by Chuck Black
Rowan straightened, jarred from his momentary weakness. This was a defining moment in his life, and suddenly he understood it. He was still alive, and the Prince still wanted to use him somehow. He couldn’t understand how it could be possible, but still he chose to believe.
“No, Gavaah,” he said. “I will not fight for you. Your tournaments weakened the people, allowing you to conquer them, and I will have no part of that.” He looked straight into Gavaah’s hard stare. “I live for the Prince, and I will fight for Him and Him alone!”
Gavaah glared at Rowan, his smile slowly transforming into a sadistic sneer. The moment lasted a long time.
“How unfortunate you have chosen such a path for yourself.” Gavaah turned and walked away, talking as he went. “My Bread and Tournaments strategy was brilliant, I must say, for it captured the time and money of Camerians everywhere. But best of all, it captured their passion and put them to sleep.”
Gavaah spun about with a triumphant grin on his face. “Why, I have even seen Followers ten times more passionate about my tournaments—and the knights who fought in them—than they ever were for your pathetic Prince.
“And you helped me do it!” Gavaah’s laughter swelled as he pointed an accusing finger. Rowan cringed, for he knew it was true.
“But you were too good, Rowan. I could see that controlling your popularity—and thus controlling you—would prove to be difficult, especially before I had complete control of the land.”
Rowan’s eyes widened as he realized what Gavaah was saying.
“Surprised? Really, Rowan, do you think anything about life is fair? You were supposed to die, but those imbeciles thought they knew better.”
Gavaah looked away and sighed. “But fortunately all has worked out for the better. You see, when a dog kills and tastes blood for the first time, it will always—always—want more.”
A grim smile formed on Gavaah’s thin lips as he came and stood close to Rowan again. “And that’s exactly what the people of New Cameria want.”
Gavaah let loose an evil chortle that made Rowan shudder. The dark soul of this man was becoming more evident with each word he spoke.
“My games are no longer Bread and Tournaments,” he said. “Now they are Blood and Tournaments. The people love it, and their insatiable desire for more is exhilarating!” Gavaah raised both arms in the air.
“The people of Cameria have been tricked and lied to by you, Gavaah.” Rowan spoke to cut Gavaah’s self-worship short. “I believe they are still good people. You haven’t destroyed their hearts … not yet. When they hear the truth, they will realize who you are and what you’ve done.”
“What a fool you are.” Gavaah put a hand before him and slowly closed it into a fist. “I own them all!” Gavaah leaned in closely to Rowan. “You will fight for me, Rowan, or you will die.”
Rowan raised his chin in defiance. “Then I will die.”
Gavaah smiled. “So be it. You see, my ignorant, naive little knight, the people want to be fed and entertained, so I give them bread and entertain them. In exchange, they give me the power to rule over them. It’s a wonderful exchange. In the meantime, Master Lucius can once again focus on the conquest of Chessington without the hindrance of aid from Cameria.”
Gavaah’s statement jolted Rowan. It was just as Lijah and Sir Aldwyn had said. It truly was all about Chessington. Had he made a mistake in staying with the Resolutes instead of following Lijah?
Gavaah was not through. “You Arrethtraens are so simpleminded. In spite of your little raid on one of my cities, I have done my job well, and you have helped me. You see, I didn’t need an army to conquer Cameria. Not at first. I just needed a few skilled, arrogant knights. Cameria now belongs to me, and there is nothing you can do to change it!”
In this dark hour, Rowan finally understood what was happening. Everything came back to the ultimate battle between the Prince and Lucius, even the manipulation of his life by Gavaah. He felt like a pawn that had been played and trapped by his own pride, then sacrificed without a thought. Anger and humiliation burned in his bosom.
“Good, Rowan. I see the anger burning in your eyes. You will need it when you fight for me.”
“Though it cost me my life,” Rowan said through clenched teeth, “I will never fight for you!”
Gavaah slowly walked behind Rowan. “You will fight for me at least once,” he whispered, “and it will be the greatest game Cameria has ever seen!”
He motioned with a flourish that set his coat swirling. “Guards, take him away.”
Rowan spent the next two weeks in the city prison, isolated from the other prisoners. Though carefully guarded, he was left free of chains, fed well, and even allowed a daily walk in the sunshine. This special treatment made him very suspicious of Gavaah’s future plan for him. Rowan resolved in his heart to be wary and watch for any opportunity of escape that might present itself. In the meantime, he was willing to wait and be ready for whatever the Prince required of him next—even if it meant sacrificing his life.
On the morning of a brilliant blue day, Rowan was transferred from the prison to the Kroywen stadium. He tried not to marvel at the elaborate and opulent structure, but couldn’t help it. Gavaah had built a temple of entertainment worship that was extravagant in the extreme, and he obviously still expected Rowan to partake in the spectacle.
The sounds of tens of thousands of spectators began to rumble down into the lower chambers where knights and combatants prepared for battle. There were numerous lesser duels and even some simulated battles prior to the fight that Gavaah expected Rowan to fight in. Evidently Rowan’s fight would be the climactic duel of the day.
They’re going to be extremely disappointed, Rowan thought.
He looked up at the ceiling above him. He could hear and feel the cheering, chanting, and stomping in a stadium that could hold fifty thousand spectators. Just a few short years ago, he would have given anything for a chance to fight in front of such a crowd. Now he simply wondered what would happen when he refused the battle.
Servants arrived to strip Rowan of his clothes and then began strapping on scant leather armor that made him look more like a marauder than a knight. When he protested, sentinels drew their swords and forced him to be still. It was just as he had heard. The days of fighting for honor were a thing of the past, and the elite professional knights had been replaced by cutthroat combatants.
By the time they were through with him, Rowan’s muscular body glistened with sweat, for the heat of the lower chambers was significant. Above him, the crowd seemed to be in a near frenzy.
The servants placed Rowan on an elaborate horse-drawn cart and locked his wrists to the side rails with iron bindings. He felt like a living trophy for Gavaah to parade in front of the people.
A driver took the reins of the team of horses and waited. As the gates opened, the sound of the cheering crowd swelled to a deafening roar. Slowly the noise of the crowd abated until one lone voice could be heard—Lord Gavaah’s familiar ringing baritone.
“People of Cameria,” Gavaah’s practiced voice echoed across the stadium. “Today I bring to you a great contest beyond anything you have yet seen!”
A great cheer arose, then diminished to allow Gavaah to continue.
“I have captured one of the leaders of the fanatical rebels who attempted an assault on our great city of Laos, where thousands of innocent citizens died. Our laws require him to be sentenced to death for his grievous crimes against the people of Cameria. Out of mercy, I have given him a chance to die honorably in a fight rather than to hang shamelessly from a noose.
“Is this not justice?” Gavaah’s voice rose in volume. “Is this not mercy?” He shouted passionately to stir the people, and they responded in kind. The stadium shook with roaring shouts of acclamation. Rowan was sickened not only by Gavaah’s twisted mind and silver tongue but by the frenzied crowd. How could the people be led so easily? Was it the thrill and energy of the stadium arena that inspired their gull
ibility? Rowan concluded that it was. He was astounded by the force of a crowd over the minds of individuals.
After waiting for the cheers of the crowd to build, the driver slapped the reins, and the cart lurched forward. Rowan widened his stance to keep his balance as they entered the arena. The crowd reached an entirely new level of riotous roaring as Rowan emerged into their view. He looked full circle around him, awed in spite of himself at the spectacle.
The stadium was filled with people from all walks of life. Gavaah and his cronies sat beneath a canopied grandstand, surrounded by sentinels and warriors. Seated on each side of the grandstand were men and women of Arrethtraen nobility and elevated stature. Each subsequent section diminished in social stature until the remaining majority of the seats were filled with many thousands of commoners.
The cart and its trophy first traveled slowly in front of the elite grandstand. Rowan locked eyes with Gavaah as he passed, enduring the tyrant’s condescending glare. The cart then began to travel around the perimeter of the arena, and the crowd’s cheers turned to angry taunting. As Rowan absorbed the glares and jeers of thousands of angry people, his heart became heavy, for Gavaah’s description of the people and their insatiable appetite for violent entertainment seemed gruesomely accurate. Has Cameria completely lost its heart for that which is good? he wondered sadly.
Rowan looked up defiantly into the taunting crowd. Then something strange began to happen. One man stopped shouting and pointed at him with a face of recognition. Rowan saw him turn to the man next to him and mouth his name. The people in that section became silent as they realized that this prisoner was the mighty Sir Rowan of Laos.
As the cart continued its circuit around the stadium, the noise of the crowd subsided, giving way to an eerie silence. When the cart passed once more in front of Lord Gavaah, a quiet but steadily growing cheer rose up from the commoners, starting on the far side of the stadium.
“Rowan! Rowan! Rowan!”
Soon the entire stadium shook with the rhythmic sound of Rowan’s name being shouted by thousands. Rowan looked up at Gavaah and saw frustration and anger. This, clearly, was unexpected.
Gavaah held out his arms to gain control of the crowd, but they resisted. Finally, after numerous attempts to quell them and speak, Gavaah gained the crowd’s attention.
“People of Cameria!” Gavaah shouted. “The name and reputation of a man does not free him from the law. Sir Rowan of Laos is guilty of treason and must pay for his crimes against our great region!”
Many in the elite areas began to clap, but jeers and boos rose up from the commoners. Gavaah tried to recover the people again but could not. His anger turned to fury, and Rowan gained no small amount of satisfaction in seeing Gavaah nearly beside himself.
The jeers of the crowd turned once more to a chant for Rowan, and this seemed to put Gavaah over the edge. He gathered his warriors around him and walked down the grandstand steps into the arena. He stared up at Rowan, fury burning in his eyes. Then he jumped onto the cart and stood with his face just inches from Rowan’s. Rowan would have given anything for one free hand, but the bindings held him tight.
“Enjoy this while you can, Rowan.” Gavaah looked about at the cheering people. “Whether you win or lose, I will have my fight and my execution today.”
“I will not give you the satisfaction of a fight, Gavaah,” Rowan said calmly.
Gavaah’s countenance contorted into an evil smile. “You will fight, Rowan, because I know something you and they”—he motioned toward the chanting crowd—“don’t know.”
Gavaah signaled, and a set of gates opened. Another cart entered the stadium with another knight strapped to its rails. This knight, however, was arrayed in full armor with helmet and visor in place. The cart came near and halted.
“You see, it wasn’t very difficult to locate the rest of the rebels once we saw the gliders.” Gavaah let his words soak into Rowan’s mind, and his heart skipped a beat as he considered what Gavaah was saying. Gavaah nodded to one of the guards, who jumped up into the other cart, grabbed the helmet of the knight, and lifted the visor for Rowan to see.
He could only see her eyes, but it was enough. There beneath the armor was his beautiful Mariah. Her eyes were filled with fear. Rowan felt as if a knife had pierced his heart.
“Rowan!” Mariah cried out, but the warrior quickly snapped the visor back in place and jumped from the cart.
“Mariah!” Rowan screamed, but the name was lost in the chant of the crowd. He pulled against the iron bindings.
Gavaah signaled again, and the driver of Mariah’s cart bolted away toward the center of the arena. Once there, the driver unharnessed the horse from the cart and led the animal away, leaving Mariah and the cart behind. All the while the crowd continued to chant, unknowingly immersing Rowan and Mariah in a death chant that happened to be his own name.
Out of the open gate, six large men dressed similar to Rowan entered the stadium and walked to stand between Rowan and Mariah, a distance of about fifty paces.
Rowan clenched his teeth and pulled frantically against his bonds. “Let her go, Gavaah!” Rowan demanded. Then he sagged in defeat. “Let her go … and I will fight for you.”
“Oh, it’s much too late for that, Rowan,” Gavaah said. “I’ve devised something far more entertaining than a mere fight between you and other knights. Look at these warriors, Rowan.” Gavaah gestured as if he were explaining the simple rules of a game to someone. “The combatant who kills you receives a weighty sum of gold. The combatant who kills the other knight, your lovely wife, will receive the same amount if and only if you are killed first. If, however, you prove too difficult to kill, any one of them can decide to kill her and receive half the gold—not nearly as rewarding, but a much easier prize.”
Gavaah looked toward Mariah. “You and I are the only ones here that know who she is. That makes the fight so much more enjoyable, don’t you agree? Oh, and for every combatant you defeat, another will join from the gate … and another … and another … until both of you are dead.” He gave a wicked chuckle. “It’s quite remarkable what men will do for a little gold.”
Gavaah looked around and seemed to now enjoy the chanting he heard. “They don’t know it yet, but they will love this day and the blood I bring them … and they will want more. It is the way of the human heart, Rowan.”
Gavaah looked deep into Rowan’s eyes and sneered. “Good-bye, my stupid Arrethtraen knight.”
The driver of Rowan’s cart had released the horse’s harness and led the animal back into the gate while they were talking. Now Gavaah and his guards moved to their seats in the grandstand, and the driver returned. He set a sword in the ground, then climbed into the cart with a key to unlock the shackles binding Rowan’s wrists. The man’s hands were shaking so badly he could hardly fit the key into the lock.
“Hurry up, man!” Rowan looked anxiously at Mariah and the six combatants who stood between him and his love.
Finally the man found the opening to the lock and turned the key. As soon as his right hand was free, Rowan grabbed the key from the man and pushed him out of the way. He quickly opened the other lock and jumped down to grab the sword. He looked beyond the combatants to his still-shackled wife and dared not think about the odds. He must play Gavaah’s twisted execution game even if there was no hope of winning.
“Rowan! Rowan! Rowan!” the crowd continued to chant, not knowing just how cruel this day could become.
A HOPELESS FIGHT
Rowan had to get to Mariah quickly before any of the combatants became impatient with the fight. He approached the men, and the largest of them was the first to engage. Three others positioned themselves to Rowan’s right and left, while the remaining two began to circle behind him. Rowan quickly disengaged to drop the weaker of the two. As he reached to recover the man’s weapon so he could fight with two swords, another combatant entered the arena from the gate behind them.
After two more engagements and one more fatal w
ound to one of the combatants, Rowan’s mastery was obvious, despite the odds. The ferocity with which he executed his moves bought him the hesitancy he needed from his opponents. They knew that if they came within reach of either of Rowan’s swords, they would die or be seriously wounded.
The crowd did indeed love the fight and cheered all the more for Rowan. Rowan tried time and time again to maneuver toward Mariah, and though he was able to close the distance, his opponents maintained their positions between them. He dared not draw any closer, for close proximity would also decrease the time he had to react if one of the combatants decided to take his sword to her instead.
Keeping track of all six men was at first more than Rowan thought he could do, but soon his mind and body had elevated to a whole new level of functioning. It seemed impossible that any of the combatants could penetrate his defenses with a sword. All they could do was hope to wear him down.
Three more encounters left another combatant incapacitated, but he too was quickly replaced. Rowan saw one of the original six combatants turn and look at Mariah, and he knew the time was short. The desperation of the scene forced him to adapt to a whole new fight. His mind and sword worked in perfect sync—analyzing, slicing, projecting, cutting, decoying, and thrusting.
Rowan fought with two and three men at a time, engaging each only long enough to keep the others from advancing. With each mistake a combatant made, a body fell to the ground. Rowan saw the man who had earlier looked at Mariah drop his sword ever so slightly, and he knew he must act now if he was going to save her life. The man’s foot shifted, and Rowan intensified his assault against the two men he was currently fighting. After three quick cuts, both opponents went down, but the delay gave the retreating man time to break away.
“No!” Rowan abandoned all caution in pursuit of the man. When he felt the tip of another combatant’s blade slice across his back, he planted his foot, spun about, cut through the man, and continued on, hardly missing a step.