The Art of Hunting

by Alan Campbell

The King of Anea lounged on a pile of cushions, sipping wine from a crystal goblet. He eyed the new arrivals with apparent boredom, and said, ‘I had almost given up hope of seeing you here, Lord Conquillas.’

  ‘Paulus Marquetta,’ Conquillas said. ‘You haven’t aged a day.’

  The king offered him a thin smile. Then he rose and came over to meet them. ‘And this must be your daughter.’

  ‘Siselo,’ she said.

  He gave her a nod before his attention turned to Granger.

  ‘Colonel,’ he said. ‘Must I presume that Conquillas has denied all knowledge of poison and you now blame me for your daughter’s condition?’ He gave a weary sigh. ‘Have you come to challenge me too?’

  ‘I have,’ Granger said.

  A fleeting smile touched Marquetta’s lips. ‘Well then, I look forward to that,’ he said. ‘Let us hope you survive the early rounds. But please . . .’ He gestured towards the back of the tent, to an area sectioned off by painted paper screens depicting battle scenes from what was presumably Unmer history. ‘There is something I would like to show you.’

  He rose and then led them behind the screens.

  Granger’s breath caught in his throat. Duke Cyr stood next to a long table, upon which lay Ianthe. Her eyes were closed and her skin was as white as the winter sky. They had dressed her in a light shroud and clasped her hands at her chest, so that she resembled a corpse. If he hadn’t seen the gentle rise and fall of her chest, he would have believed her to be dead. He rushed forward and took her hand in his. Her skin was as cold as stone.

  ‘She is safe,’ Cyr said. ‘For now.’

  ‘Wake her,’ Granger said.

  ‘And have her succumb to whatever poison she’s been given?’

  Conquillas gazed down at her. ‘There is no poison.’

  Granger turned to Marquetta. ‘I know she rejected you.’

  ‘She didn’t reject me,’ Marquetta said. ‘Far from it. This is what I wanted to show you.’ He approached the sleeping girl and rested his hand upon her belly. ‘She’s pregnant.’

  Granger could see the truth of it at once – the slight, but nevertheless visible swell of her belly. His mind reeled. When? He turned back to the young king, furious, raising his fist to strike him.

  Conquillas stopped him. ‘The arena,’ he said.

  Maskelyne eyed the names on the slate board and frowned. ‘ColonelThomas Granger,’ he said. ‘That man has an uncanny knack of turning up alive against the odds.’

  The last time he’d encountered Granger had been on a mountainside in Awl, when the colonel had tried to kill him by crashing an Unmer chariot into the gun emplacement Maskelyne had been using to bombard the Haurstaf palace. Maskelyne had found the wrecked chariot empty, however, and it was only after he’d learned of Granger’s replicating sword that he’d figured out what must have transpired. Here was one soldier who really did have nine lives.

  Now here he was in Anea again. Maskelyne wondered if, after all this time, Granger still possessed that sorcerous weapon – and what cost it had exacted from him. With Unmer artefacts there was always a heavy price to pay.

  ‘How would you fare against nine men?’ he asked Cobul.

  They were in the cleanest section of the combatants’ area, where Cobul had become a fixture next to an ale seller’s barrel. The Bahrethroan sorcerer drained his ale and said, ‘I’ve faced plenty worse odds.’

  ‘I wonder what the bookies are offering on Granger,’ Maskelyne mused. He faced Cobul. ‘Are you sure you want to drink that much before the main tournament begins?’

  Cobul had won the pit fights by default, since nobody else would fight him. The main event was scheduled to begin any minute now. ‘I’m sure,’ he said.

  Maskelyne turned back to the lists. ‘Granger faces some Losotan lord in the first round. I happen to know that Granger carries a replicating sword.’

  ‘Nasty things,’ Cobul said. ‘I’m surprised he’s managed to stay alive.’

  ‘It’s one of his most frustrating habits,’ Maskelyne replied, checking his pocket watch. ‘Come, it’s about to begin.’

  They located the correct arena and Maskelyne found a bookie who took his bet of five hundred gilders on Granger to win. The odds were, as usual, appalling, but Maskelyne didn’t much care. He was starting to enjoy himself. They arrived late, and so were forced to find a place on the uppermost tier, forcing the other spectators to make room. Maskelyne found that people were always willing to make room when you have a Bahrethroan Brutalist sorcerer with you.

  Moments later, the bout official wandered out into the stone circle below them and raised his hands to quiet the crowd. ‘For this, the third of our matches today, we have two locals armed to the teeth with the most dangerous and wicked sorcery.’ He gave a signal, and an unseen operator raised the northernmost gate. ‘Firstly, I give you Marek Swale from the Yorburn district of Losoto, representing the Yorburn family itself.’ The crowd cheered as through the gate came a handsome young man in highly polished armour. He wore a plain shield strapped to one arm and carried an enormous hammer in the other. Maskelyne eyed that weapon and noted the Unmer markings etched across the metal.

  ‘Facing him,’ the referee went on, ‘and representing himself, we have a former imperial soldier. I give you Colonel Thomas Granger of the legendary Gravediggers. Exiled from his Losotan home for daring to challenge Emperor Hu.’

  Out walked Granger. There was only one of him, Maskelyne noted. But he also noted the deathly pallor of the colonel’s skin. He looked like a walking corpse.

  ‘Does he look well to you, Cobul?’ he said.

  Cobul frowned. Then he sniffed the air. ‘That smell . . .?’

  ‘You don’t think that’s Granger?’

  ‘Men who look like he does,’ he said, ‘are normally lying down.’

  The two opponents faced each other across the arena, while the referee continued to pace the floor between them. ‘This is a competition match and the standard rules apply,’ he said. ‘The fight is over when one opponent yields or is knocked unconscious.’ He turned to Swale. ‘Are you ready?’

  The man nodded.

  The referee then turned to Granger. ‘Are you ready?’

  Granger nodded.

  ‘Then, begin!’ The referee backed away to the far wall of the arena.

  The young Losotan, Swale, began swinging the hammer over and over his fist. Maskelyne could see that it was powered, for in moments it was moving so fast it had become a blur. It began to emit a humming noise. A blow from that would knock a man clear across Losoto’s harbour.

  Granger just stood there in his battered old armour, his hand clenching the hilt of the sword sheathed at his hip. And, to Maskelyne’s surprise, he remained one man. None of his sorcerous copies appeared.

  The noise from Swale’s hammer rose to a shriek as it continued to build speed. Maskelyne felt the stone seat under him begin to vibrate. And then his teeth began to hurt. Suddenly the young Losotan came running straight at Granger, now moving the hammer in a figure-of-eight motion so as to anticipate and smash aside any attack.

  Still Granger did nothing.

  Maskelyne sat up in his seat, intrigued.

  Someone in the row before them said, ‘Get ready to duck.’

  ‘I can’t watch,’ Cobul said.

  Now Swale was within reach of Granger. He brought his hammer down in a savage blow that connected with Granger’s shoulder plate.

  Clang!

  The arena resounded with an almighty peal of metal on metal, a noise so vast and powerful that Maskelyne felt it in his bones. His skull shuddered. All around spectators groaned and clamped their hands over their ears.

  The young Losotan attacker rebounded from Granger, staggering backwards like a man dazed. In his hand he now held, in place of a hammer, a twisted lump of scrap metal.

  Throughout all this Granger had not moved. Now he walked up to his opponent and slugged him in the face. The young Losotan dropped to the ground, unconscious.


  The crowd fell silent.

  And then erupted in riotous laughter and cheers.

  ‘The winner,’ the referee announced, ‘is Thomas Granger.’

  Maskelyne glanced over at Cobul, who was now watching Granger intently. ‘An interesting fight, don’t you think?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Cobul said. ‘Although technically the younger fellow won.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He was the only one still alive at the end of the fight.’

  Granger continued to phase as he left the arena. His hand still gripped the replicating sword, although he was now shedding copies of himself as he walked. He had learned that his armour reacted badly to a sudden change of mass within it and would judder and whine if he were to simply release the weapon. Better to take it easy.

  The tournament went on for the rest of the afternoon as matches were held simultaneously in all arenas.

  It wasn’t difficult to locate Conquillas. After asking around, Granger found himself directed to the arms tent, where combatants could rent or purchase various plain and sorcerous weapons. The dragon lord was testing the weight of a sword in his hand as Granger walked in. Siselo was seated on the table next to him, watching her father with wide eyes.

  ‘What does that one do?’ Granger asked.

  ‘This?’ Conquillas replied, staring at the sword. ‘This cuts.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘It’s enough.’

  ‘Enough,’ Granger admitted, ‘if this Unmer lord you’re up against is all he seems to be. Don’t you think Marquetta’s fixed the lists? What about your void arrows?’

  ‘I have limited numbers of those,’ he said. ‘Once loosed, they are difficult to retrieve.’

  ‘Congratulations on your victory,’ Siselo said to Granger.

  ‘Indeed,’ Conquillas said.

  Siselo leaped off the table. ‘Do you want your prize?’

  ‘What prize?’ Granger asked.

  ‘Your prize for winning!’ she exclaimed. ‘I bought it for you.’

  Granger found himself smiling.‘You bought me something?’

  She gave him a small bottle with a coloured bow wrapped around its neck.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said, lifting it up to have a look. He unplugged the stopper and sniffed. The liquid inside exuded a powerful floral aroma.

  Perfume?

  ‘You can put some on now, if you like,’ Siselo said.

  Argusto Conquillas entered a packed arena to face a tall Unmer lord named Geffen who had made a name for himself in the ghettos as a prodigious swordsman. To Granger’s eyes, Geffen appeared to be in his sixties, but he moved with the lithe agility of a much younger man. He carried dual swords, one of which terminated in an L-shaped hook. It was a style of sword-fighting Granger had seen once in the east, in which the hooked sword was used to catch and pull the opponent’s own weapons.

  Geffen rolled his shoulders and hopped on the spot as the bout official introduced the combatants. And then he crossed his twin swords before him, adopted a half-crouch, and began to circle the dragon lord.

  Conquillas held his rented sword out to one side and advanced without hesitation.

  Siselo clutched Granger’s arm. She was seated next to him, her eyes glued to the arena floor. ‘This will be quick,’ she said.

  And it was.

  The two men met in the centre of the arena. Conquillas feigned a sudden thrust, then flipped the blade into his other hand and swung it to strike at his opponent’s armpit. Geffen responded with a skilful parry, catching the dragon lord’s sword with his own hooked blade and forcing it down.

  Conquillas allowed his blade to be diverted, but then he turned his own sword inward and smashed the hilt against the other man’s nose. Geffen reeled backwards.

  And suddenly the tip of Conquillas’s sword was at his throat.

  ‘Yield,’ Geffen cried. ‘I yield.’

  The crowds cheered.

  ‘Told you,’ Siselo said.

  The first round saw forty-eight combatants reduced to twenty-four. Between them Granger and Conquillas watched as many of these as they could, trying to guess which of them might be the shape-shifter. He kept his eye out for any fighters who seemed more capable than most.

  The Bahrethroan Brutalist, Cobul, was certainly capable.

  His first opponent was another sorcerer, an Unmer ghetto lord who went by the name of Dominus.

  Dominus was a fat man who had his hair in a blue plait and wore loose orange robes. He walked barefooted into the arena with so many bracelets and rings and other objects of power on his person that the air around him bent and shivered. He was of the Entropic school of sorcery and Granger was keen to see how the two disciplines fared against each other.

  Conquillas and Siselo joined him just as the bout was due to begin.

  ‘You think this could be our man?’ Granger said.

  ‘They say he’s good.’

  Cobul and Dominus faced each other across the arena floor. Even before the bout official had finished his speech, Granger could see that Dominus was already muttering to himself and drawing sigils in the air with his hands behind his back.

  ‘That’s cheating,’ Siselo said.

  ‘Hush,’ Conquillas muttered. ‘Let us see.’

  The instant the official declared that the fight had begun, a great bubble of energy appeared around Dominus. It was translucent, but woozy, like old warped glass, but it shifted and roiled as a liquid would.

  Now Cobul began muttering to himself and making quick precise movements with his fingers. He held both hands out before him in what appeared to be a placatory gesture.

  Dominus strode forward, and as he did so the bubble of energy around him gave a fierce shudder and abruptly doubled in size. Granger felt the air pressure change. He heard a low rumbling sound like a distant landslide. He could still see Dominus inside the sphere, but blurred as the light bent around him. He thought he saw the man make another gesture. And suddenly the bubble doubled in size again. Now it was mere inches from the Bahrethroan.

  Cobul stepped forward and placed his hands on the bubble.

  Snap!

  The sphere of energy abruptly vanished, leaving Cobul standing alone in the arena. There was no sign of Dominus.

  ‘Overload,’ Conquillas muttered. ‘This Bahrethroan is as good as they say.’

  ‘What just happened?’ Granger said.

  ‘Dominus overextended himself,’ Conquillas said. ‘He was trying to wield a dangerous amount of power. Cobul merely gave him a little extra to play with. It was too much for the poor man to handle.’

  ‘You think he’s Fiorel?’

  But Conquillas did not reply.

  Both King Marquetta and Duke Cyr won their own matches easily, although it seemed to Granger that neither of their opponents tried too hard. Marquetta fought with a rapier, soundly trouncing a young Anean nobleman named John of Berna in a performance that nevertheless showed an unnerving amount of skill. The duke’s weapon of choice was a silver halberd engraved with runes; it moved, so Granger thought, with a mind of its own.

  It occurred to him that neither man could be dismissed.

  And so forty-eight became twenty-four. Granger’s opponent in the second round was a Cabathean warlord named Oshak – a talented swordsman whose prodigious natural skill had been augmented by several Unmer rings that threw wild bursts of disorientating colour around the arena. As good as Oshak was, he was ill equipped to topple Granger, whose sword and armour gave him the effective mass of a city.

  Conquillas triumphed over another warlord. Another expert fighter, he fought with a mace and was clad in strange blue glass armour that emitted a tone that caused terrible pain to all those who came too near to it. Several times during the contest, the front rows of spectators cried out in agony and scrambled back over the people behind them to escape.

  If the pain affected Conquillas, he didn’t show it.

  Marquetta and Cyr and the Bahrethroan each won their se
cond-round matches without the shape-shifter revealing himself. And twenty-four became twelve.

  ‘The king has fixed the lists for dramatic effect,’ Granger said to Conquillas after the third round had concluded. Without any daylight it was hard to be sure, but he guessed it must be close to midnight. The fights would resume in the morning. ‘He wants to fight you last. He wants his grand finale.’

  ‘Of course,’ Conquillas said.

  ‘Or else he intends to have Fiorel murder you in your tent tonight so he can pretend to defeat your copy in the morning.’

  Conquillas seemed lost in thought.

  They had found a beer seller in a quiet area at the rear of the competitors’ compound, not far from the entrance to their own tented area. Siselo was wrapped in a blanket, sleeping soundly at her father’s feet. Marquetta had returned to the palace and taken Ianthe with him, if the rumours were true. And that had left Granger in a foul mood.

  ‘What do you think he’s done with her?’ he said.

  ‘Your daughter?’ Conquillas replied. ‘She’s in no danger from him tonight.’

  ‘Why would he just take her away from here?’

  ‘Because it hurts you,’ Conquillas said. ‘Because it shows that he has power over you.’

  Siselo murmured in her sleep. The Unmer lord reached down and touched her cheek. ‘Paulus Marquetta can be cruel and arrogant and he is certainly misguided,’ he said, ‘but he is not a monster. He is capable of love.’

  Granger shook his head. But he’s Unmer, he almost said.

  Conquillas stroked his daughter’s head, but his gaze had turned inwards again. ‘I wonder if you would know,’ he said.

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘If a shape-shifter killed you and became you,’ Conquillas went on. ‘If it became a perfect copy of you, every cell and every drop of blood. Every memory. Would you know that you had been replaced?’

  Granger had had enough experience with the replicating sword to know that he couldn’t answer that question.

  ‘If Fiorel has already killed you,’ he said, ‘then there’s no point in worrying about it.’

  The dragon lord nodded. ‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get some sleep.’ He stooped and picked up his daughter, cradling her in his arms. She didn’t stir. ‘You should get some rest,’ he said to Granger.