Page 18 of The Sun God’s Prize (Child of Scale and Fire #3)
My life is training, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The rich food and available rest helps, as do the offers of massage that the two young women provide, their strong hands probing deeply into my tired and aching muscles at the end of each day, long soaks in the shallow pool proving an amazing place to recover, thanks to the copious amounts of salt added to it.
So much so that I’m far more buoyant than expected, floating lazily on the warm surface as though suspended on a cloud, at times drifting off into sleep only to wake when my toes bump into the side.
Most of the fighters keep their distance when we’re not in the arena, and there, too, though Morinthi and Hloraine tentatively join me for meals, waiting for Brem’s approval before doing so.
The small woman who leads this stable speaks no further of her history, and I don’t pry, because my own isn’t for sharing, either, nor are my plans to free myself of this place at the first chance I have.
The dragon’s voice has gone quiet, even when I try to speak to her, so my need to do just that grows to anxiety by the time my first event opens on my third day here at the Dome of Women.
The unimaginative names they use for their stables made me snort at first, though at least the Dome of Death fighters who parade into the packed arena shortly after noon to an excited and cheering crowd appear to match their name as much as we do ours.
The men who bear their arms into the arena, grim-faced and aggressive, all wear tattoos on their faces that look like skulls.
“It’s just makeup,” Brem tells me with enough cynical amusement that I’m no longer impressed. “Honestly, I could take them all myself if I were allowed to. Enough muscle in the group to smother their minds, if you get my meaning.”
I do, very much so, and now my hopes are high, even if I can’t afford to go into this battle with anything but the determination I always feel for victory.
I was wrong, though, about their armor, the men as artfully and ridiculously outfitted as the women, with fancy bits and bobbles of leather barely covering their dicks, let alone protecting them from harm. The Sunnish are equal in their opportunities to humiliate and costume then for all gladatte .
At least Prenese has come through for me, her attention to the details of my costume making it much less decorative and further along the spectrum to actual armor.
It will never protect me the way my own always has, but at least I don’t feel naked and exposed, even if she’s carefully crafted it to show off the round of my breasts through the low-cut of the neckline.
It took me far too long—and cost me aching arms that challenge my recovery—to braid my hair in the early morning.
It’s long past due time to cut a good foot from it, if not more.
But when I tried to bind it all, Brem appeared at my door and shook her head with her own uncovered and only the top section plaited, the rest of hers hung around her like a cloak.
There would be no scarf for her hair and face today.
“Leave some of it down,” she told me.
“But—” she understood the argument I was about to make, waved it off.
“Braid it if you must,” she said, “but find some softness to show. The crowd will demand it, and you’ll find patrons if you do.”
I don’t give a fuck about patrons, but I grumbled as I did as she suggested.
Which means that instead of the tight, packed coils of my hair bound to me to prevent anyone from using them against me, I’ve left one single, long braid swinging over my shoulder, the tip brushed out and unplaited.
It’s ridiculous and I’m irritated by its constant tickling against my knee, but if it serves the show, I suppose I will have to make it work for me.
The first man who touches my hair will die with it wrapped around his fucking neck.
The dozen men carry their own variety of weapons, from long poles to one giant with an axe that looks like it could split a ship in two with a single blow.
But he’s slow when he moves, almost ponderous, and though the other women whisper anxiously about his physique, I’m looking past him to other opponents.
The only man who concerns me is a lean, lithe creature with a mostly shaved pate, a single scalp lock sweeping back from the curve of his head, caught tight with a leather thong at the skin.
His casual confidence is liquid, his motions soft and unhurried, and when he stops to wave at the crowd, his charm can’t hide the fluidity of his movements.
“He’s one to watch,” Brem mutters under her breath. “The Zandirish are notorious for their speed and stealth.”
I’m not surprised she’s marked him as I have and nod, though when he turns and meets my eyes, I’m shocked to find his are amber. Is he drakonkin?
There’s no time for such questions because Romouth has taken her seat at the head of the arena, in a raised box just over the lip of the sand, a tall man sitting next to her.
He’s far softer than she is, his belly protruding beneath his robes, though he has the grace of a fighter himself.
But while I’ve caught her in the early morning hours working herself to a sweat before most of the others are awake, maintaining her conditioning to a point of choice, it’s clear to me that he’s done nothing of the sort.
He leans into her, whispering in her ear, and she scowls, meeting my gaze with a look that suggests I’d better make sure she’s the victor at the end of the match.
Her wish is my command.
We’re to take turns, unlike in training, and I’m impatiently stilling my heart, my eagerness to fight, with slow and measured breaths while willing the women I’ve been bound up with to fight like they mean it.
They try, I suppose, and in a few cases they succeed, though far more often than not we lose to inferior men when the women hesitate or falter.
Brem’s rage is building. I can feel it where she stands beside me, as motionless as I am, but unable to stop the heat of her fury from radiating outward. When she inhales to accept the next bout, I step forward first with a small nod for her.
She lets me go with a terse toss of her own head, eyes tight and grin evil.
Because we both know how this is going to go.
My initial bout ends three heartbeats after it’s begun, the heavy-set man with the thick black beard keeling over with his eyes rolled back in his head from the sharp rap he received from the hilt of my right sword.
There will be no ponitte , only matchette .
I step away and watch him fall, turning and saluting Romouth.
The crowd has fallen utterly silent, so much so that I’m wondering what I did wrong. The masterre of the Dome of Death has sat forward, the cup he holds in his hand tipped sideways, wine dribbling out onto his robe while my mistresse holds my gaze and nods back with utter grace and dignity.
When I return to the lineup of our fighters, Brem’s expression is flat and empty, but I feel her hand slide over mine as the announcer calls the next bout in shaking voice, the fallen fighter still being dragged away.
He’s groaning, so he’s alive. I hope they’re grateful.
“Beautiful,” my friend whispers. “But more show, Remi. Bigger and brighter. For the glory of our mistresse .” With that, she heads out into the ring and takes on none other than the massive giant and his human-sized axe.
I’ve seen Brem fight, of course, hear the roar of the crowd, the calls for her death, for his, though this contest won’t end in that.
Not that it stops the watchers from shouting their desires.
I’ve been blocking them out, because what need have I for their love or hate or attention?
But when I watch her stalk him, her small body effortless in its motions, her speed so surprising to him that she’s between his legs before he can swing, I’m laughing with the rest of the gathering when she reaches up and grasp the wound leather he wears around his waist and tugs, rolling away with one end in her hands.
It falls away, leaving him naked and exposed, the biggest dick I’ve seen outside of a randy stallion jutting out of a mat of black hair, bouncing its delight at being free.
The crowd goes wild. She bows to them, then dodges as he lunges for her, but we were right, he’s far too slow, too cumbersome despite his size, and when she teases his throbbing penis, engorged from the excitement of the fight, slapping and tugging on it as she tumbles around him, far too fast for his hands to catch, she’s only increasing the size of the thing.
She finally grasps the shaft of his axe and flips herself up, landing with her legs around his neck.
I’m breathless at her artistry, her performance as much as her skill.
She rides that monster like an unbroken horse, her muscular thighs cutting off his air.
He’s far too late discarding his axe, hands reaching for her, trying to pull her free.
But it’s too late. I see the moment when she squeezes harder.
He goes down almost immediately, hitting his knees, giant cock vibrating, standing erect. He ejaculates as she finishes him, eyes rolling back, landing on his squirting dick as he falls slowly forward.
Her dismount from his shoulders ends in a flourish, arms up, a giant, beaming smile for the crowd, demanding their approval.
And they give it, leaping to their feet as much at her victory as the show she just gave them.
By the time she returns to me, cheeks flushed and that wicked grin going nowhere, I understand, even if I’m positive I’ll never match what she just did.
I don’t get to fight the one person I really wanted to, the handsome and charming warrior with the scalp lock paired off with Hloraine.
I’m proud of her that the stocky fighter holds her own for as long as she does, though his victory is inevitable, and it’s more so his willingness to play with her instead of taking her out immediately that gives her time to fight.
And me to weigh his skills, take his measure. Just in case the time comes after all.
Hloraine lands a solid blow to his ribcage that I know he’s not expecting, so when he finally lashes out and delivers his final hit, sending her spinning, I now know his weakness. Anger flares, his temper his downfall.
I’ll know for next time.
When I’m called up again, I take it slow, though it’s hard to force myself to find ways to linger when I could so easily crush the man in front of me with a single blow.
He’s clumsy, even if he appears confident, the whip and spear combo he wields out of his league.
Maybe if he chose just one, he might be at least a momentary distraction, but he’s struggling to balance both, and every time he swings one or the other, he leaves himself wide open to attack.
Finally tired of him, I jam one sword into the sand to free a hand and step in, slapping him across the face. When I backflip out of his range and retrieve my second weapon, I’m greeted with a cheer that makes the whole arena tremble.
I get it, in that instant. More than understanding, from an outside perspective. I feel it, their approval, their passion for me. The crowd’s love is a wave of heat that washes over me like an orgasm, and I’m caught up in it for a moment.
Almost too long, the fighter I’m supposed to keep in my sights trying to circle around me and attack. But even distracted, he’s no match for a warrior of Heald, and while secretly I’m ashamed that I allowed that breach of my defenses, I take it out on him.
This time, I leave both swords behind, and when I strike, it’s with a double cuff to both of his ears.
He really needs the chastisement. This time, I choose a front flip over him, hands dropping from the stunning, eardrum assault that makes him howl and bend over, landing on his shoulders, which I use to leverage a full rotation, landing softly on the far side before he even hits his knees.
Their roar is even louder, though this time I don’t let it carry me away. I’m done with this and spin at full speed, my heel impacting the back of his head.
He’s out and I’m retrieving my swords, saluting Romouth again, before joining my stable.
“Better,” Brem nods. “But we have work to do before we ride for the Dominae.”
This is not the kind of battle I was raised for. And now that I’m outside it again, it disgusts me, my stomach roiling with the demands of the crowd, with the trivialization of war. As I stare out over the watchers, I feel myself contracting with despair.
And yet, if this is what I must do, I will do it. If only to get home again.
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