One Last Fight

The spectators towering above me in the stands chanted with one voice, “Kill it!” The noise bounced off the walls of the arena and rang in my mind. A battle cry. A single command. Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!

But a small voice in my head begged me to stop. The once-magnificent beast in front of me did not deserve to die. It squirmed in a pool of blood on the ground, its golden chest still rising weakly, defying its own end. I had seen the glassy haze clouding its eyes too many times to count. How very strange, I thought, that an animal and a human being looked up with the same eyes moments before death! But the lion was not dead yet—I still had to finish my job.

As I looked at the creature, I thought of Hadubert. I always thought of Hadubert. Every time I entered the arena, the memory of my brother overwhelmed me. It was thanks to him that I knew how to hold the sword in my hands. Thanks to him that death’s haze had not yet taken my own eyes. Thanks to him that I could ignore the voice urging me to spare the lion, run my blade through my own chest, and escape this hell with a rebellious smirk on my face. Hadubert saved my life every second of the day.

After this battle, I would return the favor.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the lion. “I’m sorry it is I who is killing you, and not the other way around. Perhaps you will finally be able to run free.” For just a moment, the cloud lifted from its eyes, as if it understood. As if it were sorry, too. Then I plunged my sword into its neck, and it collapsed without a fight.

The crowd exploded with deafening excitement. “Thyra! Thyra! Thyra!”

That name used to spark outrage in my heart. Now, it meant nothing more than the rest of the audience’s unintelligible cheering. But I had a part to play. I pried off my helmet so they could see my face, prompting another wave of screams and chants. When they looked at me, they saw a beautiful, fierce warrior, forged in fire and carved of stone. No one remembered Ishild, the foreign, disgraced slave I was before I was a gladiatrix. Ishild, the young girl who knew nothing of slaughter’s strain on the soul or the cruelty of lustful men or the agony of pierced skin. Ishild, the voice in the back of my mind. No one remembered her, and no one mourned her as she was slowly erased from existence.

Those days as Ishild were wonderful. I had my freedom, my life, my brother. Dear, sweet Hadubert. I remembered the time he went without food so that I could eat. I remembered the time he looked me in the eye and said, “Ishild? I’m going to teach you to fight. I’m going to teach to tear anyone who comes at you apart. If you can fight, none of them can ever hurt you.” I remembered the last day we had spent together… the day our tribe fell… I remembered holding onto his hand as long as I could, the soldiers prying my fingers away from his. I remembered screaming until my voice was raw, remembered rough gloves clasped around my neck, remembered tears so filled with rage and horror that they burned as they rolled down my cheeks.

That was the day Ishild died. A month of darkness later, and Thyra the Gladiatrix was born.

I held my head up high, my tangled curls dancing in the wind and my hands stained scarlet. My gaze drifted from the crowd to the massive column where the emperor sat, flanked by the Imperial Guard. He watched me, too, even more intently than everyone else, his expression almost as cold as my own, no longer impressed by an easy kill. He stretched his hand toward me with a single finger raised. I understood exactly what the gesture meant. One more. One more round and then you’ll be up here too.

I swallowed hard. It was strange to think that the man I hoped to spend the rest of my life with was the same man whose empire had ruined me. He had made me a killer, and for that I loathed him. But I could learn to love him if it meant saving my brother. Or at the very least, I could learn to satisfy his lust.

I pulled my hair up into my helmet once more. I hated the bulky thing, but if I won this last round, then I would never have to wear it again.

As the gate at the end of the arena raised, my fans cheered louder than ever before. “All hail future Empress Thyra, gladiatrix!” Of course, I would never be empress, just as I would never really be his wife; a foreign slave could never dream of being more than a concubina. But the people didn’t seem to care at that moment. And I didn’t either—an emperor’s concubina could make desperate requests of her lover just as well as a wife, as long as she pleased him enough.

A single man with a rust-stained helmet walked out, and abrupt silence killed the cheers. A man pitted against a woman? Well, it certainly had the kind of shocking flair the emperor craved. The chanting began again. “Erastus! Erastus! Erastus!”

This was it. This was the last creature I had to kill. Redemption, the emperor called it. A beautiful, fierce young thing like me would make a fine companion, he had told me. And the people were just crazy about me. If I could win one more fight, I would be his. What better life could he offer me than that of his own lover? I doubted if he would ever really love me with even a fraction of the same passion he had for theatrics. But I didn’t care; I was more than willing to be his pawn, an actress in his drama.

I watched my opponent cautiously. He gripped his sword with near-perfect form, and his legs remained bent and ready to run. Definitely not an amateur.

Like a panther, I pounced. I charged at him with my blade pointed forward, newfound strength rising in me. He swerved out of the way.

Hadubert’s image came to me once again. Begin with something to catch them off guard. I cried out and let my memory control my every movement. My sword came crashing down on the man’s arm, but then a burning sensation shot across my shoulder and my own attack wavered. We both stumbled backward. He had slashed my shoulder, I had slashed his arm.

This was not going to be an easy fight.

Our swords met, metal against metal. I drew back and swung again. A near miss. I allowed my mind to wander from this place of pain and brutality, picturing myself finely dressed in a plunging gown of red, standing before my beloved Hadubert. I dreamed of breaking his chains, smiling at him, and whispering, Now you can be free! My hope fueled my muscles to keep straining, my legs to keep moving, my heart to keep beating.

“Erastus” defied every rule of combat I knew. A warrior’s greatest enemy is his own recklessness, Hadubert taught me. Let your passion and emotion give you strength, but do not let that strength turn your controlled maneuvers into crazed ones. Yet, my opponent swung at me with savage abandon and somehow still had the upper hand. He swung at my leg, and it sliced through skin. I winced.

This battle—this one, last fight—was not one I could win. But I had one more weapon, one last resort. I pushed the man backward long enough to yank off my helmet and throw it against the ground.

He stumbled backward and froze. I smiled. He wasn’t expecting a woman. No man ever would. I dove at him and knocked him to the ground, his sword flying from his hand. Erastus, stripped of his strength in his moment of paralysis, remained motionless as I placed the edge of my blade into the curve of his neck just below his helmet. My heart pounded faster. My whole body shook from the thrill of it.

I hated to kill such a worthy opponent. Ishild—poor, sweet Ishild—quietly protested his death in my mind, but succumbed to the desire to see Hadubert and finally grew quiet.

The crowd chanted my name again. This moment would seal my fate. I could see it all now—the covetous leering of the emperor’s friends as he proudly displayed me at his side, his hands roaming down my bare back, his lips pressing into the nape of my neck. From this day forward, I would be the emperor’s consort, his favorite toy. Just a new kind of slave. But as long as I could save Hadubert, it would be worth it.

A pang of guilt hit me again. I couldn’t kill the man beneath me without looking into his eyes and telling him the same thing I had said to the lion. I’m sorry it is I who is killing you, and not the other way around. Perhaps you will finally be able to run free. My hand rested against his slick chest. His heart raced even faster than mine.

With one hand, I held my sword, ready to take his life. With the other, I tenderly lifted his helmet from his head.

I stared at my opponent. My brother stared back.