The Will of the Many (Hierarchy Book 1)

THE RELEASED BELLOWING OF THE crowd is a wave hitting the stage, crashing down from the surrounding darkness.

Exhilaration courses through me at the sound. They’re unique, these eternal moments before a match truly begins. Blood pounding. Fighting to keep my breathing steady. Not sure whether it’s excitement or fear that’s heightening every sense, making my skin tingle and hands twitch in anticipation. Every second seems to draw out, every minor detail of the stage and my opponent seems to be brighter, clearer. There are the spindly cracks in the faded white stone underfoot, several spaces coated in fresh splashes of red. The warm heaviness of the air from a night of bodies packed together. The way the Sextus’s lip almost imperceptibly curls as he stalks forward, green eyes bleeding to black and glittering in the light of the torches arrayed around the stage.

Ellanher asked me what it’s all for. I tell myself that it’s for the coin, for the practice. For survival. And none of that’s a lie, but as the shackles on my mind fall away, I acknowledge that there’s another truth beneath it all.

This is the only place in the world where I don’t have to pretend to be friendly. Or dull. Or servile. Or weary.

This is the one place where I don’t have to hold back.

I start my mental clock. Five seconds.

The stage is large, a semi-circle perhaps fifty feet in radius. The bounds for the contest are set by the surrounding torches; if one of us steps past those, the fight ends. Of course, doing that too early doesn’t just destroy a career here. Ellanher made it clear before even my first bout that whatever injuries a fighter might avoid in doing so, would be revisited double upon them by the end of the night.

I head across to the centre of the stage, at an oblique angle to the Sextus’s path. He’s moving determinedly, but not hurrying. It occurs to me that he’s probably intensely conscious of making this look effortless; anything else would be embarrassing for him. That’s good. Means he’s more likely to act bored, rather than work to chase me down within this vital first minute.

I slide back as he nears and begin circling, staying out of range. He follows, still at the same deliberate pace. Fifteen seconds.

The first mocking call drifts from the crowd, quickly taken up by others. Baiting me. Baiting him. The Sextus’s pace subtly increases. I match it, drawing more scorn. I don’t care. I’ll throw punches and risk hits only when it’s smart, regardless of how I look.

Twenty-five seconds. Plenty of bawdy jokes about the Sextus enjoying the chase too much. Laughter. There’s something dark about the other man’s expression now, beyond the night in his eyes. They’re getting to him. Normally I’d enjoy that, but more anger means less mercy. I feint forward, as if to attack. It gives the athletic man pause. I resume my circling. Thirty seconds. I can barely believe my luck so far. No actual fighting.

The Sextus has remained at an exasperated stop at the centre of the stage. I slide to a halt as well, never taking my eyes from him.

“Octavus!” His voice booms, rich and louder than it should be, cutting easily through the jeers. I’m not technically an Octavus, having never ceded before, but neither he nor anyone else here knows that. “Are we really doing this? In front of everyone?” Trying to put the onus to engage back on my pride. Clever, and yet a complete misunderstanding of his opponent.

I don’t respond. Don’t move. Thirty-five seconds.

He steps forward, and I step back. He scowls openly this time. “I’d have thought twice about coming out here if I’d realised my opponent was such a coward!”

“Says the big brave Sextus fighting the Octavus,” I call back, to scattered approving laughs from the darkness.

I bite my tongue as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Stung to a reply. Perhaps not a complete misunderstanding by the Sextus, after all.

And he sees that.

“Ellanher told me about you.” His voice is still raised, but quieter than before, and I doubt his words carry beyond the stage. “She said that you’re an orphan.” There’s an ugliness to the way the words fall, and something deep in my chest shifts, tightens in response. Preparation for a different kind of assault.

He advances, I retreat. Forty-five seconds.

“But you’re old, for an orphan, aren’t you? So for some reason, no one wants you.” Advance, retreat. He shows me perfect teeth. His eyes are dead and cold. “Starting with your parents, I imagine. Did you even know them? Do you remember when they abandoned you, Solum, or have you always wondered about why they did it?” Advance, retreat. “Were they the ones who whipped you? Or did they just leave you to the ones who did?”

I try to block out his words but it’s hard to both focus on him and ignore them. He’s wrong, of course. Wildly off target in his guesses. But my breathing’s too shallow, for some reason. More of a growl. And I’ve lost track of the count. Is it a minute yet? There’s heat against my back. A torch. I’m too close to the edge. Hemmed in.

“I bet they were worthless anyway,” the Sextus crows as he closes in.

Everything goes cold. Sharp. Not here. Not out here, the one place I don’t have to think about them.

I advance.

Distant, the crowd roars.

The Sextus is smug as we meet. He throws the first punch, but it’s an obvious one and I let it sail over my left shoulder, closing in and delivering a swift strike to his ribs before darting away again. I’m not running anymore, but even through rage’s red veil, I know not to get close enough to be grappled.

It was a hard hit—I’m nowhere near as heavy as the Octavii who fight here, but I am fast—and the Sextus takes a step backward, smirk replaced by a grimace. It’s brief, though. Surprised rather than pained. I might have cracked a rib if I’d taken a blow like that. A Septimus would at least have a bruise. But the Sextus? His Will probably makes it feel more like I gave him a sharp push.

“A little sensitive, Solum?” he sneers, coming at me again.

I snarl and swing first this time, but he’s ready for it, dodges faster and more smoothly than I could possibly anticipate. Not as unskilled as I’d hoped. I overextend, try to twist away from the elbow I see coming in the corner of my vision.

It’s a glancing blow, in the end, more arm than elbow. Barely making contact with my left shoulder.

My face burns as it skids along cold stone. I’m blind. Winded, hacking. Cheers muffled and twisted in my ears. I gasp, vision and awareness returning enough to roll away from the Sextus, who towers over me. Not even looking at me, I realise. His back to me. Waving almost disinterestedly to the adulation of the darkness.

He grazed me. It feels like the building fell on my head.

My left shoulder’s in agony, so I put my right hand to my cheek. It comes away sticky, bright red. I steady and haul myself to my feet, bitterly grateful for the Sextus’s arrogance as my head clears. It has to have been more than a minute. My reward, not to mention survival, awaits. I just need to step off the stage before he turns.

But something still seethes, and it’s calculating my odds.

I know, both academically and from fighting Septimii, that even a hit that appears to do nothing is still a hit. For a Septimii, a blow needs to land in the same place at least twice before it starts to take full effect. For a Sextus, that’s likely to translate to at least seven or eight times.

So, terrible odds. But the idiot’s back is to me.

A voice from the corner of my mind is shrieking at me to be smart. It’s so distant, though.

I launch forward.

Perhaps the Sextus thinks I’m down. Done. Or he thinks I’ll fight honourably, wait for him to face me again before attacking. Or, perhaps, it’s just inexperience. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t respond quickly enough to the rising warning of the crowd.

I scream as I pour all my fury and momentum into the hooking, running punch at the side of his jaw, aiming for the point I know would knock out any regular person. He realises something’s wrong at the very last second, but I still make almost perfect contact.

There’s a shiver down my arm at the impact, and the Sextus groans as he staggers.

The enthusiastic shouts from the audience cut off, replaced by the sound of a hundred people gasping in unison. I don’t pay it any attention. Even at a fraction of its real strength, the positioning and power of that hit has made a difference. The Sextus is dazed. Stumbling.

I’m on him, right fist crashing again, missing the same spot on his jaw but connecting with his cheek. No time to think. I swing again, barely blocked this time. He’s reeling. Recovers enough to swat furiously at me; heat sears down my injured shoulder but it’s a panicked shot, no venom behind it, and I’m braced this time. I’m too far gone to care about the pain anyway.

It’s a cold, disconnected fury that drives me now, one that clears my head, slows time, and focuses. I feint and get in a hard strike to the Sextus’s collarbone, then another. I feel it give way on the third. He’s wheezing. Eyes black and wide. Struggling to comprehend. I surprise him by getting in close and delivering a savage knee to the groin—an effective strategy no matter how much Will is cushioning the blow, I’ve found—and then step back and follow with a thundering uppercut to his jaw as he doubles over.

He goes down.

I don’t stop, don’t give him a chance. I kick aside his warding arm and fall at him, bringing my fist down on his face. There’s blood, and it’s not mine. “You want to know about my parents, Sextus?” I’m snarling. I barely know what I’m saying. I straddle him and strike again, same place. “You want to know about my family?” Again. “You want to know why I have these gods-damned scars on my back?” The words come out ragged. A stranger’s voice.

He’s not answering. He’s not fighting back anymore.

There are strong hands looping under my armpits, pulling me off him. I thrash until I realise it’s useless to resist; then the rage is abruptly draining away, leaving me with nothing but ache and weariness. My vision’s blurred. The blow to my head? Tears? Blood? I don’t know. The Sextus is motionless on the ground. The stone near his head is splashed crimson.

Ellanher’s saying something, but the words are just a strange buzz. Now my wrath’s died, I think the Sextus’s hits are taking their toll. There’s a cloak being draped over my shoulders. Ellanher’s tone is worry overlaid with calm. She’s speaking slowly, as one would to a child. I still can’t understand her.

I let her half carry me off the stage. There’s no applause, no cheering. Just stunned muttering from the surrounding darkness.

As we shuffle away, I let out a bitter, tired laugh as I realise something. I won the fight. Which means I just lost my bet.

I’m barely going to earn anything from tonight at all.