Godsgrave

by Jay Kristoff

  Leona looked to Anthea, the slow frown that had been planted in the Crow’s cell returning to her brow. But a peal of trumpets dragged her eyes to the sand, and she found herself squinting at the preliminaries through the awful glare. The Crow and her traitorous gladiatii were exchanging poisoned words, but she could only hear scraps.

  She knew it was a risk, fielding her champion to mop up some traitorous dregs. But she simply needed the coin too badly to allow another sanguila to wield the axe. Crow was one of the finest she’d seen on the sand, and the traitors had been beaten and starved to the point of exhaustion. With Aa’s grace, the Crow would still stand with Furian in the magni, still bring the glory and coin Leona so desperately needed.

  Craved.

  Trumpets blared again, the match began, the Crow moving swift as her namesake. She had to even the numbers quickly, weed out the weakest of the Falcons before sheer numbers overtook her. Thus, the girl went straight for Felix, skipping under his broad, scything blow and slipping inside his guard. The man was clearly the worse for his captivity, slow to react, and with the speed that had made her the collegium champion, the Crow plunged her dagger into his leather breastplate and the heart beyond.

  The crowd roared, Felix clutched his skewered chest and toppled to the sand, the blood spraying bright and red. The Crow moved in a blur, kicking a toeful of sand up into Wavewaker’s face and charging at Bryn. The Vaanian girl might have been a daemon with a bow and arrow, but with a sword, she was less the prodigy. The Crow smashed aside her strike with her heavy gladius, opened a small cut on her thigh. As Bryn cried out, staggering, the Crow spun behind her and plunged her blade under the Vaanian girl’s spaulder, and up into her back.

  Blood. Gushing from the wound. Glinting on the Crow’s steel. Reflected in the crowd’s eyes. They roared as the Vaanian toppled forward in a pool of scarlet, Wavewaker bellowing and running at the Crow like a madman. He swung his rusty blade in a terrifying overhand strike, the steel whistling as it came. But the weeks of starvation in the Gloryhound’s hold had weakened his legs, left him slightly off-balance and late to recover, and a swift strike sent him to his knees, hands to his chest, blood welling between his fingers.

  “No!”

  Bladesinger charged, the crowd thrilling as her strike opened up a shallow cut on the Crow’s arm. Sidonius struck from the side, Butcher and Albanus from behind, Crow rolling aside and rising again with shocking speed. Her dagger flashed, Butcher cried out, fell back in a spray of red, Bladesinger falling on the Crow in a frenzy. The girl rolled back across the sand, flinging a handful of dirt into the woman’s eyes. Flipping to her feet, she met Sidonius’s blade on her own, her legs almost buckling under the bigger man’s strength. But as every man in the stands winced in sympathy, the Crow drove her knee up into Sidonius’s bollocks, dropping him to the sand with a high-pitched wail. Her counterstrike whistled past Albanus’s guard, her dagger buried to the hilt under his armpit, the blood a scarlet waterfall.

  Blinking the grit from her eyes, Bladesinger stuck again, the Crow bending backward as the blow skimmed past her chin. The woman’s long saltlocks seethed as she followed through, knocking the Crow’s gladius flying. Armed only with her knife now, the Crow struck back, punching the woman in the face with her free hand, ducking beneath another strike and snatching up one of Bladesinger’s long locks. Dragging the woman off-balance, she pulled Bladesinger backward and onto her blade. The audience howled in approval, Bladesinger stumbled to her knees, blood spilling from her ruptured breastplate and down her belly, collapsing face first on the sand.

  Only Sidonius remained. The man was bent double, clutching his jewels. The Crow moved toward him, merciless, the bigger man trying to fend her off. He was screaming at her, but the pair were so far away, Leona only caught a handful of words.

  “ . . . traitor . . .”

  “ . . . father . . .”

  “ . . . no . . .”

  And the Crow?

  She said nothing at all.

  Instead, she feinted sideways and slashed at his wrist, his sword spinning to the sand. She kicked out at his legs, sending him onto his knees. And as the crowd roared, she spun around to his back, long hair streaming behind her, plunging her dagger past the collar of his breastplate and down into his spine. Sidonius’s face twisted in agony, a gout of glittering scarlet spraying from the wound. He toppled forward, red spilling across the sand, the mob bellowing in delight.

  Leona saw his lips move.

  A whispered prayer, perhaps?

  A curse for the girl who’d slain him?

  And then, his eyes closed for the final time.

  Leona sat still, peering at the Crow. The bloodstained blades in her hands.

  That slow frown deepening on her brow.

  The sanguila about her gave polite applause, Tacitus glanced at her and offered an approving nod at her champion’s form. She looked to her father, but couldn’t catch his eye. Instead, Leonides was staring at that blood-soaked slip of a girl out there on the sand. The girl who’d bested his Exile. The girl who’d just murdered seven gladiatii and barely gotten a scratch. His scowl was black. His eyes, narrowed.

  He turned to his executus, Titus. Whispering in the big man’s ear.

  Leona’s frown only deepened.

  “Citizens of Itreya!” the editorii called. “Your victor!”

  The Crow retrieved her fallen gladius, pointed the bloody blade to the empty consul’s chair, then held it to the sky. She was wrapped in black steel. Falcon wings at her shoulders, a cloak of red feathers at her back. As she walked a circuit of the arena, the corpses of the murdered gladiatii were dragged off the sands. The face of a goddess covered her own, only her eyes visible through the helm’s facade.

  No one could tell if she wept.

  34: magni

  Not long now.

  Mia had been ushered off the sand after the execution bout, taken straight to a large staging cell, still drenched in blood. Her wound was dressed, she was given a ration of water, then told to wait. Though her mouth was bone dry, instead of drinking, she wasted her water trying to wash the gore from her shaking hands.

  By the end of the cup, her fingers were still sticky.

  She watched a cadre of Iron Priests scurry past, guards delivering gladiatii to the staging cell a few at a time. She recognized a few from Governor Messala’s palazzo; Ragnar of Vaan, Champion of the Tacitus Collegium; Worldeater, Champion of the Swords of Phillipi. But soon there were dozens, then hundreds of others, standing about the chamber, clad in leather and steel.

  The temperature was stifling, the walls dripping with sweat. Attendants moved about with buckets and ladles of water, the fighters drinking greedily, but Mia only asked for more water for her hands. Scrubbing away at the stains of the execution, refusing to look at her reflection in the red puddling beneath her.

  She could hear mekwerk groaning under her feet; some colossal engine ever hungry for blood. Trying not to think of Bladesinger and Bryn, Wavewaker and the others. They’d chosen their fates. Written them in red. She couldn’t afford to spare a thought for them. Their trials were over now, where Mia’s greatest lay before her. She could still hear Sidonius’s parting words as he lay facedown in the sand.

  Eyes fixed on hers.

  So quiet, none but she could hear.

  “Good luck, Mia,” he’d whispered.

  Her hands were still sticky.

  “ . . . we are with you . . .”

  “ . . . WE WILL ALWAYS BE WITH YOU . . .”

  “You fought well.”

  She didn’t look up. Didn’t need to know who it was who stood before her. The sickness in her belly told her that. The lust and the hunger, the ache of longing. Her shadow moved, inching ever closer to his, like iron to the lodestone. Her lips twisted in a bitter smile as she replied.

  “I fought against seven starving prisoners who could barely swing their swords.”

  “Such, the price of defiance in Itreya,” the Unfallen replied
.

  “So they tell me.”

  “I was not sure . . . how I would feel watching you. They were my brothers and sisters too. When they fell beneath your blades . . .” Furian sighed. “I could scarce believe it. I think I expected some ruse. Some ploy or play or last-minute reprieve.”

  “Play?”

  Mia shook her head, bewildered.

  “Why is everyone still acting like this is a fucking game?”

  “Gladiatii!” a guard cried. “Attend!”

  The eyes of the assembled warriors turned to the iron portcullis. Mia saw three editorii, silhouetted against the glare outside. The eldest of the trio stepped forward, peering among the gladiatii. His long dark beard was plaited, his eyes mismatched, one brown, one green. A banded python was draped around his neck.

  “Gladiatii of the collegia of Itreya,” he said. “Each of you and your masters have earned, through right of trial and combat, your place upon the sands of the Venatus Magni. The greatest spectacle in the Itreyan calendar is about to unfold, and you shall fight and die for the glory of the Republic before an adoring crowd. Those who fall shall still stand as legends. And the one among you who remains at magni’s end shall be granted freedom by the Hand of God himself.

  “This magni is a battle grande; every warrior will begin the match upon the sands. Each will be given a colored armband, to designate initial loyalties. Gladiatii from the same collegia will be grouped together, though you are under no obligation to adhere to these allegiances throughout the match. Never forget; all must fall so one may stand.”

  The man let his words hang in the air a moment, ironhard and cold.

  “Once this portcullis opens,” he continued, “proceed to your designated starting position, and await instruction from the grand editorii. May Aa bless and keep you, and Tsana guide your hands.”

  Mia sheathed her blades, still trying to rub the red off her fingers. As the guards roamed among them, handing out strips of cloth in red, blue, gold, and white, she could feel it. The fear. Welling in the hearts and minds of the warriors around her, leaking through the stone and hanging thick in the air. Every one of them was staring into the eyes of death, and all knew only one would survive. Some stalked up and down, pounding their chests, muttering to themselves. Some stood mute, battling their fear in silence. Others looked to comrades for some moment of solace, knowing all allegiance would fail before the final trumpet sounded.

  Not long now.

  A guard muscled through the mob, tied a strip of fabric around Furian’s arm to show his allegiance. Demanding that Mia stand, he bound another strip around her bicep. Both were as red as the stains she’d failed to wash away.

  Trumpets sounded, the floor rumbling beneath their feet. The call of the editorii echoed across the arena, the crowd roaring in answer.

  “Citizens of Itreya! Honored administratii! Senators and marrowborn! Welcome to the Venatus Magni of Godsgrave! From the finest collegia in the Republic, we present to you the mightiest warriors beneath the three suns! Here to do battle before your wondering eyes, to bathe themselves in blood and glory to honor to the Everseeing, almighty Aa. We present, the Drakes of Trajan!”

  The iron portcullis ratcheted open, and the first group of gladiatii strode out onto the sand, escorted by a cadre of Itreyan legionairies. There were perhaps two hundred and fifty warriors assembled in staging cells by now—far too many to call out individually. Stables were being marched out en masse: the Wolves of Tacitus; the Swords of Phillipi; the Lions of Leonides, one after another striding forth to the welcome of the crowd. As each collegium took their places in the arena, punters in the stands recognized favorites and honored champions, the volume steadily rising.

  “The Falcons of Remus!” came the announcer’s cry.

  “So it begins,” Furian whispered.

  “And so it ends,” Mia replied.

  She walked out into the blinding light, the Unfallen beside her. The crowd cheered, some for the Savior of Stormwatch (“Crow!Crow!Crow!”), others for the Champion of Talia (“Unfaaaaaaaallen!”). As the pair took their places among the other red armbands, the editorii’s voice rang in the air.

  “Citizens of Itreya, please be upstanding!”

  A bright peal of trumpets sounded as the crowd rose to their feet, the fanfare thrilling along Mia’s skin.

  “Seven years have passed since the traitorous Kingmakers sought to bring our glorious Republic to its knees! Seven years of a glorious peace, seven years of reason and prosperity, seven years of justice and light!”

  Mia’s heart beat quicker, her mouth suddenly dry. She knew what was coming, who was coming. Seven years since he’d destroyed her world, standing over her father’s scaffold like a vulture on a cairn. Seven years of bloodstained promises, of murder and steel, of wondering and praying. Furian looked to her, his shadow rippling as hers ebbed and flowed, reaching out with black tendrils toward the Senate, toward the Luminatii, toward . . .

  “Your savior! Your consul! Julius Scaeva!”

  It was like a punch to her stomach. The sight of him. After all this time, she thought perhaps it might have dulled. But the pain was a knife in her chest, making her stagger, her shadow ripple and seethe despite the three suns burning above.

  He was tall, painfully handsome, his dark hair now shot through with the faintest streaks of gray. He wore a long toga of rich purple, a golden laurel at his brow. When he smiled, it seemed the suns shone brighter, the crowd roaring in rapture. Beside him stood a beautiful woman, dark of hair and green of eye, dripping in fine silk and golden jewelry. In her arms, she held a boy, six or seven years old. He had his mother’s dark hair, his father’s bottomless black eyes. He wore the emblem of the Luminatii Legion embroidered on his chest, though no trinity around his neck.

  Scaeva put one arm around his bride, three fingers outstretched in the sign of Aa. The crowd returned the gesture, a hundred thousand people raising their hands and calling his name. Mia felt her jaw clench so tight her teeth ached. Holding her breath because it was simply too painful to breathe. To see him smiling beside his familia when he’d so casually put hers in the ground . . .

  Surrounded by that sea of Luminatii, iron and sunsteel, Scaeva stepped forward to a pulpit in the consul’s box.

  “My people!” he called, his words reverberating among the human sea. “My countrymen! My friends! On this most holy feast, we gather beneath the eyes of the Everseeing in this, the greatest Republic the world has ever known!”

  The consul paused for a burst of giddy applause.

  “My friends, these are troubling times. When I announced my intent to stand for a fourth term as consul, I was plagued with doubt. But continued attacks against our magistrates, our administratii, even the children of our noble senators overseas, have convinced me the threat to our glorious Republic is not yet ended. And I will not abandon Itreya, or you, in such an hour of need.”

  Scaeva called louder as the crowd erupted.

  “We must stand together! And with your support, we shall stand together! From myself, my beloved wife Liviana, my son Lucius . . .”—Scaeva was forced to pause as the cheers overwhelmed his voice—“ . . . from my familia to yours, friends, we thank you for your vigilance, your courage, but most of all, your faith! In God, and us!”

  Mia’s eyes were locked on Scaeva, boiling with hatred. Her fingers slipping unconsciously to the gravebone dagger hidden beneath the iron encircling her wrist. The gravebone dagger Alinne Corvere had once pressed to Scaeva’s throat, the turn he took Mia’s world away.

  Patience.

  Mia’s fingers slipped away from the dagger. She could taste blood in her mouth.

  Patience.

  Scaeva beamed in the crowd’s adoration, playing the part of the humble one, the grateful one. Reaching out to his wife, the consul placed his son Lucius on his shoulders, held out his three fingers again in blessing. Mia watched the little boy lean down, whisper in his father’s ear.

  “My son says ever I speak too
long,” he smiled, laughter rippling among the crowd. “He reminds me we are here at purpose. So, shall we begin?”

  The crowd roared as one.

  “My friends, I asked, shall we begin?”

  A single, deafening cheer, rising all the way to the sky.

  “I will now hand over to our beloved grand cardinal, and my dear friend, Francesco Duomo, to lead us in prayer.”

  All eyes turned to the ministry of Aa in their ringside seats. Grand Cardinal Duomo stood at another pulpit, dark eyes fixed on Scaeva, glittering with veiled malice as he bowed low. He spoke into a mekwerk horn, his voice ringing across the arena, thick as toffee, sweet and dark.

  “My thanks, glorious Consul,” he said, bowing deep. “May Aa ever keep you in the Light. May your reign be long and fruitful.”

  Scaeva’s smile turned sharper as he returned the bow.

  “Beloved citizens, please bow your heads,” Duomo said.

  The entire arena fell still, silence ringing in the air and on the wind.

  “Almighty Aa, Father of Light, creator of all, on this your most holy feast, we thank you for your love, your vigilance, and your many blessings upon us. Remain ever watchful of our hearts, and bless those who here die for the glory of our Republic.

  “In your name, this we pray.”

  The crowd replied as one.

  “In your name, this we pray.”

  Duomo spread his arms, a smile brightening his eyes.

  “Let the magni begin!”

  The crowd roared, stamping and hollering as Duomo returned to his flock of cardinals and bishops, smug as a groom after his wedding night. Mia’s gaze returned to Scaeva, watching as he took his seat, the consul’s dark eyes fixed on Duomo. The pair watched each other like a pair of vipers over the corpse of a single mouse. But Scaeva’s son whispered something in his ear, and the consul suddenly laughed, bright and loud. His bride leaned over, kissed him on the cheek. Scaeva broke his gaze from Duomo’s, instead beaming at his familia. Mia felt her legs trembling.

  They didn’t deserve to be so happy. For Scaeva to have a wife and child when he’d left her with nothing. For Duomo to play at piety and speak of love when he’d destroyed her entire world. She looked to the gladiatii around her, every one of them an obstacle, every sword a hindrance, every throat a stepping stone on the way to those bastard’s hearts.