

  His elbow snapped, and she pulled his forearm back, twisting it to ruin the joint.

  He bit down hard enough to crack teeth.

  She ground her left knee into his back, holding a stable position. But as she let go of his useless arm to reach for his head, her weight shifted minutely—just the slightest movement of her knee to the left of his spine, the tiniest slip of fabric against fabric.

  It was enough.

  Vedas pushed up with his left arm, lifting his chest a few inches, and she overcorrected, trying to keep her knee in place. It slipped clear of his back and he rolled under her pelvis. The entire right side of his body bloomed in agony as his shoulder joint dislocated and his shattered elbow was crushed beneath the weight of two people.

  As her hands moved to wrap around his throat, he buried his stiffened middle and index fingers in her right eye socket.

  She spasmed and fell forward, dead instantly.

  ‡

  Night had fallen while he and Grey fought, but the Needle had not yet risen. A group of his brothers carried him from the tent toward Aresaa Coliseum.

  Jostled atop their shoulders and hands, right arm stiffened against his chest, he demanded to be let down. He needed his speech. He wanted to wash Grey’s blood from his body. The sound of the crowd drowned out his voice.

  He unmasked himself and attempted without success to meet someone’s eye. Eventually, nausea and light-headedness convinced him to stop trying.

  He closed his eyes and surrendered himself to a rough, two-mile ride into the heart of the city.

  A commotion to his left. Shouting. Vedas turned.

  Head and shoulders above the tallest man, gigantic hands parting the crowd, Berun swam through a sea of black-suited humanity. He moved in a straight line toward Vedas, unmindful of the blows raining down upon him.

  Staffs broke upon his head. Blades broke between the spheres of his chest, back, and shoulders.

  Someone called Berun’s name, and another picked it up.

  For a moment, the crowd was split. Brothers and sisters who knew the constructed man’s reputation struggled with those who did not, trying to halt the violence.

  A line of green magefire arced from a sister’s staff and struck the ground at Berun’s feet: a warning. The constructed man halted, pointed to Vedas, and bellowed. The noise ate his tolling words. He bellowed again, and this time Vedas heard.

  “My friend!”

  All at once, it seemed, the rabble cleared a path. They cheered as Berun lifted Vedas from their brothers’ shoulders, overjoyed now that the constructed man had declared sides. It did not lessen their violent mania, nor did it stop Adrashi—White Suits, townspeople, and foreigners alike—from continuing to attack the flanks of the crowd. They tried to break the ranks bodily. They stood on vegetable carts and roofs, throwing rocks and refuse. Despite the official’s warning, violence had erupted the moment of Grey’s death. The orders had crossed the aisle with fists and staffs raised while Vedas lay trapped under his opponent’s body. It could have been no other way, of course. The Black Suits had won, but the Followers of Adrash would not let it rest there. Men would die before the evening was through. Vedas reached up and pulled Berun’s head down. “I don’t have it! They wouldn’t listen to me. I need to go back to my tent!”

  Berun smiled. “I have it, Vedas.”

  “How?”

  “Quick thinking.” Berun’s eyes burned brighter. “They wouldn’t let me in, so I tore the tent down. They showed me where your cot was after that.” He shrugged his right shoulder forward, displaying the strap of Vedas’s pack. “I checked to make sure it’s in here.”

  Vedas sighed and shut his eyes again. “Thank you.”

  The river of Black Suits surged forward. Though Berun walked with far more care than the excited brothers had, he could not keep from being knocked about by the movement of the crowd. He could not stop others from bumping into the man he carried, who winced with every jolt and collision. Vedas felt as though his bones had detached from their joints, as though his ligaments and muscles had been pulped to mush. Even with eyes closed, the wor
ld spun. He masked himself again to block out the scent of Grey’s blood.

  Reaching Aresaa took either a hundred years or a few minutes. Once there, a man spoke with Berun. A man who insisted upon introducing Vedas before his speech.

  “No,” Berun rumbled. “I’ll do it. Give me the spell.”

  A voice amplification spell, Vedas realized.

  He felt Berun climbing stairs. He heard the echo of thousands of voices shouting in a great hallway. His name. Berun’s name. Then, the roar of an even greater number in open air, louder than the howl of a hellhound, louder than the wildest spring storm. Another set of stairs, much longer than the first, in a closed space that reduced the noise to a dull throb. DUMdum. DUM-dum. A two-syllable word. A name.

  Out into the open again. The sound of cheering was a hundred nails driven through Vedas’s skull. It went on far too long. “Enough,” he finally said to Berun. “Shut them up.”

  “Yes,” Berun said.

  Vedas felt the constructed man crush the glass bulb. His ears popped, and the cheering softened. It became a sustained roll of muffled thunder, far more manageable.

  “Silence!” Berun roared, and the thunder stilled almost completely. He lowered his friend to the ground.

  Vedas stood without aid, unmasked his face, and opened his eyes. Tiers upon tiers of people—one hundred and fifty thousand of them—had gathered to hear him speak. Anadrashi of every stripe, from every corner of the continent. More souls than a person could take in at once. Vedas turned a complete circle, staggered by the dimensions of the coliseum. Though he and Berun stood on a four-story wooden platform erected in the middle of the arena, they were not quite level with the lowest stand. Perhaps the stories his father had told him as a child were not so preposterous, after all. Once, when the river Koosas flowed strong and wild, Adrash would fill Aresaa with her water and float great warships upon it...