by James Wolf
The teams ran out into the arena, and Macen was almost bowled over by the roar of a huge crowd. He found himself trembling with excitement under that attention. The arena floor was circular – Macen estimated eighty yards in diameter. There was row behind row of Rhungars sitting in the tiered stands, which stretched up twenty stone tiers high at least, and for the full circumference of the arena. The Rhungars in the crowd jostled, swayed and sang, a giant bubbling cauldron of frivolity. Drums were banged, and supporters chanted for either red or blue – Claymore or Ironstone. Macen could see a sea of faces looking down at him, and he felt even more nervous than he had in the changing room. He wondered what they all thought of his small frame, when they compared him to all the giant Rhungars stomping around the arena, and he hoped he was not about to make himself look stupid. Macen took a deep breath and calmed himself, as Logan had taught him, by concentrating only on what he would have to do – trying to ignore the noise of the crowd.
The two teams lined up alongside each other in front of the Citadel Lord’s booth, which stood out on stone columns in front of the main stand. Macen could see the other five warriors of the Hand of Fire were also sat up the Lord’s booth. He regarded the colourful flags that hung down in front of the booth: seven smaller flags, one for each of the clans, centred around two large flags. These two large flags were one for the Rhungari Empire – storm clouds hovering over snow-capped peaks – and one for Khan Zhen, a golden falcon swooping on a silver field.
The crowd went quiet as Drogal, Lord of the Citadel, stood up and said, ‘Forgrun o’ Ironstone do challenge Sturad o’ Claymore. All who be takin’ ter arena, do so in Kaladim. Let ye games be begin!’ Drogal cried out, and the crowd roared.
A great bell tolled, and Macen looked to the left of the Lord’s booth at the giant bronze Gaunt Ruck bell, emblazoned with the insignias of the Clans. Drogal pointed down to the arena floor at a large wheel, and everyone turned to watch. The colourful wheel was split into eight sections, and on each segment was written a task: Drag Pull, Bridge, Rock Chuck, Pyramid, Duel, Gauntlet, Stones and Rune Hammer. A stately Rhungar, wearing a black and gold shirt, gave the wheel a mighty spin, sending it into a tumbling kaleidoscope.
The quiet crowd waited as the revolving wheel slowed to a halt, and the pointer landed on Gauntlet. The whole crowd exploded with cheering and whooping. Serving Rhungars, in brown tabards, ran about the arena using teams of Dhurran horses to drag equipment from storage sheds underneath the stands. The two teams put their arms around their teammates’ shoulders, forming tight circles.
‘We do need ter spilt team in half,’ Forgrun said, ‘offence an’ defence. Ter win we be needin’ ter get our four runners down Gauntlet first. Simple – aye? Our defenders do be duffin’ up their runners an’ be mashin’ their defenders.’
Although Harnan was the senior Rhungar, Forgrun had issued the challenge, and so had taken the role of team-captain.
‘Macen and Ragad do be play runners,’ Forgrun looked to each of his friends. ‘So all yhee have ter do is barge or dodge yhee way through Gauntlet. I be runnin’ ye last leg. Pendran, yhee can go first so ye Men can see how it be done. Harnan, yhee marshal ye defence.’
Macen watched as the Gauntlet was assembled in the centre of the arena floor. It was a straight track, a hundred foot long and twenty foot wide, bordered by padded barriers of black and gold canvas. The Gauntlet had random blockades that were five foot cubed, and padded with red and blue canvas. The four defenders from each team took up huge padded tackle shields, the colour of which matched their tunics, and the four runners from each team were loaded into individual cages lined up in a block of eight. Macen thought these cages were like the ones Men used for dog racing – but these contained people!
The crowd yelled and cheered, as the eight runners were loaded into their start cages, alternating the runners from different teams. Macen watched as a wave rippled through the howling supporters sat in the stands.
Macen was shaking now. He knew he was fast, but he also knew many Rhungars would laugh if he got pummelled by the huge blockers. Macen tried to steady his breathing. He set his sights at the end of the Gauntlet. He watched the hefty defenders from both teams, with their gargantuan tackle pads, space themselves along the Gauntlet, and he prayed he would be too quick for them to hit him. Just get to the other end, Macen told himself, as his cage door slid down, locking him inside. His heart felt as if it was about to burst through his chest.
Claymore had opted to spread their defenders evenly along the length of the track, but Ironstone had decided to stand in pairs. Before the game had even started, Macen watched through his bars as the blockers nudged and jostled each other for better positions.
The huge Gaunt Ruck bell rang out. The crowd roared. Macen watched as the first runners burst from their cages. The Claymore Rhungar ran full pelt at a pair of Ironstone blockers, and was knocked back reeling. The blue Ironstone runner, Pendran, thundered into a red blocker, but managed to bounce off him and keep going, only to be smashed to the floor by a different red blocker. Who in turn ate dirt as two blue blockers, one of them Harnan, crashed into him. The red Claymore kept running and was again clobbered back by blue defenders, this time into a blockade. He hit the floor, but rolled deftly to regain his feet and swoop around outside the defence, along the Gauntlet’s edge, avoiding the remaining blue tacklers as two red blockers obstructed them. The Claymore crowd exploded as their runner made it to the safe zone.
Macen’s heart raced when he heard the clunk of chains and cogs, and the next Claymore runner was away down the Gauntlet – until he was bashed into the padded side – whilst the Ironstone supporters cheered as their first runner made it home.
Soon after, Ragad was lumbering forward, gathering speed and momentum, aiming straight for the first red blocker, who was hurled through the air to land flat on his back. The crowd roared in appreciation. The red Claymore runner gasped, as he was sandwiched between two Ironstone tacklers. Macen felt the tingling in his stomach grow, as he knew his time approached.
Macen watched as a red blocker smacked into Ragad, but did little more than slow him down. A third red defender smashed the barbarian straight afterwards, knocking the big man back. Led by Harnan, blue tacklers arrived on the scene, swarming in to block the red defenders and allow Ragad to sprint straight through to the safe zone. The red Claymore runner, although limping, was only moments behind. Both crowds cheered as the runners made it home, and Macen’s gate began to lift up. He quivered as he felt thousands of Rhungari eyes fixing on him.
Macen dived on his side through the low gap under the gate, rolled and jumped to his feet. Now he was moving and focused on getting through the Gauntlet, Macen forgot the crowd – all the jeers, whistles and cheering – and looked at the red Claymore blockers that stood spread out in front of him. He traced a path through them in his head. All his nerves urged his body on. Macen ran straight and swift, every muscle striving to bound him further forward.
Macen veered left then sharply pushed right, off his left foot. He sidestepped the first red blocker. The crowd howled. A double-take wrong footed the second. And a fake side-step saw Macen past the imminent arrival of the third. Macen was travelling at such speed that he swung wide round the left side of the gauntlet. Arcing him past the fourth red blocker, who would not have caught him even if he was not being held by two blue defenders. The crowd went wild as he cruised into the safe zone, loving every moment of Macen’s graceful running. A smile of immense relief spread across Macen’s face. He knew he had not only survived, but performed well.
‘Hi aye!’ Said Pendran of Ironstone, as he whacked Macen on the shoulder.
Macen staggered back from Pendran, and Ragad put a steadying hand behind Macen’s shoulders.
‘Aye,’ one of the Claymores said grudgingly. ‘Yhee do give a fine display.’
‘Aye,’ the other red-bibbed Rhungar held his arm out to Macen, ‘I ne’er do see any one do run Gauntlet so fast.’
‘Thank you,’ Macen smiled as he shook the Claymore’s arm. ‘I am just glad I made it in one piece!’
‘Aye,’ the Claymore grinned, ‘yhee may nay be so lucky next time, now we do know ye run like an hare!’ The Claymore winked, and the smile dropped from Macen’s face.
The third Claymore runner loped into the end zone as Forgrun was already well on his way out the traps. Macen thought Forgrun had a surprising turn of speed – no doubt Logan’s training had done the Rhungar the world of good. Forgrun was nowhere near as fast as Macen, but he was considerably bulkier, and the first red blocker felt the full force of his momentum. The blocker went flying back to collapse into a stunned heap.
As the Ironstone crowd jumped and shouted, spilling their ale tankards everywhere, a second red blocker rammed Forgrun sideways, but not hard enough to make the strong Rhungar fall over. The fourth red runner tried to catch Forgrun, but was stopped dead in his tracks by a crushing double team of blue defenders. Forgrun took another bashing into a barricade, which slowed him, and made the crowd yell and scream, but he battled his way through the last two red defenders with the aid of a blue blocker.
Forgrun crossed the end of the gauntlet and loped into the safe zone, hands spread wide in a gesture of triumph, with the last red runner not even halfway down the Gauntlet. Forgrun punched his fist into the air, and the Ironstone supporters went into a frenzy. The blue teammates congratulated each other with jovial punches and slaps. First blood to Ironstone.
As stewards cleared away the Gauntlet, the competitors went to the giant gaming wheel, to find out what the next challenge would be. Macen observed the stony faces of the Claymore team, and he could see they were dead set on avenging the defeat. The wheel was spun by the Rhungar gamesmaster, and the crowd hushed as its colours blurred into one.
‘Pyramid!’ The gamesmaster yelled, as the wheel glided to a stop.
The crowd went ballistic, barking in near insanity as flags were waved, beer was downed and Rhungars smacked each other on the shoulders. The blue and red teams got into their huddles, and Forgrun chose three of his Ironstone Rhungars to compete in the Pyramid.
The huge pyramid was dragged out into the arena by teams of Dhurran horses. Macen could see it was square-based with four diminishing levels. The bottom was very broad, the top very narrow, but each level’s walkway was wide enough for Rhungars to stand four abreast without falling off to the level below. The aim was simple. The two teams would scramble to the top of the pyramid where they would pick up a leather ball out of a basket, and get it down to the red or blue treasury.
Three blue and three red Rhungars went to stand on opposite sides of the pyramid, by their own treasuries. The six competitors had put on what looked like cloth suits of armour for protection – padded all over with stuffed felt – and the entire pyramid was covered with the protective padding of black alternating with gold canvas, filled with cloth or feathers. Macen thought the pyramid was a massive three-dimensional chequers board.
Macen looked up at the booth of the Citadel Lord, and waved to his companions. Hirandar was engaging Drogal in conversation, but his friends waved back and Logan held up a fist – urging Macen on. Macen could see his friends laughing and enjoying the occasion, and that made him smile. Forgrun had once told him how Gaunt Rucks started over an argument, but served to bring people closer together. At the time that had seemed ridiculous to Macen, but now he understood. He looked up at the stands, and saw how banners of Claymore were swung in opposition to the flags of Ironstone, but in every place there was no hostility amongst the fans. The same could not be said down on the arena floor.
From the first bell, the blue-bibbed Rhungars of Ironstone and the red of Claymore hammered, hurled and shoved each other off the pyramid, in a race to scrabble to the top. Rhungars tumbled down, but landed on soft padding at the bottom of the pyramid, and picked themselves up to rejoin the battle. Rhungars wrestled each other, and punches were thrown as the players really got involved. The crowd loved every moment. Cheering every time a ball made it to the safety of a team’s treasury, or a crushing shoulder challenge went into a Rhungar on the opposing team. Macen decided Forgrun had avoided choosing any of the companions for this challenge not because of Kaladim, but so that they would still be able to walk afterwards!
Claymore had gone two-one up, and now extended their lead to three-one with some good teamwork, passing the ball around between two players as their third teammate acted as a defensive blocker. Macen winced at some of the booming challenges that went flying in. The teams battled the sand timer, their opponents and the steep climb of the pyramid itself. Two of the opposing Rhungars had forgotten any notion of the game and were fighting each other, going at it hammer and tongs. Both had black eyes, and the Claymore Rhungar had a badly cut lip. He punched out and smacked the Ironstone Rhungar, whose sizeable nose exploded, spraying blood everywhere. Nevertheless, the Ironstone was not hurt, just enraged. Macen watched in amazement as they latched onto each other, grappling at close range, throwing in head butts, knees and elbows. The crowd cheered every strike. Eventually, a group of stewards ran on to separate the two players rolling around the arena floor. Even when being held back, the fighters struggled against the stewards to rip back into each other.
‘That be Gaunt Ruck!’ Forgrun bellowed from the sidelines, as the two combatants were led away to the sin bin to cool off, each one cheered on by both sections of the crowd.
‘If this is how Rhungars relax,’ Macen said to Ragad in disbelief, ‘just imagine what they are like in war!’
Now the pyramid was two players on two. Ironstone had closed the gap in the scores to three-two, but no sooner had they done so when Claymore scored again. So it went on. Players hurled each other off the pyramid, tussled to the top, knocked balls out of the opposing team’s hands, and gave it their all. As the final bell tolled, Claymore had clutched onto the lead they had held all match, to win the pyramid seven-five. The crowd bawled in appreciation, chanting and howling; a whirling mass of cheering faces and swirling flags, as the task finished and the players returned to their watching teammates. Macen saw how the Ironstone players had slumped shoulders, whilst the Claymore Rhungars were grinning, jumping, hitting each other and shouting.
A hush fell on the arena, as the gamesmaster spun the giant wheel and everyone waited in expectation. The coloured wheel slowed towards a standstill. When it became clear it was going to finish on pyramid again, the gamesmaster jerked the wheel on one segment.
‘Duel!’ The gamesmaster roared, and the crowd hollered their approval.
Macen saw the grim look in Forgrun’s eyes. And he saw the way each of his Rhungari teammates looked stoically at Forgrun and nodded.
‘What is going on?’ Macen whispered to Harnan.
‘Only be ye Rhungars that do initiated Gaunt Ruck do go in fer Duel,’ Harnan said. ‘Ter send any other in thy stead be a loss o’ Kaladim.’
Stewards used teams of Dhurran horses to haul out, from underneath the stands, a raised circular platform that stood eight foot above a round container full of waist deep water. The whole thing took ten rope-pulling Dhurran to drag it out, on its wheels, to the centre of the arena.
Forgrun and Sturad stared at each other, as stewards handed them a giant baton each. The club was blue for Forgrun and red for Sturad. Macen could tell the batons were padded out with cloth, and were fashioned to resemble an axe.
Raising his blue baton to the crowd brought Forgrun an almighty cheer, as he climbed the ladder across the pool of water, onto the circular duel platform. On the opposite side of the elevated disc, Sturad climbed up on a different ladder to face the Ironstone Rhungar. As the Rhungars glared at each other, the ladders were removed from the platform.
The Gaunt Ruck bell rang out, and Macen watched the combatants stalk across the disc, holding their batons as if they were axes. Forgrun rushed forward in attack, smashing across. Sturad ducked, just in time. Forgrun swung his baton back over his head then straight fo
rward and down. Sturad caught the blow with the middle of his baton, in between his hands.
The crowd howled and cheered, loving every moment. This was pure combat. As close to a real axe fight as it was possible to come, without someone getting injured or killed. Those batons were padded, but Macen imagined it would still hurt to be caught with the heavy end, enough to send you seeing stars. Macen willed Forgrun to move faster, strike harder and keep going. He was so excited that he felt as if he was up on the platform with his friend!
‘Come on Forgrun!’ Macen yelled, but his voice just melded into a hundred other booming voices.
Sturad attacked, snarling and foaming at the mouth. Forgrun went on the defensive, evading and blocking a fast combination from the Claymore Rhungar. In a brief respite, the opponents warily circled each other. They were evenly matched. Sturad thrust forward viciously with everything he had, but Forgrun held him off – defending himself against blow after blow. Macen could see Forgrun was holding back, moving around and blocking, weathering the storm of Sturad’s attacks, but not expending too much energy. Clever Forgrun, Macen thought, let the Claymore tire himself out.
Sturad’s offensive began to let up, after he had hurled at least two dozen attacks, but Forgrun was not going to let him rest now. Roaring, the Ironstone surged forward, going all out to knock Sturad’s head off. The Claymore could barely defend himself from the forceful offensive. One of Forgrun’s blows skimmed off Sturad’s baton, as the Claymore hefted it up to block. Forgrun’s baton went swinging into the side of the Claymore’s head. The crowd howled. Sturad buckled, unsteady on his feet. Without pausing, Forgrun stepped off to the side and swept his baton into the back of Sturad’s leg, behind the knee. The Claymore Rhungar was upended, and slammed down hard on his back. Bringing his baton above his head, Forgrun made to win by knockout.