Read by Grace Cookey-Gam
The crowd stomps in one booming heartbeat. A ruddy patch stains the middle of the sand-caked arena floor. I’m wearing a helmet and almost no armour with barely enough clothes to cover me.
The Viper strides through the other entrance with his sword raised and the people cheer for him as they always would. He lifts off his helmet, which he’s never done, and tosses it into the mob. With grey streaked through his hair, the leather skin of his face sags compared to when we first met.
My parents had died and I was sold off to cover debts, like a sheep or a chair. Just another piece of inventory to balance the books. My owner eyed me from head to toe, thinking aloud how to maximize profits of my ownership, when the Viper happened by and laughed.
“Scrubbing pots or spreading legs? If you’ll excuse me, master, you haven’t the right eye for this one’s talents.” He used his sword to push my crossed arms down and pressed the cold blade against my hand to flatten it against the side of my legs. “See how her fingers extend so far below her knee? The army would’ve drafted her years ago if she’d been a boy.”
The master scrunched up his face.
“Trust me,” the Viper continued. “She’ll have the reach of a seven foot man. My style will suit her perfectly.”
The master shrugged. “Fine, but if you screw up then it’s coming out of your winnings.”
The Viper led me down to the training area, the smell of sweat and the sound of wooden clacks filling the air. “Thank you,” I said over and over.
He smirked. “Save your thanks. Of all possible lives, I’ve just volunteered you for the worst.”
But now in the arena, the stomping continues as the crowd’s manufactured heartbeat returns to life. We share a few words at the centre before the match begins.
“Look at you, my little cobra. All grown up. Not a girl any more,” the Viper says, reminding me of the training yard years ago when I tried to kiss him and he pushed me away, saying “You’re just a girl.” When I said that I wanted to, he shook his head: “No, then I’d be no better than this filth.” He gestured with open arms, casting the insult on the whole world.
“I heard if you win today then you’ll have enough to buy your own freedom.” I rip off my helmet and toss it to the side as the braided hair that was tucked underneath it falls down my back.
He nods. “After this I’ll be free for the first time. I’m just glad it’s you in my way.”
Chants join the stomping.
He gives the audience a small salute. “We’d better start before they kill us instead. What do you think, three grazes of crimson foreplay and then the real show?” Just like in bed, it’s always better to build to the climax.
“Sure. Three. Then you die.”
“That’s the spirit.”
The Viper raises his blade and I explode towards him, the clashes of our swords filling the arena. The crowd erupts as we dance away from the slippery centre area where neither of us enjoy the footing. Exchanging long graceful slashes, he spins away from me, exposing his back. I leave a long, shallow cut along the shoulder.
He lunges at me several times, my blade veering it just left or right each time. I let the last one glide across my side.
One.
I widen my eyes, staring right at his shoulder, and thrust at it twice. He easily parries both, but I’m just setting up for later.
We exchange slashes along each other's bellies.
Two.
The Viper bounds at me with wild swings, jumping through the air like a cat pouncing after a mouse. The edge of his sword nips at my face and a warm trickle flows down my cheek. I return the favour across his thigh.
Three.
Our stances changes. Our movements now short. Quick. Efficient.
I widen my eyes, aim for his shoulder again. He moves his blade to deflect but I feint, the point of my sword biting deep into his leg.
He bounces away. “I didn’t teach you that.” He grimaces but switches to laughter. “I love it.”
The Viper’s lunges are still like lightning, but his recoveries are much slower due to the wound in his leg. I hold my blade far out to the side to bait him. He once told me, “Only novices go for it. But if they do, you kill them.”
He smiles and takes the bait, his sword reaching far out in front of him, his balance completely off. I can’t believe it.
I step to the side while my blade sinks into the middle of his chest. His eyes glaze and he crumples over. The spectators roar.
“Don't worry, you were always better than this filth,” I say and lift my arms up at the crowd in a grand gesture, walking around and soaking in the glory on the outside, though I feel as if I’ve been the one to take a sword through the heart.
Back in my cell, the sounds from outside die down, the night air filling with the mating calls of the drunk. My owner drags a wooden chest behind him while it jingles and jangles in that way you’d hope a chest might. He opens the cell door.
“You’re free. Old bastard gave me everything he had; said to bet it on you to win. Enough money in here to buy your freedom three times over.”
My mouth hangs ajar. I half expect his ghost to appear and say, “And the Viper gets the final strike,” or something equally stupid, and we’d share one last laugh.
But no. Instead I’m here alone. Just my happiness and tears and more money than I’d ever know what to do with.
The next day, I’m in a bustling market trying to get a sense of this whole freedom thing. The sun feels warm but the air smells like horse shit and I think to myself, maybe I wasn’t missing so much.
A girl stands on a stage as a slave master gives his best sales pitch. Cooking. Cleaning. Other unnamable services which cause a few men to stop and listen.
I have the urge to kill them all, but instead of reaching for my sword I grab a pouch full of coins. “If you’ll excuse me, master, you haven’t the right eye for this one’s talents.”
I hand him the pouch. I turn to the girl. And I stretch out my hand.
(c) Joshua James Jordan
Joshua James Jordan is an almost serious author of fantasy and science fiction with a few published stories, a draft of a novel, and a mind full of lies. You can check out his other fiction at JoshuaJamesJordan.com.
Grace Cookey-Gam signed up for a radio drama course in 2011 out of curiosity and graduated in acting from City Lit in 2013. Credits include Tyrant Season 3 & Melissa in #Hashtag Lightie at the Arcola. In August she will be at the Stephen Joseph Theatre, Scarborough, for Di & Viv & Rose. Grace is also a singer, teacher, voiceover artist and Radio 4 addict.
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