Although they were packed in tight, Jonas and the other gladiators were too excited to be uncomfortable. The enormous covered beetle wagon was normally used for transporting merchant’s goods across the continent. This one carried a dozen fighters, as did the other one right behind it. Together, the two teams represented something new. A potential power in the North side, tentatively calling themselves the Shades in honor of their leader, touched by Tsaba.

They were dressed to match, all of them wearing simple chitin armor with their weapon of choice close by. All of them had a mask at their side, just waiting to be put on. It would cover everything but their eyes, presenting a featureless face painted black and white. On one side was a black orchrisus, and on the other a white crescent moon. Getting them all made in short order had been a pain, but Jonas followed through and now they had something to protect them while they made a statement.

The cart rolled on silently. The sound of wheels on stone told Jonas they were on the bridge now. Beside him, Quentin sat at the deepest end of the cart, bent over and leaning on his knees, staring at the floor. He wore a troubled expression. Which wasn’t too dissimilar from his normal one, Jonas supposed, except it was more fidgety.

“Nervous about the job?” Jonas asked. “Don’t worry about us. We love a good scrap and we’ve got some pent up aggression just dying to get out.” Around him a few others grunted their agreements.

“No, it’s not that,” said Quentin. He looked around at all of them, frowning as he thought intently. “This is the first time I’m making a choice to kill someone. People I don’t even know. It’s not self defense, and it’s not executing them. I’m going to murder some people for being in a group I have bad blood with. And so are all of you.”

Jonas understood. It was one of the first things that really puzzled him about the executioner when he met him. At first, Jonas figured the job was probably stressful but fun. You got to test yourself while being the star of the show and the people he killed were going to be offed anyway, so no need to worry too much. He hadn’t really understood the cost the killing had. Maybe he couldn’t.

“I’ve killed people before,” said Jonas, stone faced. He didn’t even think of it often anymore. It had happened, he made a choice he would’ve made again, and then it was over and done with. Time passed, and he’d moved on. “I don’t know if you know this, but I’m an orphan. I ended up on the streets early on. Like, nine.”

“I didn’t know that,” Quentin admitted.

Jonas smiled crookedly. “It was rough out there, but I made it. Survival is a good motivation, but sometimes…Sometimes you see someone so shit, so awful, so offensive that killing them is doing the world a favor. You do it for others as much as for yourself. That’s how I see what we’re going to do.”

Renee let out a sharp whistle. “I think we can all get behind that,” she said, admiring one of her knives. “Some people just need to die, and sometimes you owe someone death.” More grunts of agreement. All of them knew there was a chance to die during their fights. One mistake, one blow too good and they’d kill their friends instead of moving on to the next match. Not all the gladiators were so unconcerned about death and violence, but it was a uniting factor.

“And if we get caught and sent to the Colosseum?” Quentin scoffed.

“Well then,” said Bruce, grinning. He was so tall his head nearly scraped the canvas overhead. “Then we all say it was your idea and let you go face off against Cervenka, and then we get right back out here and keep going until we’ve got Christophe’s head!”

They all cheered, and even Quentin smiled at that. He seemed mollified for the moment, but Jonas knew first hand how much a worrier he was underneath the scowl. The beetle lurched forward and the cart bumped as it left the bridge. They were on the south side now. From here the carts would split up and approach the neighborhood from both sides. No one would get away from them today.

A few more minutes passed. Jonas peeked out the back of the cart. Some people looked in and saw a group of armed men and women and stared. Others made themselves scarce, knowing how rough things could get in Orchrisus at the drop of a hat. As they got closer and closer and the buildings around them grew more rundown, Jonas put on his mask, securing the leather strap tightly. All around him, the rest of the Shades did as well.

“This is it,” Quentin said, voice muffled by the lacquered wood. “You see anyone wearing a red tunic or holding a weapon, you take them out. Unless they’re a small child, in which case you disarm them and scare them off. We get the people on the street first and then make our way in the building. Everyone understand?”

Murmurs echoed around the cart, all in agreement. It was a simple plan, they knew what to do and were eager to do it. Eventually the cart stopped. They held their collective breath, as still as death. The driver let out three sharp whistles.

Two by two the Shades leapt off the cart and poured into the streets of South Orchrisus. Jonas watched them all go, heart pounding. Then it was his turn and he took off, shield on his left arm and sword on his back. He hit the ground running, drawing his sword and doing a quick scan of the battlefield.

The highlight of the neighborhood was a massive inn with an entrance on both sides. The Warlord’s flophouse likely used to be a community center with food and laborers available for just about any job. Now it was a big shared dormitory for the Warlords, and a big source of their manpower. In front of the building were several young men and a few women wearing red tunics. They were all armed with something, usually knives but occasionally a piece of real steel, and they were slow to react to the ambush.

Ajax swung his club right into the first Warlord’s skull. The man dropped, swaying before he collapsed to the ground. The gladiator paused just long enough to finish the job before the battle started in earnest. One of the defenders managed to scream out, “UNDER ATTACK!” before a gladiator ran her through. Jonas surged forward, falling upon a man who got his sword out just in time to block before Jonas slammed his shield into him.

He fell hard on his ass and rolled out of the way of the downstroke that would’ve ended him. Excitement flowed through Jonas like a cat playing with a mouse. Maybe he’d feel guilty later, but the only thing going through his mind right now was a replay of the invasion at the Garden, and how good it felt to strike back. The Warlord on the ground swung wildly. Jonas bobbed out of the way and drew his sword across the man’s throat. He felt only satisfaction.

All around them, what few civilians on the streets got the hell out of there as fast as they could. An old, bearded man had his hand on two kids in red tunics themselves and dragged them out of there. He knew what was going on and what the attackers were after. Others, too young to fight, took off on their own. The Shades didn’t bother trying to stop them. By now, the cart was empty and all fighters threw themselves into the frey, the evening air full of the sounds of metal on metal and laughter.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

From the flophouse came the rest of the Warlords. More and more and more until it was clear there were more of them than there were Shades. Jonas grinned from behind his mask. All along the battlefield the fight slowed to a stop, Quentin kicking one person to the ground before looking up at the new wave of enemies. For a second that stretched on forever there was silence. Then Quentin raised his sword in a mocking salute and pointed it at the newcomers.

The Shades let out a unanimous roar and charged forward, weapons raised.

What appeared to be the acting leader of the Warlords raised his own steel knife. The warlords raced to meet them head on. The two groups met with a violent crash not far from the doors of the flophouse. Jonas blocked one strike while Bruce stabbed his attacker with a spear. Quentin took a nasty cut along the arm and then stabbed the grinning bastard who did it. Farther on down the line, Ajax roared and broke a hole in the line with his club.

Little by little, the Warlords fell back towards those doors. They held their own, staying on their feet for the most part and losing men slowly, but they never seemed to be able to get more than a glancing blow against the gladiators. And why not? These bastards were cowards and opportunists. They didn’t know how to truly fight alongside your brothers.

Jonas cried out wordlessly as he struck his newest opponent with his shield. The other man was a teen, no older than Jonas himself. His face was twisted in rage and held barely restrained fear. He stabbed Jonas, his glass dagger breaking on the hard chitin protecting his middle. Jonas decided to go for it and slammed his head forward into his opponents. The man went down and Jonas barely felt it.

Then all at once they pushed in further and multiple gladiators trampled the man as they got closer to the flophouse. They struck and moved forward in pulses, like a violent heartbeat closing in on death. By now some of the Warlords broke the line and ran inside. That was the last sign the Shades needed before they went into a frenzy, chasing them inside.

The inside of the flophouse was a shithole not meant for comfortable living. Beds and hammocks lined the walls, places to sleep with a place for a couple possessions. The center was mostly open, with a number of tables keeping it from being a proper battle arena. There were even more Warlords in here, some still getting dressed and grabbing a weapon. One of them had a cart and was flanked by two men with actual armor on. In the cart were several bulging bags of shards.

“We hit payday,” Jonas shouted to be heard above the battle.

The guy managing the cart let out a squeak. His two armed guards put themselves between Jonas and their charge. Jonas roared and came at them, drunk on the fight and his own sense of power. Unlike the Warlords, these two were older, hardened, and not impressed with a lone masked man attacking two of them.

Jonas struck but the man on the right parried. His partner swung a proper sword down. Jonas blocked with his shield, the impact shooting up his arm and losing feeling. He reeled back avoiding the sword coming for him.

The two men split apart, circling around him and showing no mercy or hesitation. One would strike and make Jonas defend and then the other would come at him from the other side. Jonas’ reflexes held…at first. He abandoned himself to his training and instincts, blocking and weaving away from attacks, striking back only to hit air as his opponent moved. There was joy in the fight, in the challenge. Jonas laughed again.

The next blow he didn’t dodge, and the laughing stopped. One his opponent’s swords cut through the air, barely missing his head. When the man drew it back, he caught Jonas’ ear, the cheek, and the leather strap of the mask. He ripped his hand back hard and Jonas faltered, helpless in that blinding moment of pain and shock. The mask clattered to the ground.

He saw his own death coming in slow motion. The one who got him was still recovering, but his partner was able to attack. He raised his sword high. Jonas saw the angle, told his arm to move but it wouldn’t cooperate. It came down.

And then off as Quentin’s sword cleaved through the gap in the armor at the armpit. He had just enough time to look surprised before the sword went through his neck. Jonas recovered from his shock and parried the remaining guard’s oncoming blow. He feinted and the poor bastard bought it. Jonas ran him through with his sword while he was flat footed.

“You okay?” Quentin shouted over the clamor.

Jonas touched his ear and jerked away with a hiss. His hand came away bloody, and he had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t be hard to rip part of his ear off. “I’m fine,” he said. “Behind you!”

Quentin turned in time to see a particularly young looking combatant scream and run at him with his sword held out. He slapped the sword out of his hand and let the boy crash into him, turning and throwing him at the door. “Run away and warn the others,” Quentin hissed at him, stalking forward. “Tell Piro and Christophe we’re coming for them.”

The boy didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled out the door and down the street. Jonas and Quentin shared a bloodthirsty, satisfied grin. Movement out of the corner of Jonas’ eye had him jerk his sword in that direction. The payroll runner froze.

“Stay where you are,” said Jonas, stepping forward. “We’ve got some questions for you. Answer them and you get to walk away!” He smiled, doing his best to look friendly and charming. People said he had a good face for it.

“Yeah,” the runner sighed, hands in the air. “Sure.”

Jonas turned to the battle, which was already winding down. Their other team had come in through the other entrance and together boxed them in. Some surrendered and lay there face down on the floor, the rest were killed where they stood. Some of the Shades were already going upstairs, but at this point it was just cleanup.

The entire affair had taken maybe ten minutes from the time they jumped off the cart to finishing up. Jonas was one of a handful that had taken a real hit. Renee was another, hands pressed against a gut wound that probably hurt but wasn’t especially dangerous. Between surprise and ferocity, they’d completely dominated their opponents. All of them had taken some surface level wounds, but only a quarter of them would consider themselves injured. Those were taken back to the cart, including a protesting Jonas.

Outside, the neighbors watched from the windows of their homes, tentatively peeking their heads out. Bruce ushered Jonas and the others to the cart, keeping a sharp look out for their surroundings. No Watchmen yet. With any luck there wouldn’t be, if they let the Warlords govern themselves it could be another ten, fifteen minutes until the law was there. Hopefully that’d be enough.

The driver of their cart doubled as their field surgeon. Mitch already had his kit out and gave them a quick lookover. Jonas took that opportunity to catch his breath, doing his best to ignore the hot, wet drip of blood from his ear down his neck, and the fact that he’d lost his mask and now was open to the world. As short as the fight was, exhaustion bore down on Jonas. The kind of tired that satisfied.

The rest of the Shades didn’t take long. By the time Mitch was done with some basic stitches so Jonas could keep his ear, the rest of them came out lugging a lot of shards with them. But not all of them. Half must’ve gone to the other team. Jonas got out of the way and let them lead up the cart first, piling in one after another.

Jonas waited until it was just him and Quentin before they hopped in, this time sitting next to the back latch. Jonas whistled sharply and the driver urged the beetles on. They made a wide circuit around the street before heading back the direction they came. Whereas the trip there had been calm, quiet, and slow, this time the beetles hauled ass towards the bridge.

Quentin slumped back against the side of the cart. He pulled his mask off, sighing. “No going back after this,” he said. He sounded tired and signed more than upset.

“You’re damned right,” David said, tilting his head back and howling to the laughter of several of the others. “The Shades first big score!”

Their leader grimaced but nodded. Jonas knew him enough by now to know he didn’t like the name but he wasn’t going to fight it either. They were following him, but in some ways he was just as much following their passions and directing it. Demetrius brought them together and Quentin’s miraculous recovery united them, and now this first victory would cement it.

Jonas smiled, settling in for the ride back. The Shades were now in business.