In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal (21 page)

Almost there, almost there…

One shaft sank with a
thock
into the wood as he passed into the burning labyrinth.

The narrator called for silence, and the throng hushed. “Our hero passes the threshold. But he has entered the volcanic wastes of the Valley of Catarrh where his enemies await!”

Enemies? Of course. They would hunt him now.

He shifted his net off his shoulder. The tight quarters would make casting it difficult. His aim would have to be flawless.

Don’t stay in one place.
The barriers towered above him, the wood crackling beneath crawling flames. Heat blasting him as a bank of embers broke and cascaded down. He stifled a cry and moved on. At every side, wood and fire blocked him in.

Vaguely, he wondered if Hektor was worried, being unable to see him.

Ahead, a four-way intersection. Holding his breath, he slipped across the open space. From the corner of his eye, a glimpse of piecemeal black armor—one of the “Morgeddons.”

Lucan pressed as close to the wall as he dared and waited.
Let him come to me.

His heartbeat pounded louder than the crackling of fire. Oily black smoke threatened to choke him, but he forced himself lower, breathing shallow.

Lucan strained to hear his opponent over the crack and break of flames, the roar of the crowd. He could not. The tip of a polearm emerged. He made himself wait. Another few inches. Soon he would see the man who wielded it.

Without warning, the fake Morgeddon lashed out, catching Lucan’s arm and tearing it bloody. Blood spattered the hot wood, sizzling as it burned black. Lucan danced back. As soon as he stood, the command came from on high.

“Loose!”

The hiss of shafts sang through the air. He threw himself to the ground. The
thock-thock-thock
of arrows into wood was loud in his ears. He opened his eyes to see sandaled feet, the man above him, polearm hurtling down.

At the last, Lucan rolled, desperate, and came to his feet. The man charged in, his intent to close the distance before Lucan could use his net clear and efficient. He bulled into Lucan, and they went down on the sand, the man on top, fists flying. Lucan’s trident fell to the ground. He covered his face to ward off the blows, his shoulder aching as sand ground into his wound. He shouted, gritted his teeth.

“Lucan…Lucan!” The cries were diminishing as it went poorly with him.

The man on top grinned, licking at the gap between his front teeth as he pummeled at Lucan’s arms, trying to land solid blows on his face and neck.

No.
Resolve burned in Lucan’s breast. He would not be so easily defeated. He grabbed Gap Tooth’s arm, yanking him close, and then heaved up and rolled him over. The man shouted as their positions reversed. Lucan struck twice—two clean shots that dazed the other gladiator—before leaping clear.

In one move, he kicked Gap Tooth’s polearm up into his hands and brought it weltering down. The sharp
crack
of breaking wood was loud, and the man went limp on the ground.

The sound of bowstrings creaking burred the air. “Loose!”

Lucan darted for his net and snagged it a moment before a feathered shaft hissed into the sand at his feet. He ducked around the corner as more arrows sang. Heart pounding, he continued onward. The flames were roaring high now, the entire structure starting to go up in a blaze. He wouldn’t be able to stay in here much longer, and yet, he had to run the gauntlet.

A glint of steel.

He barely ducked, and the second gladiator’s blade slocked into the wood where he’d been standing. Instincts firing, Lucan kicked the man in the chest. He stumbled back, and Lucan cast his net.

An easy, overhand cast. It landed square on the man, fouling his weapon and balance. Lucan stepped in.

“Loose!”

More arrows pierced the sand all around them. One crunched the wood at Lucan’s head, casting embers burning into his face. The sudden sear of heat blasted him. Protecting his face with both arms, he stumbled back.

Agony pierced his shoulder. Blood sluiced down his shoulder, making him hot and cold all at once. The arrow weighed nothing, yet every movement was pure pain.

His opponent was sloughing off the net.

His eyes stinging, watering, Lucan shook his head. The man’s blow sent him into the wall. Fire and sparks kicked up all around him. He righted himself, dodged a swing from the blade, and then the gladiator’s kick sent him flying again into the wood.

It broke beneath him in a flurry of fire, and he tumbled out onto the open sand.

“Our hero is besieged!” the narrator cried out. “He is besieged!”

The masses erupted into jeers and insults, their howling and stamping insistent.

Lucan gained his feet, shaking off his daze. The stench of singed flesh and hair was thick, cloying in his nostrils. He watched as the rest of the labyrinth went up in flames. Some of the smaller passages began to crumble and collapse.

The gauntlet! No!
His heart jolted. If he didn’t run the gauntlet, the odds-makers would not vie in his favor. He took a step back toward it.

His opponent blocked his path.

The creak of bowstrings. Lucan spied the four archers on their platforms. Lowering his head, he dashed in. His opponent braced, sword at the ready. He thrust, but at the last, Lucan danced aside.

He slapped the flat of the weapon, batting it out of the way. Blood trickled from his hand, but he grabbed the man and spun him.

“Loose!”

The man shuddered as four arrows sank into him.

Before his body hit the ground, Lucan was away. In three strides, he was back at the hole where he’d emerged. The heat was nearly unbearable, the idea of entering back into the labyrinth against every instinct.

I must. If I want to bring glory to my name.

Besides, what would Hektor think if Lucan ran? Driven by glory and love, he pushed his way back into the labyrinth. Immediately, the roar of the fire drowned the roar of the crowd. Sparks flew and black smoke threatened to choke the consciousness from him. He fought for every bit of air and sanity. The gauntlet was a ruin of fire and sparks—only one long passageway still stood.

The narrator was saying something, but Lucan could not hear.

He felt rather than heard the bowstrings creak. He’d learned the timing.

He jerked to one side, then the next. Lady Luck Viltheleon blessed him. The
thock! thock! thock!
of arrows into wood came alive all around him. The shaft at his back throbbed as though in sympathy. He took a second to tear it out and cast it away.

Steeling his resolve, he turned to the far end of the gauntlet. Only a hundred feet to go. And there, at the end, a gleam of bronze grew brighter, bigger, blotting through the fire.

A chariot. The narrator had been announcing a chariot.

Lucan’s heart sank. There was no way he could face down a chariot alone, wounded, and with no weapons.

The thundering of hooves shook the flaming wood structure as the chariot raced toward him. An arrow hissed by his cheek, casting blood across his vision. He squinted, one eye closed. A full-on charge against a chariot was foolhardy, but it was better than being cut down.

Lucan charged toward it, his feet churning in the sand. He pushed himself, flexing his thighs, counting hoofbeats until the chariot was close enough.

One more beat.

One more beat.

He crouched. He had seen this move once, called a salmon leap. A man from the Fiondales had executed it. But it had not availed him. In the end, he’d gone down beneath the charioteer’s horses.

That won’t be me. That won’t be me.
The chariot galloped onward. Lucan spied a small buckler in the sand and scooped it up. Arrows hissed. He deflected one, and it broke, splinters flying into his hair. A second took him in the leg. He stumbled, the shaft bobbing with every pump of his legs.

Lucan gritted his teeth. He would not fall. He would win the day.

Through the fire and the collapsing gauntlet, he glimpsed Hektor. Impossibly.

Hektor gave a grim nod.

The chariot bore down upon Lucan. He crouched, taking the deepest breath he dared. His gaze fell to the horse’s hooves, churning the sand, the charioteer driving straight down for him.

With a shout, Lucan leaped. He cleared the horse’s head by a fraction and landed hard, awkwardly, on the floor of the chariot. He was on his feet in an instant.

The charioteer glanced over his shoulder. Calmly, he drew his gladius and stabbed. Lucan dodged to the side, but the blade grazed his ribs. Despite the sting, he held on. He punched the man in the neck, staggering him.

They danced about each other in the small space as the chariot lurched wildly.

The man thrust again, and Lucan dodged. Too slow. A nasty slice opened across his forearm. Blood dripped onto the chariot deck, making the wood slippery. He stumbled, then swung forward with the buckler.

The rim caught the charioteer in the head, gashing him solidly. Blood sluiced down his face, and he dropped the gladius. The weapon rattled about at their feet, but before the man could reach for it, Lucan was on him with a knee to his midsection. The man punched Lucan in the ribs, and the air went out of him. He doubled over, and the charioteer hammer-fisted him in the back. Lucan went down to the deck hard, and the man kicked him. Pain erupted in Lucan’s side. The man kicked again, but Lucan caught the foot and dragged him down.

They flashed past the stands, the crowd on their feet now. Lucan got his hands around the charioteer’s neck. He staggered to his feet, fighting with the man, knowing the kill must be showmanship. Lucan was losing his grip, blood making his hands slippery. Something rattled on the deck, and Lucan spied the fallen gladius.

The chariot jostled, and the man fought free.

Lucan kicked the sword into his hand. He slashed the man across the chest once, twice, and he tumbled from the chariot. The masses roared approval, on their feet, waving pennons. Grabbing the reins, Lucan pulled the team of horses to a halt and stepped off into the sand.

The iron horns were announcing the Empress’s Tribute, the crowd screaming for blood as they always did. She held up her hand.

Lucan stopped a few feet away from his downed opponent, the man writhing on the sand, her blind gaze fixed on him. And then she turned her thumb down. The Mercy. The man was spared.

Lucan would have to fuck him in chains at dawn.

HEKTOR WATCHED LUCAN stumble toward him, bloodied and battered but smiling, hand held high in victory as he soaked up the cheers, the screams of his name.

His name.

Hektor saw the light in the boy’s eyes.

Lucan staggered as he reached the portico, and Hektor stepped in instinctively to catch him. “Did you witness it?” Lucan whispered, his voice faint. “My glorious victory?”

“Yes,” Hektor said into his hair. He reveled in the smell of Lucan beneath the blood and sand and sweat. “Yes.” He kissed Lucan’s temple.

Lucan swayed. So much blood. Hektor would need to get him to the healers. “Come now.” Hektor slung his arm under the boy’s shoulder and walked him. “Stay awake.” He slapped at Lucan’s cheeks sharply.

Lucan’s eyes narrowed, but he did open them. “I am awake,” he grumbled.

“Stay that way until I get you to the healers.” Hektor made haste through the crowd, through the vast amount of people who wanted to shake Lucan’s hand or clap him on the back, or those spectators who just wanted a glimpse of mighty Lucan Vulpinius of House Vulpinius.

Hektor shielded him from all of it. His protective nature swelled, and he tucked Lucan to his chest. By the Doomsayer’s Abyss, the boy would have wandered off back into the arena if Hektor had let him. He steered his charge around to the inner tunnels and then up through the spirals to the back of Actaeon’s healer’s house.

The head healer gave Hektor a stern look, but in the end, she ushered them in. Hektor put Lucan down, gently prizing Lucan’s fingers from his own when the boy would not let go. The healers came in, and Hektor stood back, let them do their work.

He was skilled with unguents and poultices, but this…this was beyond his ken.

They checked Lucan’s head, his vision, his level of consciousness, and then set to work cleaning his wounds, tending to his burns. The boy gave an irritated glance to Hektor, but the primus palus only crossed his arms over his chest.

He leaned against the far wall and waited for the healers to finish. The healers of House Actaeon were second to none. They tended Lucan’s wounds, stitched him with sinews, washed his body of blood and grime, and massaged the soreness from areas that were not torn or abraded.

Seeing that golden body stretched out brought Hektor back as always to Leander. Leander, who had been content to be a lictor, nothing more. He’d had not an acquisitive thought or desire. He had been content to stay as he was, to talk philosophy and art, and to leave the politicking to others. He wanted only beauty around him—art and architecture, the paintings he created, and Hektor beside him.

But Hektor had soon become the favorite of the Empress’s Grand Theatre.

Men and women paid handsome sums to bring him to their beds, and House Actaeon would not refuse such easy coin. But the more and more Hektor was bought out, the more and more Leander died inside. Hektor could see it in his eyes, could feel it in his touch.

Leander had been dying without him. Was that why he had gone to Stratos?

Hektor closed his eyes tightly. Stratos had betrayed Leander to his death. And Hektor had been the instrument.

He hadn’t loved Leander enough. No. Hektor had thought of his glory first, and Leander second. He had stayed with Leander because it was easy. But when it became hard—

“He is looked after.” The healer’s words interrupted Hektor’s thoughts, and the healers began to file out, leaving the primus palus alone with his charge.

Hektor took one look at Lucan, and all the love he had been trying not to feel came crushing down on his chest. With a sigh, he walked to the boy’s bedside and poured him some water. Handing the mug to him, Hektor sat.

Lucan drank gratefully. His face was an array of bruises, and Hektor wanted to kiss each one away. But the Grand Melee was in two short weeks. If he showed Lucan how he felt, it might weaken him, might make him second-guess his choices in the arena. Gladiators who fell in love simply fell. They became cautious, fearful. They feared to be bold and brave when accepting that death could come in the flash of steel was the gladiator’s meat and mead.