by Grace Draven
A wave of whispers and murmurs rolled through the qara as the chieftains and witnesses gathered bent their heads to comment to each other.
The ataman of Clan Wolf settled a hard stare on Karsas. “Do you accept or decline, Ataman of Clan Kestrel? If you decline, you relinquish.”
This time Karsas openly sneered at Azarion. “I accept.”
“Then as the challenged, you may choose first blood or death.”
A hush filled the qara. Karsas had no real choice despite the options given. If he chose first blood, he would survive, but the Savatar viewed such a choice as cowardly. He’d lose face with his clan, and the clan itself would lose even more status in the confederation. Sooner or later, he’d face another challenger and another after that, or else be found dead of some mysterious illness that struck no one else in his household.
Karsas was sly and murderous but not a fool. “I choose death,” he announced.
Clan Wolf’s ataman turned to Azarion. “Do you accept the terms?”
Finally. Ten years after hard struggle and patient resolve . . . “I accept,” he said.
The atamans gathered closer together to discuss among themselves for a few moments. When they finished, they all stood. The ataman acting as spokesman turned to the Fire Council. “Does the Fire Council approve the challenge and the terms of combat?”
The ata-agacin stood as well. “We approve on both counts.”
Azarion exhaled.
“You have today and this evening to make your sacrifices and appeal to the gods for their mercy.” The ataman nodded to both Azarion and Karsas. “Tomorrow, at noon, you fight.”
A huge crowd had gathered outside the qara, curious as to the meeting’s outcome. Karsas shoved his way through the throng toward his qara, his face a thundercloud.
Azarion allowed the clans to swarm around him, answering their questions repeatedly as to what the atamans said and when the combat to decide the chieftainship would take place. The time for judgment regarding his ability to lead began now. Those who questioned him also gauged his behavior among them, deciding whether to remain neutral in this affair, offer him their support, or withhold it in favor of Karsas.
The light had waned by the time he returned to the qara where his mother, sister, and Gilene awaited him.
Tamura didn’t waste time with questions. “You should practice after we eat. We can ride out from the encampment to a less crowded place. You can fight me. If you ask, I’m sure our uncle would sneak away to join us as well. It’s been a long time since you’ve fought a Savatar, and you aren’t as good on horseback as Karsas anymore.”
Saruke hushed her and passed a wooden plate filled with food to Azarion. “I think his time fighting as a gladiator has prepared him well enough for this battle, on horseback or not.”
“She’s right, Ani,” he said and accepted the plate with a nod of thanks. “I’ve ridden as much as possible since I came back, but ten years out of a saddle before that puts me at a disadvantage.” He winked at Tamura. “The trick will be to get Karsas off his horse.”
“Then we’ll practice that,” she declared. “I’ll enjoy knocking you to the ground a few times. Revenge for when you pulled my braids when we were children.”
They all laughed, even Gilene, and Azarion was grateful to Tamura, dour as she was, for keeping the conversation lighthearted. He’d have to be blind not to see the worry in her eyes or the fear in Saruke’s. They had grieved his death once; they didn’t want to do it again.
After supper, Saruke studied him and Gilene for a moment before ordering Tamura to accompany her to a friend’s qara for a visit.
Tamura gaped at her. “Now, Ani?”
Saruke wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and strode to the qara’s threshold, an impatient scowl creasing her face. “Are you doing anything other than warming your feet by the fire?”
The younger woman grumbled but did as her mother bade. Azarion heard the two of them bickering as they walked away. He turned to Gilene, who dried the last of their dishware and set it aside.
“You brought me the luck I sought,” he said. “I knew you would.”
She refilled his cup with hot tea from the small pot simmering on the cooking brazier. “Is it luck? Tomorrow you fight to the death. It would have been better if Karsas had chosen first blood, don’t you think? Your mother and sister fear for you.”
“First blood for something as important as a chieftainship is a coward’s choice. Karsas knew that. What respect he still has from the clan would be lost. To the death was the only real choice. Besides, first blood is too risky. I can give up a fair amount of blood and still win.”
A grim smile curved her lips. “Only a Pit gladiator would say such a thing.”
He scooted a little closer to where she sat. She reclined against a wedge of pillows, hands easy on the cup she held. She was beautiful. So grave, so composed. “Then you haven’t lived with us long enough. The Savatar are fierce fighters.”
One dark eyebrow lifted. “And unafraid of death?”
“Afraid enough to make them vicious in a fight.” Karsas would be exceptionally hard to kill.
“Is Karsas a good fighter?”
Azarion shrugged. “I’ll assume he’s the best and hope otherwise.”
Her brow knitted. “And he will be motivated.”
“As will I.”
He glided a finger down her tunic sleeve. She tracked its path with her eyes. Azarion wanted to kiss her again, but something about her demeanor—a hint of despair—made him hesitate. “I’ll pray later tonight and make a sacrifice to Agna that she be my sword arm and the speed of my feet. Will her agacin keep me company while I do?”
“Don’t you want your mother and sister there instead?”
“It will strengthen my challenge even more if the people see my agacin praying with me. That is how they see you.”
“As yours or as an agacin?”
His finger slid over the knuckles of one of her hands. “Can it not be both?”
Her fingers fanned out, then briefly closed around his. Her dark eyes were bleak. “No, it can’t.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
All of Clan Kestrel had gathered for the fight between Azarion and Karsas over the role of clan leader. People on foot and on horseback created a vast ring on an area of the steppe not far from the clan’s encampment. Several members of the visiting clans had stayed as well to witness the combat, partly from curiosity or entertainment and partly to report back to their own clans as to who emerged victorious to rule Clan Kestrel.
Gilene stood at the very front of the makeshift arena next to Tamura. Saruke flanked her daughter’s other side. Both women looked as grim as Gilene felt. Azarion had gotten what he wanted, the chance to challenge. That he might die in the effort to regain his birthright didn’t seem to bother him. It scared her, and if the tight expressions on his mother’s and sister’s faces were any indication, it terrified them.
Across the stretch of grass, she spotted Karsas’s wife and children surrounded by a retinue of his supporters. Arita wore a different expression from those who surrounded her, different from Tamura and Saruke. Hers was a bland facade, as if the confrontation about to take place held no more interest for her than watching sheep graze. Her children, a boy and a girl, neither of whom looked older than five or six, hugged her legs. Unlike their mother, they watched the gathering with wide, frightened eyes.
Gilene gestured to Arita with a lift of her chin. “What will become of Arita if Karsas loses?”
Tamura’s arms crossed, her fingers digging into her upper arms. Time in the sun had burnished her skin to a golden brown, but now the color leached away, and her green eyes, so like her brother’s, burned.
She glanced at Gilene from the corner of one eye. “It depends on many things. Arita and her children may return to her clan. She was Clan Eagle.
They’d welcome her back simply for her value as a bride to another ataman.” Such bitterness laced her words that Gilene’s eyebrows rose. “Or she may choose to stay here if Azarion, as ataman, allows it.” This time Tamura faced Gilene fully, that green gaze as piercing as a lance. “He may also wish to take her for his wife and name her children as his. It’s been done before.”
Something lurched inside Gilene, an unexpected and unwelcome pain. The memory of Azarion’s kiss lingered in her mind and on her mouth. The brutal Pit fighter possessed many facets, including gentleness and passion. The thought of him sharing those with another made her nauseated and then annoyed.
Whom he chose or didn’t choose as his wife was no concern of hers. His reason for bringing her to the Stara Dragana and her role in his rise in status were fulfilled. He was nothing more to her than the means by which she’d return to Beroe, just as she was no more than the means by which he’d regain his rightful place among his clansmen. None of that eased the ache in her chest. Her mind spoke reason; her heart refused to listen.
“It must be hard for her to witness this fight.” She congratulated herself on the evenness of her tone.
Tamura shrugged and stared at Arita. A wistful look settled over her features. “I don’t know. Theirs was a match arranged by their families. Arita has always followed their commands above her own desires.”
There was far more to the woman’s comments than the surface meaning of her words, and the words themselves settled like stones in Gilene’s belly. She followed Tamura’s gaze. If Karsas had been the desire of Arita’s family, who was Arita’s desire? Had it been Tamura? She shook off her own jealousy over the idea of Azarion taking a wife, only to have melancholy take its place. If she interpreted Tamura’s unspoken emotions correctly, how sad it must be to watch the one you love bind themselves to another and start a life with them, a life played out before you every day, with nothing to do but watch.
She wished she could offer some comfort or even a simple touch on the arm to let Tamura know she understood, but Azarion’s sister was not a woman to welcome such an overt display of affection.
The crowd’s raucous din diverted her attention. Both Azarion and Karsas traveled along a cleared path created by observers standing on either side. Each man rode a mare and was unarmored except for vambraces and whatever meager protection padded leather tunics and heavy trousers might offer. Both carried a sword sheathed in a scabbard tied to the horse’s saddle instead of to the man himself.
The path opened up to the grassy arena where the two men would battle to the death for the title of ataman. They parted ways at its entrance so that Karsas circled to the left to pass in front of his wife and retinue while Azarion turned right and guided his mount toward the spot where Gilene stood with Saruke and Tamura.
A cheer from the crowd made Gilene look toward Karsas, who had lifted his son to his shoulder. He raised a triumphant fist in the air, a signal to the crowd that not only would he remain ataman but also his son would inherit the chieftainship after him.
Azarion ignored the spectacle. He leaned down from the saddle to grasp his mother’s hands with one of his and gave them a squeeze. She nodded once to him, a fierce tip of her head and an equally fierce scowl on her face proclaiming not only that she believed he’d win this fight but also that he better not disappoint her by dying. His lips twitched with the threat of a smile as he let her go to pause in front of Tamura.
His features softened, even as hers grew more severe. “Mura,” he said gently. “When this is over, seek out Arita and offer her and her children shelter. The qara will be yours. And hers, if you wish it.”
Tamura’s lips parted. Made speechless by his statement, she could only gawk at him. She reached for him and gripped his fingers so hard, they turned red at the tips. “May Agna visit all her blessings on you today, Brother,” she said fervently.
He squeezed her hand in return before letting go. He stopped in front of Gilene. “A blessing from a handmaiden, Gilene?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Gladly given.”
His eyes widened when she held out both arms to him. He lifted her so that she hung eye level in his embrace, his hands tight at her waist. She linked her fingers at his nape, offering a small smile when he gathered her close.
This time it was she who kissed him, an enthusiastic display of affection that made the crowd roar its approval and Azarion’s mare dance sideways at the cacophony surrounding them. It was a kiss of desperation, of fear, and even of hope. Gilene ended it almost as quickly as she began it, leaving both Azarion and her gasping.
She cupped his face in her hands and gave him her most ferocious scowl. “Don’t die, gladiator.”
He stole a second kiss from her before resting his forehead against hers. “I won’t, Agacin.”
Saruke’s smug grin when he set Gilene down was as much for her benefit as for the crowd’s. Gilene pretended not to see. She ran her tongue over her lips, still tingling from the kiss. Azarion continued his navigation of the circle, touching the outstretched hands of the Savatar gathered there.
When the ata-agacin entered the arena, the people quieted until there was only the wind and the occasional nicker of a restless horse. “Come forth, Karsas, son of Gastene, and Azarion, son of Iruadis.”
The two men rode forward until they stood on either side of the ata-agacin. The priestess raised both arms to indicate the opponents. “Savatar, before you stand the ataman of Clan Kestrel and the challenger to his title as chief. Azarion, son of Iruadis, has challenged, and Karsas, son of Gastene, has accepted combat to the death. Do you embrace the winner as your leader?”
As one, the clan shouted its acceptance. Karsas raised his fist again in another victory gesture. Azarion only gave a shallow bow in acknowledgment of the crowd’s response.
The ata-agacin bowed her head and clasped her hands, her pose one of prayer. The other agacins followed suit, and Gilene mimicked their gestures, if not their praying.
She edged closer to Tamura to whisper. “He’s very calm. Such peace must have served him well when he fought in the arena.”
“He was the same as a child,” Tamura replied in a whisper of her own. “Quiet, but also single-minded.”
“And stubborn, I suspect.” He would have to be to remain unbroken on the Empire’s wheel.
Tamura chuffed and rolled her eyes. “Very. But he was never unkind in his pursuit of those things he wanted. The years as a slave have changed him in some ways.”
Gilene sighed. “The Empire is a stain on the world. A wretched kingdom.”
The Savatar paid her and Tamura no attention, their focus on the ata-agacin and the two men waiting to spill blood on the Sky Below.
Tamura’s top lip twitched with a sneer. “Karsas is responsible for my brother’s enslavement. I hope Azarion kills him and takes his head.”
Gilene shuddered at the image her words conjured. “Kraelag trains its gladiators hard and often to fight well in the Pit. Azarion was the Gladius Prime. The best fighter with the most kills. The one the crowds made their bets on most, the one they all came to see. The favorite.”
Her words dredged up the dark recollections of the Rites of Spring with its carcass-strewn Pit and blood-soaked sand. And here she was, a witness to another fight in another arena, resulting in another death. The consolation of knowing this fight was for a purpose beyond the entertainment of a bloodthirsty and bored audience didn’t quell her horror.
Tamura suffered no such qualms. “Then let’s hope those skills see him through today and he comes out of this combat the winner. Our people need him. My mother needs him.”
Gilene nodded. I need him. The sentiment was unspoken, admitted only to herself and reluctantly at that. When had the man who was once only a means to an end become something more?
The ata-agacin finished her prayer and opened her eyes. She placed a hand on the neck of ei
ther horse. “To the victor, the clan,” she proclaimed and stepped back into the circle’s edge.
Though she tried her best to stay calm, Gilene’s breathing quickened. The two men parted ways, each going to an opposite side of the circle only to wheel their horses around in preparation for a charge. They’d each unsheathed their swords. The slender, curved blades favored by the Savatar were perfectly designed for slashing attacks from horseback.
She shouldn’t be afraid. Azarion was a renowned fighter, skilled in combat, and not just combat against men. The Empire pitted its fighters against animals as well—bulls, bears, lions, and wolves. Sometimes the men won, sometimes the animals did. Facing Karsas wouldn’t even make Azarion break a sweat. Gilene, on the other hand, felt it trickle down her back and sides as fear gripped her.
She jumped when, with a bellow, Karsas charged first, sword flashing in the sunlight. Azarion drummed his heels into his mare’s sides, and she raced toward the other horse. The ring of steel as the two blades met rose above the crowd’s clamor.
Like his kinsmen, Karsas was an excellent horseman. Nimble and fast, he avoided Azarion’s slashes by sliding half off his horse’s back only to swing back up and wheel his mount around on a tight pivot to face his opponent again. His mare, used to such acrobatics, didn’t so much as flick an ear when he sometimes dropped to the ground beside her, feet barely touching earth while he used her as a shield and vaulted atop her back once more after a charge.
Azarion was an adept rider, better than most Kraelian horsemen Gilene had seen, but he didn’t possess his cousin’s equine prowess. What he lacked there, he made up for in fast reaction, able to counter Karsas’s attacks with lightning accuracy.
The two sparred with each other over several charges, neither managing to strike the other despite numerous attempts, equally matched in their abilities to dodge attacks. The crowd called out encouragement to its particular favorite, some throwing in suggestions for what to do next, others to spur them on to greater risks.