Godsgrave by Jay Kristoff
“First blood to the Lions of Leonides!” cried the editorii.
Trumpets sounded.
Eight laps to go.
Four coronae were randomly flung onto the track, the silver wreaths gleaming in the dust. They were worth a single point, but with only a few points between first and last place, every one would count. Bryn loosed three shots at the Phillipi archer as her brother leaned out of their chariot, scooping up one coronae. The Swords took the second, the Lions another. The riders thundered about the track, arrows cut the air, Mia and her fellows watching on, cheering with the rest of the mob.
Six laps to go.
More coronae fell. Trumpets rang, the ground rumbled as the sands split apart. Wooden barricades rose out of the sands along the track, set with vicious tangles of razorvine. As if the risk of collision weren’t enough, the barricades simultaneously burst into flame. The sagmae were now forced to focus more on steering their chariots and less on protecting their partners, and with the pace lessened, it was easier to close distance. The arrows flew thick and fast, Mia cursing as Bryn was grazed by a shot that Byern failed to deflect in time. And as the crowd thrilled, the Wolves of Tacitus managed to score a hit on Stonekiller, a white-feathered arrow sinking deep into his shin.
Stonekiller staggered, sinking to his knees and lowering his shield as their chariot skidded wildly. The Wolf archer fired again, the crowd howling as Armando was struck in the shoulder. With the skill that had made them champions, Stonekiller brought the chariot back under control, Armando tearing the arrows from his arm, his sagmae’s leg. But the blood was flowing thick, and the Wolves used the time to scoop up another three coronae, putting them in the lead.
Mia shook her head, watching Bryn and Byern falling further behind.
Four laps to go.
More wreaths were showered onto the track—half a dozen this time. The Wolves held first place, the Falcons and Lions tied for second. Bryn was like a woman possessed, firing shot after shot at her foes. The Swords were coming last in the tally, their situation desperate. In his haste to scoop up a coronae, the Sword sagmae ran their chariot too close to a barricade, their wheel clipping the burning razorvine with a hail of sparks. Off-balance, the sagmae fell to his knee, and Bryn loosed a stunning shot, her red-feathered arrow swishing right through the driver’s throat.
The man gurgled, a second shot thudding into his chest. The horses clipped another barricade, snapping the crossbar clean, and the chariot flipped over and crashed into a tangled ruin.
“First kill for the Falcons!” the editorii crowed. “Sanguii e Gloria!”
Bryn raised a fist in triumph and Byern scooped up another coronae, Mia and her fellows hollering. With those five points, the Remus Collegium was back in first place. Victory in sight.
“Two laps remain!” came the call.
Smoke from the burning barricades drifted over the track, the sands red with blood. With the foes that had dogged them all match now dead, Byern whipped his mares into a burst of speed, closing in on the Lions from behind. Armando was pressed low behind Stonekiller’s shield, the pair bleeding heavily. The crowd howled, wondering if the beloved Lions were being set up for the kill, but Mia’s eyes were narrowed. Armando and Stonekiller were no fools, and a big cat is never more dangerous than when wounded.
“Be careful!” she shouted as the Falcons wheeled past their cell window.
Bryn raised her bow and took aim, the Wolves’ archer did the same from their lead. The crowd was on their feet, thinking Stonekiller and Armando were about to fall in the crossfire. But with astonishing skill, Stonekiller seized one wheel with his bare hands, locking it tight. The drag whipped the chariot sideways, their enemies’ shots going wide. Armando rose up from cover and loosed a shot at the Wolves, the arrow whispering right past the surprised sagmae’s shield and into her archer’s neck. The mob howled, the archer staggered, topping into the dirt.
“Third kill, Lions!” came the cry.
The Wolf chariot clipped a barricade, rocking it sideways. As three of Bryn’s shots thudded into Stonekiller’s shield, Armando fired again, striking the Wolf driver in the knee and chest. She collapsed, her leg catching as she fell from the chariot, dragged for a few hundred feet before she was torn loose.
“Lions, Fourth kill! Sanguii e Gloria!”
The mob bellowed, drunk on the carnage. Byern scooped up another coronae, Briar and Rose both drenched in sweat. Stonekiller whipped his stallions, trying to keep distance from the Falcons. With their two kill shots against the Wolves, the Lions were now in the lead—all they needed to do was maintain distance and keep pace with the Falcons in scooping up wreaths, and victory would be theirs.
“Final lap!”
The entire arena was on its feet, the noise crawling on Mia’s skin and down her spine. Sidonius was muttering beneath his breath, urging the twins on, Bladesinger quietly praying, Wavewaker silent as stone. Horses frothing, crowd baying, flames crackling, Mister Kindly swelled in Mia’s shadow as fear tried to take root in her belly, her jaw clenched tight. She watched Byern whipping his horses hard, trying to close distance so his sister could score a kill shot. Desperation on their faces. Blood on their skin. Death in the air.
Watching the crowd, Mia felt sick to her stomach. The euphoria, the red glaze in their eyes. Four people were out there on the sands, fighting for their lives. But the crowd didn’t see men and women with hopes and dreams and fears.
She wanted Bryn and Byern to triumph. Despite knowing better than to think of them as friends, she knew them. She liked them. She didn’t want them to die. But she was surprised to realize she didn’t want Stonekiller and Armando and all their hopes and dreams and fears to die either. Just for the sake of a laurel that didn’t matter anyway?
The Lions were closing on the finish line. The crowd, all open mouths and shapeless howls. Rounding to the final straight, Stonekiller leaned down to scoop up another coronae. The Falcons flew around the corner behind, running so hard their chariot went up on one wheel. Byrn fired through the dust and smoke and flame—a miracle shot, slipping past the man’s shield and into his arm. Stonekiller slipped in the blood, dragging the reins. The chariot slewed sideways, the crowd bellowing as it collided with a barricade, smashing the equillai inside like glass. The axle shattered, one wheel snapping loose from the ruin and bouncing back down the track.
Right at the Falcons of Remus.
Byern hauled on the reins, trying to steer his horses left, but their momentum was too much. The tumbling wheel sheared through Briar’s legs, the mare screaming as she toppled. The chariot’s crossbeam struck the sand, and as Mia and her comrades gasped
O, no . . .
the whole rig crumpled like dry vellum and flipped high into the air.
Bryn and Byern were tossed like rag dolls, the crowd groaning as the twins crashed to earth. Bryn landed shoulder first in the sand, but her brother wasn’t as lucky. Byern flew headfirst into one of the burning barricades, Mia wincing at the wet crackle of shattering bone. The Vaanian crashed clean through the obstacle and tumbled to a rest twenty feet down the track, lying in a tangled heap just beyond their cell window.
“Mother of Oceans,” Bladesinger breathed.
The crowd was stunned—both equillai teams had crashed before the finish line. Stonekiller and Armando lay motionless in the wreckage of their chariot, the young archer’s back twisted at a ghastly angle, his partner motionless beside him. But in the ringing aftermath, the mob soon began to cheer.
“Almighty Aa, look!” Sidonius cried.
Mia squinted through the smoke, realizing that Bryn was moving. Slow at first, the girl stirred, pushing herself up onto her knees and slinging off her plumed helmet. As Mia watched, as the crowd began roaring again, the archer swayed to her feet.
Bryn stood perhaps fifty feet from the finish line. All she needed to do was walk across, and the Falcons would have their victory. She began limping toward it, holding her ribs and hobbling, stumbling, the mob began
Until she caught sight of her brother.
Mia held her breath as the girl stopped, the entire arena falling still. Confusion flitted across Bryn’s face. And then she was stumbling, limping, gasping toward Byern. He lay facedown, just a stone’s throw from where Mia and the others were caged. Bryn fell to her knees beside him, rolling him over gently.
“Byern?” Bryn asked, her voice trembling.
Mia saw blood at his lips. Blue eyes open wide to the burning sky above. Bryn reached out with bloody hands to shake him.
“ . . . B-brother?”
“O, Daughters . . . ,” Sidonius breathed.
“Keep breathing,” Mia prayed.
Bryn leaned close, pressed her ear to her brother’s lips. Hearing nothing, she shook him again, face twisting as she screamed.
“Byern?” she cried, shaking him. “Byern!”
Guards marched into the arena, arrayed all in black. As they checked the bodies of the fallen Lions, Bryn gathered her twin up in her arms and started wailing, weeping, howling. Mia felt her heart aching, tears slipping down her cheeks. Sidonius was as still as a statue. Wavewaker hanging his head as Bryn screamed.
“BYERN!”
The guards marched to where the girl knelt in the dust, dragging her up by the arms. Coming to her senses, Bryn fought back, kicking and screaming, “No! NO!” It took four men to drag her off the sand, thrashing and howling her brother’s name.
“Citizens of Itreya!” came the call across the arena horns. “We regret to declare . . . no victor!”
Mia closed her eyes. After all that, it was for nothing. No laurel. No glory. Just nothing. And then, as her belly burned, a chill creeping across her skin, she heard the crowd begin to boo. Staring out through the bars, she saw the mob on their feet, throwing food and spitting on the sand. That sand stained with the blood of eight men and women, seven of whom had just died for their amusement. Seven people with hopes and fears and dreams, now, nothing but corpses.
And the crowd? They cared not a drop.
All they wanted was a victory.
Mia took a deep breath. Clenched her jaw. Sidonius and the others remained at the bars, but Mia turned her back, walked away. Stare fixed on the stone at her feet. The path before her. The vengeance awaiting her at the end of it.
“ . . . i am sorry, mia . . .”
“You?” she whispered. “Why?”
“ . . . he was your friend . . .”
“They’re not my familia, remember?” she replied. “They’re not my friends.”
She looked down at her hands. Blurred almost shapeless by her tears.
“All of them are only a means to an end.”
1 The city of Whitekeep is a sprawling metropolis on the southern shores of Itreya, and sister city to Godsgrave. The City of Bridges and Bones can be seen from its shoreline, and the mighty aqueduct that feeds water to Itreya’s capital runs from the mountains at Whitekeep’s back, down through the metropolis, over the bay, and on to Godsgrave.Set with statuary of Aa and his Four Daughters and guarded at either end by the towering figures of Itreyan War Walkers, the aqueduct is a marvel of engineering, and one of the wonders of the Itreyan Republic. Its chief architect was a resident of Whitekeep named Marius Gandolfini, who was commissioned to oversee the project by King Francisco II, the Great Builder.The aqueduct allowed the Itreyan capital to blossom from a squalid cesspool into a water-rich marvel, overflowing with fountains, a complex sewer network, hundreds of public baths, and all manner of waterworks. Though Gandolfini died of old age before the aqueduct was complete, his name is still venerated in the City of Bridges and Bones to this turn. A statue of him stands proudly in the Visionaries’ Row of the Iron Collegium, marble busts of his likeness are found in bathhouses across the city, and certain specialist brothels offer a “Gandolfini” to their more . . . adventurous clientele.Use your imagination, gentlefriends.
2 Despite claims to the contrary from enthusiastic editorii, there are only eight Itreyan Wonders:The Ribs of Godsgrave.The Godsgrave Aqueduct.The Mausoleum of Lucius I—the final resting place of the first Liisian Magus King, this ziggurat looms near five hundred feet tall, and baffles contemporary engineers with the genius of its construction.The Dust Falls of Nuuvash—a series of massive cliffs found in southern Ashkah, which spill vast avalanches of dust off the Whisperwastes into the oceans below.The Statue of Trelene at Farrow—found in the high temple of the Dweymeri capital, this marble-and-gold sculpture of the Mother of Oceans performs miracles when credible sources aren’t looking.The Thousand Towers—a series of natural stone spires, rising hundreds of feet from an ancient riverbed in Ashkah. In truth, there are only nine hundred and sixty-four. “Thousand Towers” just sounds better.The Temple of Aa in Elai—constructed by the Great Unifier, Francisco I, to commemorate his conquest of Liis. At its heart stands a ten-foot statue made of solid gold—the materials acquired by melting the personal fortunes of every nobleborn Liisian familia who stood against Francisco in battle.Honorable mentions to the List of Wonders include the Great Salt; the Tomb of Brandr I; a courtesan named Francesca Andiami, who can do extraordinary things with a bowl of strawberries and a string of prayer beads; and my own personal astonishment that any of you took the time to read this when they’re about to start the bloody horse race.
24: obsidian
Hollow.
That’s how Mia felt inside. Listening to the mob stamping impatiently on the bleachers as Byern’s corpse was dragged away. Long hair hanging about her eyes, she busied herself strapping the leather breastplate to her chest, the iron greaves about her shins. Every movement cold.
Methodical.
Mekanical.
“ . . . ARE YOU WELL . . . ?”
A whisper in her ear, beneath the shadows of her hair.
“ . . . mia . . . ?”
Guards arrived at their cell door to collect them, dressed all in black. Furian stood behind them in his gleaming armor, a Falcon helm on his head, his silver champion’s torc glittering around his neck. Arkades limped beside the Unfallen, his face a masque. Dona Leona walked before all of them, resplendent in a long, sky-blue gown, tears smudging the kohl about her eyes. As the guards unlocked the cell door, Mia met her domina’s stare, trying to weigh her grief.
Was it sincere? Or as hollow as her chest felt at that moment?
“Domina?” Bladesinger asked quietly. “Is Bryn . . . ?”
“She is with Maggot,” the dona murmured. “She is . . . not well.”
“Her brother died out there, Domina,” Sidonius said. “How else should she be?”
“I . . .”
“Enough,” Arkades growled. “Byern died with honor, as gladiatii. Set your mind to the match and troubling thoughts aside. Your foe will not be hindered by them.”
Mia still stared at Leona. Pondering all she knew of the woman. The dona had grown up around the violence of the arena. But though she kept a stable of men and women to fight and die for the amusement of the mob, some humanity might remain in her breast. She’d seen hints of it in the bathhouse with the magistrae, even perhaps in her backward affections for Furian. There was more to her than a simple thirst to best her father. Would the dona show true grief now, or urge them to “avenge their fallen brother,” and just happen to win her berth at the magni besides?
Leona took Mia’s hand. Bladesinger’s also.
“I . . .”
She shook her head, trying to speak. Tears welling in her eyes.
“Be careful out there,” she finally whispered.
Bladesinger blinked in surprise. Looking to Arkades.
“ . . . Aye, Domina.”
“The match awaits, Mi Dona,” the guard captain warned.
Leona nodded, wiping her face. “Very well.”
They were marched through the arena’s bowels, the thrumming clamor of the crowd echoing in the rafters overhead. They reached
“This is the hour,” Arkades said. “Immortality within your grasp. A chance to carve your name into the earth, to honor your domina, and win your freedom. Only one foe stands between you and the magni. A foe who can bleed. A foe who can die.” He fixed each in his ice-blue stare. “You are gladiatii of the Remus Collegium. Stand together, or fall alone.”
Furian nodded. “Executus.”
“Aye, Executus,” Bladesinger murmured.
Mia only stared, remembering what Mister Kindly had told her of Arkades’s words to the Unfallen in his room. Knowing that she was only an inconvenience to this man, a stone to be stepped on the way to the magni. He was only using her to see Furian elevated, his ends attained.
All right, then, bastard. Let’s use each other.
Mia spoke, her voice cold as wintersdeep. “Executus.”
Leona said nothing more, and the pair left the staging area, the door locked behind them. Furian looked at her sidelong, expression hidden behind his Falcon helm. Bladesinger’s eyes were fixed on the arena as she threaded her saltlocks through her helmet’s crown, slipped it over her head. Hefting a heavy iron shield embossed with a red falcon, she tossed her head, the razor-tipped blades she’d woven at the tips of her locks glinting in the sunslight.
Mia clenched and unclenched her empty hands, shadow trembling, all the hunger and desire and breathless energy she felt when she was near Furian rising to her surface. She didn’t bother grabbing a shield—she was useless with them anyway. Mister Kindly and Eclipse swelled in her shadow, pouncing on the butterflies trying to take wing in her belly and murdering them, one by one.
She knew this would be the hardest fight of her life.
Trumpets sounded, hushing the crowd, anticipation dripping from the very walls.
“Hold . . . ,” Furian said, looking to the guard captain. “Where are our swords?”