Authors: Deborah Chester
The
blow drove Caelan to his knees with a yell of pain that was drowned out by the
crowd, already surging to their feet and cheering with bloodlust.
From
somewhere through the haze of agony, Caelan could hear Orlo’s exasperated
voice: “There are no rules in the arena! Remember that, you blockheaded fool,
or you’ll be dead in the first five seconds.”
The
opponent swung again, and Caelan somehow wrenched himself around in time. The
club thudded deep into the sand beside him. Caelan rolled and kicked, knocking
his opponent’s feet out from under him. The man should have fallen but he didn’t.
Miraculously, he kept his balance and went staggering over to one side.
Wincing,
Caelan climbed to his feet, grateful for the momentary respite that gave him
time to reset himself. He didn’t deserve this second chance. He knew that.
Already he was berating himself sharply for his initial mistake. If they had
been equipped with swords instead of clubs, he’d be dead by now.
He
couldn’t afford to make another mistake. Most certainly he would not
underestimate his opponent again.
Warily,
they circled each other in the heat. The walls that confined them thudded
occasionally from the impact of combat in the adjacent ring. The crowd went on
screaming in waves and surges of sound, now on their feet, now sitting down
again, calling out encouragement and curses alike.
The
opponent moved like a crab, low to the ground, well centered, his eyes steady
on Caelan. He dragged the tip of his club on the sand as he moved, conserving
every bit of his strength.
But
while Caelan noted his tactics, the younger man was also aware that not keeping
a weapon high and poised meant wasting precious seconds of time to get it into
position.
He
attacked, yelling Trau cheers at the top of his lungs, and caught the opponent
fractionally off guard. As he expected, it took the man a small amount of time
to dodge and lift his club. Still he managed it, blocking Caelan’s swing so
that the two clubs struck each other with a sharp crack of sound.
The
impact jolted into Caelan’s wrist, and he nearly dropped his weapon.
Desperately he changed to a two- handed grip and swung again just in time to
block the opponent’s attack.
They
blocked and swung furiously for several moments, then retreated to circle
again, each catching his breath while looking dangerous for the crowd.
Caelan
was learning fast how to provide entertainment while staying alive. He also
knew that the longer this conflict lasted, the more spent he would be. And
there were still five more opponents ahead of him, providing he survived this
one.
As
though sensing Caelan’s momentary lapse of concentration, the opponent attacked.
Some piece of Orlo’s instructions filtered through Caelan’s mind. Instead of
dodging back, Caelan rushed forward, stepping inside the man’s lunge. With the
club whistling over his shoulder, Caelan jabbed his own weapon like a dagger,
thrusting it deep into the man’s solar plexus. The opponent’s face turned pale.
He staggered back. Caelan could hear Orlo’s voice shouting in his mind to drive
hard.
Swinging
short, Caelan caught the man in the ribs. The opponent fell to one knee, still
trying to bring up his own club. Caelan knocked it from his grip. Cheering rose
in the air, and Caelan felt something inside him cry out even as he swung his
club one last time.
It
bounced off the man’s skull with a sickening thud. The opponent’s eyes rolled
back in his head, and he crumpled to the ground.
Breathing
hard, Caelan straightened up and turned around. Sand clung to his sweaty arms
and legs. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, then remembered to raise
his weapon in a victory salute to the cheering crowd. Most people weren’t even
looking in his direction, but he did it anyway.
Then
he saw the door had opened to his ring, and a guard was gesturing at him
impatiently.
Obediently,
he circled the fallen man and went inside, where the cloth was immediately thrown
over his head and the club ripped from his hand.
He
was hustled down the dark ramp and out into the circular passageway to a nearby
stone tub of water.
“Climb
in,” the guard told him.
Still
panting, Caelan immersed himself in the cold water. It acted like a shock to
his system, cooling him off rapidly. Blowing water from his face, he shook back
his dripping hair and stood up just as his opponent’s body was carried by on a
stretcher of leather webbing. He wanted to ask if the man was dead or merely stunned,
but he knew better
than
to ask. It was considered bad luck in the ring to
know until the fighting was finished.
Sobered,
Caelan watched them until they were out of sight; then the guards put him in a
holding cell, where he drank liberally from a water pail and waited until the
other victors came in. They in turn looked drained, excited, or bored with the
whole business.
Caelan
did not think he would ever be bored. Right or wrong, killing was nothing to be
indifferent about.
When
there were six of them present, the door slammed open and they again drew lots.
This time Caelan’s opponent was Bulot. His momentary confidence faded, and he
counseled himself to take care. Bulot hated him and would be a far more
dangerous opponent than the first man.
They
filed out, paired off as before. Orlo stood in the passageway, and when he saw
Caelan he blinked in approval but said nothing.
Caelan’s
chin lifted a bit higher and he squared his shoulders. Inside, he tried to make
himself quiet and ready.
Back
around to a door, back into the darkness and the ramp that led upward. At the
top, a short sword was pressed into his hand and the blindfold whipped off as
he was pushed out into the sand of ring three.
This
time, Caelan kept his eyes squinted to protect them while they adjusted to the
sunlight. He jogged forward and spun around quickly, expecting Bulot to charge
him straight out of the door, which the man did.
Wiry
and strong, Bulot was far different from Caelan’s first opponent and twice as
dangerous. He skipped over the sand, small but light-footed. His quickness was
disconcerting, and he was utterly familiar with a sword, which Caelan was only
now holding for the first time.
Bulot
swung, lunging hard. Caelan stumbled back, momentarily forgetting his training.
He defended himself clumsily, and felt a razor-sharp sting of pain slash his
arm.
Looking
down, he saw a cut already dripping blood. It wasn’t deep, but it hurt. The
sight of his own blood soaking into the sand was mesmerizing.
But
Bulot was already charging again. Regaining his concentration, Caelan forced
himself to spring aside. Again, he was driven back under Bulot’s expert charge,
getting no chance to set himself or find his rhythm. Bulot’s eyes were flat
with menace and deadly purpose. Yet as he met their gaze, Caelan felt a shiver
pass through him.
Although
he was not actually touching the man, Caelan experienced a jolt of
sevaisin.
The joining was quick,
momentary, and yet suddenly Caelan understood what Bulot was thinking, the
pattern of his strategy, and his whole plan of attack.
Caelan
shifted aside a split second before Bulot struck. Surprise flashed across Bulot’s
face. Again, Caelan anticipated him, but this time Caelan did so with a feint
of his own, and only Bulot’s own quickness saved him from being spitted on the
end of Caelan’s sword.
The
blade began to hum as though the metal was warming, coming alive. At first
Caelan thought he was imagining things. It was a trick of acoustics, something
in the roar of the crowd, but this time when he raised his sword in a quick
parry and the two blades crashed together, Caelan’s sword sang shrilly.
The
sound was for his ears alone, and it vibrated through the length of him. He was
deep in
sevaisin,
joined with the weapon in a way he had never experienced before. Not only did
he know what Bulot intended, but now his sword was telling him secrets of its
previous victories in the hands of others. How to pause, how to move, how to
parry and thrust, the correct angle of the swing—back and forth—in deadly
rhythm.
Now
he understood the footwork and the arm action, how the two worked in deadly
concert. For the first time it all made sense. He had found the language of
fighting, and nothing Bulot tried fooled him. Caelan’s own body, his muscles
and heart and blood all sang with the sword, harmonizing effortlessly.
Bulot
began to tire. His attacks grew more desperate, his risks bigger. Again he
barely managed to fling himself back from Caelan’s sword, but this lime he
stumbled and nearly tripped over his own feet.
Caelan
sprang, seeing the opportunity, and sank his sword deep into Bulot’s side. The
impact shocked him; then death agony washed over him in a tide that sent him
staggering back. He left the sword in Bulot’s side, his own hand tingling with
a fire he could not flex out.
In
his madness, he had forgotten to
sever
the joining. Bulot’s death seemed to extinguish him
as well. The sky went dark. His vision left him. He could hear nothing. There
was only a brutal pain in his heart, as though the organ had stopped.
Then
somehow he found a breath, then another. His heart started thudding again, and
his sight returned. A second later he heard the crowd screaming and chanting, “Kill!
Kill! Kill!”
The
door to his ring was open, and a guard was gesturing furiously. Caelan stared
at him stupidly a long while before he finally understood.
Slowly
he returned to Bulot and drew out the sword. Blood gushed with it, leaving a
dark stain in the sand. Bulot’s eyes stared sightlessly at the heavens. Feeling
sick, Caelan raised his bloody sword high in the victor’s salute.
Across
the arena, he saw the emperor’s box this time. Unmistakable, with its flying
banners of the imperial two- headed eagle, the box was filled with people in
expensive dress. Servants moved about constantly, bringing fresh drinks on
trays while others held up sunshades against the relentless light. Still others
fanned and kept flies shooed away. Caelan squinted, but he could not make out
the emperor’s features. The man leaned over and said something behind his hand
to his companion, a younger, dark-haired man in blue.
The
prince was holding a tube to his eye and staring in Caelan’s direction. Conscious
of ownership, Caelan raised his sword again, although he wasn’t sure whether
the prince was actually looking at him or doing something else.
This
time the crowd at least had noticed Caelan’s victory. Clapping and throwing him
kisses, some people even tossed flowers his way.
He
turned his back on them and walked into the darkness.
It
was a repeat of the previous routine. The sword was wrested immediately from
him. At the bottom of the ramp, he climbed into the tub of water again, washing
off the grime and blood—although what could wash his heart?
Numb,
he walked with heavy footsteps into the holding cell. Another man waited there
before him, a lithe individual with a handsome face and skin the color of soot.
Their gazes met briefly, then broke.
Sighing,
Caelan seated himself on a stool and closed his eyes. His father’s face floated
in his mind, stern and disappointed. His first kill. And all he could feel was
shame.
It
was as though something important inside him had suddenly crumbled to ashes.
Even during the long years of uncertainty and grief since he’d been taken from
home and sold into slavery, he had always been intact inside. He might grieve
and he might mourn, but he had never been broken. Now he wondered why he should
feel so flat and empty within. He wanted to go back, to reclaim what he had
lost, but he knew it was impossible to do so.
This,
then, must have been what his father knew, all those years ago. Beva had tried
to warn him against becoming a soldier. Agel even had understood what it meant
to
take
life. But Caelan hadn’t listened. He had been so full of his boyhood dreams and
ambitions, so eager for glory.
Was
this glory now? To win? To hear the erowd cheer approval? To have flowers
tossed at him?
Was
it a suitable tribute for the blood on his hands?