by J. A. Ludwig
Jealous of his brother’s creation, Kellot spilled his blood a second time to bring night to the earth. Mankind became fearful of the dark and its ability to hide the beasts of the world. They cried out to Ogrin for help. Ogrin spilled his blood again and gave men the gift of fire, his rage at his brother’s cruel trickery.
Kellot, furiously jealous, and furious with his brother’s blood’s ability to thwart his plans, concocted a terrible trick. While Ogrin slept, Kellot stole some of his blood. He mixed his black blood with the red blood of his brother and poured the mixture onto the earth. From the blood came the first magic users. Kellot, excited to show off his new creation, awoke Ogrin and claimed the magic users came from his blood. But Ogrin refused to believe such beings could come from his brother’s black blood. To prove it, Ogrin cut the creations. Only pure red blood flowed forth.
In Kellot’s shocked rage over the red-blooded magic users, he spilled his blood a fourth and final time. From this blood came a new breed of mankind: a gifted, cruel breed that could not be killed. Mankind became fearful of this new breed they called Brüdel, or black-blooded, and imprisoned them. Magic users joined their powers together and sundered the Brüdel. Some they buried deep in the earth, some they sank to the bottom of the seas, and the last they threw into the very fires of the earth itself. The few Brüdel who escaped or survived went into hiding, but stories of men who could not be killed or even injured spread across the land.
* * *
Jaxon stops in front of Aldur and Aya. “All healed?”
Aya notices the cut on Jaxon’s arm. “You’re bleeding.”
He glances at his arm. “Ah, yes. That bastard got me.” He presses the skin around the wound. Red blood rolls down his arm and he wipes it with his fingers. He holds his hand up. “No, the rumors aren’t true. Since we’ve lost your cage, you’re going to have to make do with riding with the others in the second cage. It’s not much farther to our destination.”
Aya nods, filled with a new understanding of how powerful Jaxon truly is. She stares at his sheathed sword and remembers the attack on her village. He could’ve killed all of them alone, could’ve invaded the village by himself if he wanted.
“You killed all of them.”
Jaxon’s eyebrows furrow. “They threw off our schedule and were going to steal my prized cargo. They’ll be a warning to other bandits who think they can take on the Black Caravan.”
“I thought you hated that name.”
He says nothing.
She notes how he refers to them as cargo, but she gazes from the buried slaves to the still-burning pile of bandits. He made sure to keep them separate, even if it would’ve been faster to burn all of them. She’s seeing something in him she hadn’t expected. He has a strong sense of honor and a hidden kindness, even for those he claims as slaves.
“How can they be a warning if they’re all dead?” she asks.
“Their charred corpses will be enough. This is a well-traveled route. The message will make it to those who need to hear it.” Jaxon heads towards the men pulling the boulders out of the canyon.
Aya is loaded into the second cage. In a space so cramped she can barely sit down, the others in the cage make room for her. Many emotions cross the faces of those around her. Anger, annoyance, sadness, but beneath them all is exhaustion.
“Great, even less room,” a heavier man says, sweat rolling down his face.
A woman next to him snorts. “Wait a few days, I’m sure there’ll be more room soon.”
“What do you mean?”
“That one isn’t going to last much longer.” The woman motions to an old man lying limp against others at the center of the cage.
Aya remembers the night she healed the slaves, realizing she never thought to help those in the cages. She imagined since they weren’t forced to walk, they didn’t need help. But they were captured the same as those walking. Some more than likely had fought the slavers, sustaining injuries in the process, or already suffered from pre-existing illnesses.
The slaves are prepared for the last of the journey, with water and food passed around generously. Meat from the dead grodun is divided. Half is separated, cut into smaller pieces, and placed in jars of salt, saved for later. The other half is split again into two equal parts. The first is hung as jerky as the final pounds of meat are cooked and handed out, but even in near-starvation many find it hard to eat with still-smoking bodies close by.
It takes a whole day for the canyon to be cleared, but once ready, it doesn’t take long to restart the journey. Jaxon and Aldur stay at the front, sending men ahead to make sure no more bandits are hiding in wait.
The silence throughout the caravan is different than before. The men in black armor who hadn’t seen Jaxon fight before are more fearful of him. The slaves who still thought there was a chance of escape give up the idea. Four days pass in the newfound silence and fierce heat. It doesn’t reach the same intensity as the sand dunes, but still bears down on the caravan mercilessly.
Aya tries to wet her tongue, but no moisture remains in her mouth. She needs water. She looks at those walking behind and her heart cries out. They barely resemble the vital humans they once were.
The final two days of the journey are brutal. No water is passed down the caravan, no food handed out, and no one rests. Slaves fall to the earth and the men in armor yell at them to stand. If the slaves don’t stand fast enough, they’re beaten. If the slaves can’t stand at all, the men in armor pull out knives and cut the slave’s hand free from the chained line. They’re left behind to die in the intense heat and provide food to any creatures that dare call the land home.
They lose five slaves over the course of days, including the old man. But Aya stops noticing those disappearing behind the cage and even the screams of pain and thirst from those around her.
All she feels is heat and a growing numbness inside her.
This must be what it feels like to die.
Chapter 18
Bizarre, sharp-edged rock formations stretch for miles around the caravan. In the distance, low, dark mountains peek in the distance.
Aya looks around the crowded cage. Those who can, sleep, while others stare at the floor. Are they thinking of their homes? The loved ones they were torn from?
“The Arena is ahead.”
She jumps at Jaxon’s voice. He hasn’t spoken to her since they left the canyon. A black cloth is wrapped around his arm, covering the cut he wouldn’t let her heal.
“It’s surrounded by the city of Bloodfall,” he continues.
“Bloodfall?”
“A name many have come to call the city since the Blood King made it the site of his games. Whenever he comes to the city, it is inevitable that blood will fall. The true name of the city is Cortridge, but only those born long before the Blood King took over the city remember it.”
“And where did he come from? This Blood King?”
Jaxon shakes his head and purses his lips.
Slaves with enough energy lift their heads, gasping at the sight ahead. Aya understands their shock as the mirage among the rocks becomes clear. The mountains that seemed so far away appear as dry and barren as the land around them, providing a fitting background for the enormous building at their base.
The city is large, far larger than any town Aya has seen. Buildings on the edge are smaller and built with dried mud. The buildings become larger and more substantial the further from the wall they’re built, reaching three stories in height.
The Arena towers over Bloodfall. Long tapestries flow down the outer walls, made entirely of stone. Emblems cover the red cloth and Aya’s eyes widen as she realizes they’re the symbols from her dreams.
“What are those symbols?” She grips the bars of the cage tightly.
Glancing ahead, Jaxon shrugs his shoulders. “They’re from a dead language. Very few know it, but what I’ve heard is some denote magic, some represent different lands, and others are words for mythical beasts. Rumors say the Blo
od King is one of the few who can read it, but I doubt that.”
Aya prods again, “You know him.”
“You should move away from the bars. The locals like to touch fresh flesh.”
“Fresh flesh?”
“New slaves. The locals like to fondle the women and beat the men. They think it’s a proper welcoming for those forced to risk their lives in the Arena. Keep out of reach, or they may grab more than your clothing.”
Aya jerks back and pulls her knees to her chest. Those around her who heard Jaxon do the same. Others, too weak to even lift their heads, stay still. Those walking push forward, moving as close to the cage as possible, but without the bars the only thing keeping the people from them are the slavers.
A low stone wall circles Bloodfall, an old defense, judging by the cracks in the rock. Guards walk along the top, watching the caravan as it approaches. After they pass through the open gate, the guards ignore them.
Wind blows sand and dust everywhere, caking everything in a gritty layer of filth. Those who live this close to the wall must not even try to sweep it away, knowing it’s a losing battle.
Shops sell goods mostly outside, with a few located inside the homes of the owners. Merchandise is displayed on long tables while the more valuable oddities are kept behind locked, glass-covered cases.
The caravan moves slowly through the city; the buildings change from dried mud to stone as they reach those with more wealth. People follow the caravan with curious eyes, eager to see the fresh flesh for the Arena. Some walk along the cage or line of slaves, the men in black armor allowing them to get close.
A child kicks one of the slaves, causing him to trip and fall. One of Jaxon’s men chases the child away, but others take his place. Some use long sticks to poke at those inside the cage until Aldur grabs the tools and snaps them in two.
Men poke their hands through the bars of the cage, grabbing for the women inside and making lewd remarks. If any of the men inside the cage try to stop them, men outside the cage throw rocks or punch them in the face. One heavy male slave drips blood from a broken nose.
Aya tries to force a man away from one of the weaker women whose dress is being torn from her. He hits her hard, knocking her back. A second man tries to grab her, barely missing her hair. She moves away, as close to the center of the cage as possible, but she feels eyes glaring at her.
Those following the caravan fall back as they enter a new section of the city. Buildings stand up to three stories, the facades covered in marble. Balconies on the upper floors hold curious people, eager to see the new commodities.
The wheels of the cage vibrate as the dirt gives way to stone-paved road. The rattling and creaking of the cage as it bounds along the stone echoes off the marble facades. The roads are wide enough to allow carts or wagons to pass the caravan, though it is close. The epirs stumble as their hooves adjust to the new ground beneath their feet, whinnying in discomfort. But they soon calm, and the clopping of their hooves joins in the city noise.
Branching roads stretch into the distance, giving Aya the idea the city is far larger than she first assumed. Children run through the streets, playing with wooden swords or playing hide and seek. Unlike the children in the poorer sections, they show no interest in the caravan above their play and the other carts rolling down the roads.
Citizens gawk at the caravan in a disgusted fashion. Mutterings from those passing on the raised walkways are low, but a few of the slavers kick at those too close. Aya assumes it’s due to whatever the citizens whispered.
Armed men walk along the walkways, more guards of Bloodfall. They chase any of the remaining poorer residents away. They ignore the caravan, though occasionally one glares at Jaxon’s men in disgust. Aya can’t be certain if it’s disgust for slave traders, or all these dirty bodies in the cleaner section of the city.
Rising above the buildings, filling almost the entire rear of section of the city, is the Arena. Large entrances fill with people selling food, animals, and trinkets. Families with small children ogle the varied assortment. The joy of the children is a stark contrast to the screams rising from inside the Arena.
Standing beneath a large banner, men flex their muscles and swing weapons in show of power. A smaller man standing at the end of the line of fighters collects coins from audience members betting on the day’s victors.
The Arena boasts five levels in total. People mill through large openings in the walls on four of the levels. The top floor has larger openings, widely spaced. Fewer people are on that level, but it isn’t difficult to see why. It is made entirely of marble and plants decorate the edges. It is the space reserved for the wealthy.
Cheers erupt from inside the Arena, thundering and bouncing off the mountains behind. Other, stranger sounds mix with the yells, like the lowing of beasts.
The caravan comes to an abrupt halt, sending a confused murmur through the men in black armor. A wall of men blocks their way. Their armor, unlike the guards of the city, are heavy and dyed blood-red. Many of the people who live in the city quickly gather in front of the caravan, trying to catch glimpses of what will happen.
A large carriage crosses behind the line of men. It’s painted black with red lining along the edges. Thick curtains cover the windows so no one can see inside. Four epirs, draped in silk and with plumes of red feathers on their heads, pull the large vehicle and the crowd whispers excitedly.
Aya watches the vehicle pass, but a feeling deep inside of her slowly rises. Fear, but a different fear than she’s ever felt before. The curtain covering the window pulls slightly away from the glass and a shadow appears. A feeling of dread overwhelms her and she turns away, senselessly terrified that the shadow will see her—recognize her.
She sees Jaxon turn away. He avoids her look by lowering his gaze to the ground.
The sound of the carriage passes, and the line of men follows after. The people of the city talk quickly and head for the Arena. The caravan continues moving forward, the opposite direction from the carriage. Aya still feels her heart pounding, and places one hand to her chest.
Following the wall of the Arena around to the back, the side closest to the mountains, the caravan slows its pace. Fewer people surround them, now, and the shadows of the mountains provide much-needed relief from the blazing sun.
A large entrance, larger than any of the others, leads down into the earth below the Arena. The caravan enters, the temperature of the air immediately dropping, and descends a ramp before reaching an empty room. The shade is a welcome reprieve from the heat outside. Even the smell of the damp earth is welcome, moisture in the air a strange feeling after so long in the desert.
The room is large enough for the caravan, including the three groduns, to easily stand with space for others walking by. Along the walls are long wooden poles for tying animals to, and long troughs filled with water. The smell of the water brings moans from the slaves, chains rattling as many attempt to venture closer to the life-saving liquid.
Jaxon signals his men to dismount. They tie their epirs to the poles before returning to their positions, shoving the slaves back into line. Young men run to the animals, carrying large pails of feed. They place a pail between every pair of epirs.
Across from the entrance is an opening leading further into the Arena. Men stand guard on either side of the opening, preventing curious spectators from entering.
The men in black armor remove the chains from the slaves and gather them into a large group. Opening the cage, the men order those within out. Aya is the last out, hesitating as she takes in the strange Arena. Free of the cage, she feels her magic uncurl inside her, moving through her body as though missing her. It fills her, and she feels comfort at the connection being restored.
The men of the caravan order the slaves to move and they head past the guards without a glance. The heat fades completely as they go even farther down under the Arena.
Hundreds of men fill these rooms. Some carry weapons. Some pull cages of wild animals a
cross the dirt floor. Some operate strange machinery, their muscles bulging as they work. Some even use magic to assist others. Most are muscular, and all of them wear thick leather chest pieces with the same circular symbol carved on the right breast. Members of an even smaller group carry bags of money and talk amongst each other, looking at papers with numbers written across them.
Then there are those who wear torn, battered clothes hanging from their bodies like chains. Blood stains some, but most are covered in dirt. These men and women watch the caravan walk by with pity in their eyes.
Aya grasps that she and her fellow slaves are staring into their future.
Chapter 19
The line of slaves finally comes to a stop. They fall to the cool earth, weeping with both tears of joy and sorrow. Joy they no longer have to walk great distances, but sorrow for reaching their destination.
Arena workers hand off buckets of water to the men in black armor. They in turn carry the buckets around and ladle out the life-giving liquid. The slaves drink greedily. Aya takes the opportunity to look around.
At first glance, the workings of the Arena seem chaotic. But all move with purpose and skill, seamless through the crowd and machinery. Even the arrival of the caravan doesn’t slow the workers.
Aldur walks to Aya with a ladle of water.
“Where’s the man who usually brings me water and food?” she asks, realizing she hasn’t seen Archer in many days.
“Busy. Here you are, girl. Drink up, restore your strength.”
She accepts the ladle and closes her eyes as the cool liquid pours down her throat. She feels it all the way to her stomach, drinking without taking a breath until her lungs scream for air. She gasps and catches her breath before drinking again.
