Wolf’s Empire: Gladiator (47 page)

Licinus barked orders at me as I mounted a desultore skirmisher, but I ignored him and broke away, pulling across the chariots of my fellow Romans, allies and enemies alike. Adrenaline overrode the withdrawal symptoms that had debilitated me only moments before.

“To me!” I cried, swinging the skirmisher around and charging forward. Ambrosia or not, we were outnumbered and we had to attack as a unified, disciplined force or we were doomed. Gods, let this work.

Then the Hyperboreans charged. Like a swarm of killer ants, a fast, silent wave of shining spikes moved toward us. I launched Orbis in a wide arc. Even Piso the Arrian pila caster couldn't hit a target at this distance, but I could. A dark pride filled my chest as the head of one of the warriors racing at the front of the barbarian line hit the icy ground. My armilla chimed happily. Twenty points. The first kill of the day was mine. “Damn you! Come together. Unite. Flying wedge formation! Flavians! Arrian skirmishers! You have the speed. Move around behind them. Attack from the rear while we drive ahead.”

The teams looked to their leaders, then (perhaps because I was my father's daughter and leadership was in my blood) began to move into formation, with my skirmisher taking point. I was riding a wave of energy that carried us forward as one. Each chariot sounded its hunting horn in anticipation.

“Javelins!” I commanded, and in a second, the long throwing spears flew through the air, a rain of dozens of electrified spears that struck without mercy. The advancing enemy line began to break apart. Another ten yards and the midrange weapons flew: the crossbow bolts from Pavo, Mania's darts, Darius' arrows.

There were gaps between the chariots for the enemy to fall into, the blades emerging from the underside of each vehicle would be there to catch them and break them to shards. We were literally going to mow them down.

The barbarians were already losing cohesion by the time they reached us. We pushed back against their advance, the curved noses of the crafts driving the aliens to either side to be cut down by the chariot blades. Other Hyperboreans passed over the tops of the bonnets to challenge gladiators and bestiarii one-on-one.

The retarius Murena Arrius fell first, icy spikes piercing his belly and spilling his guts as the Arrian driver Piso swung his chariot about to avoid his own death. Next was Bestia Ovidius, whose crossbow bolts ricocheted off the thick crystal bodies without effect. He was about to try to jump clear of his chariot when great Hyperborean arms encircled him and pulled him into their chest spines, impaling him like some ancient torture device before sending his sprawling body to the hard ground.

Through the X-ray scanners in my helmet, I saw faint blue lines across many of the barbarians' bodies, the weaknesses in the crystal structure that Mania prepared us for, and I struck accordingly, my armilla chiming as I advanced. No holding back, no pity. I was like a bird of prey, delivering death in wheeling arcs. Whatever white-blue ichor ran through their veins painted the icy ground, mixing with human blood, colored gases rising from their bodies to form clouds above the battlefield. Crassus worked the opposite side of the chariot, riding the other Sertorian skirmisher. I caught a glimpse of him as he backed up—elated, a broad grin upon his face as he put his javelin to work, showing off his skills to his adoring public. One summer I visited my aunt on her farm in Toscana. They had a harvester—great blades of light and energy that cut the wheat neatly so that it fell and could be gathered and bundled into sheaves. That was what this was like. Our blades swung and bodies fell just as easily, though not nearly as neatly. The Blood Hawks moved in unison, the perfection of Licinus' vision—an alien meat grinder.

Crassus moved beside me, his face determined, his armilla chiming loudly. He was going for it: He wanted to break the record for the largest number of kills on a single day.

Then the Flavians and Arrians attacked from the rear, just as I ordered, and the wedge split into an arc so that the alien force was caught between our advance and the chariots blocking off their retreat. Then the cooperation ended. It was clear Rome was the dominant force, survival was assured, now it was all about points. The Caninine and Talonite teams were like two packs of dogs fighting over a carcass, like sharks circling and tearing at shipwreck victims. There was also nothing stopping us from killing one another. Two brave Calpurnians fell in the frenzy—Licinus' war chain squeezed the life from Cincinnatus, the chariot driver, crushing his ribs and racing heart like a hungry snake, and then Catullus, the lasso-wielding hunter, fell to Mania's needle daggers, extensions of her small fingers, plunging into his body again and again, sending him down to the bloody snow. Marcus cried out in rage over the fast deaths and slaughtered the nearest Talonite—the Ovidian beast master Ocella—with a parry and fast thrust to the throat near the collarbone. The man fell, his hands scrabbling to his neck, futilely trying to stanch the spurting blood.

My luck was holding out; Fortune finally seemed to smile upon me. The aliens seemed to be avoiding me, making my attacks seem all the more spectacular. My armilla was chiming. Chiming with each kill, allotting me points for my team's tally. At the rate I was going, I was certain I'd top even Crassus' score.

My blood was pounding in my ears, my heartbeat and the killing chime provided the tempo of my dance. I wanted to hear that chime sound again and again. I couldn't even feel the cold anymore, only the staccato rhythm—pulse-kill, chime-kill, pulse-kill. I saw Marcus, his body drenched in blue blood as he killed with machine-like efficiency. Crassus rode beside me. The grin on his face was wide and strong, his armilla chiming loudly. He was going for it; he wanted to try and beat my count. We became like hawks competing for prey. I lost sense of time and place, as if I were outside myself, watching events unfold.

The others had circled the remaining fifty or so Hyperboreans and moved in.

“Carry on,” I heard Julius Gemminus squeal above the fighting. “You're going so well!”

His shrill voice reminded me that this was no beautiful symphony, no graceful dance. This was a massacre.

Suddenly the bull chief was before me, reaching out to try to rip me from the skirmisher. But then Crassus' lance was sticking out of his chest. The alien swung backward and caught Crassus with a powerful blow, knocking him to the ground. Then the giant Hyperborean warrior broke and ran away. Crassus was still struggling to reclaim his vehicle and the rest of the contestants were finishing the remaining barbarians. I was the only one with a clear line of pursuit and immediately gave chase.

He'd abandoned his people. Did these barbarians even understand concepts like honor and cowardice? In the light of day, as he fled the melee, I felt no fear of this alien. Nor did I care an iota for Sertorian glory or points in the bestiarius round, but my blood was up, Orbis was singing, and the buzzing song was irritating me. I was filled with red rage and cutting strength. I hit the throttle and drove toward him, full speed ahead. This was the time to bury my nightmares, all of them, human and alien.

The barbarian sped across the foothills at incredible speed on his long legs, but he couldn't outpace a skirmisher. Just as I was closing the gap, a sudden icy gale came out of nowhere and threatened to tear me off the vehicle. The blast of wind was so powerful it knocked me off course, and by the time I'd got back on, the bull chief was vanishing behind a low rise.

The snow whipped about me as I sped after my prey—shining, crystalline specks that gave everything a dreamlike quality.

As I came over the rise I realized the chief and I weren't alone. Below, in a bowl-shaped valley were thousands of Hyperborean workers, trailing like ants up steep paths in the direction of the mountain range beyond. Their abdomens, filled with pure liquid ichor, glowed in the low light. Upon a ridge on my side of the valley stood what appeared to be a barbarian child, similar to the workers but smaller and missing the two ice-pick-style appendages the others bore. Like a conductor leading an orchestra, the child moved his arms back and forth, directing the Hyperboreans, moving them to join this or that trail. There was a song the workers were following, similar to the buzzing headaches I'd endured, only it was clearer, made more sense, almost like I could make out the words and melody if I listened carefully.

The child suddenly pointed right at me. The bull chief turned at once and started toward me. The child was the leader, their Spartacus, not the bull chief. We had it all wrong. The warriors we were caught up fighting weren't there to take revenge or rise up against us. This little Spartacus had sent some of his troops as a distraction so we wouldn't stumble across the important thing—his production to shift ichor out of this part of the continent. They were smuggling it out right under our noses. The pair of them were coming at me now, but the bull chief was much closer. They couldn't allow me to survive and let my people know what was going on here. The bull chief was closing ground fast; if I tried to turn the skirmisher, he'd be on my back before I'd have the chance to pull away, so I did the unexpected, I drove the vehicle right into him and ran him over. Then the entire skirmisher was being upturned and I was flying through the air. I hit the snowy ground and rolled to blunt the jarring impact of the rock below, coming up into a low crouch, discus in hand.

“Gods…” A whisper was all I could manage as the bull chief towered over me, the spines extending from his arm leveled at my head. Behind him, the planet's distant golden sun surrounded the alien with an intense halo. The light hurt my eyes; they wanted to blink, to turn from it, but I was mesmerized by the crystal surface of its torso. The sunlight lit up the swirling ichor within him, beautiful and at the same time a terrible, monstrous violence saturated every facet of his form. I was determined to be brave, the other barbarians scared me not at all, but this one was like a Sword of Damocles hanging over my head, always there in the background, seeking me out, relentless in his pursuit until I was dead and drained of ambrosia. I skittered backward, trying to get my feet under me, coming up into a defensive stance just as his claws flashed forward like lightning. I pushed up with Orbis warding the blow, but the counterforce of discus and claw propelled me back awkwardly. I hit the ground ass first, legs splayed out before me. I rolled to the side, avoiding another thrust, and came up to one knee. The bull chief was fast, and his arms just kept on coming. There was no time to get to my feet; he was reaching for me again. Just like in the dream, he wanted to draw the ambrosia from my body, weaken me and then slaughter me. I threw my head back to avoid having my throat slit by the serrated edge of an ice-pick arm. The edge caught my cheek instead, opening a thin cut. It wasn't deep, but the cold made it sting like hell.

He drove me back toward a low ridge of upthrust rocks. Here was a more cunning opponent than expected—the only other way out was past him or the cliff edge to my right that ran down to the valley below. He was going to use the terrain to help finish me off.

Before the chieftain could press the attack, I pushed forward with Orbis, driving along the ice-pick arm that tried to catch me, and then shot up at the last moment, aiming for his throat. Crystal shards exploded into the air around me. Orbis impacted as if against solid ice, and a shock ran up my arm, numbing it. I had been certain I'd delivered a killing blow, but the crystalline surface was far more resilient than I'd expected, and now I was in close with nowhere to go as his four arms wrapped about me, pulling me in to the spines on his chest. Unlike the nightmare, there would be no escape. The spines entered my body, pushing right through the armor plate. Those arms were like stone, unyielding and powerful. I writhed in agony every which way, trying to escape, but without success. Then the ambrosia started flowing from my body, sapped out of my pores, running to those spines that pierced and held me.

Without the ambrosia, I'd be as good as dead in the games. In a last-ditch effort, I swung Orbis up with my remaining strength, striking at the undersides of the spines on his torso. I felt the points torn from my body as they splintered, and although it made no noise, I felt the buzzing song in my skull turn into something like a static-filled scream.

I fell to the ground and started to scuttle backward. I was frightened and disoriented, and needed to find my way to the skirmisher, but I didn't realize I was on the edge of a crevasse, not until I was free-falling through space. There was a dull, whole-body thud and then only darkness.

I came to with a blinding headache. A circle of dim sky above. My first thought was that I'd fallen into a crevasse but it contained no familiar icy formations. The walls were formed by large octagonal cells stacked together, shining ichor swimming within their transparent structure. This was a Hyperborean well similar to the one I'd seen when I crept out to spy on Licinus and Mania, though much bigger, a domed interior on a scale to match the larger ancient temples in Rome. Rising slowly and painfully, I examined my body. No bruises or breaks, no wounds from the battle with the bull chief. He'd stolen some ambrosia, but there must have been enough left to heal me. My surroundings were shrouded in shadow, so I activated the torch on my armilla to help push back the darkness. I'd only been down there for an hour or so, no time at all. I could still catch up to the gladiators if I acted quickly. There was what appeared to be a tunnel entrance at the far side of the cavern, but I didn't want to take unnecessary chances. There might be more barbarians down there, and if they didn't know I was here in their hives then I'd just as soon keep it that way. The best way to the surface was up. Some veins of granite with rocky protrusions might have served as handholds but it seemed my best bet was to use the hexagonal hive cells as a kind of ladder. Orbis had fallen only a few feet away and I picked him up and used him to tap and then strike at the ichor cells to see if I could gather samples of the substance, but the surface was hard, impenetrable, the fluid trapped securely within. I scanned a shining ichor cell with my armilla and it told me it was a crystalline-diamond composite material more than three million years old.