The Defender of the Light: Book 9 of The Sylvan Chronicles

by Wacht, Peter

  Which was why he felt a wave of shame surge through him as he watched the dragon pursue Bryen around the Pit. Declan had trained the boy to be a gladiator, to fight anything that might stand across from him in the Colosseum. But he had not prepared Bryen for a beast like this. How could he have? Black dragons had never been put in the Pit before, at least not since he had been enslaved. No one had ever been foolish enough -- or so desperate -- to try to capture such a deadly beast. Until now.

  “I’m going to gut that fat fool,” growled Declan. Not very tall, the Master of the Gladiators was stout with broad shoulders and arms the size of most men’s legs. He was built as solid as an oak tree, his body hardened by his years as a gladiator. His strength had served him well in the Pit, but now it offered him little advantage. He could only watch as the boy he had raised battled for his life.

  “Beluchmel did this?” asked Lycia. The tall gladiator stood next to him, her eyes never leaving Bryen as he glided across the sand. He had done better than she had expected. Although the black dragon was winning the combat, Bryen continued to move across the sand with that agility and grace of his that seemed almost freakish in a person as tall as he was. She was only a head shorter than Bryen, and though she was quicker than any other gladiator in the Colosseum, her movements never flowed so smoothly as his.

  “Aye, lass,” replied Declan. “He felt the need to bring that wretched beast from the Trench. How he did it, I don’t know.”

  “But why?” asked Davin. The tall gladiator with spiky red hair stood behind the Master of the Gladiators. Normally he had a smile on his face that often appealed to the fairer sex, even when he fought in the Pit, but not now. Not when his friend had been sentenced to death.

  “The King is with us today,” grumbled Declan.

  Davin cursed and then spit behind them. “He wanted Bryen to die. I have no doubt that he still holds a grudge.”

  “No,” corrected Lycia. “You may be right, but that wasn’t his goal today. He wanted to put on a show.”

  “Right, lass. Doesn’t matter to Beluchmel whether Bryen lives or dies, only that the King of Caledonia enjoys the spectacle that plays out before him.”

  “So Bryen is the sacrificial lamb,” muttered Davin. “The blood needed to quell the mob and satisfy the urges of our blockhead of a monarch.”

  “That he is,” said Declan. They all knew the odds were stacked against the young gladiator, regardless of how fast or skilled he may be. They had watched for the past hour as their friend had used every bit of knowledge that he had learned fighting in the Pit to keep himself alive, but nothing he had tried had affected the black dragon. Bryen had only succeeded in angering the beast and delaying the inevitable.

  “He’s survived worse,” offered Lycia, who pushed her braid of long, red hair back over her shoulder. Davin and Lycia were brother and sister, forced into the Pit for stealing food while homeless in Tintagel.

  “He’s never fought worse,” said Davin quietly. “None of us have.”

  There were many reasons to stay out of the Trench, but the black dragons that had made that grim terrain their own topped the list. The beasts, almost mythical in nature because they were so rarely seen, were known to take those foolish enough to enter that primeval land in a single bite. And as the red-haired gladiator watched his friend struggle to stay alive, he saw that the dragon hadn’t tired. It seemed that the beast was intelligent as well, allowing Bryen to wear himself out, waiting patiently until he made a mistake. Then the dragon would have its victory, and Beluchmel would have the end to the story that he was seeking.

  “Let’s not give up on him just yet,” snapped Declan, his worry getting the better of him. “I didn’t waste all my time teaching that scrawny lad to fight just to see him end up in a dragon’s gullet.”

  * * *

  During the past decade Bryen had spilled gallons of blood, some of it his own, on the white sands of the Pit. All with the goal of entertaining the crowd, to allow them to forget their problems and worries for a few hours, to let them bet on who or what would survive, to give them the pleasure of seeing death firsthand without having to risk their own lives. At first, the cruelty of it all had horrified him. Now, he barely paid any attention to it. He had seen too much death, been the cause of too much death, for it to affect him. Now he viewed fighting in the Pit as a way to escape. But he didn’t think that he had the courage for that -- not yet.

  He had first stepped onto the sand a day past his ninth birthday, weighed down by a short sword that he could barely hold with both hands and a foot-long dagger strapped to his thigh. He was to be that day’s entertainment, matched against a veteran gladiator from a western Duchy who was built like a rock and wise to the ways of the Colosseum. The huge gladiator, muscles bulging, face contorted by a series of bloodcurdling screams, soaked in the cheers and adulation of the crowd, playing upon the desires of the onlookers. When the combat began, the experienced gladiator toyed with Bryen to start, nicking him first in the arm, then the leg, then the other arm, letting the crowd see the blood, savor it, and thereby incite them into a frenzy.

  At first, Bryen had been terrified, never having fought another person before, and still not sure why this was happening to him. He had only received a few weeks of training from the Master of the Gladiators, and when Bryen had been told to walk down the dark passageway lit at the far end by the sun gleaming off the white sand, the irascible Declan seemed to have little hope that he would be walking back this way at the end of the combat. Bryen had no choice then, just as he had no choice now, and he realized that he would die as soon as the veteran gladiator grew tired of his sport. That thought had enraged Bryen, filling him with an anger that he had never experienced before, an anger that burned away the fear of fighting for his life in front of tens of thousands of screaming people that had almost frozen him in place. It was as if a door had been opened for him, a door that allowed him to see the world as it truly was -- kill or be killed. Discarding his sword because he knew it would only be a detriment to try to use it against his much larger opponent, he had attacked the gladiator with his dagger with a speed and ferocity that surprised his adversary and had drawn gasps of shock and disbelief from the crowd.

  Deftly dodging the larger man’s sword thrust, Bryen had rolled past the gladiator, dragging his dagger across the back of the man’s legs and slicing cleanly through a hamstring. The gladiator had fallen to a knee, one leg useless. Rather than giving his opponent a chance to regain the initiative and perhaps decide to kill him quickly rather than tease the crowd, Bryen had made the decision for the veteran fighter by mercilessly cutting across the back of his other leg, disabling him completely. Unable to believe what had happened, the gladiator barely felt Bryen’s dagger sink into his back in search of his heart.

  When it was over, Bryen had risen to his feet, his eyes locked on the now lifeless body. The pool of blood grew larger as it seeped onto the white sand. He had studied the gladiator for several seconds, still not sure why it had all happened, and where he had found the strength and courage to fight back. But then he realized that thinking about it too much served no purpose. He was simply happy to still be alive. Much to his surprise when he looked up from the fallen gladiator, after scanning the stone rows that rose above him, he saw nothing but surprise and shock on the faces of the people staring down at him. Silence reigned in the Colosseum as the crowd also tried to figure out how he had succeeded.

  Slowly, the clapping had begun, followed by the cheers, as the crowd acknowledged the little victor. When Bryen raised his bloody dagger to the sky, the cheers had erupted into a roar, a few screams of Volkun, or the wolf, raining down upon him. Bryen had walked from the Pit to thunderous applause, the Colosseum swaying back and forth. Reaching Declan, he retched what little was left in his stomach and then almost passed out. The entire experience had sickened him. Yet it was only the beginning.

  The Kingdom of Caledonia, located on a peninsula of the same name with a northern bou
ndary of almost impassable mountains that connected to the Trench, had become addicted to the gladiatorial games during the last few centuries. The capital city of Tintagel was known the world over for it, with many people traveling hundreds of leagues simply to catch a glimpse of the ultimate human struggle. In the beginning, criminals, slaves, or prisoners fought one another. Then volunteers began to fill their ranks, trading their freedom and risking death in search of glory and riches by binding themselves to the owner of a gladiatorial troupe. Sometimes these gladiators achieved it. If they performed well, they were entitled to a share of their owner’s winnings. And after earning a certain amount, they could buy back their freedom, their reputations’ intact and their fortunes made. More often than not, however, they fought until they died, living at the owner’s school until they fell in the white sand of the Pit. They had realized too late that slavery was simply that -- slavery.

  Eventually, the King of Caledonia, in search of a new revenue stream that would not require another tax on the people, confiscated the gladiator schools and the combats in the Colosseum became the royal sport. Since then, no one in their right mind considered selling their freedom to fight in the Pit, reserving that place for the dregs of society, the criminals who willingly chose a gruesome death rather than wasting away in a cell and the unfortunate who had no say in the fate that had befallen them. But the crowd cared little about who struggled on the white sand; though, of course, they did have their favorites -- it was a money sport, after all. Their main concern was blood. They wanted to see the white sand turn red.

  Bryen understood that better than anyone, having spent the past decade surviving animal or man, fighting on the days of the four principal lunar phases -- the new moon, first quarter, full moon, and last quarter -- since he had first arrived at the School of Gladiators located behind the Colosseum. An orphan forced to survive on the hard streets of the capital city, he had been caught stealing food. Sentenced to death or slavery, Declan, the Master of the Gladiators, had plucked him from the gibbet or the pleasure houses -- the bidding when he was on the slaver’s block had been leaning toward the latter -- giving him instead a life in the Pit. At first, he had been terrified, not knowing what that really meant. But he had learned quickly, taking in everything that Declan sought to teach him. And of the many lessons that the Master of the Gladiators had imparted, Bryen had learned perhaps nothing more important than the fact that life revolved around a simple proposition: kill or be killed. Declan had drilled that understanding into him relentlessly. So much so that it had become a part of him.

  But now Bryen was thinking less about survival and more about death. What if he died? Did it really matter? The thought had filled him with an overwhelming fear for years. When he was younger, he would wake up screaming in the middle of the night because he remembered his first combats when his odds of survival had been slim at best. But as he grew older, his perspective had changed. Death was the easiest form of escape. He would no longer be forced to entertain the bloodthirsty crowd of nobles, merchants, tradespeople, and others who could afford the admission fee to the Colosseum. And after so long a time on the white sand, after so many deaths, the thought of his own bothered him little. What if he didn’t fight to the best of his abilities? What if he allowed his opponent to slip past his defenses in a brief moment of weakness?

  Though he thought about it frequently, he knew that it would not be a satisfying escape, and he could never bring himself to do it. Declan had influenced him greatly over the years, and whenever his thoughts wandered to this dark corner of his mind, the Master of the Gladiators’ words burned through his soul as a reminder, a reminder that he seemed to hear far more than he would like: “Everyone dies. Not everyone dies with honor.”

  He regained his focus as the dragon slithered forward, its jaws searching for his head once again. Bryen dodged out of the way, rolling to the ground to avoid the lunge, his spear once again skittering harmlessly against the scales near the dragon’s right eye. Gathering some sand in his hand, he threw it into the face of the beast, blinding the creature for a time and winning a moment’s respite to search for some way to take down his adversary. Every creature -- man or beast -- had a weakness. He knew that. He had found it hundreds of times before. Bryen simply had to find the dragon’s. Yet, it was easier said than done. The beast was remarkably fast, and its sharp claws gave it excellent traction in the sand. Further, based on his lack of success during the past hour, there seemed to be no way to break through the animal’s armor. Bryen could spend an entire day hacking at any part of the dragon’s scales without a tangible result, but he couldn’t even do that now because he had already broken his blade, having been reduced to a single spearpoint. No, there had to be a better way.

  With an angry growl, the dragon lashed out again, its vision clear once more, and again Bryen jumped out of the way. He had barely avoided the lunge, but the beast didn’t give him a chance to recover. The massive head rose up before him, unleashing a stream of venom that sizzled as it discharged from its teeth-filled maw. Tired from the long struggle and his wounds beginning to affect him, Bryen moved slower than usual. Though he escaped the full force of the venom, several large drops landed on his left leg, sending a fiery agony from his toes to his core as the acid burned into his skin. His scream of pain, the first sound he had made since he had entered the Pit more than an hour before, energized the crowd, sending them to a new level of hysteria. Sensing the end, the inevitable conclusion brought the thousands upon thousands of spectators to a fever pitch, their voices a dull roar that mimicked rolling waves of thunder on a stormy night.

  Bryen continued the roll that brought him safely out from under the stream of venom, but the dragon maintained its attack, the beast charging across the sand with its jaws open in anticipation of victory. Bryen came to his feet quickly, separating the pain in his leg from his consciousness. He then dodged to the side, allowing the dragon’s head to slip past him. That’s when he saw it. It was an opportunity that he simply couldn’t pass up. Stabbing with his spear, the steel tip plunged into the dragon’s exposed ear. He couldn’t thrust the steel as deeply as he would have liked, but it was enough at least for the moment. The strike disoriented the beast and stopped its charge, the dragon rearing up once again and shrieking in pain. For the first time since the dragon had been released in the Pit, Bryen had drawn blood. But he knew that what he had done wasn’t enough. Time was quickly running out. Still, his chances had improved at least somewhat, as Bryen had finally found what he was looking for.

  Much to the crowd’s surprise, Bryen charged directly toward the rearing black dragon, a cry of anger and pain escaping his lips. Bryen’s tactic startled the dragon, but the beast recovered quickly, attempting once more to catch its prey with a stream of venom from its maw. As soon as the dragon began to open its mouth, Bryen realized that his plan would work. Before the first drops of venom flew toward him, Bryen pulled his foot-long dagger from the sheath on his thigh and changed his grip on the blade so that he held the tip between the fingers of his left hand. Just as quickly, he released it, sending the sharp blade spinning end over end through the air.

  The dragon never saw the dagger as it slid through the just beginning stream of venom, the steel plunging deep in the back of its throat. The dragon’s terrible screech of pain drowned out the thunderous roar of the crowd, which shockingly became silent. They had never expected the duel to turn so quickly. The dragon fell on its side, trying to tear the blade from its mouth with its claws, Bryen momentarily forgotten. And that’s when the gladiator struck. Bryen dove forward, driving his spear into the soft belly of the black dragon with all his might, and then again, and again, and again, until finally he found the beast’s heart and the dragon’s magnificent head flopped to the sand, its eyes glazed over by death, a pool of bright red blood stretching farther and farther away from its steaming body and staining the white sand the color of the setting sun.

  Bryen had been right. The dragon’s w
eakness lay in its underside. He stood over the beast, offering his own private apology and a nod of respect to a worthy competitor. He had not wanted to kill such a magnificent creature, but he had little choice in the matter. Kill or be killed. That was his life. Weary of the fight, Bryen backed away from the dragon, an animal much like him -- forced to fight for the pleasure of others. A feeling of regret rose up within him, whether because the dragon had died or because he survived, he could not say. Ignoring the thunderous applause of the spectators and the pain of his injuries, many of the people in the stands howling like a wolf to acknowledge his victory or screaming for the Volkun, Bryen walked slowly across the Pit toward the large steel gate that had just opened. A familiar figure stood before him.

  “A good fight,” said Declan, his short, grey hair standing straight up.

  “A useless fight,” answered Bryen, as he walked across the gladiators’ stockade and entered the dim light of the training rooms beneath the Colosseum. The roar of the crowd thankfully dissipated as the door closed behind him, but not before a man a hand taller than Bryen with flaming red hair saluted him, three long spears clutched tightly in his hands, as he strode out toward the Colosseum. It was Davin’s turn to test his luck in the Pit.

  Declan studied his charge for a time before replying. The grizzled veteran tried to keep a distance from his charges. Why get close to someone who was going to die? But he had found it impossible to follow that stricture with Bryen. The frightened, willowy boy with the unkempt hair, the youngest person to ever fight in the Pit -- much less survive for so long -- had grown up before him, becoming a tall, lean young man. Declan understood that Bryen’s experience in the Pit had scarred him, both inside and out. Three long slashes that had healed with time but never disappeared marred his left cheek and neck. His sharp grey eyes were hard, and his long brown hair and beard were almost overcome by a premature white. Though Declan would never admit it to anyone, he saw Bryen as a son, so he had trained the boy harder than he had trained any other gladiator to ensure that he had every chance of surviving in the Pit. Seeing the emptiness in Bryen’s eyes when he passed by him tore through Declan’s heart. The thought that he could do nothing to help Bryen escape from this life nagged at him constantly. He understood that Bryen had tired of his weekly struggles, and he knew what happened as soon as the hope for freedom, for a better life, disappeared. He had seen it too often in other gladiators. But what could he do other than give him the best chance at surviving? To train him. To teach him. To give him the tools that he would need to live, even if the life he lived wasn’t the one that he wanted.