The unknown ship slowed, taking up a position alongside Dragon’s Crest. Both Rahm and Azak noted that the ballista was aimed in their direction.
One of the green-clad figures pointed southeast.
“Follow them,” Rahm urged.
“They'll lead us to Petarka?”
“I'm staking my life on it.”
“You're staking all our lives on it,” Azak grumbled. Turning, the wrinkled minotaur shouted out Rahm's instructions.
As Dragon’s Crest turned to follow the other ship, its captain could not help commenting, “Interesting allies you seem to have picked up, my good friend. Interesting, indeed.”
Gazing at the vessel in front of them, General Rahm shook his head. “Not allies,” he corrected, with a touch of anxiety. “Enemies.”
*****
The two helmed minotaurs swung their axes lustily, both gasping from continued effort. Sweat caked their fur and stung their eyes.
One flung off his helm, the better to wipe his brow. The other tried to take advantage but failed. The axes clanged together, resounding.
Above them, the crowd cheered and thumped their feet.
Hotak had declared an end to imperial combats, but he had not declared an end to the Great Circus.
No emperor would be so foolish. The Circus was the imperium.
And this, being the first day of events since Hotak had been crowned, was a time of intense excitement. This was something that the minotaurs, having experienced so much upheaval, not only needed, but demanded. The Circus was now the outlet for their pent-up tension, each gladiator the living representation of their anxiety. The cheers were almost manic.
The once-sandy field now lay drenched in sweat and blood from earlier combats. One of the duelists put his foot down in a slick, red puddle and lost his balance slightly.
It was all the helmless fighter needed. His axe came in under the first minotaur's own weapon, then cut upward. A horrific, crimson slit opened up the length of the gladiator's torso. With a snort of pain, the helmed minotaur wobbled and dropped his weapon. He took a step toward his foe—then twirled and dropped to the ground.
The roar of the throng echoed beyond the Circus. The victor raised his axe and turned in a circle, stopping before the imperial box.
There, Hotak, accompanied by Nephera and surrounded by an entourage consisting of his senior officers, stood and acknowledged the fighter with an outstretched fist. The victor knelt in tribute as horns blared and drums rumbled. Behind him, others hurried to drag the carcass of the loser away.
“Another excellent duel,” the emperor commented as he sat again. “A promising omen after the coronation—and just what the citizens need! A good day's entertainment to remind them that the realm is secure and stable, that they have nothing to fear.”
“But they know that already,” Nephera replied. “After all, you are their leader now.”
Banners whipped in the strong wind coming in from the Courrain Ocean. Horns blared, sounding the next combat.
A blunt-nosed veteran seated near Hotak's other side shifted at the sound. The emperor looked his way. “This is Kyril's duel, isn't it, Commander Orchis?”
“Aye, my lord.”
Hotak looked somber. “He had command of those ordered to secure or slay General Rahm Es-Hestos. It was imperative his force succeed, yet the general evaded capture rather too easily, did he not?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“A tragic error of command. My officers represent me. When they fail, I fail in the eyes of the people. You know that.” When the other minotaur nodded, Hotak added, “He chose to take this path. Kyril chose to enter the arena to atone.”
The horns blared again. From the gate nearest the imperial box entered a young, sturdy minotaur with brown fur and a determined expression. He wore no helm, no armor. For a weapon, he carried only a short sword and a dagger.
Hotak rose, his entourage following suit. The Circus grew still.
Eyes unblinking, Kyril saluted his leader. “For the honor of my commander and emperor! May the stain of my disgrace be this day erased!”
With a nod, Hotak acknowledged the words, then reseated himself.
Stepping to the midst of the field, Kyril took his position.
The drums beat, and the horns unleashed two harsh, foreboding blasts.
From the disgraced officer's left and right two gates opened. Out of each marched first one, then two, then three massive, armored figures. The newcomers wore not only helms and breastplates, but additional protection on the forearms and shins. Three even carried round wooden shields.
And where Kyril had only a short sword and dagger, his adversaries wielded twin-edged axes, long swords, and even maces. Kyril was not expected to survive this combat. What was important was that he die valiantly and redeem himself.
In ominous formation the six surrounded their lone foe, leaving between them a gap twice as large as a minotaur's reach. Kyril turned in a circle once, evaluating his foes. By the emperor's decree, the six gladiators had been chosen from the best fighters, and while that further increased the odds against the officer, it made his expected demise all the more honorable. The greater a minotaur's enemies, the more glory he attained, regardless of the outcome.
A lull swept over the Circus, adding to the suspense.
Then a single horn sounded.
The moment it did, Kyril reacted. With an astonishingly swift but graceful turn to his left, he flipped the dagger around and tossed it at one of the axe-wielding figures.
The dagger embedded itself in the unprotected throat of the minotaur.
With a gurgle, the stricken gladiator fell to his knees. Dropping his weapon, he made one feeble attempt to draw the blade from his throat then fell, blood spilling from the wound.
The throng, momentarily stunned, had its cheering cut off, but a second later the cheering erupted louder than before, and many stomped their feet to honor the first kill.
Even before his opponent had dropped, Kyril had already begun running toward his fallen foe. His hand came within inches of securing the lost axe before a sword lunge from the next nearest fighter almost severed his fingers. Kyril rolled over his victim, then rose in a crouch, short sword ready, as the other five charged him.
Two with shields moved in first. Kyril deflected a mace. He backed away continuously, trying to keep his eyes on the other three, who sought to circle him.
Then, with a snort Kyril astonished his attackers by charging headlong into the pair. Instinctively they moved their shields to create a wall, but Kyril used his forearms to push the shields up into the faces of the gladiators.
Momentarily blinded, they were not prepared when he raced around behind one of them. As he passed, Kyril swung wildly at his foe. He failed to wound the gladiator, but the force of the blow against his armored back nonetheless sent the fighter stumbling forward.
The audience roared its approval of the condemned one's cunning. He was giving them the best of shows.
Kyril shoved the sword through the belt of his kilt then scooped up the huge, double-edged weapon on the run.
No sooner had he done so then another axe blade sliced into the ground next to him, raising up a storm of sand. Coughing, the lone minotaur spun about, using his new weapon to deflect a second attack. The formidable weapon dug into an attacker's shield and by sheer brute force Kyril ripped the shield away.
The shield went flying into the audience, unleashing a new gasp of admiration and pleasure. In the imperial box, Hotak nodded proudly and patted Nephera's hand. He glanced at Orcius, giving him an approving smile.
Keeping his enemies at bay, Kyril backed toward the far end of the arena. The five fighters steadily approached him. They seemed content to let him guide the battle now—not what the hungering crowd expected.
The ground behind the dishonored officer shifted. A trap door slid open, sand trailing into it.
A ten-foot high burst of flame shot up, spreading out as it ascended.
With each succeeding generation, minotaur overseers of the Circus devised more surprises. From the passages built underneath the artificial floor of the arena, workers could send up beasts, new fighters, and an array of deadly traps. The blossoming inferno was the latest stunt. It was created by feeding oil into a fire and, with the use of bellows, funneling it upward.
With a cry, Kyril threw himself to the side, rolling in the sand. Smoke rose from his back, where his fur had been singed black.
Now two of his boldest adversaries closed in to finish him off. Yet as the first neared, Kyril, still on the ground but aware of the danger around him, dragged the axe in a wide arc.
He caught the first minotaur in the calf, a glancing blow but one that upset the fighter's balance. As he stumbled, Kyril rose and swung, burying the blade deep in the gladiator's thigh.
Even as his latest victim roared in agony, Kryil backed away. Already the flames were dying, but there would be other surprises, and he had to stay cautious.
The four remaining imperial gladiators retreated in unison back to midfield. Kyril's brow furrowed.
He looked around for the next surprise.
The floor to his right slid open, revealing a much wider trap door. A ferocious roar stilled the crowd.
A hulking, horrific form appeared. Although chained tight to the platform that had raised it up, the monstrosity tugged with such frenzy that some in the crowd involuntarily leaned back as far away as possible—despite the fact that they were protected by high walls.
It roared again… with both mouths.
Manticores, with their brutish, almost human faces and vestigial wings, were rare in Krynn. This twin-headed beast resembled a manticore in some ways. Its two muzzles were flat and thick; black manes framed each macabre, savage visage. Its body was that of a muscular, leonine creature almost as large at the shoulder as a horse. The beast's spiked tail snapped back and forth as the heads strained to be free of their iron collars.
The minotaur adventurers who, after several grisly losses, had captured the first of these monsters had named them chemocs, or “the feeders of Chemosh” in the old tongue. The overseers of the Circus liked to promote them as the “Twin Deaths.”
Under either name, they spelled doom for any combating them.
Onyx eyes glittered wildly in the daylight. The chemoc snapped its two heads in the direction of the crowd, then one set of eyes noticed the fighters. The beast strained again, causing the braces in the platform to groan ominously.
Although chained by the throat to each corner of the platform, the chemoc's paws were free. Talons half a foot long slashed at Kyril.
The four armored fighters now advanced again, forming a tightening half-circle around Kyril. They would drive the officer toward the beast, forcing him to choose one death or another.
The crowd roared happily at this newest turn of events.
Kyril moved to within just a few feet of the chemoc's savage reach. The talons came close, and its two heads snapped at him again and again, teeth as long as the minotaur's fingers seeking their target.
The two remaining axe wielders prodded at him, trying to push him toward the chemoc. A gladiator with a mace and shield moved in on his left.
The blood that had already been spilled drove the chemoc wild. One head began gnawing at a chain.
Another concentrated its stare on the fresh meat so near.
Kyril deflected the stabbing axes, but in doing so he took one step too close.
The chemoc's claws tore at his back.
The first strike was glancing yet left four long, red tracks in his flesh. The crowd gasped, expecting a quick finish.
But Kryil again maneuvered away from the beast, forcing the gladiator with the mace and shield away from the rest.
Fresh blood on its paw, the chemoc grew mad with frustration. It pulled and chewed at its bonds. Its talons ripped at the platform.
One of the rear braces gave, and then the others failed. The chemoc tore itself free.
A stunned cry arose throughout the throng. The combatants, caught up in their duel, did not at first notice the surprise of surprises.
The chemoc was free, and like the manticore it had vestigial wings. The leathery appendages did not let it fly, but gave its leap more speed at short distance.
It leaped straight for Kyril, but the flux of battle awarded it a different victim. Down went the mace-wielding gladiator, his wooden shield a useless defense against the hulking beast.
One head thrust forward, and the beast took in the minotaur's head and neck and snapped them free.
The other sniffed the air and sized up the remaining figures. Any of them would do. It was not choosy. The three remaining gladiators glanced at each other. They hadn't counted on this. Only Kryil seemed calm. The chemoc's breath came in rapid gasps. Its handlers had not fed it for days.
None of the fighters broke. The gates through which they could escape were too far away, and to turn one's back on the chemoc invited its attention.
The upraised head roared, which seemed to bring it to the attention of the other one feeding. Jaws drenched red, the second joined the first in seeking new prey.
Nostrils scenting blood, the chemoc again leaped toward Kyril.
He jabbed at it with the axe as it descended, catching the bloody head just under the throat. The chemoc landed clumsily, but the wound it suffered only stung.
The other minotaurs backed away. Kyril was the show here, and they would be glad to escape the chemoc's attention.
But Kyril fought fiercely, driving the chemoc back, swinging the axe again and again. Once the huge creature almost snagged it from him, but Kyril pulled his weapon away.
He managed a blow to one head's snout, drawing more blood. Both heads snarled.
Movement caught the chemoc's eyes. Forgotten in the struggle, the minotaur whom Kyril had wounded in the leg was seeking to drag himself to safety. In attempting so, however, he only marked himself as an easy victim.
The leonine fury whirled from Kyril. For a brief moment, the disgraced officer hesitated—and then rushed the beast from behind.
Kyril had been intended to die, but with the threat to their comrade, the other minotaurs joined the fray. They, however, came from farther away and would have been too late to save the wounded fighter.
Kyril was not.
He leaped upon the monster's back, barely grabbing hold. In the process, Kyril lost his axe.
The chemoc reared, the heads trying to twist around enough to bite. The wounded gladiator, forgotten again, pulled away as best he could.
Straddling his horrific foe, Kyril struggled to free his sword. He raised it up, but the violent thrashing by the twin-headed horror kept him from making any use. The other gladiators stood near, transfixed and uncertain.
The crowd was caught up. Hundreds of minotaurs now stood and shouted. They raised their fists in the air. Many of those seated thumped their feet.
In the imperial box, Hotak sat poised at the edge of his seat. Unlike the crowd, he held his emotions in check, but his eyes blazed with anticipation.
The chemoc's wings flapped wildly, and the spiked tail sought Kyril. If not for its wings, the leonine beast would have rolled over and simply crushed the minotaur.
Brandishing their axes, the two other fighters now stepped in front of the snapping heads. They did not move to assist Kyril, but rather to shield their fallen comrade. Another gladiator seized the injured fighter and pulled him to safety.
One head sought Kyril while the other bit at the two gladiators standing before it. One of the armored minotaurs got too close. A paw suddenly lashed out. It caught warrior and axe together and sent the gladiator smashing against the nearest wall. The clang of metal against stone was drowned out by the screaming thousands.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Kyril plunged his blade into the back of one of the chemoc's skulls.
Shrieking, the creature rose on its hind legs and tossed its undesired rider of
f the back. Kyril crashed hard and rolled onto the sand. As he tried to rise, a chance slap of the spiked tail caught him in the stomach.
No one heard his scream over the roars of the crowd, but his pain was evident to those in the royal box. As the wounded chemoc stumbled back and forth, Kyril forced himself to his feet. His entire torso was drenched in blood and three gaping wounds could be seen.
Twirling around and around, the other head of the chemoc sought in vain to remove the sword from the wounded one. Its blunt snout, however, did not give it reach.
Blood flowing over its mane, the injured head bobbled. The onyx eyes dulled and, its tongue lolling, the one head stilled.
Seeking something on which to vent its fury, the chemoc started after the surviving gladiators.
Kyril, unsteady, used the moment to stumble toward the axe he had dropped.
The chemoc saw him, and, forgetting the others, roared and turned on the one who had caused it so much pain.
Kyril seized the weapon.
The chemoc leaped one last time.
Hands slippery from blood and sweat, the young officer knelt and planted the back end of the axe like a pike.
The savage beast fell upon Kyril. Already terribly wounded, the minotaur could not brace the axe well enough. The immense mass of the chemoc crushed him.
But his axe sliced into the creature's lower throat and chest. Had that not been enough, the minotaur's long, sharp horns impaled the chemoc just below the jaw. The head snapped up so hard that the beast's neck cracked.
With a groan, the twin-headed fury collapsed.
An uncertain silence enshrouded the Great Circus. This had been a most unusual battle. Hotak leaned over the edge of the wall.
Armed handlers rushed out to the scene. After some prodding and poking of the chemoc, they nodded to the emperor.
The crowd let out a booming cheer. Over and over they repeated one name. “Kyril! Kyril!”
Hotak and the others watched as the body of the beast was pushed over. Other minotaurs bearing a wooden stretcher hurried to the site.
The young officer was dead. Had his monstrous opponent not crushed him, his wounds would have killed him soon enough. Yet still the throng cheered him. They stood and waved their fists and cried his name.
Night of Blood Page 8