Bloodfall Arena

by J. A. Ludwig

  Several of Blue Eyes’ men cheer and rush to the jars sitting by the well. They open them and throw the contents on the closest houses. An acrid smell fills the air and men carry burning torches towards the drenched houses. The villagers plead for mercy and some try to stop the men. But others in armor close in on the large group, pulling shackles from their belts.

  They grab the women and children first, attacking any men who try to stop them. One waves his flame at the villagers, threatening to set them alight. Lane is dragged from behind the log pile.

  Another man kicks Mircien’s severed head into the crowded villagers, creating an explosion of screams. The head lands in front of Iria and many of the armored men laugh. Iria stares at the head sitting before him, his body freezing.

  “No!” Aya grabs Blue Eyes’ arm. “Please! I said I’d go with you! Spare them, please!”

  Blue Eyes holds his hand up, slowing the men with torches. They watch their leader, awaiting the order to continue. The others keep shackling villagers, excitedly mocking them.

  “Why should I? They had their chance to save themselves, but they chose to remain silent.” He leans close to her ear. “And you seriously injured one of my men. I can’t allow that to pass without proper restitution.”

  “You killed the head of our village.”

  “Yes. But now that man you injured is a liability to my men and, by extension, my business. I’ll need more bodies to sell to make up for it.”

  “If you touch them, I won’t go with you.”

  Blue Eyes grabs both of her arms, tightly, and pulls her closer. “And how will you stop me?”

  Anger rushes through her and she tries to pull away. She feels her magic answer her rage and flow from her arms into his. Blue Eyes quickly releases her, taking two quick steps back.

  Aya raises her dagger, the tip of the blade aimed at the man. “I’ll kill you.”

  Hesitating, Blue Eyes glances down at his hands. He opens and closes them, smiling. “I highly doubt that.”

  “I injured your man.”

  “You caught him by surprise. And you didn’t kill him.”

  Aya quickly glances at Iria. He’s now picked up the head and wrapped it in the bloody cloth. He cradles it with tears in his eyes, heartbroken.

  Returning her gaze to Blue Eyes, she places the blade at her throat. “Then I’ll kill myself.”

  Several villagers protest loudly, moving towards Aya. Blue Eyes silences them with a glare then turns back to her. “You’re bluffing.”

  She presses the blade against her throat, drawing blood. “Can you afford to lose a magic user you threatened an entire village for?” Her lip quivers before adding, “And killed for?”

  Blue Eyes’ hesitation answers her. He orders his men to stop, but several don’t hear him. Two mock Iria’s crying, trying to take Mircien’s head from his arms.

  Storming up to the two men, Blue Eyes grabs one by the collar and throws him at the other, knocking both to the ground. “I ordered you to stop!”

  The two men stare at him confused. They quickly climb back to their feet and move away from their leader.

  “Enough!” Blue Eyes’ booming voice freezes the rest of his men. “We’re leaving.”

  The armored men shout angrily in disagreement.

  “Now!” Blue Eyes grabs one of the now empty jars and throws it at the thickest gathering of his men. The shattering jar silences them. They grumble as they throw the burning torches down the well and unshackle the villagers.

  Aya lowers the dagger from her throat and Blue Eyes grabs it forcefully from her hand. He ties it to his belt, grabs her arm, and drags her behind him. “No goodbyes.”

  They pass the two men carrying the wounded man. He’s fallen unconscious from the pain of his broken rib and dislocated knee. Blood drips from the gouge in his hand to the ground.

  “Leave him,” Blue Eyes orders.

  The two men gape at him, and one readies to argue. Seeing their hesitation, Blue Eyes steps in front of them. Faster than Aya can see, he draws his sword and stabs the wounded man in the chest. He jerks before falling limp, blood pouring from the fresh wound as Blue Eyes pulls his blade free.

  “I said leave him. He’s weak.” Blue Eyes waves his sword at the two men. “Are you two weak as well?”

  The two immediately drop the body to the ground and follow the rest of the armored men. Blue Eyes sheathes his sword and continues leading Aya away.

  As the men in black armor leave, the villagers come to life. Most rush to douse the last of the fires engulfing their homes while a few gather around Mircien’s body. Iria slowly stands, still holding the elder’s head in his arms. He turns away from those who try to help him, and disappears into Mircien’s house.

  The men of the village grab the body of the dead man and pull it out of sight, many throwing stones or kicking the body as it passes. Others weep over Mircien’s body, waiting for the men to take it away.

  The children, including Petri, gather together and watch as she’s taken away, tears in their eyes.

  Chapter 8

  “Take her.” Blue Eyes passes Aya to the nearest man, quickening his pace to reach the head of the group and lead them out of the village.

  The man pulls out shackles, the chains echoing in Aya’s ears. Flashes of her vision fill her and her heart pounds loudly in her chest. She resists the urge to push the man away as the cold metal is secured to her wrists.

  As the group travels north, three more men join them from hiding spots inside the trees. Judging from the light leather armor and the bows and arrows slung on their backs, Aya guesses they were scouts or back-up in case her village proved too much for the fifteen men.

  The air cools and Aya tastes dampness in the air. The sound of rushing water precedes the Garen River’s appearance through the trees, blocking their path. The group changes course, following the water upriver. Some of the men stop to drink, then quickly catch up to the group without causing a delay.

  Aya refuses to look at the man holding her, keeping her eyes to the ground or watching the rushing water next to them.

  The sound of the water is comforting, reminding Aya of times she visited the river, swimming for hours, until the sun set, and she rushed home in the dark to be scolded by her parents. After their death, she’d use the river to escape from depressing thoughts. Only to then rush home and be scolded by Mircien or Iria.

  Her chest aches. Mircien’s dead body lies still fresh in her mind. She thinks about the man she injured, attempting to distract herself. She knows her magic somehow helped. It understood her anger and desire to stop the man. It flowed through her and guided her leg to where it would cause the most damage.

  She concentrates on her arm being held by the man in armor and tries to repeat the feeling, but nothing happens. She doesn’t feel her magic flare up and move into him, like it did with Blue Eyes. It hides deep within her, waiting to be called.

  The man in armor notices her gaze on his hand. He pulls her close, the foul stench from his breath making her own breath catch in her throat. “Don’t think of trying anything. We may need you alive, but it doesn’t mean you gotta be in one piece.”

  She turns away, refusing to acknowledge him. She catches sight of Blue Eyes walking ahead, her dagger on his belt. Anger fills her. Is he going to keep it? Is there a way she can convince him to return it?

  Perhaps sensing her eyes on him, Blue Eyes places a hand on the hilt of her dagger. He draws it and stares at the black metal of the blade. He traces its edges with his thumb before waving one of the archers close. They speak in whispers before the man nods and slows his pace.

  “Where’s the sheath for the dagger?” the archer asks, moving next to Aya.

  She stares at him with what she hopes is a blank stare, fearing the pounding of her heart will give her away.

  The Archer grabs her free arm tightly. “You can either hand it over or we can search you.”

  The grip of the man with foul breath tightens with ex
citement and a disgusting chuckle from behind makes her skin crawl.

  “Left boot.”

  He quickly bends down and slides his fingers into her boot. She stiffens at the sudden touch, but the archer easily grabs the sheath, only slowing her pace for a moment.

  Without another word, the man walks back to Blue Eyes and hands the sheath to him. Blue Eyes takes it and slides the black dagger in before tying it to his belt.

  They continue following the river until the sun disappears behind the mountains. The sound of the forest changes as darkness approaches. Birds fall silent and nocturnal insects begin their serenades.

  Blue Eyes stops the group by turning around. “We’ll sleep here and meet the caravan tomorrow. Spread out and keep guard in case any villagers decide to be heroes.”

  The group spreads out and sets up a small perimeter. They cut foliage away to make a clearing and a few gather kindling for a fire.

  The man with foul breath holds Aya, waiting patiently for his orders, and soon Blue Eyes approaches. He waves Foul Breath away, takes her by the arm and leads her to the center of the small camp. He forces her to the ground and sits across from her, leaning back against a tree. His blue eyes look her up and down as though only truly seeing her for the first time.

  “I know I’m probably the last person you want to speak to right now, but you deserve an apology.”

  Aya jerks her head up, staring at him in shock. “You’re right. I don’t want to speak to you.” She turns her head away from him and they sit in silence.

  Was this a trick? Was he trying to lower her guard? How dare he apologize now, after all the things he’s done? Did he truly feel remorse for any of it?

  Still, her curiosity convinces her to eye him cautiously. “Why are you apologizing?”

  “For the death of that old woman—”

  “Mircien. Her name was Mircien,” she interrupts angrily.

  He glances at her with a shrug, but his eyes narrow slightly. “I couldn’t have known that, so watch your tone. And for burning down a nice chunk of your village. Do you not want an apology?”

  “Of course, I do,” she says softly. But I didn’t expect one, she wants to say. The image of Mircien’s head in Iria’s arms fills her with an unforgivable rage. “Murderers tend not to apologize right after the fact. Or ever, actually.”

  Leaning forward, Blue Eyes speaks low, so his words don’t reach the men around them. “I didn’t order the killing. Our caravan has recently gained new members and they were a little excited. I haven’t allowed them a chance to really cut loose, and unfortunately your village released their more...fiery spirits. Normally, we send a small group ahead to attempt negotiations. Less people get hurt that way. But we’re on a strict time limit now.”

  Aya’s face flushes with anger. “And Elder Mircien?”

  “My order was to silence her. I was hoping to stop the annoying prayer she was spouting, knock her unconscious. The idiot with the axe chose to misinterpret the command. Don’t misunderstand, I’m quite capable of killing, but only as a last resort.”

  “All of this for me. Why?”

  “Magic users bring in higher pay, for one. For another, I needed to remind the new members I’m in charge. You’d be surprised how many caravan leaders are killed by their own men. In that, you actually helped me out.”

  She won’t give him the satisfaction of answering. But he continues, regardless.

  “That man you injured was giving me trouble. You saw how poorly he followed my orders. He probably would’ve killed that little boy even if I’d ordered him to stop. You gave me an excuse to get rid of him.” He leans back against the tree, his head angled to the side. “Though truthfully, it’s our own fault. Slave traders hire thugs and killers on purpose, so in the end we get what we deserve.”

  Aya realizes she’s almost laughing, and quickly frowns. She hates herself for allowing him to make her feel at ease, even for a glimmer of a moment. There’s something about him she cannot help but find...likable. But how much of it is his true face?

  “Jaxon Parth,” he says, suddenly. “Since you’ll be traveling with us, you should at least know my name.” His eyes darken and the smile disappears. “But don’t think you’ll be treated any differently than the other slaves. I tell every one of them my name. It’s a courtesy, should they ever choose to seek revenge. You’re not the only magic user we’ve collected. You’re nothing more than a thing for me to sell.”

  Swallowing a large lump in her throat, she finds it strange he can flip so easily from kindness to ruthlessness.

  “What is the Arena?” she asks, afraid of the answer. She remembers Mircien’s shaking voice when she mentioned it.

  His eyebrow raises inquisitively, an amused laugh following. “It’s where the King entertains himself with games.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Jaxon sighs and notices the men in armor close by grimace, two spit on the ground. “Because he is king, and his decree is law.”

  “I didn’t know there was a king. Where does he rule?”

  “You’ve been fortunate. This valley is outside of his self-proclaimed realm—for now. But valuable fighters have been harvested for many years. Your village has always been too poor and far away to merit his notice, but the stories about your magic attracted attention.”

  She wonders about his odd description: self-proclaimed. “My magic isn’t strong. Perhaps the stories you were told were about my parents.”

  “It’s possible. Word takes a long time to travel to us. But I did find you. And if you inherited your magic from them, it will only grow stronger. Sometimes the potential in a magic user is worth more than their current power.”

  Aya lowers her eyes to the ground. Potential? Inside of her? The only thing she can imagine is the illness waiting to grow. That was why Elder Mircien allowed her to learn traditional healing with Iria. So that, if it ever came to that, she might be able to heal herself.

  “The other villages of your valley have been visited by slave traders a number of times. Not enough to fully deplete the supply of magic users, but enough that word spread through the village elders. Including to your own. She knew the risk of keeping you in the village. But apparently, she was ready to die to protect you. Possibly as a promise to your parents?” Jaxon prods.

  Her eyes widen. Mircien knew that her magic put the village in danger? Was that why she worried about Aya living so far away? She couldn’t keep an eye on her magic user?

  Jaxon crosses his arms across his chest and leans his head against the tree. “Get some rest. We’ll join up with the rest of our caravan tomorrow.”

  He closes his eyes, but Aya knows he’s not sleeping. She hears it in the way he breathes. Another odd behavior, feigning sleep to make her comfortable enough to drift off, herself.

  Exhaustion fills her as she carefully lies down on the hard ground, the shackles on her wrists a new, strange feeling. Images of Iria cradling Mircien’s head flash before her closed eyes, bleeding into nightmares replaying the elder’s death.

  Chapter 9

  Rough voices wake her. She panics, forgetting where she is. The cold air and hard ground refresh her memory. The sky barely lights as men put out small campfires and gather their belongings.

  Jaxon stands nearby, still leaning against the same tree. He watches his men with angry eyes. The archer who took Aya’s sheath walks up to him and whispers to him. He hands Jaxon a small bag, the clinking of coins barely heard over the men’s voices and the breaking down of the small camp. Men bury fires with dirt and toss unused foliage across the clearing, blending the camp back into the forest.

  Nodding, the anger fades from his eyes and he turns to face Aya when he hears her stir from sleep. “We’re leaving. The caravan is waiting for us a few hours’ walk from here.” He forcefully pulls her to her feet.

  The men gather at the center of the clearing, waiting for Jaxon. Pulling Aya to the front of the group, he surveys the area. “Good work. Let’s move.”
>
  They follow the river for a couple of hours before entering the forest heading west. A creeping familiarity overtakes her as the path the group is heading reminds her of one she and Mircien took many years ago.

  A village appears amongst the trees, much larger than Aya’s. The houses are spread further apart, the trees of the forest naturally growing between them. Villagers mill about their homes; fowl peck at the earth for worms. A familiar building sits at the center: a two-story inn—the same that she and Mircien stayed in the last time she’d been to this village.

  Villagers clear a path for the men in armor, some disappearing into their homes while others watch them pass with a mixture of fear and sadness in their expressions. Parents clutch their children, quickly guiding them away.

  A man stands outside the inn, washing the windows. He’s the owner; Aya remembers his large nose and white hair. Hearing the group approach, he turns with a practiced smile on his face. But it evaporates when he spots Aya with Jaxon’s hand gripping her arm. His face pales, and shame fills his eyes as he turns his head away from her.

  We’ve heard tales from the other villages about the magic user that lives here.

  Your village has always been too poor and far away to merit attention, but the stories about your magic added incentive.

  This man, someone Elder Mircien trusted, told Jaxon about Aya. It’s obvious in the way he can’t bear to look at her.

  “Your stories were true,” Jaxon calls to the man, tossing the small bag of coins at the innkeeper. “Though it seems some of the facts were I’m sure...innocently forgotten.”

  The innkeeper stares at the bag of coins in his hand, his eyes nearly burning a hole into the leather. “Thank you, sir,” he mumbles, softly.

  “You told them.” Aya’s voice trembles as her anger grows. “You led them to Oula Village. You’re the reason Mircien is dead, and now you can’t even muster the decency of looking me in the face!”

  Tearing herself away from Jaxon, Aya runs towards the man. The innkeeper glances up as she raises her arm. She hits him hard across the face with her fist. “You killed her. Elder Mircien is dead because of you!”