Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [97]
Heart accelerating, I pull out the short blade I have tucked in my belt. I cut my arm where Lyn’s arm was cut. Then I reach down and knick my left leg where her left leg was nicked.
I step into the arena.
And something kicks in that I haven’t known for months. Maybe I’ve never known it. I have an almost unbearable sense of peace.
As the rest of the lights return, I see that Uber has pushed the modem back into the sand along with the cord. There’s a resounding noise as the crowd sees Uber and me facing each other again. I wonder if it’s actually a jeer. Maybe it’s a feeling about the management, or the wish for blood and death to make up for the management, but it’s a rousing sound nonetheless.
I never understood just how bright the lights in the arena really are—how invisible the crowd becomes—how much I could use a pair of dark glasses. But unlike my avatar, I can’t manifest them or fight with my eyes closed. I’m aware of all the calls, the chants. My head is filled with chanting.
I secure my left hand in the shield’s strap and grasp the sword tightly in my right hand and looking Uber dead in his visible eye, I give him a slight nod to say: I’m ready.
He lifts his chin in acknowledgment. He waits for me to begin.
If I were at the Ludus with a sparring partner, I would start with a blow to his sword arm. But Uber is left-handed, and I feel less confident here, despite all the practice. His face is guarded by his helmet. I could try for his stomach—always the gut—he stands with his shield slightly off to the right. There’s an opening if I’m quick enough.
But in thinking over Lloyd’s coaching, I aim high and suddenly swing low and make my effort at his knees. He’s very fast, deflecting my sword, which prompts me to raise my shield and right my sword again, but I’m surprised to see that I’ve drawn blood with the tip of my blade, just below his left kneecap.
You might think this would bring a certain satisfaction to the crowd but I’m aware of their impatience, especially the ones that hang around the edges, who almost reach in and try to fight for you. I’ve always thought the stadium is an odd design, the lower seats so close to the action that some people fall into the ring each year. Guards have certainly had to chase down the enthusiasts, the streakers, and so on. Accidents have occurred. Some fanatics actually try to do battle with the Glads in the arena.
Now the catcalls, the egging on. They’re like generals and senators—always carefully removed from the action but chronically propelling it.
Without waiting for me, Uber strikes his blade against mine as if to say: fight.
We go to blows again. And I think I’m holding my own until that second in which my mind steps out of the action and I realize I’m thinking about what I’m doing. And what I’m doing is feeling a stinging pain and my sword arm starts to bleed.
Then the stupid thoughts stream. I’m not my double. I could die, actually, truly die. And the only twisted antidote I can see, in this moment in time, is the knowledge that I’m capable of wounding and maiming and killing in real time, in the real world, without restraint.
I am everything I am not.
Uber rams his shield against mine now and in the impact my sword flies to the ground. I thrust my shield as hard as I can at him, and I’m surprised to see him trip. Maybe later I’ll learn he lost his footing as a way to buy me time. But for now I have my sword in hand again and he’s righted himself and we are fighting, harder now.
I cut his left leg, he slices my left arm. I rap my sword against his helmet, he cuts me below my chest plate. I hear the ten-minute signal.
And just as we raise our swords again, Uber is suddenly looking behind me, wide eyed, his mouth streaming terror as he calls out, —NO!
you can’t stop to think.
My feet seem to take off from the ground as I turn. I thrust my sword out with all the force I own, at the tiger, at the lion, at whatever Caesar’s has set free, covering my face with my shield,