Soldier of the Sand (Witchfire 5)

Chapter 2 - Brother in Arms

The spiny teeth of twelve gates lifted on cue, vomiting hideous chimaeras onto the sand — magically spliced aberrations of nature left over from last month's tired parody of The Hunger Games. Spartacus and Crixus pulled down their visors, put their backs to each other and curled their fingers in anticipation and feathered boars, winged lions and drooling mutts sprinted towards them, starved and beaten to the point of madness.

Sand hissed as it slid down the dunes in tiny rivulets, the only indication that a new structure was about to burst free from the centre. Tell me they're listening, I thought, gripping the balustrade until my knuckles went white. Roland was more eager than experienced, and despite everything he'd done, I'd yet to decide how I felt about him. He hadn't had an opportunity to make decisions on his own behalf, yet, and I'd resolved to judge him by the man he chose to be.

Spartacus barked a warning, spinning away, and Roland's focus shifted from the advancing horde to his cracked leather sandals. It wasn't a moment too soon; what looked like a human femur, sharpened like a stake, thrust through the ground between his feet and up into the sky. It would have cleaved him in two if he didn't leap back in time, grabbing hold of the pole and riding the tower to its full height.

"Two O'clock!" Roland shouted from his perch, warning his partner of the mutts trying to flank him.

My half-brother leapt from the ramparts, grabbing a carnivorous bull by the horns and swinging like a child on monkey-bars. The momentum of his jump enabled him to wrench the creature's head to the side, and a sickening crunch reverberated through the arena, followed by a round of applause.

Motion blur drew my attention to the other side of the bone tower, where the horde descended on his partner. Spartacus moved with alarming speed, the sword on his hip forgotten as he thrust a meaty hand into a chimaera's chest, closing around a rib. I felt the crack in my bones as he ripped it out with a savage roar, wielding the jagged end like a dagger, punching holes into whatever surface presented itself.

"How thrifty!" the Golden One cried in delight.

Roland fought to reach his partner with the unchecked rage of a mother bear separated from her cubs. Anger radiated off him in waves as he shifted into a hulking wolf form, mauling rather than battling any monster unlucky enough to cross his path. Flesh parted between his claws like cheese through the gaps of a grater, the sticky mush piling around him in mockery of the dunes.

Speaking of which, the arena was already rumbling again, anticipating its next change. I counted myself lucky that I wasn't a gladiator in the days of hills and whirlpools and hidden traps, all dependent on the favour of the crowd. In my time, the arena was flat as a football pitch, the white sand raked smooth after every match.

The sand settled when the gladiators reached each other, presumably because they didn't want to ruin the entertainment that was manifesting. Roman seized a handful of Roland's wiry ruff, swinging up onto his back and unsheathing his sword. It was largely theatrical — he had better reach and speed on his own two feet — but the crowd went absolutely wild for it.

Together, they made a formidable pair. My initial concern abated as I realised they were in no real danger, so I redirected my worry towards the conundrum of how, exactly, I was going to bring them in. I was smart enough to know when to avoid a fight, and while I believed that I could take on Roland and win, the Irephang gladiator was a wildcard.

It all depended on whether they were here against their will. In my head, two paths diverged. In one, I was a liberator; I facilitated a heist and broke them out of their magical prison, leveraging their unique talents along the way. The other story, however, was far less flattering of my character. It was the version of events wherein I captured them by force. Which I would, if I had to; I didn't really care what they wanted at the end of the day, so long as it served my ulterior motive. I was working towards a greater good that trumped individual desire.

I might have to call for backup, I thought, my mouth puckering at the ghost of a bad taste. I didn't like dealing with my handler at the best of times, and working with others still wasn't my strong suit. Taking orders, yes — I was a soldier at heart —, but people were unpredictable, and I didn't want their inexperience — or pig-headedness — getting in the way of my mission.

A raucous cheer went up. The sandstone rumbled as people stamped their feet in response to the gladiators' red-painted victory, and I grit my teeth to stop them from rattling.

This could be what you were waiting for, I thought, forcing myself to consider all potentials. The chance to bring it all down.

For too long, I'd been forced to watch from the sidelines, when what I really wanted was to force change. I wanted to rig the stands with enough explosives to blow a hole in the fabric of reality. I wanted to incinerate all these foul, evil people until not even ash remained. I wanted Chance Nightshade to give me a damn army so that I could take the place by force and rip off the Golden-One's ridiculous mask, exposing her mediocrity like a villain in a child's cartoon. I wanted my mother's head on a pike.

It wasn't too much to ask for, surely.

I don't care who they send or what they say, I decided, jutting my chin. I'm doing this my way. But I'll take whatever help I can get.

I'd also been raised to be thrifty, after all. Which was how I managed to take a picture of Roman Irephang through a hole in my pocket as he waved goodbye to the crowd, stoking the favour that may well save his life later down the track.