seven is a holy count
the sum of worlds, the God King’s heirs
upon this sand, seven have died
come hither, trainee, if you dare
excerpt from “The Pit” by Florian Nova, a Colosseum washout
182 GKE – 200 GKE
I sign up for my first Colosseum bout in the heart of Bathune. The short, fidgety man taking names nods politely when I approach. Maybe the respect shouldn’t surprise me, but it does.
“Name?” he asks.
“Ko.”
“Kolton Diable?” he says.
He’s expecting me. Well, he’s expecting someone…Killián changed my name, I realize. I glance at my sword, which I’ve tucked through a loop in my canvas belt. Se battre comme le Diable. Fight like the Devil. Killián took the fatherless matronymic I was born with and renamed me after Lady Death herself.
What. In. Hel.
That’s a problem for later. I glance around the town square, from an apartment complex to an eatery with boards on the windows. A pack of lancers stroll by in gray armor, talking in obscenely loud voices.
“Sure,” I say. “Kolton Diable.”
The tester examines my blue sweater and ragged trousers. My feet may as well be bare for all the leather that’s scuffed away from Felicity’s boots.
“Staffmaster Belén Cunn told us to look out for you,” he says. “Welcome to Bathune.”
“Who’s Staffmaster Belén?”
“An elite who’s stationed uptown.” The swordsman scrawls something on the grasspaper. “Your first bout is set for Monday at 0600. It’ll be a proctored fisticuffs skirmish against Dune Callisto of the Third Circuit. I’m putting you in Barrack Two—that complex over there, behind the mess hall. You’ll sleep there for the next month. Or the next two nights if you’re beaten to death on Monday.”
I stare at him.
“Kidding…” He shoves the sheet of grasspaper in my direction. “…mostly. Stop by the Ludos Magnus before your bout. It’s the training complex at the south end of town.”
“Do people die in proctored bouts?”
“Accidents happen.” The tester shrugs. “Five percent of trainees test into L-DAW, and épée school admits ten to fifteen per season. Trainees will do anything to test out of their caste, but we’ll do our best to keep you alive.”
His blasé tone is concerning. Mouth dry, I take the sheet of grasspaper.
###
My roommates look up as I push the door open. There are six bunks, but only three are occupied. A quick glance at the shingled roof tells me it won’t leak, and the floors are solid wood.
“Hi,” I say nervously, hovering in the doorway. “Is this Barrack Two?”
“That bottom bunk is free.” A boy who’s hunched over playing cards points at the right side of the room. “Washrooms are back there. Bedclothes are in the closet.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m…Kolton Diable. You can call me Ko.”
“Osyrus Rhodes, son of Swordsmaster Gamella.” He gives me a piercing once-over. “On the bunk above me is Ryker, and Dune’s on top. Yory and Caius have the beds above yours—they’re at the Ludos Magnus. Since Ryker and I are facing off on Monday, I’m guessing that means you’ll be boxing Dune.”
I pause. “They room us with our opponents?”
“It helps the testers keep us straight.” He shrugs. “You worried we’ll off you in your sleep to better our odds?”
“I am now,” I say warily.
“It was a joke.”
Everyone in this town has a morbid sense of humor.
Dune’s eyes linger on my sweater as he slides off the bed and introduces himself. He’s tall and meaty, and his grip is calloused. When he shakes my hand, I’m surprised bones don’t break.
“You’re a stick,” he says, looking me up and down.
“Thanks for telling me,” I say. “I had no idea.”
Osyrus huffs out a laugh. It’s an understatement—I’m ridiculously skinny. Concave ribs, sharp elbows, only a pinch of skin on my stomach and thighs. I could stand to put on some weight.
Dune releases the handshake. “I’m gonna crush you like a bug, stick boy.”
I’ve dealt with Kolton enough times to handle a shitty attempt at masculine bravado.
“You do that,” I say. “I won’t take it personally.”
“I’m serious. I’ll snap you.”
“I’ll probably enjoy it.”
He blinks. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” I smile. “I’m just happy to be here.”
“You gonna enjoy it when I rip off your head and hold it up for the crowd?” He mimes an audience exploding with cheers, throws his arms up, and chants his own name. “Dune! Dune! Dune!”
“That’ll make you stand out as a competitor.” I keep my voice genuine. “Good luck, friend.”
He stills.
“You’re either the most confident guy ever, or you have a death wish,” he says.
“I don’t have anything to be confident about,” I say. “I definitely don’t want to die.”
His nostrils flare. “What’s your deal?”
“I don’t have a deal.”
He stares at me for a second longer before stomping off to his bunk. It’s the best one—the highest on the left side of the dormitory, next to the cracked window. The air is rank with teenage boy stink, as Akeeva would say.
Osyrus and Ryker stare at me. My temples throb. I could use some fresh air.
“I’m going to explore the town,” I say. “It was nice to meet you all.”
I’m met with stony silence.
I guess that’s that.
###
Bathune is tiny in comparison to Valenès. The sandstone Colosseum stands next to the square, and the town circles the pavilion like moths surround a flame. The settlement is built into a fleet of hills, and the climb up the winding road is a steep one. Aside from the dormitories and a mess hall, there are a handful of shops and some military housing units. A gated community, complete with a guard station, blocks off the west end of town.
I stopped feeling hungry years ago, but my head is aching. I swing by the mess hall to see how much food costs. Maybe I can get a job scrubbing floors to earn my meals—trainees don’t make money during placement testing.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
The door jingles as it opens, and I’m hit by the sweet aroma of cooked oats. Soldiers sit in groups on long, wooden benches. A few teenagers lounge beside the door—my fellow trainees, probably. They look up as I pass, but they don’t speak to me.
A man greets me from behind the wooden counter. He’s wearing gray protective leathers. A scarf covers his nose and mouth, and scars crisscross his forehead.
“It’s nice to meet you, sir.” I dip my head in greeting. “How much—”
“You one of the trainees?” he asks.
“Yes?”
He picks up the largest grasspaper bowl I’ve ever seen and ladles half a pound of oat porridge into it. “Bon appétit, kid.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“It’s free.”
I take the bowl, my mouth watering. “Are you sure?”
“Am I sure about the pricing system in the eatery where I’m employed?” His face twitches. “Pretty sure.”
“Sorry.” I rub the back of my neck. “Thanks for the oats, sir. They look fantastic.”
“This whole town is military, owned and operated,” he says. “You pay for toppings if you want them, and you pay for your own booze, but Death’s Guard foots the bill for the bread and circuses. You signed a contract?”
“Ten years.” I beam at him. “If I survive that long, of course. Should I turn it in at the sign-in table?”
“No.” He squints at me. “That’s where you get your contract.”
He holds out a hand. I pull the papers from the side compartment of my kit bag. He pages through it, frowning, and stops on the last page.
“You didn’t sign the MIA or DIC clause.” He peers at the document. “You also didn’t provide a payment processing address.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
He leans across the counter, pulls a feathered pen from the pocket of his gray apron, and circles two addendums beneath my scrawled signature.
“Your family gets money if you go missing or die in combat,” he says flatly.
I perk up. “Neat.”
“You got anyone back home?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I…uh…”
I don’t know my sisters’ new address. I’ll have to ask Killián if I ever see him again.
“Give me a name,” he says. “The analysts are good at tracking people down if their residencies are listed in the Septemvirate’s reference books.”
“Akeeva Whoredaughter,” I say. “She lives in Valenès, somewhere on Main Street.”
He shakes his head and scrawls something on the margins of the paper.
“Okay.” He hands me the pen. “Sign here, and here…no, not there. Let me guess. No one went through the contract with you.”
“Nope,” I say cheerfully. “Can I eat my oats now?”
He puts the agreement on a stack by the register.
“Have a sugar cube,” he says. “It’s on the house.”
I take the gritty lump from him. “Thank you, sir!”
The oats smell incredible—sweet and fresh, with a delicate herbal aroma. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen a portion this big. Felicity said her regulars are always whining about military rations. If this is what her clients are getting, they’re downright ungrateful.
“I really appreciate this,” I repeat. “Seriously. Thanks.”
His lips curl. “I heard you the first time.”
I duck my head. “Have a nice day, sir.”
“Call me Nox,” he says. “I’m a vanguard lancer, not a damn officer.”
He folds his arms over his protective leathers. I leave before he changes his mind and charges me for the oats.
###
I walk east as far as the cobbled road goes, down the spiraling cul de sac that marks Bathune’s border and past a glass building I assume is the Ludos Magnus. Across the quad is the biggest mansion I’ve ever seen, seated behind an iron gate and a magnificent courtyard. The building is white, and an intricate balcony is supported by four marble columns. How in Hel does it stay up? That must be where the duke of the Second Circuit lives—Duke Azai. He’s the little brother of a lord, but I don’t know which one. He has a manor in Valenès too, but I’ve never seen it—it’s uptown, as far from L-Street as you can get while staying inside the city limits.
I eat on the outskirts of the settlement, my bowl clamped against my chest. The paper spoon is soggy and smells like mothballs, so I use my hand. As I lick sticky oats from my cupped fingers, sweetness bursts across my tongue.
A pack of lancers jog past, their foreheads sweaty and their faces red. They don’t glance at me, which is good; Akeeva would have a conniption if she knew I was eating like this in public. Despite the size of the bowl, I finish in record time. My stomach fills with a hot, pulsing fullness. I lay on the sand, lethargic, and stare at the gray sky.
Monday looms over me like a reared loupwolf. Dune’ll come in hot and heavy, like he did when he introduced himself. I’ll have to move fast to stay out of his reach. One well-placed thwack from his fist could knock me cold. He’s large, but that’s okay. I’ve fought guys bigger than him while trying to keep my sisters safe. We had this strategy when walking down L-Street. Whenever we noticed we were being followed, we’d split up. Nine out of ten times thugs chose my sisters to track. While they kept the attention on them, I’d sneak up behind the guys with a rock or something. There’s this spot on the back of the head—it drops everyone. Doesn’t even take that much windup.
I’ve beat the odds before. Once three men followed Felicity behind The Casket Brewery. I took down the biggest one first. The other two jumped me. I stole one of the knives they were waving in my face and got one in the gut. The other guy ran when he saw I wasn’t messing around.
Another time I got into an honest-to-Yosif brawl with Kolton—it’s the only time I fought back when I was too small to be a threat. I couldn’t have been older than seven at the time. My mother was swaying-on-her-feet wasted, and Souteneur Kolton came by our flat and told her to go to work anyway. He broke my nose, and the purple and yellow bruises around my neck didn’t go away for a week. In the end Felicity got him in the sweet spot, and he went down. We locked him in the basement of the housing unit until he stopped tweaking, and we never spoke of it again.
I may not be able to take Dune, but that’s okay. I’ll get this fight over with, and then I’ll deploy to Ávila to start my career as a medic.
###
The next day is comparatively uneventful. To kill time, I tool around the shops and explore the town until I could navigate every backstreet blindfolded. Monday morning arrives with a dust storm. It’s not as bad as they sometimes get, but it’s cold, dry, and windy. Walking outside without a face covering isn’t fun.
I pull my sweater over my nose as I’m led into the Colosseum’s underground complex at 0530. There must be ninety teenagers jammed into the dim, subterranean bunker. The girl to my right could use a lesson on hygiene. Judging by the sulfuric odor, her farming leathers have never been washed. The boy on my other side reeks of cheap cologne. That’s going to suck when he gets sweaty. Maybe he’s trying to knock out his opponent with the peachy stench. Dune sits across the room from me, messing around with two of our roommates—Osyrus and Ryker.
We don’t have to wait for long. Our bout is the fourth one called.
“Dune Callisto and Kolton Diable.” The door bangs open as the tester enters. “Please step forward!”
Egad. I told myself I wouldn’t be nervous. My stomach is full, my head is on straight, and I’m ready for this to be over. Even so, my hands clench into fists as I walk through the door. Dune’s eyes bore holes into my back. He’s oiled his leathers, and the citrusy aroma of posh málé oil makes my temples ache. It fills the concrete hall as we ascend the staircase.
The tester—I think I heard someone call him Wynn—stops us before we push open the set of double doors that lead into the pit.
“Fourth fight of the morning,” he says, not unkindly. “How are you feeling?”
“Tickety boo.” Dune grunts. “It’s a good day for an ass kicking.”
Wynn gives him an indulgent smile, then turns his attention to me. “How about you, Diable?”
“I’m okay,” I say. “How are you, sir?”
He ignores the pleasantry.
“You can tap out at any time,” he says. “Either by saying the words I concede, or, if you find yourself unable to speak or breathe, by tapping the ground three times with your foot or hand. The bout ends immediately.” He gives us both a severe look. “You’ll be disqualified, and your applications to épée school and L-DAW will be closed.”
“My mother forged Lord Lefe’s bistaff,” Dune says. “He wrote me a voucher. I’m guaranteed admission to épée school.”
“Not if you tap out.” Wynn shakes his head. “Should your knockout be technical, your application will remain open, but a forfeit…no. Mediocre fighters can be trained until they’re great. There’s no rehabilitation for a coward.”
Dune casts his eyes to the ground.
“You’ll be fine,” I say. “I’m a stick, remember?”
He scowls. “Shut up.”
Wynn pushes the double doors open. We emerge to scattered applause and a few lackluster cheers. I squint as the sunlight hits me, then turn my gaze around the ocean of tan. The pit is a perfect circle, one hundred paces in every direction. Gritty sand crunches beneath my feet as I walk to the center of the arena.
Feeling like a watched and caged beast, I peer up at the stands. A few lancers are scattered here and there, but aside from the tester’s box, most of the seats are vacant. The early rounds of the tournament don’t draw many spectators. My gaze lands on the top box, and—egad…
General Killián himself stares down at me.
The general. Here, at the first round? Usually no one important shows up until the third or fourth round. By then the peasants have been weeded out, and the professionally trained children of high-rankers wail on each other for the L-DAW slots. Osyrus told me it’s fun to watch.
Linden and Segolé are seated beside Killián, along with an older woman. All four are clad in black leathers. Spectators don’t have carrying privileges inside the Colosseum, but I suppose exceptions are made for elites, because their scythe-bladed bistaffs curve above their heads. Linden waves, and Segolé raises a flask when our eyes meet.
Are they here for me?
What in Yosif’s sweet name?
Sweat turns my underarms wet and sticky. I face Dune, and my expression must be priceless, because he blanches. Then I realize he’s not looking at me. He’s listening to Wynn, who just told us to begin—
crapcrapcrapcrapcrap
—a fist the size of a mountain hits my throat.