Shadow War (3 page)

“There must be
more. You must do more. I cannot explain it. This coronation business ... the
insult to me. It is the final straw in—” Breaking off, Tirhin pointed
imperiously at the pouch. “Take it. Take the strength it will give you.”

Caelan stared at
him, not moving. Then finally he walked over to the small table and picked up
the pouch. It wasn’t necessary to loosen the strings to smell its contents.
Revulsion shuddered through him. The very thought of swallowing an infusion
made from this choked him.

There was
something in it that would give him more than strength. He could feel the taint
crawling through the leather into his fingers, searching for him, reaching for
him. And a part of him welcomed its horribleness, reached back eagerly, longing
to be set free.

Caelan opened his
fingers and dropped the pouch onto the table. Little shivers ran through him.
He felt wretched, as though he had been vomiting from stomach grippe. Forcing
himself under control, he turned to his master.

“There is another
way to make sure I fight beyond all I have ever done before,” he said, his
voice tight and hollow. “A cleaner way, sir. An honorable way.”

Tirhin flinched at
that accusation. His face darkened, but he kept his temper. “Take care,” he
said softly.

Caelan knew the
danger he courted, but he would not back down now. Too much was at stake. “May
I speak?” he asked.

Tirhin’s eyes
flashed. “Damn you,
yes!”

A flicker of
triumph went through Caelan then. Whatever Tirhin was plotting, he needed
Caelan, and that gave Caelan the advantage.

“I will fight this
Madrun in a way that will bring the people to their feet,” he said in a low,
determined voice. “I will fight in a way you have never seen before. I will
give you everything that potion would have dragged from me. But it will be by
my will.”

Tirhin frowned as
though impatient with such narrow distinctions.

“I will defeat the
Madrun.”

“You cannot
promise that! No matter how good you are, or have been, you cannot give me
complete assurance.”

Caelan looked him
right in the eye. “I do. I give you my word.”

“You can’t, you
fool. The word of a slave? Bah!”

Tirhin swung away,
but Caelan blocked his path.

“No,” he said, his
gaze meeting Tirhin’s intently, “not the word of a slave. I give you the word
of a champion. You will have your victory, but you will pay my price for it.”

Tirhin frowned. “You
dare bargain with me? You?” he said, his voice rising. “You are my property.
You fight because I command it. You serve because you are mine!”

Caelan’s own
temper flared. “If you believe that, then you are a simpleton, sir. Truly I
know different.”

Shock spread
across Tirhin’s face. He stared at Caelan as though he couldn’t believe Caelan
would dare speak to him in that manner.

Caelan could have
said more, but he didn’t. Already he had crossed too far over the line.
Besides, he was choking with his own tangled emotions. How much did a man have
to reveal in order to convince another to trust him?

He backed up a
step. “Sir—”

But the fire was
already dimming in Tirhin’s eyes. He held up his hand to silence Caelan. “You
have never been a slave,” the prince said softly. “Even wearing shackles, you
have never been a slave. You were born a free man, and you have kept that
freedom in your heart always. In that sense, you were never gentled. Even Orlo
could not break you. You have served me because for some insane reason you
wanted my praise.”

It was Caelan’s
turn to grow red. He wanted to look away but didn’t.

“From such a
desire grows loyalty,” Tirhin said. “It is what makes men serve their commander
through the worst conditions. They will follow him anywhere and give him their
all in battle. This is what you have given me. This is what Lord Sien and I
have trampled on today.”

He had put his
finger on it unerringly. Caelan dropped his gaze and said nothing. There could
be no apology from a master to his slave, but there had been an admittance, and
that was enough.

“What, then,”
Tirhin asked wearily, “is your price? What reward do you want? Better quarters?
Another servant? More gold to line your pockets? Special privileges to travel?
The opportunity to serve me as my protector when I have the throne?”

How casually he
said that last, as though it carried no more weight than the other offerings.

Caelan’s heart
dropped inside him. He felt suddenly hollow and adrift, as though he had ceased
to exist. Thoughts spun inside his head until he could not grasp them all.

The emperor’s
protector... sworn to save the emperor’s life with no heed for his own ...
constantly at the emperor’s side .. . awarded rank and privilege ... the
highest honor for a soldier to attain ... a lifetime of work that was honorable
and true ... no more torn conscience ... no more doubts ... freedom.

He looked into
Tirhin’s eyes, seeking honest intention, and found it. His voice seemed to have
left him, but he managed to gasp out a simple “Yes. That is a sufficient price.”

Tirhin’s face held
a tangle of conflicting emotions, chief of which was worry. Sighing, he pinched
the bridge of his nose. “Great Gault, I must be mad to trust you.”

“To escape the
ring I will fight with all that I have, and more,” Caelan said.

His voice rang out
too harshly, too forcefully, but he didn’t care. His heart was soaring at this
chance. The Madrun was doomed. Caelan intended him no mercy.

Tirhin still
looked doubtful, but he nodded and headed for the door. Just as he reached it,
he glanced back. “Bring me victory, Giant,” he tried to say lightly, and
failed.

Caelan faced him
with shoulders erect and chin high. “I will. It seems, sir, that this time we
must trust each other to keep our word.”

Tirhin frowned. It
was as though the temperature in the room grew icy cold. “There can be no
failure,” he said harshly. “None. Win a victory for me in the manner I request,
or die on the sand. For by all the gods, I swear that I personally will take
your life if you fail me today.”

With a swirl of
his blue cloak, he was gone, leaving his threat hanging heavy on the air.

Orlo returned,
bustling and flustered. “These damned delays,” he grumbled. “Your muscles will
be tight and cold again.”

Rubbing his hands
briskly together, he reoiled Caelan’s taut shoulders, massaging deeply, then
slung a blue cloak around Caelan, tightened his wrist cuffs, and straightened
his fighting harness.

Caelan endured
these preparations in grim silence, his thoughts on the arena.

Each of his wins
had built up a larger and larger reputation that had to be met or surpassed
constantly in order to please. After his first championship, it hadn’t been
enough to kill. No, then he was expected to fight with panache, drama, and
flair. With each successive win came the added pressure of sustaining his
record. He lived with the small, gnawing fear that someday he would meet his
match. Then would come public, humiliating defeat, and probably death. No one
remained champion for long; no one had won as many seasons as he.

And now all that
he had done wasn’t enough for his master. If he did not prevail today against
the worst opponent he had ever faced, Tirhin would have him killed.

Caelan’s jaw
tightened, and he gathered all his determination. He had to succeed. No other
option lay before him.

“Now remember,”
Orlo said, slapping him on the shoulder. “You’re in better condition and better
trained. You’re fit and well prepared. You know the arena; you’re used to the
crowd. Most of all, you’re champion. He is  nothing but a foul enemy of the
empire. The crowd will be with you every step. And use every dirty trick you know.”

Caelan gave him a
long look, but said nothing. He felt distracted and tense, off-balance in some
way.

The door opened
and a guard looked in. “Didn’t you hear the summons? Produce your man, Orlo.
The crowd is ready to tear down the stands.”

“About bloody
time,” Orlo retorted. He turned his back to the guard and handed Caelan a
sword.

Caelan took the
weapon and immediately tucked it out of sight beneath his cloak. Orlo was
breaking the law to give him this privilege. Already the weight and heft of the
wire-wrapped hilt felt good and right in Caelan’s hand. He drew in a deep
breath and closed his eyes, letting the strength of the steel enter him.

His doubts and
inner torment faded. He merged as one entity with the weapon, as though it
became a natural extension of his hand. Years of fighting lay inside the blade,
which had remained as true as the day it was forged.

“Come,” Orlo said.

The guards swung
the door completely open, and Caelan strode out.

“You trainers,”
one of the guards muttered as Caelan and Orlo passed. “Always stretching things
out in hopes of keying up the crowd. We’ll have a riot on our hands if you don’t
hurry.”

Orlo snorted but
did not reply. This delay had been the emperor’s fault, or perhaps Tirhin’s, no
one else’s.

Out in the passageway,
chaos reigned as usual. A few weary fighters were being dipped in the water vat
to clean off the worst of grime, sweat, and blood. Somewhere in the infirmary,
a man was screaming over the rasping sound of a bone saw. Armed guards watched
everywhere, alert and tense today because of the emperor’s presence. Boys ran
here and there, carrying bundles of clothing, bandages, and oil jars. Trainers
stood in small groups, huddled in conferences that paused as Caelan strode by.

He looked neither
right nor left, but he was aware of their eyes, narrowed with speculation and
assessment as they watched him pass. Orlo flanked him, glowering fiercely in
evident pride.

Ahead of them ran
the call: “Make way for the champion! Make way!”

A path was
cleared. Conversations halted in mid-sentence as people stared. It was
considered bad luck to speak to a fighter on his way into the arena, for at
this moment Caelan’s life was held in the hands of the gods. But although no
one whispered a word, he could feel waves of emotions beating at him. Envy,
admiration, hope, frustration, dislike. A tangle of feelings he forced himself
to resist.

Severance
was one means of keeping himself steady. But experience in the arena had taught
him to control himself without that severity of detachment. A man could grow
dependent on it. Better to save it until he needed it in combat. Besides, he
needed
sevaisin,
the joining, in order to evaluate his opponent in the
first moment of confrontation.

So he had grown
progressively calmer, colder, unemotional in public, training himself to remain
focused and empty of all save his own assigned tasks. His mental toughness had
given him an aura of grim purpose, which spoke its own kind of authority to
people. They respected him, whether slave or free, and they moved aside as he
passed by, only to surge after him in a mob eager to watch the coming contest.

Up the worn stone
steps. Past the shadowy walls stained black with smoke from years of
torchlight. Then, at the top of the steps, a shout from someone in warning, the
outcry flashing on from person to person ahead of him.

“He’s coming!
Giant is coming! Make way for the champion!”

A flurry broke out
ahead of him as men scurried up the ramp to find seats for themselves. Sunlight
slanted down the ramp to meet him as he emerged from the darkness.

And the roar of
sound, tremendous, overwhelming, deafening. It never stopped, never diminished.
It was a force in and of itself, like a living thing, this mighty cheering. He
could feel a wave of sheer anticipation hit him like a wall.

He started to
sweat lightly. His heart was thumping like mad in his chest. Orlo patted his
shoulder and said something Caelan could not hear.

He lost awareness
of his trainer. Something in the cheering, stamping crowd mesmerized him and
called him forth. Without hesitation he squared his shoulders and strode ahead
of Orlo into sunlight and sound, becoming one with both.

The crowd screamed
his name, and if possible the cheering grew louder.

Caelan strode
across the freshly raked sand to the center of the arena, then turned to face
the stands. Halfway up in the prime seating was the emperor’s box with its
red-striped awning. Imperial flags streamed in the breeze, and the emperor, his
son, and their guests sat watching. Caelan lifted his hand high in salute, and
saw Prince Tirhin raise his wine cup in return. The emperor was chatting with
someone else and paid no attention, but Tirhin’s gaze never wavered from
Caelan.

His words passed
through Caelan’s mind, and Caelan felt a shiver inside himself. He wanted this
win and what it would bring him. The desire was so strong he could taste it.

Caelan spun around
and yanked off his cloak. The winter sunlight fell warm on his shoulders. When
he lifted his bared sword to the crowd, they went into fresh frenzy. Many threw
coins and flowers onto the sand, while a young boy raced to gather up Caelan’s
cloak.

A scream of
bestial rage came from the holding pen on the south side of the arena. Caelan
let his gaze flicker in that direction even as he saluted the crowd again.

A Madrun was only
a man, he reminded himself quickly. There was no demon blood, nothing to fear.
He had faced lurkers and wind spirits before and survived. He would succeed in
this.

Were his opponent
a veteran fighter like himself, Caelan would have continued to pose and posture
for the crowd. They liked that sort of nonsense. He had once found it
embarrassing, but now he did it without thinking. However, he remembered Orlo’s
words of warning and decided to take no chances. He had never seen a Madrun
before, not face to face. But their fighting prowess was legendary, and they
reputedly had no fear for their own lives at all. A man who did not fear death
had the upper hand in any combat, but Caelan intended that to be the Madrun’s
only advantage. He vowed he would not be killed at the hands of a dirty savage.
Moreover, he was determined to make good his promise to fight as they had never
seen him fight before.