LEANORE 19
By Heck



Comments to heck@beadyeye.net

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE SKIES RAINED FIRE.

Dodging and twisting, Leanore sprinted between the walls of a high maze, panic
in her breast as she ran. Gobbets of flame burst around her pounding feet and
a burning blizzard blasted through the scorched air. Fireballs as big as her
head smashed into the walls, exploding into huge sunbursts that showered her
with stinging, glowing embers. Her shift had caught fire long ago, it seemed,
and she had stripped it from her body so that now she ran naked down the
twisting passageways.

The dread of burning to death was the source of the fear in her, but more than
that was the knowledge that, for once, her great strength and physicality was
of no use to her whatsoever. Risking a glance over her shoulder, Leanore felt
the hot grip of death close about her heart.

A swirling, boiling column of fire rushed between the cliff-like walls faster,
she knew, than she could run. She willed the muscles of her legs to greater
efforts, putting on a burst of speed.

The blank face of a dead-end appeared before her. She just had time to put up
her hands, allowing her coiled-spring muscles to absorb the impact as she ran
into it. Her eyes darted round wildly.

There, behind her. A passage to the left. She backtracked and ran into it.

Dead-end!

Another passage opposite.

Dead-end!

Trapped. She was trapped between three dead-ends and the rushing, roaring wall
of flame that came ever nearer. With absolute certainty, Leanore knew she was
going to die.

She shrank into a corner, feeling the searing heat of the firewall, smelling
the pungent aroma of her hair and eyebrows singeing with the blaze almost on
top of her. She fell to her knees and wrapped her arms around her head,
curling up like a foetus and screaming in terror.

Something touched her shoulder.

Her hand shot out, and her iron fingers closed around the slender column of a
throat, shutting off the windpipe as she opened her eyes.

Sweat ran from her body and soaked the sheets; sheets that had become tangled
and knotted where she had thrashed and struggled in the throes of her
nightmare. Chest heaving, sucking in huge lungfuls of air, she sat up.

Two small hands were clawing ineffectually at her muscular wrist, vainly
trying to prise her hand from its vicelike grip. Leanore's eyes focussed and
the stricken face of Claudia, tongue protruding and eyes bulging, swam into
view.

"Gods!" Leanore released her grip immediately, and Claudia sank to her knees
beside the cot, coughing and gasping, thankful to be able to breathe once
more.

"Are you all right?" Genuine concern filed the strong woman's voice as she
laid a hand atop Claudia's head. The servant nodded, not quite able to speak
yet.

"A dream!" Leanore said. "That's all it was, a bloody dream!"

"I know", Claudia croaked. "I heard you screaming, and came to see what was
wrong. You were thrashing about, and you looked terrified".

"It was so real". Leanore swung her legs over the edge of the cot and offered
Leanore a hand up. The servant sat on the side of the cot, while Leanore went
to the basin to rinse her face with cold water. "I was running, and there was
fire everywhere. I couldn't escape. Then something, I don't know what, caught
hold of my shoulder".

"That was me. I shook you to awaken you, and you grabbed me". Claudia rubbed
her sore neck.

"I'm sorry. Are you sure you're OK?"

"I'll be fine". Claudia gave a lopsided nervous smile. "But I'm glad I don't
have to face you in the arena. I mean, you were asleep and you almost killed
me! I'd hate to think what you could do to me when you're fully awake".

Leanore draped a long, muscular arm over Claudia's narrow shoulders and gave
her a brief hug.

"You don't have to worry. That'll never happen. What time is it?"

"About an hour past dawn".

"Time I was up and about, then". Leanore stretched her long body. Every muscle
and sinew stood out in detail, and rippled sinuously as a delicious tingle ran
through her. "We have to meet the Domina for breakfast, and see who my first
opponent will be".

"I've got some water heating for your bath", Claudia told her. "And I've laid
out a clean shift. Your costume is in your backpack, ready to go".

*

The herbal tea grew cold in its fine pewter cup as Julia Domina sat musing
while she waited for her protégée. A wax tablet lay on the small table at her
side, the rules of competition. It was to be different, this year, and Julia
wondered what it would mean for her ambitions.

In years past, the first round had been a simple draw, matching fighter to
fighter in a random manner. This year, however, there had been so many
entrants, over three hundred, that logistically it would have unwieldy and
impractical to follow tradition. The games were scheduled to last a fortnight,
and there had to be a way to whittle them down quickly in order to accommodate
the timing of the programme. It had been decided that, for the first round,
all three hundred plus gladiators would enter the arena together and fight
until the last sixty-four were standing, Then the finalist, the man or woman
who would face the champion, would emerge in six rounds.

Quick, efficient, and savage. This was the way of the Empire.

Julia Domina was worried. She had every confidence that Leanore could handle
any challenge head-on, but anything could happen in such a melee as was
proposed. She could be borne down by sheer weight of numbers, or stabbed in
the back. Anything. She was uneasy about the prospect of sending Leanore into
such a chancy scrummage, and her brows knitted as she pondered the problem.

"'Morning!" Leanore's cheery greeting roused Julia from her reverie.
Instantly, she banished all traces of worry from her lovely face and smiled
warmly.

"Good morning to you". The lady indicated that Leanore should sit, totally
ignoring Claudia who followed behind the tall gladiatrix. She had accepted the
servant's presence and treated her much better since Leanore's intervention,
but still did not deign to acknowledge her. "And how are you this fine day?"

"Well, thanks. So, who is it? Who's first?"

"Ah, There's been a change to the programme. Because it's the Emperor's
Jubilee Games there are so many entries that they can't fit all the fights in.
So the first round will be a free-for-all, until there's just sixty-four of
you left".

The implications of this hit Leanore instantly. She gazed at Julia, chewing
her lip in thought.

"So it's just going to be luck, who goes through?" she said finally, crossing
her legs and leaning her chin in her hand. "Not necessarily the best, but the
sneakiest?"

"Seems so". Julia looked genuinely concerned as she laid her elegantly
manicured hand atop Leanore's. "Listen, I'll make no bones about it, I want
you to win. I've got a lot riding on you in terms of reputation, not to
mention money. But if you want to withdraw, if you feel these new arrangements
are unfair and too dangerous, that's OK. We can always come back next year".

"What, and be the woman who chickened out of the Jubilee Games? No. Neither of
us could live with that". Leanore gave Julia a dazzling smile that was
returned with equal radiance, and the two women looked into each other's eyes
with real affection for a long moment.

"Because there isn't a draw, the gladiators will be allowed to pick their own
style. What weapons will you choose?"

"I think I'll just go with the secutor", Leanore replied. "It's what I'm most
comfortable with, and by the sound of it I'll need every bit of flexibility in
there". She stood up. "Come on, Claudia. Let's go and get ready".

*

Like a yellow moon, the packed sand of the arena shone in the glare of the
afternoon sun. The morning had been filled to overflowing with athletic
events, horse races, and entertainment, but now an anticipatory rumble ran
through the crowd as they settled down to watch the main event.

The blast of a hundred trumpets split the air, their fanfare announcing the
arrival of the Emperor. The audience rose cheering to its feet as their ruler,
a deity in his own right, waved from the Royal Box.

In truth, it could have been anybody in there. Anybody dressed in purple
robes. The arena was so vast that nobody in the crowd could actually make out
his face. But the sheer presence of the man, the outpouring of pure charisma,
was sufficient to verify his identity. Nodding benignly, he took his seat. The
merest flick of his fingers was sufficient to bring the tabarded herald at his
side to attention, blowing a short, complicated voluntary on his trumpet.

This, in turn, was a signal. With mechanical precision, a hundred trumpets
were simultaneously raised to a hundred lips and an overture rang out across
the amphitheatre. All around the walls the big gates rattled open and fifteen
score gladiators, all in the peak of physical condition and dressed in the
colours of their patrons, marched into the space to be greeted by a roar of
welcome from the hordes of spectators. Races and throwing events were all very
well, but this was what they had really come to see. Combat. Battle. The
spillage of blood and the prospect of glorious death. This was the
entertainment they lusted after.

In one of the dark tunnels, standing in line waiting her turn, Leanore knew a
little flutter of anticipation in the pit of her belly. Her purple helmet hid
the expression in her eyes, but her very being spoke of hyper-alertness as
she bounced lightly on the soles of her feet, moving ever closer to the gate.

When she emerged, the glare of the sun all but dazzled her. Marching smartly
forward, she squinted at the tiers of stands, marvelling at the sea of tiny
faces.

Nearing the centre, her eyes sought and found Julia Domina, sitting in one of
the boxes reserved for the aristocracy. Her patronne was smiling and looked
relaxed, but there was something about the set of her tanned shoulders that,
even from this distance, spoke to Leanore of the tension in the woman's mind.

The Domina raised a hand, acknowledging Leanore as the gladiatrix came into
line with the others. The combatants all formed up in serried ranks, facing
the Emperor, and stood in respectful silence while the referee took up his
position on a small balcony just below the Royal Box.

Her small, round shield in her left hand and the short, gleaming steel sword
she had made herself in her right, Leanore took several slow, deep breaths
while her eyes darted across the fighters nearest to her. Some, she knew. To
one side, a heavyset, muscular woman, looking very dangerous but perhaps past
her best. To the other a tall, rangy man, whose stringy muscles belied his
speed and strength. In front, the wide back and bull neck of a very big man
with net and trident, who Leanore did not recognise.

The immediate threat, though, came from the person directly behind her, who
she could not see. She had to bear in mind also that bull-neck in front would
similarly see her as a threat. Her feet shifted slightly as she prepared
herself.

On his feet now, the Emperor came to the edge of his box, arms spread wide in
welcome. Leanore could not make out his features in any detail from this
distance, but he appeared t be smiling. As they had been taught, all the
gladiators raised their weapons in salute, speaking their pledge in unison.

"We offer our lives in combat, for the glory of the Empire!"

The Emperor inclined his head in acknowledgement and returned to his
comfortable couch. All eyes turned to the referee as he raised his flag. In
this round his job would be to keep count, and call a halt when the numbers
were sufficiently reduced.

The flag dropped.

Leanore took one pace back and spun on the ball of her foot. Propelled by the
strength of her long, muscular arm, her gleaming sword flashed round in a
sweeping arc to slice across the throat of the man behind. A spray of red
splattered over her and the man, in the act of moving to skewer her in the
back, dropped his trident and toppled forward, his face a picture of
astonishment.

Leanore let her momentum carry her right around. Her sword bit into the neck
of the stocky woman, who collapsed in a boneless heap. Before the carcase had
hit the ground, Leanore dropped to one knee and raised her shield above her
head.

The rangy man's sword clashed against the dished disc and glanced off. Leanore
threw herself forward on her hands and lashed out backwards with one foot. Her
heel smashed into the man's gonads with a satisfying squelch and he folded up,
mouth yawning wide as a high-pitched squeal escaped him. He would play no
further part.

Her legs kicked up, and Leanore cantilevered to her feet in time to face the
bull-necked man who now charged her. Her shield dashed aside his trident as
she ducked under his swung net, reaching up to hack at his arm with her
shining blade. It rebounded from the iron wristguard he wore, but distracted
him sufficiently so she could ram the edge of her shield into his paunchy gut
with enough force to wind him. She rose up, and the pommel of her blade
smashed into the back of his head with a wet thud. He measured his length in
the sand, a deep indentation that oozed blood in the back of his cranium.

In as many seconds, four bodies lay around her, either dead or incapacitated.
She took a moment to glance about, sizing up her situation.

A body slammed into her back, catching her by surprise, and pitched her
forward. Her helmet tumbled from her head and her sword and shield fell from
her hands as she stretched out her arms to save herself.

Leanore spun onto her back, almost before she hit the ground, to see another
retiarius looming above her, trident lunging at her neck. He was a big man,
swarthy and muscular, and there was a great deal of power behind his thrust.

Like a striking cobra, Leanore's hand shot out and grasped the trident,
between the tines, at the angle where they joined the shaft. The man's jaw
dropped as his weapon was stopped dead, inches from its mark, and his eyes
started from his head as Leanore began to push back.

"Gods!" he rasped. "How strong are you?"

Leanore gave him a feral grin, showing clenched teeth.

"Stronger than you", she said pleasantly. Still using one arm, the other
groping blindly for her dropped sword, she forced the forked weapon away. The
great straps and cables of her arm muscles rippled with effort as the man
leaned in with all his weight and power, but gradually he was shoved back
until Leanore's arm was straight.

He did not dare let up, because he knew that Leanore would wrench the weapon
from his grasp and turn it against him. In a display of incredible strength,
and still feeling for her own weapon, the woman began to sit up and her
opponent knew real fear as he realised he was in a trial of strength he could
not possibly win.

She was on her feet now, having given up the hunt for the sword, and held the
trident out to one side. The only thing pitted against him was the strength of
her single extended arm, and he leaned his weight against it, knowing that an
instant's relaxation would mean the end of him.

The length of the trident was such that, even at full stretch, Leanore could
not reach him. But she did not have to. She could make him come to her.

She let go.

The gladiator stumbled forward, carried by his own inertia. Leanore knotted
her hand into a teak-hard, knuckly fist that she slammed into his face with
all her force.

It was like running full-tilt into an oak beam. His feet left the ground and
he fell in the dirt like a pole-axed steer, where he lay unmoving, nose and
face mashed to a bloody pulp by the blow.

Leanore cast around for her sword. Her shield had been kicked away into the
affray, but the blade lay just a few feet away, its distinctive polish
glinting in the sun. She tossed aside a couple of grapplers, and bent to pick
it up.

Her fingers had closed about the hilt when a movement caught her eye and she
flung herself to one side. Coming up on one knee, she saw a scarlet helmeted
gladiatrix, tall, lean, and as dark as Leanore herself, silhouetted against
the light as she completed a failed swing. Leanore stood to meet this new
challenge, but the other woman was distracted by an attack from another
source.

A strange looking man, with his hair in a long plait, leapt out in front of
her, brandishing twin swords with arms that were held high and wide as he
yelled at her. Almost contemptuously, she drew her razor sharp blade across
his belly and turned away as he sank to his knees with ropy loops of intestine
spilling from his laid-open stomach. He clutched at his own innards with a
look of amazement, before toppling forward onto his face.

Behind her, a male voice roared in defiance. She wheeled to face a pale
skinned, blond haired man with wild moustaches and horns on his helmet, who
charged her with a wicked raised axe. He was short, but stocky and obviously
strong, and in the grip of a berserker rage.

Leanore lifted a foot and slammed it into his chest, halting him in his
tracks. She dodged the downswinging axe and rammed the heel of her hand into
his face, just below the nose. His nasal septum speared up into his brain, and
he was dead before he hit the ground.

A whip snaked out and coiled around her blade. The steel was so sharp that it
sliced through the plaited leather, but not before the sword was twitched out
of her grasp. She spun, and found the whip-wielder to be a hawk-faced, dark
man dressed only in a brief loincloth. He had an insane look in his eyes, but
handled his whip with consummate skill.

Leanore stood at bay, half crouched with feet planted wide. With the length of
the whip to keep her away she did not know, just yet, how she was going to
deal with this new assailant.

Time and again, the whip lashed out, and each time it cracked against some
part of her body, leaving a raw, stinging wheal wherever it touched her. Every
move she made, the whip was there, toying with her, leaving its painful mark
on her flesh. The whipman was laughing, now, knowing he had her exactly where
he wanted her, knowing it was but a matter of time until her found an opening
to strike at her throat or temple, blows that would kill nearly every time.

She was getting angry. Angry, frustrated, and not a little desperate. It
seemed there was nowhere she could go, nothing she could do, to avoid the
deadly lash. Then an idea came to her.

Letting a semblance of fear show on her face, Leanore shook her head and began
to back off, holding a hand palm outward in a 'keep away' gesture.

He could not resist it. An evil smile played about his thin lips as his arm
came back. The whip struck like lightning, coiling out to wrap tightly and
agonisingly around Leanore's extended wrist.

Her steel-fingered hand closed about the thong.

He jerked his whip stock, expecting the lash to snake back to him. Shock
flashed across his features as he realised that was not going to happen.
Smiling, Leanore tugged the stock out of his hand and flung the whip away
behind her, leaving him looking and feeling slightly ridiculous.

Almost casually, she took a step toward him. Bereft of his weapon, he was no
longer much of a threat. He must have realised this, because he took one look
at the powerful female approaching him and took off like a rabbit.

She soon found her sword again. This is getting silly, she thought as she
picked it up and tucked it into her belt. Straightening, she smashed her elbow
into the face of the gladiator coming up behind her and bent to grasp his
ankles. Swinging him round like a human club, she used his body to mow down
three others before flinging him into the riot like a sack of garbage and
turning to face the next challenge.

All afternoon, the fights went on. Many were killed and even more were
injured, often mortally. A few simply became too exhausted to continue and
retreated to the sidelines, sinking to their knees to signal the resignation.

Leanore wasn't doing too badly. Most of the blood in her body was not hers
and, apart from the angry raised welts from the whip, she had a few minor cuts
and bruises but was otherwise uninjured. Her respiration and heart rates were
slightly elevated and she was sweating freely, but thanks to her enormous
strength and stamina she felt, if not fresh, at least fit to carry on to the
end.

She turned to face yet another opponent and, at that moment, the trumpets
sounded and the referee waved his flag. There were sixty-four survivors, and
the first round was over.

Panting heavily, Leanore lined up with her fellow gladiators and faced the box
to receive the Emperor's accolade. She looked to Julia, and was gratified to
see her patronne beaming down at her with pride. The ruler smiled benignly as
he gave them his blessing, and then they all turned and trudged, rather than
marched, from the arena.

Inside the cool tunnel Leanore leaned against the wall and breathed deeply,
grateful to have survived the first day of the games.