Cytha of the Eclipsis looked around the stone island, suspicious of anything and everything about it. Created by the black Harbinger with blacker magic, it was an impossibility that should not be. One she had witnessed with her own eyes and ears. Grimstaf X, the Harbingers called it.
They hadn’t been happy that she had made it all the way to the entry time of the tournament, and neither had most of her fellow Nebula citizens. It wasn’t so much that Wylo Entras held that much sway over them, in fact very little, but that they were the ones who had allowed men like him to run their peaceful oligarchy for so long, and as such they feared that balance and fake peace getting overturned.
But who was Cytha to criticize? She would not be a Nebula citizen for much longer.
Ahead of her stretched the arena where they would be holding the combat trials. She walked with her nervously-glancing companions up tall stone steps, bleachers reaching up on either side already seating an unsettlingly large portion of the Bat Tribe. There was segregated seating for the Noctis, Eclipsis and Madrugada Orders, with the Madrugada seated in the far back and only on certain sides, though some sat down lower with their masters as attendants.
Cytha, like many of the other contestants, was draped in her simple cloak of dark grey, which came down to her calves in the back and her mid-thighs in the front. A black skirt covered from there to her tall leather boots. All told, she counted roughly three dozen contestants this year, which was an increase from last year. But perhaps not as much of an increase as she’d have expected, given how badly she wanted out of the hellcave in which she’d been born. A bat cage, for animals and by animals. Most of the other slaves were too content with their way of life, of simple raiding for the talented, and more pitiful duties for the less so.
The dark of night still hung as a blanket as they stepped into the arena from the south stairwell, though the first glimmer of morning tickled the eastern horizon. The crowd cheered for some reason . . . Why? She didn’t understand, but there were a lot of things people did that baffled her. And there stood the Magnates, all three of them, near the center of the arena. About a hundred yards separated them from the approaching contestants. One of the Magnates, called Kilshah, a fearsome bat-faced Eclipsis, raised his voice as he spread his leathery wings, indicating the newcomers with a hand:
“And this year’s contestants for the honor of ascendency!” he said in his snarly voice, far louder than any humanoid could possibly project. More of their witchcraft. “Come forth, contestants, and we shall shortly begin the trials. First, I shall explain the rules.”
Rules. Why? Just let us fight. To resignation, or to the death, it mattered not. The worst that could happen is that she died. But no, it couldn’t be quite that simple. Cytha stalked toward the raised dais on which stood the ruling class. Blessedly, Kilshah the Magnate fell silent, allowing them to approach within a stone’s cast. Then Hevseth, the tallest Magnate and the only Noctis member, picked up the announcement. The grand trio supposedly represented the three Orders of the Bat Tribe. “Today, we honor the establishment of Nebula two hundred ten years ago, and the liberation of the Noctis and Eclipsis peoples from the Raptor Clan ten years ago, with our annual combat games. The Nebula Trials.
“Each of our thirty-eight combatants will choose their weapons from the armory provided and will compete to submission or death, or until the time is up, at which point the victory shall be by decision. If one combatant verbally accepts defeat, his opponent must honor that or face possible disqualification.”
Possible disqualification . . . To the death? That was unusual, though their Trials usually resulted in at least one death, sometimes clearly intentional, other times not. It was always excused somehow. But this? It must be that Harbinger’s doing. Cytha couldn’t say she minded the terms, though many spectators in the crowd gasped upon hearing it. Some out of fear or horror, but most out of a hungry excitement Cytha recognized only too well. Her people secretly craved blood, and would be all too eager to see some this day.
And they will. They will.
The bouts took place in five-minute rounds, tracked by an hourglass which the Madrugada Magnate Salah kept. The Magnates had raised up four platforms, on which the matches would simultaneously take place. One-on-one, until all had fought once. Her first opponent was a Madru girl around her own age, not much smaller but pathetically weak. Just looking at her, she knew the girl was either a desperate contender like herself or a sacrifice sent by a master as cruel or crueler than Lord Entras.
Still, Cytha didn’t pity her, and would not go easy on her. It was a harsh world, and this lass would fall in her first fight regardless. While they waited for the Magnates to call out the start, Cytha said to her, “I’m sorry you were put in here.” She didn’t exactly feel the words in her heart, nor did they come out with any tone of sympathy, but it seemed appropriate.
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The girl merely scowled, although another emotion crossed her face for the briefest moment. Worry? Fear?
Cytha herself had little to no formal combat training. But, as she had displayed in the scrap with Wylo’s two slave sons the other day, she had grit and fought without honor or mercy. Such things only opened one up to brutality. She’d taken the hand-claws from the armory, a simple device that strapped over the hands, with iron claws extending past her own shorter claws. But . . . this time she could show mercy. Just a bit.
The signal was given, and Cytha lunged forward, diving unexpectedly for the girl’s ankles. Her wing-claws gripped the ground, breaking her fall with the strength of her armlike wing skeleton, and yanked her opponent off-balance with a vicious tug. The girl cried out but managed to keep one foot on the ground. It wasn’t enough. She toppled and just barely caught herself with one spindly arm. It was the arm that held the long knife she’d taken, and it clanged away on the stone floor now.
Cytha let go of the girl’s ankle a moment before she’d have twisted it out of joint by her own rolling motion, and instead leapt onto the girl’s back, pinning her to the ground. She clung to the girl’s legs with her own and savagely pinned her arms down with her iron claws, pressing into skin with the left ones. The cry it elicited was pitiful at best.
“Do you yield?” she hissed in her opponent’s ear.
“I—I . . .” The girl’s head dropped, kissing the cold stone. “I yield. Please don’t kill me.”
“Louder,” Cytha said, and she repeated it.
The judges called the fight, and Cytha let her go. Sniffling, the girl rolled her shoulder and glanced about for the knife she’d dropped. Cytha collected it, and before the girl could go, she said, “Who’s your master, Madru?”
“S-Sivel.” The name came out through gritted teeth. “Lord Sivel.”
Still gazing at her face, which was marked already before the fight, Cytha said, “Grow a spine. Nothing will change if you bow your back and snivel like that. Were you forced to come here?”
“I . . . no. No, I wanted to. I don’t know why, I just . . .”
“To fight for your freedom!” Cytha growled, louder than she meant to. Lowering her voice, aware that they would be pulled away soon, she said, “Then at least that would be something.” She wasn’t sure why she suddenly felt compelled to give this Madru advice, nor was she particularly qualified to do so.
The girl hesitated as she backed away. “Thank you.” She didn’t elaborate, but allowed the referee who came for her to guide her away to the where the losers would stay for the duration of the remaining bouts and subsequent rounds.
Cytha sucked in a long breath and let it out in a huff. She followed the voice of Salah the Madrugada Magnate, who was calling for her to wait her turn with the victors for the next round. It would likely be the better part of an hour. Still early in the morning, the Sun was starting to glow from the Earth’s horzon in the east, sending its first beams to filter through the spectator stands. They should have held the Trials earlier. Best to get this dark contest over before the Sun could smother it.
A cry drew her attention to the other three fights. One sure victor in the arena immediately south of hers had just pierced his opponent with a sword in the upper chest. The victim had been the one to cry out, and now begged defeat, clutching the wound as the man yanked the sword free. Its blade was jagged and harsh, a Noctis favorite, drawing out copious amounts of blood. The medics rushed in as the victor was pulled away by the Magnates.
Cytha looked to the other two fights. One featured a spear-and-shield wielder versus another swordsman, both of whom looked equally skilled. None of the weapons were dulled, each fully capable of killing. Why did the Magnates—no, why did the Harbinger—want this? For their most talented to kill each other off? How did that serve the greater good if the Lords Above wanted more entrants?
But no, not more: Better.
One of the contestants in the last arena had glanced toward the man with the sword wound, and now paid the price for his actions with a blow to his shield from his opponent’s axe. What happened next shocked Cytha more than she wanted to admit: One moment the man, barely a man yet, was knocked down, left wing and shield hugging the stone, and the next . . . his head struck the arena floor in a display that hushed the crowd. Cytha didn’t look away, but her neck twitched as though she should, and her eyes gave an involuntary blink. The winner roared, holding his bloodied axe aloft as the loser’s corpse fell to the ground.
Then the cheering began. Even though she knew it was coming, it chilled Cytha to listen, to look around and see the rapt attention and excitement of the crowd, even some of the children present. There was some quiet discussion as the referees questioned whether the kill was warranted or not, but the decision went predictably toward the axeman, claiming he gave his victim the proper time to yield. The medics swooped in to cover and haul away the corpse even as the remaining fight ended with the swordsman yielding to the Noctis with the spear and shield.
Cytha realized only now that she had witnessed no elemental Kinships. Although she might have missed them. Of course, all eight contestants in this round including herself possessed wings, but most of the Bat Tribe did—even the elementalists. They said the other sky races tended to be born without wings.
The Magnates gave the next contestants but a minute before commencing the next set of fights, which lasted from around one to five minutes. Cytha made sure to keep a close eye on the combatants, quickly disregarding the less skillful and studying those she deemed greater threats. The one who defeated his opponent in around a minute did indeed appear a great warrior, but then again, Cytha had submitted that Madru girl in under a minute simply by being aggressive. And of course, the only one with any real fighting instincts. Cytha lacked training and experience—possibly talent, too—but what she had was instinct, cunning and grit.
Another round passed, and then another, and Cytha’s stomach began to growl. Once again, she had eaten hardly anything. The Magnates had provided refreshments for all the contestants this morning, but it wasn’t much and Cytha had not wanted to call down the ire of Magnate, lord or fellow contestant, so she’d forced her trembling hands to take no more than the others.
By the last two matches, Cytha was starting to lose focus, but she noted no more exceedingly skilled or talented individuals. Ten entrants had perished, and another five were in critical condition. Of the victors going on to the next round of the tournament, she counted six elementalists: two Cragborn, one Dewborn, one Dustborn, one Sunborn—or so she thought, but it was hard to tell with them—and . . . one Beastborn. That boy had certainly been interesting to watch in the penultimate round, calling in bird companions to harry his foe. Named Pock, he was older than his youthful face let on. His had been one of the most savage wins.