Riot

by Tillie Cole

  When I neared the end of the tunnel, I concentrated on the pit. I could see a huge man circling the sand, a spear in each fist. My lips curled up in excitement. This male actually looked like he could contend.

  We would see.

  Picking up speed, I burst through the mouth of the tunnel and charged at the male now standing at the center of the pit. Obviously expecting me to act quickly, the male stuck out his spear. My right Kindjal immediately struck the wooden handle, splintering the weapon in two. The blurred calls from the crowd rose in volume as I plunged my blade straight through the heart of my opponent. As I forced my blade farther into his flesh, I watched his eyes widen and blood spill from his mouth.

  Leaning back, I lifted my foot and pushed against his chest, forcing his lifeless corpse off my blade. As he dropped to the floor, the crowd cheered. I towered over the dead male, breathing faster but barely having even broken a sweat.

  Then the crowd grew silent. I turned to face Master’s seat. The moment I looked up at him in the stands, I could see the rage simmering in his eyes. Of course, his always perfect public persona remained firmly in place. But I knew better. Inside, Master was erupting at my blatant disrespect of his orders.

  Then, as Master stood to address me, my eyes moved to the female sitting on the floor at his feet. I swallowed hard. It was the High Mona.

  The most beautiful female I had ever seen.

  “901,” Master’s firm voice suddenly called out, snapping me from staring at the mona dressed in blue, whose eyes were focused on the floor. “Another victory,” Master complimented. But I caught the venom in his words. I fought back a satisfied smirk.

  As Master was about to speak again, a male sitting a few seats to his left stated coldly, “You told me this match would be a good fight. Your animal just slaughtered mine in ten seconds flat.” The male stared Master right in the eye. He continued, “You had seen my fighter; therefore, you knew his skill level.” The male then looked to me and curled his lips. “This fighter far exceeded him in skill, which leads me to question your honor, Arziani.”

  At that, the crowd began talking in hushed whispers. Arziani’s cheek twitched, betraying his rage at being questioned in his own house. No one questioned Arziani in this arena. So whoever this male was, he must have been important enough for Master not to order his immediate execution.

  Master’s anger didn’t show; instead a wide smile spread on his lips and he assured, “I promise you this was an even match. But I take your point, 901 is a highly exceptional fighter.” He paused, then his livid gaze fell on me. “Perhaps even the best fighter my empire boasts.” His head tipped to the side. The anger that lay in his eyes gradually faded.

  His hand dropped to his side. As my eyes followed the action, he ran his hands through the High Mona’s dark hair. The mona stiffened as he did so, and I had to work hard to restrain a sudden urge to rip his arm off.

  I felt my teeth grind together of their own accord. Before I showed my anger toward Master, I masked my expression. But as I refocused on him, I caught him watching me closely, very closely. My stomach sank as his lips hooked into a brief smirk. Then, as if nothing had transpired between us, he held out his hands to the crowd and announced, “To show that my pit isn’t rigged, I shall stage a death-match tournament, the likes of which you have never seen before. It will be the greatest of challenges, pitting together my empire’s skilled and most ruthless killers. No rules, no restrictions—any weapon of choice, but no guns, of course.” The crowd cheered Master’s turn of phrase. “Any man can fight.” Master nodded in excitement and looked directly at me. He continued, “Then we shall truly see who is the best death-match warrior of all. We shall call on the champions from each of the gulags”—he turned to the male who had complained and added—“and my associates, that would be you, are free to enter whomever they wish.”

  The male whose fighter I had just slain didn’t react, save to curtly nod his head. “Deal,” he replied, then flicked his wrist for his entourage to follow him out of the stands surrounding the pit.

  Master reached down and took hold of the mona’s arm. He pulled her to her feet, and without dismissing me as protocol demanded, he moved in for a kiss. The mona submitted, as did they all. But as I watched Master’s eyes open and stare at me without breaking from her mouth, scalding fire traveled through my already twitching muscles.

  When he pulled back, he dragged the mona away from the stands, flicking his wrist my way, my signal to leave the pit. Turning on my heel, I jogged to the tunnel and ran all the way to my cell. Just as I was about to reach the door, Master walked through a side door to meet me. Alone. He stopped directly in front of me.

  He glared. I could see his intense hatred of me in every tense muscle under his suit. I stood fully upright, glaring right back at him, very obviously standing my ground. His jaw clenched. “You disobeyed a direct order,” he hissed coldly.

  I didn’t flinch. I didn’t react. I didn’t do shit.

  He stepped closer. “You have fucked me over for the very last time, 901. I have needed you these past few years, and you’ve known it. You wouldn’t dare act this way if you didn’t know. You are unrivaled here in the Blood Pit, that’s beyond question. And now you have forced my hand with this fucking Ultimate Death Match.” Then he smiled, his head tipping to the side. “But now that I’ve calmed down, the more I think about it, the more it feels … right.” He paused, then shrugged. “Think of all the gulag champions, brought to Georgia, fighting in my Blood Pit. Think of the money that will be made from them ripping one another apart.”

  His eyes flared and he inched closer. His warm breath washed over me, then he added, “Among the gulag champions, or my business associate’s own fighters, there may be one that can defeat you.” His cheek twitched. “Imagine that? Imagine finding a diamond in the rough, one that is stronger than you, quicker than you, more skilled.” He stepped even closer. “One that is obedient, bends to my will. Not one that is ungrateful and rebellious.” My anger boiled. Ungrateful.

  As if reading my mind, he held out his arms and said, “I’ve made you into what you are: a fighter no one can match. I’ve given you this life, a warrior for the modern age. In this place, to the spectators I bring in, you are a champion.” He paused, then added, “You are a god.” He dropped his arms, his face switching back to a livid expression. “I gave you it. And this is how you repay me?”

  I bit my tongue, forcing myself not to snarl that I bore no gratitude whatsoever to my master for condemning me to this hellish life. That I bore no gratitude for being drugged and forced to fight as a kid. That I bore no fucking gratitude to the male who had bestowed on me a life of solitude, where having feelings toward someone else made you weak.

  No gratitude, only red-hot hatred.

  So I welcomed this tournament. Maybe Master would bring me a fighter to finally end this life for me, save me from being Master’s pet. But I wouldn’t go easily, and that was his problem. My honor was all I had left, the only thing he could take away. I had fought and killed hundreds upon hundreds of opponents—so many I had lost count. But not once had any of them come close to ending me.

  Master stepped back at my silence and laughed. “You think you can beat them all, 901? Is that why you disobey my every order, because you don’t fear death? You really believe you’re unbeatable.”

  My hands tightened on the handles of my Kindjals. Master noticed and another laugh burst from his lips. “You do. You really believe you can’t be beaten, do you?”

  I lowered my eyes to focus on the ground. When Master didn’t speak, I raised them. I detected something in his gaze. Inhaling, he folded his arms and declared, “Then you’ve just raised the stakes.”

  I fought a frown at what he meant. But Master didn’t say anything else. Instead he clicked his fingers at a nearby guard. My cell door was opened and I was locked inside.

  I watched Master turn on his heel and leave the champions’ quarter with a sadistic smile on his face.
As much as I tried, I couldn’t help but wonder what that smile had in store for me.

  * * *

  My skin dripped with sweat as I returned from sparring in the training pit. As I reached my cell door, a loud roar came from the cell opposite my own. I glanced that way as a louder, more pained roar ricocheted off the dank stone walls.

  The roars were relentless. Scream after scream, then hollow thuds. I took a step in that direction, then another, stopping outside the cell next door to where the screams were coming from.

  Suddenly, 667, a fellow champion, came to his barred door. I didn’t turn his way. I never spoke to him, though he always tried to speak to me. As per Blood Pit rules, the top champions never fought one another. Although we were all Master’s “champions,” I had gained more kills, was broader and taller than 667. The other one,140, was no match for me, either. They were all skilled and vicious in combat, but we all knew that if Master was ever to pit us against one another, I would slaughter them all.

  Master needed champions to pull in bigger numbers for championship matches. He had never had only one “champion.” At least he hadn’t before. I heard rumors from the trainers as I sparred that Master’s upcoming tournament wanted to find only one. The truest warrior of all.

  The champion of all champions.

  Suddenly, 140 charged his cell door, his sheer bulk almost taking down the heavy iron bars. 667 shook his head. “Fuck,” he hissed.

  This time, wanting to know why the warrior was acting strangely, I asked, “What happened?”

  667’s eyebrows rose in surprise as I spoke. As 140 charged his cell once again, I growled, “Answer me!”

  667 wrapped his hands around the bars and said, “The Wraiths took his mona.”

  140 roared out in pain and began tearing up his cell, lifting the mattress from the floor to throw it across the room.

  “Took her?” I questioned.

  667’s face dropped. Sighing, he replied, “Took her from his cell, shut his door, and slit her throat in front of him.”

  My eyes dipped to inspect the dark stone ground before 140’s cell. My eyes narrowed in concentration, struggling to focus in the half-light of the dim wall lamp. But then I saw it—freshly spilled blood.

  As 140’s huge body slumped to the ground, I leaned against the cell door, a fire ignited within me. “Master,” I hissed. 667 nodded. “Why?” I questioned, never taking my eyes off 140, his blank and torn face now staring lifelessly at the blood splashed before him, just out of reach.

  “He disobeyed,” 667 informed. “He killed a guard. The guard had tried to fuck his mona while he trained. 140 broke the guard’s neck when he returned before he could take her.” 667’s hands tightened on the bars. “When another Wraith informed Master, Master ordered his mona to die.” 667 paused, then said, “The guard that killed her made it slow and painful. He was seeking revenge for the slain guard.”

  I watched 140. His skin was pale and his hands were shaking. Worst of all was the look in his eyes. 140 was gone. He was broken. He wouldn’t survive his next match. This male was already dead.

  “She made him weak,” I said, and turned my back to walk to my cell.

  “She was his mona!” 667 bit at me.

  I stopped and looked back over my shoulder. “She was his weakness. Master thrives off weakness. The fool offered his demise on a plate.”

  “She was his heart,” 667 said with even more bite. “Just as my mona is mine.”

  Cracking my neck, my bones clicking, I slowly faced him. Holding out my Kindjal toward where he stood, I said, “And, like him”—I pointed my blade to 140’s broken, slumped form—“she too will be your downfall.”

  I urged my feet to walk, when 667 shouted, “I would rather die knowing my mona’s touch and comfort than to live a long life like you will. Cold and alone in your cell. Never knowing anything but blood and death and pain.”

  This time I didn’t stop. I kept walking until I was in my cell and a guard slammed the door shut. But even when the guard had walked away, I remained rooted to the spot, my Kindjals still in my iron-tight grip.

  I would rather die knowing my mona’s touch and comfort than to live a long life like you will. Cold and alone in your cell. Never knowing anything but blood and death and pain.

  667’s words circled my mind. They jabbed at my brain like the sharpest of knives. The coldness of my cell lashed at my cooling skin. Dropping the blades, I slumped to the mattress on the floor. As I stared forward at the dark stone walls, against my will, the face of Master’s High Mona swam into view.

  I tried to chase this vision away, but 667’s words prevented me. Her dark hair and blue eyes, her perfect body, and how she looked in her dresses.

  Then, as if it were real life, I saw her standing before me, holding out her hand. But just as I went to reach for that hand, a Wraith stepped behind her, knife in his hand. Before I could react, he struck at her throat. The mona’s pretty eyes widened with shock. She dropped to the ground in front of me, life fading quickly with the outflow of her blood.

  Shaking my head, I forced myself to lie back on my bed, still trying to push the image from my head.

  Because wanting her would make me weak.

  I wouldn’t ever give my heart to another. Doing that only brought pain.

  I wouldn’t be weak. I refused.

  I fell asleep still picturing pooled blood at my feet. Pooled blood and 140’s lifeless, vacant eyes.

  5

  152

  I woke with a groan. As my eyes opened, I tried to move my numb arms and legs, but I couldn’t. As I tried again, I panicked. A cry left my lips, as I glanced up to my arms and saw them secured to the bedpost with rope.

  Focusing my attention on my feet, I saw that the same ropes were fastened around my ankles. Tears blurred my vision as I looked to the spot beside me in bed. It was empty. I stared at the bloodied linen, then at my stomach and thighs. I fought back sickness. My skin was peppered with bruises.

  Closing my eyes, I thought back to last night. Master had arrived and injected my arm. I pushed through the light fog the drug brought with it to remember what he had done. Master had been rough.

  Master had many sides to his personality. And last night saw him at his most wicked. From the moment he had arrived, I remembered seeing his hard eyes. He walked to me, shedding his clothes. He’d grabbed my arm and bruised my lips as he crashed his mouth to mine. But this kiss wasn’t gentle, nor was it softly petting as he sometimes gave me. No, this kiss was vicious and cruel. As was the rest of our night together.

  The tears from my eyes ran over my cheeks as I thought back to him tying me to the posts until I couldn’t move. I remembered him placing himself between my thighs and slamming inside me, over and over, with brutal thrusts. His hands had nipped and dug into my skin, but the drug made me crave him more. And Master gave it to me. Gave me his seed over and over, hard and harder until he made me bleed. Until I couldn’t take any more.

  He was punishing me.

  Punishing me for what? I didn’t know.

  Then he left. Different from all our other nights together, he hadn’t forced me into his arms so he could fall asleep with his cheek upon my breast. Instead he had left me tied up to the bed, in pain, unclean.

  He’d left without so much as a backward glance.

  Fear held me captive as I thought of the previous High Mona. I wondered what she had done to deserve her death. I was terrified that I had done something similar. Though what? I had no idea.

  I shifted on the mattress, trying to find some relief from the pain, when the door to my room opened. My eyes darted to whoever was there. I prayed it wasn’t Master or, worse, a guard to take me away.

  My heart beat fast, then strong relief surged through me when I saw my chiri enter. When she shut the door, her eyes searched the room for me. When she saw me on the bed, restrained, her dark eyes flared. Then I could see shock and sympathy in her stare.

  The chiri rushed to where I lay, an
d her hands hovered over the ropes. “Miss,” she whispered when she saw the blood and welts.

  Her head moved as she scanned the room. She ran into the washroom, then returned with a short sharp blade. In silence, the chiri began to cut my ties.

  I tried to hold back the cries of pain, but even the slightest movement of the rope at my wrists and ankles caused a searing blast of pain to rip through my body.

  “Sorry, miss,” the chiri said, as she tried to quickly and efficiently remove my restraints.

  One by one, the ropes fell away. As they did, my numb limbs fell lifelessly to the mattress. When all were removed, the chiri began massaging my arms and legs, bringing the blood back to my muscles. I stifled a cry as they filled with what felt like an onslaught of needles.

  “It will help eventually, miss,” the chiri soothed. I nodded, telling her I understood. For several minutes, I let her massage my limbs until, though weakened, they returned to something near normal.

  When the chiri withdrew her hands, she slid from the bed and crossed the room to fill the large sunken tub on the other side of the chamber. Unmoving, I watched her go about her work. I watched her long, ill-fitting gray dress hang loosely on her starved frame. I stared at her scar.

  “I’ll get you out of here.” I started as the echo of a voice spoke into my ear. Wanting to hear more, I shut my eyes and tried to recall the voice. The scar, I thought. The scar had made the voice speak? Thinking of the chiri’s scar, I prayed the voice would return.

  “I promise. I won’t stop until I find a way from this hell.” My heart raced as the voice returned, this time with greater clarity and strength.

  I stared at the male hovering over me. I lay in a corner of a dark cell, and I smiled. “I know you will. I trust you. I believe in you.”

  My weak, shaking hand lifted to stroke the male’s face, and he sucked in a deep breath. His bright blue eyes closed at my touch. My stomach rolled when a single tear fell from the corner of his eye.