The House of Daggers (#NaNoWriMo 18)

Chapter 1

Kara's hands shook from fear, anticipation, knifing emotions that lived with her every waking day. She was sitting in the grey-walled preparatory room just outside the Blood Pit with her fellow zeroes. All of them were around her age, some even younger. If death had a face, it would be theirs: pale and wide-eyed, and hungry to the bone.

They were forced to participate in the gauntlet. If you didn't fight, you starved. For some time now she'd been avoiding this moment, hoarding scraps from whatever she could collect during pig feed hour.

Pig feed was rotten apple peels and moldy oat grains, or whatever the Superiors deemed undesirable to their tastes. Blade-men dumped them in troughs and had Kara and her compatriots claw and scratch over the precious bits of food. A death or two occurred  every feeding hour. After the hour, Superiors sent these blade-men to drag the lifeless away, never to be seen again. No mourning. No eulogy. Survival was top priority. Nothing else mattered here, except her little brother.

It was because of Wren that she hoarded her pig feed. It was because of him that a blade-man slapped her with a strike after a nosy zero reported her. Get three strikes and a blade-man called you up to Sir Demick's court. She'd witnessed several boys and girls getting called up and no longer saw them around the barracks. The Superiors would say they'd been sent to the reform center and that zeros should all adhere to the rules lest they meet the same fate.

See, there were lots of rules here at Hellghast:

No hoarding.

No disobedience.

No rebelling.

No bad-mouthing.

No escaping.

The last rule was easiest to follow, because as bad as Hellghast was, the outside was worse. Marauders roamed the wasteland of burnt out towns, grey and eaten away. They lived like kings. They especially craved girls and boys as young as Wren, who was turning twelve tomorrow. Or at least that's what they'd been told.

A sudden jolt knocked Kara out of her imaginings. She was staring up at a grizzly-faced blade-man, nose like a potato wart.

"Get your weasly arse up before I give you a strike," he bellowed.

That got her to her feet in a beat, but she couldn't help slipping a curse under her tongue. The blade-man was none the wiser.

At the edge of her vision, she saw another blade-man tapping a waif-like boy on his bare shoulder. The scratchy leather tunic he wore, mandatory for both sexes, hardly concealed his rib-grooved chest and back. A network of ink, similar to the ones that ran across Kara's arms and back, were the symbol of the boy's submission. It was the brand of the zeroes, lest they forget who they were.

A vicious shove in the back forced Kara to stumble along the dark corridor. Rows of torches guided her to a quickening end. Muted voices swelled to a feverish pitch till a blast of heckles shived her ears. 

The corridor opened up to an enclosure within the prison. Stone benches ringed the upper reaches of the Blood Pit, ending at a black ceiling. No sunlight. The Superiors occupying those benches wore silver masks of devils. Rings of horned, snarling faces looked down upon Kara, hurling the filthiest of curses. Some of the voices sounded young; sons and daughters of the Superiors. They would grow to follow the vile legacy of their parents.

Fresh waves of jeers rung out, signalling that the mousy-eared kid had just entered the Pit. Kara wondered if the boy had already resigned himself to his fate, but then she held his eyes in hers and saw that unfailing desperation that existed within her. He was going to fight to the death. She was just an obstacle.

At the other end of the stadium, blade-men were dragging away a bloodied body. The brown-haired loser released a groan as his blood trailed on the wooden floor. He was still alive. Hope he makes it. But that was a foolish thought, she reasoned. Survival is one in the Pit, the superiors loved to say.

"Ladies and gents, that was a thrilling performance, wasn't it?" came a sunny voice. A cloaked man had just entered through the opposing gate. He too bore a devilish silver mask. His clenched hands reached for the ceiling, as if to rent it to the ground.

The audience of superiors raised both palms, their show of appreciation. If Kara had her way, she'd slice every one of their hands off. But then she'd be sent to the reform center. She couldn't leave Wren to fend for himself.

"The next battle will feature two un-blooded. This will surely be a treat to watch, don't you all think?"

The audience half-heartedly cheered. Perhaps they preferred seasoned vets who killed without batting an eye. Let them come down, she'd give them something to cheer about.

"Please welcome Kara. She has a brother, I believe, that goes by Wren. Should she die, not a soul will fend for him. So give her your bets, if you wish."

Kara felt as if a butcher had opened her insides. The announcer's words really meant: We know who's precious to you. Her blood ran like rapids.

Silence occupied the Pit. She soon realized that she'd forgotten to get down on her knee upon hearing her name. She did so hastily, for Wren's sake. The air was thick with displeasure.

The announcer, after casting a shadowy look at Kara, then introduced the mousy-eared kid. "Now welcome Reek. He has no siblings, but he's fallen, it seems, for a certain girl. Place your bets, if you wish, upon the lovelorn boy. "

Reek faced the Superiors and bent the knee. A rash of freckles caked the bridge of his long nose. A smirk danced on his bony face. He looked at Kara afterwards with a trace of pity in his eyes before the usual look of desperation won over. In that instant, they connected. Their situation was pitiful, but they had to do what they had to do to survive, even if it meant becoming an animal.

"Now that we have our champions," continued the announcer, " why don't we bring out their weapons?"

Two blade-men dressed in mail and jerkin, and lugging bulging sacks strolled out of the same passageway that the loser was dragged into just moments ago.

"Ladies and gents, the name of this game is called, 'feast or famine.' Those two fine gents will select one item from the sack of feasts and sack of famine.

Kara shifted on the balls of her feet. The Pit held its breath as one of the blade-men pulled out a short sword. The other blade-man pulled out a straw archery target. Applause thundered. Kara's eyes shifted nervously towards Reek: she saw a flash of fear in his eyes. Whoever wielded the sword would survive.

"Ah, now that's what we want to hear--that's what we live to here!" says the announcer, his voice rising an octave higher than Kara thought possible. "Now for the raffling!"

On cue, as if this whole thing was a play, a redheaded woman sauntered towards center stage holding a pot filled to the brim with strips of parchment.

The woman eyed the announcer. Waited for her orders, like an obedient dog.

"Our comrade will be selecting which champion will lay claim to the sword, ladies and gents!"

The woman jammed her hand into the bowl. Shreds of parchment spilling down the sides.

Please be me, please be me, please be me...

Red-Head pulled her hand out, flicking away loose pieces that stuck to her hand like leeches. Unraveling the crumpled strip, she cleared her throat.

"Reek"