Besides the occasional speculation on what the night would hold, their conversation fizzled out. The bleak reality of her situation settled into her. Trista wasn’t a fighter, and without her magic, she had no advantage. Tonight, she would die.
It wouldn’t be the first time the gods killed witches for sport.
When their cages opened, they made a creaking, scraping sound that set her teeth on edge. A faint light filtered through the space from a distance as if coming from another room. An authoritative voice instructed, “Line it up. Any fighting before the round starts will only get you killed early.”
She didn’t move at first, hearing the others shuffle into the narrow passageway between walls of cells. Waiting for the silhouettes of the men to crowd forward, she quietly slipped behind them, her legs unsteady beneath her.
“No point in staying in there either. We’ll just send the hounds after you,” the handler barked.
Cursing as he bumped into someone, the prisoner’s blond hair and boyish features caught in the dim light. With his eyes swollen and red from fresh tears, she recognized him as the youth who had been imprisoned just that morning. His breathing was shallow and quick as he stepped behind her. Trista forced herself to not match it lest she gave into her own steadily building panic.
Somewhere from the front, another door groaned open, allowing for more light to pour in. Trista squinted, unable to handle such radiance after being in pitch black for so long. The line began to move, and the handler directed them which way to go. When it was her turn to approach him, he held up the bright lantern, inspecting her from head to toe.
Gruffly he said, “You’re the witch, eh? Over there.” Gesturing with his chin to the left, he shoved her forward as she passed him.
She stumbled through a short, narrow corridor that fed into a gated chamber. Joining a group of roughly a dozen or so males, the entry was closed behind her with a clang of finality by a second handler she hadn’t noticed. Most of those gathered were covered in dirt and disheveled, clearly marking them as fellow prisoners. A couple of them glanced at her, but most were rolling their necks and shoulders, readying themselves. She shuffled a couple of steps over to see what was beyond this new cage.
What lay before them was a dimly lit arena. The ground was covered in clean, leveled sand surrounded by high and solid walls. She could just make out weapons on top of a simple platform at the center. Swallowing hard, her stomach plummeted.
“Listen up, if you want a chance at survival, stay with Roland and me,” a bald and broad-shouldered man in the front advised. “Name’s Jaric.” He looked over his shoulder at them. “Don’t get in our way, though. It is our eleventh round, and surviving this leads tothe reckoning.” The cloth tied around his upper arm with a symbol she didn’t recognize identified him as a champion. “If you fight well, it could be the fastest way out of here.”
A third champion snorted derisively. “You’ll have better luck dying.” He looked around, taking in the prisoners, his beady eyes appraising. “None of them are fighters—they even gave us a girl.” His lips twisted into a sneer. Despite the insignia of a dancing woman he sported wrapped around his bicep, the champion appeared greasy and unkempt.
“What is this?” Her voice cracked with the question. She was speaking to Jaric or Roland, but the other champion answered.
“This round is the Blood Gauntlet. Not that it really matters. You’re probably going to die within the first two minutes.” He snickered. “When this gate rises, it is a free-for-all. Run to the center and get a weapon if you want any chance at survival.” He leered, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip. “If you stay with me, though, I’ll protect you if you let me have a piece of that pretty—”
The gate shuttered, causing them all to look ahead again. Trista would rather die than let him have a piece of anything. Though, she wasn’t keen on either option.
She looked to where the weapons were again. It was a fair bit of distance, and all around the coliseum were other holding cells filled with fighters. Mother help her—how many were there? She knew she wouldn’t get to the weapons before anyone else did. And it was safe to assume an all-out brawl would take place at the platform. Maybe if she stayed out of the way, she could grab a discarded weapon later. Or maybe she could catch up to Jaric and Roland…
That was her best plan. That was heronlyplan.
The men in front tensed. Most put a foot forward, ready to sprint as soon as the gate opened.
“Welcome to the Blood Gauntlet!” a voice boomed from above.
A fevered cacophony came from a distant crowd she couldn’t see through the bars.
“Fighterrrrs!” The word was elongated, echoing in the hollowed space. “Tonight is special indeed. Tonight, you not only fight before Zeus, the King of Gods…” Cheering interrupted the announcer for a moment. “But also, before The God of War himself—ararehonor.” A wave of reverent hums traveled through the spectators.
“He’s actually here,” Jaric said with quiet fascination. A couple of men shifted nervously.
She didn’t care which gods were present. She was too busy thinking about how to survive.Ifshe could survive.
“May the gods favor you.” The announcer’s words lingered in the stadium ominously, and then the gate began to rise.
When the barrier had risen only a fraction off the ground, Jaric and Roland slipped beneath it. It climbed higher still, and the others took off behind them. Frozen in place, she numbly watched their backs as they raced for the center. Then energy, hot and prickling, coursed through her, propelling her into a run. Fighters poured from their respective holding areas, some sprinting all-out to the middle, and a few hanging back as if trying to orient themselves. The first combatants reached the platform, grabbing weapons and backing off to find better ground.
It wasn’t until the second wave of fighters reached the stand that the true fighting began. Bodies pressed inward toward the stage of weapons and then out as the unlucky ones had to back away or be cut down where they stood. She watched as Roland and Jaric worked in tandem to arm themselves. Roland picked up a sword and looked it over, while Jaric kept others from attacking him. Finding the blade acceptable, he grabbed an ax next. Tossing the sword to Jaric, who caught it deftly, they leapt into the frenzy well-armed.
It was a bloodbath, and there was no way for her to get to the two champions without being struck down. The melee moved and shifted too quickly for her mind to track. Her eyes jumped from battling pair to battling pair as she turned to take in the sudden and extreme brutality happening all around her.
“Get out of the way,” someone snarled behind her seconds before she was violently shoved. She managed to just catch herself with her hands, keeping her from landing face-first. But before she could find her footing again, something heavy landed on her. The weight slammed her body back into the sand, pinning her legs. As she twisted around to identify the threat, it took her mind a long moment to understand what she was seeing. It was a bloody and mangled mass—the remains of a slaughtered fighter. She stared at it for longer than she should have.
The arena became a blur around her.
I have to move.