Chapter 2: The Crocodile

If it wasn’t obvious that Lord Gallo was wealthy, it was when Beetle was all but pushed through the door of her new room. Not only was it situated above ground, but it was one of the highest points of the complex that surrounded the arena. The windows actually had glass, as well as iron bars preventing escape, and through it, the sun cast an orange hand across her new gilded cage. The stone floors were polished into mirrors and clothed in woven rugs dyed red, and at the center of the red sea was a wooden bed with a plump mattress fit for someone far above the station of a beetle.

The lost warrior stood alone in the room, the sounds of sea birds providing some sort of auditory backdrop as loneliness battled her confusion. Her eyes were drawn to a dresser settled against one of the walls, the drawers slightly ajar, as if purposely to tease her curiosity. And that’s all it would do, for now.

Beetle couldn’t take another step. In a moment of defeat, she simply let her knees buckle to the carpet, her dirty rags rubbing against the clean fibers of a higher society. The irony didn’t pass through her head as she laid it on the solid ground. The rug didn’t provide much cushion and her green eyes stared dead at the bed maybe two strides away. Beetle buried her face against the ground and let her fatigue take her, she didn’t want his presents, she wanted her freedom, and her memory. Black stole her consciousness, and an empty sleep seized her body.

***

A gentle light caressed Beetle’s face and she sucked in a waking breath. The orange evening was now a pale morning. The back of Beetle’s head was on a pillow and her body was comfortable on a mattress. Fear gripped her chest and with a rush of blood she shot up, scrambling out of bed and onto her feet, only to realize that at some point, someone moved her to the bed, unless she moved herself.

Rubbing her face, Beetle groaned to herself, “I’m getting tired of this.” That voice, who owned it? “Who are you?” Beetle asked herself. “Why do you sound so rough?” She frowned. “Who in all the void knows?” A single “Ha!” Beetle shook her head. “I’m losing my mind.” A pause. “Again, apparently—”

Beetle froze. A wooden tub was sitting where she had fallen asleep the evening prior. The structure was well built, banded with iron, and sitting innocently on the rug. Someone had definitely visited her in the night. A chill crawled up her spine and her instinct saw her creeping towards the bath.

It was a simple enough ordeal, wooden planks banded in metal and a towel placed by the edge. Even so, the fact remained that it wasn’t there the night before. Beetle’s finger dipped into the water, only for shock to find her face. It was warm. Another one of Gallo’s luxuries, she figured. She hated the thought, but she did need a bath.

Beetle pressed her shoulder against the frame of the bath and with one mighty shove, she pushed the entire assembly across the rug until the wooden tub slammed into the bedroom door. Next, Beetle ran her hand along the far side wall, just in case, before letting her grimy rags fall to the floor. One foot and then the other, the warrior lowered herself into the warm embrace of the water. The crystal liquid generously took the color of her filth and in moments, Beetle was clean, and the water was worse for wear.

Taking her time, Beetle traced the scars both old and new along her skin. Her body was something like a book, with scars being the written language, only she couldn’t read. But she didn’t need to know the secret language of her wounds to know it was a long story. A moment longer, and Beetle was out of the water, wrapped in a towel and scavenging the dresser drawers.

Just as she pulled on a loose linen short and matching beige trousers, there was a knock on her door. The tub jumped as someone tried to open the door and then a long sigh.

“Beetle.” It was Lady Chiara.

The warrior tucked her shirt in, tying the waist with a brown sash. “That’s me.”

“It’s time for your appointment with the quartermaster.”

Beetle slipped on her sandals and took a moment of silence for herself.

“Beetle?” Lady Chiara’s voice was grating.

“Yeah,” Beetle said. “I’ll be right out.”

***

With Lady Chiara, gloomy and pissy, by her side, Beetle walked the steps back down from the apartments of the arena to the bloodlust depths. The hallways of the apartments were nice enough, but the thin carpet that dominated that place rubbed down to stone by the time they were below the arena and any decoration turned to pragmatic stands for candles or altars. Even the people changed. From the decent looking folk of the apartments to the desperate. One face stood out as Beetle walked, that of the pale eyed old man of the day prior. When she passed him, his eyes lit up and he flicked his ear.

“Do you know him?” Beetle asked Lady Chiara, forcing the out of place silk-laden lady to look at the old man. Her face was unreadable, stuck in a forever grimace.

“Some nameless peon, same as most here,” Chiara offered generously. The lady’s face changed as they approached a heavy door. A rooster was freshly painted on the front of the door, colored in some royal purple. The strange bird wore a silver crown. Chiara placed a hand against the door.

“This will be your place of training from now on, where you can find your equipment and speak with the quartermaster.”

Beetle nodded.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Chiara leaned closer to the shorter woman, eyes digging with a glare. “Do not obstruct this doorway.”

Beetle snorted at that, “No surprise tubs in the quartermaster room, then.”

With a long sigh, Chiara pushed the door open and escorted Beetle through.

The air inside was musky, leading Beetle to believe it was connected to the outside somehow. Beyond the smell of sweat and old leather, the room was exactly as Beetle expected it to look. It was large and square, with a row of different weapons against one wall and mannequins of armor against another. On the far side of the room was a door that may have led to the outside or maybe even the arena waiting chambers and at the center of the room was a large square demarcated by cut logs and filled with sand. Standing in front of the training square was a young man with a wide smile.

He looked young and what was more, his dark complexion was flawless. There wasn’t any sign of work or strain under his brown eyes and even his black curls were shiny, healthy, and pulled away from his face by a band of silver.

“Quartermaster Jacob,” Lady Chiara introduced.

“Quartermaster…” Beetle felt the word in her mouth. Jacob looked more like a noble brat than a quartermaster for some nefarious arena.

“She’s all yours,” Lady Chiara said without flair, eagerly stepping out of the room and closing the door. Jacob jumped at the sound of the door closing and tipped his head.

“A pleasure to meet you. Do you prefer Beetle?”

The warrior cocked a brow at the question. “It’s my name, I suppose I don’t have a choice.”

Jacob cleared his throat. “Well, some gladiators have arena names.”

“Like ‘The Crocodile’?” Beetle was walking towards the rows of weapons. Her eyes bounced from iron rod, to straight sword, from hammer to cleaver, until it fell on a long hafted axe, the same size as her, with a biting beard. Her fingers reached out to it.

“Exactly,” Jacob agreed. “Though I guess arena names are typically used by the free fighters.”

Beetle lifted the axe from its home and felt the weight in her arms. It felt familiar, comfortable. Her fingers found worn in grooves, the stain of oil from fingers and salt. She flicked her eyes over to Jacob. “Free fighters?”

“Ah, yes,” Jacob nodded eagerly. “As I gather it, there are two types of gladiators. Those who came here willingly, free fighters, and those who…”

“Are forced to it,” Beetle finished his sentence. She turned to him fully now. “The way you’re speaking about it, I’m going to assume you’re new to the arena?”

A shy smile broke across the man’s face and he nodded his head. “You have a good sense about you.”

“Who was the quartermaster before you, then?” Beetle found herself asking.

“Before me?” Jacob shook his head. “I’m the first. I may be new, but Lord Gallo isn’t exactly a veteran. He and my father are old friends, so he gave me the job maybe five days ago, but he only gained interest in Yenellii a week or two ago.”

Beetle’s jaw dropped and she couldn’t hide her surprise. “Don’t tell me I’m his first fighter?”

“And only,” Jacob agreed.

Her brow knit. “Now tell me The Crocodile is also new.”

The quartermaster’s lips sealed quickly. Beetle searched his face and finally he spouted. “It’s only until first blood. The match, I mean.”

Beetle closed her eyes. If this was the world her past was steeped in, she was starting to understand why her voice sounded so angry. “When is the match?” Another pause. Jacob looked as if he was about to burst with embarrassment. Beetle felt her face flush with frustration. She took a step forward with her axe falling into both of her hands. “When is the match, Jacob?”

The far side door burst open, letting in a glow of natural light and a hush of heat. A pale faced man with an eyepatch and beard poked his head in. “The Verdokian is ready. Introduction in twenty minutes.”

Beetle glared at Jacob, who shrunk in his spot. “Jacob, what’s a Verdokian?”

“The Crocodile is a Verdokian,” Jacob answered. “You know, someone from Verdokia… the land of the lizard people.”

Wide eyes dug into the poor man. “Only until first blood, huh?”

***

The pathway to the arena proper from the quartermaster room was nothing special. It was a sandy stone corridor which crisscrossed with a bunch of others and ended with an iron grate and ear shattering cheers. With one step, Beetle exited the cold dungeons and entered the hot sands of the real world. Roaring chants caused her ears to throb, and her eyes were pained by the unabated sunlight. The hot sand reflected the light angrily, and the dark leather that protected her chest and skirted her thighs trapped her sweat in the worst way. Her fingers tightened around her axe, though an onlooker might say the massive weapon was holding her rather than her holding it.

Inside the circle, Beetle couldn’t piece together where she fought yesterday. The sand was clean, without stains or gore, and the only other thing inside the damnable arena was her new enemy: The Crocodile.

He was tall, even by Beetle’s standards, and he was wide. A tail as thick as a leg poked from his rear and muscle rippled under thick green scales. He didn’t wear any armor, just a leather skirt for modesty and a baldric across his shoulder that held a curved sword. Some announcer was garbling his achievements to the crowd, sending them into rolls of shouts with each word. It was gibberish to Beetle, her attention was trapped in The Crocodile’s yellow eyes. A toothy grin split his face and a new feeling hit the warrior’s chest. This wasn’t a soldier, nor a thug she was looking at. This was a bona fide gladiator, and one by choice at that. This was his home, this was his lair.

“To first blood!” The announcer finally said. “Once drawn, the match shall end!” Another cheer. “Until then, may mercy keep you above the sands.”

A gong blasted.

Beetle gripped her axe, her fighting instincts flaring. The Crocodile twitched, muscles flexing, sword still hanging on his hip. Cheers kept the arena from silence, then all at once, the great beast of a man turned into a blur of speed. Pain cracked Beetle’s ribs. Yellow eyes were inches from hers, a scaly fist crammed in her chest.

“You’re in my way, Monkey...”