Split of the Worlds (18+)

Chapter 4.2

Veidja floated through the fights as if in a dream. It was a good dream, almost a memory. The sounds and smells transported her to the Eternal Battle. She was rested and strong, had armor and weapons. The grotesque creatures sent into battle fell beneath her sword, drenching her clothes in bright red.

It was good. It was right.

Veidja allowed herself joy. Allowed herself to forget that she wasn't nearly as free as she felt right now. That she wasn't fighting for the White Mountain, but for a demonlord who was profiting from the spectacle.

For the moment, she didn't care. Between rounds, she drank the mana provided and changed her equipment as necessary while musicians entertained the arena patrons. She didn't think about it, took it as part of the war that gave her existence its justification.

It didn't matter whether she was killing crawlers or maiming captains. The main thing was that she could fight. It didn't matter that she was pierced by a bolt. It didn't matter that her leg almost broke under a heavy kick. It didn't matter that a claw tore open her side and her blood ran into her boots. She gave it all back and even more.

Then it was over.

She knelt over her last opponent in the sand. Her sword was still in his throat when she heard N'Arahn's voice echoing through the arena. She couldn't make out the words, her head filled with a constant roar.

Veidja leaned on her sword, the weight of it piercing the dead demon's neck with a strange mixture of cracking and squealing, and straightened up.

The portcullis to the chamber that had been available to her between battles had opened. She was released. Judging by the noise echoing down to her from the tiers, so had the demonlord's guests.

Suddenly Veidja felt tired and empty. With a careless movement, she pulled her helmet off her head and shook out her sticky hair. Then she tucked the helmet under her arm and pulled her sword out of the corpse with a jerk. She left the shield in the sand where she had thrown it after her last opponent's axe had broken it.

With heavy steps, she walked to the doorway. Any energy, any elation she had felt during the fighting had left her. She wanted to sleep, rest, maybe get a wash.

With a slight restlessness, she realized that she longed for the routine that had become familiar. She had been here far too long...

But today, not even this routine would be possible. The lord of the fortress had intended her as an entertainment for his guests. Even at the celebrations after the fighting. It was disgusting, but she had no choice. N'Arahn had made it clear to her that, if necessary, he would have her bound or presented as a will-less puppet. She hadn't yet decided how far she would let it come, but there was no question that she would show up for the festivities.

The last fight had taken its toll on her. Blood seeped from several wounds into her clothing and the upholstery of her armor. She would need another large portion of mana to close the wounds and be able to walk upright into the banquet hall. After all, she now had plenty of practice in caring for herself and healing injuries more quickly. Since the powers of the enhancers were not available to her, she had to get everything she could out of herself and the mana. The sun had really helped. Must have helped, even if she couldn't remember what exactly had happened. Veidja shook off the thought. No time for longing and daydreaming.

A short corridor, a small chamber. The battleangel left her armor and sword here. With regret, but anything else was pointless. The last time she had tried to keep these things, N'Arahn or his arena master had first sent her more opponents to tire her out. Then they made her bleed almost to senselessness to take everything from her without a problem. It had been frustrating and humiliating. Even the extra dead demons hadn't meant victory.