Written by V. Anne Arden / Artwork by Marge Simon
The Prize























Cy tried not to look as one of the newcomers, a brown-haired boy, picked up a sword. His age was hard
to judge since poor nutrition often left slave children appearing younger than their true years. Cy
retreated to the shade of the awning beside the practice floor. She sat down, leaned against a post, and
sipped from a water skin. She didn’t like to notice their kind, children and cripples the pit master bought
by the dozen. They died by the dozen as well, sent in hordes against some hapless gladiator who tried
not to kill too many in the process of keeping himself alive. She had been one of the horde once. She
had managed to neither die nor be crippled for almost a year, until Vas, the pit’s champion fighter,
noticed her mimicking his moves during practice. He taught her to fight, and she continued to live.

The boy held the sword far from his body as if frightened of it. He swung against a straw dummy, barely
tapping the side. He swung harder and dropped the sword at the point of contact. He picked it up again.
Cy scooted around the post so she faced away from him. Staring at the earthen walls of the pit, she
shut her mind to the boy’s grunts. He would be lucky to live a week.

The bell rang. Cy joined the other gladiators crowding under the pit master’s porch on the far side of the
practice floor. Minus the ever changing group of children and cripples, the stable was about forty fighters
strong, enough to fill the three double-horselength tables at meal time. She angled to stand next to
Depa, one of two other women in the stable. Cy squinted against the sun and watched the pit master
smooth a leather sheet on the railing.

Rumors claimed the Lord was planning to enter someone into the New Year Tournament, where
hundreds of gladiators fought one on one to the death, until only one remained. Besides being a
spectacle, the Tournament served to maintain at least the semblance of peace in the Empire: the Lords
of Norol could not start a new year with open conflicts, their choices being either arbitration by Emperor—
generally good for neither—or to resolve the conflict in the Tournament. Whoever’s fighter survived
longer received unconditional concessions. To a Noroln noble, the value of one slave, even a trained
gladiator, was insignificant compared to whatever piece of land or pride was at stake.

The pit master called out names. Those called threaded their way to the front of the crowd. Once a
group gathered, the pit master announced their fight tomorrow: The Sun Cup, Winter’s End
Championship, New Year Beast Challenge, and other fights, all first bloods, clear victories, or animals.
The pit master called a single name. The gladiators grew still. But it was the Ribbon Cup, not the
Tournament.

No one had been able to pinpoint what conflict the Lord could need to resolve. The vehement rejection of
his son's suit by the young salt mine heiress was not a conflict, only a loss of face. And while there was
one other reason to enter the New Year Tournament—to win—that was more a bonus than a real reason
to enter. Lesser nobles whose finances would notice the year's worth of double prize money for the
champion could not afford to risk the investment, and the Imperial boon was more limited than it might
sound. Although ordering a marriage would be well within its scope.

The pit master balled up his sheet and gripped the railing over it.        

“Vaserin and Cyanna.” Cy joined her friend and mentor in front of the porch. “New Year Tournament.”

Cy's heart went cold. She’d been in death fights before, even small series. But this was a tournament.
Only one gladiator could win. Why would the Lord enter two of his fighters, arguably his two best? He’d
lose at least one.

She barely noticed when Depa touched her arm and said something, perhaps offering support. Cy
wanted no sympathy. She stared at the empty porch long after the pit master left. Vas stood as still
next to her.        

~ * ~

She and Vas did not spar in evening practice as usual. Cy tried not to look at him. When she did, she
analyzed his moves, remembered his weaknesses, and looked for any new aches and pains that could
give her advantage. She didn’t want to think about killing him. Vas was her friend, her teacher,
occasionally her lover. He taught her how to survive. More than just fighting, he taught her how to see
the best in life, even in the stark realities of the pit. You’ll probably die long before you have to face him
anyway, she told herself. But it was a frivolous thought. Cy didn’t plan to lose. She doubted Vas did
either.

That night, after shrugging off offered comfort from her most recent bedmate and lying alone for nearly
an hour, she crawled over to Vas’s bedroll. He was awake and shifted to make room for her. They kissed
hungrily, the fervor of trying to forget serving only to remind of tomorrow. Cy pressed her head against
his chest and listened to his heartbeat. Vas pulled her close. They lay in a desperate clutch until morning.

~ * ~

Cy ignored the other fighters and the cheers of the crowd as she walked to her assigned spot in the
arena. The sun warmed the sand beneath her sandals despite the chill lingering in the air. Grinding
sounded as temporary walls rose from the floor, dividing the arena into over a hundred small rectangles.
Soon, the walls obscured the rest of the arena, leaving her alone with her first opponent. The walls were
magically keyed to the gladiators’ life forces. When only a single fighter lived in both of an adjacent pair
of cells, the wall between them sank into the sand, and the next fight began. That meant whoever won
their fight first got to rest. She faced the man sharing her cell and calmly awaited the gong that would
signal the start of the fights.

The first few rounds were easy. Her small size and gender led opponents to underestimate her, and the
skills she learned from Vas served her well. She paced herself, wanting to save energy for later yet also
finish each fight quickly enough to get a small break between rounds. She wiped sweat from her eyes
and examined her third opponent, who stood panting and bleeding. This fight had gone on too long. She
swung fast and low, startling him, jerking her sword up at the last moment. It jammed in his neck.

The wall began moving before she could pull the blade loose. A woman leapt over the sinking wall. Cy
barely ducked a killing blow. She rolled away without her sword and backed toward one of the bodies
that littered the floor. Surprise showed in the woman’s eyes. Likely she had won her last couple fights
with that technique. Cy recovered a sword from a fallen man and circled the woman.

She was Cy’s size and fought in the same light, fast style. Cy fared better against larger and heavier
opponents. The woman dealt her several wounds before Cy finally killed her. Cy fought not to sink as the
wall did and turned to face the man on the other side. She wanted to commandeer the woman’s tactic
and leap over the wall but was too exhausted.

The other gladiator began an aggressive offensive. Cy spent several minutes trying to keep alive as she
learned how her new wounds affected her body. Her right leg was sluggish, so she changed to a left
forward form. The man smiled when he saw the shift and concentrated on her right. Cy stumbled
blocking a blow and almost fell. He swung at her again before she regained her balance. This was not
how it was going to end. He showed a slight hesitation as sweat ran into his eye. Cy took advantage of it.

She had a long rest before her next opponent, enough to scavenge cloth from someone’s tunic for
makeshift bandages. She kept moving continuously, afraid her leg would stiffen if she did not. The
following fights were more prolonged. Cy stood gasping after the second, almost sure she was going to
fall over and die without anyone having to help. Her right leg was numb, a better state though than the
fire across her belly from a stroke that had nearly disemboweled her. She wrapped cloth tightly around
her midriff, hoping to keep the cut from splitting open. Blood soaked through the cloth and she added
another layer.

Gasps and grunts sounded from another fight. Cy looked around in surprise to realize she stood in a full
half of the arena. One more fight. She could make it. She stumbled in her pacing, dizzy. If she didn’t die
before the wall came down.

Her opponent was still fighting. Cy wanted to retreat to the far end of the arena, to rest more. But she
had the advantage of freshness and would not concede it. She moved next to the wall, to be ready when
it dropped. The wall began sinking. Cy leapt over it and ran toward her startled opponent. Her sword met
Vas’s inches from his face.

Vas. She wished to avoid his eyes, but she needed to see them to anticipate his movements. They had
sparred so often. This was the last fight. Cy never considered not fighting. At the edge of her
consciousness, she was aware of the men above the stadium holding crossbows, ready to shoot them
both should they refuse to fight.

Cy and Vas danced as if orchestrated. She knew his moves almost before he did; but he also knew hers.
He bore wounds as well. Her mind calculated how to use them to her advantage. Her heart screamed that
someone she loved hurt and yearned to aid him.

She was alive because of what he taught her. Now he might die because of the same. She saw an
opening and hesitated before going for it. Vas caught her eyes and twisted his lip down, as he did when
she fell short in practice.

She barely blocked a blow to her lagging right side. Vas followed his advantage, driving her back. He gave
her a condescending grin and shook his head. “You’re no fighter,” he said. “Not when it really counts.”

She was a fighter. She had made it this far.

“You don’t deserve to live. You haven’t listened to anything I taught you.”

Cy's chest tightened. Shame warred with anger. Vas was wrong.

He cut into her right thigh. She twisted away, bringing her sword around in a stroke that nearly broke
his guard.

She did not hesitate at the next opening, when his wounded foot twisted and his sword shifted. Her
blade went straight to his heart. She fell to her knees as he toppled backwards. He met her eyes and
tweaked his mouth, as he did when he was pleased.

“Why teach me?” she asked. “You lost because you taught me.”

“No,” he said weakly. “I won. You are the prize.” His hand jerked. She lifted it to her cheek and he
brushed his fingers against her skin.

She remembered the touch of his hand on her face in the night. She remembered him standing behind
her, hands over hers, positioning her sword those many years ago. She remembered the first time she
bested him in practice and the special smile he gave her, the one he wore now. His eyes dulled and his
fingers relaxed. But the smile remained. She closed his eyes and stood.

Cy pulled her sword from Vas’s chest and lifted it above her head, tears streaking the blood and dust on
her face.

~ * ~

Cy put on the leather armor the pit master gave her for winning the tournament. It was stiff and
squeaked, but a good fit. She needed exercise to break in the armor and to keep her scars from
tightening. The wound in her stomach was bad, though not nearly as deep as she had thought in the
arena. No fast movement, the medic said. But she could do forms.

As she stretched, she scanned faces of the children huddled against the far wall for the brown-haired
boy. He wasn’t there. Anything I taught him in a day wouldn’t have saved his life, she thought. She
remembered Vas’s last smile. But for some other life, it will.

Cy went to the children and squatted down. The children clutched each other. A girl, barely a toddler,
buried her head in the chest of an older boy whose blue eyes met hers.

“Who would like to learn how to hold a sword?” she asked. They would all be her prizes.
THE LORELEI SIGNAL
V. Anne Arden lives in Scotland where she teaches and researches
computational biology for a living.  Her other creative outlet besides
writing is crafting chain maille-based jewellery, for which she has won a
number of awards.  Her speculative fiction stories and poetry have been
previously published in Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, Forgotten
Worlds, Bards and Sages Quarterly, and Aiofe's Kiss.

Visit her website at: http://www.vannearden.com/