Angus Karthright's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Angus Karthright pressed his thumb to the sign-up ledger and left a damp print beside his name. The clerk eyed his jockstrap, which strained to hold him, and smirked. Angus did not look away. One year ago he had stood in this same marble hall and failed. This time he would win the tournament, take his place as the king's concubine, and wipe that smirk off every face in the arena. He remembered last year too well. The coliseum had roared. He had made it to the final round, down to the last two men. All he had to do was take them, bottom out, hold his ground until the horn. He could not. His legs shook. His pride cracked. The master of the games, a mountain of a man who ran the floor, had watched him fail and laughed. Then the master had used him anyway. Right there on the sand, in front of the private boxes, he had bent Angus over and finished what Angus could not. The crowd cheered the master, not him. Angus had crawled out of the elongated marble arena with his name struck from the winners' board. So he trained. All year, in a shed behind his lodging, he worked with the strange plants he bought at the market. They grew in a thick cluster, smooth and fleshy, each stalk rising like a man and slick with clear ooze. He started with the small ones. He practiced taking them, week after week, until his body stopped fighting and learned to open. He ate the dripping peach fruits from the staff-trunked plant to keep his strength up, swallowing their white syrup before each session. The clerk slid the ledger back. "Same as last year, Karthright? Here to warm the bench?" Angus flexed his chest and set both big hands flat on the counter. "Last year I couldn't take two," he said. "This year I'll take the whole field." The clerk's smirk faltered. He stamped the entry and waved him through the arch. Angus stepped into the training yard beneath the stands. He stripped off his wrap and tested himself one last time on the tallest stalk in the cluster. His body took it. No shaking. No cracking pride. He pulled free, breathing hard, and grinned. A shadow fell across the sand. The master of the games filled the archway, arms crossed, watching him the way a butcher watches meat. "You came back," the master said. His voice was low and amused. "Good. I remember how you finished." Angus straightened. His heart kicked, but his legs held. "So do I," he said. "This time you won't get the chance." The master laughed and turned toward the arena gate. The brackets were posted that evening. Angus found his name on the board at last. First match, opening day. His opponent: the master of the games himself.