Saturday September 13th 2014

“I thought we’d meet up at the stairs?” she asked, surprise lighting her voice at finding him deep at work in her cottage.

Checking the three barrels, Cesare didn’t look up. The mixture was almost right, but it couldn't just be good enough. War was fact and luck. Understanding the enemy and the sureness of your blade was the ground you walked on, treacherous if unknown but a lethal weapon if mastered. Troop deployment, special squads, location, and objectives, these chains enslaved war to your will. Only in knowing the mind of your kill could you overcome them. But knowing was useless if steel lied and failed you when life stretched thin over the abyss.

A soldier is a nexus of change. His actions alter wars, birthing probabilities beyond the designs of generals. A soldier's courage, conviction, training, and ruthlessness win or lose a battle for an army. Luck is the one goddess of every creature born to murder, she dances between maiming and glory.

Elizabeth eyed the viscous fluid, nose wrinkling at the foul smell. “What are you using my gas for?” She looked off to the side. “And why do you have foam cups?”

He trusted her, but he wasn't sure why. Trust always ended in blood, no one trusted ever earned it, and everyone you trust betrays in the end. But life without trust was never an option. It was the only thing that made hell worth burning in.

“Anastasia’s fighting today against a Drekavac. The deck’s stacked against her, maybe with more training … She's bled for this moment, sacrificed her life to be here. And if I sit back and do nothing, she’ll lose it all.” Cesare had known others with less to lose, broken by failure. Would Anastasia survive the loss of her dreams? Cesare didn't know and if he was lucky, he wouldn't have to find out.

“It's her fight,” Elizabeth said, eyes never rising from the sludge.

“That's bullshit. My life is made of people standing aside and watching me drown in shit. Any of them could have saved me. And you know what? I blame them as much as the guys who had their foot on my neck. They only needed to care, but I wasn't worth it. I can help her, so I'm going to help her. If I stayed out of it and they broke her ... It wouldn't matter what you said, it’d be my fault.” Adding a few more Styrofoam cups to the barrel, he watched them dissolve into the sludge.

“That's not the reason you’re helping her.” Her hand rested on his arm. “You decided before you ever thought of what it’d mean if she lost. So, the question is why? She takes you apart. You think I don't see it, the bruises, the blood, limping into class with eyes swollen shut. But I do. Tell me the real reason or I’ll shut this down.” Her face was set but she wouldn' stop him, she knew that would break something they couldn't fix.

“I know what she does, and the beatings aren't bad.” Elizabeth raised her eyebrow, anger flaring in her eyes. Cesare continued before she cut him off. “She's only doing what she’s told. And you don't have to say it, I know it's the Nazi excuse. She did something for me this week, helped me when the school was about to hang me. I won't see her hurt.” No matter what she’d done to him, she didn’t deserve to die on a nightmare's claws for the pleasure of kids.

“Do you like her?” Elizabeth asked.

“She's beautiful, but I don't know her well enough to like her. I guess I’d say … I like her enough to help her.”

“Okay, but you'll replace the things you used or have Anastasia do it for you.” He worked on it for the next hour while she went around the cottage working on the small things she'd left for a rainy day.

Leaving Elizabeth at the cottage, Cesare headed out to face the most dangerous part of the plan, selling Anastasia on it. He’d have to get to her before she left for the stadium, that meant ambushing her at the girl’s dorm.

The Vulpes had two horse sized foxes at the end of the stairs, their nine tails fanned out behind them. Flowing back and up, the fluffy tails wove themselves into the thick walls and rails of the stairs. Two massive stained glass windows flanked the iron bound wood. A nine-tailed fox was done in shades of russet and flame, sunlight setting fire to the glass, bleeding colors burning with bloody color. Curled up in a ball with her tails wrapped around her, the fluffy ends covered her face as she seared the air with majesty. On the opposite window the fox crouched, tails lit with scarlet fire, tips incandescent with white flame. Slit cut eyes glared at the world with murderous hate, malice lancing out from it with pain’s promise.

The harem waited for their goddess at the bottom of the stairs. The boys glared bloody vengeance at him when they noticed him walking up. They didn’t like him for good reasons, some he even agreed with. Cesare returned the glares with a mild smile as he found a bench to wait on.

Girls coming down the steps shared heated looks with the harem. Each was good-looking with a lifetime of privilege and promise ahead of them. Born from golden wombs, they were destined for the lives others dreamed of. Graceful with model looks, they'd come from parents who gave a damn. They were more than boyfriend material, breathing tickets to a life of unending pleasure and luxury for the one that caught them.

Anastasia moved in a sphere of glitter girls hungry to feed on her glory, parasitic need dripping from their greedy lips. Even surround by girls, she stood out like a flame in the snow. They couldn’t compete with the hammer blow of raw sexuality and beauty that enslaved anyone close to Anastasia. Her eyes found his as she walked down the stairs, coming toward him and away from her harem. The girls behind her broke off as soon as they got a look at where she was headed.

“I didn’t think I’d see you today. Certainly not waiting for me,” Anastasia said with a small smile.

“I come bearing gifts, princess.” The harem surrounded their mistress, aggression flowing off them in waves. “You still want to win?”

Her smile fled at his level tone, taking a moment to give him a close look. “Yes.”

“Sit down. Like I said, I have presents.” Accepting his offer, she sat close to him, far closer than any girl had ever wanted to. At her gesture the harem formed a cordon, close enough to overhear but far enough away to keep others from doing the same.

“You’re fighting the Drekavac Arseny.” Anastasia paled at the news. “Drekavac’s are like vampires, he feeds off the souls of unbaptized children. He'll feed this morning so he's as strong as he can be when you fight.”

“Who we fight is supposed to be a secret?” Anastasia asked, her eyes showing the whites around them. It was something she could latch on to, a wall to keep back the terror that poisoned her veins.

“A secret that can make people a lot of money …”

Anastasia smiled ruefully in understanding. “That sounds like something my mother would say. The Drekavac?” she said to herself, eyes shadowed as they looked out over the campus. “He’ll want to close with me. I’ll have to catch him as he moves.”

“Wicked fast is how they were described to me.” He watched thoughts run across her face. “I have a plan.”

Her eyes came back to him, one corner of her mouth turning up in a half smile. “I have my doubts you could help me, vagrant. You don't exactly inspire confidence with your taped shoes and habit of bleeding all over the place.”

Maybe he should’ve gotten up and left. Maybe he should’ve just scrapped the plan. As nice as she was to him, it was the offhand niceness people gave the worthless. Maybe he should’ve left, but he hadn’t worked his ass off all morning to walk away. And was her rudeness enough reason to see her dead?

“You want to fight him alone and get fucked, go ahead. You want to have your mom disown you and be branded as the Whore of the Thagirion, then get up and go. But maybe you should see what I have to offer before you do that. Maybe you should ask yourself what you’re going to do when a super-fast fighter has his claws in your guts?”

She met his anger with her own. They stared each other down, neither willing to back off. She broke first, looking away from his cruel eyes. He wouldn't give her this. If she didn’t have the strength to ask, then she wasn’t who he thought she was. She should be smart enough to know she was screwed, and strong enough to ask for help.

Anastasia's deep breath brought a tight smile to Cesare’s face. “You’re right. I'm in a bad spot and you came to help. Even if I only have a few hours to prepare, it's more than I had. I'd be honored if you’d share your plan with me.” It was reluctant and with more than a trace of sarcasm, but she’d said it.

He dragged a stick along the ground, drawing the plan as he talked. “The first rule of combat is to control where it takes place. You can't do that, at least not realistically, you’ve no choice but to fight in an open arena. With my help, you’re going to change the terrain.” She nodded, already looking bored. “A weakness can hide a trap, but a strength is always a strength. Arseny's fast, that's the hill we kill him on.”

Anastasia shook her head. “I can take you, but against someone like him ...”

“You’re not getting it. Attacking where he’s strong doesn't mean attacking him head on. We already know his plans to use his speed to get close. That's all we need. I have some presents you’re going to have the harem take in with you.”

“I wanted to leave them out of this. They're fine for school fights but not something like this,” Anastasia said as she gave the harem a calculating look.

“They won't be fighting. They’ll carry three barrels into the arena and leave,” Cesare reassured her. “We know Arseny's plan, so we give him what he wants. When you kick over the barrels, the liquid will spread, leaving only one path to you. He’ll see the trap, but he can only play to his strength. Once he’s coming at you down the corridor, you'll meet him with flames. That’ll force him to dodge into the liquid. The corridors not the trap, the liquid's the trap. You'll set it on fire as soon as he touches it.”

“And if he goes around?” she asked, studying the diagram.

“Then you retreat onto the liquid.” His hand cut off what she was going to say. “Once you set it on fire, you'll need to get rid of your boots. If you have to go with Plan B, you’ll burn but he should be worse off. The Drekavac’s going to fight in his natural form, it's kinda hard to take off your feet.” There was a lot that could go wrong, but it was her only shot. 

“Where did you learn this?” She asked.

Cesare set the stick down as he got to his feet. It surprised him when Anastasia stood beside him. “Life’s war. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you can start winning.” Possessive of her favor, the harem pushed him out of her space with hard eyes and subtle shifts of bodies, enclosing her in their poisoned love.

The harem tipped the barrels slightly, checking the weight with pained expressions. With a glare at Cesare, one of the harem nodded his head at the barrels suggestively. “You know you could ...”

Elizabeth’s words cut off whatever the boy was about to say. “No chance. He was up before dawn getting that sludge ready. You can do the carrying.” The dildo boys ducked their heads under her glaring eyes, unwilling to test her patience. Grunting, they picked up the barrels, manhandling them out of the cottage.

“You should know, I’m against him helping you.” The words came from inside the cottage as Cesare watched the harem set the barrels outside.

“Why?” Only mild interest colored Anastasia's voice.

“I've seen what you do to him,” Elizabeth said.

“I only do what I'm told,” Anastasia said defensively.

“Don't look for understanding or forgiveness from me, you won't find it.”

Anastasia left the cottage with a quicker step than she’d entered. “Anything I should know about the barrels?” she asked Cesare.

“It's corrosive and sticky, so keep your hands off it. Unseal them when you get to the field and are about to go out. Once you light it, stay away from the smoke. Oh, and once it’s set on fire, it’ll burn until the fuel’s gone.” Cesare detailed how the barrels had to be configured to set the trap.

Listening in, the harem moved a few nervous steps away from the barrels while Anastasia looked at him with a pained expression. “Wonderful. So I could burn down the stadium. Awesome. Perfect. That’s just the impression I was going for.” A sharp gesture had the harem sucking it up and lifting the barrels, this time with more care.

At the sound of his voice, Anastasia stopped with her back to him. “A piece of advice. This will be your first fight. Burn him, boil him, flay him with your fire until his screams fill the world. You can’t make people love or respect you, but you can make them fear you. Fear will keep your enemies from your flesh. Fear will keep those you love safe. Fear paves the way to glory. This is your time. It won't come again. This one fight will birth your myth into the world, make it bloody and raw, let its screams terrorize the watching horrors. Today’s the day you either rise to glory or fall in failure.” She left without a word.

Elizabeth came up on his side. “If she wins, it’ll be your doing.”

Cesare smiled. “No, it won't. A general has no skin in the game, its not his cock on the line. It’s her blood that will hit the ground, her dreams on the butchering block. She’s the only one that deserves credit for the win.”

She snorted derisively, a horrified look coming over her face at the sound. “You don't owe her anything.”

“I'm her friend,” Cesare said.

“With friends like that, you don't need enemies.”

“Hey, I didn't say it wasn't complicated.”

The stands were already full of students and parents, their sound a dull roar of anticipation and sexual need. Hunger threaded the air, a needy thing more flesh than soul, the smell of sex before it tears into the real. Eyes tracked the two of them as they made their way down the stands, disgust shone with malice in orbs of fluid and rot. They hated her and despised him, neither were wanted here in their temple of young death and kids tortured for fun. The box seat was empty thanks to the winged devils. The ravens defended their territory with ruthlessness born of being blessed by darkness itself. A Third Year tried to muscle his way into the box seat as Cesare and Elizabeth walked across the arena. The ravens homed in on the boy with spite stained feathers. The boy swung wildly, trying to keep the birds from swarming him, gaining ground a step at a time. Beaks flashed, slicing skin, claws snatching for eyes, leaving trails of blood down the boy’s face.

The boy faced the bloody price with narrowed lips and squinted eyes, determined to beat back the unholy harbingers. Bird shit coated him in seconds, running down his hair, seeping into his mouth and clogging his eyes as the birds cawed in glee. Giving up the fight, the kid ran as his friends laughed and pointed.

A few ravens followed the interloper, burning his folly into his flesh with the scalpel of humiliation. “Pretty territorial, aren't they?” Cesare said.

Elizabeth smiled. “Yes, very. In the wild, they chase eagles away from their nests. Few things are as feared as an unkindness of ravens protecting their own. While eagles may have talons and size, ravens have their family. Not to mention they’re better fliers.” Her snickering burst into outright laughter as the ravens preened themselves with overly satisfied expressions at her words, for all the world as if they were agreeing with her.

“You should control your … pets.” They turned at the icy words, unconsciously drawing together at the outside threat.

Dressed in black slacks and a blinding white button down, Mr. Moreau looked like he’d gotten lost on his way to a board meeting. “It's bad enough you're allowed to have them in class. I won’t have them violating students with their droppings.” Shaking his head, his voice cooled, his breath misting the day with super-cooled air. “Why the Mistress indulges you, I'll never understand.”

Two ravens landed on Elizabeth’s shoulders. Fluffing up self-importantly, they fixed dead doll eyes on the man. “They’re not pets.”

“And yet, you’re the one that protects the little thieves,” Mr. Moreau said.

“They’re my friends. In their own way, they’re no different from the students under our care.” A raven slipped its beak into her black hair, preening her carefully.

Mr. Moreau’s lips tightened in anger. “I wouldn’t liken your carrion eaters to the best and brightest of the Umbrae Lunae.”

“You’re right, there’s no comparison. The ravens are so much smarter.” Icy silence fell at Cesare's words. Elizabeth's eyes widened in shock before she broke into peels of laughter. Cawing, the ravens joined in with eager cruelty.

“I see.” Mr. Moreau pivoted on one foot and stalked off.

“You really know how to make friends?” Elizabeth caressed a hand across a raven's wing as she caught her breath.

“I got you, didn't I?” It was only with effort that Cesare kept his eyes off her. If he looked, she’d see how much her happiness meant to him.

“Yes, you did. Still, Jerold’s not a bad guy. He got the other teachers to go to the cafeteria and keep an eye on you. He thinks things have gotten out of hand, but his authority only extends so far.”

Mr. Moreau walked over the field, intently eyeing the grass. It was his job to make sure the killing ground was fair to both sides, that no one had set a trap, even if it was his own students. Each step was weighed with the knowing that if he did his job, he could be helping kill his own. As intent as he was, Mr. Moreau avoided the other man looking over the field.

Well-worn jeans hugged his ass, encasing muscular thighs that bulged and relaxed with his slow stalking walk. The ever-present wife beater was a second skin, framing shoulders and arms carved of granite. A long-tangled mass of tan hair ran down his back, more mane than anything of civilized man. He squatted in the middle of the field, hand ghosting over the grass. Elizabeth’s breath caught at the sight of Viktor’s ass in tight jeans.

“Seems Jerold has issues with Viktor?” Cesare asked.

“Viktor’s a hard man to be around.” She gave Cesare a measuring look. “For men, at least. He's fought and killed in every war to spill from dark places in the last centuries. He was Lanista of the Ludus Noctis before Jerold.” Sighing, she looked down at the two men.

“Parents would send their kids here for the chance to learn from him. The singular honor enough to justify the tuition. He's a legend. Imperium’s fought to recruit him for hundreds of years. He moved from faction to faction, naming his price to train their killers. A few years ago, Viktor gave up the Ludus Noctis with no explanation. Student enrollment plummeted; entire classes pulled out in objection. Letters flooded the office with complaints and demands. Jerold’s gifted, but he’s no Viktor. It doesn't help that Viktor’s sex on a stick.”

Cesare watched Elizabeth follow Viktor with her eyes. It seemed every female, from adult to teenager, watched Viktor with avid hunger. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a woman’s head turned by a bad boy. It wasn’t even the first time a girl he liked drooled over them. But it was the first time Elizabeth had done it.

Anastasia had warned him that this friendship would only bring pain. Strange how that changed nothing, then or now. The heart wanted what it wanted, no matter the price in blood and screams.

“The Sanguinem Nativitate goes back to before the Cleansing War but gained a new finish in Roman times. Privileged schools like Primrose field two teams, the Gladiators and the Elite. Pride, ego, money, power … the world is theirs if they win. Most schools are owned by an Imperium. It takes an army to keep them safe, money to enslave the human powers, and connections to get the best students. Today it’s the Pozhiray T'ma,” Elizabeth said, tracking Viktor’s ass across the field.

“This is their chance to make something of themselves. A good showing can mean contracts, money, power, and security. If they fail, it's the end of a dream they’ve nurtured and fed since they were old enough to pick up a sword. The rotting death of every sacrifice their parents made for tutors, equipment, and bribes to talent scouts.”

“On an elite level, the stakes are beyond all but the hoariest of nightmares. The Sanguinem Nativitate allows other clans to see the future leaders and warriors they’ll have to face. More than one war was called off after a good showing. Winning shows bravery, power, ruthlessness, and composure. A loss is tainted by cowardice, weakness, and hesitation. It’s life and death for their family and clan.”

Her focus shifted back to Cesare as Viktor left her sight. “A good team brings in prestigious students and donations. Since Primrose is the home of the Mistress, most of the fights with Primrose teams are held here. Vagabonds Exile provides rooms for guests, parents, and scouts.” Her eyes directed him to the side.

A section of the stands stood apart, drenched in the clotted blood color of Pozhiray T’ma. Parents and scouts were hemmed in by the dark red of the other school. Sitting down in the front row was a small woman dressed in artfully ripped black jeans and a faded t-shirt, sharp edged words claiming her chest. Graced with pale white skin, her hair shone in a river of sable down her back, twin bangs of purple framing her face. A perfection beyond mortal marked her out, a note in a symphony glaringly out of tune, like life's blood across pure snow. Smaller than most students, she dominated the stands with an apocalyptic presence felt even from hundreds of feet away. Her reality, the truth of her flesh, crippled her entourage of muscled murderers into faded shadows. He briefly met her almond-shaped eyes, the almost physical punch of power of them twisting his stomach.

Striding out from an arch, the gladiators shone with light, lethality wedded to grace. Swords flashed in the sun, razored edges smiling under searing light, lovingly cared for by the warped souls that owned them. Spears twirled in hands, points thirsty for flesh, hafts polished smooth with sweat and blood. Armor scales flowed across shining bodies, skins of steely strength.

Oiled and ready to kill, each child butchered into weapons more cruelly than the swords they carried. Instincts violated until killing and maiming mirrored a rabid dogs. Steel and man wedded like bone and muscle, grotesquely crippled things when alone, their truth was found in each other.

High and piercing, the wild song of the Choir of Bacchus started the bakkheia. The pugilists came out, one from each side, hands wrapped with bandages, jagged bits of glass bleeding rainbow darts across oiled chests. They could have been twins, big and raw boned, all fat burned off in their endless quest for strength.

Feeling each other out, they took slow, deliberate steps to the side as they navigated opposing circles. Backing away was weakness, and weakness invited retribution. The fighters moved just out of reach, imaginary spheres of seething violence getting closer, each knowing their range with almost supernatural clarity.

An exploding punch hurled forward, his opponent frantically ducking under the glass tipped fist. Kicks lashed out with bone breaking force. Feet and shins wrapped and tipped with glass, carved light into scintillating darts across scarred bodies. An elbow crashed down, skidding down oiled skin, opening lacerations that dripped scarlet. The crowd burst to their feet, greedy for agony, wanton in their clawing need for pain as the blood song dominated the air.

A kick connected, broken edges opening skin, glass carving the boy’s chest, scarlet streaking the ground. Stepping forward, the injured boy pummeled his opponent’s face. A savage twist to the hand as it landed opened flesh, raw white bone peeking through ragged cuts.

Standing toe to toe, the boys shredded each other in sprays of meat. Screaming their defiant pain to the sky, they refused to give, unwilling to let their dream die. Rips and tears flowed over their bodies as fists landed with brutal force, fingers gouged into cuts, prying them open. Dull thuds punctuated screams, somehow rising above the cheering crowd.

One boy faltered, a slight wobble to his stance. The small weakness pounced on immediately by the boy that wanted him dead. His opponent moved forward carelessly, laying punch after punch into the kid, dropping him to one knee, blood pouring off his face and shoulders. Huffing and gulping air, the winner didn’t stop. The bakkheia pushed him, demanding its pound of flesh, kick after kick landed on the kneeling boy. Piercing the brain, the wild song demanded slaughter. No longer pleading, it ordered death and pain, maiming no longer enough to sate its need.

The loser slumped the last few feet to the ground, face bloody and beaten, his bones open to the sun. Cuts wept blood in steady streams along his shoulders, chest, arms and legs, coating him in a slick of crimson. Death hung for an eternity as his opponent looked down on the broken boy. Slowly he pulled back … each step a monument to self-control. The crowd went wild, cheering in unrestrained glee at the blood, pain, and sweat.

“Fuck me.” The quiet words were a benediction and a curse in one.

Cesare had never felt anything like ... that. Powerful, intoxicating, euphoric, a savage darkness howling across his soul. The blood and sweat, two creatures fighting, tearing chunks of bloody meat from each other … it was primal. It whispered of times when humanity crawled in mud, hiding in caves from the nightmares that ruled the land. Even as it ended, his heart beat in sympathy with the bakkheia for the next fight. 

And it was utterly disgusting, tainting the soul with a skim of shit. Two children torturing and bleeding for the joy of sadistic kids. Like watching puppies in a dogfight, something so revolting it turned the stomach, leaving only the feeling that a piece of your soul was stained beyond cleaning.

“It's why we call it the Sanguinem Nativitate. The Blood Birth. It's not only a birth for the fighters but the audience.” Elizabeth’s words were quiet with sorrow. “All beings have it in them, something more diseased than animal, a corruption birthed in gods' need. It hungers for the pain of others, to see mewling submission, the drowning of the weak in agony. The Blood Birth’s an acknowledgment of that primal truth, wedding us to the womb of the horrors that birthed us. In every man's heart a murderer giggles in glee, waiting for the chain to break.”

The blood was hosed down as they carried the mangled kid off the field. It was true, Cesare had loved watching the fight. He craved the power to make others submit to his will, to carve his supremacy into the flesh of his opponent. His thoughts drifted on waves of raw emotion, pictures of blood and glory painting his mind with depraved pleasure. Thoughts of torn flesh and cruel power, unrestrained by civilization dominated his mind. 

If purity’s a single emotion overwhelming all, then blood lust—sadism—is as pure as love. Or is purity, compassion and empathy, the forked tongue of manipulation and enslavement?

Where’s compassion when your family's starving and your kids are dying of hunger? Is purity and goodness found in the raw need for pain? Animals are pure in a way no human can ever be. They kill, fuck, and eat when they want, the hooks and chains of civilizations refusing to bind them. If they are pure, why do we blind ourselves to the animal that hides in our own skin?

The thoughts settled into the darkness of his mind. Treacherous snakes, poison in eye and fang, their bodies slithered into the void outside the touch of the now, waiting to strike at weakness. Coming back to the arena, he watched Dan face off against a stocky man.

Tridents flickered like silver flame, their glittering, barbed points promising pain. Nets lay fallow along the ground, victims of gambits that hadn't paid off. Matching each other over a bare few feet of grass, stances shifted as plans were made and discarded.

Dan screamed, trident twirling, using it more as a staff than a spear. Whistling through the air, the trident slammed into his opponent’s frantically raised trident, stopping the staff-like strike. With a vicious look, Dan pulled back on the haft, the wicked barbs at the end catching his opponent’s weapon, yanking him out of position.

Dan flipped his trident, razor points slipping into flesh with ease, cruel barbs violating the body. Screams, high and piercing, rode the bakkheia like a lover, his opponent unable to face the three-pronged devil sheathed in his gut. The two sounds completed each other in the way of a woman and man.

Dan’s opponent slipped off the prongs, gobbets of quivering life tearing free as the barbs ripped their way out. People ran onto the field to save the boy's life. Blood pooled under the kid as he bled out under the cheers of children.

Dan stood in the pool of blood with a smile, white teeth shocking against his black skin. He raised his trident high in victory, crimson sliding down the polished steel as the crowd whistled and cheered.

Only a few gladiators got to fight at any one Sanguinem Nativitate. They were the warm-up act, their flesh too common to satisfy the students' hunger. People wanted the rare meats carved off the glittering stars of the night.

Greg's voice sounded over the speakers. “Welcome All! We hope our poor performance has warmed the heart! Now for the main event! The Thagirion vs the Pozhiray T'ma! Refereeing, we have our own Mr. Moreau!” The crowd clapped and cheered for the icy man. “And the beast that needs no introduction ... the legend ... the myth ... Viktor Blood!” A deafening roar blasted the arena as people jumped to their feet for Viktor.

Jerold was off to the side, face stripped of emotion. It had to be hell to live in Viktor's shadow. To know that no matter how strong you got, no matter how good of a teacher you were, or how dangerous of a man, you’d never be any one's choice.

“The first fight is Anastasia Harab Serapel! Against Arseny Black Heart!” They walked from opposite arches under a storm of applause and catcalls. The strange woman in the stands stood on her seat, whistling and yelling her support for the akatharton.

Turning away from the stranger, Cesare watched Anastasia and her harem set the three barrels up on the field. Anastasia paced off the distance between the barrels herself, making sure it was as perfect as it could be. She'd taken his advice and set up at the far end of the arena. The longer the barrels had to drain, the deadlier the trap.

The Drekavac strutted out, dappled gray and white skin pulled starvation tight across its scarecrow thin body. Pulsing veins threading muscled striations stood out under a sheath of obscenely stretched flesh. Talons tore trenches in the ground as it stalked down the field on three-toed feet. It stopped at the midway point, the closest it could get to Anastasia. Sharp-pointed ears laid back against its long face. Arms dangled past its knees, spidery fingers tipped with yellow bone talons brushing the grass.

Seeing the creature's swagger as it stretched and grinned with anticipation shocked Cesare. It was one thing to know you went to school with monsters, and another to see a nightmare that fed on the souls of newborns stretch its arms above its head as it reveled in a sunny day. There was something vile about the diseased monster, a feeling he hadn’t gotten from the others, not dark so much as cancerous.

“Anastasia is setting up barrels for the fight. What does she have planned?” Greg's voice boomed over the loudspeakers, sparking guesses that moved like waves through the crowd.

Arseny paced back and forth along the slaughter line, needle teeth flashing in the sun. It had come with a simple plan. Get close and kill the bitch. The barrels weren’t part of the plan. She was supposed to be a piece of sweetmeat, nothing more.

“Looks like Anastasia’s finished with her surprise. Now ... START!” The Choir of Bacchus took up a frenzied pace of bloody need.

Talons ripped into the ground in a spray of dirt as Arseny sprinted for Anastasia in a blur of murderous power. His only chance was to close before she used her ace. Anastasia kicked over the barrels, black jacket flaring around her. Thick liquid burst from the barrels, coating the ground in foulness. Anastasia studied the spreading liquid. She had to find the corridor and be in position before Arseny got its claws in her guts. 

Cesare had given her his best guess, but liquid was tricky. Almost a living being, with wants and desires beyond reasoning creatures of meat. The variables of angle and the force of her kick made it a sucker's bet. Arseny was moving at terrifying speeds, tearing up the grass in its need to outrun Anastasia's plan.

It stopped a few feet from the boundary of the viscous liquid. Fingers snaking and twisting in restless movements, the creature bared its teeth in frustration. The uncertainty of what the liquid was freezing it in place.

“And Arseny’s stopped! But why isn't Anastasia taking this time to fire?” Greg asked over the loudspeakers.

Cesare’s own voice was low as he answered the question. “Because she has no chance of hitting. That thing has the upper hand even standing still.” 

“She could lay down fire across the field,” Elizabeth said, looking at him.

“She can't attack everywhere at once. It always comes back to those legs. Athletes wear cleats to accelerate quickly. That creature sinks its claws into the ground the same way a cheetah does. Not only can he accelerate at full speed, but he can change direction using them as pivots. No, Anastasia's only chance is to trap him,” Cesare said quietly.

Arseny wasn’t idle as it waited outside the corridor. Moving backwards, it kept away from the spreading liquid, nose twitching at the foul smell, talons gouging the ground in fury. It was stuck and it knew it. It had to stick with its only plan. It was locked into place by its own strength, unable to see beyond its gifts.

Pacing before the path, it turned away as if to go around the liquid. Using the simple distraction, it blurred onto the path, hoping the move would buy it seconds as it shot down the open path.

Black fire blasted down the corridor. Snapping and twisting like a live thing, the flames rushed to meet the monster. Filling the path, the inferno consumed the narrow ground. Arseny leapt off the path only feet from Anastasia, liquid spraying from its roll. Nimble on kangaroo legs, not a tongue of flame reached the fiend.

Hands twisting, Anastasia hit the liquid with black fire just as Arseny surged to his feet. Flame shot along the liquid with ravenous speed, chasing Arseny, whipping at his heels. Fans of thick liquid sprayed from his mad dash as the creature ran for the edge of the pool of viscous liquid. A lick of flame touched its hide as it made a wild leap for the clear grass outside the pools treacherous waters.

The touch of flame spread fast as hate, racing along the napalm coating its hide, devouring the unholy fuel it had rolled in. Screaming, the monster tried to beat the fire out, spreading the sticky fire onto his hands. Its chest and head burst into flame, screams wet and ragged tearing from its body. Flames hid the thing from sight as it rolled on the ground in terrorized panic. Its childlike screams pierced the air, the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh blanketing the crowd as they howled their approval.

“When does it stop?” Cesare asked.

“When the victor says.” Seeing his look, Elizabeth continued, “It’s a lesson. The strong take what they want from the weak, and no one will save you.”

Silhouetted against the flames that snapped and tore at the sky, Anastasia walked out of the holocaust. The black jacket flowed around her body in the hot air, red hair dancing in the waves of heat, dark eyes maelstroms of power and rage. She’d entered this fight as a girl with a fancy name, but had risen from the inferno a goddess of annihilation. The school was on its feet chanting, “Anastasia! Anastasia! Anastasia! Anastasia!” The base sound thumped along Cesare’s bones.

Delicate white hands rose in judgement, black flames roared to life, twisting and gathering into twin spheres of flame the size of baseballs. They grew in power, ballooning up to basketball size before settling as two massive whirling beach balls of Ebon Flame. With an almost physical push, the flame burst forward. Sable fire washed over Arseny, devouring the red flame of napalm, splashing stygian spite across the ground. A great scream sliced the air. The chant of the students ended with a sigh of almost sexual satisfaction at the finality of the scream.

Unlike the red flames that burned the ground, the black flames died as quick as they’d arrived, leaving Arseny exposed. Blackened skin shriveled and peeled from its body, muscles wept blood that sizzled as it touched exposed skin. Flesh melted off its forehead and cheekbones, white bone showing through. Tracks of jellied eyes bubbled down the creature’s cheeks. Mewling, it hunched down, sanity lost to agonies mercies. The legs that had been so powerful were savaged, charred strips of blackened tendon and charred muscle.

“I leave you alive, blind and crippled. A monument to my power. I am the holocaust. I am the inferno. I am Anastasia Harab Serapel.” The words resounded through the arena, the wet, raw, birth of a legend.

The chant rumbled through the stands. A beast of sound, each beat of its heart shaking wood, penetrating into flesh to throb along bones. “Years from now we’ll remember this fight as the time the legend of Anastasia Harab Serapel began.” The words were only for himself, but they drew a speculative look from Elizabeth.

Running out of the bleachers, the strange woman seemed almost to fly across the ground. Her bodyguards tried to keep up but were quickly left behind. Only as she flew into Anastasia's arms was her true size clear. She couldn’t be more than five feet, and a small five feet at that.

“Who’s that?” Cesare asked.

“Her mother, Lady Kali, the Mother of Apocalypse, Mistress of Genocide, Destroyer of Worlds,” Elizabeth answered softly.

“I heard she was someone important.” What he’d heard was that she was a goddess of wrath, a walking apocalypse of myth and nightmares.

Elizabeth laughed quietly. “That's like saying Abraham Lincoln, Alexander the Great and Attila the Hun are only kinda important. Long before the Cleansing War, Lady Kali led one faction of akatharton. As the centuries passed, the others were devoured by more powerful races growing fat off their meat. But not Lady Kali. She prospered no matter the changes in the world or the Immortals that dared to challenge her mastery, nothing survived war with the Mother of Destruction. She rules an imperium with thousands of Umbrae Lunae and millions of humans. There’s no way to relate to her power … it stalks the realms of abominations. Anastasia is her daughter ... the only one to leave Lady Kali's imperium.”

“Centuries old and only one daughter let out beyond her skirt,” Cesare said.

“She keeps them safe in her domain, only letting them out when they’re hundreds of years old and in the fullness of their power. Anastasia’s the only one to go to school outside her domain,” Elizabeth said.

Hugging each other, the two women were quickly surrounded by Lady Kali's harem. Beautifully tailored suits sheathed bodies forged gorgeous through decades of murderous slavery. Liquid smooth, the killers flowed into a circle of protection, hands drifting to sides, eyes tracking over the crowd. A well-oiled machine, each part different and unique, they were pieces carved to fit into something greater than the whole.

Eyes ever outward, the harem warded the two women in a circle of flesh and temper. Even the ones that looked like accountants had a dangerous look … glittering swords, deadly potential waiting to be unleashed. These were people used to violence, eager to bleed and kill for what they stood for.

Cawing a warning, the raven announced Greg’s arrival. Greg waited at the door to the box seats, eyeing the glaring birds warily. Perched along the rails and seats, the ravens fluffed up in affront at his presence.

“Hell of an upset,” Greg said with a smile. With the easy money on the Drekavac to win, the bookie had made a killing on the long odds.

“What do you want?” Cesare asked as Elizabeth looked dismissively away. Greg wasn’t here for her. He didn’t hate her, but he knew getting close to her meant beatings and blood.

Greg's smile widened. “Wanted to see if you’d let me sit and broadcast from here.”

“Why?” Cesare asked.

“Why would you let me? Or why do I want it?” Greg questioned.

“Both.” The smile never faltered from Greg's face. Game face wasn't a tool for a hustler, it was the hustle. The ones who lied with words were enslaved to the few that lied in heart, body, and soul.

“You picked a winner no one would have. I want to know what you think of the other fights. As for what you get out of it, I don't suppose you’d accept my everlasting friendship? Yeah, didn't think you’d buy that. How about the inside angle on the other fights?” 

He wouldn't let the guy sit close to Elizabeth, not even for something Cesare needed. And the inside knowing on how the Thagirion fought was high on his list of needs.

“Let him sit at the end but no farther, little brothers.” The ravens cocked their heads quizzically before moving just enough so Greg could sit down.

Shocked, Elizabeth’s voice was just for Cesare. “They ... did what you wanted. They've never done that before. Never done anything for anyone besides me.” She smiled at the midnight birds.

“They must like me.” Need’s coils constricted around his heart as he locked eyes with her, fangs sunk deep into the rotting flesh at his core.

Cesare’s pleased smile widened as Jerold carried a fire hose onto the field. Hissing clouds of steam filled the air as the flames died. Napalm dominated the water, rising to the surface with lethal fury. Riding the wave of water, islands of flame raced hungrily for the students' bleachers, grass fires spawning by the hundreds.

Kids leapt from seats, running down the aisles as the inferno raced across the arena for them. Scrambling and pushing, they clawed at each other like rats, stampeding the slow and weak. Small kids fell under the feet of the strong, squirming children with breakable bones, screams of terror lancing the air as the weak ruptured blood.

Throwing the hose to the side, Jerold bolted for the hunting flame. Standing between the coming inferno and the bleachers, the man faced the blaze. Frost radiated from him, grass silvering, cold killing with a flash freezing. Jerold's breath misted the air, vapor rising from his body as temperatures plummeted. Ice formed in sync with his slowly raising hands, crystalline spikes surging from the earth, branching out and merging into a snowflake wall, gaps flowing closed. A wall of ice born from ruthless will and unholy power. Thickening, it gained feet in seconds, racing across the ground as it encircled the flaming pool in its icy tomb.

Fire’s a living essence, hunger given spiteful form. It fought the ice, clawing at it, devouring it even as the water sent hissing steam into the air. Jerold stood against it, mist cloaking him in clouds, grass and earth dying around him in an ever expanding circle of frozen hate. As quickly as the flames ravaged their icy prison, it was built back up by Jerold.

Viktor walked through the bleachers, calming the kids with his presence and the swift application of savage fists. They returned slowly to their seats, changed by the raw truth. Now they knew they were animals, willing to strangle the weak to secure an hour's worth of life. Friendship, love, chivalry, it all died the same under fears' claws. It wasn't shame that reddened faces, but a victim’s hate for the strong.

“Nasty stuff.” Greg’s voice was just this side of questioning. The school knew Cesare had cooked the stuff up, but Anastasia would claim the credit for the plan and the making of the napalm. Cesare was Igor to her Dr. Frankenstein.

Half the field was coated in black ash and smoldering coals. The walls of ice shrank as their bases flowed into expanding sheets of ice. Sweeping across the ground, it reclaimed the area in minutes, a sheet of ice sheathing the burned earth. The coals died in their tombs of ice until even the ice melted into the ash, leaving only charred ground behind.

Greg's voice came over the loud speakers as the last of the fires died. “Now, that's a fight! Let’s hear it again for our own Anastasia … The Lady of Ruin!” Thunderous cheers rocked the arena. “Will the next fighters fail where Anastasia dominated? Can anything equal the offerings of the Lady of Ruin? Werewolf against Vodyanoy! Who will win, The Master of the Hunt or The Lord of the River! Today we'll see!”

Nine feet tall and covered in dark brown fur, Blaez lumbered out of an arch on bird-like reversed knees. Claws gripped the ground with each step, tearing trenches through earth and ash. Calves of spindly bone and tendon ballooned up into incredibly muscled thighs, grotesque caricatures of human legs rubbing against each other. Curved forward, its spine forced it into a stalking lurch, impossibly wide shoulders bunching and twisting with each thudding step. Arms of corded muscle hung down past its waist, claws extending another foot. Crooked teeth crowded its hugely muscled jaws, uneven rows of saw-toothed maiming. Blood and spit dripped from lips savaged by its deformed, killing teeth.

“Let’s give a welcome to the Vodyanoy!” It was a thin creature born to the water’s depths. Delicate, three-toed feet glided over the burned dirt. Drips of slime slid down its shimmering green skin to land smoking on the ground. Black eyes dominated its face, massive orbs that hoarded light, devoid of pupil or iris. Slits ran from eyes to chin, vents fluttering as it scented the air, scarlet wet folds dripping mucus off its face.

“Semyon’s a unique caster. Its body is coated in the same slime it shoots out of its vents. Look at its hands,” Greg said. “Its fingers are over a foot long with an additional knuckle, tipped with small claws. They pipe acid through their claws as well.”

Cesare only needed a moment to make his judgment. “Blaez will win.”

“Why?” Elizabeth asked, looking over at Cesare.

He gave her the answer he wouldn’t have given Greg. “Look at the werewolf’s body. The thighs show quick charging power while the lack of muscle on the calves means it can't pivot easily. The torso bends forward, putting its center of balance in front of its body. Moving backward would put it off balance. The arms are long, far longer than they need to be, making close combat a losing game. Talons that large are made for slashing like a scimitar, lots of telegraphing, relying on power and speed to break through. The shoulders are overly muscled to support its head, pushing the center of balance even further forward. Its teeth are stripped of meaning except killing, they butcher the mouth for crippling power. It’s built to overwhelm. In anything besides attack, it’s awkward and off balance. It has to press the attack until it dies or destroys its opponent.”

Elizabeth scrutinized the werewolf for herself. “The Vodyanoy’s depending on its acidic slime to slow the attacks of the werewolf. Getting hurt will only infuriate the werewolf, the Vodyanoy’s defense will get it killed.”

“Semyon could kill the werewolf,” Greg said.

Cesare answered without turning away from Elizabeth. “No, it can't. Semyon would have to cover Blaez’s face in acid, blind him, then get out of range. With Blaez blind, Semyon could stay at a distance and lay the acid on. He won't do that. Semyon’s moved to the middle of the field. He's going to count on his acidic skin to stop or at least slow Blaez. He’ll allow Blaez to get too close and those claws will be in his guts before he realizes he's fucked.”

Greg took up his microphone as Blaez and Semyon faced off. “Let the Master of the Hunt and the Lord of the River … BEGIN!”

Quicker than Cesare’s eyes could follow, gigantic claws swept upward, impaling the Vodyanoy. Blaez lifted it off the ground, shoulders bulging at the weight. Vents on the thing's face opened wide, watery neon fluid spraying over Blaez, steaming as it hit the werewolf’s flesh. Semyon let out a keening whine of victory and pain, a sound that disappeared, becoming pressure as it went beyond the human range. Blaez’s screaming howl radiated through the stadium, a base thundering that thrummed along the bones. 

Locked in a deadly embrace, Semyon was too close for Blaez to get his other claws into him. Acid poured over Blaez in a neon wave, flesh bubbling and sloughing off in translucent white rivers. Muscles dissolved under the acid, islands of bleached bone appearing through the waves of devouring acid. Muscles washed away in acid, Blaez’s arm couldn’t keep the Vodyanoy in the air.

Undulating its triumph, the thing fell to the ground. Stripped of flesh, Blaez’s bones shone white along his muzzle, a wolf's death's head grin glaring out where fur and meat had been. Eye sockets bubbled with a vile brew of ocular fluid and acid, tendrils of hungry slime worming toward the boy's brain.

Snapping forward, Blaez’s teeth closed on the thing’s skull with a crunch that radiated through the arena. The skull collapsed with a final wet snapping crack as the wolf claimed the river born life.

A bloody, tearing howl of victory erupted from the werewolf. The Vodyanoy fell bonelessly to the grass, its skull a caved in mess. Even in death, the Vodyanoy claimed its blood price. Acidic fluid dripped from the wolfs mouth, carving furrows down its chest. Flesh crawled, writhing across the werewolf, regenerating with frantic speed. Raising his head back, arching his body, Blaez howled his victory to the sky.

Skin and muscles jumped as thick, ropy snakes slithered beneath the skin. Tearing rents appeared, splitting open Blaez’s body. Wet, red muscle glistened in the sun. Great slabs of meat peeled off its body, shriveling and dying within seconds of hitting the ground. Bones cracked, shrinking with torturous stops and starts as new flesh flowed over Blaez. The wolf reclaimed the lie of humanity.

He'd sculpted and shaped his body for killing, neither overly large nor inadequately small. Balanced between speed and strength, it was the work of thousands of hours of training. With his cock swinging between his legs in open invitation, Blaez grinned at the whistling crowd.

“That was brutal.” Greg’s voice was filled with an almost sexual satisfaction.

“It was stupid. Either of them could’ve won the fight if they would have prepared. That's not fighting, its children given guns,” Cesare said with disgust.

Pantagruel walked out with only a tight loin cloth preserving his modesty. Tall, at over seven feet, he was grotesquely muscled. Mounded with doughy-smooth flesh, his shoulders were a massive mountain range of distorted meat. Arms bulged with hulking biceps and triceps, forearms thicker than most men's thighs. His core was a perfect eight pack, the point of the V formed from his sculpted shoulders. Hair of spun gold caressed his sun loved skin. A monster even in his human form, he’d burned away normal for a body devoted to fleshy gods.

He was a beautiful idiot. If this was about being pretty, he had it won. But this was murder, not fucking. He'd deformed his flesh, ruining the perfection carved into DNA. That much muscle in arm and shoulder would destroy his range of motion, any power he gained lost into the abyss of shit body mechanics.

Akachi stepped out of the far arch. Small compared to anyone not Cesare, he wore sagging black sweats, chest bare to the air. His body was stocky, without the defined muscles of either a fighter or a bodybuilder. A Hunga Munga hung negligently from one hand, the metal pointed blade with its curved back spike unlike anything spawned from man's diseased need. Cesare leaned forward in anticipation.

“Pantagruel the Giant vs Akachi! This is Akachi's first fight! How will he perform and what lessons will Pantagruel carve into his body?” Greg's voice crested over the crowd.

Cesare's words stopped Greg short. “Akachi will win.”

“What's that he's carrying?” Elizabeth interrupted whatever Greg was going to say.

“A Hunga Munga. It’s a knife used under other names in Africa,” Cesare said.

“It looks ungainly.” Elizabeth's voice carried a heavy amount of skepticism.

“So would a Spartan's shield, but it’s still a devastating weapon. Looks matter in fucking, not killing. The Hunga Munga is a multi-purpose weapon, its crescent blade is for slicing and when thrown right, can take off a limb. The spikes are used to impale a leather shield and drag it away from the opponent.” Elizabeth nodded as they watched the two meet in the middle.

Greg only waited out their comments before announcing. “Let the blood flow!”

Pantagruel raised his hands, body leaping in size, gaining a foot every second. His leather loincloth ripped apart, leaving his cock dangling like some freakishly large white snake. Louder and louder, his laughter boomed as he rocketed up.

Akachi shivered, patches of coarse hair sprouting through skin, black fur flowing over skin. The loose, baggy sweats stretched at the sudden ballooning of muscle. His face exploded out, spraying bone fragments and meat, its skull reformed in the mass of blendered flesh, growing into a muzzle of black hair with a white strip down the middle. A disturbing, rumbling growl skittered through the stadium, fear rushing before it.

“What’s that?” Elizabeth asked, blanching.

“Honey Badger. Akachi turned into a were-honey badger,” Cesare said quietly.

Laughing, Greg put his mic down. “Come on, you can't believe the hype.” At Cesare’s silence, Greg’s grin faded into calculation. “How much would you put on the half pint?”

“A lot. What odds are you offering?” Cesare’s easy acceptance set Greg back.

“Nothing. Just wondering how serious you were.” His voice was definite, with no room for a hustle in it.

Pantagruel was over seventeen feet tall and still laughing down at Akachi. A hopping step set up a soccer kick with enough power to overturn a car. Akachi smoothly tumbled into a somersault under the kick. Coming to his knees, he pivoted in a circle, the Hunga Munga's crescent blade tearing through Pantagruel's calf. Blood streaked the grass as Pantagruel's scream rang through the air.

Squatting down and throwing his leg out, the giant swept the tree of meat across the ground. Akachi hit the earth, flattening himself as the giant’s leg jetted past inches from his black and white pelt.

Snarling, Akachi rolled to his feet once the leg passed. Pantagruel surged up, the cut leg making him clumsy and slow. Hammering the metal spike into the giant's massive thigh muscle, the werebadger dragged the sharpened spike through flesh. Screaming, Pantagruel fell backward, leg buckling under him. It didn’t matter how strong you were, cut muscles turned power into dead meat.

Akachi crouched down with a chittering growl, one hand touching the ground. Pantagruel rose to one knee, blood soaking the ashy earth as he cursed through clenched teeth. “Come on, you little fucker.”

Snarling, Akachi crept forward, nose twitching, body steady with murderous intensity. Slow and deliberate, his steps never dipped from perfect balance. He approached Pantagruel not like the wounded prey he appeared to be, but as the still deadly creature he was.

With sudden, unstoppable power, Pantagruel pushed off the ground, launching himself at Akachi with a roar. If Pantagruel got his hands on the smaller boy, it was over. Akachi's stance shifted, legs twitching with prepared strength. He shot forward and to the right, sliding under the armpit of the giant, neatly evading the grasping hands.

Darting out from underneath the giant’s body, Akachi's backhand sunk the spike into the expanse of Pantagruel's muscled back. His momentum snapped; force redirected as the anchor swung him in an arc up onto the giant's back. The Hunga Munga rose and fell, its crescent blade spliting the muscle in Pantagruel’s shoulder, severing the trapezius. With the workmanlike efficiency of a butcher, the crescent blade chopped over and over. Each cut sliced deeper into the giant, spraying Akachi with flesh and blood.

Pantagruel tried pushing up. A simple push up would have been enough to throw the boy off but Akachi had severed his back muscles leaving his arms disconnected from his body. Squirming across the ground as the deranged werebadger flayed his back open, the boy screamed, his agony greedily lapped up by the watching kids. Flesh parted in crimson cuts; muscle laid open to the air. It was only a matter of time before Akachi turned his attention to Pantagruel's head.

“I yield!” The words silenced the stadium howls and moans of lusty hunger.

Akachi hopped off the giant, nodding his acceptance of submission. Covered in blood and gobbets of meat, the werebadger shifted as he walked away. Black fur receded with every step, muzzle falling back into a human face with bone breaking crunches. Streamers of ripped flesh dangled from the Hunga Munga as the bloody winner left the field.

“How’d you know?” Greg's appreciative voice contained a calculating edge.

“Akachi’s small and stocky, built like a power lifter … built to be explosive. His weapon demands time and practice to use, it rewards the amateur with death. Mastery of that weapon is earned by killing, the mountain of dead are the adepts throne. The ease he held it marked him as a dangerous man. Pantagruel’s the opposite. You can't fight a dog, it circles just out of reach and beyond your strikes. It controls the fight because you're out of position, its grace dominates. We're designed to fight others of our size, small cripple our choices. Pantagruel has deformed himself. The muscles he's tortured his body for cost him in flexibility and range of motion ... he was meat for the taking as soon as he walked onto the field.”

“He had no chance,” Elizabeth stated.

Cesare moved his hand back and forth. “Not quite. Fighting is about odds. What you need to do is weight those odds in your favor. Weekend warriors play fair, professionals cheat. Pantagruel didn't try to weight the odds in his favor, he didn't even know he was the cow.” There was no humor in his voice. Fighting was a chancy thing. There was no such animal as a sure thing, but you could fake it.

Elizabeth bumped his shoulder with hers, a small grin on her face. “Looks like you have a new job. You can bet on the games and make more than you do gardening with me.” It was only half in jest. Maybe he was hearing what he wanted, but he hoped there was a thread of nervousness in her voice.

Cesare looked away. “Spending time with you is never second place in my book.” A pregnant silence fell between them. He’d thought looking away would make it less pathetic. But desperation has a smell all its own, diseased need wedded to wanton begging.

Greg stepped into the awkward silence. “Abraxas is next. They’ve paired him up against Adir the Golem. They think the Golem can get past Abraxas’s fire.” At Cesare’s questioning look, Greg continued, “Abraxas is a dragon. He’s used his fire breath to win a lot of fights. Golems are hardened against any damage, even fire. They are betting it’ll buy them a tie.”

“They don't think it can win?” Cesare asked.

“No. Dragons aren’t like werewolves. Even in the mendacium, they can draw on a lot of power. Adir can't take him. They’re hoping a tie won't be worth Abraxas going full dragon,” Greg said, locked on Cesare.

“Resistant doesn’t mean impervious. You’re missing the point. If Abraxas wants the win, he’ll take it.” Abraxas had watched Anastasia conquer. He wouldn’t let the opening act outshine the head liners.

“It's a big thing to go full dragon. Takes a lot of power.” Greg wasn’t questioning Cesare, just stating the fact.

“You’re thinking binary, this or that, seeing only two choices. You think that’s the only way he can win, but that doesn’t make it the truth. When you’re at war, you make the enemy bleed for every bit of information. If you have fast attack squads, you don't let them know until you’ve already ripped their flanks. If you have heavies, they see it as you drop the shells,” Cesare said, turning away from the boy.

“We’ve seen blood! Watched the burning of flesh and the slaughter of meat! Finally, it’s time for the main event! Abraxas Black Scale vs Adir the Golem!” Walking onto the field, Abraxas was a shadow in midday. His school uniform was cut like every boy’s but of purest black, the only shot of color being the yellow sword on his jacket. It was the same boy from last night, the one holding court.

A creature of tan stone stomped onto the charred ground from the opposite arch. Its form was human only in that it had two legs and two arms. No muscles broke the smooth lines of desert stone, its body whole in a way something grown could never be. Birthed in alchemy and perverse power, it was an elemental creature forsaken to a world of decay. Three sausage thick fingers split from mammoth arms of old stone. Formed to maim and cripple, they were weapons masquerading as fingers. Shoulders of straight lines flowed up into a mound of stone, devoid of neck or break. Dark pits stared at the world with indifference, holes in reality, they were windows into the forever of stone. Flesh changed, died, rotted and decayed. Stone was true, owning a permanence and grace meat would never have.

Silence reigned as the two faced each other. Over topping Abraxas by two feet, the thing wasn’t big enough to be an easy target, just big enough to be a scary son of a bitch. Its uniformity added a layer of doubt to every attack. Where were its weak points? Joints? Muscles? Head?

“Now for the main event, Fire Vs Stone!” Almost before the word left Greg's mouth, Abraxas glided forward, feet brushing over blood soaked ash. Black scales multiplied across his head, glinting with dark radiance in the sun, sheathing the dragon in armor stronger than steel.

Abraxas fisted his two hands, creating a sledgehammer of supernatural steel. Leaping up, the dragon wove his fists into a hammer before smashing into the golem’s shoulder. A booming crack exploded through the arena. The bakkheia rose shrill and high, jagged glass slicing nerves, flaying them bloody with raw need.

Adir ponderously grasped for the nimble dragon. Avoiding the Golem’s hands with ease, Abraxas slipped down and to the right. A palm strike detonated against tan stone, jagged cracks spider webbing across the golem's shoulder. Three fingered fists turned as quick as stone can, whistling over the dodging dragon’s head.

A swift punch hit the golem’s armpit, snapping the arm from the body. Snatching the limb in mid fall, Abraxas rolled away with his prize in hand. Looking down, the golem inspected the jagged stump where his arm had been.

With pulverizing force, Abraxas brought the stone arm onto the golem’s knee. The joint buckled, spilling the stone fighter down to one knee, ground shaking at the sudden impact. Abraxas swung the club above his head, body vibrating with force. The severed arm came down in a blur, shattering on Adir’s head. Awkward and off balance, the golem struggled to its feet, swinging its hand, desperate to grab the serpent quick dragon.

Darting to the side, Abraxas unfurled a sidekick that shattered the knee joint in a hail of stone chips. Falling down with bone rattling force, the thing knew it was beat. Reaching forward, it dug its lone hand into the earth, desperate to escape the brutality of a monster weaned on cruelty.

Abraxas picked up the broken leg and weighed it in his hand, a gleeful smile cutting its way across his face. Leisurely, he stalked behind the broken stone boy. Setting a foot on the golem's back, the dragon pinned it in place, ending its crippled crawl. Coming down with terrible force, the stone club shattered what was left of the golem’s legs. Stomping along the crippled thing’s spine, the dragon's steps resounded with the cracking of stone, fault lines spreading across the golems body. Need and lust wove through the air as the Choir of Bacchus ascended into a fevered pitch.

Stretching its arm forward, Adir dug into the ground as Abraxas stood on its shoulders and stomped, cracks deepening into trenches. With a leaping stomp, the dragon shattered the golem’s lone arm at the shoulder.

Stepping down from Adir, the dragon walked away without a look back at the maimed child. The golem wiggled on the ground, desperation in every shuddering movement. Encased in stone but still able to feel pain, it couldn't scream for help or mercy. Its pain was the silence of a fish eaten alive.

Greg's voice went out to the silent stadium. “And there we have it, Fire Vs Stone. Give it up for our own Abraxas Blackscale.” Surging to their feet the stadium roared with joy at the agony ravaged boy the dragon had laid at their altar.

Cesare’s words were only heard by Elizabeth. “He couldn’t top Anastasia, so he took another angle. Instead of being loved, he’ll make sure he’s feared.”  

It was a short break. As soon as the fight was over, Elizabeth insisted there was work to do. Only a quick detour to the shed before he was buried in work. Weeds stopped for no man.
After only half a day of working on the grounds, sweat and dirt made a crusty exterior, while a persistent burn burrowed gleefully into his back. Every few seconds he’d try to work it out with a stretch, but the pain stayed with him like a bad smell, a tick sunk deep into flesh unwilling to let its meal go. A long sigh gusted from him as he closed the door to the cottage.

“Tea?” Elizabeth’s quiet question got an immediate nod of thanks as he took a seat at the table.

Smiling, Elizabeth set his cup in front of him. The snake was warm under his hands, scales rough against callouses. She walked around with her own teacup in hand, cleaning tools and putting things away. There was a contentment in her steps, every gesture speaking of quiet pleasure … an ease that was lacking in the world beyond her sanctuary.

He couldn’t pull his eyes off her. What was it that bewitched him? Other girls were prettier, certainly they had better bodies. But none of them had the same quiet air of empathy, a goodness that called to the broken thing in his heart. 

As the last tool went up onto the wall, her sigh was barely heard. “I guess you need to head back.”

“I could stay.” Cesare tried to keep the desperate hope out of his voice. He didn’t want to seem like he was begging for attention, even if he was.

Her eyebrow raised in question. “How's your homework?”

“As good as can be. I've gone over it three times. More time staring at it won't make a difference.” Cesare shook his head with a half smile.

“I should send you back. It's not proper for you to be here when we're not working,” Elizabeth said.

Taking another drink, the heat ran through him as he finished it. He was used to fighting. The day you stopped fighting on the streets was the day you sold your soul to something worse than any devil. With nothing but a fool's hope, he held the cup out for a refill. Elizabeth accepted the cup but didn’t refill it, knowing it was giving him permission to stay. “I'm hurt, and I don't want to walk back yet. Can we talk until my back doesn't feel like it’s going to fall off?”

Elizabeth held his eyes for a long minute. “I don't know if I have anything to talk about, but I have a chess set. You know how to play?” Cesare caught her shy smile before she turned to refill his cup.

“Not well.” The real reason he wanted to stay was because he craved her with a bone deep need that hurt. Maybe he was lost, maybe he would only get hurt, but he’d been hurt for less reason.

Cesare took a drink of his tea. “This is good.”

“Tea’s more than it appears,” Elizabeth said with a smile, holding up her brownish cup. “This is Yixing Clay from China, with every steeping it holds a bit of the character of the tea.” She rolled the cup in her hands with sensuous pleasure. “A cup of tea is more than a drink, it's an experience.”

“Show me?” Cesare asked.

Eyeing him, something intimate moved through her warm brown eyes. “Close your eyes.” The soft command was an answer to his need. “Roll the cup in your hands, feel the hard texture of the unglazed clay as it rasps across your skin. Dip your head and take the aroma into yourself. Let it fill your body. Deep and biting, the smell is life … bitter like winter and strong as the sun in summer. It’s born of the earth and burned by the sun. Let your lips touch the rough edge of the cup. Tip it slightly so the tea kisses your lips, pulling in just a sip.”

Even after taking his sip, he held off opening his eyes. The rough cup was like the bark of a tree, a living roughness, hard and protective, a part of the earth with only the barest trappings of civilization. Its bitter smell overwhelmed the world beyond, a realm of tea blooming into being, hints of spices, notes of plants and earth weaving through its kingdom. Sipping the tea, it flooded his mouth with the darkness of life. Mystery, wonder, hard lessons and sweet promise on the tip of his tongue.

Elizabeth’s voice was quiet. “There’s a sublime beauty to it, a completeness found in few things. This is a fragmented world. When you look at trees you see their beauty, understand how important they are, and know they're alive. But that's head and eyes. It's not truth. When you smell a flower, you take the fragrance in, even touch it if you're wise. But what is that? Three senses: sight, touch and smell. In this world there are few ways to truth. Tea is one of those rare paths. You touch the cup, feel its heat and the roughness of pottery. Smell the death and rot of the tea, hear the screams of the plants stripped of flesh, their pain feeding your pleasure. Taste the bitterness of loss and promise of tomorrow. You look into the stygian Cauldron of Hecate, mysteries lost to mortal ken swirl in its depths.”

When he opened his eyes, Elizabeth was lost in her own cup of tea, eyes lost to realms of thought. “Tea is of the earth and is more than a drink. It offers a path to truths of our mother, a refuge from a fragmented reality.” She looked up suddenly, heat flaming across her cheeks. Caught in the moment, she'd forgotten he was there. When she spoke, the word was soft with shame. “Sorry ...”

“Never apologize for sharing your truth.” He met her eyes as he reached toward her, fingers brushing her white knuckled grip on her teacup. “I'm ... happy ... you shared it with me.” The tension drained from her fingers as a smile spread across her face.

Avoiding each other's eyes, they both retreated from the dangerous place they'd birthed. Breached walls came back in force. Years of bloody memories flooded back into the void between them, of scars carved into souls and vulnerability returned tenfold in pain and humiliation. For a time, brief minutes, that past was forgotten. Now those defenses came roaring back. Shame at his show of weakness rolled through him, echoed in the slump of Elizabeth’s shoulders. But for a time ...

They took refuge in the game, Cesare drinking herbal tea and laughing at his mistakes, Elizabeth falling into the role of teacher … or maybe a friend who was teaching. He took Elizabeth's happy smile with him as he walked back to the dorm.

Special Thanks To:

Jasaf74

Belblade

Hopet123

Primezero

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