“What?”
“That’s not her name,” I said. “Unless she had a particularly hateful upbringing. It’s a title. It means ‘Terrible One.’”
“Huh,” Elka grunted. “Everyone else calls her the Fury. She’s a local favorite. Probably because she’s a complete lunatic. At least, that’s what I heard.”
Looking at her, I didn’t find that at all hard to believe.
The gladiatrix was short and skinny and terrifying to behold. She stood with her helmet resting against a cocked hip, all wiry limbs and leather armor, wearing a tarnished chain-mail tunic trimmed with bunches of long black feathers. Her head was shaved, exposing a pale scar that puckered her scalp in a long seam above her left eyebrow. Her nose had been broken at least once, and she was missing an ear. And there were whip marks—both fresh and faded—on her shoulders and upper arms and on the backs of her legs.
“That’s an impressive collection of scar tissue,” I murmured.
“I heard she got most of those souvenirs from the ludus guards,” Elka said. “Not from other fighters. She’s tried to escape over a dozen times, and the last attempt was right in the middle of a bout!”
I blinked at her. “You’re joking.”
She shook her head. “Leaped right over the wall and into the crowd. Tried to hack her way through the plebs to freedom. Each time they’ve flogged her to within an inch of her life, and that time they did it right in the middle of the arena in front of the cheering mob. She laughed and laughed through it all. Like I told you, they say she’s mad.”
“And she’s my very first opponent.” A shaky sigh escaped my lips. “The Morrigan hates me.”
Elka frowned at me. “You shouldn’t say such a thing,” she admonished. “Your goddess has brought you this far. Maybe this is her way of telling you she thinks you’re worth the effort.”
I grinned wanly at her. “If that’s the case, I wish she was just a bit less sure.”
The shrill bray of the horns brought the crowd to its feet, and then it was our turn. The first of the gladiatrix events wasn’t a combat but a competition: target shooting from the female archers of the competing schools. This was Ajani’s domain, and I was on my feet with the rest of them, cheering her on as she sent arrow after arrow arcing with almost inhuman accuracy into the heads and hearts of the straw targets that had been set up at one end of the arena.
The archery contests were followed by a heart-pumping two-horse chariot race between three female drivers. Nyx drove for the Ludus Achillea, and she was both terrifying and exhilarating to watch as she took a turn on one wheel and cut off her opponents with a daring final burst of speed to win the race. Watching it made me long for my own days of riding behind Mael as we raced along the floor of the Forgotten Vale. It also bolstered my grudging respect for Nyx.
After the race, it was time for the bouts. The games master stepped to the center of the arena. The first name he called from the Ludus Achillea was Elka’s.
“Go!” I gave her a slap on the shoulder. “Keep your big feet moving, and don’t do anything stupid.”
She grinned and thumped the butt of her spear on the ground, then slammed down the visor on her helmet. Pale blue eyes glittering fiercely behind the metal grill, she turned and loped out into the middle of the sand floor of the arena. Her opponent was a retiarius—fighting with trident and net—and she was good. Elka was better, but she still wound up on her back when the net took her legs out from under her. I jammed my fist against my mouth to keep from shouting curses as Elka rolled frantically from side to side, trying to avoid getting impaled on the trident’s tines. After a near miss, the retiarius had to wrench hard to free the weapon from where it stuck in the ground, and Elka brought her spear up in a great sweeping arc. The butt of the spear shaft caught the other girl on the side of her head and, even helmeted as she was, sent her sprawling. The trident flew from her grip to land just out of her reach. Elka sprang up and kicked away the net. In a single long leap, she stood looming over her opponent, spear raised high for a killing blow.
With a sharp blast from the cornua—and a shout from the referee—the bout was over. Elka’s arm muscles, tensed and ready to deliver the blow, twitched once, and then she lowered her spear to the applause and cheers of the crowd. She lifted the visor on her helmet and held out a hand to help her downed opponent to her feet. The girl grasped her wrist and stood with a nod of acknowledgment. Elka turned to the crowd and thrust her spear into the air in triumph, then stalked back to the Achillea bench, head high.
She threw herself down on the bench beside me, grinning smugly.
I shook my head and raised an eyebrow at her. “What did I tell you about your big clumsy feet? She almost had you there, you know.”
“That was strategy!” she protested.