Chet opened his eyes. “You’d go back to being a slave?”
“No, not a slave. I was never her slave. I was her servant.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Yes,” Ado said, and Chet could tell by his tone that he’d been insulted. “Most of these condemned souls around us, they are bandits, thieves, flesh merchants. Those who have insulted the gods. I am here because I committed a crime, an offense against Veles.” His tone softened. “I serve Oya because my heart is hollow without her. If you serve a god . . . and let them into your heart, that life, that magic, it makes one whole. Chet, do you not feel it? Around you now, even in this pit? The spirit in the air? That is the gods’ doing. Gods take and they give; some take more than others. But one thing is certain: what little life there is in this world of death, is their doing.”
“Seems to me—” Chet stopped midsentence. “Whoa, that’s weird.” He could see his arm, the one that had been severed, a ghostly, smoky shape. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Look . . . my arm.” The shape slowly became opaque. Chet realized he could feel it, warmth, then a prickly, crawling sensation, like worms beneath his flesh, same as when he came over on the barge.
“Yes, it is the ka.”
“What the hell is ka?”
“There is ka and there is ba. Ba is you, your true self. Ka is just the clay from which you are made here in the netherworld, the vessel that holds your ba.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Your ba lives here.” He knocked on his skull. “Your skull its cage. When the cage is broken, the ba escapes. Did you not see the ghosts?”
“Huh?”
“In the arena. Those whose skulls were crushed, or smashed. Their ba, it escaped, drifted away.”
Chet thought of Johnny, of the apparition that had floated upward from his skull. “So what happens to your ba then?”
Ado shrugged. “Most believe your unanchored ba is claimed by the winds of chaos . . . battered about for an eternity.” Ado looked upward. “I do know there are times . . . when the clouds are low and the winds blow just right . . . that you can see them churning above in a tangled mass, sometimes even hear them, their moans and cries. It is not a comforting sound.”
“So this ka, these coins . . . they’re made from what? Not from other souls?”
Ado nodded.
Chet’s face wrinkled in disgust.
Ado grinned. “Yes, there are those who like to pretend we are not all ghouls. The coins, I guess, just make the act of eating one another more palatable. There are plenty out there, souls, demons, other things, that have no quarrel with eating ka straight from the bone. Some that even prefer it.”
Chet’s thoughts turned to the carts of limbs and hands back in Styga, then his severed arm began to take on weight. It was numb, but he found he could curl his fingers. There’s still a chance, he thought, trying to temper his excitement. Trish, there’s still a chance, baby.
“See there. Your ba is forming the ka you consumed into you. If your spirit is strong you don’t even need ka, your ba will heal itself. But it would take time, possibly years. And likewise, those of weak spirit, or those who have given up, their ka will rot and wither.”
Chet rapped his knuckles against the wall. His flesh was still somewhat translucent, but felt solid. He prodded his thigh. It too felt whole. He braced himself against the wall and pushed up on his good leg. Gingerly, he placed his weight on his injured leg. No pain. He took a light step, then another. “The coins work fast.”
“Faster for some than others. Your spirit is strong, Chet.”
Trow entered carrying two bodies in on one stretcher. One of the bodies was decapitated, the other that of a young woman. “Oh, no,” Chet said, limping over to the bars. “Ana,” he called. “Ana!”
She looked up and a wave of relief passed through Chet. The goblin men dumped her onto the floor. Chet saw her hand was missing, her ring gone. She managed to get to one foot, the other appearing to be broken at the ankle, and hobbled over to the bars.
Chet reached through, grabbed her shoulder.
“You need some coins,” Chet said. He looked for the old Trow woman, found her assisting a soul over near the door. “Be right back.”
Chet stepped over and around several souls, walked up to the Trow woman, putting a hand on her arm.
She looked at him. “Yah?”
“The lady there.” Chet pointed at Ana. “She needs some coins.”
The Trow woman looked over, shook her head. “No ring, no coin.”
“Just one. Can we get just one?”
“No, no,” she said, glancing toward the big minotaur near the door. “No ring, no coin.”
The minotaur eyed Chet.
“No make trouble,” she said and pushed Chet’s hand away. Chet felt something slide into his palm. It was round.
She winked.
“Thank you,” he whispered and headed back to Ana.
“Here, take this,” Chet said. “Eat it. But don’t let them see.” He slipped the coin through the bars into her hand.
“What is it?”
“Just eat it.”
“Is it medicine?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what it is.”
Ana slipped the coin into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed.
“It might take a minute,” Chet said, “but it should—”
Seet walked into Ana’s chamber accompanied by three guards. They spread out and began searching the slaves, checking their collars for Veles’s mark.
“There is one,” Seet said, pointing at a man missing an arm.
One of the guards pulled the man away from the wall, checked his collar, gave him a shove toward Seet. “Looks like he can still walk.”
“Good,” Seet said. “Hook him back up to Priscilla.”
Several other guards, bearing the insignia of their gods, entered the chamber and began rounding up their wounded.
“Hey, missed this one?” a guard said, standing over a man with two crushed legs.
“No,” Seet said. “He is not worth the coin. Leave.”
“You no leave,” the Trow woman said to the guard. “You must take.”
Seet said something sharp to her in their own tongue and the Trow woman let loose on him with a tirade of guttural barks and grunts, jabbing at him with one fat finger. Seet stood there flinching at every word until finally the woman stormed away.
“I’m guessing we’re not going to be leaving this fellow,” the guard said.
Seet let out a snort of disgust. “Take him.”
“Where to?” the guard asked.
“I do not care,” Seet said. “Toss him in a ditch.”
The guard shrugged, grabbed the man by his one remaining arm, and dragged him out of the chamber like a bag of trash.
Seet and his guards found six more of Veles’s slaves, tied them in line. Seet spotted Ana, then Chet through the bars. He walked over. “How do you like the game, horsekiller? Are you having fun?” He leaned up close to the bars. “Today was hard . . . tomorrow, much fewer slaves. Glad I am not you.”
Chet just stared at him.
Seet set his dark eyes on Ana. “Your guard dog does not look too good.” He hitched a rope to her collar, yanked her to her feet. “Up, dog.” Ana winced, but thanks to the ka, managed to stand on her injured ankle. Her hand had only partially reformed and now hung like a hook—she needed another coin.
Seet headed away, yanking Ana along. Chet could see the pain on her face as she limped after him. Seet glanced back at Chet. “Do not worry, horsekiller. I take good care of your dog.”
CHAPTER 36
A roar came from above them, through the trapdoors. Chet thought it sounded like a tiger. The roar was accompanied by galloping hooves, the braying of a donkey, birds singing, and dogs howling together as though in chorus, all punctuated with cheers, laughter, and applause.
“That must be Veles,” Ado said. “He once had the
greatest collection of animals in the known netherworld . . . a show that could rival earth above. He even had a few real flesh-and-blood animals.” Ado sighed. “It was a different time then. The creatures he has now are mostly soul-shifts. Just more ka sorcery. Though I believe he does have a few actual animal souls.”
“Animal souls?” Chet mused, wondering why the thought hadn’t crossed his mind until now. “So you’re saying animals do have souls?”
“Of course they do.”
“Well, where are they all at?”
“Oya spoke that they have their own place, but sometimes they stray or are brought into our realm. Sometimes on account of sorcery, other times just happenstance . . . a soul gets lost, wanders down a path it was not meant to go. It is a wonder to see what the gods can create with ka, but there is something special about the real thing. Knowing you look into the eye of an innocent, not some poor soul twisted into a beast.”
“So those monsters, the champions, they’re just souls like us?”
“They were once. Before the gods gorged them on ka. To the gods, ka is like clay . . . the more skilled the hand, the more clever the creation. That’s the heart of this contest, not just prowess, but also beauty and sometimes absurdity. The gods love to show off.”
Another burst of cheers from above.
“Real or ka,” Ado said, “I would still love to see Veles’s show again.”
“I would love to see it burn.”
Ado laughed. “And you just might one day, my friend. The tide is turning against him, against all the gods. And yet they choose to keep their heads in the sand. All their pomp and pageantry, pretending nothing has changed, but they only fool themselves. There was a time when a hundred gods came to the Gathering. And I too, was here, serving my great goddess.” Ado’s eyes drifted off. “The air was alive with the smells of living plants and animals. So many gods . . . so much magic and splendor . . . it was as earth itself.”
Dogs bayed above; Chet realized they were actually carrying a tune.
“Did you see his face?” Ado continued. “Veles’s face? The strain beneath his smile. The cost of his vanity is almost more than he can bear. He must contribute copper and slaves. Copper he doesn’t have. Then there is the cost to create a champion . . . the ka, and though forbidden, it is well known that many of the gods use god-blood.” Ado fell silent, then after a long moment he said, “It was this . . . the god-blood which I was trying to steal. It is great magic, coveted, rare. I know that it is the one thing that can heal a god. That is why I tried to steal it for Oya. I had heard Veles had god-blood in abundance. So I felt it no great crime to take from him. Now I see that even Veles is struggling in this new age.”
Whistles and applause from above.
“Does hardship keep Veles from putting on a good show?” Ado smiled. “No, he would go on no matter the cost.” He let out a long sigh. “These ancient gods, they are different than the One Gods. Regardless of their flaws, they have heart, a lust for life, and will do whatever it costs to keep life alive, even in the very pits of death. And it is that which I admire.”
“That’s all good and well,” Chet said. “Won’t matter much come tomorrow. Not once we’re in the arena again.”
“Tomorrow is an opportunity,” Ado said, standing up. “A step closer to our freedom. Come.” He headed off toward the back of the chamber.
Curious, Chet stood and followed Ado to a stack of busted weapons. He passed Coach on the way and the man followed him with his eyes, his face unreadable. Ado picked through the pile until he found two broken shafts of equal length, about the length of a sword, and handed one to Chet.
Chet cut his eyes to the minotaurs guarding the main door. “You think we can bust out?”
“No, there is no chance of that. I have a better idea. My friend, you and I, we are going to win our freedom. I have had the privilege to serve in Oya’s guard both in life and in death. I was never a great warrior, but over the centuries I have picked up more than a few tricks. You do not have time to master the art of swordplay, but you do have time enough to learn a few key defensive moves. Maybe enough to make the difference.”
“I’m game.”
“A couple of things to remember: Tomorrow there will be fewer slaves, but also fewer champions, for champions who cannot walk from the arena on their own are not allowed to return. Those champions left, they shall be fierce. Slaves willing to just give up their rings will be gone. Those left, they wish to win their freedom. They will be fighters. So there will be more to it than just staying ahead of the sheep. We will have to fight. But we need not fight to win, only to escape slaughter. Understand?”
“I guess.”
“Stand there. Hold your staff by its end. See, like this, like a sword. There. Okay, weapon up. No, more like this. Now come at me.”
Chet did and was surprised at how easily Ado slid past his attack. He demonstrated several more times, then had Chet try.
“No,” Ado said. “Remember, you will never match their force. If you are rigid they will break you, but if you are fluid, you will flow past their assault. Now watch me.” Ado showed Chet the move again, but slowly. “Now try again.”
Chet tried again and again, each time a little better.
“Good. You catch on quickly, Chet.”
Chet didn’t know about that, but he did feel he was getting the principle at least. They went around and around, Ado showing him several variations, how an attacker’s foot-play forecast his intentions. Ado replayed the moves over and over until Chet could read most of his attacks.
At some point, Coach had moved closer. Chet noticed him leaning against a pillar, watching them.
“Here, now try this.” Ado showed Chet a few basic feints. “Good weapon play is the art of deception. Mislead your attacker, make them commit where you want, and you take the advantage.”
They practiced, going back and forth. Ado seemed genuinely pleased with Chet’s progress.
“Remember, you need not defeat them, only dodge, escape, evade, and survive. Survive and you win your freedom.”
Chet caught sight of Coach walking toward him carrying a broken staff. Chet turned, faced the man with his own weapon ready. “Stay the fuck away from me.”
Coach halted, lowering his staff. “I don’t wanna die down here.”
Chet kept his staff level.
Coach frowned. “I’d like to practice with you guys.”
Ado looked to Chet.
Chet started to tell Coach to fuck off again, but there was something in the man’s eyes, desperation perhaps. He certainly saw no anger, or hostility, not toward them.
“My mom’s in Lethe,” Coach said. “I just wanna see her. Y’know, one more time.”
“Three is a good defensive number,” Ado said.
Chet sighed and slowly lowered his stick. “Hell . . . fine.”
Ado smiled. “Good.” He lined them up, going over the basics again, drilling both of them, then positioned them facing each other.
“Okay,” Ado said. “Coach, I want you to try and tap Chet. Ready?”
They both nodded. “Go.”
Coach swung low, switched to high, swung past Chet’s block, catching Chet against the shoulder—hard.
“Ah . . . fuck,” Chet cried. “That wasn’t a tap, asshole. He said tap.”
Coach was grinning.
“Tomorrow,” Ado said, “they will hit much harder. Now . . . your turn, Chet.”
Chet tightened his grip. “Hell yeah, it is.”
Coach’s grin fell away and he got ready, sliding into one of the stances Ado had showed them. This time it was Chet who landed a blow, a sharp stinging strike to the neck. And this went on, back and forth, each trying to outdo the other, Ado egging them on, showing them how to avoid, or block each attack, how to read what their opponent was trying to do. After a bit he switched to defensive formations and patterns that the three of them could use to foil an aggressive opponent.
They continued sparring, d
rill after drill. Chet took to it, glad to have something to focus on. Soon he came to read Coach’s attacks and as the moves became instinctual, it became harder and harder for Coach to tag him. Several other slaves gathered around to watch, but most kept to themselves, their eyes distant and shell-shocked.
After many hours, Ado raised his hand. “Enough for now. We should rest.” Chet noticed there was no longer any light coming through the overhead grate.
They found a spot away from the others and took a seat against the wall, Coach sitting down next to Ado. For a long time they just sat there listening to water dripping from one of the overhead grates. It was Coach who finally broke the silence. “Ado, you ever been to Lethe?”
“Yes.”
“I was told it’s where souls go to end it. This life or whatever this is. That true?”
“It is.”
Something was obviously bothering Coach. “My mother, she’s supposed to be there. That’s what the woman, that bloodseeker back in Styga, said.”
Ado nodded. “Many souls make the journey to Lethe.”
“I . . . I just hope I’m not too late . . . just want the chance to tell her I’m sorry.” His voice grew husky with emotion. “It was my fault she died.”
Chet glanced at Coach. The man’s eyes were distant, his brow knotted.
“I was only ten years old when it happened, but I should’ve done something. Anything. But I . . . didn’t.” He cleared his throat. “He beat her. My dad. You wouldn’t of guessed he was the type looking at him. Skinny guy, glasses, worked down at Sears in billing. Didn’t even drink. But every now and again, something would just set him off. Little stuff, weird stuff. That was the worst of it, you just never knew.
“It was my birthday . . . just the three of us there, sitting around the kitchen table. Mom had baked me a cake. Spent most of the afternoon decorating it. She used the icing to make a football on top. It said, ‘Larry is a winner.’