It was obvious that his opponent, fighting behind three lacs, was far better prepared. At first the bout was very one-sided, with Kanus steadily pushed back. Then, at last, things changed: Kanus seemed to regain a measure of control and the struggle became more even.
A rapid, intricate dance began. Patterns began to form. I was almost hypnotized by the rhythmical surge and ebb. Sharp blades gleamed in the torchlight. Sweat glistened on the brows of the two human combatants, each dancing warily behind the armoured lacs that protected them.
‘This is worth watching.’ Tyron interrupted my thoughts, his voice animated. Things on the fighting floor had changed again. ‘Watch Sandor’s three lacs. They’re taking up a position known as the stack.’
Sandor was now sandwiched between two defensive lacs, one before him and one behind. They became the diameter of a wheel that began to rotate, first widdershins and then clockwise. While it was spinning, Sandor’s third lac launched a ferocious attack so that Kanus was driven back against the far wall.
And then a gong sounded, stunning me as the noise reverberated through the floor. In response, the combatants disengaged and changed position.
Now the two combatants were standing in front of their lacs rather than behind them.
What was happening? I was sure that my father had never told me about this!
‘Now it gets even more dangerous, boy,’ Tyron explained. ‘After five minutes of fighting behind the lacs, the combatants must face each other directly, making themselves vulnerable to the blades of their opponent and his lac or lacs!’
As the fight began again, it seemed impossible to me that the two human combatants could survive more than a few seconds. After all, the lacs were armoured but the men only wore shorts and jerkins. Surely their flesh would be cut to ribbons . . .
But it seemed that although the two men were desperately trying to cut each other, they could never get quite close enough.
The arms of the lacs were far longer than human ones. The two men danced with their backs almost touching the chests of their lacs, which used their long arms to reach forward and fend off any attack.
It continued like this for several minutes. How much longer could it be before one of them was badly cut? I wondered.
No sooner had the thought entered my head than a blade came in hard, forcing Kanus backward into his lac; they were now pushed right back to the arena wall.
Kanus was cut again, and he gave a scream even shriller than the trumpet blown by the Chief Marshal. It seemed too high to have come from a human throat. The knives were flashing, and I saw a blade sink into the throat-socket of Kanus’s lac. Then they were slicing into the man’s body again, and blood was spraying everywhere.
The spectators were roaring and cheering in excitement. Most had leaped to their feet. Meanwhile Tyron and I remained seated. I was struck dumb with horror, while he was shaking his head at the spectacle below us.
Together the armoured lac and the man slid down the wall. But long before they crumpled into a heap at its foot, blades were arcing downwards, cutting into the flesh of the screaming Kanus.
Blood began to pool under his body, spreading outwards across the boards, and his screams gradually became fainter.
At last the crowd fell silent. All I could hear were faint whimpers from the dying combatant, and after a few seconds they ceased altogether.
I couldn’t help noting the reactions of the spectators around us. Some stared with open mouths and wide excited eyes, almost drooling at the spectacle of the man’s death. Others, like the old man on my left, simply shook their heads sadly. I heard him mutter the word ‘untidy’ to himself.
Below us, the victor raised his hands to receive the applause, while the dead man was dragged away without ceremony. A trail of blood marked his exit from the arena.
‘The night’s fighting is far from over,’ said Tyron, ‘but I think you’ve seen enough for now.’ He got to his feet, beckoned me to follow and led the way out of the arena, climbing the rows of tiered seats until we reached the exit.
‘Men die in Arena 13 . . .’ He spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘That’s not the main intention, but it happens. You saw those stains on the floor. That’s blood. Some of it’s very old. Some of it’s just from last season. And there’ll be more added soon.’
He halted and turned to face me, staring into my eyes. ‘Have you seen sense and changed your mind, boy?’ he asked.
I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could speak he let out a long sigh. ‘I can see it in your face! Your eyes are shining with excitement. Even after what I’ve said, the things you’ve seen, you still haven’t changed your mind, have you?’
I shook my head. ‘I want to fight in Arena 13.’
‘You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that, boy. And despite my efforts, nothing I’ve said has deterred you. It’s something I do with all my potential trainees – I have to be sure that they are fully committed.’
I felt a surge of hope. Did he intend to take me on? I wondered optimistically.
He pointed downwards. ‘Right, boy, let’s get ourselves back to my house. Are you hungry?’
I nodded.
‘Well, you’ll eat a good supper tonight. All my trainees eat well.’
5
Two Important Rules
The gods reward ambition,
For without it we are but dust.
Amabramsum: the Genthai Book of Wisdom
As we approached Tyron’s house, I realized that the streets had changed. We were climbing, and I had already noticed that the wooden walkways were in a far better state of repair here. After a while they were replaced by stone flags, as the muddy roads gave way to wider cinder streets. Soon we entered an avenue of trees with fresh green leaves. This was where the prosperous city-dwellers lived.
Few of the wooden houses in this area were higher than one storey, but Tyron’s house proved to be different.
It had four storeys and was the tallest house I’d seen in Gindeen. He took a key from his pocket and opened the door, stepping inside, then turning and facing me as if to bar my way.
‘I’m going to give you a month’s trial,’ he said. ‘The days will be long and will include both practical fighting skills and Nym theory, followed at the end of the day by basic maths. There’ll also be a smattering of other subjects, including history.’
Now he’d confirmed it beyond all doubt. I was to be given the opportunity I’d dreamed of.
‘There are three important rules to remember: firstly, I don’t allow my trainees to drink alcohol. It slows the mind and the body – which is the last thing an Arena 13 combatant needs. I catch you drinking and you’ll be out on your ear. Secondly, you have to take an oath before entering the arena for the first time. It’s the law. You’ll have to swear before the Chief Marshal never to use a steel blade as a weapon outside the arena. However, I take it a stage further and ban stick-fighting as well. That’s my own rule for those who work for me. Understand? Or will that be too much for the best stick-fighter in Mypocine to stomach?’ he asked drily.
‘Can I ask why you ban stick-fighting?’ I asked.
Tyron raised his eyebrows, and for a moment I thought he was going to tell me off. But then his face relaxed.
‘To be successful at stick-fighting, you need speed and skill. But much of that type of combat is spontaneous. You can’t afford to fight like that in Arena 13. You need discipline to work in partnership with lacs. Stick-fighting creates bad habits that may cost a combatant dearly in Arena 13. Not everybody thinks the same way as me, but I enforce the rule in my stable. So I’ll ask you again, Leif. Will you abide by it?’
I nodded. ‘I’ll keep to your rules,’ I told him, my heart thudding with excitement. ‘I gave away my sticks before I set off for the city. Thanks for giving me a chance to prove myself. I promise not to let you down.’
‘Well, boy,’ Tyron said, ‘your training begins tomorrow, but now it’s time for supper. Your own clothes will have to
do for now, but I’ll sort out something better in the morning.’
We entered what was obviously the dining room, and I saw that supper was already being served. Tyron was clearly a wealthy man and could afford servants, who now bustled about the long table placing hot, steaming dishes of meat and vegetables at its centre. The food smelled delicious. My mouth began to water.
‘This is Leif.’ As Tyron addressed those seated at the long table, he pointed at me. ‘He’s my new novice. Sadly his father and mother are dead so he’s travelled here alone. I’m sure he’s going to do well. Let’s make him feel welcome!’
The announcement was greeted with smiles, but nobody spoke. Tyron sat at the head of the table and directed me to its foot. As we waited for the servants to finish serving, he introduced me.
‘This is my daughter, Teena,’ he said, nodding towards the young woman seated on his right. ‘She’s been married four years and has already provided me with my first grandchild. But you won’t meet him until tomorrow as he’s been packed off to bed.’
‘It’s nice to meet you, Leif,’ Teena said, giving me a friendly smile. ‘I hope you’ll be happy here. We’ll be your family now.’
She was a very attractive woman, with blonde hair and blue eyes. I could tell at a glance that she was warm and generous and very genuine. I liked her immediately.
‘And this is her husband, Kern,’ Tyron continued, placing his hand on the shoulder of the man seated opposite Teena. ‘Kern is about to begin his fifth season fighting in Arena 13. This year he should build on his previous successes and rise very high in the rankings. You’ll get to know him well as he’ll be carrying out part of your training.’
Kern was a tall man with very dark hair; he seemed as open and friendly as his wife.
‘I’m looking forward to working with you, Leif,’ he said. He looked like he really meant it.
I started to relax, but when Tyron turned his attention to the other diners, the atmosphere wasn’t quite as warm. There were two lads about the same age or slightly older than me; they stared at me, eyebrows raised.
‘All my new trainees spend their first season under my roof. After that they have quarters in the Wheel. This is Palm,’ Tyron said, pointing to the fairer boy. His hair was cut very short and his back was stiff. Had we both been standing I’m sure he’d have looked down his nose at me, for he had an air of superiority. ‘Palm is the elder and more experienced, and already has several months of training behind him. He wants to fight behind three lacs. Luckily his father can afford it – it’s very expensive to buy and maintain them.’
Palm nodded in my direction. He forced a smile¸ but only with his mouth, not his eyes. I could sense that he didn’t welcome my presence.
The other, smaller, boy was introduced as Deinon. He had darker, mousier hair and was very slim. He seemed nervous and unsure of himself. Even though he seemed more friendly in his greeting than Palm, his eyes were wary.
‘Right, let’s begin. Help yourselves!’ invited Tyron, looking directly at me. ‘It’s bad practice to train on a full stomach, so we have a light breakfast and just a snack at noon. So eat well because this is the main meal of the day.’
I didn’t need a second invitation, so I filled my plate with slices of beef and a mound of potatoes and vegetables, and was generous with the gravy too. There was water to drink, but I noticed that, despite his rule for the trainees, Tyron drank red wine.
There was laughter and conversation at the far end of the table; I’d have been far happier chatting to Tyron, Kern and Teena. The two boys next to me were too busy eating to talk; I feared that it would prove difficult to get to know them.
A clatter at the door grabbed my attention, and I looked up from my plate for a moment to see someone else enter the room and take a seat next to Teena. It was a dark-haired girl of about my own age; she wore loose trousers tied with black ribbon at the ankles, above what looked like the same type of boots worn by the combatants in Arena 13. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, making her face look hard and angular.
‘This is my younger daughter, Kwin, who makes a habit of being late for meals.’ Tyron gave his daughter a long searching look. ‘Kwin, this is my new trainee, Leif.’
Kwin didn’t even fake a smile. She stared at me with hard, hostile brown eyes. To my surprise, I saw a scar on her left cheek, running from just below the eye almost to the corner of her mouth. Although the scar hadn’t distorted her face, her otherwise attractive features were twisted; twisted with anger at my presence.
But at least, unlike the two trainees, she was honest.
There were three people in the room who clearly didn’t want me here.
After supper, at Tyron’s bidding, I followed Palm and Deinon upstairs to our sleeping quarters.
The three beds stood in a row down the long narrow room. Next to each bed was a small chest of drawers with a single flickering candle. On the left was the only window; the long green curtains were already closed.
‘This is my bed, that’s Deinon’s – and that’s yours,’ said Palm, pointing towards the bed furthest from the window. There was another closed door next to it, and I noticed that it had a keyhole but no handle.
Something else caught my eye – a framed painting that hung over Palm’s bed. It was a scene from Arena 13. In the foreground a combatant was facing forward; at his back stood a lac. The man held his arms out wide, blades gleaming in his hands. Behind him, the lac’s blades were held at an angle of forty-five degrees, so that together they looked like one creature with four arms – a powerful, dangerous entity that hurled a challenge right at me.
‘Do you like it?’ Palm asked. ‘It cost a lot of money to have that painted. Do you know who that is . . .?’ He pointed to the combatant.
I shook my head.
‘It’s Math, the great hero of Arena 13. He defeated Hob fifteen times!’
I stared at the picture and swallowed. My mouth was very dry. Suddenly I felt like I was about to fall, so I went and sat down on the edge of my bed.
No sooner was I seated than I was overcome by a wave of exhaustion – the journey here and the adrenalin of the day finally taking over. But my two roommates obviously weren’t ready to let me sleep; they stared at me, as if waiting for me to speak. I couldn’t think of anything to say and the silence seemed to go on for a long time.
‘Where are you from?’ Palm asked at last.
‘I lived just south of Mypocine,’ I replied.
‘You certainly look and sound like you come from down south.’
He spoke with the clear, clipped accent of the north. My first impression had been right: there was superiority in his every syllable. He was referring to my accent, with its broader vowels, and my darker skin colour. The expression on Palm’s face said that I was to be pitied.
‘What did your father do?’ he asked.
‘He was a farmer.’
‘My father owns one of the largest farms north of Gindeen,’ Palm said, as if he hadn’t taken in what I had just said. ‘I’m going to fight behind a tri-glad, and Tyron has promised to pattern it for me himself. He’s already begun the work. The three lacs should be ready in a few weeks – I’ll have time to get plenty of practice in before the TT. You do know about the TT?’
The boy was obviously demonstrating how much more experienced than me he was. I didn’t need him to tell me, but I shook my head – it was best to be honest.
‘It’s what we call the Trainee Tournament. Later in the season there’s a tournament for all the trainees and I’m going to win it. Even though you’re the novice here, you’ll have to enter as well. It’s compulsory. Are you going to fight from the min?’
I nodded, noticing as he spoke a faint click at the end of some words. I wondered if he had something wrong with his jaw.
Palm gave me that pitying look again. ‘So is Deinon,’ he said, grinning at the other boy. ‘But it’s hard to beat a good tri-glad, so you’d better get used to being defeated – Deinon can tell yo
u all about it.’
He suddenly got to his feet and went over to the wall, placing the palm of his right hand flat against it, just above my headboard.
‘This wall is hot!’ he declared loudly, grinning again. ‘Come here, Leif! Feel it and tell me what you think!’
I could tell that this was some kind of trick, but I had to play along. I knew I’d be spending a lot of time with Palm and Deinon so I didn’t want to appear hostile at our first meeting. I’d have to make an effort to be friendly and get on with them. I walked across and placed my hand flat against the wall as Palm had just done.
‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘Am I right or not?’
The wooden wall did feel mildly warm, but that was all.
Before I was forced to give my opinion, Palm asked me another question. ‘Why do you think it’s so hot?’
I shrugged.
‘It’s because a girl sleeps in the next room,’ he added, his grin wider than ever. ‘That’s why. She makes the walls burn!’
‘Who is she?’ I asked. ‘What girl?’
‘Why, Kwin, of course, Tyron’s younger daughter. What do you think of her scar?’
‘How did she get it?’
‘Kwin’s crazy about the Trig. She never stops practising the steps. It’s a waste of time, of course, because women aren’t allowed to take part – they can’t even set foot on the arena floor. But she won’t be told – she practises like she really believes that she’ll be allowed to fight there. It’s just nonsense. Anyway, one day she went down to the cellar and activated a lac. Not just a practice one either. It was a lac that had been readied for Arena 13. She fought it blade against blade and almost lost an eye. Lucky for her, Tyron came down just in time to save her life. She could have been killed.’
Palm was still grinning and I started to go red. What was so funny about almost being killed? I felt embarrassed and angry. Everything he’d said so far seemed to be a long joke at my expense. And why was Deinon so silent? Had he nothing to say for himself? His silence began to annoy me.
Arena 13 Page 4