Wyvern’s Outlaw: The Dragons of Incendium #7

by Deborah Cooke

  A network of corridors and rooms, even prison cells, ran beneath the seating of the massive forum in the capital city of Centurios. Even through the layers of rock, the shouts of the attendees could be heard. The stamping of their feet made the walls shake. The air was filled with their shouts and their bloodlust.

  “They’re turning them away at the gates,” Bakiel said, his pale eyes flicking as Ryke checked his armor. There was a lot less of it than he would have liked, but there were regulations. “The stands are overflowing.”

  “They expect a bloodbath,” Ryke murmured.

  “I hope they don’t get one.”

  “You’re not alone in that, my friend.”

  “You don’t have to do this, Ryke.”

  “Yes, I do.” Ryke had no doubt. Without this fight, without winning this fight, he had no future on Centurios. “It’s my father’s challenge.”

  “But...”

  “But after all these years of wanting the opportunity to prove myself, I can’t argue over the details. I asked. He gave. It’s his way.”

  Bakiel’s lips tightened to a thin line, but he refrained from commenting. Ryke knew that his custo wasn’t fond of the current emperor’s tactics, but if he said as much aloud, particularly here, Ryke might not be able to defend him. He was glad that Bakiel kept quiet.

  “One knife, one sword, one mace, one shield,” Ryke said, turning before Bakiel. “It’s all I get, so I’ll have to make it do.”

  “They say it’s a hydra.”

  Ryke eyed his loyal companion. “I didn’t think they existed.”

  “Maybe not the best time to find out,” Bakiel said, then gave Ryke an intent look. He offered a length of cloth, and Ryke considered all he’d been told about hydras.

  Poisonous breath.

  Deadly blood.

  Regenerating heads.

  They were abominations.

  “That’s just a myth,” he said to Bakiel. “If its breath is really toxic, a bit of cloth won’t save me.”

  “This bit will.”

  Ryke took the cloth and examined it. It was very soft, but so finely woven that he couldn’t even see the threads.

  “Filters,” Bakiel mouthed.

  Ryke supposed it couldn’t hurt. He tied it around his face, covering his mouth and nose.

  “You know, you could always slip...”

  “No,” Ryke said, stopping his custo before he finished the suggestion. “I made a vow to myself and to Ryko Primus and I’m not going to break it now.”

  “Even to survive?”

  “I’ll survive. This is just a fight. A spectacle. Nothing more and nothing less.”

  “I suspect it’s a lot more than that,” Bakiel muttered. “I’ll be ready in case you change your mind.”

  Ryke smiled. “Standing over me in the arena with a hydra attacking? I wouldn’t ask that of you, my friend.”

  There was a knock on the door, which ended their discussion. Ryke wasn’t going to cheat and use his gift to slip into anyone. He was going to win.

  In his father’s view, only might made right.

  They left the room together to find the corridor to the arena lined with gladiators. They were burly men of various heights, each tanned and fit, with an impressive number of scars. They wore the same minimal armor as Ryke—helmet, breast plate, boots, gloves, and a guard over the groin—albeit with variations of color and style. Some had blue tattoos. Some had long hair and others were shaved bald. The hue of their skin varied from pale gold through to black and shades of blue. All of their gazes were assessing as they surveyed him in silence. He expected them to despise him, a son of privilege come to play at the sport that was their life.

  It wasn’t a game, though.

  It was his chance.

  He could be killed, just as they could be killed each time they entered the arena. They had the danger in common. The difference was that victory would grant him the opportunity he craved, while their triumphs only ensured they could fight again the following day.

  They might hate him for that, too.

  He respected them, but didn’t expect that to be mutual. He nodded to the first man then headed for the patch of sunlight at the end of the corridor and the impatient roar of the crowd.

  “May Mercado smile upon you,” the man said gruffly, and Ryke glanced his way in surprise.

  “And upon you,” he replied by rote, amazed when the man bowed.

  “We are with you, sir.”

  Ryke was surprised by the honorary address. “All warriors on Centurios are equal,” he said gently.

  The gladiator smiled. “Some more equal than others, sir.” He gestured to his comrades, saving Ryke from commenting. “Centurios would prosper beneath your hand.”

  “I will endeavor to see that it does, if such opportunity comes to me,” Ryke replied carefully. There was spies everywhere in his father’s realm, and he would not see anyone condemned for treason.

  Winning this day was only the first step in earning the succession from his father.

  Ryke would win.

  He bowed in turn. “Thank you for your kind words, sir.”

  He saw that the gladiator was as surprised by the use of the honorary address as Ryke had been himself.

  When he turned, the gladiators had all swept off their helmets. They bowed as he drew alongside each one of them, one after another, the same blessing crossing their lips. Ryke’s heart squeezed that they gave him this unexpected salute, and he paused on the threshold of the arena for one last backward glance.

  “May Mercado smile upon all of you, in all the battles of your lives,” he said, then pivoted and stepped out into the sunlight. Bakiel remained behind, of course, so Ryke was alone on the pounded dirt of the arena when he heard the metal grate drop into place, securing the exit. He didn’t have to look to know that Bakiel was clinging to the bars, watching him, and that the gladiators were clustered behind him.

  The arena seemed much larger than he remembered, vast beyond belief, and he could scarcely comprehend how many people were in the stands that rose around the perimeter. Tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, all screaming, all on their feet, all stamping and shouting.

  His name. They were shouting his name.

  “Ryke. Ryke. Ryke.” It settled into a rhythmic repetition, like the beat of a song, and Ryke walked to the middle of the arena, keeping pace with their cry.

  He paused, turned, and identified the emperor’s box. He bowed to his father and whoever else might be there.

  “May Mercado smile upon you!” came a cry, and Ryke’s heart stopped at the familiarity of the young voice.

  Ryko Primus was here!

  His gaze raked the crowd, the imperial box, and landed upon the boy at the emperor’s side. His son’s hair golden in the sun, his face alight with excitement, his energy almost impossible to contain. He waved with enthusiasm, and Ryke felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut.

  His son was watching.

  He had to win.

  Then the metal grate at the far end of the arena was raised, the gate that secured the pit of the beasts. It was four times wider than the one Ryke had used to enter the arena, and five times as high. The crowd fell silent as something roared from within that pen.

  It sounded wild and large—and angry.

  The hydra erupted from the doorway, its seven heads turning this way and that as it surveyed the arena. The crowd gasped at the sight of it. The beast roared and its tail slashed the air. It was huge, far bigger than Ryke had imagined such abominations might be, and when its gaze locked upon him, his blood ran cold. He planted his feet against the dirt, gripped his shield and held his blade aloft as the creature advanced upon him.

  Ryke’s son?

  His father, the emperor?

  His custo?

  Anguissa had questions for her questions, but Ryke’s memory unfolded so quickly in her thoughts that she had no time to ask them. She was experiencing his memory, not just seeing and hearing it, bu
t sharing his thoughts—at least as many as he did share. Knowing Ryke even as little as she did, Anguissa guessed that what she could hear of his thoughts was just scratching the surface.

  Yet at the same time, her own mind was present, observing and coming up with endless questions. She hadn’t had much time to think about it, but she would have speculated that in slipping, Ryke’s thoughts would replace her own and that at best, she’d be able to observe his memory. She’d anticipated that it would be like a memory dump between androids and that she’d have to review it later to make sense of it.

  If he left her that opportunity.

  I could push you out completely, Snake-Eyes. Ryke’s thought echoed within her own. But it’s not my way to wear out my welcome.

  You mean you might need to come in again.

  There was a thread of humor in his tone. Anything is possible.

  The arena was large and had a sand floor. There was seating all around it, tier after tier of seating, packed with observers. She couldn’t even guess how many had attended but there wasn’t room for one more person—which said a great deal about the appeal of the fight. Even though the air was hot, there were twin fires burning in massive brass bowls, one on each side of arena at the midpoint. The sky was dark overhead. Ryke had emerged from a door at one end and faced a much larger metal grate at the opposite end.

  The crowd chanted his name. Flowers fell from the stands to land in the dirt around him. Halfway up the stands on the left, she could see an elaborate platform of gilded wood, with a striped canopy protecting its occupants from the sun.

  The imperial box.

  She almost felt him catch his breath as the hydra appeared. It was a fearsome creature, with seven heads and an enormous lashing tail. Its scales were dark silver but dulled, like tarnished metal.

  Any battle tips would be appreciated. I lost. Badly.

  Anguissa looked more closely. There was something wrong with the hydra. It looked hungry to her and there was desperation in its survey of the crowded arena. How long had it been in captivity? How much had it been fed? She could see its ribs and knew it hadn’t been enough. A hydra needed water and she guessed it hadn’t seen any in a while. She could also see some scabbed wounds on its belly, and one claw was maimed, as if it had been broken and hadn’t healed properly. Its yellow eyes were dull, perhaps indicative that it had been drugged, and two of its heads swayed unsteadily.

  The creature was dead on its feet.

  Trust you to take its side. Ryke apparently could hear her thoughts, too. Sympathy was a galaxy away for me.

  The crowd shouted when the hydra didn’t move and someone threw something at it. Whatever it was bounced off the creature’s back. A shudder ran down its length and it stood suddenly taller. It glared upward, its tail swished, then the gaze of its primary head locked upon Ryke.

  Its eyes shone brilliant gold, filled with malice and fury.

  Anguissa definitely felt Ryke shudder. She frowned, studying the hydra, which could have been a different creature than the one forced into the arena. It raged and thrashed its tail, snatching at spectators with its claws and invoking terror in the arena before it bounded toward Ryke.

  What happened there?

  It saw me, Snake-Eyes. Ryke’s tone was impatient.

  No. Something changed.

  It’s a hydra. Who knows how many brains it has?

  Anguissa fell silent, not convinced.

  Despite Ryke’s trepidation, in the memory, he lifted his blade and stepped forward, daring the hydra with a roar. He was courageous, she’d give him that. The crowd cheered. The hydra bellowed, its other heads turning swiftly to focus upon Ryke. Two heads screamed as the creature moved toward him and the primary head bared its teeth, bending down to bite Ryke.

  The crowd was on its feet, shouting encouragement to Ryke. That chant of his name filled the air and Anguissa understood that he was popular.

  Why was the emperor’s son fighting a hydra in the arena?

  Ryke jabbed his sword into the hydra’s mouth and black blood gushed from its tongue. It flowed quickly, making the sand slick beneath Ryke’s boots. The hydra screamed, releasing a torrent of foul breath, confirming Anguissa’s suspicion that it hadn’t been fed well. It snatched, seizing Ryke with one claw and squeezing tightly. Anguissa could feel the pain in Ryke’s gut as the crowd hooted in sympathy. He writhed in the creature’s grasp, struggling against its grip, and managed to stab the hydra in one snout.

  The hydra hurled him to the ground so that the breath was forced out of him.

  Ryke didn’t move, apparently stunned by the blow. The crowd fell silent, their agitation palpable. Anguissa noticed that the boy who was Ryke’s son was pale, gripping the edge of the imperial box as he watched.

  Oddly enough, there was no sign of the emperor. No, he was further back in the imperial box, and appeared to be sleeping.

  Sleeping? While his son fought for his life?

  His interest is only in triumph. Might makes right, and failures aren’t worth his attention. I let him down. It stands to reason he wouldn’t watch.

  Anguissa didn’t comment on that, though she understood that Ryke considered himself one of the failures, by his father’s definition.

  Stab up, Anguissa thought when the hydra’s belly reared over him.

  In the same instant, Ryke did drive his knife upward, but it was deflected by the scales, only managing to make a scratch and feed the hydra’s wrath.

  Further back, Anguissa thought. Where the gaps between the scales are greater. Near the genitals.

  I don’t even want to think about being stabbed in the genitals.

  You’re lucky you still have a chance to think at all. Anguissa watched the hydra rage at Ryke. He lost his knife when it reacted to his scratch upon its belly, the hydra seizing the blade and hurling it across the arena. Anguissa didn’t think Ryke had enough space to swing his mace, but he managed it and the blow landed in one of the hydra’s eyes.

  The creature screamed, blood flowing from that eye, and Ryke swung again.

  Its primary head was blinded, but that didn’t stop it from biting in Ryke’s direction. He was seized and held aloft, but waited until the second head turned before he swung the mace. It landed on the brow of that head, which crumpled to the ground.

  Now, Ryke was the one who seemed to catch his second wind. The hydra dropped him and he ran to pick up his fallen sword. He had time to snatch it up and swing before the hydra pursued him. With impressive might, he sliced off one of the seven heads.

  The crowd roared their approval. Anguissa heard drums beating and the chant of Ryke’s name began again.

  Seven more heads sprouted from the hydra’s wounded neck, each of them as large as the original, each snapping and snarling, but Ryke was undeterred. He swung his mace and sliced with his blade, backing the hydra toward one of the bowls of fire. After another blow, it seized his mace and ripped it from his hand, casting it into the crowd. There was a scream from one of the observers and a gasp of horror—and Ryke made the mistake of glancing away from his foe.

  Ryke! Anguissa screamed a warning just before the hydra attacked.

  Ryke had thought his loss in the arena had been humiliating, but it was a thousand times worse to review his failure while Anguissa was sharing his memory. Despite what he knew about her nature, she was a woman—and it was only natural to want to impress her.

  Not show himself to be a loser.

  Slipping was a one-way transaction—the umbro witnessing and influencing the thoughts of the host—but just as he’d feared, it was different with an abomination.

  A beast mind.

  Unpredictable. Unruly. Defiant of all rules.

  Not only had Anguissa shared his nightmare, but she’d conversed with him and shared the horror of his dream. He’d meant to share details of Captain Hellemut with her by slipping into her mind, not for her to learn of his failures.

  Was it because they’d jumped sooner than had been his flight
plan?

  Or was it something else?

  She couldn’t be his luxa. Ryke shied away from the ridiculous explanation. She had to have manipulated his memory, or maybe even him.

  Just as he’d always been warned.

  Would she twist his recollection of what he knew to be true, and convince him that fiction was fact?

  Ryke awakened in the chart room, damp with perspiration, still shaking from the memory of that day. He’d spent months healing and rehabilitating, which had only reinforced his father’s conviction that he was unworthy.

  Anguissa’s head was on his shoulder, her snakes completely still for once. Even knowing what he did, he found his body responding to her warmth and her scent. He wanted her, again, which was all the evidence Ryke needed that the old stories were true. Bakiel was snoring softly on her other side. Ryke made to retreat from Anguissa’s mind, sure he could slip away while she was still recovering from the jump.

  He was wrong.

  Don’t go. I have questions.

  It doesn’t say anywhere that I have answers, Snake-Eyes. Ryke knew he sounded as agitated as he felt.

  Anguissa twisted to meet his gaze and he was struck again by her beauty. Her eyes looked different, though, her thoughts hidden from his view, and Ryke stared because he’d never seen her look that way. She was always open and honest, and only now did he realize how important that had become to him.

  Had he taught her to be evasive?

  Or had she simply appeared to be guileless? Was that a ruse?

  He hoped not, then wondered what was the truth. He reached into her mind, only to discover that there were boundaries he couldn’t cross. There were memories he couldn’t access, and opinions he couldn’t even approach. She’d locked him out of most of her mind.

  Had he lost his abilities as an umbro? Slipping was an inherent skill. It was innate, inherited, known and not taught. He couldn’t forget how to do it, even with years of not practicing.

  No, the difference was Anguissa—and the shape of her mind.

  She smiled. My eyes look like yours, because you slipped into me.

  Ryke frowned. I was taught that someone who knew what to look for could see a slipped soul.