Won't Back Down: Won't Back Down

by Unknown

  She tried not to think on it too long before she was moving again, eyes open for any other players. She wasn't going to be tracking them down. A blacksmith's daughter she might be, but that didn't make her any kind of warrior. If she could make it through this round without having her mettle tested, so much the better. Daelan wasn't going to look for a fight, not when one would be brought to her all too soon.

  Dying screams sounded from behind a dune and she quickly skirted it, heading instead for what appeared to be a gnarled tree atop a hill to her right. It wouldn't provide any kind of cover, but it might be useful to get the lay of the arena while she had the chance.

  It didn't turn out to be a tree, when she reached it, just a large pole with planks laddering up it, though it would serve the same purpose. A few well-placed boards had her nearly at the top, at least four men high in the air. She still couldn't see the arena floor all the way to the other wall, a large rise of land blocking the view in one direction, something that looked more like a barrier made of overturned carts in the other, but she could see a couple of skirmishes below, as well as a couple of shadows that flitted along the edges.

  Daelan sat on one of the limbs for several long moments, view unimpeded by movement from this high up. A large bull of a woman swung a cleaver around her, leaving trails of darkness in the sand at her feet as Daelan watched. The others were eyeing her warily and seemed hesitant to attack—not when two bodies already lay unmoving nearby, a third limping away. Her gaze was fixed in morbid fascination as one of the shadows darted closer to the limper.

  Before she could see the fallout of the scavenging shadow, an arrow was thunking into the wood close enough to her head to have Daelan jerking back. She glanced around wildly, finally taking in the archer standing atop the wall of the arena in a uniform of the arena guards. He gestured with another nocked arrow toward the ground before looking back at her pointedly, and Daelan wasted no time in scrambling back down to the ground. Death by guard was not how she planned to go out.

  She headed away from the archer and the cleaver woman, eyes darting around in quick bursts as she tried to keep an eye out on every side. Her nerves were on fire, tension trembling up her arms. She tried to shake it out, nervously drawing her mace from her belt and giving it a few test swings to loosen the coil of her muscles. She came over a small rise, a harsh cry breaking the bubble of silence around her before she'd even had a chance to sweep her gaze over the whole basin.

  The roar was the only reason she got the mace up in time, stopping a long knife less than a foot from her face. The man was dirty. A line of blood was dripping from a cut in his forehead, and Daelan didn't think he'd been among her cellmates the night before. The clash of his knife against the shaft of her mace sent a shock through Daelan, but her arms held, and with a heave, she pushed him away enough to get her feet under her properly. She'd picked up some of the basics of fighting from watching the men in town sparring and had helped her father break up tavern fights for years. She might never have seen combat, but she wasn't totally helpless.

  This fact seemed to be lost on her opponent—or maybe he, himself, didn't know better—that she'd settled into something close to a proper fighting stance. He threw himself directly at her, knife raised above his head. She didn't try anything fancy—now certainly wasn't the time—and slid out of his way at the last minute, bringing her mace around so the heavy end would catch him smack in the middle of his chest. He let out a wheezing grunt, dropping his knife at the unexpected blow, and curling forward as he struggled to keep his feet.

  Daelan didn't hesitate. She didn't even think about it as she moved forward, feet carrying her of their own volition. Her hands were steady as she raised the mace, swinging it with precision at the man before her. She didn't flinch as his skull seemed to bend, for just a moment, before cracking under the pressure and caving in on the side, a high whine escaping the man as he crumpled to the ground. His eyes were wide with surprise, though his expression drooped on one side. Daelan didn't have to step closer to know he wouldn't be getting up.

  She backed up, mace falling to her side. Her hands were numb, and it was only slowly that sound returned to her, finally breaking through the pounding of her heart in her ears. Daelan realized she was heaving only as the buzzing in her ears solidified into the sound of the fanfare blaring again, signaling the end of this round. For better or worse, Daelan had survived the first round.

  *~*~*

  Daelan wasn't sure how she found a way out of the arena. She was almost certain it wasn't the same way she'd come into the arena, but somehow she found herself passing by the same cells that she'd been led from that morning, before being deposited in one, separated completely from her previous cellmates. She couldn't figure out why she was alone in a cell, though at least some of her fellows seemed to recognize the reason.

  Zeke was leaning against the bars at the edge closest to her cell, a smirk on his face despite a black eye swelling up half his face. "Got yerself a patron, huh? Blacksmith's daughter's full o'surprises."

  The bars were cold as she pressed against them, but Zeke had been willing to give her advice before, so he might be willing to explain things to her. She shook her head in confusion. "Patron?"

  The look he gave her was one of pure disbelief before it shifted to something softer. "Ye're from aways, ain't ye?" At her slow nod, he continued. "Patrons give ye things to help in the 'rena. Nice weapons, yer own cell, things. Ye pay 'em back. If ye live, o' course. If not…" He shrugged.

  "How… how do you pay them back?" she asked worriedly. She was already in here because she and her father hadn't been able to pay their taxes. How exactly could she possibly repay any patron?

  Something like a leer crossed Zeke's face, and it was clear what he was going to say, but before he could get anything out, a guard was stepping close and unlocking her cell door without bothering to look at her too closely. "Daelan Black, follow me. You will clean in the outer room before being taken to your patron. Remember that they are the reason you are still alive." This declaration was without intonation, as though it was a line he'd learned by rote to repeat in these instances.

  Daelan's gaze snapped to Zeke in a panic. "What do I do?" she whispered urgently, trying not to look like she was delaying.

  Zeke tipped his head in the direction of the hall. "Best keep yer patron happy."

  *~*~*

  Her cleaning was superficial at best, all she could manage with the pump they'd led her to. She'd been provided with a clean undershirt and pants, a seeming luxury she would not be complaining about. Her leather jerkin went back on over that. They hadn't been allowed to keep their weapons after coming out of the arena.

  Daelan didn't bother trying to remember their path through dimly lit hallways, sure that whenever her patron was through with her she'd be led back to her cell. Hopefully, anyway. There were only so many types of people she could imagine sponsoring someone in these Games, and none of them were the type to whom she'd want to be indebted. There were even fewer ways she could think to repay that debt.

  The lighting in the hallway they finally stopped in was better than any of that in the corridors previously, and the guard rapped sharply on one of the doors before opening it and all but shoving Daelan through. He closed it again behind her with a click that echoed in her ears. She had a single moment of breathless, unseeing panic far worse than she'd faced in the arena before a high, clear voice broke through.

  "Dae!"

  Before Daelan could even get her hands up—though she couldn't tell whether in defense or not—a warm, solid weight was crashing into her, chestnut curls falling in a curtain around her as she was tucked close under a chin. She breathed in the soft scent of rosemary, breathing out, "Beatrice."

  After several long moments, Beatrice pulled back, cheeks shining damply in the light. "I am so sorry, Daelan. By the time Uncle heard, there was nothing we could do. The kingdom will not let debtors be bought out before the Games. The most we could do was becom
e your patrons."

  Daelan wanted to pull her close in another hug, but Beatrice was wearing fine court clothing, and she was suddenly aware of how dirty she was despite the clean articles she'd been given. She also couldn't think of anything to say. "I am sorry I was not there to meet you at the pond."

  Beatrice made a sound that was not quite a laugh, tugging Daelan gently toward a plush lounge. "Only you would possibly apologize for a thing like that. Come here."

  Without protest, Daelan let herself be nudged down until she was sprawled over most of the chaise, somehow ending up with her head in Beatrice's lap. Beatrice ran soft fingers over her temples, pushing her hair back from her face. "Have you slept at all since they took you from home, Dae?"

  Daelan shook her head minutely, trying not to dislodge the fingers tracing down over her nose. "Caught a few hours last night. Zeke di'n't kill me," she murmured, already slipping into a light doze, the stress and exhaustion of the last couple of days finally catching up with her.

  Fingers dragged over her eyelids gently, holding for a moment before Daelan obediently kept her eyes closed. "Sleep, Dae. I shall watch over you until you wake." Black tendrils of unconsciousness were already curling up and around Daelan as Beatrice leaned down to kiss her forehead. "Sleep well, my dear," she whispered.

  *~*~*

  Daelan had managed a few hours of sleep with her head in Beatrice's lap before the guard forced her out. Beatrice's eyes were shiny with unshed tears as she wrapped herself around Daelan in a long hug. The guard had leered something awful on the walk back to her cell but remained thankfully silent. Zeke had been propped up in the same corner against the bars, eyes assessing her as she was led by, whatever he saw earning her a tired smirk as he settled back. She wanted to tell him it hadn't been like that, but it didn't seem worth it as her cell door clanked shut behind her, especially since she thought she maybe wouldn't have minded if it had been.

  The next two days brought only long hours of waiting. The cells were too well insulated from the arena to hear even the barest sounds of the crowd. Some other herds of prisoners were being thinned while they slept and ate the thin gruel shoved at them twice a day. Daelan's gruel came with an extra hunk of stale bread, and she avoided the eyes of her fellow prisoners as she laid into the meager feast sponsored by Beatrice and her uncle.

  The third day was the big day, and she could see the anxious excitement that took over the guards and had them nearly vibrating in place. There was a bleakness in the eyes of most of the prisoners down here, and she wondered if it was reflected in her own. She rather thought it wasn't.

  She should be nervous, maybe. Or scared. Definitely she should be feeling something other than the anticipation curling in her gut and a buzzing under her skin, like an itch she couldn't scratch. Despite the confines of the cell, Daelan had limbered up as much as possible. Swinging the mace would be easier once she was warmed up.

  The thundering of her heart drowned out all other sounds, but there was nothing she needed to hear. They were led through the same hallways as last time, weapons handed out just the same. The mace felt familiar in her hand this time, a comforting presence at her side. A few of her fellow prisoners edged away warily as she swung it from hand to hand, reacquainting herself with its heft.

  The crowd had already faded to background noise, Daelan's focus narrowing to dragging even breaths in and out, waiting for the door to drop and the arena to open before her. She knew what to do this time, knew how she could make it through alive. She would go in moving and keep moving, avoiding the skirmishes that were likely to rise up and the scavenging shadows that inevitably picked off the wounded. If she was lucky—if this worked—she might not have to engage at all. If not…

  Daelan took a moment to wonder what it said about her that she'd given this thought but decided it was irrelevant in the end. If this didn't work, it wasn't the first blood she'd have on her hands. And this time she knew exactly what she was capable of. At the end of it all, she might not be proud of the things she had done, but hopefully she'd be alive.

  She almost missed the door lowering. Only the jostling from the others spurred her forward and out. She tore away in the opposite direction from last time, eyes on the other prisoners scattering around her. Zeke appeared to peel off in the same direction as her, but she couldn't be sure, and in the next moment she lost sight of him.

  The fanfare echoed from far away when it finally sounded, but Daelan was moving, eyes combing every shift around her. The barrier of carts almost startled her, rising before her suddenly as she crested a hill. There was a skirmish below her already in progress and she backed away, suddenly hyperaware of the shadows surrounding her. Nothing so much as twitched out at her though, and she found herself circling around that valley.

  It might have been minutes, or it might have been hours that Daelan moved across the sand, she didn't know. Everything had faded back, and Daelan could no longer remember where the sun had been when they came out or which way the shadows had cast.

  It was shock that froze Daelan in her tracks, sudden recognition dragging her eyes to one of the fallen bodies she'd been skirting around without thinking. Zeke lay sprawled out on the sand, a dark circle around him where blood had soaked in. A heaviness settled over her. They hadn't been friends, had barely been acquainted, but he had offered her advice when she hadn't anything else to go on. There hadn't been anything in it for him—likely wouldn't have been even if they'd both managed to survive the Games—but he'd reached out when she hadn't even known she was sinking.

  Daelan crouched next to him, shivering as she realized he was still warm. Steeling herself, she reached out, gently lowering his eyelids, then tugged his limbs into a semblance of repose. His bones were too thin under her fingers as she folded his hands across his chest. It wasn't much, but it was the best she could manage without making a target of herself.

  She moved on after that, but she'd lost her detachment. Now too aware to drown out the crowd in her head, or the screams occasionally heard carrying over the dunes. It was the sound of one of those shrieks, high and too young, that had Daelan moving into the next valley without thought.

  A ham fisted man was grappling with a young boy just at the bottom of the valley, pulling the boy back toward him by an ankle. He was struggling to get the other ankle into his control, his split lip likely caused by the free foot. The boy shrieked again, heaving with everything he had, but Daelan highly doubted he had even come into his manhood while the man was nearly thrice his size.

  It took only a moment for Daelan to spring into action. She wouldn't have been able to provide an explanation for why she did it. Logically, she knew saving the kid might only lead to him turning on her. It put her against a man at least twice her own size, who hadn't even engaged her yet. This was borrowing trouble where previously there was none.

  She knew that rationally and might have even known it in that moment. There was an echo in the back of her head though. Ye never know how things'll pan. It was enough to propel her forward, mace clenched in her hand.

  The man didn't see her until she was mere steps away, too preoccupied with the boy still flailing to get away to notice his surroundings. He looked up just in time for her mace to swing forward, catching him under the jaw and snapping his head back, the angle looking agonizing and unnatural. There was a sickening crunch that Daelan could feel through the shaft of her weapon, and she wondered if that feeling would haunt her nightmares as the man slumped forward toward the ground, blood pooling in a morbid halo around his head where he lay.

  Daelan didn't stop to check the man, only watched to ensure that the boy untangled himself from muscled arms and fingers still clenched tight around his ankle. Once he was up and scurrying away with a barely noticeable limp, she took off away from him, putting distance between herself and another too still body laid out by her mace.

  Time didn't seem to pass after that, not that she could tell. She wasn't sure how long this round would go for, only knew
that it was the last. Did they decide when to end it based on how long the games had lasted or how many prisoners were still standing? It hadn't been explained before they'd been sent out there. Not much had been explained, really, beyond the certain knowledge that if they heard the second fanfare their debt to the kingdom was paid. No one had bothered to explain how it was determined or how many would live to see their debt repaid. She wondered who really knew.

  A figure caught her eye and she slowed. The cleaver-wielding bull woman still stood once again ringed by dark sand. Though Daelan couldn't see anything that indicated it was the woman's own. As she watched, a man charged the woman, sword held high above his head. Daelan could see from here it wouldn't work, but she almost let out a noise of surprise when sword met cleaver, and the man was left holding little more than a decorative hilt. The woman had drawn her cleaver across his throat before he had a chance to register his own surprise.

  Daelan was jerked out of her gawking by the second fanfare. She had half a moment to wonder if cleaver woman's patron would know what to do with her in their debt before the roar of the crowd drowned out even her own thoughts and realization hit.

  Somehow, she had survived the Games.

  *~*~*

  Daelan's ears were still ringing as she was led out of the arena for the final time. It wasn't in the direction of the cells this time, she didn't think. In all honesty, she would hardly be able to tell if they did take her that way, too overwhelmed to be properly aware of what was going on.

  The room they led her to was sparsely furnished, a couple of high-backed chairs collected around a table that was laid out with a simple spread. Daelan stood in the middle of the room uncertainly, mace still hooked into her belt, dust and blood from the arena still coating her skin in places. She could feel something drip down the side of her face to her neck, but she didn't know whether it was blood or sweat. In the end, she didn't much care.