Chapter Five Fiernara, of the Wild and Pure #2
Many were clearly highborn peers, citizens hailing from the richer sectors of Setgad, evident from their garments and the guards seated by them.
Outrageous golden filigree necklaces, ornate diamond-studded pendant watches—even those with more subdued fashion choices carried an aura foreign to Lythlet, one of self-assured dignity that permeated the way they held themselves.
Usually unbothered by her garb, Lythlet smoothed down her threadbare, ill-fitting blouse. She was a slumdog through and through, and she hated how obvious it was.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the conquessor we’ve all been waiting for!
Desil Demothi, brawler extraordinaire, the king of the square of Chuol Ward!
But first, the oath! By the blood of your ancestors, do you proud Ederi children vow to salt the earth with the blood of the demons that once gave death upon your ancestors? ”
Not knowing what to say, Lythlet grunted wordlessly in answer.
Meanwhile, Desil shouted, making the sign of oath-swearing to the match-master, two fingers of his left hand crossed over two fingers of his right: “Witness me, upon the blood of my ancestors!”
“Then bring out the beast!” Master Dothilos said silkily into his trumpet.
Desil shifted his stance, raising his sword in the air, and Lythlet followed a heartbeat later, spear aimed at the rising gate.
No hands could be seen turning the wheels of the portcullis, but up it rose. A jangle of chains and a loud snarl sounded in the distance. Lythlet fidgeted at the noise, bracing herself. Then—a violent snap of metal shattering.
A massive blur of black rampaged through the hole. Clad in neither fur nor feathers, nor any material Lythlet had ever seen before in her life, the quadrupedal beast’s edges seemed like smoke made solid, squirming unsettlingly like a silhouette wavering in flickering firelight.
What the devil is that thing?
It turned toward them, that great hulking black beast, and leaped. With just a few breathless bounds, it had crossed the arena, coming upon her like a storm cloud falling across a meadow.
She rammed her spear forth, but it nimbly sidestepped her attack. Up close, she noticed that although it had a lupine snout and four paws, it had neither a visible mouth nor claws. How does it attack?
It leaped once more at her, knocking the spear clean from her grip and smashing into her torso.
A most disturbing sensation overwhelmed her, of an amalgamation of a million worms squirming against her flesh, her skin being sucked into an unfathomable abyss.
She shrieked, terrified at the violation, and flung herself backward.
But the beast stayed glued to her, melting into her like wax onto a candelabra.
She fell to the ground, clawing furiously at her skin, trying to peel off the beast and its squirming edges, but to no avail.
Then Desil loomed behind the beast, sword raised. He rammed the blade down, and it caught in the beast’s side hard enough to knock it off Lythlet.
“ Hoo-rah! ” roared the spectators.
Lythlet scrambled to her feet, relieved to be free.
She spotted her spear resting near the perimeter and ran to fetch it.
Keeping Desil in the periphery of her vision, she watched as he slashed at the beast. His sword had collided directly with it, yet when Desil plucked his blade out, no blood spilled.
Does it not bleed? Can it not die?
Indeed, no matter how many times Desil slashed, landing strike after strike, the beast remained unbothered, wrenching itself free from the blade.
Then it sprang forward in one great leap through the air, crashing into Desil’s side, knocking him to the ground.
His sword flew out of his grasp, skittering just beyond his reach.
The beast scrambled atop Desil’s chest and lowered its mouthless maw to his face.
Desil screamed, muffled, the beast melting onto him in a viscous grotesquery.
Lythlet sprinted forward with her spear, and she stabbed the beast in the side.
Her spear returned bloodless, as if stabbing a rubber sheet with a bare finger.
But her thrust knocked it off Desil, forcing it to roll over some paces away until it lay sprawled over the ground, winded.
It coughed as it tried to catch its breath, the unsettling smoke encapsulating its form twitching violently.
Lythlet pulled Desil up, and together in wordless agreement, they proceeded with the most natural solution to their predicament: they ran away like cowards.
They dashed for the scaffolding circling the arena, scrambling upon the nearest one and climbing upwards until they were made safe by a good height, crouching on separate but neighboring platforms.
As they leaned against the wall, panting to catch their breath, the match-master spoke into his horn.
“Spectators! As regular conquessor aficionados will know, Desil Demothi and Lythlet Tairel are taking on none other than the native sentari—not an easy target for mere first-rounders! The great Oraanu poet Uzunaeri called the sentari the most wretched of the sun-cursed beings, for it lives as a bottomless abyss of hunger. And if our conquessors aren’t careful, they just might join the little beastie in the abyss if they let it touch them for too long!
Shall we see how the brawling champion of Chuol Ward handles the beast? ”
“Sentari,” Lythlet murmured. It held no meaning, but to know the name of her enemy gave a small dose of comfort.
On a neighboring platform, Desil rubbed his face.
“What the devil is that thing? It felt like leeches were wriggling all over my face when it touched me. I think I blacked out for a second right before you rescued me, if that’s what the match-master means by joining it in the abyss.
Seems like it can steal your consciousness if it’s on your face too long, if not worse. Is that how Taovi ended up like that?”
“It hasn’t bled a single drop either.”
“It can’t be immortal, can it?”
“Impossible,” she said, more out of hope than confidence.
But as she thought on it, it made sense.
“This match has to be winnable in some way, otherwise the bullish spectators would be outraged. Why would they bid their hard-earned coin on an unwinnable match? Master Dothilos is a merchant in the end, and he can’t disappoint his customers.
So we must be able to kill it in some way to make it fair for the bulls. ”
The beast had gathered itself to its feet and was snarling as it rounded the ground below them.
Lythlet stared at it, confused. “Doesn’t it look different somehow?”
Desil peered over the edge. “Not in any way I can see. Why?”
“I can’t put my finger on it. It just seems changed somehow.”
She stared at the beast roving below them harder, trying to deduce what was bothering her.
After a moment, she said, hesitantly, “Didn’t it look bigger when it had just emerged?”
Desil frowned. “Couldn’t it just be that we’re farther away from it now?”
She shook her head, more determined. “Look at its snout. Earlier, I couldn’t see anything beyond the black smoke—not a single flicker of teeth nor tongue. But now I see some hints of white and pink appearing beneath its maw.”
His eyes widened. “You’re right. What’s happening to it?”
“I don’t know, but our time to strike may be fast approaching,” she said hopefully.
No sooner had she spoken did the sentari decide it was its own time to strike. It launched off its powerful hind legs, making a nearly vertical leap up toward the ledge Lythlet was on.
A cry of surprise ripped from her as its maw neared, but she slammed her spear against the beast’s skull.
It tumbled from the blow but regained its bearings for another leap.
As horrible a sight the sentari had been wreathed in thick, impenetrable smoke, it was no better in its shrunken form.
Its newly visible fangs were gnashing at her, oversized eyeballs almost popping out of its skull, and the remaining smoke around it twitched like live leeches in a bucket.
Claws latched onto her ledge as it began to pull itself up, but she whirled the haft of her spear around to crack against its skull twice.
Then she rammed the blade down at its paws, not quite piercing the shadow, but shocking it enough to send it to the ground in a brutal fall.
No blood stained the tip of her spear, but she was certain she was coming closer toward its fragile flesh.
The sentari lay on the ground, panting pathetically.
“Now’s our chance,” Lythlet shouted to Desil.
But out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Master Dothilos raising his hands. He clapped twice, crisply, the sound echoing through his speaking-trumpet.
A moment later, more baltascar lights were switched on, bulbs buried in the uppermost walls beside the bamboo platforms they took refuge on. One was right next to where Lythlet squatted, and she blinked in confusion, eyes adjusting to the heightened brightness.
Why? It was plenty bright enough already.
She turned her attention back to the beast, ready to dive down with her spear while it was still downed on the ground.
Except it wasn’t.
She shrieked as it launched at her face, making yet another vertical leap. This time, it had no issue catching onto her ledge, and it began pulling itself up.
To her horror, it had somehow grown, returning to a hulking beast of shadow.
Knowing better than to fight it now, Lythlet ran away, springing from platform to platform. She soon reached the highest possible platform, and there was nowhere to jump but down. Unless—
She stared at the yutrela bamboo poles in the center of the arena, swaying majestically without a breeze.