The pounding of hooves reverberated through the ground. Riders on white horses poured out of a wide opening at the other end of the arena, the morning sun glinting off polished armor. They wore bright helms and carried long spears topped with points of ice, sharp as steel. The riders were followed by champions on foot, their appearance drawing adoring cries from the crowd. Next, a procession of animals pulled against leather leashes held by muscular handlers. Snarling frost wolves, hulking white bears, a wide-faced tiger with white-and-blue stripes, even a massive white bull with gray horns and a yoke around its neck held by two men on each side.
The next animal was very strange. It was a large bird with crimson feathers, long legs, and small wings. Its beak looked deadly sharp. It writhed and pulled against its handlers, at one point pulling its face loose from the harness and breathing a cloud of fire. I gasped with the crowd.
A creature of fire, here in the city of Fors.
The bird was lovely, elegant, wild. It was dangerous and impossible and unlike anything I had ever seen. It hurt my heart to see such strange beauty leashed and so out of place. The animal thrashed so hard against its handler that I feared it would snap its delicate neck.
A strong urge to run out and free the animal flashed through me. But a moment later, the animals were led back through the door. Only the frost wolves were left in the arena, their mouths emitting puffs of cold mist that danced in the sunlight.
A man was brought out by two guards, his hands bound. The purple-robed announcer introduced him as a traitor to the realm. The crowd answered with shouts of fury. The wolf handlers gave a command, and the wolves all sat, their bodies trembling with anticipation as the handlers took off the leashes and left the arena. The prisoner backed slowly toward the edge of the ring.
From the doorway, one of the handlers shouted a command, and the wolves shot forward like arrows from a longbow, their haunches rippling as they closed in. The prisoner screamed and I cried out with him. In a blink, he was out of sight as the wolves fell over one another to get at him. The man’s cries were almost drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Almost, but not quite. I stumbled into a dark corner, my stomach heaving over and over until it was empty.
The announcer introduced more animals and more traitors. More cries of pain, more growling and snapping and cheers. I was dizzy and sick and no longer comprehending things clearly. When I looked up again, a blue-and-white-striped tiger was lifting its bloody muzzle from a prone body as its handler threw a harness over the animal’s head and led it from the arena.
“And now, good people,” said the announcer, his voice cheerful and clear, “for a rare treat, the Firebeak will face our most seasoned champions.”
Six armored warriors entered the arena. The bird was pulled out by two handlers, who struggled to keep it controlled. The creature’s eyes rolled wildly, its talons clawing the dirt as it bucked against the leash. The handlers released it and ran for the arena door as the bird shook off its harness and breathed a cloud of fire, the flame making orange light dance along the ice.
The champions raised their shields and sent out streams of frost from their hands. Ice formed on the bird’s feathers. It breathed another cloud of fire that faded to a puff of smoke. The men retreated.
Streams of frost and fire shot back and forth. The champions kept moving back. They were clearly afraid of the fire. Hope expanded in my chest. The bird was fast. It whipped back and forth, spewing fire in thin streams aimed right at the men’s faces. It seemed like the bird would never run out of energy or fire.
But my hope didn’t last. The champions spread out in a wide circle until the bird was in the center. As soon as it breathed its fire at one man, another came at its back, too quickly for it to block. The bird was wily and tried to avoid the frost, but there were just too many men and eventually it was hit from all sides and fell. The warriors rushed forward as a group. A stream of fire erupted upward as six arms were raised and six spears came down. A second cloud of fire, smaller this time, floated upward, followed by a puff of smoke. More raising and lowering of spears and more cheers from the crowd. As the champions left the arena and the dust settled, the bird was still. It looked so small, its beak too delicate, its feathers incongruously bright against the dull ground. Its long neck was bent strangely, bringing to mind another memory of a delicately bent neck surrounded by dark hair.
Everything came into sharp focus. The pain and suffering of the animal cut me deeply.
The Firebeak was dragged from the arena, and the regular matches began, each more brutal than the last. At first, raggedly dressed men with short swords or knives faced each other. When it was too much, I closed my eyes, but I could hear the crowd cheering, the pained cries as sharp metal pierced flesh. The healer’s daughter in me ached with helpless fury at the cruelty, the needless waste.
By the third match, I was leaning against the wall, my legs completely numb. I finally let myself sink to the floor and realized my face was wet with tears.
“Get up, girl,” said a harsh voice. I looked up at Braka and her icy braids. “You’re a challenger now. There’s no room for tears.”