by D L Sims
They were brought to a narrow hall with an opening at the end that led to the Master’s balcony.
“Wait here,” the servant barked and shuffled away.
“She was pleasant,” Grant commented, leaning against the wall with one leg folded over the other.
Ikar stood next to him, arms folded, face apathetic. “She reminded me of my grandmother.”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” The Master’s voice echoed throughout the arena. Andalen could see his back through the opening at the end of the hall. His blond hair was loose, the black fabric of his coat pulled over his broad back. “Welcome to the second battle! Today’s competitors have great skills in one or more areas, and have been paired together based on their scores so far in the Trial--”
“He conveniently left out that they were the lowest scores,” Ikar mumbled.
“Shh,” Andalen scolded, elbowing him in the ribs.
“First, let’s introduce the champions that will not be participating in today’s battle!” The crowd cheered. “Our charismatic lord from the south--Lord Grantham!”
The cheers grew to a deafening roar. It was no secret that Grant was favored to win the throne. He was handsome and charming, and the love he showed his sister had won over many of the Eltharians.
Grant winked and pushed off the wall. “See you out there.”
He walked to the end of the hall, raising his arms as he reached the end and exited onto the Master’s balcony. The roar of the crowd grew even louder. A chorus of “Si-ner-o! Si-ner-o! Si-ner-o!” followed behind the cheers.
“Next up,” Master Roxell called, “One of our lords from the chilly north--Lord Ikar!”
Ikar rolled his eyes as he uncrossed his arms, his face never morphing into anything more than a small quirk at the corner of his lips. He strolled to the end of the hall, eyes fixed straight ahead. The cheers were less than what Grant had received, but still loud. He gave no show that he was affected by the praise as he took his seat behind Master Roxell, next to Grant.
“And last, the greatest surprise we have seen during these Trials, a history in the making--Lady Andalen!”
Andalen stepped forward, her heels clicking against the gray stone floor. She blinked in the brightness of the sun, waving to the crowd.
“Am-a-don! Am-a-don!”
All around her was a sea of people in different colored clothes. Fashions from every part of Elthare could be seen: the simple vests from Oszerack; the harem pants of Palamar; the conservative coats of Rivland; the durable leather jackets of Odenmal; and the fur-lined cloaks of Alithane. All colored and dyed to represent the Champion they supported.
The majority of the clothes and banners were blue, but it made her happy to see more green than red and purple. The green of her family was worn mostly by women. However, some men sported emerald and gold, as well. A group of women on the other side of the arena held a sign with gold lettering and an amateur drawing of a lily.
ANDALEN IS OUR QUEEN!
Andi smiled, raising a hand in their direction before taking a seat.
Grant leaned over Ikar, smiling at her. “Looks like you’ve become a favorite.”
“Give one more cheer for these three Champions!”
The crowd erupted like a volcano spitting lava, singing a chorus of their names. The entire arena shook with the stomping of feet.
The Master waited for the cheering to die down before continuing. “Now, help me welcome our first Competitor. Our Palman Champion--Lord Phinn!”
The cheers for Phinn were small compared to those for Ikar, Grant and Andalen. The Eltharians wearing purple were few and far between in the ocean of blue, green and red.
The stones under their feet rumbled as the iron gates beneath them opened. Phinn entered the arena looking confused and dwarfed in his armor. His grip on the handle of his spear was unsure and loose.
“Gods,” Grant breathed, “this is going to be painful to watch.”
“Let’s hope he remembers what I taught him last night,” Ikar mumbled.
“There’s nothing we can do now,” Grant replied. “I only hope he armed himself with daggers like I told him.”
Andalen leaned forward in her chair, feeling sorry for their young friend. She said a prayer for him, begging for the Gods to guide him through the battle.
“Next The Great Wolf Hunter of the North--”
Ikar made a sound in his throat, something akin to a growl and a whine.
“--Lord Yvney.”
The iron gate on the other side of the arena opened, and Yvney strolled out with a cool confidence. His chest was bare, showing dark hair and the bulge of his muscles. He wore his armor well. Each plate was molded to his skin as if he had been born to wear it. The grip on the handle of his war hammer was sure, and the smile on his face conveyed how much he lived for combat.
The cheers erupted, and the Althanen section jumped to their feet. “Yv-ney!Yv-ney!”
Yvney’s smile grew, making him look cruel and feral. He raised his hammer in the air and let out a guttural roar.
The crowd ate it up. Even people not wearing the Dominikov red cheered for him.
“Begin!”
Yvney didn’t hesitate. He charged at Phinn, raising his weapon over his head, and swung his hammer. Phinn ducked, rolling into the dirt, but lost his spear along the way. He jumped up, his hair and clothes covered in dust. His hand went to his belt, removing a dagger. He threw it, but his aim was off. It flew over Yvney’s shoulder, bouncing off the stone wall behind his opponent.
Part of the crowd groaned, and the other half cheered.
“Come on, Phinn,” Grant urged. His body tensed, and he balanced on the edge of his seat. “Come on.”
Ikar looked just as tense. The expression on his face wasn’t as easy to read, except for the tightening at the corner of his eyes, and the way he held his body bound and straight.
Master Roxell smiled, enjoying every minute of the competition.
On the field, Yvney attacked again, but Phinn dodged. One moment he was standing in front of Yvney, and the next, he was behind the larger man. He removed another dagger from his belt, plunging it into Yvney’s shoulder.
The crowd cheered, some chanting, “Mo-nneaire! Mo-nneaire!”
Yvney only jerked at the injury and turned, swinging back with an open hand, knocking Phinn down into the dirt. Phinn bled from his nose and lip as he clamored to his feet, and Yvney laughed, the sound carrying throughout the arena on a wave. He said something to Phinn that had the young lord shaking, but Andalen couldn’t make out the words from where she sat.
Yvney struck again, and Phinn dodged once more. This time, Phinn stood at the other side of the arena, nearly twenty feet from where he had been only moments before. Andalen noticed that the sun had moved across the sky; it seemed like an hour or two had passed in only a few moments.
Yvney howled, more out of frustration than pain. Daggers that had not been there only moments ago were protruding from his chest, shoulder, legs. Blood dripped down each injury, smearing red against his skin, matting into his chest hair.
“STOP THAT!” he yelled, pulling the daggers free from his flesh. “FIGHT LIKE A MAN!”
It seemed to happen in one fleeting moment. Yvney charged forward, his steps wide and heavy as he pulled a dagger from his belt, plunging it into Phinn’s neck. Phinn’s body sputtered, flickering at the edges as he tried to use his powers. Blood spurted, drenching Yvney and the sand in red. Phinn fell to his knees.
A scream erupted from the stands. Marklin jumped up, racing to the edge of the wall that separated the stands from the field. “Phinn!”
Yvney raised his hammer and swung. Phinn’s head flattened into the dirt. His body went still.
Yvney stumbled back, dropping the hammer.
Thick and heavy silence fell over the crowd, and then as if a giant storm erupted, the spectators yelled their outrage.
“Murderer!” they hollered.
“Fiend!”
“C
heater!”
Yvney stood in the middle of the field, blinking down at Phinn’s corpse as if he was not sure what had happened. Master Roxell stood and signaled guards on the periphery of the Coliseum. They swarmed the field, grabbing Yvney by the wrists and hauling him away.
“Where are you taking him?” Ikar demanded from beside Andalen.
“He will be locked in a cell in the Round Tower.” Master Roxell shuddered as he looked down at Phinn’s body. “Murder inside the Arena is a punishable offense, Lord Ikar.”
Andalen shut out Ikar arguing with Master Roxell, and the jeering from the crowd as Yvney was dragged away. She looked down at Phinn and whispered, “May Kurem lead you to the Gates.”
Chapter
Eighteen
It was too quiet.
Kelmen Stocke hauled in the nets he and his partner, Benox, had cast into the ocean for fish. An odd feeling sat in his gut, a clenching of the muscles that made him queasy.
“Somethin’s not right,” he said to Ben. He paused, looking around him, but it was only three in the morning. No one was out yet. No other fishermen would be on the shore until five--he liked getting to the beach early, so he caught the best fish.
“Yer so paranoid.” Ben began plucking fish from the nets, throwing them into the buckets sitting at their feet. “Remember when ya had that bad feeling two weeks ago, and ya just had ta shit?”
Kel shook his head. “T’is different, Ben. Somethin’s wrong.”
“Do ya have these feelings cause yer Ma’s a witch?”
Kelmen ignored his friend’s taunting and looked out at the black water. Something was on the horizon; a massive black shadow moved slowly across the water. Kel squinted. “I tink there’s ships--”
Ben’s head shot up, and his gaze caught on the large black shapes cutting through the ocean. “Kel?”
Something whizzed through the air, slamming into Benox. Kel froze. A large ball, much like one for a cannon, but made of wood with iron spikes protruding from it, pierced through Ben’s skull. Blood pooled in the sand around his body.
Run!
Kelmen sprinted across the beach, heels kicking up sand behind him. He had no idea what direction he was heading. He just had to get away. The spiked cannonballs flew over his head, slamming into the dock and buildings near the shoreline. People scurried from the falling structures, screaming.
“Help!” Someone yelled, but Kel kept running.
He soon found himself at the mouth of a cave at the base of the cliffs, and he paused, panting.
“Gods, what do I do?”
“You talking to yourself, lad?” A man came out from the shadows, dressed in the tanned hides of the Mezeran people. He was older than Kelmen by many decades, but there was a wild look in his eyes. “You ran right into the jaws of death, didn’t you, lad?”
Kel’s whole body shook with fear, but he had to keep going. He had to warn the village.
The man stalked closer. His heavy boots dug into the sand, his furs dripping with water from the sea and the light rain that had begun to fall. He grinned, brown teeth flashed in the light of his torch. A heavy axe swung with each step.
Kelmen looked around for something to use as a weapon, but saw nothing.
He turned and ran.
Kel ran in the direction of the shouting in the village; there was no other way to go.
Mezeran soldiers ran toward Odenmal from every inch of the beach. How did they get to shore so quickly? But Kel could not ponder the question. He had to keep moving.
A discarded axe lay in the sand, and he picked it up, astonished by the weight of the handle and blade.
A man nearby stalked toward a woman, a sinister grin spread across his face, barely hidden behind his beard, as he began to untie his trousers. The woman fell back, tripping over her own feet. She scooted back from the Mezeran, tearing her dress.
“Help!” She called.
No one helped her. Odemalians scampered for safety. Another woman eyed the fallen female, and Kel could almost see her thinking: Better you than me.
The Mezeran raised his long, crude blade.
“No!” Kel shouted. He found himself in front of the woman, raising the axe. The sound of the blade hitting the head of the axe he held pierced over the sounds of shouting and crying. The impact shook his whole arm.
There was a sudden whoosh as the shop next to them went up in flames.
Kelmen pulled back and swung the blade, hacking into the man’s neck. He didn’t remove the man’s head cleanly, but rather left a bit of muscle that made it seem as if the Mezeran’s head swung on a hinge as he fell back onto the road. His blood ran with the rain through the cracks in the cobblestones.
Kel turned to the woman. Her large green eyes were full of tears. There was a cut on her face, and blood trickled down into the neck of her dress.
“Can ya walk?”
The woman nodded and took Kel’s hand.
Together, they ran through the village. He stopped when he saw two Mezeran women advancing on a girl about thirteen. She was dressed in the Lysin fashions--she must have been visiting from the other kingdom for the Trials--and her brown hair was plaited. She cowered against a wall, whimpering as the women advanced on her.
“Marta!” A man screamed.
He ran toward the women, and Kel began to raise his axe, but it was too late.
The smallest of the women stabbed the small girl through the heart.
The man stopped, falling to his knees on the cobblestones. “Marta!”
The women descended on the man, but he didn’t try to run. He looked up at them with tears streaming down his face. Kelmen quickened his pace to protect the Lysin man, but the tallest woman slammed the butt of her sword into his head, knocking him out cold.
As one, the three turned, spying Kelmen.
“Shit.” He turned and hightailed back to the woman he had saved. “Run! Head fer the station!”
All around them chaos had erupted. People were pulled from their homes and murdered in the streets. The Mezerans looked like an infestation of bugs. There were so many. Everywhere he looked, they seemed to multiply.
“Keep goin’.”
The woman kept pace with him, and they finally made it to the train station. The only part of Odenmal that had yet to be overtaken by Mezerans. Other Odemalians were taking refuge in the station.
“We have ta get out of ‘ere,” Kel warned them. “They’ll be comin’ soon.”
“Where do we go?” Someone asked.
“We go through tha woods. Ever’one’s in Rivland fer tha Trials. We have ta get there and warn tha Nobles.”
Kelmen expected them to argue, but no one did. They all clambered to their feet, some clinging to the person nearest to them out of fear. The woman he had helped earlier grabbed his arm. Her nails dug into his flesh, but Kel ignored the pain as he led thirty-five people to safety.
Chapter
Nineteen
Master Roxell’s words echoed through his head. The next to fight are Lord Grantham and Lord Ikar. His chest tightened as he tried to eat his eggs and potatoes.
Lonis had shoved back from the table following the Master’s words, stomping up the stairs to the Sinero floor.
After breakfast, Grant went to Lonis' room and pushed open the door. The room was smaller than Grant’s, but still lavish in style and colored with blue and silver. The rising sun bathed the room in golden light. Lonis sat on the floor by his bed, his dark head bowed over Grant’s dagger in his lap. When he looked up, his tawny face was tracked with tears. He sniffed.
“I haven’t seen you cry since you broke your arm when we were children,” Grant said, trying to lighten the mood but failing.
“Sin--” Lonis' voice shattered like fragile china.
Grant crossed the room, sinking to the floor at Lonis' side. He wrapped an arm around his shoulders, drawing Lonis' warm body against him. Lonis sniffed again, burying his face into Grant’s neck.
“Tell me why you’re so
upset, Lonnie. It’s not like I am going to die.”
“Poor choice of words after what happened to Phinn.” Lonis sniffed again. “I’m afraid of what is going to happen. You remember your Uncle Rhys? He was never the same after the Trials.”
“I suppose no one will ever be the same after getting hit in the head with an iron hammer.”
“Be serious, Sin.” Lonis reached for Grant’s hand, and long, golden fingers wrapped around his. His touch sent Grant’s heart fluttering, and his entire body was on fire.
Gods. What you do to me.
“You won’t lose me, Lonnie.” Their bodies crashed together as Grant wrapped his arms around Lonis’ shoulders. “I promise not to get hit by any hammers.”
Lonis chuckled slightly. “Why can't you ever be serious? Promise me you’ll be alright tomorrow.”
He couldn’t promise him that. He swallowed. “I’ll try. For you, I will try.”
They hadn’t walked far. The tracks seemed to extend forever. Kelmen, who could only tell time by the position of the sun in the sky and not by the clocks a smarter man had invented only forty years prior, looked up to the sky. According to the sun, they had been walking for hours, and they were no one near Rivland.
Kelmen heard movement behind them.
“Tighten up,” he hissed to the others. “Keep movin’.”
They moved as quickly and as quiet as they could, but a knot formed in Kel’s stomach with every step. The Mezerans had found them.
An arrow whizzed out from somewhere between the trees. The point slammed into the chest of the man directly behind Kelmen. He fell, his head splitting on the iron tie.