Before the Shattered Gates of Heaven: Shattered Gates Volume 1: Shattered Gates, #1

BEFORE THE SHATTERED GATES OF HEAVEN

SHATTERED GATES VOLUME 1

PART I

TRICKSTER’S PIT

1

THE GIRL WAS eighteen, and like all Humans her age, she had one chance to choose her fate.

She chose the pit.

The girl spent the last moments before her final pit embraced by her brood-sister, whispering little secrets back and forth. Saying goodbye.

They had sought out what privacy they could, away from the packs of off-shift diggers and squealing mine rats, and huddled together within a far recess of the cavernous warrens. All of them where khvazol, unseen and nameless property.

Even back here, the sounds and smells of Warrens Zevna proved inescapable. From nearby came the rhythmic grunting and musk of sex. The buzz of the air system’s biomech lungs and the chugging of sanitation biotubing were as ubiquitous as the odors of old tunics and dry stone.

Remember last year? the girl’s brood-sister whispered. When those three shit-eating aggies were going to toss me into an old mine shaft if I didn’t . . . And you fought all three of them, got them off me. You hadn’t even started Pitter Discipline yet, and you still deep bashed them. She pantomimed grabbing an invisible enemy by the neck with one hand and punching him in the face with the other.

Of course I remember, the girl whispered back. I remember they bashed me right back. And I still have the prod burns the overseers gave me after.

But you won. Her brood-sister rubbed her pregnant belly, as she often did when she was anxious. Even as a mine rat you never lost a fight. Just like today. You’re going to win. I know it. You were born to protect people.

Gods see me, the girl said. Her brood-sister’s presence and soft touch had always been calming for the girl, one of the few sweet pleasures in her life. Even still, the girl couldn’t stop fidgeting and darting her gaze across the warrens. The overseers would be here soon.

There were nine shafts a human could follow, and when they turned eighteen, everyone was given a choice between two. The girl and her brood-sister had been given the same choice: fight in the pit to earn a name, be seen, and travel the stars; or remain forever nameless, a living incubator giving birth to brood after brood of human khvazol. Even as a young mine rat, the girl had decided a quick, bloody death was better than her other option.

Nearby, a brood of young mine rats wrestled another brood for extra rations of protein paste and cug’s milk. Her sister was charged with minding them. The hen-mothers of both broods were dead and mulched, and her sister didn’t have any of her own children to attend to yet. She gave her attention to the girl though, occasionally casting a side glance to make sure none of the little mine rats were killing each other.

The girl wanted to block everything out and see only her brood-sister. But their wrestling grew more heated, and their constant noise made it harder to hear what her sister was saying. The girl pulled out a small, dense protein and fiber loaf from her uniform’s pocket. She broke the loaf in two, tossed a half to each of the squabbling young broods, and told them to quiet down while she was visiting.

Will you be fighting one of those vermin again? Her brood-sister made a disgusted noise. They’re so gross.

I think so, but I never know until just before. But the last four have been infidels, so probably.

I remember after your first pit, when you fought that boy, you puked for a whole sleep shift. I hope they give you another vermin this time. Better one of them than one of us.

The Overseers know what they’re doing when they match us in the pits. I’ll fight whoever or whatever they put in front of me. But yeah, I’d rather it be a vermin too. The girl scanned around again for signs of the overseers. Anyway, Pitter Discipline has toughened me up since then. Now the only thing that makes me puke is the smell of your farts. I swear to Mother of Life, since you became a hen your farts could melt granite.

Her brood-sister poked her in the ribs and smiled. The girl smiled back briefly with tense, dry lips.

I bet they’ll send you a deep handsome pillow for your victory, her sister said. He’ll be extra gold since this is your ninth pit. Maybe I can turn up a digger to drill myself. We can pretend like we are celebrating together.

Is that safe? the girl asked. You need to be more careful. You’ll be in trouble if the little mine rats in your belly get damaged.

Medics said it’s safe. For now. Medics said I can drill as much as I want, long as it doesn’t get too rough. And the diggers who like me now, who like me like this—she looked down, patted her ripening belly—they’re more gentle than some of those others. Too gentle. Dancer see me, sometimes I wish I could find a boy not afraid to give me a real drill.

The girl laughed despite herself. Her brood-sister could always find a way to make her a little less anxious, even if only for a moment. The girl wanted to thank her sister for spending these last moments before the pit with her, but the finality of it brought a bad taste to her mouth, and the words wouldn’t come.

Who knows? her sister continued. Maybe the pillow will drill a baby into you, and a hen from our warren will birth your blood-daughter. I’ll check every newborn for your blood glyph.

Extra gold, she whispered. Sudden, sharp movements near the far entrance to the warren told the girl the overseers had finally arrived. They’re here, she said.

The overseers strode toward them, parting through currents of khvazol, as focused and mindless as drills through dry dirt. Yelps of pain marked their progress through the cavern as the overseers’ prods found the backs of those who didn’t clear the way fast enough. They came for the girl and saw no others. That was life for khvazol humans in the Labyrinth. Always watched, never seen.

Her sister kissed the pitter girl’s tattooed brow and prayed for the Gods’ protection. You don’t have to go. You can still change your mind. Her brood-sister rubbed her palm in circles across her belly again. Being a hen ain’t so bad. You get to eat more. You see the medics more. Sometimes, it’s even a little gold, feeling the lives growing inside you. Like these three little mine rats curled up in here. Her hand stopped circling as she looked up. Besides, then we can still be together. Like before, before your discipline.

Don’t be scared for me. The girl kissed her sister’s brow in return. Eight times I’ve gone into the pit, and eight times I’ve come back. One more, and it’s done.

Win or lose, live or die, she thought, it’s done.

Can you imagine the shame in Grandfather Spear’s eyes if I were to give up now? the girl said. Don’t worry. The next time you see me I won’t be a pitter anymore, or a mine rat. I’ll be a Servant of the Divine Masters. I’ll have a name.

Or . . .

You’ll have a name. You’ll be a servant. Grandfather Spear will be proud of you. Her brood-sister laid her head on the girl’s shoulder. But I’ll never . . .

The pained yelps of shock grew nearer. The overseers were closing in.

The girl caressed her sister’s smooth scalp, the tattoo glyphs across their brows nearly identical. They shared similar basic ownership and territorial glyphs all humans were marked with during infancy. But each had a unique first, the blood glyph. The two brood-sisters shared the same hen but had different blood-mothers. The girl was from a long line of servants. Her sister’s blood-mother was a hen. The differences in their bloodlines were visibly apparent. The girl was taller, had wiry arms and frame, and muscular legs. Her brood-sister was shorter and softer than the girl in every way, with rounder hips and fuller breasts.

They differed in their clothing as well. The girl wore a new, thick, black and green tunic, the uniform of her Pitter Discipline. Her sister’s tunic was thinner, the color of stone and old sweat.

Their own hen had given birth to other broods, of course, but the two girls never bonded with their non-brood brothers and sisters. Many of those siblings were dead or relocated now anyway.

After turning eighteen the two sisters each received new glyphs the other would never share. Across her right cheek, her sister wore the glyph of the Hens. Very likely, it would be the last glyph she would ever receive.

Down both of the pitter girl’s temples dripped eight newly tattooed glyphs, each one marking a victory in the pit. If she returned victorious this one last time, she’d have the shaft glyph of the Servants on her right cheek. Two more glyphs would be tattooed on her left cheek. One for a victory, one for a name.

The girl pulled away from her sister’s embrace and stood just outside their shadowy recess. The overseers were just a few meters away. If she wasn’t ready to go before they arrived, it would mean the prod for both of them. She had felt the prod’s sting often in her discipline and was almost accustomed to the pain. Almost. But she would do everything she could to lessen and prevent her sister’s suffering.

I see you, sobbed her brood-sister.

I see you, too.

The girl turned toward the coming overseers. She raised up her gaze and stared at the high ceiling of the natural cavern. Tall columns of pillarwood trees, coated with graffiti, reached up and arched toward each other to add support to the cavern. Bioluminescent light strips lined the ceiling in giant triangular configurations, illuminating the warren in dim, gritty light. So many times in her life she had looked up and seen only stone, masonry, and light strips. Never once had she seen the red skies of Nahgohn-Za or the stars in the black night.

When the two overseers approached the recess where the sisters had been waiting, the broods of young mine rats scattered. Overseers stood nearly a head taller than most humans, with long, sloped-back foreheads ringed by stubby horns. Below their horned brows, three orange eyes fixed on her. The prods they carried hummed and crackled. Red bars of laser light emitted from their chest plates and scanned over the girls’ faces.

One overseer spoke in the Masters’ language to her sister first before turning to her. Current designation Warrens Zevna-Flock Five-Rook Ten-Hen Seven, keep your distance. Current designation Warrens Zevna-Discipline Two-Pitter Nine, come now.

As the overseers marched her through the warrens, the girl knew her sister’s choice had been as inevitable as her own. In essence, the one chance they had to choose their fate was no choice at all. They were who the Divine Masters had crafted them to be. Her sister could never be a servant just as the girl could never be a hen. She was too much like her grandfather.

Leaving Warrens Zevna, she heard the familiar voices of the other pitters in her discipline cheering for her to come back victorious, come back with a name. Other voices shouted out as well, the diggers and hens and little mine rats of the warrens—too scared for the pit, too little faith for the Servants or the Chosen—the same nameless and unseen people she had been surrounded by her entire life. The last voices she heard before leaving the warrens were them mocking her bravery. Taunting her with bloody predictions of how her last pit would end.

2

The girl emerged from the mouth of Warrens Zevna into the subterranean passages of the Labyrinth. Ancient, dim, and reeking of human, the Labyrinth’s tunnels were the only world she had ever known. Light strips illuminated endless, winding passages of ceramic-walled tunnels encrusted with generations of graffiti. Small, pale lizards scurried into the shadows at the sound of their approach.

Behind her marched two Zohlun-Lo Overseers, the gaze of their three inscrutable eyes always watching her, never seeing. But she needed no prod at her back to drive her. She walked the Labyrinth to confront her fate willingly, even with a kind of eager anticipation. With nothing at all in the girl’s life under her control, the pits were her choice. Even though the fear never released her, she embraced her choice completely.

There was a secret the girl had never shared with her sister, with anyone. A secret she could barely share with herself, except when she walked the tunnels moments before a pit. As terrifying as it was, preparing to fight to the death, she had discovered a truth about herself she never dreamed could exist. Even without a name, with each pit, each victory, each new glyph, she became somebody.

The farther she walked the corridors from the warrens to the fighting pit, the more the calm bravado she had shown her sister slipped away. Her heart sped up, palms grew moist. The presence of overseers always made her feel a little queasy and light headed, but this was different. Pre-pit anxiety buried all other feelings under its own dominating nausea.

The tunnels carved out by generations of human khvazol felt increasingly low and oppressive. She had heard many tales of the world above from her blood-grandfather—of the horizon stretching as far as you could see in every direction, of the limitless sky filled with stars—and wondered if the tales were true.

One more fight, she thought, one more victory, and I’ll have a chance to see for myself.

The two overseers spoke to each other in Ihziz-Ri, the language of the Overseers and Divine Masters. She understood it but couldn’t form many of the sounds to speak it. The unseen spoke Khvaziz, the non-language of Humans.

This pit should be proper and messy, said one overseer. The brownish-gray color of his horns revealed he was the older of the two.

The younger one, with horns still white and gleaming, said, I hear the unseen is being thrown in with a real beast. Eats its opponents alive. The unseen doesn’t stand a chance.

You're a fool hatchling, said the older. The unseen is the property of the Ihvnahg-Ra. He crafted this bloodline himself. The Pinnacle of the World does not lose.

Gods see me, I’m not saying the Ihvnahg-Ra is going to lose. But the unseen are no smarter than granks. And without the hard shell. I’ll wager sixty privileges on the vermin.

Wager seen, said the older. Better have my privileges soon as the pit is over.

The girl passed from ceramic-lined corridors to carved-stone vaults, the overseers always just behind. They were in one of the oldest parts of the Labyrinth now. Three great Labyrinths tunneled beneath the surface of Nahgohn-Za, homeworld of the Divine Masters and the center of their interstellar Holy Unity. The Labyrinths were home to millions of overseers and humans. The deepest tunnels, running just above the extraction mines, connected the warrens, agricultural caverns, and work halls of the nameless khvazol. Above them, the great subterranean cities of the Overseers twisted for hundreds of kilometers in every direction. The palaces of the Divine Masters sat atop the Labyrinths, bubbling up to the toxic wasteland of the planet’s surface, encased in massive, impregnable domes. At least, that’s what the girl had been told. She had only seen the mines and tunnels where humans lived and worked and died.

The stone passageway terminated in an ancient, triangular gateway where there awaited an unexpected honor. Grandfather Spear stood as a stern silhouette backlit by the glare of the pit entrance. Tattooed glyphs descended in columns all around his bald head, just beginning to wrinkle and sag with age. The glyphs declared his name and victories. They also marked his rank among the Servants as an attendant, the second-highest possible rank for a human to achieve.

He bore almost as many scars as he did tattoos. White, jagged lines crossed his face and scalp, marring his glyphs and bisecting his right eye socket. The Divine Masters had blessed him with a new biomech eye, silver hued and piercing, to replace the one he’d lost in battle. The girl felt her markings were pathetically few in comparison. She had often pictured her own face, honored with glyphs and scars for all to see as long as she lived.

The older Zohlun-Lo informed Spear they were handing over the unseen into his charge for the final preparations before the pit. He saluted in return and led the girl into the old stonework antechamber. As an attendant, Spear had earned responsibilities and freedoms unheard of for all but a select few of humanity. Responsibilities and freedoms the girl was ready to kill or die for.

Star Father see me, she exclaimed. I can’t believe you’re here.

Our pyramid just returned home a shift ago, he said. The Warseers honor me. They knew a child of my bloodline was entering the pit for the ninth time. Trickster's Pit. Remember this when you are a servant, faithful service will be rewarded and honored.

I know, Grandfather, she said. I’ll remember.

Good, good. I know you will. An announcement of chiming horns rang through the antechamber. Speaking of, the warseers I serve wish to observe you before the pit. They’re here now, turn and kneel.

The girl did as her grandfather instructed. Just before lowering her head, she glanced the observation balcony looming over the antechamber. Two Gohnzol-Lo Warseers entered in full regalia. She felt like a wave of hot needles washed over her face and burned down her spine.

The Warseers were a branched-off race of the Overseers and shared many similarities. They each had three piercing yellow and orange eyes. Conical sense mounds protruded from either side of their heads just below the horns, about where human ears would be. However, Warseers were taller and more muscular than Overseers. Gohnzol-Lo skin had a more silvery sheen than the dullish gray of the Zohlun-Lo. The nine horns encircling the Warseers’ sloped foreheads were longer, sharper.

Kneeling beside her, Attendant Spear announced in Ihziz-Ri, "Hail Urzdek Rab Izd, Pinnacle of Pyramid Zol-Ori, whom I am honored to attend. Hail Hamu Ohrus Izd, Penultimate of Pyramid Zol-Ori. Conqueror see them and all of Clan Izd!"

May the Divine Masters see you, Attendant Spear, answered the penultimate. May Conqueror see you and all your bloodline.

May the pitter honor the bloodline crafted by your Master and our patron, the Holy Ihvnahg-Ra himself, said Pinnacle Rab Izd.

The girl’s face burned hotter and hotter when they spoke, her guts knotted tight within her. She had never been in the presence of such highly ranked warseers before.

It would not be proper for the Ihvnahg-Ra’s property to succumb to a vermin of the Monarchy, the pinnacle continued. Fail, nameless one, and your carcass will be fed to the infidel afterward, flesh and bone.

Oh Gods, she thought, did a warseer just address me directly? What should I do?

Conqueror see you, replied Spear. Should our Divine Master be dishonored by my bloodline’s failure, I’ll deliver the nameless flesh to the vermin myself.

Resume your duties with the unseen, then come and attend us, commanded Penultimate Ohrus Izd.

Yes, Penultimate.

The two Gohnzol-Lo left, and the hot waves prickling the girl’s head and face quickly receded. The knot in her belly unraveled. They arose to their feet, and Grandfather Spear busied himself at a small nearby table, pouring the contents of a bottle into an old drinking bowl.

I know what you’re thinking, Grandfather spoke in Khvaziz again. He turned to face her, holding the bowl in his hands. Yes, a warseer saw you. The pinnacle of a pyramid ship, no less. I think he sees what I do, a gem that’s been buried beneath stone long enough. Our bloodline has served the Clan Izd Warseers for generations, as our Master intends. Your Blood-Mother Gunna attended to Pinnacle Rab Izd before her promotion.

Grandfather Spear handed her a chipped bowl filled with a milky, greenish liquid. The pitters brew. Conqueror see you, may you drink and be victorious.

The girl drank all of the thick, bitter liquid. Her mouth and throat tingled with a metallic aftertaste. The warm brew spread through her belly.

Child of my blood, said Grandfather Spear, the Nahgak-Ri, our Divine Masters see you. The Handmaiden sees you.

The accelerants in the brew started kicking in with the sound of his voice. She focused on hearing every nuance of the old man’s words, heavy and dry as the stone vaults enveloping them, while muffled, indistinct rhythms of drums seeped through the gate and into her head, awakening generations of warrior breeding.

This infidel has been handpicked for your Trickster's Pit. A prisoner from the conquest of Dancer’s World. They say it tried to eat the flesh from the servant’s bones even as they confiscated it. Filthy vermin. Tough though. This is its seventh pit, more than any vleez before it. That just means when you kill it, your glory will be even greater. He took the empty bowl from her hands.

"The Gods will see you, he continued. This is your purpose and your blessing. This is why the Divine Masters made you. Prove that you are more than a hen. Earn your name. Take your place among the Servants, and bring the Divine Will of the Gods to the galaxy."

He stepped away from the gate. Without his large frame blocking the way, bright light poured into the antechamber. The light strips in the pit were always dialed up higher than in the tunnels and warrens. The gate to the fighting pit was clear as glass, though stronger than metal.

The girl’s pupils dilated, her heart thudded, her stomach burned. The first few moments of the brew taking effect were the hardest. The rush of anticipation for the coming battle mixed with the accelerants in the brew and propelled each other into a crackling surge through mind and body. Violent urges strobed through her mind, distracting her from the burning in her stomach. If she had eaten the loaf instead of giving it to the squabbling mine rats, she’d barely feel the sharp burn in her gut.

In vivid detail, she remembered all the killing blows of her previous battles. Eight victories, eight glyphs, eight dead at her feet. The first four had been khvazol humans from other Labyrinths. The first time, Star Father's Pit, the boy cried and pleaded with her, sobbing and howling in pain at the tip of her spear. The aggression awakened by the pitters brew had propelled her forward, stabbing again and again until the screaming stopped.

The last four opponents had been vleez, repulsive and alien vermin from the Monarchy. She remembered the sounds each made in their terror, the smells of blood and sweat and oozing insides. And now, with the brew igniting within her, she craved more. Some part of her, deep inside, cringed from the rising fire, ashamed of her bloodlust. She stomped down that shame, refused to heed it. The girl had survived eight pits by giving herself over to the bloodlust. She wasn’t going to let herself die, nameless and unseen, out of shame for doing what she must.

A low-frequency sonic gong slammed the air. The gate between the antechamber and the pit slid up, and her belly got its priorities clear. Every sight, sound, smell, and touch instantly snapped into a new clarity. Her heart, drumming its own insistent rhythm, fueled her new aggressive focus. She loved the way she felt in these moments. Awake and alive and dangerous. She felt as if all the time not spent burning with the pitters brew, about to fight to the death before her Masters, was nothing more than the hollow dreams of a half-dead girl.

Divine Masters and warseers throughout the Unity are watching. Grandfather Spear gripped her shoulder in his thick hands, a rare gesture of affection. The Handmaiden is watching. Be seen, child of my blood. Be named. Squash the vermin beneath your heel.

She wanted to bury her face in his broad chest and hold onto him like a child. Instead, clenching her fists, she turned to face the gate. It was time. She walked through the triangular portal and into the bright, humid air of the pit.

The gate stomped shut behind her.

3

HER MOUTH DRY, her lower back cool with sweat, the girl strode forward to the lip of the small platform overlooking the pit. The air was thick and steamy. She struggled not to squint. She must not show the slightest weakness or disadvantage. Not ever.

The pit, a vertical, triangular shaft crudely hewn from pale stone, fell away beneath her to a gravel floor about thirty meters down. Three mounds of rock and broken masonry studded the pit floor. Hanging in long tangles from the lights above, green-black vines stretched the vertical length of the pit.

Above her and set back from the rim so that she could hear but not see them, servants surrounded the upper lip of the fighting pit. On drums huge and small they banged out the ancient rhythms of battle. To the girl, it sounded like the old stone walls were caving in. Before she had passed through the gate, the drums were a hollow rumble in the back of her mind. Now on the pit side, she heard them in full deafening volume. The air shook. With senses peaking from the pitters brew, she could feel every beat and thud rumbling the air, vibrating across her sleek, alabaster skin. The rhythm of the Servants’ war drums called to her, enveloped and overtook her. Her heart synchronized to its beat.

Above the drummers, somewhere beyond the harsh glare of white lights, watched the Nahgak-Ri, her Divine Masters. At the Masters’ feet would be the Handmaiden—the highest-ranking Servant of the Holy Unity, most honored of any human in the galaxy—and she would be scrutinizing the girl very closely.

All throughout the pit were hidden an array of small, hidden camera eyes. From what she had been told, every growl, whimper, and drop of blood was transmitted to not only around Nahgohn-Za, but to ships, stations, and worlds throughout the Holy Unity.

A low-frequency gong announced her combatant entering through an identical gate on the far side of the pit, about twenty meters away. Her opponent was indeed a vleez vermin, one of the infidel races from the Monarchy. Almost two meters tall, it stood erect on long, thick hind legs. Four more limbs extruded from its torso, ending in dexterous claw-hands. Instead of ears, eyes, and nose, six sense tendrils wriggled from the front and top of its head, like plant stalks ending in a single spade-shaped leaf. The creature was draped in a ragged, soiled tunic. She didn’t know if it was male or female, or if they even had sexes. It was too far away and far too alien for her to read any emotions in its body language. But the way it slowly crept to the platform’s edge seemed timid and uncertain.

Another deep gong silenced the drums. On a third balcony, higher up and directly between the two combatants on the third wall of the triangular pit, the door slid away. Two godseers stepped out. Bright lights gleamed off the Allseer’s glyph on their ceremonial chest plates. Between them a naked, bloodied man hung suspended, his arms stretched high overhead and fettered to the top of a spine. Rows of sharp, hooking tusks lined each side of the spine, digging into arms, neck, ribs, and legs, keeping him suspended and immobile. The base of the spine was grafted into a hover pod. A biomech lifeform crafted by the Masters for a singular purpose, it was properly called an altar, most khvazol called it the ribs.

The godseers positioned the altar to the side of the balcony before taking up stations on either side of it. Their gray hands hovered along the altar’s muscular spine. Next, a tall, imposing figure entered the balcony, the High Overseer of the Labyrinth. His bright crimson ritual headdress and uniform seemed to burn in the harsh lights.

May the Nahgak-Ri see me, intoned the High Overseer, his amplified voice echoing through the pit. May the Akuh-Ori, the Gods beyond the Gates, see me now. I am the instrument of Their Divine Will. I am the hand of Their Divine Justice.

The godseer to his right stepped up from behind and offered him a curved sacrificial blade, the nihkazza. He held the blade high as spoke.

Human, you disobeyed your Zohlun-Lo Overseers, you blasphemed the names of the Nine Akuh-Ori. Trickster has sown ahns seed in your heart, and it has taken root. Allseer has beheld. Star Father has judged. She Who Waits shall wait no longer. With this sacrifice, you will be purged of your taint. Your blood will consecrate this battleground. You will be reborn before the dark mysteries of the Gates, blessed with a new life of eternal service to the Gods.

With that, the godseers triggered the altar’s nerve clusters, and the tusks gripping the man’s left torso stabbed in and pulled apart, cracking open his ribcage with ruthless efficiency. Even without amplification, the man’s scream tore through the pit. His wail disintegrated into a sobbing gurgle, then into a wet gasping, and then into silence. Using the nihkazza blade with severe efficiency, the High Overseer sliced free the ritual offering.

The High Overseer held up the glistening heart in his hand, blood streaming down his gauntlet. He turned and pointed the heart at her opponent. Vleez, infidel of the Monarchy, by the grace of the Nahgak-Ri, you have been granted life. Fight and emerge victorious, and you shall have the grace to live another day in their Holy Unity.

The High Overseer turned and pointed the dripping heart down toward the girl. Human, you are khvazol, nameless and unseen, created by the Divine Masters in their wisdom and in accordance with Divine Will to serve their Holy Unity. You have chosen the shaft of the Servants. Only with nine victories in the pit can you earn your name and join their ranks. Emerge victorious, and by the grace of the Masters, it shall be granted.

The High Overseer tossed the severed heart down into the pit. It landed with a meaty flopping sound on the gravel below.

Vleez. Human. You fight on consecrated ground. Should you find yourself before the Shattered Gates of Heaven, may the Gods find you worthy of eternal service.

A fourth low gong sounded as the godseers exited back through the gate, taking altar and sacrifice with them. Three chosen crawled out on their hands and knees, taking the godseers’ place at the high balcony, and began cleaning the spilled blood.

The drum leader called out, and the pounding rhythms erupted once again. Grandfather Spear’s parting words came back to the girl. She was going to squash that vermin, crack open its skull, and splatter its guts across the pit. She screamed furiously as she leaped from the platform and into the open air.

She grasped a nearby vine and swung out over the pit. Using her momentum, she released and threw herself again, arcing down through the sweltering air for a brief, exhilarating moment, before grabbing hold of another. Three weapons lay hidden somewhere at the bottom. She needed to find one first.

Using her momentum, the girl launched herself to the next vine tangle. She was already halfway down, and the vleez hadn’t even left the platform yet. She had fought vleez four times already. Some had been drones. Some had been warriors. All had died.

Grandfather Spear said this was its seventh pit. So it must be a warrior, but it’s being timid like a drone.