Slave, Warrior, Queen. Morgan Rice
future, inequality will vanish forever,” Rexus said. “I will see to it.”
Listening to him speak, Ceres’s chest swelled. One day she would fight side by side with him and her brothers in the rebellion.
As they neared the Stade the streets widened, and Ceres felt like she could take a breath. The air buzzed. She felt she would rupture from excitement.
She walked through one of the dozens of arched entrances and looked up.
Thousands upon thousands of commoners teemed inside the magnificent Stade. The oval structure had collapsed on the top northern side, and the majority of the red awnings were torn and provided little protection from the sweltering sun. Wild beasts growled from behind iron gates and trap doors, and she could see the combatlords standing ready behind the gates.
Ceres gaped, taking it all in in wonder.
Before she knew it, Ceres looked up and realized she had fallen behind Rexus and her brothers. She rushed forward to catch up, yet as soon as she did, four burly men had surrounded her. She smelled alcohol, rotting fish, and body odor as they pressed in too close, turning and gaping at her with rotted teeth and ugly smiles.
“You’re coming with us, pretty girl,” one of them said as they all strategically moved in on her.
Ceres heart raced. She looked ahead for the others, but they were already lost in the thickening crowd.
She confronted the men, trying to put on her bravest face.
“Leave me be or I will…”
They burst into laughter.
“What?” one mocked. “A wee girl like you take us four?”
“We could carry you out of here kickin’ and screamin’ and not a soul would say nuttin’,” another added.
And it was true. From the corner of her eye, Ceres watched people rush by, pretending not to notice how these men were threatening her.
Suddenly, the leader’s face turned serious, and with one swift move, he grabbed her arms and pulled her close. She knew they could haul her away, never to be seen again, and that thought terrified her more than anything.
Trying to ignore her pounding heart, Ceres spun around, snatching her arm out of his stronghold. The other men hooted in amusement, but when she thrust the base of her palm into the leader’s nose, snapping his head back, they went silent.
The leader placed filthy hands over his nose and grunted.
She didn’t relent. Knowing she had one chance, she kicked him once in the stomach, remembering her days of sparring, and he keeled over as she connected.
Immediately, though, the other three were upon her, their strong hands grabbing her, yanking her away.
Suddenly, they relented. Ceres looked over with relief to see Rexus appear and punch one in the face, knocking him out.
Nesos then appeared and grabbed another and kneed him in the stomach before kicking him to the ground, leaving him in the red dirt.
The fourth man charged toward Ceres, but just as he was about to attack, she ducked, spun, and kicked him in the rear so he went flying into a pillar headfirst.
She stood there, breathing hard, taking it all in.
Rexus placed a hand on Ceres’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Ceres’s heart was still running wild, but a feeling of pride slowly replaced her fear. She had done well.
She nodded and Rexus wrapped an arm around her shoulders as they continued on, his full lips gliding into a smile.
“What?” Ceres asked.
“When I saw what was happening, I wanted to run my sword through each and every one of them. But then I saw how you defended yourself.” He shook his head and chuckled. “They didn’t expect that.”
She felt her cheeks flush. She wanted to say she had been fearless, but the truth was, she had not been.
“I was nervous,” she admitted.
“Ciri, nervous? Never.” He kissed Ceres on top of the head, and they continued into the Stade.
They found a few spots left at ground level and they took their seats, Ceres thrilled it was not too late as she put all the events of the day behind her and allowed herself to become caught up in the excitement of the cheering crowd.
“Do you see them?”
Ceres followed Rexus’s finger and looked up to see a dozen or so teenagers sitting in a booth, sipping wine from silver goblets. She had never seen such fine clothing, so much food on one table, so much sparkling jewelry in her entire life. Not one of them had sunken cheeks or concave bellies.
“What are they doing?” she asked when she saw one of them collecting coins into a gold bowl.
“Each owns a combatlord,” Rexus said, “and they place bets on who will win.”
Ceres scoffed. This was just a game for them, she realized. Obviously, the spoiled teenagers didn’t care about the warriors or about the art of combat. They just wanted to see if their combatlord would win. To Ceres, though, this event was about honor and courage and skill.
The royal banners were raised, trumpets blared, and as iron gates sprung open, one on each end of the Stade, combatlord after combatlord marched out of the black holes, their leather and iron armor catching the sunlight, emitting sparks of light.
The crowd roared as the brutes marched into the arena, and Ceres rose to her feet with them, applauding. The warriors ended in an outward-facing circle, their axes, swords, spears, shields, tridents, whips, and other weapons held to the sky.
“Hail, King Claudius,” they yelled.
Trumpets blared again, and the golden chariot of King Claudius and Queen Athena whirled onto the arena from one of the entrances. Next, a chariot with Crown Prince Avilius, and Princess Floriana followed, and after them, an entire entourage of chariots carrying royals flooded the arena. Each chariot was towed by two snow white horses adorned with precious jewels and gold.
When Ceres spotted Prince Thanos amongst them, she became appalled at the nineteen-year-old boy’s scowl. From time to time when she delivered swords for her father, she had seen him speak with the combatlords at the palace, and he always carried that sour expression of superiority. His physique lacked nothing when it came to the likes of a warrior – he could almost be mistaken for one – his arms bulging with muscle, his waist tight and muscular, and his legs hard as tree trunks. However, it infuriated her how he appeared to hold no respect or passion for his position.
As the royals paraded up to their places at the podium, trumpets blared again, signaling the Killings were about to begin.
The crowd roared as all but two combatlords vanished back into the iron gates.
Ceres recognized one of them as Stefanus, but she couldn’t make out the other brute wearing nothing but a visored helmet and a loincloth secured by a leather belt. Perhaps he had traveled from afar to contend. His well-oiled skin was the color of fertile soil, and his hair as black as the darkest night. Through the slits in the helmet, Ceres could see the look of resolve in his eyes, and she knew in an instant that Stefanus wouldn’t live to see another hour.
“Don’t worry,” Ceres said, glancing over at Nesos. “I’ll let you keep your sword.”
“He’s not defeated yet,” Nesos replied with a smirk. “Stefanus would not be everyone’s favorite if he weren’t superior.”
When Stefanus lifted his trident and shield, the crowd went silent.
“Stefanus!” one of the wealthy male youths from the booth shouted with a raised clenched fist. “Power and bravery!”
Stefanus nodded toward the youth as the audience roared with approval, and then he came at the foreigner with full force. The foreigner swerved out of the way in a flash, spun around, and slashed at Stefanus with his sword, missing by a mere inch.
Ceres cringed.