In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal (29 page)

Thunder came from the vomitoria tunnels, gladiators pouring from them and onto the hot sands of the arena. And as they emerged—arms raised, plumes bright, helms and weapons glittering—the masses went wild. More flowers were thrown, until the sand seemed like a funeral.

It would be. But not for Lucan. Hektor clapped on his helm and took up his trident.

“For Lucan!” He charged onto the field.

Chapter Seventeen

THE GRAND MELEE

The Grand Melee

It was called.

A grand slaughter

Is what it really was.

—Athanasia Zaerus, House Zaerus, the Rulers

The summer sun was brutal, searing through the midpoint of the day and glaring down on the Empress’s Theatre, on the Spectacle of fifty of Arena’s most powerful gladiators vying for freedom. Vying and killing one another to the screams of the masses. Their bright plumes and glinting weapons smears of color on the sand. The masses screamed to see their favorites and shrieked their need for carnage, even though the Empress’s Theatre was strewn with so much blood the cripples could not rake it all away.

The Grand Melee. A fifty-man free-for-all.

Caught in the middle, Lucan fought hard, his trident sweat-slippery in his hands, sand and dust kicking up all around him as armored men strove to end his life. The first cast of his net had missed, and now he was on the defensive. He dodged, working to evade blows, thrown spears, blade thrusts, all in an effort to win free of the thick of the fighting.

A gap opened, and Lucan bolted toward it, dragging his net after him, winding the cord about his forearm as he went. He needed the weapon desperately. Smaller than the majority of his opponents and not as thick with muscle, a retiarius knew that his net often made the difference between living to fight in another Spectacle and a gory death.

He wound the cord faster, faster, striving to haul the weighted weapon in.

Almost there! Almost there!

He dodged a flung spear and ducked behind a tangle of men—three secutor gladiators with shields and swords striving against two myrmidon. His net dragged heavily.

Almost…

Sand kicked up as one of the secutor struck his opponent a vicious blow, and Lucan shielded his eyes with his forearm. Sweat poured off his body, sheened his skin, and made the grip on his net slippery.

In one more tug he would have the weapon back in his hands. Life. Death. And all at the end of a cord tied to his wrist. Around him, men shouted and fought and died.

Almost there. Almost…

Another spear. He dodged again, barely, the point skimming his ribs, the sun blaring on his back. He tried not to split his focus, though he yearned to hear some indication that Hektor still lived—the crowd shouting his name, Hektor’s bellowing war cry, anything. Instead, Lucan turned into the sun, allowing its blare to blind him to the far side of the arena.

Being blind meant he would not have to see Hektor fight, would not have to see Hektor kill, Hektor come for him.

Hektor…

Now Lucan truly understood the Empress’s ability to call these horrors upon her people. Blindness was powerful.

One more tug and the net was in his hands. The next moment, his opponent skirted the secutors and spied him. Lucan sighed inwardly. Tiburon Priassin was not a man to give up easily.

He ran to one side, cutting back against the tide of fighters. Many had poured from the vomitoria tunnels and fought directly outside. Lucan wanted a central spot. He did not want to be seen a coward. Not by Hektor. Not by anyone. It was foolish, but he no longer cared. Hektor did not love him.

What worth was freedom with no one to spend it with?

No. Better to go down in glory.

Tiburon was right behind him, one pace, two. Sand kicked up as they raced to the center, the screams and roar of the crowd loud in Lucan’s ears, the panting of the man behind him louder.

A triumphant shout. Turning midstep, his hands on his net, Lucan spied the bright shaft winging in for his heart. Lightning fast, he swung out with his net and snagged it in flight.

A twist of his hands, and the spear snapped. Splinters flew. The masses roared.

Pleasure spread through Lucan, low and heady. This. This was all he had left. Contesting for his life on blood-soaked sand. He would last as long as he could.

Tiburon reached for the mace at his belt. Lucan could not see his face for the great helm he wore. Tiburon stalked him, the circular vents in his helmet making him look like a giant insect.

Circling, Lucan hauled back on his net.

They were in the center now—exposed, daring a bloody, dark fate. It would not be long before they picked up the attention of the other gladiators seeking easy kills.

Tiburon came on, swinging the mace with brutal force and efficiency. The sun flashed off bright steel.

A shout to Lucan’s left. A noxii darting in, slashing wildly for his shins. He danced back then leaped, lashing out with the net. The weights struck the man—a fighter from the House of Lucia—across the face.

Blood washed into his eyes, and he fell to the ground. He rolled.

Two other men peeled away from a small group to prey upon the fallen. Their swords raised and fell, and in three blows, the Lucia fighter was dead.

Lucan stared for a moment, crimson seeping out onto the sand.
That could be me. It could be Hektor.
Dreams spurting out in red blood across the sand. Dying to the shrieks of a vicious crowd.

Tiburon bulled in, swinging the mace, hefting his rectangular shield. He bashed Lucan back, and Lucan went sprawling. He caught his balance, righted himself, keeping his legs from tangling in his own net—always a risk for a retiarius. He was on his feet in a flash. He backed up quickly. In two more steps, he could throw.

To one side, a dark figure loomed.
No. Not… Menelaus!
Lucan jerked back as a slash came for his face. Darksteel blurred by his vision, the point of a longspear, and then spines rippled open along its shaft and hooked him in the chest.

Lucan screamed as they dug in, rooting deep into his flesh. His foe yanked, and Lucan sprawled forward into the sand. Desperation wound through him, stealing his breath, threatening to steal his courage.

A fighter from House Menelaus, a gladiator from the Grand Grotesquerie.

Rumor had it House Menelaus altered their fighters with dark sorcery, twisting their bodies, binding them with steel and the flesh of monsters. A shadow fell over Lucan. Jagged armor rippling with spines like some malevolent kraken come to life on the sand, Vatreus Menelaus, gladiator and Grotesquery stepped in. His bristling helm was every bit as monstrous as Lucan had feared.

He screamed as the spines dug into his flesh, ripping him forward in the sand. His net tangled at his waist.

The shrieks of the crowd turned, turned for his blood. Even now, it was spilling out for their pleasure. For Spectacle.

He narrowed his gaze at the balcony above. She wanted a good show? He would give it to her. He dug in his heels, ignoring the protests of his flesh as it tore beneath the punishing spines.

Vatreus grinned, his helm stretching to accommodate it, a shark’s tooth smile that unnerved Lucan. Still, he fought. If only he could get his net into play.

On the other side, Tiburon sensed his weakness and darted in. Lucan turned, twisting in the sand, and the strike meant to crush his skull glanced off his shoulder. Sand kicked up, choking him in a cloud.

Tiburon raised the mace again, stepping in.

Desperate, Lucan pulled his dagger and drove down. The Lucia fighter screamed as the weapon sank into his foot, pinning him. And then Lucan was dragged forward again. His grip slipped from the dagger, and he watched as Tiburon yanked it from his wounded foot.

So much for cutting the cord, he lamented. His net slipped a measure and wrapped tight around his thighs. Even if he could get loose, he would not be able to stand. And without the dagger to cut free…

This is it, Lucan. The final moment.

If he was killed here, killed by a gladiator of the Grotesquerie—

Lucan’s gaze locked on the spines growing and twitching from the Menelaus’s shoulders, but he could not help his mind from yearning toward Hektor. Lucan had not seen him yet in the blood and the chaos. Then again, he had not looked. He had allowed himself to be blinded.

Another sharp yank, and the spear’s spines tore deeper into Lucan’s arm. The Menelaus pulled a spine from his armor. It writhed, lengthening into a wicked shortspear. Darksteel and dark flesh. To die at the hands of a monster.

A sudden pang from the Ebon deep inside him. The true monster stood on high.

The Empress in all her beauty and glory.

Another reason for Lucan to stay alive. To see her broken and bloody upon the sand, where she cast men’s fates to the wind like the ground glass she ordered strewn across the arena sands… The Ebon flared again.

To see Hektor. To kill the Empress.

Those thoughts galvanized Lucan. They burned through his skin, through his mind. They drove him on. Pain burst through his chest, but the Ebon stayed hidden.

The Menelaus’s sharky grin widened as he hauled Lucan in, leveling the spear.

Galvanized, Lucan dodged the first strike. He grabbed the haft of the spear and thrust back. Straight into the Menelaus’s eye.

A small crunch, and blood spurted. Howling, the Menelaus went down into the sand and writhed, his spines twitching.

A shout as Tiburon charged in, limping, trailing blood. Lucan rolled, and the mace struck the sand. He rolled again, and the second strike grazed his temple. Blinded, he fumbled for something, anything. His hands closed on the spear.

Tiburon’s foot closed down on his hand. Lucan cried out as the bones ground together. The man’s smile white and sharp. “Now you will die, Vulpinius. A wolf falls prey to Priassin.”

“Not likely.”

In the next second, Hektor was on Tiburon, striking him with his shield, knocking him back into the sand. Hektor darted in, short black hair flying with the speed of his movement.

Dazed, Lucan stood. He had barely the wherewithal to free himself of his net, shucking it and letting it fall to a tangled mess on the sand.

Somewhere, iron horns were calling. Four sharp blats. Hektor had told Lucan what that meant. He rubbed a hand over his face, slapped his cheek. Chariots. Once the fight dwindled to twenty, the Empress would order the
essedarii
charioteers into the arena.

All around the theatre, the remaining fighters looked to the vomitoria. At any moment, thunder would rock the arena. Any moment, the essedarii would emerge, all golden armor and spears and bows.

They would rain death down in the arena.

Hektor was rising, his opponent finished in the sand. His sky-blue eyes were lit with sorrow and regret. And love. Lucan barely dared to see it, to acknowledge it. He was suddenly overwhelmed by his own emotions.

Hektor, the Ebon, the betrayal. It was all too much.

He closed his eyes as the last of the horns faded into the burning day. The crowd hushed. It would come soon.

“Come.” Hektor offered his hand.

Lucan looked at him. Love ached within him, his heart torn wide, but he knew what Stratos meant to do. What he meant to make them do. In the end, Lucan would fight Hektor. He would be forced to hurt him, to kill him, while the crowd screamed for more.

Shaking his head, Lucan backed away. “No. I can’t…”

The pounding of horses’ hooves sounded, distant thunder drawing closer.

“Lucan…”

Sudden tears burned Lucan’s eyes. All around them, the twenty remaining fighters began to pair up—shields and polearms. A few of the other retiarii paired with the secutor, trident and shield making a solid offense and an impenetrable defense. Myrmidons paired with myrmidons as they moved to the sides, clinging to areas near the Hail. They would use the curvature of the theatre to their advantage.

All around the arena, others were teaming up, planning strategies. It would all fall apart once their numbers dwindled, of course. But for the moment, allegiances were key.

Lucan and Hektor were the only two unpaired.

The thunder drove closer, louder, faster. The vomitoria shaking now, the crowd screaming, their shouts rising into the midday heat, the stomping of their feet in the stands enough to send tremors across the Grand Theatre.

“Lucan!”

The horns blew to sound the arrival of the chariots—golden gleams racing into the arena, sand kicking up beneath the horses’ hooves. More than one body was trampled, the shrieks of the masses rising.

Kill or be killed.

“You can kill me after,” Hektor said.

With flashes of gold, they were surrounded, three of the essedarii spying two unpaired fighters in the center. They lifted their golden bows as their charioteers guided their horses to gallop around them in a circle, tightening.

Hissing shafts bit into the sand.

From the other side of the arena, screams of the wounded rose. The crowd came to its feet, roaring in approval at fresh kills from the essedarii. The fighters all grouped together, and with a shout, the battle began anew.

Hektor stepped in, and an arrow cracked off his shield. He tucked Lucan behind him, moving in a circle as the chariots did, his gaze wary on them.

Behind him, protected, Lucan had never felt more conflicted, more loved. Not even when Hektor had taken him and then held him, stroking his skin tenderly. Lucan reached out now, letting his hand fall to warm, sweaty-streaked flesh.

Despite the flare of the Ebon, he felt a burst of hope inside.

They were alive. They were together. They could do anything.

Hektor glanced back, met Lucan’s eyes, and a wild thought formed in Lucan’s mind. Another shaft cracked in. Lucan ducked, hugging Hektor’s back.

They could not stay here. If they were to die, they would die in glory. He gazed at his lover. There were so many things he wanted to say, but there was no time. “Remain close.”

He burst out from behind Hektor and raced, zigzagging, through the sand. Shafts hissed through the air. One clipped his cheek. Blood flowed warmly down his face. Hektor was behind him, shouting, chasing after.