That, and the measure of Swoon that Ashlinn had mixed in with the gladiatii’s water supply, of course.
It hadn’t been a huge dose; not enough to send them dreaming. But she knew anyone who’d swallowed a ladleful would be feeling it by now, and it seemed the Lions charging them had been thirsty before the match. Mia feinted left, the Lion stumbled, cursed as Mia opened up a deep gouge on his thigh with her gladius. He lunged, but she slipped sideways, her blows glancing off his shield, his blade knocked from clumsy fingers and sent clattering to the deck.
Furian moved like water, long black hair flowing behind him as he battered the charging Lions backward with his broad shield. He met a thrust with his own blade, his counter sending the sword spinning from its owner’s grip and off into the water. The catapults loosed another round, flame streaming through the air and striking their ship’s flank. Fire bloomed, a thunderous boom drowning out the crowd. Men fell screaming to the deck, wailing into the water, drakes’ teeth flashing and gnashing in the foaming red. Black smoke drifted among the dancing sparks, the stench of burning oil and meat. And Mia raised her sword and struck again at her foe.
The man stumbled, just a touch drunk from the Swoon, but it was enough to give her the edge. A whistling slash from Mia’s blade opened up his windpipe, just as Furian ended his foe with a short, deadly thrust. Despite the carnage, despite the fear, she felt elated, her blood thrilling, her skin prickling. And as she glanced down to the deck, Mia realized her shadow was moving of its own accord, creeping like molasses across the blood-slick wood toward Furian’s. And more, his own was reaching out to hers.
Like lovers parted.
Like a puzzle, searching for missing pieces of themselves.
Mia shook her head. Breathless. Hungry. The deck around them had erupted into chaos, gladiatii turning on each other as the Lions attacked Mia and Furian and their brief allegiance collapsed. Steel crashed against steel, agonized cries splitting the air, another barrel of burning pitch exploding overhead and raining liquid fire down onto the deck. The Lions were beset from behind, Furian and Mia fighting for their lives up against the bow. She realized the Gold ship had reached the fort, the gladiatii seizing control of the mekwerk catapults. The White galley was almost entirely ablaze, the Blue ship almost as bad, timber shrieking and men screaming as it crashed headlong into the keep. The Blues charged with a bloody cry, scrambling up the rope ladders and onto the battlements, the Golds meeting them head-on.
Another fire barrel hit the Red galley, this time onto the aft deck, immolating the gladiatii at the helm. The oarsmen rowed hard, desperate to reach the fort and escape their burning coffin. But with none to steer and the helm ablaze, the ship sailed wide, oars crushed to kindling against the plinth. The vessel shook, Furian stumbling to his knees, Mia almost following.
“Come on!” Mia cried, sheathing her blades and taking a running leap over the rails. Hands outstretched, she clutched a rope ladder hanging from the battlements, dangling precariously over the water. Furian followed, leaping onto a ladder beside her, oarsmen and other gladiatii following swift suit. A Lion made a desperate leap, seizing the ladder below Furian, only to have the Unfallen’s boot send him down into the churning waters with a scream. Smoke burning her eyes, Mia scrambled up the rope, onto the keep’s walls, the stink of burning oil and sundered guts almost overpowering.
The crowd was chanting, cheering, awestruck at the slaughter and spectacle. Mia blinked the sweat from her eyes, felt Furian leap over the battlements behind without turning to look at him. Just as when they fought in his room, Mia felt the pull in her own shadow, the hunger inside her swelling like a living thing.
And looking to her feet, she saw their shadows were completely entwined.
“What the ’byss is happening?” she gasped.
*
Leonides spat a black curse, on his feet and roaring. It was difficult to tell through the pall of smoke, but it seemed the great sanguila had very few warriors left in the battle at all. Leona watched as the Red and White galleys began sinking, oarsmen leaping over the side to take their chances with the drakes rather than burn to death. The water was a churning soup of dorsal fins and forked tails and wails, the crowd baying as the tiny ocean turned red.
Leona watched the Crow through narrowed eyes. A wrongness chewing at her insides. There was something about the girl … something amiss that she couldn’t quite place. Watching her move among the Lions, she’d proved herself every bit the champion Leona had named her. But there was something off about the way she fought. Hacking, slashing, punching, kicking …
… but never stabbing …
Leona rose to her feet, squinting through the black haze, watching the Crow fight upon the battlements alongside Furian. The pair were devastating, cutting down all before them and slowly advancing from the fortification’s edge. But her suspicion was right. Even when presented an opening for a thrust with her dagger, the Crow was only using it to block her opponent’s strikes. She’d used the smaller blade with bloody abandon in the execution bout, but now the magni was under way …
“She only strikes with her gladius…,” she whispered.
Magistrae turned to her mistress. “Domina?”
Leona felt a chill in her belly. Remembering the turn she presented Crow with her armor, the gladius and dagger of black Liisian steel to match it. Watching the sunslight flash on the silvered blade in the Crow’s hand, and knowing with dread certainty …
“… That is not the dagger I gifted her.”
*
Ashlinn and Mercurio walked through the arena’s belly, down wending corridors and beneath archways of stone, following the trail of sticky scarlet. They passed patrols of soldiers, cleaners, attendants, but almost anyone with eyes was upstairs watching the magni. They could hear the sounds of the conflict raging above, hollow booms and the howls of the crowd.
At the end of the hall, they saw a set of broad wooden doors, a pair of distinctly frustrated legionaries standing watch, heads tilted as they listened to the carnage upstairs. The taller one straightened as he saw Mercurio approach, looking the old man up and down before fixing Ashlinn in his stare.
“You hav—”
Ashlinn bent low and sent a small white glass globe bouncing across the stone. The pair had time enough to register the wyrdglass before it popped with a hollow bang, a cloud of pale gas filling the end of the hall. Ash and Mercurio waited to see if any came running at the sound, but the volume of the crowd and the conflict above seemed to have successfully drowned out the explosion.
Tying heavy kerchiefs about their faces, the pair entered the room, sealing it behind them, the carved plaque on the doors now clearly visible.
MORTUARY.
*
Blood on her hands and on her tongue.