“Not once did I make such a threat nor would I.”
“So Galiana is lying?”
Nerian arched an eyebrow.
“She said you’re willing to allow me a year with my family before I make a decision.”
“I am.”
“So it’s true. Coupled with what you implied that day—”
“Do not try to read me,” Nerian’s face became a blank slate, “or read anything into my words. If I wanted to say I would force your family to serve in the coming wars because they are powerful Matii, I would have.”
Stefan thought back to that day and what Galiana said. He’d judged everything from Nerian’s mood and what he thought the King meant. What if I was wrong?
“This is not to say that they,” Nerian tilted his head to the side and back, indicating where the High Council sat, “have not broached me on the subject. I told them you will make the right decision for our people, as you always have.”
Sudden rage boiled within Stefan. Fists clenched, he gazed toward the High Council. These men and women, most of whom he did not know, dared ask such a thing? His gaze met Cerny’s. The Knight General gave him a smile and a nod. Stefan scowled. In response, Cerny shrugged. To resist the urge to charge up the stairs and separate Cerny’s head from his shoulders, Stefan shifted his attention to the King. “Was it his doing?”
“Cerny? Who knows? He is as crafty as any in terms of political maneuvering and he has eyes in the unlikeliest of places. Anyway, enough talk about that for now. Our food is here.”
Still seething, Stefan made to say more, but he stopped himself. He needed time to think. Not to mention the King’s dismissal meant any further discussion would either go ignored or spark the King’s ire.
Five servants brought the food to the table. Heaped on silver platters were an array of fruits, cheeses, breads, and meats. Stefan spied corn and various ground provisions covered in a creamy sauces. Two more servants arrived with several flagons. The mix of scents varied from peppery, to hints of mint, to outright sweetness. Despite his temperament and the concerns clouding his mind, Stefan’s mouth watered and his stomach’s rumbles reminded him of his hunger.
After they placed the feast on the table, the servants hurried away. The King stood, took a plate, and set about piling on food. With a smile on his face, Stefan followed his lead. Soon they were both eating and drinking wine while taking in the sights within the arena.
The first fights between the dartans ended. Slaves with spears and whips led away the surviving beasts. Several others dragged the prone and torn forms of the dead dartans onto drays and rolled them out through the arena’s gates. A buzz of anticipation thrummed through the patrons. Horns blared. The announcer called out the next event.
A game of Senjin.
“Your favorite sport in honor of you,” Nerian called amid the people’s applause. He held up a ball a foot long and half as wide made from layered leather. “Wait until you get a taste of the twist.”
Two flags, set opposite each other across the arena’s width, marked the middle of the playing field. Red paint on the walls divided the two halves into thirds. At the far end of each side, white sand covered the ground in an area roughly twenty feet across and ten feet wide. If lines were drawn across each section, they would divide the playing field into eight parts, four per side—scoring zone, rear, mid and forward.
The players filed out the gates. From the east, they were dressed in gold. For these men, the crowd cheered. When the ones from the west entered wearing white, the spectators jeered and threw food. The ebony skin of the men in white stood out. Squinting, Stefan made out the slits on the sides of their necks.
“Astocans?”
“The officers that escaped into the Sang Reaches to be exact,” Nerian said.
“Against Banai?” Stefan guessed, from the baldheads and wiry frames of the Astocans’ opponents. “A Senjin match to the death?” The Banai and Astocans were mortal enemies. The game could end no other way.
“Oh, that is only a part of it. Wait until you see the stoppers.”
As the players took positions facing each other on the field, the gates opened once more. On lengths of chain, slaves led two dartans, one mottled green, and the other a dusty brown, toward the scoring areas marked by the white sand.
“Oooo,” the crowd cooed, their excitement near palpable.
The stoppers were slaves? Even as the question crossed Stefan’s mind, the slaves fastened the chains to steel rivets on the wall a few steps behind the sand. They turned, bowed to the crowd and left. As he understood, Stefan’s eyes widened. The dartans were the stoppers.
Nerian laughed. “You should see the look on your face. This makes the game so much more interesting. You have to risk your life to score.”
“What if they choose not to?”
“That is the beauty of it. They are condemned to death anyway. If they do not score, they die. We start with the shielders if the teams hesitate to give a full effort.”
Stefan was speechless. He hadn’t played Senjin in years, but the positions and rules returned to him as if his last game was yesterday. Shielders played in the section closest to the stoppers. They were not allowed to cross into other areas like the supporters and assaulters, but they defended all the way to their scoring zone. Removing them placed a team at a severe disadvantage. It didn’t matter that the supporters were limited to the middle and forward areas, because assaulters traversed the playing field at will except for their own defensive zone. If Nerian had a team’s shielders removed, that team’s lone stopper would face two opposing assaulters. In such a case, preventing a score was near impossible.
A normal game of Senjin was simply a sport—winners get the bragging rights, the ladies’ affections, the people’s admiration, and of course the pride, fame, and riches if the games were within tournaments. In the arena, losing a game meant extra shifts at the mines, less food, and for some, a beating. Death, though, added a new element.
King Nerian stood amid growing cheers. The shouts dwindled. He held the ball up in one hand, high over his head.
With a flick of his hand, Nerian sent the ball flying down into the arena. The spectators’ roars shook the stadium.
As if caught by some invisible hand, the ball stopped in midair between the central flags. A collective ‘Oh’ sighed through the arena. The ball drifted down toward the exact center of the playing field like thistledown caught in the wind.
Then it fell.
In the same instant, the assaulters charged each other. A flurry of blows ensued, too fast for any but an experienced eye to follow. The men attacked with kicks, punches, throws and an array of fighting moves. Blood flew. The crowd’s frenzy grew whenever a blow landed.
The teams countered each other—the Banai relying on their speed while the Astocans used their greater strength. Soon the supporters joined the fray, the ball forgotten as each team tried to secure the upper hand by disabling at least one man. These men were all once soldiers, so they relied on sheer brutality rather than tactics.
Experienced Senjin players knew to maneuver themselves to acquire the ball as soon as possible. After all, those who scored first often won since it required only three scores to earn a victory. A veteran team, when they got the ball, dropped back into the zone with their supporters. From there, they kept the ball between them, passing it from one to the other with a series of throws or handoffs. They advanced while defending the ones carrying the ball until they reached the end of the opposition’s midfield. Once there, the assaulters crossed into the defensive area, faced off against the shielders and stopper. If they managed to defeat them, they scored. At that point, the supporters needed to drop back to the safety or their own area before the opposing teams members overwhelmed them and prepared for the next sally.
However, either due to them being sol
diers or more the fact the Banai and Astocans hated each other, there were no such tactics deployed. This was an outright fight to the death from the start. The Banai appeared to be losing, until one of their assaulters dashed for the ball, snatched it up, and ran. The Astocans disengaged from the fight to give chase.
Stefan found himself on his feet. If the Banai assaulter gained the Astocan defensive area, he and his partner would face the shielders, if in turn, his fellow assaulter made it past the four Astocans.
Blood flowing from a gash to his head, his counterpart obviously knew this because he was already sprinting down the far side of the field. So intent were the four Astocans on the Banai with the ball, they ignored the other. Their shielders were waving wildly to show them their error, but the men paid no heed. The crowds’ yells pitched even higher as they too realized what was unfolding.
As the Banai grew closer to their defensive zone, the Astocans understood their mistake too late. The other assaulter crossed.
Maybe thinking he had no other option, the closest shielder charged the Banai with the ball. The Banai made no attempt to fight him, and already travelling incredibly fast, he spun to one side and raised his arm to throw. The opposing shielder must have expected the move because he leapt into the air ready to block the throw and catch the ball.
But it was a feint.
The Banai flung the ball on the ground instead, spun, and crashed into the Astocan shielder nearest him.
His partner snatched the ball after it skidded and rolled to him. Caught by surprise, the second shielder could only bellow his frustration as the Banai headed toward the scoring zone.
If the crowd noise before was thunderous, now it seemed as if the noise would bring the amphitheater crashing down.
Then, a strange thing happened. At edge of the scoring zone and several feet from the dartan’s reach, the Banai stopped. The crowd shouted at the man, goading him on as the Astocan bore down behind him. Aroused by the smell of blood streaming down the man’s face, the dartan went berserk, thrashing against its chains, mewling as it strained to attack the assaulter.
Undaunted, the Banai took several steps forward until he stood within a foot of the frenzied beast and began to sway. Stefan couldn’t believe his eyes. The man was dancing. The dartan’s neck swung from side to side, and slowly, its movement matched the Banai’s.
In that moment, the Astocan shielder, now within range, leaped at the Banai assaulter. As if he had eyes in the back of his head, the Banai sidestepped. The Astocan flew by him.
The dartan’s sway stopped. In a strike too fast for Stefan’s eyes to follow, the beast snatched the Astocan from the air. Tossing him like a toy, the dartan tore into the man. He managed to wail once before the animal’s maw closed on his head, cutting off the cry.
While the beast was busy devouring the Astocan, the assaulter sauntered into the scoring zone and raised his hand into the air. The spectators greeted him with triumphant cheers.
“Fools,” Nerian said from beside Stefan. “So predictable.”
The anger in the King’s voice made Stefan glance up.
Gaze locked on something across the arena, Nerian waved his hand. A blur of motion streaking across the distance resolved into arrows. Several platters flew up from the table to intercept them. Food and sauce spattered Stefan’s clothing.
A burning sensation scoured Stefan’s chest. He snapped a hand up to his jacket and came away with his fingers wet and red. The cloying odor of blood filled his nostrils. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of silver. A sword swung down and slashed an arrow intended for the King out of the air.
Before Stefan could discern the weapon’s owner, a resounding thud and clang of metal on stone made him whip his head around to the other side. One of the Royal Guard now stood on the table. Four arrows protruded from his breastplate. Blood bubbling from his lips, the soldier keeled over, grasping at the shafts and fell off the table with a crash.
High–pitched screams echoed from all around. The games erupted into chaos.
CHAPTER 13
The stampeding crowd shook the stonework. Dust and pebbles dropped from parts of the walls. Across the arena, a space cleared around a lone man who stood with a bow pointed in Nerian’s direction. The Royal Guards streamed out from the doorways near the attacker. They also rushed out from the passages close to the King’s throne. People were screaming and pointing to the left. Stefan turned his head. Less than forty feet away, another man dressed like a typical commoner, held a bow also aimed at the King. The crowd cowered away from him. Some sought to leave, but guards at the exits prevented them from fleeing.
“Be calm, my people.” Nerian’s voice, deep yet serene, carried above the panicked cries.
Kahar stood beside the King, sword in hand. The milling mass of people attempting to escape slowed and then stopped altogether.
Palm facing outward, Nerian kept his outstretched arm raised. Face an unreadable mask, he said, “Take your seats again, but leave space for me to deal with those who would harm your King.”
The spectators complied with his wishes despite the nervous mutters buzzing amongst them. Twenty feet of empty seats separated them from each attacker. The effect of Nerian’s voice and demeanor made Stefan want to sit and relax, but he fought against the urge and remained standing. He studied his chest. A ragged gash marred his jacket from one side of his chest to the other. Frayed ends of satin and linen waved in the breeze. The wound stung, and the blood stained the blue to give it a purplish color. The sight of how close he’d come to death and the assassins’ attempt on his King’s life brought a wave of anger bubbling up inside him.
“Empty the arena and prepare for the main entertainment,” Nerian ordered. Perspiration beaded the King’s forehead, but his face was stoic.
Stefan frowned. In all his years, he did not remember seeing Nerian sweat, not even on the hottest days in the armor he always seemed to wear. The clank of gates drew the Knight Commander’s attention below. Guards entered the arena and herded the players from the field. The dartan handlers came next and led the beasts away.
As he worked to calm himself, Stefan wondered why the would–be assassins didn’t fire. The answer came as Nerian gave a slight wave of his hand as if directing a band at a ball. Frozen in the act of shooting, the two attackers rose into the air and floated several feet above the arena. A squeeze of Nerian’s hand into a fist and the men fell to the ground.
Arms flailing, they cried out and dropped their weapons. They landed hard despite trying to roll. One managed to scramble to his feet. The other man’s leg was bent at a crooked angle. He groaned as he struggled to stand. His accomplice rushed to his side and gave him a hand. Together they faced the King.
“My dear subjects,” Nerian began, “what we have here are elite assassins sent by the Tribunal. Two Raijin to be exact.”
Awed murmurs rippled through the crowds. Stefan stared. The Raijin were nothing like he expected. He always pictured them being similar to the Pathfinders, moving with a deadly grace in all they did. These two men seemed normal and unimpressive, but he knew better than to judge them by their appearance. Raijin were among the deadliest swordsmen and Matii within the Tribunal. They were supposed to be worth any five experienced fighters in a battle. Their ability for stealth and infiltration were second to no one’s.
“You had a good plan,” Nerian said to the two men. “Not Forging so I would be unable to spot you beforehand. Using divya arrows to penetrate any Forge I might use or my armor. Too bad you forgot that something as simple as a dish, a piece of stone, or a normal blade has the ability to intercept an imbued weapon when used correctly.” The King gave a sly grin. “I am not above using the mundane.”
“You knew of this?” Stefan whispered.
Nerian shrugged. He gestured to the Raijin. “Now that you have given up the one chance
you had to use the elements, what will you do? Wait, I know. You will fight for your lives.”
Shock ran through the spectators at the King’s proposal. They understood what killing Tribunal Matii meant.
War.
Despite his urge to retaliate against the Raijin, a sense of dread knotted in Stefan’s gut. To talk of campaigning against the Tribunal was one thing. Committing an act that without doubt would start the conflict was another. “Are you certain you want to do this?” he asked.
“They did this, not I,” Nerian snapped. Not once did his or Kahar’s attention waver from the Raijin. “They attacked us first. What are we supposed to do? Cower? Hide? Not respond? The Tribunal made the first move and played their hand. Now, it is time to play mine.”
“We’re not ready for this.”
“Fortune waits for no one.” This time Nerian’s voice did not rise over the nervous murmurs of the people. “More often than not, you must take what is handed to you and fashion it into what you need.”
“But—”
“In this, there are no buts, Stefan.” Nerian pointed to the expectant crowd. “Seti needs you. Your men will need you.”
Stefan almost said more, but this wasn’t the place to argue. Regardless, Nerian wouldn’t be swayed. In ways, he didn’t blame the King. If the assassins were anyone else but Raijin, he would have killed them himself. The Knight Commander bowed. He hoped the King was making the right choice.
“My people, I know you have your doubts as I would if I were in your place. The Tribunal has done much to help our people and Ostania as a whole in the days when the shadelings were slaughtering and converting all before them in the name of their god.” A murmur of agreement issued from the crowd. “But those days are done—long gone. As a people, we did our part too. Countless thousands sacrificed themselves in those wars. The Nagels, the Abenderoths, the Durrs, the Engels, the Jungs, the Kalbs.” Nerian continued with a long list of family names. With each name called out, the whispers grew to crying and wails as people remembered those they had lost. Finally, he said, “the Dorns.”
Aegis of The Gods: Book 00 - The Shadowbearer Page 11