“Children of Deimos!” Geoxus’s voice echoed like thunder in a cave, though he did not appear to strain at all. He raised his hands, and again Madoc felt the urge to look down and drop to his knees.
Instead, he turned his gaze toward the small band of Kulan gladiators. One was as muscled as Geoxus himself, with long ringlets of black hair and hands big enough to crush a man’s skull. Another was older, and didn’t look like much of a threat.
Then again, neither did Elias, and he could knock down walls with a flick of his fingers.
Madoc felt the itch of someone watching, and when his eyes landed on a girl in the center of the group, he startled.
She was younger than the rest, close to his eighteen years, with long, graceful arms, and wild raven hair cascading over her shoulders. Her waist was narrow, her legs lean and strong. She had highcheekbones and a sharp chin, and when she caught him looking, she quickly turned away.
A morbid curiosity rose inside him. Plenty of trainees were young, but he’d never before seen a champion his own age. Could she throw ribbons of fire like the other Kulan fighters he’d seen? Could she summon a flame to dance in her bare hand? He knew it was wrong to want to see it—she was the enemy, and any skills she possessed would be used against good Deiman gladiators—but he was intrigued all the same.
“Today we enter into war with Kula!” Geoxus called. When the crowd grew quiet, the Father God stabbed a hand in his brother’s direction. “Last week, in a match with Kula over their barbaric attack of a Deiman fishing boat in the Telsa Channel, one of Ignitus’s mortals interfered.” The arena erupted with boos and angry threats, but Madoc’s eyes were drawn to the god of fire and the sour pinch of his expression. Ignitus hated Deimos and had attacked many times in Madoc’s lifetime, but this war felt desperate—he’d never heard of a god sending another gladiator in to win a match.
“The great Stavos would not be beaten, and though he defeated Ignitus’s champion, this violation of our sacred rules will not be ignored,” Geoxus thundered. “The stakes of this war have been set. Deimos and Kula wager fishing rights in the Telsa Channel. Kula wagers a twenty percent stock in their glass trade. And in addition, two seaports of the winning god’s choice, including all taxation and docking rights, will be surrendered indefinitely.”
Gasps gave way to more cheers, but Madoc could only gape in surprise. In the past, stakes of war had included a single port, or trade forwheat or some other crop with another country. But the entirety of the Telsa Channel, which ran between Deimos and Kula, ortwenty percentof Kula’s glass trade, plus two seaports—such a prize was unheard of. And a testament to Geoxus’s anger.
Only a god who valued the lost lives of his citizens would put so much at risk. Still, Madoc couldn’t help thinking what would happen if the Deiman champion did not succeed.
Geoxus raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “We will delay no longer. Ignitus has chosen his champions. How will they fare against the pride of Deimos?”
Jeers and laughter erupted around the arena. Madoc’s gaze turned again to the Kulan girl, who was now half hidden behind the giant warrior in her group. Her jaw flexed in hatred as she stared across the box toward Geoxus, standing beside her god. It reminded him a little of the way Cassia would get angry when they were young and he and Elias kept her out of their games. The likeness brought on a slash of pity, and guilt, because she was only with Petros now because he’d been foolhardy enough to fight in the first place.
“As it has been since the beginning, eight of my finest gladiators will fight for the chance to defend Deimos.”
The crowd cheered again.
In front of Madoc, the Deiman gladiators began to move in a subtle dance, transferring their weight, flexing their fists, tapping their weapons against the armor. Madoc could feel their energy swell, like a wave over the shore. He leaned forward, drawn to it.
“Yes,” Narris whispered beside him.
Yes, thought Madoc.
“The Honored Eight begin their trials at dawn. Each I have carefully considered. Each will do our great country proud.”
The gladiators began to nod, their weapons louder against the gold plates on their chests.
“Stavos of Xiphos!” boomed Geoxus, and the stands erupted in cheers. “Who will no doubt get his retribution for the interference in the match in Kula!”
The man holding the hammer raised his fist, then left the rank of fighters to move to the stage behind the trainees.
“Raclin of Crixion!”
A woman with thighs as thick as Madoc’s chest whooped, and jogged over to join Stavos.
One of them would be getting one thousand gold coins.
One might die in the final round against a Kulan champion.
“Jann of Arsia!”
A man with a bald head twisted his wrist, and with a small flick sent a spiral of sand high into the air. By the time it landed, he was on the stage with the others.
The crowd shouted their approval.
Three more names were called, and with each one, the crowd grew wilder, the remaining gladiators hungrier. A pressure built in Madoc’s chest, taking up the room for his lungs. It reminded him of how he could feel Elias’s anger, or anxiety, or fear, and how he’d sensed Fentus’s fatigue. But this was a thousand times more intense. Stealing his focus. Building pressure beneath his skin. Demanding some kind of release.
He forced his gaze up to the Father God and blinked through the screaming in his brain.
