Meritorium (Meritropolis Book 2)

by Joel Ohman

  Something deep in his heart, almost hidden, longed for the kind of grace big enough to fill it, but he just didn’t see how that was possible.

  He strode forward, already thinking ahead to their encounter with the czar tomorrow at last.

  The familiar warmth crawled up the back of his neck.

  He would be ready.

  And not with grace.

  CHAPTER 13

  Sweets Revenge

  “This time, Pretty, if you have the shot, you had better take it.” Marta planted her wide frame directly in front of Sandy, blocking her way down the narrow tunnel.

  “I told you; I couldn’t shoot at that thing while Charley was on it.” She tried to force herself from shrinking back. “It’s not like I was scared or anything.” Although the llamabill was terrifying, she almost added. She avoided the eyes of Janice and Helga, each studying her intently.

  Marta placed a blunt hand on each of her hips, elbows angled outward so that she was almost touching the sides of the damp underground passageway that led out to the arena above. She studied Sandy’s face, her eyes probing in the low light.

  “So, you’re not going to be scared of the emperor?” Marta asked, doubt etched on her features. She shrugged, her frame relaxing slightly. “I would be.”

  “Well.” Sandy looked over her shoulder before continuing in a hushed whisper. “The emperor deserves to die. I think I’ve already proven that I’m not afraid to fight against those who deserve what’s coming to them.” She paused. “Well, at least not so afraid that I won’t let an arrow fly.”

  Marta nodded. “Okay, then. The reenactment begins in less than an hour. I’ve managed to get each of us a position on the field that will give us prime access to him.”

  “Okay, I’ll be ready.”

  “As soon as the emperor makes his way on to the field, Helga, Janice, and I will make sure that each of the tunnels is—”

  “Out of order for a while,” Janice interrupted, with an evil grin.

  “Yes,” Marta continued. “No one will want to be anywhere near the tunnel exits.” She looked directly at Sandy. “We can only hold them for a few minutes, though—you can’t wait. Understand?”

  “I got it, I got it.” Sandy patted her bow. “As long as he’s standing anywhere on the arena floor, I can put an arrow right between his eyes. No problem.” The words just slipped out, but actually hearing them come out of her own mouth gave Sandy a funny feeling deep down in her stomach. She had killed before. But to plan a cold-blooded murder, an assassination of a government official, was another thing altogether. She hoped her eyes didn’t betray the anxiety she was feeling. “I can do it—no problem at all.”

  “Good,” Marta said simply. Turning to Helga and Janice, she motioned back into the depths of the tunnel. “You two come with me. We’ve still got a few preparations to make.” She turned to Sandy. “You hang tight. We’ll be back.”

  In moments they were gone, leaving Sandy alone with her thoughts—as well as whatever else roamed the network of creepy underground tunnels that splintered off like a maze. Trying not to think about whoever, or whatever, might be down here with her, she walked over to a recessed area and sat huddled against the dank concrete, dewy with underground condensation.

  The insistent clinking, plipping, and plopping hinted at the reservoir of water that would soon be on full display in the arena. Marta had seen plenty of Venatios in her time and had explained that a portion of the reenactment was to be based on a water battle. To recreate this, portions of the arena floor were to be turned into a lake. The water would be pumped in via a system of pipes, drains, and other feats of engineering accomplished via a network of underground aqueducts.

  Sandy fingered the edge of her bow. She knew she was a good shot—actually, a great shot, if she wasn’t being modest. She was much better than Charley, Hank, even better than Orson or Grigor, and certainly better than Marta, Janice, or Helga. She knew that the technical element of what she had to do was not really asking a lot of her.

  But, to notch an arrow, pull back a bowstring, taut like a steel cable, then release it, like death on the wind, aimed directly at another human being … Even in the heat of battle, it was an emotionally tough thing to do. Truth be told, she even hated to release an arrow at an animal while hunting—and that was when it was necessary just to be able to eat, to survive.

  She sighed, pulling her knees up close. This was necessary, too.

  On their trek from Meritropolis she hadn’t said anything to Charley, and especially not to Hank. She didn’t want to be looked down on for being a woman, too weak and sensitive to participate in the hunting trips needed to bring in their food. But each time she let an arrow fly, something inside of her twinged, reverberating as loudly as her bowstring. Sandy had come to recognize that she was scared—scared that just as her calloused fingers had become accustomed to the bowstring, so too her soul would become hardened to the killing, that she might even start to … She tucked her chin between her knees, clasping her ankles for reassurance. She didn’t even want to think it, but she knew it was true. She was terrified that she might even start to enjoy it.

  She could force herself to do her duty: to kill an animal because so they could eat. She could force herself to attack another warrior in battle, because if she didn’t, then she would die. But if she was to just pick and choose who deserved to live and who deserved to die, how was she any different than the System?

  Sandy’s thoughts tumbled out in rapid fire. To kill someone in cold blood, with premeditated malice, was murder. But the emperor was evil, Sandy assured herself: he sanctioned the killing of Low Scores just for sport. Was it not necessary to kill him, too?

  But the emperor was a human being, not an animal. For all of her rationalizations and justifications, her desire to be brave, she wanted to prove that she wasn’t the frightened girl who had grown up in Meritropolis with her head bowed in allegiance to the System, to prove to Charley and all of the other men who had doubted her, looked down on her, treated her differently because she was a woman.

  She knew that was why—if she had to admit it—she was drawn to Janice and Helga and even Marta, not because she especially liked them—she could escape right now if she really wanted to—but because they understood; they were fighting for something more than just an overthrow of the emperor, they were fighting to prove their worth, that they didn’t need some man to be their “hero”. They would never have just sat by timidly in Meritropolis, waiting for some man to save them.

  Sandy knew one thing, deep down inside.

  What she had feared would happen, was happening.

  She didn’t just need to kill the emperor. She wanted to kill him.

  ***

  Sven readied himself for the day ahead. They were back in the low-Score pen, their numbers massively thinned after yesterday’s battle. Fortunately, the cousins’ fighting prowess, alongside Sven’s calculated tunnel retreat during the confusion caused by Charley’s mid-air heroics, had resulted in his small group escaping with hardly a scratch. But the day had not been without other scars.

  Sven remembered it clearly: there was a moment when they had made it to the relative safety of a tunnel. His group was home free to escape back into the pen, alive to fight another day. It had taken Rico and the cousins some convincing, but they still looked to Sven as their leader and walked alongside him out of the arena. In that moment, Sven had turned back.

  He had looked back and seen Hank aggressively, heroically, fighting off a pack of snapping wolverators. Sven’s eyes had panned the arena, taking in Grigor mounted on the horoceros, Orson twirling and whirling his sword, and Charley swooping like a bat, dealing death to enemies below.

  His gaze had returned to Hank, and their eyes had met.

  In that moment—Sven with his back turned, running away like a coward, Hank fighting for his life—a look had
passed between them. It was just for the briefest speck of time, but it was frozen indelibly in his memory. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but some shared gazes contain an eternity of conversations.

  Sven leaned his back against the fence and closed his eyes slowly. It hurt just to think about it, but he couldn’t stop replaying that moment in his mind. The look Hank had given him wasn’t anger—Sven knew that would have been easy enough to handle—and it wasn’t disappointment—something he had dealt with many times before.

  It was a look of pity.

  Pity tinged with relief.

  In that moment, Sven had seen himself through Hank’s eyes. And what he saw was just a helpless Low Score, incapable of defending himself, not even someone worth anger or disappointment. He couldn’t be relied on, or even expected, to do something heroic and brave. He was simply someone to be pitied, someone to be protected.

  Sven balled his fists at his side, tightly squeezing his eyes shut to avoid the angry tears that threatened to escape.

  He didn’t want to be protected, or pitied. Didn’t they know he had practically killed the captain of the Meritorium Honor Guard in the arena the day before? If he hadn’t thrown that rock, Rico couldn’t have finished him off. When he could finally trust himself not to cry, he opened his eyes and looked across at a still-sleeping Camilla. He didn’t want to be protected; he wanted to be doing the protecting.

  Ever since the riot in Meritropolis, Sven could feel that something had changed inside of him. He didn’t want to be the passive, happy-go-lucky Low Score who relied on High Scores for protection. He wanted to do whatever it took to control his own destiny, to not be afraid—to be bold like Charley.

  Even though Sven tried to mask it, he sometimes felt like he was just acting; he was still the same scared little boy huddled below-ground in Meritropolis.

  Just a Low Score.

  Maybe that’s all he would ever be. He would always be that same scared little boy.

  Sven watched Rico resting like a cat, but seemingly ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Rico was who he was; he was who he would always be. Sven could never be like Rico, or Charley.

  Sven closed his eyes and tried to mimic Rico; he needed to get as much sleep as he could. They would be going into the arena again soon—and this time, probably not coming out.

  ***

  Charley awoke to the sound of angry shouting. He jerked himself upright, disoriented for just a moment until he remembered he was back in the low-Score pen. He looked wildly from side to side, his mind foggy with sleep.

  Grigor loomed over him. “We’ve got a problem.”

  Charley hopped to his feet. “What’s going on? What’s all that commotion?”

  “Circumcellions,” Grigor said simply, gesturing toward the opposite side of the pen. A large group of raggedy, wild-eyed men, women, and children were being herded in by the Honor Guard.

  Orson sighed. “Someone had the bright idea to bring the Circumcellions into the pen before sending us all out into the arena for the reenactment.”

  “Some idiot, you mean,” Hank grumbled.

  Charley wiped sand from his eyes and winced. His head felt like a thousand crants were buzzing insistently inside it, and he had a taste in his mouth like a muffalo had slept on his tongue all night.

  “How much—” He stopped and licked his lips before continuing. “How much longer until we are sent into the arena?”

  “Probably about an hour or so; I heard some of the guards talking,” Hank said.

  Grigor interjected. “And we do not want some kind of altercation in here, not in the pen and especially not with the Circumcellions.”

  Charley sensed that Grigor was directing that straight at him, but he had to agree. “I know, I know.”

  “Grigor’s right,” Orson said, his eyes narrowing as the Circumcellions continued to file in. “Any opponent that is hell-bent—or, should I say, heaven-bent—on martyrdom should be taken seriously. We do not want to engage them until the arena.”

  “We may not be able to avoid them,” Hank said. “I don’t think they care about making it into the arena; they’ll take their martyrdom any way they can get it.”

  He pointed to a scrawny Circumcellion in nothing but a dirt-stained loincloth. Approaching Rico, the Circumcellion threw himself against his large chest, violently flailing his arms and raking his nails across Rico’s exposed neck. With a look of disgust, Rico coldcocked him square in the mouth, and the spindly Circumcellion fell to the ground like a sack of rocks. More Circumcellions pushed in on Rico.

  “This is going to get out of control very quickly,” Grigor said.

  Seeming not to hear him, Charley looked up into the sky. “They don’t really even care who they fight, but it would sure be nice if they were engaged with the Meritorium Honor Guard in the arena, and not us,” Charley mused.

  “Clearly, we aren’t in the arena yet,” Orson said, looking from Charley back to Rico, now fighting his way almost mechanically through a pack of rapturous Circumcellions. “And we might not even make it in to the arena at this rate.”

  Hank looked at Charley, eyes bright. “What are you thinking?”

  “I was—” Charley stopped. As the last of the Circumcellions was herded into the pen, Charley saw an Honor Guard hurry along a straggler with a swift kick in the back.

  “You were what?”

  Charley laughed uproariously; suddenly, he knew what to do.

  “Umm.” Hank looked from Orson to Grigor, his eyes wide.

  “I was—never mind. I have an idea.” He looked at Grigor. “Do you think you could get me the armor from one of those guards?” Charley pointed to the men that strolled along the interior of the pen.

  Grigor glanced at Orson, who shrugged in return. “Sure.”

  “Quietly,” Charley said. “It has to be quietly.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “And quickly.” Charley paused. “And get a helmet with one of those pull-down visors. I need it to fully cover my face.”

  Orson snorted. “Anything else, Your Highness?”

  “No, thank you,” Charley said, distracted.

  Orson rolled his eyes. “Give us a few minutes.” He whispered something to Grigor and, along with Hank, the three of them sauntered toward the fence.

  Charley continued in the direction of the Circumcellions, wanting to get close enough to hear above the shouts. In addition to the altercation between them and Rico, there were other angry yells that rose above the overall din. Not wanting to be seen, Charley melted into a crowd of Low Scores walking toward the new additions, curious to see what all of the ruckus was about.

  He knew the next few minutes could be a very combustible mix. If he didn’t do something to calm things down, and soon, they might not even make it into the arena to face the czar.

  Drawing up closer, he realized that what he thought was angry shouting was in fact some kind of preaching. Charley snorted quietly: the two things could sometimes sound so similar, almost as if the preachers who ranted and raved about hell actually wanted their audience to go there.

  Peering over the shoulder of a tall, lanky boy, Charley saw that the preacher was the same spindly-legged old man they had encountered outside the city limits.

  He had survived, and now his voice boomed out with the same fervor. “Woe! Woe to those who are at ease in Meritorium—the notable men and women—those who feel secure in their iniquity. Woe to those who lie on beds of ivory and stretch themselves out on their couches.” He reached his bony arms wide, gesturing to the Low Scores tentatively drawing closer. “Woe to those who devour lambs from the flock.”

  Charley thought back to the crowd in the arena: their flagons of wine sloshing, soon to stain their teeth red, and their ravenous screams for violence against the innocent. His eyes narrowed. Maybe some things were worthy of a
little angry shouting.

  “Woe to those who have turned justice into poison, the fruit of righteousness into wormwood.” Spittle flecked his beard, and he bobbed his head up and down in time to the fevered pitch of his jeremiad. “The Lord God has sworn by himself that he abhors the pride of those who sit in lofty places.” He turned in the direction of the amphitheater, shaking both fists in the air, head lifted to the heavens.

  As one, Circumcellions and Low Scores alike followed his gaze, almost in a trance. Such was the power of the prophet’s oration, even Charley found himself turning toward the silhouette of the amphitheater, shrouded with an early-morning fog and rising like ancient stone jaws.

  “Behold, the Lord God commands the great house shall be struck down into fragments, and the little house into bits.” He lowered his fists and slowly turned to face those in the pen. “For behold, I will raise up against the evildoers a great nation.”

  The crowd murmured in agreement.

  Rico and his cousins pushed their way past a group of Circumcellions who had jostled into the Low Scores’ personal space. They seemed to be contemplating whether this was their foreordained time for martyrdom. With the spell now broken, tension crackled in the air.

  Hank ran up, breathing hard. “We got the armor. Grigor and Orson have it right over there.” Charley turned to see Hank gesturing behind him. Wisely, Grigor and Orson stood well back from the fracas, each holding an assemblage of gear for a Meritorium Honor Guard.

  Charley melted back, slipping over to Grigor and Orson. Quickly, he draped the ring-mail armor over his head and wiggled his way into the chain-mail shirt. Grigor helped him with the breastplate, which was slightly too small. Strapping on the protective leg padding, sword belt, and shoulder armor, Charley stood upright. It was a little heavy, and not really sized for his frame, but it was manageable.

  “What exactly are you going to do, Charley?” Hank asked.

  “I only need to stall them for a little while.” Charley tugged on the breastplate shoulder strap. “If I can just keep the Low Scores and the Circumcellions separate for a little longer, then we can all make it into the arena in one piece.”