Authors: Deborah Chester
Another bellow
came from the holding pen. Handlers scurried around, swearing at each other and
sliding long, barbed poles between the wide slats to drive the occupant back
from the gate.
It was rumored
that in some of the more backward provinces, wild animals and lurkers were
sometimes loosed in the arenas as opponents. Perhaps it was no Madrun he faced,
but instead some beast.
Caelan ran his
fingertips lightly along the flat of his blade, gently flexing it. He faced the
holding pen, concentrating on it.
The crowd was
slowly settling down, although they continued to shriek his name. Normally he
would have continued to salute them or flourish his sword about. They loved
seeing him execute drills to warm up.
Today, however,
was no occasion for playacting, exactly as Orlo had warned him.
Another bellow
came from the holding pen, and one of the handlers fell back with a scream. The
crowd jeered a bit in impatience, then grew reluctantly quieter. Anticipation
rolled down from the top of the stands.
Shivers crawled
along Caelan’s spine in response to it.
Normally he waited
until his opponent appeared before reaching out with
sevaisin,
but now
Caelan dared to join early.
A wall of rage hit
him, red-hot, and so forceful he felt momentarily stunned.
There was no
joining with
that.
It was murderous rage, a blind hatred as impenetrable
as a shield.
Caelan’s mouth
went dry. During his stint as a gladiator, he had relied on his special, secret
gifts to give him the winning advantage. He depended on them, and now he
realized
sevaisin
would be useless.
How would he
anticipate the man’s next moves? How could he make sure he outguessed and
outmaneuvered him?
Ruthlessly he
shoved his rising doubts away. This was no time for alarm. He must rely on what
Orlo had taught him. If nothing else, he could
sever
the man’s life.
And if he could
not cut through that rage with the reverse side of his gift?
Before Caelan
could even dare think about that alarming possibility, the solid wood gate to
the holding pen burst open. One of the handlers flung a sword onto the ground
for the Madrun, and they all fled.
The crowd screamed
with glee.
“Giant! Victory!
Giant! Victory!” they chanted.
Caelan well
remembered his first day in the public arena in what now seemed a lifetime ago.
The sight of the stone bleachers rising above him in a towering circle had been
overwhelming. The magnitude of the crowd, the noise, the blinding sunlight
after such a long time down in the darkness below ... arena shock was an
involuntary reaction in anyone new to the games.
The Madrun who
emerged came scuttling outside in a half-crouch, dropped to scoop up the sword,
glanced left and right to get his bearings, spied Caelan, and came at him with
a shrill war cry that raised the hair on the back of Caelan’s neck.
It was as though
the Madrun didn’t notice the crowd or the noise. It was as though he didn’t
care.
Surprised in spite
of all his preparation and Orlo’s warnings, Caelan set himself and waited for
the man’s rush.
It was his first
mistake.
The Madrun was
big, nearly as tall as Caelan, and built like a bull. His massive shoulders
rippled with muscle as he swung the sword around his head in a circle, running
full tilt now through the deep sand. His head was shaven except for a bushy
stripe of rust-red hair, and his ears were misshapen with mutilation scars. He
was older than Caelan by at least five years, a man in his full fighting prime.
The deep sand did not slow him. The sunlight did not blind him. The crowd did
not distract him. His fight with his handlers had not tired him.
Still screaming in
his own incomprehensible tongue, he was suddenly upon Caelan. Too late, Caelan
snapped to attention and realized he should have been moving to meet the man.
To wait for the first strike was a tactical mistake made by the greenest
recruits. The speed built up by the Madrun would knock him flat, even if he did
manage to deflect that shining blade.
Swearing at
himself, Caelan drew on his incredible speed and pivoted at the last possible
second, dodging his opponent and moving toward him rather than away.
Their swords
clashed with a resounding bang of steel against steel that had the crowd back
on its feet, cheering. To the crowd, their champion had seemingly waited calmly
until the very last minute before moving. To the crowd, their champion looked
very courageous against this barbaric enemy of the empire.
To the crowd, Caelan
looked daring. To Orlo and Prince Tirhin, he must look like a lunatic.
Grimly Caelan put
the prince’s threat from his mind yet again. He exchanged a fast series of
blows, then backed up, dancing around the Madrun in a circle. He wanted to
evaluate this creature’s fighting skills before he closed with him again.
The Madrun’s red
eyes glared at Caelan without wavering. With teeth bared, he rushed again,
forcing Caelan to feint and spin without even an attack in return.
Hating being on
the defensive, Caelan feinted, then feinted again, but the Madrun was not
fooled. He simply attacked, hacking and screaming while the crowd moaned and
jeered.
When Caelan had
boasted he would fight as Tirhin had never seen him fight before, he had
not
intended this.
Forget that,
Caelan told himself.
Concentrate.
The Madrun
slashed, and white-hot pain sliced through Caelan’s arm. He struck back in
anger, forcing the Madrun to retreat a little, then circled to catch his
breath. Blood dripped steadily down his arm, his fighting arm. Already he could
feel blood pooling between his palm and the hilt of his sword, making the grip
slippery.
Sometimes the game
would be halted, if one of the owners wanted a fighter’s wound bound up so the
contest could continue equally. But Prince Tirhin would never do that, not for
his champion, not for the fighter considered the best in the empire, a man who
needed no coddling, a man who had not been wounded in over a season.
Every time Caelan
flexed his arm, the wound opened and air rushed in, making it burn like fire.
Caelan frowned and
severed
the pain. Stepping into icy detachment, he felt the wound fade from
his consciousness. Everything around him seemed a bit slower; the Madrun looked
a bit smaller than before. His fear dropped from him, as did his distractions.
On one level he laughed at the Vindicant priest’s offering him a potion to
increase his fighting strength. This was all he needed.
Caelan drank in
the coldness, letting confidence increase almost to arrogance. At the edge of
his vision he could see the threads of life. How easy it would be to cut those
surrounding the Madrun right now.
The temptation
grew in him as time seemed to stand still. He held the power of life and death
in his grip. It was sweet and exhilarating. The more he drew on it, the more
pleasure he derived from using it.
And here, in the
void of
severance
where there were no lies and no need for lies, he
could admit to himself that this was why he fought. In the arena he could sip
from this forbidden pool as much as he wanted.
But it was not
right for a mere man to have such knowledge.
He feared the
strength of
severance’s
pull; he always had. He knew what he would
become if he ever gave way completely to it.
Besides, merely
killing the Madrun was not what the prince had requested.
With a wrench,
Caelan brought himself away from the edge of danger.
Severance
must
always remain his tool, never become his master. He needed only to block the
pain of his wound, nothing more.
Meanwhile, in
those few split seconds when the world had paused for Caelan, the Madrun
continued to circle him, eyeing him steadily. Now, as Caelan met his gaze, the
Madrun lifted his sword and licked Caelan’s blood off the edge of the blade.
Then he laughed.
Caelan rushed him
in a swift attack that caught the man unawares. Grunting in surprise, the
Madrun stumbled back, defending himself strongly but clumsily. He learned fast.
Caelan found the same trick did not work twice with this man, who was a better
swordsman than he appeared.
Back and forth
they parried, their blades ringing out in a steady crisscross of deadly force.
Up and down pumped their arms, fast and furious, attack and counterattack,
until suddenly in one shining moment Caelan felt himself riding a surge of
sheer, unbridled joy.
He laughed aloud,
and the Madrun was caught by surprise a second time. The Madrun stumbled, made
a mistake, and barely evaded Caelan’s lunge. Scrambling back, the Madrun found
himself pressed hard by Caelan, who gave him no quarter. Caelan pushed him
across the arena nearly to the wall.
The crowd roared
approval.
Caelan’s sword was
slipping in his hand despite his stranglehold on the hilt, and he didn’t know
if he was streaming sweat or blood. He knew only that he had this man where he
wanted him. The wall loomed just steps away from the Madrun’s back. And when
the Madrun bumped into it, Caelan would finish him.
But suddenly the
Madrun dropped his arm, exposing himself to Caelan’s blade. A split second
before Caelan could lop the head from his shoulders, the Madrun dove to the
ground and rolled toward Caelan’s feet.
Caelan leaped over
him and sensed more than saw the Madrun’s blade coming at his vulnerable lower
body. Twisting desperately in midair, Caelan brought his sword around and
deflected the blade just in time to save himself from losing a leg.
That was all he
could do, however. Caelan fell and rolled blindly, unsure where the Madrun was.
He scrambled to his feet at once, but the Madrun was already tackling him, and
brought him down with an impact that jolted half the breath from Caelan’s
lungs. Caelan kicked and squirmed, but he found himself pinned by the man’s
weight with the Madrun’s forearm pressed down across his throat. The Madrun
lifted his sword to plunge it into Caelan’s side.
However, the
swords were too long to fight with at such close quarters. Caelan got one hand
free and jabbed his fingers into the Madrun’s eyes.
Howling with pain,
the Madrun shifted but didn’t let go. Caelan chopped him in the throat. The
Madrun made a strangling, gasping noise and went slack enough for Caelan to
push free. Kicking hard against the man’s side, Caelan scrambled away,
recovered his sword, and swung it around.
Just before the
blade connected, however, the Madrun flung a handful of sand at Caelan’s face.
Caelan had been caught once long ago by that ancient trick, but never again.
He ducked, closing
his eyes, even as he finished his sword swing.
A choked cry of
pain coupled with the jolting bite of steel into meat told him he had hit his
mark.
Blinking, Caelan
saw he had sliced into the man’s hip, but the Madrun half hobbled, half crawled
away from him and recovered his sword.
Good spectacle
demanded that Caelan let the man regain his feet. Good sense told him to finish
the Madrun quickly while he had the chance.
Caelan wavered for
an instant. Tirhin wanted more than a quick victory; he wanted the crowd in his
hand. Even now, half the crowd was shouting for Caelan to finish the kill but
the rest were roaring approval as Caelan stepped back and waited for the Madrun
to recover. The show was not finished yet, and they loved it.
Forcing a smile,
Caelan turned to the crowd and lifted his bloody sword in quick salute. They
clapped and cheered all the more.
It was his second
mistake.
In that moment of
inattention, the Madrun regained his feet and impossibly rushed at Caelan with
all the speed and fury of before. Disbelief hit Caelan at the same time as the
Madrun did.
Caelan parried the
attacking blow clumsily, feeling the jolt travel into his wrist and up his arm.
There was no time to wonder how the Madrun could move like this with such a
deep wound in his hip. There was no time for Caelan to curse his own stupidity.
There was only desperation throttling him now as he fought off the Madrun
again. Despite
severance,
he could not ignore the leaden ache creeping
through his arm. As he tired from exhaustion and blood loss, he would get
slower. He could not continue much longer. Yet what choice had he? The Madrun
seemed tireless. Despite the blood coating his leg, the barbarian gave no evidence
of pain or distress. His red eyes glared as fiercely as ever.
Perhaps he
understood the principles of
severance
too.
That was a
disconcerting thought, at a time when it was foolhardy to think too much.
Grimly, Caelan forced himself to ignore everything save keeping his blade in
motion. No faltering, no mistakes. He had been lucky thus far. He could not
depend on fortune to save him a third time.
Back and forth
they fought, scrambling and dodging, only to rush at each other again. No trick
Caelan tried seemed to work. No amount of skill seemed to be enough to break
through the Madrun’s guard.
Well matched, Orlo
had said. It was true. For the first time, Caelan felt he had met his equal.
He could hear
himself gulping air. Little black spots began to dance across his vision.
Everything but the Madrun was a blur. Yet Caelan would not give up. Tirhin had
promised him his freedom, and for that Caelan would go to the wall.
Caelan felt as
though he had fought for hours. It should be enough. Let the crowd be happy
this once so he could go home. Let the other man fall down; let him die so
Caelan could end this.
But the Madrun
would not surrender either. He would not weaken. He would not die.