Meritorium (Meritropolis Book 2) (16 page)

“Getting it harnessed,” Marta said dryly.

“Right.”

“Well, if that’s all we got, that’s all we got.” Marta shrugged. “Let’s do it.”

“We’re already
doing it!” Janice yelled, already seated on the back of the narse she had ridden earlier. “Let’s go, Sandy!”

“Have fun!” Sandy smiled at Marta and Helga, and then hopped onto the back of her already unharnessed narse to follow Janice.

“I’ve been dying to ride this beauty again!” Janice called back, her hair blowing in the breeze, feathering out and rippling in time to the rising crescendo of the crowd’s cheers. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Well, the crowd loves us at least, that’s for sure.”

“Let’s give them something to cheer for, then.” Capering her mount around in bouncy little circles, Janice called out to the horoceros. “Come on, you big ugly hoss!” Her narse sashayed its long flowing white tail back and forth, a horoceros-temptress if ever there was one.

The horoceros rumbled over, panting heavily, just in time for Marta and Helga to spring the harness around its thick, wrinkled shoulders. Surprisingly, the hulking beast hardly seemed to notice Helga’s various fastening, tightening, and tying procedures as it was harnessed as securely as absolutely possible. It nuzzled its head in the dirt quite close to Janice’s steed and let out a grunt that shook its entire body, sending a massive, spade-shaped tongue lolling out to one side.

“Oh my …” Sandy’s eyes widened. “It’s not an evil black unicorn that
hates
white unicorns. Quite the opposite, it’s—”

“In heat.” Janice curled her lip up as if she had tasted something unpleasant. “Yes, I figured that part out. Let’s get out of here.” She looked back over her shoulder at the monstrous ebony creature snuffling close behind them, and then kicked her heels into the side of the narse. “Come and get it, big boy!”

Janice’s narse took off like a shot, Sandy’s close behind, each bolting right at the wall. By now the other contestants were watching, at least those not busy fighting off unwanted feline attention, and Sandy was gratified to see Orson with his mouth gaping open as they took flight in a blur of white.

They cleared the fence with room to spare, the horoceros providing all the persuasion that the skittish narses needed. In retrospect, she would have liked to more closely emulate Janice’s profile of perfect confidence, her chest high and shoulders back, hair streaming in the wind in unison with her unicorn steed’s flowing mane, but Sandy feared that she, in contrast, looked more like a scared spider monkey, laying spread-eagled, with all four appendages clinging to her narse’s back.

Her face flushed, Janice winked at Sandy and waved to the crowd. Sandy managed to lift a hand tentatively as well, before having to jerk it back down to grasp the mane, still not confident in her ability to stay mounted.

“Here we go,” Janice said, looking back at the wall. “I hear—”

Before she could get the words out of her mouth, a splintering and cracking sound gave way to a deep-throated bellow. The horoceros crunched through the wooden slats of the steeplechase hurdle like so many matchsticks, its eyes wild and roaming, before settling again on Sandy and Janice’s mounts.

“That’s our cue!” Janice gave a kick and raced off.

“Giddyup!” Sandy yelled, hitting her narse on the rump to catch up to Janice.

“There’s no need to smack the narse’s, well, narse.” Janice looked over at Sandy with a crooked smile, bouncing up and down, in a perfect galloping rhythm that Sandy envied. “I think the horoceros is motivation enough for them to run fast. I doubt a little tap from you will add all that much of an incentive.”

Sandy looked down and stroked the side of its silvery neck. “Yeah, sorry.”

Janice laughed, the wind whipping her joyous face, sending the sound back behind them. Sandy marveled at her composure; it was as if she really didn’t care at all about the hard-charging beast behind them, or the monsters prowling the arena.

“What?” Sandy asked.

“I just love to ride, I guess. I always wanted a horse as a little girl; I never thought I would actually get to ride a unicorn!” She threw her head back, laughing again at the absurdity of it all. Maybe it was the adrenaline coursing through her veins, the pressure of the moment with Marta and Helga relying on them, the crowd watching their every move and cheering them on, or something else altogether, but Sandy gave in to the impulse as well. She laughed, but she suspected she still looked like a spider monkey clinging to her narse’s mane, only now one having a seizure.

“Not too fast,” Sandy cautioned. “We don’t want to get too far ahead of them.”

“Got it.” Janice winked at Sandy. “String him along a little, right? Give him some hope.”

Sandy thought about Charley left back by the wall and smiled weakly. “Yeah, something like that.”

“We’ve got company, though.” Janice motioned to a chariot gaining quickly. Sandy turned, and looking closer, the tall, annoyingly handsome profile of Orson was unmistakable, his broad shoulders and powerful arms masterfully commandeering their chariot pulled by two workhorse-like muffalo. Grigor loomed behind him, while Charley and Hank hung out from each side. “Your friends?” Janice asked, noticing the look on Sandy’s face.

“Yeah.” She thought of Orson. “Well, it’s complicated.”

Janice laughed. “Isn’t it always?”

“Yeah, well, anyways—” Sandy looked down their path, free of any remaining obstacles, and tantalizingly close to the checkered flag rippling in the wind—“it looks like we’re almost to the finish line, and Marta will kill us if we let them beat us at the last second—”

“
I’ll
kill us,” Janice interrupted, frowning back at their competitors. “We were the ones that made a way through the hurdle; it was your idea.”

“Yeah, well, I’m fresh out of ideas now.”

“It’s understandable, they’re your friends; maybe you wouldn’t mind if they won.” Janice raised her eyebrows, emphasizing the last word with a flick of her tongue. “But I would. So don’t worry.” Janice smiled devilishly. “I have a plan this time.”

“Okay …”

“I would tell you to follow my lead, but I’m sure your narse will follow mine no matter what, your wonderful equestrian skills notwithstanding. So, how about just hold on tight?”

Sandy gulped. “Just—”

“Giddyup!” Janice jerked her narse to one side, twirled it backward with an expert squeeze of her knees, and spurred it on, directly at Orson’s chariot. Sandy’s stomach flip-flopped in protest, her narse skittering to a stop, before dashing off behind its partner.

Despite the angry burbling in her stomach, Sandy relished the look of shock on Orson’s face, his eyes widening, hand rising to his cheek, and mouth gaping open in a Munchian scream. The team of muffalo continued unperturbed, looking not the least bit concerned with the compact narses running at them. Apart from the extended horns, Sandy had to admit that there wasn’t much in the way of intimidation factor that they had going for them.

Recovering from the initial shock, Orson bent forward, a look of determination on his face, and slapped the reins vigorously.

“If this is a game of chicken, I don’t think we can win …” Sandy shouted.

“Maybe not if it’s just you and me, but don’t forget about our friend.” Janice nodded her head back to their chariot, driven by Marta, Helga holding on for dear life, picking up speed at a rapid pace, the horoceros bellowing its rage. “I don’t think it likes the idea of the muffalo being anywhere near its narse harem.”

Veering away at the last moment, the muffalo’s buckteeth snapping shut mere inches from the narses’ ivory galloping haunches, Sandy and Janice darted past, turning back to the finish line, but not before their amorous horoceros took out its jealous anger in a blistering display of stamping and goring that left the poor muffalos turning tail and running away, back in the direction of the starting line. As if to add insult to injury, Orson’s repeated verbal abuse and desperate twisting of the reins caused their axle to splinter, no longer able to bear the pressure from Marta’s pre-race sabotage. Their chariot finally collapsed in on itself.

Sandy looked over her shoulder to see Orson, Grigor, Hank, and Charley sprawled in the dirt, their riderless chariot dragging behind a pair of confused and frightened muffalo. She was tempted to laugh as she and Janice, followed closely behind by Marta and Helga, crossed the finish line to the roaring applause of the crowd—that is, until the look on Charley’s face sucked the air out of her lungs.

It was a look of his she had seen often, but never directed at her. His eyes were narrowed, his lips curled. He was angry—
with her
. Her mind flashed back to Charley’s comment to Hank and Jameson when he thought she hadn’t been listening: ‘
even Sandy did more on the bion hunt than Hank
’ as if it was to be expected that she would never be quite up to the male standard, and if she did anything well, then it was a surprise. Well, she had given them all a surprise today.

She quickly turned away, the laughter dying in her throat. Maybe it was the influence of Marta, Helga, and Janice, maybe it was just that she was finally seeing the world as it really was, but as she had looked at Charley Sandy had seen the male chauvinism dripping through. She couldn’t help but wonder why he
expected
to be better than her at everything? If he had beaten her, he would have expected her to celebrate his victory with him. Now, for her to win and actually prove that she was better than him at something, he was not celebrating with her—he was acting like a spoiled brat.

Sandy held her head high, forcing herself to enjoy the sound of the crowd’s cheers and applause. In that moment, Sandy realized that she could do just fine without him. She knew it, even if he didn’t. She turned from side to side and lifted her hand in a slow wave to the crowd. He had better figure it out sooner rather than later.

CHAPTER 10

Herded

S
ven had seen Marta sabotage the chariots. As a remedy to his short stature, Rico had cleared a space for him to have a view of the arena, and Sven had watched from the tunnels. He felt encouraged to see that rules and regulations were as lightly enforced as he had originally hoped when he had devised his plan. It seemed that the guards lounging by the tunnel couldn’t care less who came and went, as long as the crowd—and the emperor—was happy. The drunken crowd didn’t care about a fair race; all they cared about was the violence and spectacle. Even the large percentage who had placed wagers on Charley, Grigor, Hank, and Orson to win the chariot race, joined in the applause as Sandy’s team crossed the finish line first.

Trickery, deceit, and cunning were rewarded in the arena. In a twisted way, it made sense; in a violent contest of death and destruction, aggressive monsters roaming, contestants battling obstacles and each other, anything goes. All’s fair in shove and gore Sven realized.

But now, entering the arena at last, herded out with the other Low Scores, Sven was beginning to have his doubts. The crowd didn’t even seen to notice them; they were nothing more than a prop, merely foliage in a school play. Not everyone could play the lead, but if life was theater, Sven wondered why he always seemed to get cast as the tree?

He had learned that their low-Score status didn’t earn them a spot in any of the main events like the chariot race. Now was the time when many of the so-called respectable citizens left the arena to eat their midday meal, not wanting to see the wanton destruction that was suitable entertainment only for those of lower class. It was whispered that Sven and his group were essentially castaways, their lives valued only as cheap entertainment between events—lambs to the slaughter.

Sven clenched and unclenched his fists, looking from side to side. Renaldo and Camilla walked beside him, each visibly shaking, but making a valiant effort to hide their fear. Rico and the other cousins strutted with a menace that Sven envied.

Their group of seven—Sven, Renaldo, Camilla, Rico, and the three cousins—cut a wide swath through the huddling Low Scores, now almost to the center of the arena, each instinctively recognizing something in the group. Sven told himself that the other Low Scores seemed to notice something special in him, too: some leadership ability or special cunning. He felt they wanted him to be in charge. But, deep down, that familiar self-doubt reminded him that no one cared about him; it was really just Rico and his physically impressive cousins that deserved the attention.

Sven took a deep breath—he would force people to notice him. He would force the so-called respectable citizens to acknowledge what was happening while they turned their made-up eyes from seeing, their jeweled ears from hearing, and their painted lips away speaking out. Sven squared his shoulders and looked at Rico. “Ready?”

“
Sí, capitán
,” Rico said. A sneer curled up the edge of his malevolently cast mouth. “Where are animals?”

“Just wait, they’ll be coming.”

Renaldo edged closer. “Remind me, what’s going to happen first?”

“Well, if what the guards said is true, they will soon announce what famous battle we will be forced to re-enact.” Aiming to calm Renaldo and Camilla, Sven continued talking in a low, measured tone that aimed to project confidence, a confidence that he didn’t really feel. “So it goes without saying that we, the Low Scores, are expected to lose this battle—”

“We are bad guys,” Rico interrupted. The lupine slant to his eyes and flashing teeth reinforced Sven’s relief that Rico, and his cousins, were on his side.

“Yes, exactly. We’re the bad guys.”
You especially
, Sven thought, but didn’t say out loud. “We’re expected to lose to whoever comes rampaging out of the tunnel along with the animal combos.”

“Guards,” Rico said, the look on his face now resembling a wolf that had just decided on his next prey. “Those who take us.”

“Yes, the guards who took you. The Meritorium Honor Guard.” Those guards would be in full battle dress, if the stories Sven had heard were true. The plan was to get as many weapons out of the hands of the Honor Guard and into the hands of Low Scores as quickly as possible. Rico and his cousins had managed to round up a following of low-Score boys who were as desperate and angry as they were, but Sven wasn’t fooling himself: a lot depended on Rico.

“Now we take them.” With a satisfying thwack, Rico pounded a meaty fist the size of a lunchbox into his open palm. His cousins replied in quick guttural Spanish that Sven couldn’t understand, but which needed no translation. The four of them gave the strong impression that this was certainly not their first serious physical altercation.

Sven hoped it wouldn’t be their last.

Camilla touched his arm, causing his heart to immediately beat like a snare drum set to a double-time rhythm. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he managed to stammer, feeling the warmth of her hand still resting on his arm.

“For giving us hope,” she said simply. Her hand drifted away, but Sven felt the imprint of her palm linger much longer, like a permanent searing tattoo, much more vivid than any Score.

He swallowed. “Sure, it’s nothing.” Sven knew it remained to be seen whether all he had given them was false hope.

Renaldo elbowed him. “Look.” He pointed to a tall, skinny man, clad in a robe of scarlet that hung loose on his skeletal frame, like a human clothes hanger. He stood near the empty royal box, apparently a stand-in for the emperor, and raised a long-fingered hand.

“As per the decree of the czar,” the man’s voice boomed out in a deep baritone that belied his frame. “The founder of Meritorium, the institutor of the Venatio, and the creator of the System of Societal Merit, we will now commence with the reenactment of the Battle of Meritorium.”

“The emperor created the scoring system?” Renaldo whispered, leaning close to Sven.

“No, not Emperor Titus, he said the czar.” Sven remained transfixed, his eyes staring straight ahead at the sonorous cadaverous announcer.

“Who?”

“Orson’s father,” Sven said quietly.

Renaldo’s eyebrows scrunched up. “Who’s Orson?”

“Never mind, someone I know.” Sven felt a sharp lance of pain; he missed Charley, and Sandy, and Grigor, and even Hank. No one from Meritropolis would be here to help him in this battle.

Sven felt small and alone as the voice continued to boom. “Today’s battle will take place on land and on the last day of the Venatio the final battle will take place on water. And now, cast as the part of the wicked and evil opposition—” he slowly lifted a hand and extended his pointer finger directly at Sven and the other Low Scores huddled in the center of the arena—“I give you the Circumcellions!” His voice thundered, before being drowned out by a chorus of boos and drunken jeers. Some spectators threw empty flagons of wine and other debris onto the arena floor, none close enough to hit them, but the effect was the same. The message was clear: they were the enemy, and they were expected to lose.

“At least the Circumcellions had their clubs,” Sven grumbled under his breath. As if in answer to his wish, Rico trotted over, wielding a wicked black bat that matched the leer on his face.

Other Low Scores were also picking up clubs scattered around the arena, tossed out by the tunnel guards. Apparently, this reenactment was to be as realistic as possible.

“Want mine?” Renaldo proffered his club, seeing that Sven had none.

“No, you keep it.” Sven patted his pockets, bulging with rocks he had gathered in preparation.

Renaldo gestured to his sister. “Camilla, you just stay behind me.”

Camilla looked up quickly at Sven, and then down again. “Okay.”

The crowd was quieting. Waiting patiently for the last of the outbursts to subside, the tall announcer lifted a spindly arm in a languid economy of motion and continued unperturbed. “Playing the part of the czar’s Honor Guard, I give you—” he paused for dramatic effect, a sinister smile playing on his lips—“the Meritorium Honor Guard!” Thunderous applause drowned out the booming echoes of his voice.

Three dozen men in heavy battle gear marched out of an underground tunnel in precise military formation. Turning as one, they assembled themselves six across and six rows deep, each staring impassively at the ragtag group of Low Scores.

No one could miss it: the contrast couldn’t be greater.

Their heavily polished Roman-style breastplates, shields, and helmets gleamed in the sunlight. Each soldier was outfitted in overlapping armored plates that interlocked to form a breastplate of bronze and leather. Sheet-metal greaves protected each of their legs; metal helmets, complete with cheek guards, guarded their face; large circular shields, inlaid with an intricate carving of a soaring Pegasus, safeguarded almost the entire body of each soldier. And every soldier wore a short gladius sword strapped to each hip. Sven gulped. Suddenly, Rico’s massive club looked much less impressive.

“And, the hero and leader of the Honor Guard …” The announcer pointed to a tunnel where the outline of a man on a horse was just visible. “The part played by the captain of the Meritorium Honor Guard himself, personal guard to the emperor, I give you the czar!”

A white beast dashed out onto the arena floor, its rider impressively outfitted in full Roman legionnaire regalia, and resplendent in a Roman imperial helmet, a red horsehair plume bristling skyward. Cutting the beast in a circuitous route, waving a gloved hand to the crowd, the czar guided the beast back to the front of his troop.

Looking closer, Sven’s eyes widened. The horse had wings. Stubby little feathered wings sprouted from each of the beast’s massive flanks.

Camilla sucked in a breath of air. “A Pegasus.”

“It’s just another animal combo,” Sven said, trying in vain but unable to tear his eyes away from the magnificent creature. “Probably can’t even fly, those wings don’t look that big.”

Almost as if the beast had heard his mutterings, the Pegasus-like creature fluttered its wings gracefully and hovered just off the ground, rotating itself gracefully in position at the head of the array of soldiers.

“Great,” Sven said. Things were not looking good.

“We not scared of magic horse.” Rico strode up, smacking his bat on an open palm for emphasis. He was followed by his cousins and a sizeable group of club-wielding low-Score boys, each as wild-eyed as a Circumcellion.

Rico’s words and attitude jolted Sven from his reverie. “Right, let’s proceed with the plan. Everyone remember your spacing assignments.”

“No problemo,
capitán
.” Rico smirked, nodding to his cousins as they followed his easy lope.

Sven slunk back, drifting to the left-most pincer of their juvenile formation. He reached a sweaty palm into his pocket, fingers playing over the jagged edges of a rough-textured piece of pumice. This was the tricky part: the first contact would reveal how the next moments would unfold. It would tell if they were facing trained soldiers or just actors in battle dress. After hearing that the real captain of the emperor’s personal Honor Guard was playing the part of the czar, Sven feared it was the former. But he hoped there was still a chance that the others were hooligans enlisted to play a part for the delight of the crowd, rather than professionally trained soldiers.

But it was Meritorium, and Sven was quickly learning that anything could happen.

Sven’s part of the plan was to draw their attention, get them riled up enough to charge his side of the pincer, leaving their other flank exposed to Rico and his stealthily creeping savages.

The captain shouted out an order, drawing cheers from the crowd. “Forward, march!” He snapped the reins with an expert flourish, and the Pegasus-like creature high-stepped forward, head high and nostrils flaring.

If he was going to sign his death sentence, Sven decided he was going to darn well do something to deserve it.

He pulled the rock from his pocket.

He looked across the arena, eyes searching for Camilla. It was absurd, but he wanted to see her one last time. She was tucked behind Renaldo, her brotherly protector shielding most of her from view, but he could see a long slender arm reaching down to the ground. Sven looked closer; it looked like she was picking up a rock. Sven stepped forward quickly; he needed to draw the approaching soldier’s attention now before they headed in her direction.

He closed his eyes and opened them again quickly. The noise of the boisterous crowd receded, fading away in a fuzzy haze, his eyes tunnel-visioned in on the captain, high atop his magical winged steed. He looked at the captain’s nose, Roman in profile, and then before he had time to overthink, he let the rock fly.

It was a rocket. A missile. It was in the air, and then it wasn’t.

The impact was dramatic, but not a direct hit. It skinned across the temple of the captain, shredding flesh and eyebrows, just below the forehead guard of his helmet.

In some respects, it was much better than if it had hit the intended target, his nose, because the effect was an instantaneous blossoming of blood, as if someone had thrown a rotten tomato on stage. It certainly got the captain’s attention. With an undignified scream of rage, the captain jerked heavily on the reins, galloping directly at Sven, his soldiers picking up speed behind him.

Blood sheeted down his face; in an instant he had been transformed from a military commander of stately bearing to a blood-besotted winged angel of death. He drew his sword, shaking his head furiously from side to side in an attempt to see through the surface wound gushing rivulets of blood down his face.

Sven took a step back, his foot thudding clumsily backward, echoing the stunned silence of the crowd. The other Low Scores on his side of the pincer wisely angled themselves away from him. Drifting laterally, Sven noticed that that captain didn’t correct his course; he still rode straight ahead.

Sven realized that he must not be able to see through all of that blood. The captain appeared courageous, or just stupid, to charge blindly ahead in the direction of his enemy. Sven continued moving sideways, releasing rock after rock in sidearm throws. Many Low Scores pulled out rocks of their own and began to sling them in earnest.