Godsgrave

by Jay Kristoff

  “At least empty your g-guts outside . . . the cell, sister,” he moaned.

  “Fuggoff,” Bladesinger groaned, a long string of drool and puke dangling from her lips. “Before I s-slap your ugly . . .”

  Another fountain of vomit exploded from Bladesinger’s mouth, this time hitting Wavewaker, who in turn lunged up onto his knees and aimed a spray of puke out through the bars. The stench rolled over Mia in warm, cloying waves and she stood on tiptoes, pressed her lips between the bars and breathed deep of the comparatively pleasant aroma of blood and horseshit outside.

  “Four fucking Daughters,” she swore.

  “Pray all you like,” came a growl. “I fear they’re not listening.”

  Turning, Mia saw Executus Arkades, standing outside the cell with hands on hips. Surveying the puke-soaked straw, his best gladiatii lying about like wounded after a war. Maggot stood beside him, nose screwed up at the stench as she looked the fallen gladiatii over. Dona Leona hung back, wearing a gown of beautiful scarlet silk and a thoroughly disgusted expression.

  “Blessed Aa,” she said. “All of them?”

  “Save Bryn and Byern,” Arkades replied, glancing at Mia. “And the Crow. Even Furian is bursting at both ends. Everseeing only knows what caused it.”

  Mia kept her face as stone, met Arkades’s eyes with an expression innocent enough to shame a sister in the Sorority of Flame.2 Of course, she knew exactly what had caused the bout of intestinal distress among her brothers and sisters of the collegium. Ashlinn had snuck rather more mishap into their evemeal than Mia would have liked—the results didn’t need to be quite so explosive, truth told. But Ash had never been Spiderkiller’s finest student.

  “Food poisoning,” Maggot declared, kneeling by a puddle of vomit. Reaching through the bars, she pressed her palm to Butcher’s sweat-filmed brow. “Not fatal, I think. But they’ll wish they were dead before the ending.”

  “F-far ahead of . . . you, my d-dear,” Wavewaker moaned, stifling a belch.

  “How is it you’re not ill?” Dona Leona asked Mia.

  “I didn’t eat yestereve, Domina,” Mia replied. “Too nervous about the games.”

  “’Byss and blood,” Leona spat. “I should have that cook flogged. We’re three laurels shy of the magni, this is the first venatus me and my father pit gladiatii against one another, and my sharpest blades are all sick as sailors with no sea legs?” Her eyes narrowed with a sudden thought, and she turned to Arkades. “You don’t think he orchestrated this, do you?”

  Executus rubbed his chin in thought. “Possible, thou—”

  Sidonius leaned back against the wall as a spray of puke erupted from his gut, Maggot and Leona both skipping back in disgust. The dona fished a scented kerchief from her dress, pressed it to her mouth as the big Itreyan groaned an almost-indecipherable apology, and promptly shit his loincloth.

  “They can’t fight like this, Domina,” Maggot said softly.

  “Aye,” Arkades nodded. “It’ll be a slaughter. Not a one of them can stand.”

  “I can stand,” Mia replied.

  The trio looked to her silently. Leona’s eyes narrowed.

  “I can win,” Mia swore.

  Arkades shook his head. “Set eyes through those bars, girl. Does anything about this arena strike attention?”

  Mia peered out to the sands, eyes scanning the walls, the crowd. The remains of the equillai match were being packed up, targets broken down, markers removed. The crowd were stamping their feet, impatient for the next match to begin.

  “Broken glass,” Mia said, turning to look at the executus. “And firepots. On the wall skirting the arena’s edge.”

  “And that tells you what?”

  “Either the editorii don’t want the crowd getting onto the sand, or they don’t want whatever they’re about to release on the sand getting into the crowd,” Mia replied.

  “Menagerie,” Arkades said. “The theme for this venatus. Beasts from all corners of the Republic, set to do battle with each other and gladiatii for the crowd’s amusement.” The big man folded his massive arms, the scar on his face deepening as he scowled. “Do you have any idea what you’d face out there?”

  Mia shrugged, feigning ignorance.

  “Whatever the ’byss it is, it can’t smell worse than in here.” She looked at Leona, her jaw set. “Your equillai just lost to your father’s men, Domina. And only one of your gladiatii can lift a sword. If you’ve a thirst for a victor’s laurel at all, or anything to prove, it seems you’ve but one choice.”

  Leona’s eyes had narrowed at the words “anything to prove.” But Mia spoke truth—there was only one way Leona would see a victor’s purse this venatus. Only one way she might recoup some of her costs, win some glory, accrue another laurel for her collegium’s berth at the magni.

  Mia and Ashlinn had orchestrated it that way, after all.

  Part of Mia still didn’t trust her co-conspirator. She was still waiting for the hammer to drop. But Ash had spoken truth; Eclipse had confirmed it. She’d dosed the other gladiatii, left Mia on her feet, all the better to convince Leona that Mia was the only hope she had of winning the victory she so desperately needed. But still . . .

  But still . . .

  “Executus,” Leona said, eyes never leaving Mia’s. “Tell the editorii our Crow will fight for Remus Collegium in the Ultima. We will field no other gladiatii this turn.”

  “Mi Dona, Furian was slated for the Ultima. A change at this final hour—”

  “I paid for berth at this venatus,” Leona snarled. “I will be damned if fate’s cold hand robs me of my victory. If the editorii take issue with my arrangements, tell them they can bring them to me personally. But, by the Everseeing and all four of his holy fucking Daughters, you’d best warn them to bring an extra pair of balls, because I’ll be ripping off the first and wearing them for earrings.” She indicated her gown with a sweep of her hand. “The red should complement my dress nicely.”

  Maggot grinned, and Arkades tried to hide his smile in his beard.

  “Your whisper, my will,” he murmured.

  With a hand-to-heart bow, the executus limped off in search of the editorii, and Maggot in search of some water to wash away the mess. Leona remained behind in the damp, the stink, staring at Mia through the bars with glittering blue eyes.

  “I risk much on you, little Crow.”

  “It’s only a risk if I don’t win, Domina,” Mia replied. “And in all truth, you’ve nothing to lose.”

  “I’ll not forgive it,” Leona warned, “if you fail me.”

  Putting her hand to her heart, Mia bowed low.

  “And I trust you’ll not forget it,” she replied, “when I don’t.”

  * * *

  The matches had been brutal, bloody, beautiful. The crowd were drunk on it—the wine, the slaughter, their roars reverberating through the stone above Mia’s head. The guards were already proclaiming the venatus the finest that Stormwatch had ever seen, that the editorii had outdone themselves again.

  Spectators had thrilled as a mob of gladiatii hunted a three-ton saberwolf through a sea of long grass that had grown up from the sands upon command. They’d howled in delight as gladiatii from the collegia of Leonides, Trajan and Phillipi clashed upon a web of shifting wires hung over the arena, while a pack of Vaanian whitebears prowled below, tearing any warrior who fell into bloody pieces. Prisoners of the state had been tied to stakes and executed by a flock of starving Ashkahi bloodhawks, gladiatii with tridents and nets had fought an actual live sand kraken before the bellowing mob.3 And now, as nevernight winds blew in from the ocean and the turn drew near its close, they were ready for the Ultima.

  None knew what could possibly top the sand kraken, though all were salivating at the prospect. They stamped their feet in time, the rhythm echoing down into the mekwerk pits beneath the sands. And then, as if in answer, rumbling up from the depths, came a chuddering, spine-chilling roar.

  “Citizens of Itreya!” came the call
across the arena horns. “Honored administratii! Senators and marrowborn! We give thanks to our honored consul, Julius Scaeva, for providing the funds for the Ultima to close this most glorious venatus!”

  The crowd roared approval, and Mia grit her teeth to hear them chanting Scaeva’s name. She pushed thought of the consul from her mind, focusing only on the task ahead. None of the fighters in the staging cell around her had an inkling, but Mia knew exactly what awaited them beneath the floor. And even with the advantage she’d bought herself, she still knew this would be a fight for her very life.

  She wore a sleeve of mail rings on her right arm, iron spaulders and greaves to protect her shoulders and shins, a leather skirt and breastplate. The armor would count for next to nothing against the foe she’d face, but still, it was better than fighting bare-arsed with a grin on her face. Her helm was plumed in red—the color of her domina’s standard. Remus’s standard. The thought chafed, but again, she pushed it aside. No place for pride here. No place for pain. Only steel. And blood. And glory.

  The swords in her hands felt like home—good Liisian steel, sharp as razors. She’d need them, and all her strength, if she was to survive what was to come.

  “Citizens!” came the cry. “Behold, your gladiatii! Chosen from the finest collegia in the Republic, here to fight and die for the glory of their domini! From the Tacitus Collegium, we present to you, Appius, bane of the Werewood!”

  The portcullis before them shuddered upward with a metallic groan. A huge man strode past Mia, up into the arena, raising his spear and shield to the din of the roaring crowd. His helm was fashioned like a wolf’s head, sunslight glinting on his sleeves and breastplate of steel.

  “From the Livian Collegium, Ashbringer, Terror of the Silent Sea!”

  A Dweymeri gladiatii strode up to the sand, raised a twin-handed mattock longer than Mia was tall. He prowled about the arena’s edge, stamping his feet upon the sand, and the crowd fell in time until the entire world seemed made of thunder.

  And so it went. Each collegium was announced, fearsome gladiatii with equally fearsome titles marching up to take their places, riling the crowd with their theatrics. Mia noticed with interest that Leonides wasn’t fielding a warrior in the Ultima—unusual for a collegium of stature. She wondered if he had some inkling of the nature of their foe . . .

  More than two dozen warriors stood on the sands before Mia heard the editorii call, “From the Remus Collegium . . .”

  “Furian!” came a cry.

  “Unfaaaaallen!” came another.

  “ . . . the Crow!” roared the editorii.

  Mia marched up into the sunslight, raising her twin swords above her head. She was met by bemusement, scattered applause, a few jeers from folk who’d been expecting the champion of Remus Collegium rather than some skinny girl half his size. Not a one of them had any clue who she was.

  Soon.

  Mia grit her teeth, silently vowing to herself.

  Soon, the sky itself will know my name.

  In a grand booth on the arena’s edge, Mia saw the governor of Stormwatch, the city’s elite gathered about his chair. An editorii stood in a separate booth, clad in the traditional blood-red robe trimmed with golden daggers. A smoke-gray cat was curled on his shoulder, eyeing proceedings with an air of distinct boredom. The man spoke into a great horn, voice amplified across the vast space.

  “And now!” he cried. “Gentlefriends, steady your hearts. Children, avert your eyes! Dragged from the depths of the Ashkahi Whisperwastes at the command of our glorious consul, a horror polluted by the corruption that brought the old empire to its knees. Behold, citizens of Stormwatch, your Ultima!”

  Mia felt the floor tremble, heard the great mekwerk beneath the sand begin to move. Rocky outcroppings rose from the sand like teeth, tall and wicked-sharp. The arena’s heart split apart, sand cascading into the depths as a pit opened wide. And, as if from the abyss itself, up rose a horror unlike anything Mia had ever seen.

  “’Byss and blood . . . ,” said a voice beside her.

  Mia looked to the Dweymeri gladiatii; the man named Ashbringer. His eyes were wide. His great mattock trembling in his hands.

  The monster roared, shaking the very earth. The crowd answered, rising to their feet, cheering, howling, giddy. Not a one among them had ever seen the like, but all had heard the tales. Nightmare of the deepest deserts. More terrifying than the sand kraken. More fearsome than a hundred dust wraiths. A word that struck panic into every caravaneer and trader who ran the Ashkahi wastes.

  “Retchwyrm . . . ,” Ashbringer whispered.4

  The beast roared again, raising the end of its body that Mia supposed was its head. Its skin was pitted, cracked and browned like old leather. It moved like some obscene caterpillar, lunging toward the crowd as they screamed. But an iron collar and thick lengths of chain bound the monster to the arena floor, prevented it from getting anywhere close to the audience. Once they realized they were in no danger, the crowd burst into applause, cheering and chanting.

  With all eyes on the beast, Mia turned and strode across the sand, thirty more steps, until she stood beneath a statue of Tsana on the inner wall. Stabbing her swords into the earth, she knelt, bowed her head as if in prayer to the goddess. But with her right hand, she began searching beneath the sand at the arena’s edge.

  She felt nothing at first. Her shadow rippling as her stomach ran cold, as the thought that Ashlinn had betrayed her rose like a dust wraith in back of her—

  No.

  Her fingers felt softness. Leather.

  There it is.

  She pulled the object from the sand—a leather pouch filled with spherical objects—tucking it beneath her spaulder.

  The editorii raised his hands, calling for silence.

  The crowd fell still as a millpond.

  The man drew a breath, heard across the arena. His cat simply yawned.

  “Ultima!” he cried. “Begin!”

  The crowd roared, deafening and rapturous. The beast chained in the arena’s heart writhed in response, its blind head swinging side to side as its stomach bubbled up in its throat, desperate to consume the prey it could sense but couldn’t reach. And in answer, it let out another sky-shaking roar.

  And not a single gladiatii

  moved

  a

  single

  muscle.

  “ . . . can’t blame them, really . . . ,” came the whisper in Mia’s ear as she took her place back alongside her fellows.

  The crowd began to get restless, several starting to boo as the gladiatii all stood paralyzed, a few circling the retchwyrm as it thrashed and growled.

  “Kill it!” someone roared.

  “Fight, cowards!”

  Standing beside Mia, Ashbringer prickled at the word “coward.” He looked about the bleachers, up to his domini in the sanguila’s boxes. And hefting his mattock, he bellowed, “With me!” at the top of his lungs and charged the beast with weapon raised. Several other gladiatii took up the call, Mia among them, rushing forward with bloody cries. They attacked the wyrm from four sides, hewing and stabbing with spear and sword. Preferring the flank, Mia darted out from behind one of the fangs of stone, burying her blades to the hilt. Ashbringer charged head-on, swung his mattock, pulping a great hole in the beast’s hide. And with a revolting wet burping sound, the retchwyrm reared up and spewed its stomach all over the men in front of it.

  The flesh was a rotten pink, almost liquid, splashing on the ground and stretching out with finger-like tendrils. Appius was completely buried under the deluge of guts, Ashbringer was engulfed to the waist, screaming as his flesh began to burn in the acid slicking the wyrm’s insides. He swung again with his hammer, pounding on the spongy mass. The stomach continued to crawl over the ground, almost like a thing with a mind of its own, stretching out sticky strands and snaring the gladiatii about it. And finally, with a hollow, rushing slurp, the beast inhaled its guts back inside itself, dragging half a dozen screaming men with it
. The crowd roared in delight and disgust.

  On the beast’s flank, Mia stabbed her blade hilt-deep again, feeling the monster shiver. Its blood was deep red, almost black, slicking her to the elbows. As the behemoth rolled and bucked, she reached up to her spaulders—the pouch Ashlinn had hidden in the sand. Groping inside, she grabbed a handful and drew it out; three spheres of bright red glass in the palm of her hand.

  A gift from Mercurio before they’d departed.

  Wyrdglass.5

  Dragging her sword free, she pushed her fist into the wound, burying the spheres into the beast’s muscle. The retchwyrm roared in pain, rolled over on its side to crush Mia. The girl dove free, narrowly avoided getting pulped against one of the stone fangs as the wyrm whipped its tail. Wyrdglass was activated by pressure, usually by throwing it at the wall or floor, but Mia hoped the press of the beast’s own muscles and weight would be enough to break the arkemical bonds that held the glass in solid state. As she stumbled to her feet, dashed away, she heard a dull pop, almost lost beneath the crowd baying, the monster’s roars. A bubbling gout of blood and flesh burst up from the retchwyrm’s side as her wyrdglass exploded.

  The crowd cheered—they’d no idea what the girl had done, only that she’d wounded the beast. The retchwyrm howled, gullet bubbling in its throat, the stench of blood and ashes and acid washing over Mia in waves.

  “ . . . I THINK YOU MADE IT ANGRY . . .”

  “ . . . ever the observant one, dear mongrel . . .”

  “ . . . EVER THE SMARTARSE, LITTLE MOGGY . . .”

  “ . . . flattery will get you nowhere . . .”

  The retchwyrm turned its blind head toward Mia, let loose a terrible howl. The girl dashed back toward the cluster of other gladiatii, seeking cover among the rocks, trying to get beyond the reach of the retchwyrm’s chain. The monster snaked after her in pursuit, slamming its massive bulk onto the dirt in an attempt to crush her. The ground shook, Mia stumbled. Other gladiatii were hacking and chopping at the beast, but it seemed largely intent on the girl who’d wounded it worst. In desperation, Mia turned, held up her hand as she scrambled backward, trying to snare the monster with its own massive shadow until she was beyond the reach of its chain.