Meritorium (Meritropolis Book 2) (17 page)

One rock flew past the captain, but nicked the exposed calf of a following soldier. Another thudded directly into the side of the captain’s helmet, leaving a noticeable dent. This caused him to tip sideways in his saddle, before correcting himself, and then swerve in the new direction of the incoming volley of rocks.

The audience began to jeer, now at the soldiers, mocking their ineptitude. Breaking formation, the soldiers picked up speed, charging directly at Sven and his group of Low Scores.

That was a mistake.

Despite the oncoming horde, Sven smiled. The soldiers, unknown to them, had exposed their backs to the bulk of the Low Scores.

Rico blistered into the middle of the arena with a half-crazed maniacal scream, his massive black bat felling two soldiers from behind, their helmets denting in with a sound between that of a gong ringing and rotten fruit splitting, before the soldiers even turned around. His cousins and the other Low Scores fell on them like a pack of starving wild dogs, jabbing, swinging, and smashing with their Circumcellion “Israelites”.

Rico yapped in a steady stream of Spanglish, his cousins roving behind him like a vicious clean-up crew, permanently disposing of the battered and bruised men fallen beneath the ax chops of Rico’s bat. Low-Score boys picked each fallen soldier clean. In mere moments, more Low Scores sported armor, shields, and short gladius swords than the hastily regrouping soldiers.

The crowd ate up the unexpected reversal of events like the platters of sticky sweets sold throughout the stands. Drunken cheers followed each swing of Rico’s bat. A new gladiatorial hero was born. Hearing the uproar, spectators streamed back into the arena, the so-called respectable citizens cutting their lunches short and returning in a flurry of rustling robes and smacking lips.

Looking into the stands, Sven’s eyes narrowed. He knew that when the Low Scores, the nobodies, the less-than-people were sentenced to what was essentially an execution that masqueraded as a battle reenactment, the crowd left in droves. What they didn’t see, they didn’t have to think about. But they still knew.

In a way, Sven had less issue with those who had stayed to watch. The so-called lower-class citizens who cheered, jeered, and leered enthusiastically in hopes of seeing more violence and gore. They were upfront about their support for brutal injustice against the innocent. They were wrong to do so, he knew, but he didn’t hate them. At least they weren’t ashamed to admit it. Really Sven hated those who had left. The sophisticati, the so-called respectable people, who made themselves feel better by leaving, by refusing to watch, because they liked to think they were above this sort of thing. But they knew, and they did nothing.

Some might ask what was worse: to revel in evil and injustice, or to have the power to stop it but to turn away? But Sven knew.

Sven fingered his last rock, scraping the pads of his fingers slowly across its rough ridges and divots. Deep down inside, he knew that the reason he hated those who left, those who refused to watch, those who remained passive in the face of injustice, was because they reminded him of himself in Meritropolis.

He had tried, unsuccessfully, to convince Charley to avoid any confrontation with the System.

It was too dangerous.

Too risky.

Sven stepped over a dead body, fighting back a churning sensation in his stomach.

He gritted his teeth, willing the rising bile to recede. But now he knew he would die before he remained passive in the face of injustice ever again.

Rico galloped up, riding the Pegasus-like creature, and wearing the full regalia of the captain, complete with red-plumed helmet and glimmering sword. Sven had wondered earlier why Rico hadn’t put on any of the fallen soldier’s armor or weaponry; he alone had remained with just his club, leaving everyone else to the gear.

Now Sven knew.

“Good plan, Capitán,” Rico said with a smirk, twisting on the reins with a rough snap.

“Yeah …” Sven put the last rock back in his pocket. Bodies littered the arena floor, both soldiers and Low Scores, but only Low Scores remained standing. Camilla, Renaldo, Rico, and his cousins were all unharmed.

Sven very carefully kept his eyes raised. Every body with eyes bugged out, or head lolling to one side, an arm or a leg splayed at an unnatural angle, sent renewed tremors rippling along Sven’s innards; the death all around him was gruesome. Suddenly, Sven was struck with a thought, more painful than a physical blow; was he just the same as the sophisticati from the crowds, averting his eyes from evil? He forced himself to look down at the ghastly scene on the arena floor. He was responsible for much of this death and destruction. This was evil; he had caused it, he had allowed it to happen, and now he could not turn away.

Rico grunted an imprecation in Spanish and kicked the Pegasus forward. Dashing around the arena, he screamed wildly, playing to the crowd.

The spectators went berserk with excitement. The tall announcer tried in vain to talk over the crowd, but all Sven could make out that there would be a more historically accurate conclusion during the water battle on the last day. He walked slowly over to Camilla and Renaldo. It appeared as if they had bought themselves some time.

Lifting the fallen captain’s sword high in the air, Rico screamed out, “Who High Score now?” Riding with just his knees, he lifted the sword skyward, pounding his chest. “I High Score! Rico is High Score!”

Looking closer, Sven felt his stomach heave.

There was something speared on the end of Rico’s sword.

It waved pennant-like to the cheering crowd, a barbarian warning: do not cross me. Camilla lifted her hand to her mouth, letting out a little gasp.

Rico pumped the sword up and down, sprinkling bright red droplets that fell around him as blood rain, a portent of things to come.

Skewered on the sword an arm flopped listlessly, wrenching back and forth at the elbow joint. Sven tried to turn away, but couldn’t. It was the captain’s arm. Sven could see the hairy musculature and a high Score of 123 imprinted on it. Sven emptied the contents of his stomach on the sandy arena floor, wondering who he was becoming and what had he created.

Rico snarled to the crowd, lifting his chin. “Rico is High Score now!”

CHAPTER 11

A Czar Cry From The Expected

C
harley had to laugh; he knew there was nothing else to do really. He rolled over on his cot, replaying the chariot race in his mind. They had been so close to winning. If that stupid axle hadn’t given out, and if they had seen the horoceros coming just a little earlier … But he knew there was no use in trying to change the past.

He sighed. The past was the past.

“You alright over there, Charley?” Hank propped himself up on one elbow, his lithe frame stretched across his own cot.

“Yeah, it’s just—I’m fine. Just thinking about the race.”

Hank snorted. “I can’t believe we got beat by a bunch of girls.”

Charley looked at Orson lounging on his cot like a cat. Orson remained noticeably silent. Grigor lay on the next cot over, the bedsprings sagging to the very limits of their tensile strength. He wrinkled his forehead, a small smile playing across his lips.

Charley sighed again. “Yeah, we did. But at least we know Sandy is okay.” His face brightened. “And Sven and the other Low Scores,” he added hurriedly.

“For now, anyway,” Hank said. “That Low Score uprising is all anyone can talk about; no way they won’t get another shot out in the arena.”

“Yeah …”

Grigor shifted his great bulk. “He’s safe until the water-battle portion of the failed reenactment. I understand they certainly do want all of those same Low Scores out in the arena again. It’s set for tomorrow night—the final event of the Venatio.”

Hank nodded. “They sure made quick work of—”

Ian walked through the front door, nodding quickly at the bevy of guards who granted him access. “Made quick work of who?”

“The capt—”

“Right, right, of course. Yes, the captain of the Meritorium Honor Guard—excuse me, the
former
captain of the Meritorium Honor Guard—now dead as a doornail.” Ian motioned to one of the house guards for a drink. “And missing an arm.”

“We know,” Charley said.

“Word travels fast.” Ian lifted a glass of water to his lips and took a long swallow.

Charley eyed Ian steadily. “Good news travels fast.”

“Well, bad news travels even faster, and I’m afraid I’ve got some for you.” Ian set his glass down on the table. The glass was half-empty, Charley thought wryly. Ian tapped his finger on the table, appearing to mull something over.

Charley frowned. “Out with it already.”

“Ah, well, fair enough. I always hate dragging these kinds of things out. I’m afraid my investment into the four of you is not giving me the return I had hoped for. The chariot race was—” Ian rubbed the side of his orange stubbled face and grimaced. “Let’s just say it didn’t turn out as I expected.”

“Yeah, but—”

Ian held up his hand. “Please, don’t. Anyway, I had a chance to cut my losses, and I took it. There’s no easy way to say this, but I’ve sold you. All four of you.” He stood up, nodding to one of his men to get the door.

“Sold us? To who?” Charley asked.

“The emperor, in fact. With what use he has for you, I can scarcely dare speculate. Especially for some of you.” He looked right at Charley.

Charley swallowed. His mind raced from one creative punishment to another. Buried alive in a coffin of snurtles? Hung upside down again while lanthers tore at his flesh? Maybe he would die a slow death in the center of the arena, scores of soldiers forming a firing line of javelin throwers.
Well, that might be fitting
, he had to admit. He should have thought through his assassination attempt a little better.

“Well, I’m afraid this is goodbye.” Ian nodded to one of his men, who stepped forward with an all-too-familiar canister.

Orson rolled over and spoke for the first time. “You’ve got to be kid—”

The purple mist enveloped the room, floating Charley upward to the land where dreams and nightmares come true. Lying motionless, his eyes closed slowly, an unspoken word on his tongue. In the halfway state between waking and sleeping, bursts of clarity sliced through the fog like sunrays splitting the clouds.

He would get information from the emperor.

Kill him.

Then kill the czar.

But the fog was taking over. Flying snakes twisted through the cottony clouds, snapping at Charley as he floated upward. He was paralyzed, body as rigid as board, eyes facing the sky, and unable to turn his head. His nightmares were bleeding into his reality, tugging and pulling him in.

The face of Emperor Titus appeared, harsh and severe, an apparition intent on revenge. He lifted a lock and watched silently as Charley floated into a cage. A little hand and fingers extended outward between the bars, pleading for help.

But Charley couldn’t help. He was powerless.

Emperor Titus pushed the cage shut with a smirk and snapped the lock. Dozens of javelin points began to enter through the gaps between the cage bars.

Slowly, they pressed inward.

***

Charley awoke with a start. Beads of sweat bubbled across his brow like salty dewdrops. He lifted a hand to wipe his forehead, still straining to focus his sleep-encrusted eyes and return to the land of the living. His fingers jerked just short of reaching his face. Confused for a moment, the tension against his wrist told him all he needed to know.

He was in chains. Again.

Scrunching his eyes shut, Charley shook his head from side to side. His head felt like a giant puffy dandelion seed head, bending and swaying with the breeze; each delicate gust just enough to float part of his consciousness up and away, a cottony dandelion blowball dispersing on the wind.

He struggled to come down to earth, but the lingering effects of the purple mist buoyed him skyward again. This time, to the land of wishes and dreams.

His chin quivered in an ecstasy of strong emotion; a solitary tear streaked down his cheek, leaving a shining path in its wake. A feeling of deep and inconsolable yearning threatened to burst through his chest, the
sehnsucht
of the moment tugging him upward to dreams of the stars, the sky and the clouds, the fulfillment of an unwished wish. Was this a dream, or was this the reality, and all of his life the dream?

Something, or Someone, was calling to him. The voice was nameless, and yet it was the most comfortingly familiar presence he had ever known—always known. It was the voice of the heavens, the skies and the stars, the same voice that had called to him as an orphaned young boy. The same one that had called to him after Alec died. The floating clouds overhead told him he was alone, but not alone.

But he wanted so badly to kill the emperor and the czar. He knew this thirst for revenge was unhealthy, but as much as he tried to grow, to become the kind of person that could move beyond personal grievances and work for something bigger and focus on zeroing the System, every time he thought of authority figures like the emperor and the czar a hot bubbling rage enveloped him, derailing his aim to be a better person. He wanted to zero the System for good, the System that had taken his brother from him, but the desire for revenge threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted—no, he needed to kill them.

But what if it still wouldn’t be enough? What if he got everything he thought he wanted, and the emptiness still remained? Some part of him knew that the longing went deeper, truer, further—it was the same longing of a little boy, lying on a grassy windswept plain, eyes searching the sky above him for something more, and getting an answer. The heavens declared truth—not in words, but understood in any language.

And he wanted that Truth. So badly, he wanted it.

If only he could have the faith of Grigor. He wanted to believe in a Creator with a sovereign plan, an omnipotent God who could work even these horrible things out for good, somehow, some way. Hot tears bubbled down his cheeks, sticky on his eyelashes. He couldn’t tell if he was still dreaming or if he was now awake. Maybe he was some of both. He just needed help, even though he didn’t deserve it. He thought of what Grigor would say: he needed grace.

A voice, not audible, but louder than that, spoke directly to his heart:
The people who survived the sword found grace in the wilderness. I have loved you with an everlasting love.

Charley wanted so badly to trust, to believe that what he had always truly wanted was at the same time wanting him. But first, someone had to pay for Alec. Charley had lived with this thirst for so long that to look to anything else, or anyone else, to quench it seemed unimaginable. Revenge was a mirage—Charley knew that on some level. But every time he sensed an opportunity to grow, to forgive, to move on, to work to build something better, the anger just seemed to bubble up from within, consuming him. He would make them pay, make them all pay.

The space between waking and dreaming thinned. The atmosphere above turned dark and brooding. Lightning forked across the purple sky in a jagged seam, splitting the sky like tearing cloth as Charley floated down, back to earth. There was the sound of thunder off in the distance.

A storm was coming.

***

Charley awoke to the tantalizing smell of roasting meat. Even before his eyes were open, his mouth was salivating. He was in a large, ornately decorated room, bound hand and foot, but positioned comfortably on a luxurious magenta chaise decorated with velvety-soft pillows and intricately knurled wooden armrests. His gaze settled on a massive fireplace with a spit weighed down by an equally massive slab of succulent meat. It slowly rotated over a crackling fire, droplets of grease landing with a sizzle and snap.

“Don’t even say it!” Hank said. Charley’s eyes snapped from the fireplace to an adjoining couch, equally opulent, where Hank lounged, also bound in chains.

Charley started to speak, but stopped. He swallowed the bitter taste of sleep, and tried again. “Say what?”

“Don’t even say it smells delicious; we already know.” Hank looked longingly at the meat. “We’ve been looking at it and smelling it for the last hour.”

“Try the last two hours,” Grigor said.

Charley smiled weakly in Grigor’s direction. “I would imagine your body requires a little more of the purple mist than ours do.” Grigor returned his smile, his cheeks creasing in genuine happiness. Grigor was truly the antithesis of the System. He was that rare person who truly cared about people for who they were, accepting them unquestioningly, faults and all.

“What a great little reunion this is.” Orson crooked one ankle over another, reclining on his emerald-green sofa and still managing to look stately despite the lengths of chain looped around his body.

“Good, we all survived,” Charley said, aiming a sarcastic smirk at Orson.

Orson propped himself up on his elbow. “Yes, and I’m sure we have quite a long life expectancy ahead of us. Just a little chat is all the emperor wants us for, I’m sure.”

“Why, you underestimate me, Orson.” At that, Emperor Titus strode into the room amidst a bustle of soft silk, his purple robe billowing around him. “Or, Commander Orson, I should say. It’s a pleasure.”

Orson’s eyes widened, his usual composure lost for the space of a moment. Quickly recovering, he nodded. “Likewise.”

“Yes, yes. I know all about the four of you. On the run from Meritropolis, on a quest to stop this evil System of ours. My oh my, such ambition!” His eyes focused on Orson, a cruel glint flashing. “Maybe even take down Daddy Dearest, once and for all?”

Orson looked away.

“How do you know all of this?” Charley asked.

The emperor lifted an eyebrow in Charley’s direction. “Apparently I am underestimated all around. Please, how many of your people are in our city?” Charley thought of Sven and the other Low Scores and shook off a stab of guilt. The emperor’s eyes remained on Charley. “I do say you don’t lack for initiative, though, that’s for sure. It’s a good thing for me, and for you, that you have such horrible aim with a javelin—”

Charley lifted himself off the couch. “We—”

The emperor lifted a hand, and a guard quickly jerked on Charley’s chain, dumping him unceremoniously back onto the couch. The emperor smoothed his robe. “Now, now, I don’t think we have any need for that kind of impoliteness, do we?” He shooed the guard away with a flutter of his hand. “We have a civilized adult conversation to conduct. We can do that, can’t we?”

Charley paused. “Yes.”

“Good, good. But first, let’s eat!” He snapped his fingers, and servants appeared as if out of the woodwork, hustling and bustling to slice and serve great hunks of the dripping meat, complete with creamy mashed potatoes and a dark peppery gravy on platters of silver.

Emperor Titus sat back in a chair opposite them, foregoing food himself, but watching them eat with an amused look. Charley had paused before taking his first bite, wary after noticing the emperor abstain from eating, but then he had shrugged and began to furiously tuck in to the delicious meal; he had been unconscious and in chains for the last few hours, if the emperor wanted to kill him, he had had many opportunities without resorting to poisoning his food. From time to time, a coterie of royal hangers-on would sidle up and whisper some important message or other in the emperor’s ear, and he would direct them with a quick word. He motioned repeatedly for the servants to refill Grigor’s platter, the emperor’s eyes widening as the mountain of a man ate a small mountain of food.

Grease dribbled down Charley’s chin. Whatever the meat was, he didn’t dare ask, for fear they might actually tell him. It was delicious; it was succulent and juicy, marbled with fat on the inside, and charred perfectly on the outside. After so many meals of dry brittle durkey jerky, this was like rediscovering meat as an entirely new type of food. Finally sated, he gratefully accepted a flagon of cider.

Draining the flagon, he returned it to the outstretched arm of a servant. Charley was full, uncomfortably so. He felt as if he might burst his chains. He pictured the chains bending and creaking from his ever-expanding girth and then splintering off with a snap like a gluttonous reimagining of Samson. Now, that would make for an interesting escape. He giggled out loud and then burped a gaseous, hiccuppy belch that tickled his throat, causing him to titter once again.