In Ambridge’s homeland of Rylvia, the punishment for the highest degrees of crime was death. Regardless of your age, murder earned a death sentence. In the kingdom of Altavar, such criminals were sentenced to the arena instead. The state were their masters and sponsors, and their winnings were given to the family of their victims.
For children however, there was no sport in the arena. None of the typical patrons of the arena enjoyed watching a child get crushed by a monstrous Rylvian’s club. In addition, most adult contenders in the arena – no matter how cold or murderous – did not enjoy the act of executing a child. Many faced execution themselves rather than squaring off against the youthful contenders. Facing the displeasure of the masses, the Kings of Altavar had created the Children’s Arena; combat was inherently non-lethal, using wooden weapons instead of brass and cloth armor instead of leather. They also made a point of pairing child contenders against others that were close to their own age and size. This kept the patrons interested in the combat and made them go almost into a riot with excitement when a battle became deadly.
Unlike its higher counterpart, there were only two ways out of the Children’s Arena: death by combat or disease, or growing old enough to win freedom in the King’s Arena. The former of these was incredibly rare as the guards were trained to halt combat among children before things got too serious, and priests and mages were available to heal any ailments or major wounds. The patrons of the children’s arena paid, but they rarely bet on these matches as they primarily were simple fillers between bouts of the King’s Arena.
Ambridge sat in her cell, hearing the cheers and jeers of the audience directly overhead as they shouted for their chosen champions. The roof above her would shudder as thumping footsteps could be heard above her and occasionally splashes of spilt drinks would drip onto her head.
The small windows in the row of empty cells across from her gave her small glimpses of the action in the arena as the combatants moved across the sand; though after seeing a man put his blade cleanly through the chest of his opponent the night before, she made a conscious effort to look anywhere else in the cells.
Clinking plate armor announced the approach of the guard as he came to choose the next victim of the arena.
“You’re up!” he announced after checking his papers, swiftly unlocking Ambridge’s cell and pulling her out by the arm.
He led her with rough shoves and barked directions through a maze of hallways and barred cells. What she had assumed was a single bay of cells along the inner wall of the arena had actually been a labyrinth of halls beneath the stands. Most had no windows or light source at all, and she soon found herself grateful for the windows that she hated looking through.
As she passed through the cell bays she saw people of every race: Lythrain, Kin, Ibeald, and Urthendrain were seen in many blocks of the prison under the arena. Ambridge had seen all of these types of people on many occasions at her father’s manor and none were all that surprising. She kept her head down and followed the directions of the guard leading her right up until she saw a block of cells that were at least three feet taller than the others she had passed.
Inside this cell bay were rows of massive, brutish Rylvians. When she first glimpsed the Rylvians she was shocked and came to a quick stop to stare at them. They were common slaves in Altavar, and her father had several back on his estates in Rylvia. They were tall creatures, placed in this bay of larger cells to accommodate their great size. Their limbs were thick, their faces were distorted by massive snouts instead of noses, from which grew two horns. She had grown up knowing them as one of the gentlest races on the planet. What caused her shock was that most of these Rylvians were scarred from years of fighting in the arena and that one of the brutes had even replaced his larger horn with a brass replica that glinted off the little light in his cell.
A hard shove from behind her reminded Ambridge that she had an escort that did not allow for breaks in her quick march. She stumbled for a few steps and dropped her gaze back to the floor to avoid the ire of her guard.
They finally stopped when they entered a large room strewn with wooden weapons and padded armor across many racks and tables.
“Here she is, my Lord,” the guard announced.
“Thank you, sergeant.”
Ambridge couldn’t see the man that spoke, though when he stepped around a rack of tall staves she immediately understood why. He wore polished black boots that rose up to his knees, and a sharp, pressed coat of deep, midnight blue. Most astonishingly however, was his height. As he straightened his coat and extended his hand she saw he was several feet shorter than Ambridge! At most, she estimated that he was only as tall as the guard’s waist.
“Greetings!” he piped cheerily, “My name is Tynev, Master of the Children’s Arena! My job is to make the crowds love you!”
Opening a leather folder, Tynev flipped through several pages and pulled one out from the pile.
“You’re… Amolynn?” Tynev asked.
“Ambridge.” The guard corrected from behind her.
“Oh! Right!” Tynev exclaimed, “I have her right here!”
Tynev replaced the first page and flipped to another before pulling it out and snapping the folder shut.
“Let’s see…” Tynev muttered, “Former slave… accused of murder! That’s exciting! Killed your own master with a common wood axe after earning your freedom! Oh you’re going to make my job easy!”
Tynev set down his folder and darted across the room, returning with a small wooden ladder and a staff that was twice his own height. Jumping up the first several steps of his ladder, he held the staff against her back and muttered “almost five feet” before jumping down and rushing back around the room with his staff and ladder.
“Isn’t an ‘Ambridge’ a rose from Rylvia?” Tynev asked as he appeared from under a table with a wooden bladed axe.
“Yes,” Ambridge admitted, “My father grew them when I was a child.”
“Oh!” Tynev chirped as he handed her the axe, “That’s even better! What color are they?”
“White.” The guard replied, “My wife loves Ambridge roses.”
“Let’s see…” Tynev said as he darted into a closet in the corner, “Ah yes! Here we are!”
Tynev returned with a long white cloak and hopped onto a nearby table to drape it over her shoulders.
“It’s a little long, but we can tailor it to fit if you survive. Here she is!” Tynev exclaimed,
“Ambridge, the White Rose of Rylvia!
“Take her to the staging room!”
With another rough shove, the guard escorted Ambridge into a small room with a large gate into the arena. Several long moments passed in silence with the guard standing beside the door, obviously standing in that position to stop her from returning the way she had come.
The gate rattled open with a long clang and the ratcheting of chains. Ambridge gripped her axe nervously in both hands, hesitating to step onto the sand.
Outside, Tynev’s voice echoed loudly over the cheers and shouts of the crowd.
“Welcome ladies and gentlemen, to another bout of the Children’s Arena! We have two combatants that are new to the sands! From the underbelly of our streets comes a young thief with a quick hand, Barash the Quick Handed! And from the far away Kingdom of Rylvia, a former slave turned on her master, Ambridge the White Rose of Rylvia!”
A final rough shove from the guard sent Ambridge tripping onto the sand. Across the arena, Ambridge saw a large boy with a wooden knife in each hand. She flexed her hands on the haft of her axe, realizing as Barash came charging across the sand that she knew nothing about fighting.
She stood frozen in fear as Barash slammed into her, slashing his knife against her head as his knee knocked the wind out of her. Ambridge fell to the sand, losing her breath again as she landed on her back. Lights swam around her as she gasped for her breath. She knew Barash wouldn’t leave her to recover so she swung her axe blindly, hoping to keep him at bay long enough to recover her breath. She swung twice, feeling her axe stop mid-swing on the second pass.
During those first two blind swings, Ambridge felt her fingers surge with strength as her Seal activated again. Air returned to her lungs and her head cleared as Barash pulled at her axe, attempting to wrench the weapon from her hands. Using the momentum of his pull, she hopped to her feet and lashed out at the one weakness she knew all men shared.
Barash gasped with pain and released his grip on her axe as Ambridge’s kick landed squarely against her target. She swung quickly, knowing that her advantage would be gone when he recovered from the blow. Once. Twice. Thrice. Ambridge’s axe struck with more speed and strength than any child her size should have possessed; and the crowd loved it! As she stood over Barash’s corpse, horrified at herself, the crowd around her shouted her praise.
“AMBRIDGE! AMBRIDGE!”
“GLORY TO THE WHITE ROSE OF RYLVIA!”
Guards rushed into the area, tackling Ambridge to the sand and tearing the axe away from her. She was pulled back to the staging room amid a shower of flower petals.