The guardsman blanched, but turned angrily to face him, opening his mouth in doubtless preparation to spit some insult meant to goad Raz into doing something stupid. The man to curly’s right, however, stopped him with an outstretched hand and spun the youth back around to face the chamber.
“Leave it, Wylson,” Raz heard him mutter. “It’ll be a job enough protecting the lizard from these bastards without wondering if he’s gonna take a bite out of my arse while my back’s turned.”
Chuckling at the image, Raz looked back over their heads into the rest of the busy room.
Quin Tern certainly knows how to make a message heard…
According to the last count given to him by Rhen, some five-hundred and fifty odd had beaten the snow to Azbar and signed up to fight. Half a dozen of those were dead by Raz’s own hand already, being fool enough to risk the Chairman’s wrath and take him on in broad daylight in the streets. When it became clear anyone who tried to take Raz by surprise didn’t live long enough to face said wrath, though, the attempts ended.
Still, even after another score had been thrown from the city for brawls and other such hassles, that left well over five hundred capable men and women within the walls of Azbar to fill the Arena’s lists. So many, in fact, that the council had been hard-pressed to figure out what to do with all of them.
In the end they’d decided on simplicity, and the Chairman’s Tourney had been conceived, an endless series of consecutive four-day events. Bouts of thirty-two matches would run over the first two days, each with four brackets of eight fighters. The third day was a gap, in order to allow recovery of the finalists, during which Arena gladiators and the bounty hunters alike could vie to participate in matches for the pleasure of the crowds, winning themselves favor and gold in the process. On the fourth day there would be exhibition matches of a similar style, then the four winners of the tournament days would face Raz together, as individuals, or in any combination they saw fit. If they chose to band together, Raz would be allowed his full gear. If they split into pairs, he would have his gladius.
If they chose to take him on individually, Raz would be granted nothing more than his armor.
Raz had been there when Tern had made these announcements to the hundreds of bounty hunters, speaking down on them from his Chairman’s box as they stood in the stadium of the Arena. He’d caught many self-assured smiles and exchanged glances of glee between old friends and comrades-in-arms.
He had every intention of making them realize how premature their confidence had been.
Today was the opening day. Tomorrow the tournaments would start in truth. For now, though, Tern had wanted something special to captivate the massive crowd he had gathered for the experience. He’d evened the odds of the matches, crafting only four branches of four fighters for today’s opening battles. The four winners would be given brief reprieve while Arena gladiators kept the crowds entertained, then they’d return to the ring to face Raz in what the Chairman had called a “special event.”
Raz couldn’t be sure what the man had meant, but he knew one thing: though Tern gained nothing from letting him die this early in his tourney, the man was clever enough to make even guaranteed survival look interesting.
“Let me through.”
Raz looked around. Alyssa Rhen was passing between two of his protective detail, stepping towards him. The Doctore wore dyed crimson furs over her leathers today, along with a thick black scarf she was pulling down off her face as she approached.
“How’s it look?” Raz asked as she stopped beside him.
Rhen looked over her shoulder, past the guard into the crowd of fighters. Her brow creased in annoyance.
“As bad as ever,” she said without looking around. “Nothing new to you, though. Same as your bouts last week. The ground is frozen and the puddles are ice. Use both to your advantage. These idiots won’t know the pit, so if you’re smart you’ll get through without much trouble.”
Raz chuckled, shifting into a more comfortable position on the wall.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were worried about me, Doctore.”
Alyssa sighed, crossing her arms. The scar along the right side of her face tugged angrily at her lip as she turned back to face him.
“Worried for you and worried for your intentions are not necessarily mutually exclusive, Arro. If you fall, then what you’ve managed to pull together here falls with you. All of it.”
Raz nodded. “I don’t plan on falling, least of all anytime soon.”
“Then why this farce?” Alyssa hissed indignantly, indicating the bounty hunters beyond the ring of guards. “Between the tournament fighters and the exhibitionists, there are at least two dozen men and women down here who want nothing more than to see you dead. If you think even you could fight your way out of that, I should reconsider my wagers on grounds of insanity.”
“You’re betting on me?” Raz laughed. “I’m touched. But don’t worry, your money is safe enough. Tern is a bastard, but—whether fortunately or unfortunately in the long run—he’s far from stupid. He knows there won’t be any fighting down here. Here, if I die, it’s on a man’s word who delivered the killing blow. Even if it’s true, it leaves him with a target on his back for whoever wants to claim the bounty for themselves. No. They’ll wait. They’ll wait until they have ten thousand witnesses to corroborate their claim.”
“Thirteen today,” Alyssa snorted. “Tern’s not charging entry, to build up the excitement. There are thirteen thousand spectators in those stands right now.”
“Well then,” Raz said as a horn sounded above them, echoing down through the portcullis at the top of the gangway, “we’d best not disappoint, should we?”
“No,” Alyssa said. Then she smiled slowly. “And speaking of… The reason I came down here. I need to borrow Ahna, if you don’t mind.”
When the horn blew, calling for the attention of the spectators, Talo suspected he might go deaf from the noise. As one, thousands leapt to their feet, bellowing and hollering in tumultuous excitement. For a minute his view was partially blocked by the backs of the men in front of he and Kal, so he didn’t notice the arrival of the fat man until the throng finally calmed and started falling back onto their seats.
Quin Tern was as unlike his father as it was possible to be. Whereas Markus had been tall and slim of form, Quin’s girth seemed to take up most of the open terrace that led back into the alcove of the Chairman’s box. He wore heavy silver robes that swirled around his great form as he moved, and Talo could see the distinct glint of gold on the hand waving for quiet over the stands.
When silence finally fell, the man’s strong voice echoed out over the stand.
“Friends!” Tern boomed, extending an arm to the crowd. “Citizens and honored guests! It is my distinct pleasure, as Chairman of this grand city, to welcome you this day! Through hard times and cold winters Azbar has stood as a shining pinnacle in the North, a bastion of culture and civilization, tall and strong among the wilds of the woods. Our ancestors of old built this great Arena, and many more after them stood on the very stone beneath your feet. Blood and iron are the ways of the North. Steel and hardship are our kin!”
Tern paused then, thumping a fist to his chest, where it rested across his heart.
“Here today, though, men will sacrifice so that your burden might be lessened. Today, many will bleed so that you do not have to. The gates of the Arena are open once more, and Azbar no longer suffers as it did. We of the council have risked the wrath of the Lifegiver Himself in this endeavor, but it is our own small gift to you. Winter knocks anew at our door, but no longer will you be hard-pressed to pay for the wood to keep your houses warm, or the bread to keep your families fed. From within these walls”—Tern spread both arms wide to indicate the great circular expanse of the stadium—“Azbar will grow firm again. By the blood shed on this earth”—he pointed imperiously down into the pit before him—“we of the council pledge ourselves to your unending protection,
that you might never need fear again.”
Tern stopped again as the crowd erupted at that, many leaping to their feet once more. Talo and Kal exchanged dubious glances.
“However,” Tern continued at last as the stadium quieted once more, “that pledge is not just made on any blood. It is not made on the blood of our brave gladiators, fighting so hard for you and your entertainment. It is not made on the unworthy lives of criminals, whose deaths were no more than vindicated punishment doled out for your pleasure. No, our pledge is made on the souls of true warriors, hard men and women from every corner of the North and beyond! Azbar called, and they came, beating even winter in their pursuit of glory. You have seen them among you, witnessed their fierceness with your own two eyes. They come hungry, savagely desirous of one thing and one thing only!”
At this, Tern half turned to gesture behind him. At once two servants in pale-gold robes hurried forward, both clearly straining to keep hold of each end of what they held in their arms.
“I present to you,” Tern roared as the crowd once again erupted at the sight of the thing, “Ahna, the great spear of the fiercest warrior our world has ever seen, the Scourge of the South, RAZ I’SYUL ARRO!”
If Talo hadn’t been going deaf before, he was certain he would now. This time, though, he couldn’t really blame the hysterical screaming and jumping of the masses. The weapon the two men hefted up for the crowd to see was a magnificent thing, as beautiful in its simplicity as it was terrifying in design. More than seven feet long from the heavy point on one end to the tips of its twin, gently curving blades on the other, the spear looked to have a wood haft, but by the weight it seemed to carry—judging from the shaking of its bearers—there was more to it than that.
“Steel born of the fiery Southern gods,” Tern continued, turning back to the crowd even as he continued to gesture at Ahna. “So heavy two men can hardly lift her. Today her presence is our benediction, our reminder of what it is the men and women you will see before you are fighting for. Her master is meant to be their prey. Will they manage it? Will some of the fiercest warriors in our great lands hold up to the savagery of our Monster?”
To this, the response was tumultuous denial. All screamed and shouted their “no”s and “never”s, aggressively waving downward-pointing thumbs in contradiction.
“Our Monster?” Kal hissed in outrage. “Well, you can’t say Tern doesn’t know how to win himself a crowd.”
Talo nodded, but didn’t reply as the Chairman’s voice picked up once more.
“You think not? You think our Southern legend will have what it takes to fight the best we have to offer? Very well! Then let this spear be as much a symbol to him as it is to us! Let his Ahna be displayed to remind him that he does not fight for himself today, with all the advantages the world has to offer. No! Raz i’Syul, for the first time in his life, fights for another. He fights for you, fights for this Arena, and fights for the IRON SPIRIT OF OUR GREAT CITY OF AZBAR!”
Tern’s final words rang strong and clear, and one last time the crowd applauded him with a roar. Turning away from the stands, Tern nodded to the men holding Ahna aloft. At once they lowered her to the ground. For a brief moment Talo and Kal couldn’t see the weapon as the attendants fumbled around with something. Then they were picking the spear up again, and Talo saw that loose rope nooses had been looped around both of her ends. As he watched, the men began lowering Ahna over the edge of the Chairman’s box, careful to keep her haft even and balanced. When they finally stopped, tying the ropes off somewhere beyond Talo’s scope of vision, the spear hung symbolically below the Chairman’s box, suspended what must have been just short of twenty feet in the air above the muddy pit floor.
Unable to help himself, Talo chuckled.
“Clever bastard.”
Kal turned to look at him. “What’s funny?” he asked.
Talo was about to answer, but was interrupted by the trumpeting of yet another horn.
“You’ll see,” he said simply, eyes back on the pit as a row of men and women in well-worn gear of all kinds marched their way into view from the raised portcullis in the west wall. They were of the same sort as the man who had followed the Priests into Azbar nearly a week ago—Galen, Talo seemed to recall. All of them, even the three or four women among their sixteen, looked tougher than their boiled leathers and colder than the steel of the swords, spears, and axes drawn and bare for the enjoyment of the crowds. A pair of heralds stepped forward to replace Tern in the alcove opening as the Chairman drew back to a heavy throne-like timber chair to watch the fights. In turn they announced the names and titles of the fighters, pausing between each to allow the mentioned man or woman to thrust weapons in the air and for the crowd to have its approval heard.
When the last of the names were called, the trumpet sounded again, and most of the group strode back out of the pit into the Arena underworks once more. When they were gone, two were left.
“First bout!” one of the heralds called loudly out over the stand. “Manoth Corm”—he indicated a bald, heavy man in dented plate, a two-handed maul clenched tightly in mailed fists beneath his thick beard—“to challenge Barsyn, Hunter of the Dehn!”
The other man, slighter and far younger than Corm, raised sword and round shield to the crowds as he turned in a circle, throwing a handsome smile to the women in the lowest seats. On the other side of the pit, Corm hadn’t so much as glanced up as the stands had cheered for him, spitting impatiently on the ground at his feet and hefting his weapon in preparation.
“The big man is done for,” Talo muttered as the men squared off.
Kal raised a brow. “Are we to bet on the matches, then?”
Talo snorted at that. “I think the Lifegiver might frown on me stealing your gold off the backs of dead men. No. Still, as I said: Corm is done for.”
“No bets then,” Kal agreed. “But I think you’re wrong. Corm has the weight and reach on the boy.”
Talo hitched a shoulder in half a shrug. “I suppose we’ll have to see,” he said as the herald vanished into the Chairman’s box.
For the first time since they’d sat down over an hour ago, silence gripped the stadium, all eyes on the Chairman. Quin Tern leaned forward in his chair, gazing down upon the men ready to kill for him below.
“Begin.”
And so it did.
Manoth Corm—as Talo suspected he might—charged forward at once, bellowing a war cry as he ran. His maul swung up and over in a two-handed slash, bearing down on Barsyn’s head, well above any defensible angle. For half a heartbeat Talo thought the boy would let himself be crushed. Then, at the last possible moment, Barsyn stepped out of the way, striking at Corm’s exposed side as the older man’s maul smashed into frozen earth, sending icy mud flying.
Sword hit heavy plate, though, and the blow was fouled.
Barsyn leapt clear even as Corm took a heavy swipe sideways at him with a mailed fist. Then the maul was out of the ground, and Corm lumbered forward once again.
For some time the fight continued like this. Corm charging in with heavy blows, trusting in his strength and weight, obviously under the impression he could bull his way into a win. Barsyn, in turn, would dodge left, right, and back, avoiding the bulk of the maul’s strikes by leaping aside or deflecting them skillfully with angled parries of his shield. Occasionally, when the opportunity presented itself, he would attempt to sneak through Corm’s defense, aiming for angles and weak points in the plate. Corm, though, was obviously experienced enough to know what the boy was attempting, avoiding steel with quick twists and shifts that left Barsyn’s sword ringing against solid iron each time.
By all accounts, despite the differences in their size, age, and style, the two were well matched. Talo had to appreciate, with some reservation, the skill of whoever was in charge of pairing the bouts.
For a few minutes more the crowd gasped and “ooh”ed as the combatants went about playing their game of cat and mouse. Ordinarily the elongation of such repetiti
ve engagements might have bored them, but the air itself was so thick with excitement and anticipation of the day that Talo wouldn’t have put it past the men and women of the crowd to have kept cheering if the fight lasted another hour.
Fortunately, though, it didn’t.
It was a sudden mistake, easily avoided if Corm had troubled to keep mind of his surroundings. As it was, the older man—as Talo had known and, he suspected, Barsyn as well—was too focused on chasing the Hunter of the Dehn around the ring to be bothered with watching his footing, intent on crushing the boy with superior size and strength. It was sadly predictable, as it was the mindset of most larger fighters. Trusting in their mass worked for them in general but, when it failed them, it was their end.
That, Talo supposed, and the slick patch of ice that found its way under Corm’s left foot.
The big man went down, crashing onto his left side, momentarily pinned under the weight of his armor. In a blink Barsyn was on him, sword flashing once in the sun, going for the one place where there was no armor.
The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1 Page 51