Afterward, Hadon wondered if it had not been the dream itself that had made Taro so sluggish. Had dread Sisisken sent him that vision because she had marked him for death, knowing that the dream itself would ensure his end? And why had Sisisken wanted him? Why had she allowed him to survive the Games thus far and no farther?
Was it because her sister, Kho, wished to spare Hadon the agony of killing him?
He did not know, but he wept that night in the barracks. Yet, when he fell asleep, he felt a tiny spark of gladness falling through the dark grief. However much he sorrowed for Taro, he would not be responsible for killing his best friend. Kho had spared him that.
The next day Hadon performed a deed which brought the crowd, gasping ,and cheering, to its feet. As the bull charged, he ran toward it. Just before the lowered horns were to meet him, he gave a great leap up and forward, brought his feet up, stroked the black hairy forehead lightly with the end of the stick, and landed on the beast’s back. His inertia, plus the bull’s, rolled him forward, and he fell sprawling on the sand. But he was up, though slightly stunned, and running. Behind him he heard the bellowing and then the thundering of hooves. He dived over the wall, which shook as the bull rammed into it.
He rose and looked at the judges’ box. They were standing up, both hands raised, the fingers outspread. He had marked the beast perfectly.
The cheering continued for a long time, and after a while Hadon understood what the crowd wanted. They were demanding of the queen that she dedicate this event to him, so that in future Games it should be called Hadon’s Day.
Hadon felt a glow of exultation, tempered with sadness that Taro was not here to see him. Perhaps his ghost was, and Hadon would see to it that a bull was sacrificed to Taro tonight—though it would cut deeply into his personal money—and that Taro would be told about this while he drank the substance-giving blood.
And so, a day later, the final event began. There were only twenty of the original ninety left. The buffaloes had taken a toll exceeding that of the gorillas, hyenas, and leopards combined. At the ninth hour, the trumpets sounded, and the twenty, clad only in scarlet loincloths and carrying the broad and long tenu in one hand, marched out. They stopped before the box of Awineth and Minruth and saluted. Awineth arose and tossed out across the heads of the mob below a thin golden crown. It sailed out into the arena, rolled, and stopped by the edge of the track. Hadon noted that the impact had twisted the soft gold. But the victor could easily bend it back when he placed it on his own head.
Awineth looked beautiful. She wore a long scarlet skirt, a necklace of red emeralds, and a scarlet flower in her black hair. And was her smile for him? Or was it for one of the Others, say, the tall and handsome Wiqa?
If it were the latter, she was doomed to sorrow, because Hadon severed his right arm after ten minutes of furious fighting. Wiqa was very good, and if he had not lost some blood two days before when a horn sliced along his thigh, he might have been faster. But he was carried off, gray, dying, blood spouting from the stump.
Hadon stared after him and felt no exultation. He had killed his first man, a good man whom he had liked. That Wiqa had been trying to kill him made no difference in his feelings.
The contests were run off one at a time. At the end of the day, the twenty were down to eight. Of the losers, eight were slain and four had been so seriously injured that they could no longer hold the hilt of the sword with both hands.
The next day was occupied with the funerals, and a day of rest followed for the survivors. Hadon exercised lightly and reflected on the weaknesses and strengths he had observed among the others. Hewako and Damoken, a tall lithe youth from Minanlu, were the two greatest dangers. Both of these had made just enough points in the various contests to remain in the Games. But they were superb swordsmen, and that was what counted now. Nor were any of the others to be taken carelessly.
When the second day of sword fighting came, Hadon was matched, by lot, with Damoken. The battle was a long one, with both feeling the strength drain out of their arms and legs as they danced, parried, and sliced. At last a swift stroke of Hadon’s, though partially blocked, cut off Damoken’s ear and gashed his shoulder. Damoken stumbled backward, the sword dropping out of his hands. Hadon stepped forward and put his foot on the blade, and the referees hastened to take Damoken from the field.
“Do not weep,” Hadon said. “It is better to be earless than to creep around palely and hope for blood to drink. I wish you a long happy life.”
Damoken, holding a hand to his bloody head, replied, “When you become king, Hadon, remember me and make a place in your service for one who, under different circumstances, might have been your king.”
Hadon bowed and picked up the sword and handed it to a referee.
The next contestants took their places, and Hadon went to the sidelines. He watched carefully as the others fought, noting especially Hewako’s style.
When the sun was more than three-quarters across the sky, Hadon of Opar and Khosin of Towina fought, both for the second time that day. Five minutes after starting, Hadon, though bleeding from a gash on his left arm, was standing and Khosin lay dead.
Hewako of Opar and Hadar of Qethruth engaged in the final battle of the day. At the end of two minutes, Hewako gave his opponent’s blade such a stroke that it fell from his nerveless hands. Hadar dived for it, and the edge of Hewako’s sword severed his neck.
In the tumult cascading from the crowd, Hadon and Hewako were silent. They looked speculatively at each other. The day after tomorrow, one of them would surely be dead, and the other might be king of kings of Khokarsa. Which would it be for Hewako and Hadon? The arms of dread Sisisken or of warm and glorious Awineth?
6
For the final bout, a platform had been built close to the wall near which the queen and her father sat. It was fifteen feet high, only five feet below the top of the wall enclosing the field, five feet below and ten feet away from the royal box. Its surface was a square of closely joined mahogany planks, thirty by thirty feet. A circle with a diameter of twenty-four feet had been painted in white on it. Bisecting the circle was a white line. The area outside the circle was for the referee. His only duties were to start the contest and, thereafter, to lop off the head of either contestant if he stepped outside the circle during the fighting. He was also there to ensure that only the victor left the circle alive.
As the Flaming God reached his zenith, twelve trumpets blared. Awineth and Minruth sat down in their box on comfortable cushions and under a shady canopy. The trumpets blew again, and the crowd sat down on hard stone and in hot sunshine. At the third blast, Hewako and Hadon appeared from gates at opposite ends of the fields. They were naked, and each carried his sword upright before him. Behind each was a naked priestess who slowly banged a large drum while the youth proceeded to the platform. They met at the bottom of the broad mahogany steps that led up to the platform, bowed to the referee, bowed to each other, and then followed the referee up the steps. The priestesses stayed below, slowly beating the drums.
Within the circle, the two youths faced their rulers, Hewako on the left of the bisecting line, Hadon on the right. The trumpets blew again, the priestesses’ drums stopped rolling, the two raised their blades above their heads with one hand and shouted, “Let Kho decide!”
“And Resu!” Minruth bellowed.
Those around the king gasped; Awineth jerked upright from her reclining position and said something to Minruth. He laughed and waved at the referee to continue.
The referee had been startled by Minruth’s irregular interjection, but he recovered quickly. He stood just outside the circle at the end of the bisecting line, raised his sword high, and shouted, “Take the line!”
The two turned to face each other across the line.
“Cross ends!”
The two swords rose until they were at a forty-five-degree angle to their holders, and their square tips touched. Hadon stood straight, his green eyes staring into Hewako’s brown eye
s. His left hand held the end of the foot-long hilt in a pivot grip, his right hand was placed around the hilt just behind the circular guard.
The iron hilt was covered tightly with python hide. The carbonized-iron blade was five feet two inches long, two-edged, slightly curving on the lower edge, and square-ended. It was called Karken, or Tree of Death, and it had been made at great expense by the legendary smith, Dytabes of Miklemres, for Hadon’s father. With it Kumin had slain fifty-seven warriors, of whom ten were numatenu, seven warrior-women of the Mikawuru, forty Klemqaba, and a lion.
“That one-legged worker of magic told me that he dreamed of Karken the night before he completed work on it, before he cooled its hot blade with snake’s blood,” Kumin had told his son. “Dytabes said that he saw a vision in which the holder of Karken was seated on a throne of ivory. And by him was the most beautiful woman Dytabes had ever seen, truly a goddess. And around him was a multitude praising him as the greatest swordsman of the world and as the savior of his people.
“But Dytabes could not see clearly the face of the man who held Karken. Evidently it was not I. I hope that it was you. In any event, take this sword, Hadon, and do nothing to disgrace it. As for that dream, do not think too much about it. Smiths are notorious drunks. Dytabes, though the greatest of smiths, was also the deepest of drinkers.”
Hadon thought of his father’s words, and then he heard the referee shout, “Begin and end!”
Iron clanged. Hewako had stepped over the line, right foot forward first, and had swung the blade toward Hadon’s left shoulder. Hadon had also stepped forward, though only a half-step, and had parried successfully.
“Watch the eyes,” his father had said many times. “They often tell what is coming next. The footwork is second in importance, but unless you know what the man is going to do, or what he thinks he means to do, footwork means nothing. Courage and strength are important also, but the sight and the footwork come first.”
And Kumin also said, over and over, “Immediately after the defense, the counteroffense.”
He had also said, “Do the unexpected, though not just for the sake of novelty. The unexpected must have a point, a goal in mind which the conventional, the expected, cannot reach.”
Hewako reached back and raised his sword above his head. He had to retreat when doing this, because Hadon, swift as he was, would have swung his blade sidewise and cut deeply into his ribs. But by stepping back, Hewako prevented Hadon from doing this. Then Hewako planned to rush forward and bring his sword down straight ahead of him toward the crown of Hadon’s head. Hadon would have to parry to keep his skull from being split. He dared not cut at Hewako then, even though Hewako was wide open. If he did wound Hewako, he would still take the full blow on his head. And he would be dead.
Or so Hewako thought. But as Hewako retreated, Hadon stepped forward. Instead of bringing his sword in in a cutting motion, he thrust. And Hewako, who could have parried a cut, was caught wide open.
The thrust was not fatal, nor even badly wounding. The blunt end of Karken, though delivered with strength, could do no more than break the skin. But it drove into Hewako’s throat at the base, just above the breastbone. Hewako’s mouth opened wider; his eyes bulged; a hoarse pained sound came from the injured throat. And he failed in his surprise and agony to bring the blade down.
Hadon had moved back immediately after the thrust in case Hewako did complete the downward cut. Now Hewako, bleeding from the break just above the breastbone, his face red with anger, charged, bringing the edge down furiously.
Hadon moved one step forward and brought his blade up so that Hewako’s struck it glancingly and went off to one side. And at the clang Hadon suddenly knew that Hewako was doomed to die. Something had leaped down the sword and had run up his arm and into his breast. Something told him that he could not lose this fight, that Hewako had only a few minutes of life left.
Nor was he the only one to know. Hewako had turned pale, and the sweat that polished his skin, the sweat which had looked so hot before, now looked cold. In fact, goose pimples had appeared all over Hewako’s body. And the eyes had become shadowed.
Nevertheless, he fought bravely, and none among the crowd would have known what had passed between him and Hadon. They would have noted only that Hadon took the offensive, that he parried every stroke of Hewako’s, that he thrice went in through Hewako’s guard and inflicted deep gashes, one on the right ribs, one on the left ribs, and one on Hewako’s right shoulder.
Suddenly Hewako stepped back three steps, raised the sword high above him, and shouting, ran at Hadon. Hadon stepped forward, brought up his blade, and caught Hewako’s mighty swing against it, sent it off to one side, and once again thrust into the base of Hewako’s throat. The squat bull-like man staggered back, his sword dropping from his grasp, and his hands caught at his throat. Hadon slid one foot forward and then placed it on Hewako’s sword. The crowd roared, though there were many boos and catcalls among the cheering. Evidently many felt that there was something somehow unsporting about Hadon’s use of the thrust. It was so seldom seen. The professionals looked with approval at Hadon, however, and they spoke quietly of his unorthodox technique. None of them admitted that they would have been caught off-guard by it, but it had been appropriately used in this contest. After all, Hewako was an amateur.
He would also soon be a dead amateur. He stood close to the edge of the circle, breathing heavily, sweating so that water pooled by his feet, one hand pressed on the bleeding wound at the base of his throat, his eyes sick.
Finally he said hoarsely, “So you have won, Hadon?”
“Yes,” Hadon said. “And now I must kill you, as the rules decree. Do I have your forgiveness, Hewako?”
Hewako said faintly, “I see you, Hadon.”
Hadon said, “What? See me?”
“Yes,” Hewako said. “I see you and your future. Sisisken has opened my eyes, Hadon. I see you in a time far from now, though not so far that you will be an old man. For you will live past your youth, Hadon, but you will never be an old man. And your life will be troubled. And there will be many times when you will envy me, Hadon. And I see… I see…”
Hadon felt chilled, as if the ghost of Hewako had left his body and had passed by him. Yet Hewako still remained alive, though the crowd yelled at Hadon to strike, and the referee was gesturing at him to get it over with.
“What do you see?” Hadon said.
“Only shadows,” Hewako said. “Shadows that you will see soon enough. But listen, Hadon. I see that you will never be the king of kings. Though you are victor today, you will never sit upon the throne of the ruler of Khokarsa. And I see you in a far-off land, Hadon, and a woman with yellow hair and the strangest violet eyes, and—”
“Strike, Hadon!” the referee yelled. “The king and queen are impatient; they have twice signaled that you should strike!”
“Do you forgive me, Hewako?” Hadon said.
“Never,” Hewako said. “My blood be upon your head, Hadon. My ghost bring you bad luck and a grisly end, Hadon.”
Hadon was horrified, and the referee cried out, “Those are not the words of a warrior, of a hero!”
Hewako smiled faintly and said, “What do I care?”
Hadon stepped forward and swung Karken sidewise, and Hewako’s head fell off and rolled across the floor and almost went over the edge but was snatched by the hair at the last moment by the referee. His body toppled forward, the blood jetting from the neck and bathing Hadon from head to foot. Hadon closed his eyes and endured it, and when he opened his eyes, he thought he saw a flash of something small and dark leap from the corpse and drop over the edge of the platform. But it was surely a trick of his imagination. At least, he hoped it was.
And then the priestesses came up onto the platform with buckets of water to cleanse the platform and him and to utter the cleansing words.
7
The next day the final funeral ceremonies were held. Though Hadon did not like to sacrifice to Hewako
, he had to. It was expected of him, but even more important, if he neglected to spill a bull’s blood for Hewako to drink, he would be haunted forever by his ghost, and ill luck and an early death would be his fate. Hadon’s own money was too little for him to buy the fine bull needed, but as the king-soon-to-be, he had no trouble getting credit.
In fact, there were many who were eager to give him the money, though it was evident that they expected favors after he had ascended the throne. He was besieged by people who wanted favors, who were crying out for a justice that he was in no position to give, or who just simply wanted to touch him because of the good luck it would give or because the touch might heal their diseases. He retreated to the barracks, though he could not get away from the clamor.
Officials came who were to prepare him for the days ahead. They told him how he must march to the palace tomorrow, what dress he must wear, and what traditional words he must say and what gestures he must make.
Mokomgu, the chamberlain of the queen, also told him what restraints would be placed on him for some years to come.
“If you will forgive me for saying so,” Mokomgu said, “you are a youth of nineteen, and you have no experience in governing anything, let alone the mighty empire of Khokarsa. Fortunately, your wife has been trained in the duties of governing since she was five, and she of course has control of everything in government but military, naval, and engineering matters. But what do you know about the ins and outs, the complexities of the army, the navy, and the building of roads and forts and government buildings and temples to Resu?”
Hadon had to confess that he knew nothing of these matters.
“It will take you at least ten years to grasp all that is needed to regulate matters efficiently, and then there is, of course, politics. There are many power groups within the court, and you must understand what these want and why they want them, and you must make decisions, simple decisions based on complex reasons, all for the greatest good of the empire.”
Hadon of Ancient Opar Page 7