Chapter 39
The Fan
I’d love to take a few moments to catch my breath, I really would. My chest hurts, my face hurts, my hand hurts. None of that changes the fact that Xael is still fighting and might very well need my help. Even if he doesn’t, after the hourglass of complaints and punch to the face I endured for abandoning him last time Xael is absolutely getting my help.
I’m almost certain Shahim won’t be re-entering the fight, but I take a few long steps away from the sitting fish boy just in case. My safety a little more assured. I do a quick turn about seeking the other two.
I catch sight of them near the edge of the pit floor. The big cursed is doing the smart thing and trying to trap Xael in place. It isn’t working, and Locke is paying the price for his attempts in blood. The tall cursed is sporting cuts on his face and abdomen, a lot of cuts.
No one knows better than I do that fighting Xael is like fighting an intrusive thought. You strike at him and he falls back, only to instantly surge at you from an angle that favors him. It genuinely starts to feel like your own attempts to hit him are all part of the dark-haired boy’s plan for the fight.
While it doesn’t look like Xael needs any help I can’t rely on that. If Locke can land even a glancing blow or get ahold of my partner there is a good chance I’ll need a new one. With a little sigh, I take off running towards the still dueling pair.
‘How did they even get so far away in such a short time?’
Crossing the distance at speed leaves me breathing heavier than it should, an aching souvenir of the duel I just won. I do my best to ignore the pain, a task that is fairly easy now but will only get more difficult as my excitement fades.
I have to admit I’m filled with the urge to unleash a battle cry as I close in on the big antlered boy. Not being amateur trash I ignore the desire and just swing at the boy’s lower half. I’m not sure what but something still gives me away. It might be the sound of my claws as I skid to a stop behind Locke, or maybe he saw my shadow or something in Xael’s eyes. It doesn’t really matter what it was, the huge Saffron pit-slave spins to intercept me at the last moment. As his mace deflects my axe not away but upwards, I sincerely wish he hadn’t.
I’m not known for tight control of my axe. I’m perfectly capable of fighting that way, I simply prefer to use the weapon like a dance partner or counterweight. I and it throwing each other around as I fuse attack and defence with the savagery of my swings. There are a lot of benefits to this style. It increases the power and speed of my attacks, whilst costing me less energy than one might think. It makes me harder to block head-on, and extremely intimidating to launch attacks against. It doesn’t however lend itself to pulling blows very well.
As mace meets axe my momentum collides with that of the turning antlered boy. As I told Xael his ability to spin on the spot isn’t great and he has to take a big side step to make it work. Locke’s upper body strength is so great that the awkwardness of the movement almost doesn’t matter. I lose any semblance of control I had over the weapon as it flings upwards bouncing off the cuirass’ collar guard to embed perfectly just below where the neck meets the jaw. A guaranteed kill.
If I had planned the manoeuvre I’d be extremely proud of myself. Instead, as I let go of the axe, all I get is a feeling like I’m going to throw up.
This is one more kid who didn’t want to be here bleeding to death in front of me. One more piece of evidence that I’m really the monster the pamphlets and announcer lady say I am.
“Fuck!” I scream. Locke has begun to uselessly scrabble at the weapon I left behind in him. Even if he gets it out he will just die faster. Soon he collapses weakly to the ground, his great strength fleeing with his blood.
All he had to do was nothing. Nothing! Sure he would have lost but that happened anyway, and he’d be alive. The fish boy might be a lot uglier than when he stepped onto the pit floor but barring some bad luck the arena surgeons will save him. This big idiot got himself killed on his first time out.
‘He didn’t get himself killed. You killed him.’
The thought is as sudden as it is unwelcome. Sweeping in like a bandit to rob my victory of joy, leaving only pain and the sudden exhaustion that comes with the end of a fight. Remembering the conversations I’ve had about being more entertaining I raise one arm in celebration when the judge declares us the winners. My heart is even less in it than usual.
Or at least it starts that way. The dark cloud building over my mood is suddenly banished, annihilated by a spear of wonder that strikes right to my core. A spear made of just one word repeated again and again.
“NORTH, NORTH, NORTH!” Come the disjointed chants of the crowd. They cheer Xael’s name too, probably more of them in fact and that's along with the jeers and boos, from the Saffron fans. I care so little about the other noises they may as well not exist. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of people chanting my name. I’ve been cheered before but not like this. Nothing I’ve ever felt is like this.
The transcendent feeling of exhilaration is already fading by the time I get back to the viewing cell. Sitting down causes something to shift a tiny bit inside me. The pain accompanying the movement however is not tiny. It happens to be intense enough that I have to stifle myself from crying out by sitting and just breathing for a little bit.
Once I’m a little recovered Xael and I trade a couple of words with Kalon and Tota. The other pair of BloodRock slaves have all sorts of thoughts on the fight but are at least smart enough not to clap me on the shoulder or something. Their criticisms and praises are annoying, but not nearly so much as whatever is stuck between my teeth. Digging it out with a fingernail I grimace as it turns out to be one of Shahim’s scales. As gross as that is it reminds my body just how hungry I am.
Evidently, I’m not the only one. When I mention food to the completely uninjured Xael, Tota and Kalon practically teleport over to make their own requests. The dark-haired human throws his hands up in exasperation.
“You know I just sat down. Why did you three not say this while I was still standing?” He seems more amused than irritated. Offering the world's most exaggerated groan he gets up off the little covered seat and strides off into the stands.
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None of us have any idea what the foreigner is going to bring back but we are all excited. Somehow the conversation turns to a series of dumb jokes about how if Tota ever goes free he should become a meat or jerky vendor so he can hang the drying or already cooked food on his spines as a sort of moving advertisement. The spiky cursed laughs but genuinely seems to consider it. Apparently, his spines grow back pretty quick, and they don’t hurt when broken off. So while it wouldn’t really work it isn't that crazy either.
There is a little bit of time until the main event of the day, despite being annoyed that there is a match that supposedly warrants a better position than mine and Xael’s. I’m both excited to see a fight between skilled pitters, and professionally curious about my potential opposition.
That curiosity lasts right up until Xael returns. The scent of spices roasted into the skin of game birds precedes him and utterly crushes any thoughts not related to food as it does.
The dark-haired foreigner hands three sticks through the cage bars. Each has an entire small cooked bird impaled on it. The three of us in the cell are wide-eyed like we are looking at a legendary treasure. Biting into the bird I am struck with a strong desire to attack the other two and take their sticks from them. I don’t of course, it just tastes really good.
What doesn’t taste good is the blood that spurts into my mouth when I accidentally bite the side of my mouth. I make a noise of pain and put my hand to my face. Everyone bites their cheek while eating on occasion, when it happens to me I lose whole chunks of flesh.
I’m still dealing with the surprisingly intense pain when Xael calls me over to the side of the cage. The foreigner is leaning against the bars talking to a dog boy who couldn’t be older than ten. What's weird is the kid is dressed in a fine sleeveless tunic similar to Xael’s, but it utterly lacks any house colors or symbols.
I repress a groan as I stand and pad over to the bars. Getting to my feet hurts my sternum less than sitting did, but it's still unpleasant in the extreme. I don’t know what Xael wants or who this kid is. I do know I’ve never seen someone so heavily cursed who wasn’t a slave before.
“What?” I hiss through gritted teeth, prompting Xael to weirdly reassure the boy that I’m not angry, just sore. Obviously, he’s wrong, I’m sore and angry.
“This is Muaritzo Verus, of the famed Verus trading clan. He tells me he is dying to meet you.” Says my partner with an easy smile. I’ve never heard of the Verus clan, but I’ve never been more than fifteen miles from the BloodRock compound either. They could be renowned the world over for all I know.
As the boy beams up at me I notice his feet are the same as mine, small, clawed, and out of proportion with the rest of his body. It turns out if you have enough money they do make shoes for feet like mine, well sandals at least.
We stare at each other in silence for a few heartbeats before the kid finally speaks. When he does the words come out in an excited flood.
“I-I Hello. I’m Muari and I can’t believe you won like that. My dad and brothers all said the moose guy was too big for you, but you just.” He makes a little attacking motion. “ Executed him like he was nothing, and that fight you had with the fish guy, that was amazing!” He goes on to describe the contest I just lived through back at me and I think I hate this kid a little.
It isn’t just that his chattering at me is annoying, though it definitely is. I’m also not overly bothered by the fact that he clearly chose to support me because we are both dog people, sort of. It's the clothes and the grooming I realize. The obvious signs of wealth and freedom whilst still bearing signs of a heavy curse.
‘What makes him so special?’ I wonder resentfully. Is it the money? Do his parents just love him more than mine loved me? Why is this weak-looking dog-boy not only free but getting to watch and enjoy as I risk my life.
While I’m having these thoughts Xael hands a book and charcoal pencil to the kid. Muaritzo takes it reverently looking down at some rune I don’t recognize. Then in a sudden explosion of movement, he thrusts the book and pencil through the bars of the cage.
“I know most pitters don’t write,” he says with obvious nerves. “ But if you have a mark please let me add it to my collection.” I’ve heard about this occasionally, some pit slaves like to make a little drawing or rune as a sort of declaration or sign of ownership.
I don’t have anything like that. In fact, if I reach out and take the pencil it will be the second time I’ve held one in my entire life. Looking down at the blank page opposite what I assume is Xael’s mark a nasty idea occurs to me.
“Fine,” I say leaning forward as if to take the leatherbound book and pencil. Instead, I gather some saliva in my mouth and spit on the page. To my surprise what comes out is only partly spit. Instead, I spray the bank page with drops of my blood. What's even more surprising is that Muaritzo seems ecstatic. His yellow eyes go unbelievably wide as he inspects my handiwork.
“Gods above and below thank you!” His voice cracks as if with emotions as he says it. Before very gingerly holding the book flat and open so as to what. Avoid smudging my bloodstain?
Even I don't have the heart to tell him I'd meant to disrespect or even damage the book. Not with those big eyes staring up at me with unbearable earnestness.
“Yeah. No problem” I say, fighting down my irritation. It isn't this kid's fault he has better parents than me.
‘Be nice. You want fans remember?’
I glance up at Xael who gives me an encouraging nod from behind the boy.
“So where are you from Mauri?” I ask in my best impersonation of someone who actually wants to be here.