Chapter 11: The Gauntlet (1/2)

I was mistaken in believing I knew everything about the Lancaster's various businesses. I used my free access to Baudouin’s office to copy a few documents, including quarterly reports to the head of the Lancaster, in old English no less.

I knew about the plantations, the factories and warehouses. I knew about the inns and brothels. I knew about the slave and flesh trades. I even knew about the occasional contraband. Of course, they would hide something so that it is not taxed, and so I did not know about the blood sports.

New-Orleans’ landed gentry is proving to be an utter disappointment. Their unusual tastes have created a demand for the most horrendous of spectacles. Two to three times per week, men and sometimes even women, are given the opportunity to be freed of debt or punishment in exchange for a night of combat.

Should they survive, of course.

Ladies and gentlemen in expensive suits and domino masks travel by coach to one of Lancaster’s villas, walk through a cleanly cut maze of grass and sit with refreshments on the slope of a Greek-style amphitheater. An entertainer dressed in a toga and a full-face helmet loudly proclaims the night’s program.

The arena also employs a few prizefighters to guarantee some modicum of quality in the art of killing.

OoO

“Hsss...”

I breathe slowly. I do not need air anymore, but there is something in the cycles of breathing that provides the soothing rhythm I need to stay focused.

Inside, the log cabin has changed. It is no longer comically large, like I remember it as a child. The building is simply more spacious with some semblance of furniture. The cot has turned into a bed with a canopy that reminds me of my own, before I became what I am now.

The smell of wood smoke and fresh rain is just as prevalent as before. I let the light of the moon caress my skin from an open window and stare outside to endless fields of thorny trees. I do not recognize their essence and I know they should look menacing but I feel protected. Safe. Nobody will cross this expanse to harm me. They would be turned to bloody shreds in the labyrinthine forest.

I have not stepped outside yet. I am not ready.

I keep breathing. In and out. In and out. I just need to last a little longer. The Thirst will not make me throw myself against the bars. Never again.

I have been here for two weeks, and it only happened twice.

A clanging sound interrupts my meditation. Harold is opening the door to my cell. I can feel his hungry eyes on my body and I am once more thankful to Baudouin for his parting gift. He left clear instructions that I am not to be touched inappropriately, an order that the male vampire has yet to disobey.

When I kill every last one of them, I will be sure to make the human's death painless.

“It’s time.” says the brute.

I adjust my half mask and tighten the leather armor I wear. They are part of my public persona. I am, to the spectators, a Himalayan tribeswoman cursed with a taste for blood who fights without a blade.

Yes.

How they swallowed this much nonsense, I shall never know.

We walk through a short corridor to the arena’s gate. Harold stays mercifully silent the whole time.

Just a few more minutes. I can do it.

The gates open and I cross the threshold. The night smells of sweat, arousal, sand, and stale blood. In front of me, a burly man in a kilt and ancient helmet wipes his wounded shoulder with a stained piece of fabric. The corpse of a starved wolf lies a few feet farther.

“Laaadies and Gentlemen! Demetrius won his daughter’s freedom, can he repeat the exploit for the rest of his family? Will you grant him your favor against theeeeeee Blood Beast?!”

Seriously.

I raise my eyes to the skies and find the purple shape of the Silent Watcher. The twisted heaven grows closer as I am made aware of its presence.

It does not judge. That is all I can perceive and at the moment, it is all that I need. I bask in the eldritch light and savor the simplicity of the eye’s intent.

The raging Thirst slides in the background, if only for an instant. My only valued companion is a gigantic eye in the sky. This says a lot about my current social standing.

“Five lives, I have five lives, who will give me a sixth? No? Five lives it is! May the gaaaaaaame, BEGIN!”

The man grabs a trident and I finally notice a discarded net lying around. Baudouin must have gone for the Roman angle, as I recognize the attire of a Retiarius. That would make Harold a Lannista, the master of ceremony in a Roman circus, and me an idiot.

The man charges me with a grunt and thrusts the trident awkwardly. I easily push the shaft aside and stab a claw in his shoulder wound before dancing away.

I lick my bloodied finger for all to see.

“And we are one life down already! The Blood Beast teaches yet another lesson!”

The man howls in pain. The crowd roars in approval. I want to consume the prey. He tastes so sweet. Fear does that, it brings life to the surface.

I must remain patient.

My opponents have “lives”. Instead of going for a killing blow, I am to merely hurt them until they run out of it. Spectators can throw money to purchase an additional life for a contender, or they can pay that same amount to remove one.

To win, they only have to draw blood.

For me, the game is slightly different. I could finish the fight in an instant by moving, however, I have two objectives: provide entertainment, and spend as little resources as possible doing so. If I rouse the spectators, then Harold lets me feed on the defeated a little bit longer. On off days, the cattle arrives a little bit faster.

If I am defeated, or if I am too fast or too brutal, pain and the Thirst follow.

If Harold punishes me for no reason, I immediately kill my opponent.

There is a balance of terror in our relationship. I successfully made myself too valuable to kill and too difficult to control.

The failed Retiarius finally recovers from the pain and grabs the trident firmly with two hands, like an oversized sword. He swings at me menacingly a few times but I do not move. I can recognize the most obvious feints now. Out of patience, the man swings at my head and I dodge down and forward to close the distance.

He reacts in an instant by dropping the unwieldy weapon and punching forward. He is much faster now, and I barely manage to block. The impact pushes me back. My arm stings a bit. He immediately jumps on me but this time, I was expecting it. I sidestep his bull rush and stab a talon in his side as he goes by. Not too deep.

The man and the crowd roar at the same time as I lift a finger high. I lick it again. Hmm. I cannot wait much longer.

“And that is two! Is hope quickly fading for Demetrius? Can he make the monster bleed?”

Monster is a code word by the announcer to tell me to slow down. Drag the fight. I am so Thirsty, surely they would understand?

As Demetrius stands up, a heavy object buries itself at his feet with a thud. Silence descends upon the arena.

Throwing objects, and particularly weapons inside is ground for removal, who would dare to…

Ah.

A petite woman in a blue dress and a checkered mask waves her hand at me. Her crimson hair bobs up and down with her giggles.

Melusine.

The announcer recovers faster than me.

“Mistress! Do you grace Demetrius with your blessing?”

She waves lazily and sits down. The dismissal is so well done that all the attention returns to him and forces his hand.

“Very well! Demetrius, you have been given a second chance. Do not disappoint this noble assembly!”

I watch, speechless, as the gladiator picks up the massive knife and draws another one from his boot. So, not a Retiarius gladiator anymore. A Dimachaerus? Those are the ones who use two swords if I remember properly.

I fall back before my opponent. It is obvious that he knows how to use those. His posture is different and he feels so confident. I see no opening. I dodge a slice, another.

On the third, I try to grab his arm but his second blade lashes out. I barely avoid the bite. His moves are much more conservative and efficient.

Melusine broke the rules to make the fight more difficult and I know well that she will receive no more than a slap on the wrist for this transgression.

I slip to the side and sprint to my left. Demetrius easily keeps up with me, then I reverse course and rush forward. Caught off-guard, the gladiator stumbles. His weight makes it harder for him to change direction quickly. As I pass him by, he slashes the air. The blade slides against my armor with a scratch, a glancing blow that draws no blood.

I roll forward and grab the discarded trident. As he jumps at me again, I swing the massive weapon and smash it against his side. He crumples in a heap.

The crowd yells in approval, delighted at my quick thinking, such as it is.

“Oooooh, it appears that our valiant Demetrius still looks down upon the blood maiden! Three down, two left!”

I lick the outer prong. Very little blood. Not sharp. Soon. Have to wait.

“The trident is not yours.”

Once again, Melusine’s voice silences the intoxicated mob.

Oh no, she did not.

I am not to speak so instead, I tilt my masked helmet to the side, hold the polearm like a javelin and throw it at her.

Melusine’s eyes widen in disbelief behind her checkered mask. She barely manages to fall to her side and the weapon hits the stone behind her with a loud clang. I threw it shaft first, as a precaution.

Yup, it's yours now. Your move, you insufferable daughter of a hag.

Melusine shivers in rage but she already broke the rules twice for her own enjoyment. She is on thin ice, and she knows it. Fuming, she sits back down and I turn to the prostrate gladiator with a small scoff.

I make sure she notices.

Now that my anger dies down, the Thirst once more takes over. The wait is the worst. I am easily distracted from the craving but I do need something to focus on.

I walk a bit and when my preparation is done, I stand in front of the panting gladiator.

I wait. Perhaps I cracked his ribs?

“You bitch!”

It is always the same insults with them. No lily-livered wenches, no unable worms and three-fold fools. Has no one told them that variety is the spice of life?

“F-for my boy!” says he, as he stands up, quite audibly too.

The crowd erupts in cheers. The narration of the moment crystallizes in their sick minds.

Here is the criminal with the good heart fighting for his family's freedom. There, the cold maiden from the tribe at the dawn of time, the remnant of an archaic world where the fairer sex could wield blades as sharp as their tongue.

I care not. I am Ariane, I am my own. I will live, I will go home. All those who stand in my way, be they saints or criminals, I will devour.

The man rushes me again but he is slowing down. I easily dodge his slices by moving backwards and to the side. I leave my hands behind my back to everyone’s amusement. Finally, he corners me then overextends and I throw the net I was hiding that whole time.

There is an art to throwing a net. You have to make sure it is as wide as can be when it lands.

Demetrius recoils in panic and raises his hand in reflex. The net wraps around him beautifully and I draw a furrow in his left cheek with a talon. Yes. We are finally reaching the conclusion to this farce.

The crowd is silent now as the last act is about to open. The desperate man fumbles for a while and finally manages to get free. He immediately rushes me with a desperate roar. I stand my ground as the crowd watches with bated breath. When the knives reach me, I step backwards and grab both arms, let myself fall, put a foot against his belly and push.

That is a neat trick.

The big man is propelled like a derailed locomotive and crashes against the arena’s wall in a fracas of metal. I am on him in an instant. I lock one arm with a leg, the other with my right arm. I pull his head back and bite deep.

Finally.

Wait. No, this is wrong! I know that stench! That Jasper ruffian used the same concoction! How…

A mage potion? How? When?

There on the ground, a glass vial. He must have drunk it as he was fumbling under the net. But who would give it to him?

I spit out. Livid, I turn around and point an accusatory finger at Melusine. She was bent forward in anticipation! I knew it!

“YOU WHORE! YOU TAINTED THE BLOOD!”

Whispers and murmurs break among the crowd, growing in a crescendo. How dare she! How dare she pollute the precious substance!

Pain from the bracer makes me collapse. Harold comes and picks me up before retreating to the corridor.

I need it. I need it, need it, need it.

When Harold brings me another prisoner, it takes all my self-control not to kill the whimpering sod on the spot.

Two weeks later

There are no signs of Melusine, and I can only assume that she was reprimanded for her idiotic display. Fights remain difficult but I am fed enough to remain sane. Mostly.

Three weeks later

The man facing me is an old French sailor with graying hair and nose flattened by repeated fractures.