For a moment, Talo did nothing. He watched Kal, silently mulling over his answer, reflecting on the words he could not seem to say. Turning away, his eyes found the pit Kal had just been indicating.
The pit where he had spent so much of his life…
In truth, Talo wasn’t sure he could explain himself to the High Priest. He wasn’t even sure he had explained himself well to Carro that morning when the man had asked him—somewhat green at the thought of the fights—the same question Kal was inquiring on now. He’d tried, of course. He’d done his best to put words to the convoluted feelings and emotions that had been crashing over him since he’d first received Kal’s letter, vestiges of which he’d been feeling for decades before that. In the end, Talo wasn’t sure he had aptly explained the simple fact that, when all was said and done, he needed to witness with his own two eyes the newfound freedom of the dreadful beast he’d fought so hard to cage in the first place.
A beast which, before he’d been able to see the world through the eyes of the Lifegiver, had bought him his own freedom and given him reason to live.
“It wasn’t easy,” Talo said finally. “It wasn’t easy, locking away this Arena, banning it, then all its counterparts, from the North.”
Kal—who seemed to have thought he wasn’t going to get a response—sat up straight.
“I know,” he said with a nod, leaning to rest his elbows on knees, hands hanging between his legs. “I was there for much of that fight, remember? For the first decade of it we—”
“No,” Talo cut him off. “I mean it wasn’t an easy choice to make. To keep making. Every day I fought to close this stadium, every decision we made in order to do so. I was fighting with myself as much as we were fighting anyone else.”
Kal said nothing.
“This place,” Talo continued, looking up into the stands opposite them, gazing into the crowd, “it’s taken so much from so many. It’s claimed lives, limbs, loved ones. It’s stolen hope and happiness.”
“But not yours.”
It was a simple statement, but it took Talo completely by surprise. He turned once more to look at Kal, eyes wide. Even Carro hadn’t been able to understand…
“Exactly,” Talo said, not looking away from the man. “No. Not mine. Never mine.”
Kal nodded.
“It gave you much, this Arena,” he said. “I understand. What you feel is base gratitude. Every man falls prey to it, even—no, especially—the best of us. We of the faith are grateful, for example. We are grateful for life. We are grateful to Laor for His gift.”
“A gratitude we share now, yes, but not then. Then you prayed to your god for life, and I prayed to mine for death.”
Kal nodded again.
“Fair enough, but you were still grateful. Grateful for something. Reason, purpose, meaning. Whatever name you choose to give it, it doesn’t matter. You carried that with you in the ring, and you carried it beyond when you came into the faith.”
“I do still.”
At this, Kal paused.
“Ah,” he breathed. “I see now…”
Talo frowned.
“You do?” he asked, unbelieving.
Kal shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly, then lounged back again, looking up into the sky almost lazily.
“I do.” Without looking away from the pale rolling of the graying sky, he continued. “Doubt. Hesitation. Regret. All by-products of decision, of action. All men doubt. All men hesitate. I’m not so sure all men regret, but perhaps they should. Tell me, do you regret the end of the Arena?”
“No.”
That answer was easy. Once Talo had made the decision, it had been final even in his own mind.
“But you doubt? You hesitate?”
“Did,” Talo said. He, too, turned to look up at the overcast sky. The great walls of the Arena shielded the stands themselves from much of the wind, but even so a faint breeze kicked about them, teasing loose strands of long straight hair around his bearded face. “I did doubt. I did hesitate. Then the time for both was done and the choice was made.”
Talo sighed, watching the minute outline of a pair of crows cross the stadium far overhead, their distant calls lost to the noise of the crowd.
“It wasn’t an easy choice, like I said. That pit took everything from many, but gave as much to some. To turn my back on it, to betray the stones that had given me life and purpose… It wasn’t easy, but it had to be done. Now though, that choice, that impossible decision that I had to make and did make… it’s all coming undone.”
“There is no shame in gratitude, Talo,” Kal said wisely.
“Perhaps not, but it isn’t shame I feel now. Once, maybe, but I’ve long since come to terms with it. Now… Now I feel fear. Now despite all you have told me, despite everything Carro and I saw as we explored the city… Now I feel disbelief.”
Kal nodded.
“Your life’s work,” he said thoughtfully. “A time full of hard decisions and even harder fights. I can understand. A man, told of the death of his son, does not believe until he holds the body in his hands.”
It was Talo’s turn to nod.
“Exactly.”
“And you have to see it for yourself.”
Now, Talo took his eyes from the sky, away from old thoughts and memories. Once more he looked down into the pit, that circular scar of blood and mud. Once more he smelled the tang of iron and death in the caress of the wind.
“And I have to see it for myself.”
XVII
“Before they enter the ring, every gladiator is different. Some are calm, composed, though often falsely so. Others make no attempt to hide their fear, shivering and whimpering in the dust before the gates that they suspect wholeheartedly will open upon their demise. Some pray. Some check steel one last time. Some practice footwork, or mutter encouragements to themselves. The only thing they all have in common, every man and woman among them, is that they do something. Even in exhibition matches, where little blood is ever spilt, we are unable—or perhaps simply unwilling?—to bear complete mind to the battle at hand.”
—PRIVATE JOURNAL OF ALYSSA RHEN
RAZ LEANED against the dirt-and-timber wall of the Arena underworks, wings stretched slightly to either side of him to keep them from getting uncomfortably pinned. His head was bowed, eyes closed, with one clawed foot on the ground and the other bent up to rest on the wall itself. He had his arms crossed with Ahna tucked in the nook of one elbow, the higher part of her haft resting against his shoulder. Her blades were bare, their leather sack left in the Doctore’s quarters along with his furs and cloak to be retrieved after the fights were done, though some would bet he wouldn’t be alive to do so.
Privately, without looking up, Raz smiled.
“Something funny?”
Raz opened his eyes at the question. A contingent of ten guardsmen, hands on weapon hilts, stood around him in a half circle, effectively cutting him off from the rest of the fighters in the chamber. All around them, much like any other day beneath the Arena’s stands, men and women were milling about tending to armor, oiling their weapons, or sparring in preparation. These figures, though, were of a different sort than the gladiators Alyssa Rhen had under her care. Rather than being whet under careful guidance and training, they were hardened by life and honed by hardship. These were rough people, many among them undoubtedly as cruel as they were dangerous.
And each and every one of them was in turn giving Raz looks that left nothing to the imagination as to what they intended for him and the ten thousand crown price on his head.
Raz turned to look at the guard who had spoken, the furthest to the left, and the youngest of the lot. He was a freckly youth, well built and handsome, with curly blond hair that fell in ringlets from beneath his plain soldier’s helm. He had green-brown eyes that might have been attractive any other time, but right now were ugly with disdain as he looked over his shoulder at Raz.
Raz said nothing. Instead he looked directly at the man and smi
led wider, revealing every one of his white, needlelike teeth.
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?”
The Warring Son (The Wings of War Book 2) Page 16