by J. A. Ludwig
Above them the audience cheers, filling the Arena with thunderous noise. Those who are left join in the cheering. Those behind Aya chant her name.
“I thought I told you not to draw attention.” Yme gives her a stern look and glares at the brothers.
Aya pulls away from the brothers and grabs him by the chin, forcing him to look into her defiant eyes. “I can handle myself. I’m not going to let these people die if I can stop it.”
He sighs, grabbing her arm and lowering it from his chin. “At least you didn’t bring anyone back from the dead. You didn’t bring anyone back from the dead, did you?”
“No.”
He smiles, a reaction she doesn’t expect.
“The fight is over!” The booming voice silences the Arena and the slaves all turn to the Blood King’s private box. The Voice places his hands on the stone balcony. “It would appear the newest fighters to our beloved Arena have more fight in them than previous groups.”
The audience cheers, stomping their feet in agreement.
“But let us not forget the bravery and skill of the Bloody Butchers! Show them your respect.”
The cheering increases. Workers of the Arena open the gate the slaves entered through, preparing to lead them back to the depths. Seera stands inside the open gate, her whip in her hand.
Then everything stops.
The audience is silent, the workers stop what they’re doing. The strange silence and stillness overtake the Arena. Even Dolus Otho is silent and frozen with his eyes wide, staring below him.
The Blood King stands and walks to the edge of his box, scanning the slaves curiously. He smiles and opens his arms wide.
“Congratulations, victors,” his voice thunders through the air. “I hadn’t expected to be so thoroughly entertained. I applaud your strength and look forward to seeing you in future games. I decree these fighters be given the rest of the day as a reprieve to relax and enjoy their victory. And for those of us who were here to witness this...inspiring show of abilities, a celebration is in order.”
The Arena explodes in applause and cheers. The slaves rejoice and hug each other. Tears roll down many cheeks and some fall to the ground weeping. They survived their first fight. The red cloths on the waists of the fresh flesh fall to the ground, the magic gone from the fabric.
Rava, Mava, Bern, Eka, Tristan, Bon, and Skara pull Aya away from the brothers and Yme into a group hug. She’s surprised to see tears in their eyes.
She turns back to her cellmates with a smile, but it quickly fades. The worried expressions on Yme and the brothers’ faces sends a chill up her spine. She glances towards the Blood King to find him speaking quickly to the man with a black sash and The Voice of the Arena, Dolus Otho.
He turns his head so his eyes meet hers, and smiles. His smile is cold. One corner higher than the other, almost a smirk.
A smile of pure evil.
Chapter 30
The slaves return to their cellblock deep below the Arena. Slaves requiring additional treatment are taken to the Arena Healers but beg to be healed by Aya’s little group.
“Let them help,” Aya argues. “We have no energy left and can’t guarantee full recovery.”
Defiance greets her, but ultimately, the slaves allow the workers to take them away.
Those not requiring healing are taken to the dining hall, where a large meal awaits. The slaves stuff a cornucopia of meats and vegetables into their hungry mouths, limiting conversation. Arena workers, who had been unable to witness the fight, ask for details as they liberally pass out drinks. Slaves from other cellblocks join the victors, introducing themselves, eager to spread word through the rest of the cellblocks of the fresh flesh’s victory.
After the first wave of gorging passes, the cellblocks fill with jovial conversations. Cellblock A is abuzz with excitement. The experienced slaves who didn’t volunteer to fight cheer as Aya and the others walk to their cells. The veterans of the Arena treat the surviving fresh flesh as friends and pray with those who lost close friends in the fight.
Many stories about past games and great fighters move through the cell block. Guvie, the oldest surviving Arena slave, tells a particularly funny story including an embarrassing moment for one of the Blood King’s personal favorites.
“The fighter was so confident in his victory, he showed up drunk and pissing his pants as he saluted his King. The fight didn’t even last through the end of the starting bell’s ring. He passed out at half salute.” To emphasize his point, Guvie holds his arm suggestively. The slaves’ laughter fills the dark underground caverns.
Then the talk of today’s fight centers on Aya’s healing magic. Word spreads quickly through Cellblock A about her healing during the journey as well as the fight.
“You’re very popular,” Kylii comments as he sits down on his bed.
Daniil nods from the floor, leaning against his brother’s bed. “You’ll be getting a lot of attention after today.”
Frowning, Aya sits on her bed, her feet resting on the floor. “All I did was help. There were other Healers; why do I get all the attention?”
“For one, you healed injured folk who would’ve been left to die otherwise,” Kylii says.
“Two, you rallied the slaves together...including us. That never happens,” Daniil adds.
“You mean it wasn’t the usual free-for-all.” She crosses her legs underneath her on the bed. “The slaves actually fought together.”
“We go until the bell tells us to stop. Sometimes you fight together in order to secure your own survival. Say, against a highly skilled fighter that hasn’t been killed by Yme.”
Yme glares at Daniil from his spot at the back of the cell. “If we fought together, we’d never lose.”
“Why haven’t the slaves fought together before now, then?” she asks.
“They’d punish us,” Kylii answers. “Take away our food, send smaller groups to fight against impossible numbers, things like that.”
“They can’t afford a revolt in the Arena. Haven’t you wondered why, with so many slaves, non-magic and magic alike, we haven’t taken over the Arena and gained our freedom?” Daniil asks.
“I thought it was because there are others like you two who think your lives are more valuable than others,” she says, meeting their gazes with an eyebrow raised.
A stifled laugh comes from the back of the cell and Yme turns his head away from the brothers’ glares.
“Besides that,” Daniil says, turning back to Aya.
“They have contingencies in place in case such a thing occurs.” Kylii sits up on his bed. “Some of the Arena workers, if you hadn’t noticed, have the ability to block magic. Magic to negate magic, as it were. There aren’t many of them and only a few are known, but force would never gain any of us freedom.”
Aya remembers the worker who opened their cell door that morning. She also remembers the workers on the upper levels using magic to work the large machinery of the Arena. A number of magic users are employed here. They’d have to fight through them, too, possibly with their own magic negated.
The joviality that filled the air moments before is fading. Aya and the brothers peer out of the cell, trying to see the cause.
Seera walks to the center of the cellblock to ensure all cells hear her. Two men follow. “Excellent fighting today, but don’t be fooled by kind words or extra food. You’re all still slaves of the Arena and tomorrow many of you will once again fight for your lives.”
Crossing to the door of Aya, Yme, Daniil, and Kylii’s cell, she continues, “Oh, and we have a special surprise for the stars of the fight. You have a visitor.”
Opening the cell door, Seera quickly steps back, leaving a wide opening between her and the cell. The two men move to either side of the open door and clasp their hands, their thumbs pointed at their chests.
The slaves fall silent as the sounds of heavily armored footsteps fills the cellblock. The soldiers from the private box appear, invade the cell, and force the fou
r occupants to their feet. They surround them, ushering them towards the center of the cell. They leave a path to the door for the coming visitor.
The silence of the cellblock amplifies the next set of footsteps, which echo down the hall. Slaves retreat, away from the sight of the owners of the footsteps.
Aya’s heartbeat pounds in her ears and she shakes uncontrollably. She moves behind Daniil and Kylii, who close ranks to block her from view. Yme tenses, a frown darkening his face.
The man with the black sash walks into the cell holding an ornate helmet under his right arm. He steps to the side of the entrance and straightens. He taps his helmet with two fingers and the men in armor draw their swords. They grab the hilt with both hands and touch the blade tips to the ground.
A feeling of dread fills the cell as the Blood King enters, his strange eyes landing on the brothers and moving to Yme. One eye is reddish brown, and the other is an intense green. He smiles, while Aya cringes behind the brothers.
“I wanted to personally congratulate the stars of today’s fight. I see one here, a very familiar face,” he says, stepping close to Yme. “But what about the other? The girl?”
The Blood King raises an eyebrow towards Daniil and Kylii, who eye each other, but refuse to move. The Blood King turns to the man with the black sash who immediately steps forward and, handing his helmet to the closest soldier, shoves Daniil and Kylii apart. He yanks Aya forward, directly in front of the Blood King. She tries to hold back, but a tiny yelp passes her lips.
Yme grabs for Aya, but the man shoves him away and threatens to unsheathe his blade before Yme recedes. Sneering, the man with the black sash retrieves his helmet and returns to his position by the door.
“It’s nice to see you caring for another life instead of taking one,” the Blood King says to Yme. He turns his attention to Aya. “Don’t be afraid. You can look me in the eye.”
Aya raises her head to stare the Blood King in the eyes.
“And what is your name, Rare Kind?”
She answers with silence.
“Your king has asked you a question, slave!” Black Sash yells. Aya flinches at the raised voice, her eyes falling to the floor, but remains silent.
With the raise of a hand the Blood King regains control. “I apologize for Teron’s rudeness. Perhaps I should properly introduce myself first. I am Klaeon Vacuda. Blood King, they call me. Now what is your name?”
She swallows the lump in her throat but can’t bring herself to answer. She doesn’t want him to have her name. She doesn’t want to hear it spoken from his lips.
“Maybe a little encouragement will loosen your tongue.” Klaeon nods at Teron.
Black Sash jumps to life and grabs Kylii’s hand. In one swift motion, he takes one of Kylii’s fingers and bends it back. Too far back. Kylii shrieks as his finger nears breaking.
“Aya Flandeen! Just stop!”
Klaeon raises his hand and Teron releases Kylii and steps back to his post. Kylii grabs his hand and curses under his breath as Daniil grabs his brother.
Klaeon moves his hand to Aya’s cheek. She wants to flinch but manages to stay as still as possible. “A Western name. Where do you call home?”
“Foula Valley.”
“An Eastern home. Interesting.” He turns his head to the right. “What games are scheduled next?”
Seera appears with her head bowed. “My lord, the carriage races are finishing as we speak. After, will be the lottery tournament. Immediately following will be a brief animal fight, then awards for the tournament. Your presence is anticipated for the awards ceremony.”
Waving his hand at her, Klaeon nods his head. “Of course. Teron.” Black Sash steps forward. “Escort our young Rare Kind to my private box. I’d like her to join me for the rest of the tournament.” He turns and leaves the cell without another word.
Aya’s blood runs cold and she feels movement behind her as Yme and the brothers try to grab for her. But Klaeon’s men raise their swords to block their path, separating her from them.
“Yes, my lord.” Teron steps forward and grabs her arm tightly. He drags her from the cell, followed by the armored men. She stares at the magic blocker, who meets her eyes before turning away.
Seera quickly locks the cell door behind the last guard before Yme, Daniil, and Kylii can escape. She hits the bars with the handle of her whip and laughs as she walks away.
The three grip the bars of their cell tightly, watching Aya as she disappears.
Chapter 31
Aya is handed off to two of the Blood King’s men as Teron stops to speak with Dolus Otho. The announcer listens intently, his face slowly losing color.
She’s taken through empty hallways, passing few workers. As the men in armor pass, the workers avoid their eyes and flatten themselves against the walls. The sound of the audience echoes down the hallway and Aya’s heart races.
The excitement has only grown since the first game of the day. The chariot races have finished and Arena workers efficiently clear damaged chariots, dead men, and few dead animals from the arena floor.
The men lead Aya into the private box as one of the Arena’s workers places a stool next to the lone chair. Blood King Klaeon is already seated, a small smile on his lips.
Inside the Arena, workers begin to set up a platform at the far end for Dolus Otho to perform the lottery drawing. The floor opens, and animals are brought up on chains.
Klaeon waves his hand at the men holding Aya. They release her and move to their posts around the private box. Teron, the man with the black sash, enters and, barely glancing at her, stands against the wall, closest to Klaeon’s left.
Hesitating, Aya peeks behind her at the men guarding the entrance. Their eyes are focused ahead, but their hands grip their weapons, expectantly. If she attempts an escape, they won’t hesitate to stop her with force.
“Have a seat, Aya Flandeen,” Klaeon says, holding his hand towards the stool at his right.
Her heart flutters in her chest. Hearing her name from his lips only makes her feelings of dread grow. The longer she’s near this man, the more dangerous for her. The friendliness in his voice cannot hide the underlying menace. She knows something is hiding beneath the surface, something wanting to swallow her whole.
“You don’t have to be so nervous. While in the public’s eye I won’t do anything to you. It wouldn’t sit well with the crowd if I killed you after the big show. Sit and enjoy the festivities.”
“Festivities? Festivities are things of happiness and celebration, not death.” Aya curses herself in her head for speaking this aloud. She has to remember she’s a slave now and speaking out of turn could get her killed more easily than any fight in the Arena.
Klaeon laughs and turns to face her, his green eye glistening. “The Rare Kind has spunk in her after all. I was worried when I saw you cowering behind your cellmates. Sit.”
Taking a nervous breath in, she cautiously steps forward. As she sits, she feels the eyes of thousands land on her and an excited muttering fills the air. She can almost hear the questions being asked.
Why is she sitting with the Blood King? Is the Blood King showing favor to her because she’s a Rare Kind or because he’s taken a fancy to this young woman?
“Idle talk is harmless unless you provoke it,” Klaeon says, his voice close to her ear.
She faces him, meeting his strange eyes for a moment before lowering her gaze to the arena floor. She avoids the rapt gaze of the audience, concentrating on the workers’ preparations.
An amused laugh fills the private box. “I take it you’re not used to being the center of attention for thousands. It is a bit unnerving at first. Though it didn’t seem to distract you on the arena floor.”
“I had other things on my mind,” Aya says softly.
“You certainly did. I particularly enjoyed your reckless rescue of the skewered fat slave.” Klaeon waves to the entering combatants.
They salute, and Dolus Otho rattles off the names of the partic
ipants and the rules of the tournament. “This will be an exciting lottery tournament. We have an unprecedented number of participants today. But as you all know, only a handful will be given the opportunity to fight for the prize. We also have a very special surprise for those who are chosen to compete today. Be sure to cheer on your favorite.”
“I can’t help but wonder...what you are, Aya Flandeen from Foula Valley,” Klaeon says.
Her face fills with confusion.
“We have several Healers in the Arena, workers and slaves, but you healed fatal wounds. People who should have died long before any Healer could’ve reached them.” Leaning on the arm of his chair, he lowers his voice so only she can hear. “So, I ask again...what are you?”
The air around her grows heavy and she feels another presence moving around her. A soft touch on her arm makes her jump, but when she looks for the culprit there’s nothing there.
“I’m merely a Healer,” she answers, her voice trembling; trying to allay further probing suspicion, she adds, “my lord.”
“A Healer placed with Rare Kinds is far more than a Healer. What did they call you when you arrived?”
The other presence surrounds her, making it hard to breathe. Fear turns to terror and she leaps from her seat, shrinking as far from the Blood King as possible. The soldiers step close together, creating a wall to block her from exiting the box. She presses her back against the wall, her eyes locked on Klaeon’s smiling, calm face.
“Life Healer,” Aya says, regaining her voice.
* * *
A loud cheer from the audience signals the end of the lottery drawing, and Klaeon returns his attention to the Arena. The guards surrounding her shift minutely, and she can sense the tension beginning to ebb. Down on the sand, two thirds of the combatants leave, their heads hanging low. Those still left wave their weapons in anticipation of the tournament to begin.
The air in the private box feels more usual as Klaeon stands to acknowledge the lucky fighters chosen to compete. He eyes Dolus Otho, who knowingly nods his head. He resumes his seat, and motions for her to do same.
