The Fall of Shadows

Chapter 6: Renna

On second thought I strap the double swords across my back, and although I don't show it–I'm nervous. The psych sheet has put me and Alep's fight as the first event of the day, and even though I'll probably win, adrenaline still creeps into my veins. 

Roughly an hour has passed since I left Vita and Arick–they needed to get the rest of Eenick's fighters ready. To combat the shaking tremors inching into my hands, I shake my legs and arms out and look straight ahead, through the iron gate that separates the exit of the Combs into the Entrance of the stadium. Through the gate, I can see the freshly raked sand coating the floor of the oval Stadium. I smell the hot dust particles already starting to coat my throat. The stands of the stadium are already filled up–high terraces of off-white limestone that climb into the sky, holding at maximum 60,000 spectators. At least that's what Eenick told me all those years ago when I first started fighting in the Trife.

I can only see glimpses of the sky–but it's a beautiful, deep blue, contrasting heavily with the large Lathinian red and gold banners that hang off the cordials of the stadium. I shift my feet slightly and peer to the side of the stadium through the gaps in the iron fence. There, in the most lavish, shaded box in the arena, I can see the fragmented view of Emperor Marcution. Even though I'm far away, I can still make out the deep wrinkles and withered, gray beard that hangs off his face. Beside him sits his son, Prince Cadman. Nearly the same age as me, I've never gotten quite a good look at him. Although I hear he's a looker. How could he not be? His sandy blonde hair is muted in the shade of his box, and although I've never seen him up close, it's common knowledge that he shares his fathers pale-blue eyes and tan skin.

My eyes search the Emperor's box for whomever else might be lucky enough to be in such close vicinity to his highness. Next to Cadman sits a young man–perhaps no more than 16. He's dressed nicely, from what I can make out, sporting a red tunic and gold belt. But something about him is off–even from my far off view he shifts uneasily–and he reeks of a familiarity that I cannot place.

On the left side of the box another man stands stiffly. Typical, I scoff, not to see a woman in the box. Women aren't really welcome in the front seats of the Trife. Actually, women aren't exactly welcome at the Trife at all. That doesn't stop them though–some come in disguised as men–others, if they're lucky, will be able to get a seat at the very top of the stadium, where they have the worst view of the action below.

My heart practically drops to my stomach as I examine the other man more closely. Good luck tomorrow. He stands out. With no helmet on he directly contrasts the nobility surrounding him. The Executioner wears all black, and where the three other members of the box have short, blonde hair, the majority features in the Empire, his hair is a wavy black that's cut just a bit longer than the other Empirical Class nobles that sit in and around the box. He, too, looks slightly uncomfortable–but his shoulders are thrown back, projecting a confidence I could only wish to possess.

I take a step back from the gate and look at the two guards on either side, pretending to size them up. Not that they'd be able to take me on. I have about two inches on both of them and with my axe hanging loosely in my hand, I know that they are intimidated. I let out a deep breath and continue to shake my muscles loose.

Then–right on time. The sound of trumpets fills my ears with the Lathinian anthem. It's a triumphant tune, and a timer for the fighters that the first event is beginning after the Officiators statements.

The anthem comes to a blaring end–and a withered official walks up to the magnifier in the Emperor's box, holding up his hand so the entirety of the stadium goes silent.

"The Trife today will commence at the command of the Emperor Marcution," his voice echoes off the audience.

An efficient message, sometimes their announcements take eternity.

A silence hangs over the stadium–waiting for Marcution to give the signal to start the Trife. Slowly, ever so slowly, the Emperor's face contorts into an awful smile. I don't hear the words out of his mouth, I'm too far away. But I've done this enough to where I can read lips.

"Commence," the Emperor grins.

Immediately the audience erupts into deafening cheers. Louder than they've ever been. And slowly, the iron gate holding me back from entering the stadium lifts. I step out confidently onto the sand. The audience grows louder. A thundering entrance for me, their favorite. I'm Mehlar's fighter. Behind me I hear Eenicks shouts, he's in the trainers boxes above.

"Slaughter em' all Renna!" He shouts down at me. I catch a glimpse of the Emperor's box and see that Marcution is still smiling. But his smile is brought down by the man standing next to him–now glowering at me. I meet the Executioner's eyes, matching his cold stare. He holds my gaze. The cheers continue as the iron gate at the other end of the stadium slides up, and Alep steps onto the grounds. The man is still staring at me. I break my gaze, squaring up towards Alep, adrenaline now filling every part of my body. I can't help it. I smile. The cheers, the energy, this is what I've done for almost my entire life. I grin and face Alep. Swinging my axe in a casual, nonchalant manner. I make eye contact with Alep–who, poor guy, looks frozen in fear. I don't blame him. I'm sure my feral smile is not assuaging his fear of accidentally being killed.

Now or never, I drown out the audience's cheers–focusing all my attention on Alep, and began my predatory walk across the smooth sands of the stadium.