Chapter 35

One-Twenty-Seven and Three

“END!” Comes the call for a third time and I ignore it just like I had the first two. Where most teams are stopping in place like they are supposed to. They raise weapons in celebration of surviving another round in the pit, or they lay on the sands and bleed. Over it all the adulation of the crowd breaks like a storm.

None of it means anything to me. My eyes are firmly fixed on the retreating form of the Itti’atti girl as she all but skips her way off the pit floor, not even waiting for the command or the close of ceremonies. None of the pitters or guards make a single move to stop her.

A tirade of emotions decides to have their own melee in my head. Part of me, a big part wants to chase the flame witch down and demand an explanation. It would be pointless I know that. She was well within her rights to kill the monster that was unleashed among us in fact she likely saved a bunch of our lives.

I bear Laren and Tarnen a strange sort of resentment about their death, as though if they had told me beforehand I could have somehow prevented this. That’s a stupid thought too, but it seems like all my thoughts are stupid right now. I want to lash out at someone, hurt something. All the violence of the melee may as well never have happened the way my bloodlust is surging.

Helpfully a target for my ire is more than happy to present himself. The elephant boy Klash who so unceremoniously threw me a few moments ago isn’t moving with his flame witch partner, but nor is he celebrating or otherwise playing for the crowd like the rest of the pitters. The huge grey-skinned boy is standing clearly still combat-ready, face contorted in resentment as he glares daggers at me?

‘Saffron’s golden balls! What's his problem?’

I almost feel like I should thank him. Nothing cuts through the noise of my own mind faster than an outside threat, and the perceived challenge of the improbably strong cursed is just the thing. Instantly my whirling thoughts cease their wild brawl and unify into a singular ‘Fuck that guy.’

With one last glance at the smoldering body, I start marching towards him. Klash tilts his head and mirrors the motion. As we approach each other I feel my snicker force its way up my throat and burst out of my mouth. By the time we are face to face, it must seem like I’m mocking him. Good I guess, it's better than him realizing that it comes from the tiny core of fear and embarrassment I keep buried deep inside.

Klash juts his jaw out and leans forward to loom over me, the very image of threat. I

accompany my snicker with a false grin and meet his eyes. The moment seems to stretch as my bright brown eyes meet the tiny pupils of his darker ones.

“Match is over,” I say making sure not to blink or look away. My tone is impudent and antagonistic. “Get out of my way.”

“No” comes the reply in a voice deeper than I remember. “ I don't think that I will.”

He has no idea how happy I am to hear him say that. The only real downside is that I dropped my axe like an idiot and now it's well out of reach behind the elephant boy. At least he doesn’t have his spear in hand. Thinking logically I probably shouldn’t try to fist fight someone who can block attacks from an ettin, but Logic and I still aren’t on speaking terms.

“North!” comes my name shouted in a familiar foreign accent. “What on the seven worlds do you think you are doing?” My gaze doesn’t shift even as I hear Xael get closer accompanied by a stream of GodsRing gibberish words that I suspect are curses.

The foreign boy doesn’t take my ignoring him well. Instead, he offers an apology to Klash and jabs his sword lightly into my chest. I try to ignore the blade still snickering in the elephant cursed’s furious face. I can’t maintain it for long as Xael steadfastly puts increasing pressure on the weapon until I have no choice but to move. In moments he is walking me backward at the edge of the weapon. The elephant boy doesn’t move to follow but neither does he break my gaze.

I should just turn and walk normally but there is something in Klash’s eyes that keeps my attention focussed on him. We couldn’t be more different in terms of the curses we bear, and yet the emotions on his face remind me so strongly of myself. It isn’t until he speaks again that it all clicks into place and I understand what I’m looking at.

“Eighty-nine and One,” He says, emphasizing the last word with disgust. There isn’t a pitter alive who wouldn’t understand what he meant. He is telling me his match record and so much else besides. Apparently, no one else has ever beaten the HighSail pitter.

‘That's a win that aged well.’

Wins and losses aren’t created equal. The crowd might cheer when you win, and your owner might even reward you. However, if you don’t follow it up with another win soon both will start to forget your victory the moment it's over.

A loss though will not only follow you longer but its immediate effects are far more impactful for those of us who have never fought in a major It is frankly a devastating blow.

Unless you are lucky like I was and get the attention of a tournament organiser, or have some other sort of way into the large events a loss all but erases every victory you had that year. Sending you straight to the bottom of the selection lists or the minor tournaments like this one.

Do well in a couple of minors that year and you can get invited to a major. Winning it nets even a slave fabulous prizes, more importantly, it guarantees your participation in the next major tournament. Keep the streak going long enough to win the Saffron Major and they set you free. Win five majors in one year and they call you King on The Sands.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

The road to freedom is a single file and a little over two years ago I knocked his ass not just back to the start of it, but off to the Graceless Isles where he had to become champion in multiple events just to win a single invite to a minor tournament.

My loss to Resh put me through something similar though not nearly as severe.

How much closer to free would I be if I’d beaten him? How much closer to free would Klash be if he’d beaten me? It might be impossible for either of us to truly know but the answer in both cases is a lot.

It makes a lot of sense that seeing me here has riled Klash up. I know I would give anything, anything if it could somehow erase my loss to the rat-boy. Winning a rematch isn’t quite the same but it feels awfully close.

If I found myself in Klash’s position with maybe a fight or two away from that rematch who knows how confrontational I would get. Honestly I kind of respect the HighSail slave’s self-control. It's better than mine would be.

“One twenty-seven and three” I call back. In spite of everything it's the polite thing to do. Plus I mostly think about this stuff in terms of win streaks, it's nice to remind everyone including myself that I have a mountain of wins at my back. After that, I step aside from Xael’s blade. For a moment he follows me with the weapon but I’m just turning around to walk forward.

Once we are inside the gate the foreigner taps me on the shoulder. When I turn he punches me right on the jaw. I’ve been hit by Atar BloodRock himself many…times. So a punch from a regular human being is always going to seem a bit on the light side. Despite that I have to admit it was a pretty good strike and well placed, snapping my head back and stealing a little of my wits. What's more, he ducks under the straight right punch I instinctively hurl back at him and slips out of my range.

‘Damn, that boy is slick when he wants to be.’

“What the fuck!?” I snarl at the skinny Godsringer. I expect some snide remark or him to scratch his head and sheepishly smile while he explains the cultural significance or whatever. None of that happens. Instead, Xael glares at me and responds in a voice more full of emotion than I thought his accent could allow.

“I am sorry about what happened to Larnen and Tarnen, but don’t you ever fucking abandon me in a fight like that again!”

I want to argue, to shout in his face, or even throw more punches of my own. Instead, I blink a few times with my jaw hanging open because he’s right.

“I…sorry you’re right.” I manage to mumble out. “ That was amateurish of me.”

The dark-haired boy nods and very slowly places a hand on my shoulder.

“I know that was like an ambush, but we are both going to die if we can't rely on each other.”

Gods above and below I hope he drops this soon. There is nothing more annoying than getting a lecture for something you already know you did wrong, and already intend to fix.

The trip back to the BloodRock compound feels as agonizingly slow as the wait before we fought the melee. With each heartbeat removed from the fight, my hunger wakes up a little more until it is rampaging around my stomach again.

As though the gods want to starve me to death, the houselord decides to make a big spectacle when we get back so dinner is delayed while his family is rounded up and a chair he can actually sit in is brought down from the manse.

It isn’t all bad, when dinner finally begins Atar presents the four of us to the other slaves like conquering heroes. Not just the youths but the adult pitters as well. Congratulating us on both teams making it through the first round unscathed, BloodRock declares every slave in the compound will be rewarded with spices in their food tonight. The cheer this brings is so intense I feel like I’m back in the arena.

When the jubilant roar dies down he goes on making a little victory speech while we absolutely tear into spiced lamb bone stew.

I don’t really pay attention and even if I was the sound of bones crunching between my teeth deafens me to most of it. I do learn that Xael and I fight again in two days, with more matches the day after that. We will be the second to last fight of the day, though the first match from the tournament. Before that will be a series of matches with animals and large group conflict between pit-slaves not competing in the Storm Herald. Things to get the crowd all excited before the fights that actually matter start.

I preen at praise, strut a little, and even laugh during dinner but it becomes increasingly an act as the meal progresses. No one does anything to piss me off but my irritation grows anyway. I find myself resenting the slaves around me just for having the audacity to exist. What a stupid thought. I should be happy they are even comfortable talking to me. Most of the saves in the compound haven’t done that in years, but every word is like a little pinprick in the back of my mind. Not even what they are saying, just the noise of it.

Probably the only genuine smile I offer the entire meal is when Gori does a neat trick with his drink. Quickly downing the earthenware cup of water with his meal he throws his head back and launches that same water out of his mouth. It doesn't shoot out like I would have thought, but sprays upwards as a fine mist.

Pretending I don’t hate every second of this doesn’t end up being a waste. After I finish inhaling the spiced stew I’m shocked to see not one but five different boys spoon a little portion of their food into my bowl. I’m so shocked I almost attacked the first one. With how ravenous I’ve been I am more than a little grateful once I understand what's happening.

Tota gets the same treatment, a little extra for the boys who won this bounty. I assume It is happening for Kalon as well but when I look around for him he isn’t at any of the three tables. Neither I note with a little snort is Xael. If I had to guess the pair of them are off having their own private celebration.

After dinner, I retreat to my little corner at the back of hall three. Everything feels wrong with the world. Yes, I am glad to have come out of the pit one more time, I’m always happy not to get hurt when I fight. I’m even more excited to have done it in front of such a massive crowd. That doesn’t mean I feel any better about Larnen and Tarnen. I saw them twice in the last four years and now I’m never going to speak to them again.

On top of that, no one else seems to care. Atar BloodRock fought actual wars at the side of that giant. Not fights in a controlled arena with judges and guards. Actual wars with sieges, battle lines, logistics, and all of that stuff. And what was his reaction to the death of maybe his oldest ally? Happiness that he has moved closer to winning his bet.

I try to comfort myself by running a hand over the small pile of coins hidden inside my cot. Normally finding the coins undisturbed fills me with hope. Tonight though it all seems so pathetic. Even growing as the pile has day after day It's nothing. I probably can’t even buy a nice meal with the money Xael has paid me. It will never be enough to bribe my way to freedom or even help me take steps towards it.

I feel angry and sad, but excited? And so resentful towards Larnen and Tarnen, towards the HighSail team that killed them, towards BloodRock, towards Xael, towards everyone. It’s so overwhelming I start to feel tears prick at the sides of my eyes, and once I notice them my fate is sealed and the gates break open. I start to sob like a pathetic child and don’t stop until I’ve fallen asleep.