A hundred-and-fifty years ago, the women of Draconia were stripped of their magic. Since then, every girl who comes of age in the kingdom has been given a choice: have kids or become a gladiator.
Eleanor Skinner chose gladiator, and at 35, she's now the oldest undefeated gladiator in the history of Draconia. She's wealthy, she's notorious, and overall, she's pretty happy being a child-free lady-killer, thank you very much.
Then a one-night stand leaves her knocked up.
Eleanor would literally rather be decapitated in the arena than have to raise a child. So when she hears about a witch who lives outside the kingdom and might still have her power, Eleanor and her best friend Rosalind embark on a quest to find her and end the pregnancy with magic.
But the journey takes an unexpected turn, bringing Eleanor face-to-face with old flames, new friends, and secrets about Draconia that would make any self-respecting feminist want to stand up, pick up a sword, and use it to slaughter the patriarchy.
A hundred-and-fifty years ago, the women of Draconia were stripped of their magic. Since then, every girl who comes of age in the kingdom has been given a choice: have kids or become a gladiator.
Eleanor Skinner chose gladiator, and at 35, she's now the oldest undefeated gladiator in the history of Draconia. She's wealthy, she's notorious, and overall, she's pretty happy being a child-free lady-killer, thank you very much.
Then a one-night stand leaves her knocked up.
Eleanor would literally rather be decapitated in the arena than have to raise a child. So when she hears about a witch who lives outside the kingdom and might still have her power, Eleanor and her best friend Rosalind embark on a quest to find her and end the pregnancy with magic.
But the journey takes an unexpected turn, bringing Eleanor face-to-face with old flames, new friends, and secrets about Draconia that would make any self-respecting feminist want to stand up, pick up a sword, and use it to slaughter the patriarchy.
The bitch wouldn’t stay down.
A hole in her side, blood in the sod, and her eye in a puddle by Eleanor’s foot. But she wouldn’t stay down. Sighing, Eleanor flourished the battle ax in her good hand and hefted it onto her good shoulder. She’d told Clive repeatedly not to put girls like this in the arena with her.
Twenty feet away, the girl was crawling backwards on her elbows in the mud. She used the broadsword she’d brought into the stadium to push herself to her knees, and then to her feet. She gripped the hole in her side and glared at Eleanor one-eyed across the bloody quagmire of the pit.
“Had enough?” the girl yelled, so the people in the stands could hear.
Eleanor almost laughed as she swung the ax from her shoulder. You had to admire the balls on these women.
“Enough what?” she yelled back, and pointed at the girl’s remaining eye with the ax. “Bits of you?”
The crowd laughed, and Eleanor glanced up as she took the ax through a practice swing. They liked that one, did they? She’d have to remember it.
Kicking the eyeball aside, she spun the ax and advanced. Across the pit, the girl heaved the tip of the broadsword off the ground with both hands. Mud arced as she wheeled it down at Eleanor, hollering, and Eleanor dropped to her knee, throwing up her bad arm to block the blow.
Not bad arm, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time as she did. According to Roz, she wasn’t supposed to call it a bad arm. It was a wooden arm. Not even a fully wooden arm; she still had her shoulder and elbow, secured to the forearm stump with bone screws and leather straps. And while the stump was no good for wielding axes, it was actually pretty handy for blocking swords.
Handy. What a way to describe an arm that didn’t have a hand.
The blade lodged in the wood and stuck there, and Eleanor used the stump to yank the sword from the girl’s grip. A roar of approval went up around them. That was a move they’d seen her do before. It was a crowd favorite.
As the girl stumbled, grasping for the sword, Eleanor swept the ax at her knees. It went through her kneecap like…well, an ax through a kneecap, and the girl sank wailing into the mud. Poor thing didn’t even see it coming.
Eleanor got to her feet.
She stepped back to put distance between them while the girl wallowed, howling. She stowed the ax on her back, and began working the sword – which was still stuck in the stump – loose. It took her a minute: getting the sword out always looked much less cool than getting it stuck in there.
“How are you folks doing today?” she called up to the stands to fill the dead air. “Did we need this rain, or what?”
The crowd indulged her with a chuckle.
Tossing the sword onto the ground, she approached the girl, who was facedown, struggling onto her elbows. Eleanor used her foot to turn her onto her back, then put that foot on the girl’s chest.
“It’s over.”
“Fuck you,” said the girl, and spit blood onto Eleanor’s boot.
“Girl, you are missing an eye and a knee. And your weapon.” Eleanor looked her over. “And quite a lot of your blood.”
The girl grinned. An odd thing to do, given the circumstance, but not an uncommon occurrence. People did all sorts of strange things in the moments before the slay. She reached into a holster on her thigh and whipped out the dagger she obviously thought Eleanor didn’t know about. Eleanor lifted her foot long enough to kick the knife out of the girl’s hand, then put the foot back on her chest.
“Yes, yes. We’re all very impressed by your tenacity.”
The grin vanished. Now she understood what was happening; they always did eventually. This one had taken longer than usual. This one had been pretty determined. Eleanor watched defeat sink through her as whatever spirit was left inside seemed to trickle out, and she went a bit limp under Eleanor’s foot.
Slipping her own dagger out of its sheath, Eleanor squatted over her. She touched the point to the girl’s pale, blood-spattered throat, and the girl’s remaining eye went as round as an onion.
“Please,” she whispered.
“That’s not how this works.”
The tip of the blade moved as the girl swallowed. She shut her eye and began muttering under her breath and Eleanor sighed and lifted the dagger. She scratched her brow with the hilt while the girl prayed, and when she was finished, she looked down.
“You really think he’s up there, huh?”
“She is up there, yes,” the girl replied, fiercely.
“I don’t know.” Eleanor set the knife back at the fragile skin of her neck. “Seems like if she was, she’d be doing something about this. Like, if it was a dude up there, doing nothing? That I could almost believe.”
The girl smiled weakly. “Sitting around in his undergarments. Eating cheese curds.”
Eleanor smiled back. “Exactly.”
The girl went very still. “Do you ever wonder why they make us do this?” she whispered. “Do you ever wonder why it has to be this way?”
“I used to,” said Eleanor, and levered the knife behind her windpipe.
Mother & Slaughter by Liz Shipton is a fantasy novel that blends gallows humor, feminist rage, and political symbolism into a story that feels both mythic and urgently contemporary. Set in a rigidly controlled society where women are denied magic and forced into life-defining choices at adulthood, the novel follows Eleanor Skinner, the oldest undefeated gladiator in Draconia. Eleanor has survived nearly two decades in the arena by being ruthless, skilled, and emotionally armored. Her carefully constructed life fractures when she discovers she is pregnant, a condition that threatens not only her career but her autonomy in a system that treats women’s bodies as state property.
The protagonist, Eleanor, is abrasive, sharp-tongued, and unapologetically violent, while still retaining very relatable and humanistic features throughout the story. Shipton allows Eleanor’s anger, denial, and fear to coexist without moral simplification. Eleanor’s relationship with her fellow gladiator Rosalind provides emotional balance to the story, grounding the narrative in friendship, conflict, and mutual survival. Their conversations expose the emotional toll of living under an authoritarian system that weaponizes reproduction and punishment alike.
The worldbuilding is detailed but never overwhelming. The arena, the omnipresent authority, and the ever-present threat of magical enforcement are rendered with sharp clarity. The focus on gladiator culture and public spectacle deepens the themes without slowing the narrative. Shipton’s prose is fast-paced and cutting, often deploying humor in the face of brutality, but the comedy never undercuts the brutality of the setting.
Mother & Slaughter is intentionally unsubtle in its critique of power, gendered violence, and state control, and it rarely offers comfort or easy resolutions. However, this directness is also what gives the book its urgency and force. Its deliberate bluntness and tonal intensity may narrow its audience slightly.
Overall, Mother & Slaughter is a bold, confrontational fantasy that will resonate with readers who appreciate dark humor, morally complex characters, and politically charged storytelling. It’s exceptionally strong in voice, character, thematic clarity, and emotional punch, with sharp prose and a fearless commitment to its political and feminist core.