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Chapter Four

D akon

At some point in the evening, a guard throws several nutrition bars into my cell. I know people of few means eat these as a staple. They’re bartered for goods and services in the poor sections of the galaxy. Of course, I’ve never eaten one before. It tastes like shredded paper and glue.

There’s a huge, hairy, blue warrior in the cell across from mine. Trying not to stare, I can’t help but wonder if he’ll be my opponent tomorrow night. It’s ridiculous to even contemplate me even attempting to fight this imposing mountain of muscle.

They reserve last night of the Septus Games for the most acclaimed and prestigious warriors in the galaxy. I don’t for a moment imagine I could win my match. I’m being punished, or rather my parents are. Though I doubt my death will be much punishment to them. They’ll find a handsome young male in the poor part of town, put him on salary, and replace me within a week—at a profit.

My head sinks into my hands as I picture my parents at my funeral. Mother will be beside herself with grief, garnering sympathy from all her friends. She and father will have concocted some story that will put them in a glowing light. Poor Marcus and Silva, their son first shamed them and then got himself killed. They were always such nice people.

Although I never had aspirations other than fucking women and carrying on the family business, my mind now lists all the things I’ll never be able to do. I think of places I always wanted to visit. My mind fills with things I wish I could do in the future. None of those things have any chance of happening now.

Why is it that now my brain comes up with dozens of clever and helpful things I should have wanted to do with my life? I could have built things. I could have helped people. I might have taken Mena up on her offer to leave this life for something better. I could have found a mate.

I think of the things I did with Armena a few hoaras ago. Sex, pure sex. Nothing wrong with that. But I realize with certainty and finality I will never have love.

Drack this line of thought. It’s getting me nowhere.

T he last day has dragged by interminably, yet at the same time, it’s flown in the blink of an eye. I’ve heard people filing into the stadium for the last hoara . The growing frenzy in their voices is palpable. Bloodlust. I can relate. If I was on the other side of these walls, out in the stands, my eyes would be bright with excitement right this moment.

“You fighting tonight?” the blue male asks when he’s done doing hundreds of push-ups: two-handed push-ups, one-handed push-ups, energetic push-ups with claps in between each one.

“That’s what I’m told.”

“Ever fight before?”

“No.”

“Have you made peace with your God?”

He’s standing at the front bars of his cell, looking straight at me. I wonder if he’s enjoying fucking with me the last hoara of my life. Is he trying to terrify me? But he’s looking at me with concern, his indigo gaze not leaving mine.

“You know you’re going to die. You haven’t a chance with any one of us in this cell block. You must have pissed off a very powerful person. Normally someone with no fighting skills would never earn a place in a match at the Septus games, much less the final night. Want some advice?”

I want to snap at him, tell him to drack off. But his face is so open, so guileless. I think he honestly wants to help.

“Sure.”

“Talk to your God. Take off those shoes, they’re slippery and uncomfortable. Don’t be a coward. Give your best fight. Die honorably.”

He seems so strong and calm. He’s fighting tonight as well. All matches tonight are to the death. This might be the last conversation of his life. Maybe it will make him happy that he tried to help me, even though his words were useless. Well, except for the shoes. That seems like good advice.

“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

Talk to my God? That’s a laugh. I don’t have a God. If I did, I wouldn’t know what to say. Thanks for nothing? For sending me to slaughter to protect parents who never tried to protect me? Yeah.

And how do I not be a coward when I’m scared shitless. Literally. I voided everything in my body last night before I went to bed. Now I’m shitting a brown stream of foul-smelling liquid. My guts are churning, my stomach is cramping. I don’t want to die. Nothing in my life has prepared me for this. I couldn’t be brave if I wanted to.

I’m almost relieved when two heavily-armed guards march in to pull me into the arena. The anticipation is over. I’ll be dead in fifteen minimas .

“Gods be with you,” my blue friend calls as I walk to my death.

I’m brought into the arena and handed a three- fierto sword and a shield with the initials D.K. on it. That’s rich. The henchmen told me I was dying at the order of Daneur Khour. I get to give him the honor of carrying his initials to my death. Nice touch.

The sword is heavy, as is the shield. I work out in the gymnasium almost daily, but I’ve never sparred, never fought, never carried a sword before. I’ve watched enough gladiatorial games, though. I’ve seen how they wield their weapons. I slash the air once, twice, knowing I’ll never be good enough to manage even one well-executed swing at my opponent.

He enters the arena amid cheers. He raises his arms, obviously basking in the adoration coming from the stands. People are screaming, stomping, calling his name. “Janus, Janus.” The name means beginnings. How fitting—this beginning will be my ending.

He’s huge, pushing seven- fiertos tall. He’s the huge Anthen warrior I saw last night as he was being dragged through the hallways by the tiny female. He’s not cowed and docile now. No, he’s already covered in a shimmer of sweat. His muscles are quivering, ready to do what he was born and bred and trained to do—kill his opponent in the arena.

“I’m going to destroy you,” he seethes, his voice loud enough for me to hear over the frenzied shouting of his fans in the stands. The look he’s giving me is unyielding, feral.

If I hadn’t just shit out all the brown liquid in my system, my sheer terror would expel it out my body and down my leg right this minima .

The trumpets blare, signaling the beginning of the match. He nods his head and thumps his chest, a customary signal of respect to an opponent. I return the gesture. My heart is pounding beneath my ribs. My hand is sweating and trembling around the hilt of the sword.

He’s a retiarius gladiator, which means he’s equipped with a seven- fierto spear with a sharp trident at its tip. He has a large net to cast over me. They’ve equipped me as a murmillo fighter, thus the sword and shield. It’s believed to be a fair match—retiarius versus murmillo. The two types of weapons complement each other. He uses the trident from afar, the net when near. I have the heavy sword for up-close assault.

Of course, no one in this stadium could believe this is a fair match. I’m wearing last night’s formal wear, sans shoes. I’ve never held a sword until two minimas ago. He’s been trained to do this his entire life. He outweighs me by fifty dextans or more. The blue warrior’s words, “give your best fight” ring hollow in my ears as Janus raises his net and throws it to capture me.

I run. He throws. I run. Somehow, I manage not to get caught in his net. But I’m winded. An hoara a day on the running machine in the gymnasium did not prepare me for this. The lights burn down on me, my heart is hammering under my ribcage, sweat is dripping in my eyes. Finally, he catches me in his net.

“Get up,” he yells. “These people paid for a fight.”

I get up and slip out from under the net.

He throws. I run. I’m more tired now, less capable of avoiding capture. I’m panting. My muscles, especially in my thighs and calves are quivering. He ensnares me in the net again, but this time as I get up, I slash through the net purely by accident.

“Stupid! Idiot! Now I’ve got to kill you. Run and put up a fight!”

I know I’ve got mere seconds left in my life. I’m so tired I can’t think straight. I have no strategy, no plan. I drop the heavy shield, it’s slowing me down and I don’t know how to use it anyway. I just keep running, turning, and running again. I have no fight left. I’m ready to die.

He throws his trident and misses. I realize he’s trying to prolong the match. He’s a premier fighter with a novice opponent. We all know who is going to win. He’s trying to entertain the crowd, who are booing.

He retrieves his spear and by the thunderous look on his ruddy face—eyebrows slashed downward, jaw tight—I realize he’s ready to come in for the kill. He doesn’t like being jeered by his fans.

Out of some long-dormant instinct for self-preservation, I’m running faster now. I thought I was resigned to my fate, but I don’t want to die. I dredge up the energy from an unexplored well deep inside myself and find new strength. He’s thirty fiertos away, I’m running back and forth against the far wall.

“Put up a fight, asshole! Fight like a male!”

I’m panting like racing stock. My muscles are screaming in pain. All I can do to stay alive is run. When I see he’s about to throw his trident, I switch directions, trying to escape the three sharp blades. But he anticipated my actions and heaves it in my direction. Two blades miss me, but the third pierces my left eye.

The pain is searing, like a white-hot poker, perhaps worse. My mind stops working. No thoughts float through my brain. Functioning only on instinct, my hand reaches up and plucks the spear from my eye. I change the grip of my hand on the shaft of the spear and heave it at my opponent with all my might. I don’t know how I find the ability to take aim.

The crowd was screaming, but now there are barks of surprise. The arena is almost hushed. One eye obliterated, the other filled with sweat, I barely register that I’ve pierced the Anthen warrior through the heart. I hear a thud and realize Janus has dropped to the sand.

I fall to my knees, trying to process the information my senses are sending me. The crowd is on their feet, roaring. My opponent is unmoving. The pain in my eye is blazing. My heart is still beating.

I scan the stands. I don’t know why. Out of the thousands of faces, I somehow unerringly find the face of my mother. I catch her eye for the shortest second . Shock. Not the pang of guilt for sending me here to die. Not the pain of sadness at seeing her only child maimed, bleeding, sold into slavery. But shock. Shock that I survived.

Someone steps in front of her. Our connection is lost.

I can only focus on one thing. My heart is still beating.

The End