Ironhold, Trial One (Ironhold #1)

CHAPTER EIGHT

It is inevitable that, when we are being trained to fight in the colosseum, we will need to fight in training, too. I have been learning along with the rest, striking the posts with practice weapons, drilling the movements in long lines alongside everyone else, processing the curious shuffling and stamping footwork that is used on the sand.

But I have yet to fight anyone else.

It seems that is going to change today. We are summoned to one of the training pits, this one featuring a single central pillar and ringed by rows of stone seating, on which we gather. Lord Darius is there, overseeing proceedings with an unforgiving eye.

“We know that you are tough,” he says. “We know that you will do the work we require, but any farmhand can be tough. We also need to know that you will be able to fight. So today, that is what you will do. You will descend into this pit in pairs, and you will fight until one of you either surrenders or is unable to continue.”

“You're going to make us kill each other?” Rowan calls out. Possibly, of the new intake he is the only one with the bravery to say anything.

Lord Darius spreads his hands. “Look at where you are. Death is always a possibility. At any moment, you could be called on to fight and kill people you have trained beside, people you might think of as friends. But today is not about killing. We will be using practice weapons that are less sharp than the ones used in the colosseum.”

“Less sharp, but still sharp?” Rowan says.

“You're gladiators. You need to get used to the idea. Yes, you can be cut by these weapons. You can even be killed if you're careless. And you will be using whatever powers you have. If the weakest of you die before you even make it to the colosseum, at least that means that you won't embarrass Ironhold by failing there.”

He says it as if the honor of Ironhold counts for more than anything, even our lives.

“Since you’re so talkative, you can go first,” he says to Rowan.

Rowan moves smoothly into the fighting pit, collecting a blade the length of his forearm and a round shield. His opponent is a man a couple of years older than he is, not wearing an iron collar. That suggests that he volunteered to enter the games, rather than being forced into it. I’m reminded of Alaric and Vex, although this man is burlier than either of them, more massively built than Rowan and taller, too. He selects a longer sword and a larger shield. The matchup starts to feel a little unfair as he does so, but I remind myself that these are just practice weapons.

Lord Darius doesn’t seem to care about that. “Begin!”

The two start to circle one another, looking for weaknesses. The big man seems to concentrate, and a flicker of flame runs along the edge of his blade. Suddenly, it doesn't seem as safe. I feel a hint of fear for Rowan as he watches his foe, waiting for an opportunity.

The big man attacks first, lashing out with his sword, then slamming his shield into Rowan. Rowan doesn’t give ground, seeming to be planted in the earth as he strikes back with his own blade.

The two of them exchange blows with frightening speed, the clash of iron on iron ringing around the practice pit. There are soldiers stationed around the edges, and even they seemed to look on admiringly as the two men clash again and again. In spite of Lord Darius's words about practice weapons, cuts open on their chests and arms.

Rowan seems to know which way his opponent will move, reading every shift of his weight, every change of direction. I remember what he said about being able to feel the vibrations of the earth.

It is Rowan who lands the decisive blow. His opponent rushes in too quickly, and Rowan spins aside, even as the sand seems to shift under his opponent’s feet, sending him sprawling. Rowan sets his blade to the other man’s throat.

“Enough!” Lord Darius says, looking pleased. “It seems that at least some of you will be able to fight well enough to entertain the crowds. Next!”

He calls up the next pair, and the next. It means that I get to see the different powers of those within Ironhold. One massive man’s skin becomes like stone so that he can charge his opponent with impunity. A younger man with spiked red hair conjures illusions to distract his foe, making them burst and pop in front of his eyes. Even Naia fights, quickly beaten by her opponent, struck again and again with her foe’s spear until she falls.

I don’t just see the powers on display, though; I see the brutality of it all. Again and again, blood flows onto the sand. New trainees are put up against experienced gladiators, even though they haven't developed the skills to defeat them yet. Some, like Gyra or Vex, seem to take delight in tormenting their opponents, showing them how much weaker they are. Even with the ones who aren't setting out to be cruel, such as Alaric, there is no chance for their opponents to win. He trips a young man's legs out from under him and puts a sword to his throat in seconds.

I look around. We have healers to stitch cuts and pull together flesh using magic, and Naia is doing her best with some of the wounds, but it seems that everyone sports cuts and bruises. The violence of this all is appalling. Is this really what the people of Aetheria find entertaining?

Then it is my turn. I step down onto the sands to face a young woman whose dark hair is tied back and who looks frightened just to be in the ring. She holds a kind of bladed staff, but she does so clumsily.

I find a sword thrown into the dirt at my feet. I pick it up uncertainly, the weight of it still unnatural in my hands. I realize in that moment that I don’t want to do this. That I don’t want to hurt someone I don’t even know, just for the entertainment of others.

“Begin!” Lord Darius says, and it is as if that moment crystalizes everything for me. I don’t want to do this. My mother taught me to heal, not to kill. I don’t like violence, and the sight of the blood that has been spilled appalls me.

Almost without thinking about it, I drop my sword.

“Pick it up,” Lord Darius commands. “Fight!”

But I do not pick up the sword, even as my opponent approaches, circling me as if suspecting some kind of trap. I just stand there, even when she sweeps the weapon around to knock my legs out from under me. Even when she brings the blade down towards my throat, in what would be an easy kill in other circumstances. I do not react, just lie there.

“Begin again!” Lord Darius commands. There is anger in his voice now. My opponent backs away and still I do not pick up the sword.

She moves forward once more, and again, I just don't want to harm her. I know that this is my route to freedom, but I'm not prepared to kill other people along the way. I stand there, and I let her defeat me again, as quickly as the first time.

“Enough!” Lord Darius snarls. “This coward is making a mockery of the honor of Ironhold, and you will see her punished for it. Seize her!”

A couple of soldiers move in, and I don't fight them either as they grab me and lift me, hauling me to the stone pillar at the center of the sands. They tie me to it, my hands stretched above my head, and I find myself thinking of the young man who was killed on the road for trying to escape. Is that what they will do to me here?

I'm afraid, and yet also strangely accepting of it. If this is the price of not being a killer, it is a price I will pay.

But when the soldiers come forward again, it is not with blades in their hands, but instead with hard canes, held loosely, waiting for a signal from Lord Darius.

“Let us be clear,” he says. “Some of you have entered this place voluntarily. Some of you have done so because you feel you have no other choice. Some of you have been given no choice. That does not matter when it comes to fighting. You will train, and you will fight. If you do not, you will be punished. Begin.”

The men swing their canes, striking me again and again. The pain of it is incredible, and it is ceaseless. They have no mercy, not when I scream, not when I find myself begging in spite of myself, not even when I weep and promise I will fight. They beat me until I hang limply against the pillar. Only then do they pull back.

Lord Darius comes forward, speaking in a low and angry tone. “I don't know if you're doing this because you're a coward, or out of some misplaced sense of doing the right thing, or just because you want to be defiant. But I will tell you this… the next time you refuse a command will be the last.”

He steps away from me and Naia moves into his place. Her hands are already seeking my injured flesh, making me wince and cry out again as she touches me, but I can also feel her healing magic starting to run over me.

“Why, Lyra?”

“It was the right thing to do,” I say. “I don't want to hurt anyone.”

“Do you think I do?” Naia says. “But we don't get a choice. Not if you don't want to die. You need to learn to fight, Lyra. You need to pick up a blade and beat your foes. Because if you don't, you won't live very long, even with my healing.”