Chapter Twenty-Five A Death to Spite Bulls and Bears
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A DEATH TO SPITE BULLS AND BEARS
L YTHLET STOOD BEHIND the shut arena gates, waiting for Master Dothilos to call for her. She was alone, spear in hand, knives by her belt, a pouch of stones strung to her hip.
She looked behind, down the length of the dim corridor that would return her to the armory. She imagined Desil emerging from the end, rushing toward her, smile on his face, sword in its sheath, stopping by her side to wait together, but that phantom of him faded into the shadows of the corridor.
He will not come , she thought sadly.
“ . . .and Lythlet Tairel! ” Master Dothilos bellowed then, summoning her presence.
She heaved a grim sigh, rubbing her face tiredly. Then she straightened her back and strode out into the yellow sands. All eyes were drawn to her, her sole presence stirring murmurs from the spectators.
“Stand you alone, Golden Thorn?” spoke the match-master. “Where is the Rose?”
She knew him well enough to know his feigned curiosity masked delight, his blue eyes twinkling.
The spectators remained hushed, leaning forward in their seats.
“I have come alone,” she shouted.
“You understand, of course, given your nomination as a joint conquessor, your partner’s implicit forfeiture is your own?”
She drew a deep breath. “Then so be it.”
Scores of cries erupted, but Master Dothilos raised his hand, shushing the spectators without a word. “What a tragically anticlimactic end! To think you’ve come so far, only to diminish due to the Rose’s tardiness.”
But what he said next took the audience aback.
“Spectators!” he roared. “Shall we consider something new today? It would be a shame to have the legacy of the Golden Thorn come to such an end. We’re not fond of companionless matches here—yet a single rule alone may be bent for a rising legend!
What say you if we invite the Golden Thorn to stand alone today? ”
HOO-RAH! HOO-RAH! HOO-RAH! came their answer, and the arena trembled beneath their stamping feet.
“Your voices have been heard!” said Master Dothilos with a deep, booming laugh. “And what of yours, Golden Thorn? Stand you before us now to fight a beast with your sole might?”
Lythlet stared grimly at him. She had guessed he’d be willing to twist a single rule as such, in order to preserve his standing as the grandmaster of entertainment.
She bowed, head nearly sweeping the sand. “As the spectators will it.”
Master Dothilos beamed as he flipped open the nigh pristine copy of the Poetics on his lectern. He said nothing for a moment, but his eyes spoke well enough. You never fail me , they said. You never fail to put on a good show.
The prayer and the meditation came to an end, and every single spectating soul waited with bated breath as Master Dothilos initiated the oath: “By the blood of your ancestor, do you, child of Kilinor, vow to stand alone and salt the earth with the blood of the demons that once gave death upon your ancestors?”
“Witness me,” she began, overlapping her fingers into a cross for the oath-swearing sign, every word growing in strength as she sealed her fate to the whims of the world, “upon the blood of my ancestors!”
The gates rolled up, metallic screeches jarring her eardrums.
Pum-pum-pum , came thundering footsteps, and the beast emerged.
A perversion of a man stood before Lythlet, thrice her height and swollen with crimson muscles.
It stood headless, neck opened to the world, but its hands juggled three different-colored heads: one yellow as sunshine, one green as a spring meadow, one blue as a summer sky.
All three heads smiled at her, long red tongues wagging loose from toothless mouths.
“The sannassan , ” Lythlet recognized, reciting bestiary notes quietly.
“A fearsome beast native to the Havaleighan region. Possessing three heads it can rotate between, its abilities alter according to which it elects to wear. Yellow, and its jaws will stretch wide enough to eat any foe. Green, and it sprouts extra limbs that it uses to restrain and twist its victim into condensed helical shapes for future consumption. Blue, and it spews a poison that paralyzes any living creature.”
Heads juggling through the air, the beast stood still, observing her just as she observed it.
Then it flung its sunshine-yellow head high up into the air, and it arced back down to land perfectly on its outstretched neck.
The green and blue heads flew up into the sky in smaller, separate arcs, coming to rest on each of the sannassan’s formidable shoulders, like birds perching on a branch.
Instinctively, the roots of a scheme to defeat it burrowed into her brain—then she stopped. She pushed all that logic and reasoning out, reminding herself of the final gambit she’d decided to enact today.
She eyed the spectators, all watching her with bated breath.
Bulls and bears, opposing forces united in one thing: they desired to have her suffer for their entertainment.
In her own pettiness, she realized this was a golden opportunity to end things on her own terms and make their lives miserable in the process—to die as a thorn splintered in their sides, to die a death that would spite both bear and bull.
Lythlet held her head high and flung her spear to the ground.
The spectators gasped.
She stepped toward the sannassan, undaunted.
It stared at her, curious, but certainly not about to fight a willing victim.
When she came within grasp, it moved swiftly, grabbing her by her hair, twisting it around its fist, and lifting her high into the air.
That familiar pain coursed through her from her scalp downwards, and she almost slipped backwards into brutal childhood memories.
But she took a deep breath, steeling her senses, and simply stared as the beast opened its jaws.
Wider and wider, its lips stretched, revealing a toothless pink cavern with a long, slithering tongue.
The sannassan grabbed her boots in its other hand, holding them tight, and jammed them into its mouth.
Lythlet did not resist.
The audience stirred; more gasps, more nervous rumblings.
Her feet were fully lodged into the beast’s throat, toes squishing against the fleshy pink confines of its esophagus. Saliva lubricated her journey southwards, the sannassan pushing her deeper, jaw unhinging slowly to accommodate her shins.
Featuring a most unique biology, the sannassan lacks the usual complex digestive systems of the common beast. Nor does it possess teeth to grind its prey, instead electing to swallow its victim whole, storing it in the hollow space that can be considered its stomach.
At the bottom of the space sloshes inches of acid that slowly digests the contents, providing the sannassan with a steady flow of nourishment fresh from a live source.
It would be a lie to say she wasn’t afraid—had she the choice, she would’ve preferred a quick death as opposed to slowly being digested over the course of days.
But this was the best, most spiteful death she could think of at the moment—to die before either bull or bear could be satisfied, before the ten-minute mark that allowed bears to profit off her death, to make them all lose their coin and turn their rage toward Master Dothilos.
“Fight!” the audience shrieked at her. “Fight!”
She turned to Master Dothilos, and he stared at her, truly at a loss for words. No glib twist of sentences springing easily from his lips, no calm manipulation of the scenario to make it palatable to the audience. No—thousands of spectators were watching her be eaten alive.
“Fight!” screamed the audience louder as her knees popped past the sannassan’s lips.
Many rose from their seats, burying their hands into their hair in alarm, stomping their feet in frustration.
A few ran to the parapet at the edge of the spectator stands, leaning over to scream at her, voices lost amidst the din of the deafening arena.
She watched the spectators disinterestedly, privately relishing their growing dismay.
The sannassan was delicately shifting its jaw around to fit her widening thighs.
One hand was still tangled in her hair, and the pain of her scalp being pulled tight was almost unbearable, tears blurring her vision.
But Lythlet’s eyes widened as she made out one spectator climbing over the parapet’s railing, narrowly missing the spikes rimming the top.
They were cloaked, the hood pulled up over their head.
Edging themselves along the inch of floor surrounding the parapet, they then slid down a sloping rail, nearly slipping and crashing to an early death on the ground.
But they caught themselves in time, balancing upright and jumping to a slat of bamboo protruding from the wall.
“Spectators, you were all informed to never enter the fighting grounds!” Master Dothilos roared at once, outraged. If the cloaked spectator heard at all, they made no sign of it, running forth to fetch Lythlet’s spear.
What in the name of Kilinor does this fool think they’re doing? Lythlet thought, alarmed. Once the sannassan was done with her, it’d happily add this spectator to its menu. She slipped further down the beast’s gullet, an awful mucous coating more of her body.
“Spectator, you are not to interfere with the fight!” Master Dothilos warned with leonine gravitas.
Were it not for his speaking-trumpet, Lythlet would’ve struggled to hear him—between the outraged cries of the spectators and the nasty gurgling sound the sannassan made as its jaw stretched to inhuman proportions, it was almost impossible to make much out. “Lay down the weapon!”