10. TEN
TEN
CALVEROUS
Location: Tera’thian Northlands
In the depths of Calver’s mind, his muted senses detected a soft, steady roar, like the Kaidechi tide crashing against the beach in a storm. It made him think of Arleena, which nearly made him return to his surrender.
Whenever Calver let the Survivor take over, the world fell as still as the pause between breaths. Neither one thing nor another. A vacuum, void of emotion or sensation or light. It was comfort. It was peace. It was nothing.
For noise to reach him here… he had never heard noise like that. He pushed against the Survivor’s blanketing weight, fighting for territory in his own mind.
{You may rise, but it will be distasteful to you.}
Not a moment Calver had witnessed since his capture had been any different.
How long have I been under?
{Five moons.}
Half a year, with no recognition of it. In the void, minutes were indiscernible from weeks. But in the void, he didn’t have to think of the beach or the dowagian studio or his favorite pair of brown eyes—things he’d never see again.
That wasn’t to say that he didn’t experience everything the Survivor did. He could even recall it, if he wanted to. But when he descended into the deepest trenches of the void space, he had little will to resurface or remember.
Five months was too long. He needed to know—his senses would not have disturbed him for nothing.
He pushed forward. The world grew brighter; the noise became deafening.
Tens of thousands of voices mingled in a cacophonous uproar, louder and louder, until the sound hit him as if he’d crashed into it from the sky.
They were cheering. Primal. Senseless. Incredible.
An arena spilled out before Calver. The colosseum jutted skyward, its unscalable walls wrought from marbled stone. Endless rows of seating stretched toward a domed ceiling. Dressed in every color, the spectators looked like candies tiered on shelves.
This was the sound of a coveting for blood.
As the Survivor’s memories spilled into him, his skin prickled.
The noise of the colosseum was displaced by his own heartbeat thrashing in his ears.
He had spent weeks in preparation for his first, and possibly last, match.
But what could have prepared him for this?
Thirty-five thousand. That’s what he’d been told of the facility’s capacity.
Thirty-five thousand. And today it was full.
The full population of Kaidech doubled, all in one place and screaming, the very pebbles on the ground quaking from it.
The Survivor reveled in the sound, absorbed it until it filled him as much as the oxygen he breathed.
A hand clasped Calver’s shoulder, nails digging in. It was not to comfort him so much as to claim him.
“Thirty-eight seconds.”
The Survivor did not have to translate now, the way it had months ago. Much of the Tera’thian tongue had settled into Calver’s subconscious, even though he had been submerged upon learning it.
“The last one never had a round last longer than thirty-eight seconds. You will be even faster. Proof of concept, to continue our funding.”
Cul’Mon had spoken of Calver’s predecessor many times before: his previous apprentice. The one who had been compliant.
“Thirty-eight seconds,” Cul’Mon repeated a third time, as though solidifying it in stone.
Calver shifted and swallowed as he pulled from the Survivor’s memories the rules of engagement—or lack thereof.
A year ago, fights to the death had been things of story.
He’d even romanticized the concept a time or two, imagining how he would fare against a barbarian, a beast, or a horde of armed men.
Of course, he always came out on top, dowaga cutting cleanly, flesh parting like petals around the blades.
He didn’t even break a sweat. He had fans—lots of fans—all rooting for him.
Calling his name. He would stand in dazzling sunlight, foes vanquished, waving at the stands.
Idiot. Knowing of the tens of thousands of Tume’amic wasted here, Calver was no longer confident how he would fare.
As though sensing his reservation, Cul’Mon brought his mouth to Calver’s ear. “You will not fail.”
The words punched into him. A horn blared, and the cheering increased tenfold. Calver’s limbs seized, frozen. Shit. How was he supposed to fight if he couldn’t move?
Yet he flinched and stepped forward, instinct kicking in.
In training with Calisto, hesitation was met with verbal correction.
With Cul’Mon, it was met with pain. Now that he was here, he was glad for it.
Better not to be split into two bloody halves before he could get his wits about him.
Nostrils flaring, hands shaking, he unhitched the dowaga from his back.
A boy stood at the opposite side of the arena with feral hunger in his eyes.
Hunger to just keep breathing. His hair was light—nearly absent of pigment—as with many of the Tera’thians, his skin the same.
It made it easier for Calver to see his scars.
The barbs Cul’Mon had given Calver still cut fresh into his skin with every twist. He had earned two now, for his unruliness. How many did this boy have? Calver would find out if he managed to bring him to the ground. Nausea rose into his throat.
{Go back,} the Survivor jeered. {You will only hesitate. Use me. Live another day.}
Calver strained to swallow again. The stump in his mouth still ached, despite the months that separated it from the muscle that had been there.
He nearly resisted; he would defy this creature that had taken everything from him, if he could.
But instead he flinched. If there was one thing he’d learned from Cul’Mon, it was that resistance brought pain. Not victory. Never victory.
He faded. The Survivor surged forward. His feet vaulted over obstacles as it veered toward its prey. Calver slipped until he was no more aware of the colosseum as he was of his own heartbeat while dreaming.
The void was his victory now.
NIKLAUS
Year: 748 Post Cataclysm: Present Day
Location: Jiradesh Desert
When the sun set, Niklaus approached an impromptu stand erected from crude wood and canvas in the northeast quadrant: the rally’s betting booth. As he grew closer, he winced, recognizing the match marshal seated behind it.
Darial Trokus ran three separate gambling rings in Korshuva, all legal, which governed everything from stones matches to grappling to gig-racing.
The last time Niklaus had left one of his institutions, it was with a guard on either arm, to be pitched into an alley beneath Korshuva’s highmoon.
He’d been writing an article on trafficking and might have gone a step too far… A leap, really.
Niklaus owed Trokus at least five hundred silver notes from that night. It had been nearly half a year, though, and the man hadn’t come after him. He knew Niklaus always made good on his debts. Eventually.
When Niklaus stepped up to the table, Trokus looked up from beneath the rim of his hat and groaned. “Oh, Fates help me.”
“Good to see you, friend.”
Trokus clapped his hands to his temples, like he might be able to imagine Niklaus away.
“Oh. No, no, no. Preservation, please, no.” Who would have thought a friendly greeting could induce this level of groveling?
“Get out of here, Meyernes. I’ve got a good thing going now.
I might even get my club back at the end of this run if I can steer clear of your trouble. ”
Niklaus’s insides took a dip. He’d forgotten. Trokus had had investments in a Korshuva bank that had lost three ships to raider vessels last term. Niklaus’s own mother had dragged him to the oligarchical jury that had voted against bailing them out.
He licked his cracked lips. “Pen the roster for me, please?”
Trokus shook his head. “As much as I would love to see someone give you a good bludgeoning, you wouldn’t last five minutes, and I don’t have liability waivers out here like we did back in Seraphinden.”
“Well, for me, but it’s not for me.”
The marshal’s brows nearly kissed over his nose. “Why doesn’t he sign up himself?”
Niklaus shrugged. The acute motion compounded his headache. “Pretty sure he’s on restricted access. Or can’t write. Or both.”
“If that’s the case, I won’t be giving him a weapon.”
“Then don’t.” He suppressed a tremor. Beads of sweat stung at his eyes, helping him to bear the scathing look the match marshal gave him.
“You’re entering a man to fight in the rally without a weapon?”
“I’ll give you an extra ten silver for it.”
“You already owe me five hundred and twenty.”
Ah. So he was still keeping score. Niklaus batted his eyes. “Thirty, then. And I’ll owe you five-fifty.”
No one would have taken the offer if they didn’t know Niklaus had the funds to back it. Trokus rolled his eyes, but his pen hovered over the last open entry slot. “What’s the name?”
“Nameless.”
“Nameless?”
“For now, yes.”
“And you have his permission for entry? I won’t be handing out spots to no-shows. Bad for business.”
“He’ll show.” Niklaus chuckled. “Trust me, you’ll know him when you see him. And smell him, admittedly.”
Trokus lifted the paper and held it closer to his face as though counting the slots again. His jaw worked. “I don’t recommend this, Meyernes. If anything happens to him, as I said, I’m not liable.”
“Trust me, he’ll be fine.” He winked and reached across the table to pat Trokus’ shoulder.
Trokus scowled. “Alright, he’s in. It’s five silver notes now for the entrance fee.”
“It’s what?”
“I said it’s five notes for entrance, Meyernes.”
Niklaus drummed the tips of his fingers together. “Do you take interest?”
Trokus put his head in his hands. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re on restrictions too?”
“Well—I mean—it’s just while—yes. Yes I am.”
“And you’re descending?”
Was it so obvious? Niklaus held his breath, clenching and unclenching his fists. In a last-ditch effort, he stuck out his bottom lip and blinked pleadingly.
Darial rolled his eyes. “Damn you. Twenty percent.” He spat into the sand.