Something to keep in mind, Raz thought as he turned his eyes on the woman.
Sona, she’d called herself simply. Unlike the others, the woman was there partially by luck, having won her final bout by default when her would-be opponent succumbed to wounds he’d received vying for his shot. Despite this, Sona was also the one Raz thought most likely to take him by surprise. A heavy cloth cloak hung over and around her shoulders, and he’d seen nothing of her body except for pale Northern legs over furred boots slip through the slit in her cape as she walked. Her bouts had been surprisingly quiet, and faster even than Ryvers’ or Barth’s. Judging by the response of the crowd, though, whatever she’d done had been entertainment enough to forgive her the speed of her kills.
“Combatants! Up the ramp! The gate opens in one minute!”
Alyssa Rhen had appeared again, showing up for the first time since Raz had seen her that morning. She looked weary, the age in her face more pronounced than ever.
“Something the matter?” Raz asked as she passed through his ring of guards again.
“You try explaining to a score of men and women, all armed, why the crowd—usually so fond of them—barely gave them so much as a whistle as they fought,” she said angrily, coming to stop before him and crossing her arms.
Raz shrugged. “Your spectators have a taste for blood. They’ve been teased all day. Did you expect it to go any better?”
Alyssa shrugged, raising one hand to press on her eyes. “No, of course not, but they didn’t. Nor did they want to hear that. You robbed three hundred gladiators of a majority of their livelihood when you showed up. They’re keen on any reason to blame you, these days.”
“My, I’m so shocked,” Raz said dryly as the herald called out again. “However will I live with myself now?”
Alyssa smirked, looking over her shoulder to watch the portcullis lift.
“Spectators!”
It was no longer the herald, but Tern now, who addressed the Arena once more.
“Friends! You have witnessed today some of the finest blades in the world! You have picked your winners and placed your bets! Cheered for your survivors and mourned your lost! Now, though, the true entertainment begins. In a moment’s time you will meet again the brave warriors come to slay the great Scourge of the South, the four who fought hardest, survived longest, just to win and keep your affections!”
The crowd roared in unison, screaming their approval.
“They had best prepare, though,” Tern continued in a theatrically hushed tone that still managed to carry through the stadium. “They had best be ready, for what comes out of the gate after them is more than man, more even than beast. Raz i’Syul Arro has claimed more lives than any ten you saw today combined. He has fought—and won—many battles in this very Arena. He has no blades, armed only with steel claws and teeth stained by the blood of the murdered. He comes with no intention of dying, and every intention of feeding your hunger.”
The crowd was quiet now, hanging on to the Chairman’s every word.
“So!” Tern’s voice picked up again, climbing back into an excited pitch. “Who will you choose? Will you cheer for the brave four, come to slay the Monster and claim their reward? Or will you stand behind your champion, a being more savage than anything to have ever walked this earth? Whatever you decide, it is time to PLACE. YOUR. BETS!”
Over the boom of the stands, the herald began calling the names of the four finalists. Raz didn’t make out the first two, but watched as val’En and Ryvers disappeared through the gate. Sona was next, and he heard the distinct cheers for her name as she stepped out into the gray sunlight. Barth went last, and finally Raz was alone, with only Alyssa and the guard standing between him and his turn in the pit.
“I guess I don’t need to tell you to watch your ass?” the Doctore said half sarcastically, half warningly.
“If you did, I doubt we would ever have gotten this far,” Raz laughed, stepping forward.
With only a moment’s hesitation the guard parted, and he started to climb the gangway. The cold of the outside air clawed at him almost immediately as he got close to the gate, chilling the steel of his armor and tips of his fingers and ears. He kept moving, though, eyes on the dim glow that was the Sun in a cloud-darkened sky above.
Perhaps it was good the Twins couldn’t see what would happen here today.
“Now,” the herald shouted, cutting over the crowd, “it is time to meet the challenger. Men and women of Azbar, stand in welcome of your champion! Enter, RAZ I’SYUL ARRO!”
XIX
RAZ BLINKED away the momentary blindness of stepping back into the day. When he could see normally, he had to actively deny himself the temptation to stare openmouthed into the stands.
Never in his life, not even in the thriving mass markets of Miropa, had Raz ever seen so many people.
His fights before today had drawn the crowd, even selling out the Arena, according to Rhen. Now, though, the masses flowed like ants, an ocean of colored furs and cloth that undulated unnaturally, as though blown by a hundred different winds in all directions. They numbered so many that Raz could literally feel the heat of their bodies in the moderate coolness of the air that—by all rights—should have been frigid.
So this is what thirteen thousand looks like, he thought to himself, standing in the pit at the mouth of the portcullis that had already begun to lower behind him. Who knew there were this many people in the world?
As he looked around, a form directly across from him caught his eye. The Chairman sat in a great throne-like chair, scooted very near the edge of his box. His eyes, clear cold blue even from this distance, were watching Raz expectantly, though he demonstrated no such inclination by any other indication. Beside and behind him, an ever-present shadow almost invisible in the shade of the alcove, Azzeki Koro stood watch. The whites of his dark eyes were on Raz as well, though Raz imagined there was more hope for failure in them than the Captain-Commander would ever let his master see.
And there, below them both, suspended by ropes against the stone wall some seventeen or eighteen feet above the pit, was Ahna.
Raz couldn’t help it. He smiled.
Clever fucking bastard.
“Ready to die, lizard?”
Raz looked away from the dviassegai. Though no one had called a start to the fight, the four finalists were already spread out to encircle him. They held their ground for the time being, but Raz could see the itch in their forms, a longing to bear steel down on him. His back was barely a foot from wooden crossbeams, and he had nowhere to run.
Still, he kept smiling, turning his attention to val’En who had, naturally, posed the question.
“One day, Southerner,” he answered, setting his body into a defensive stance as Tern heaved himself to his feet above the pit. “Tomorrow even, possibly. But not today. I hope you remember my promise.”
val’En looked none too pleased with this response, his already pinched face twisting into an even uglier snarl. He was the middle left of the half circle. Ryvers and Barth flanked Raz on either side with their shields readied before them, and Sona held middle right. She appeared the distinct weak link of the lot, her smaller form still covered by the wide mantle. Raz watched her size him up, eyeing him from behind a crop of dirty-brown bangs. Her gaze rested momentarily on every part of him. Legs, shoulders, chest, head. She had the look of someone prepping themself for a split-second decision.
Abruptly, Raz thought he knew what was beneath that billowing fur cape of hers, and decisions snapped into place one after the other. He didn’t take his eyes off her even as Tern stepped forward, out of the shade of his box, into the dim light.
“COMBATANTS!” he boomed, raising a hand in the air, where it paused, holding the stillness of the day.
Then, like the blade of a guillotine, it dropped.
“BEGIN!”
All four converged on Raz at once, clearly hoping to rush in and finish the job quick, but he was already moving. The moment Ter
n had spoken he’d taken off, making a line right for Sona, the “weak link” of the group.
The weak link who knew all too well that was what she looked like, just as Raz knew every other fighter she’d faced today had thought. His theory was confirmed when the barest hint of a smile crossed her hard face, and she brought both hands up from beneath her cloak.
Had Raz not had his suspicions, the heavy crossbow she had tucked against her right hip would have been the end of him.
As it was, though, the massive bolt, rather than taking him squarely through the chest, whizzed harmlessly over his back as he rolled under it. He thought he heard the woman start to curse, but she hadn’t managed to finish the word when his steel gauntlet hammered into her gut, bearing with it all the weight of his body as the momentum of his roll carried him forward, out of the controlled little pocket the four of them had set up.
Sona herself flew backwards, tumbling and sliding over the slick ground, coming to a rest huddled and wretching a few paces from the wall beneath the Chairman’s box, the crossbow still clenched in one hand.
Right where he wanted her.
val’En and Ryvers yelled as Raz ran, calling him coward and other names when he bolted away. Only Barth, the mace wielder, realized what he was doing.
“No!” he howled. “Don’t let him get to—!”
But it was far too late. Raz doubted even Sona—struggling to her feet again as he whipped past her—would have had a prayer of getting a bolt in him as he leapt. Eighteen feet straight up would have been impossible even for him. The first jump, though, got him ten feet in the air, where his clawed feet found good purchase on the incline of the rough wall meant to allow the spectators to see from every angle.
The second got him the other eight.
One hand found Ahna’s haft, and even through the battlefog Raz made out the roar of the stands at that. Letting her bear his weight for a moment, Raz tucked his legs beneath him on the stone. Then, in one motion, he slashed her weighted tip clear with his free hand, twisted her blades out of the noose of rope at their base as he started to fall, and pushed off the wall with all his strength.
Below him, Sona had only just gotten back to her feet, still heaving, one hand clutching her abdomen. She barely had time to look up and try to make out what the other three finalists were screaming when Ahna took her through the shoulder, falling with all the weight of heavy steel and an eighteen-foot drop.
Almost at once, Sona hit the ground again.
This time in two parts.
“Oh, Lifegiver’s fat arse!” Kal bellowed, bounding to his feet with the rest of the crowd as Raz i’Syul leapt clear of the wall, bearing his great spear down in a massive overhead arc as he fell. “No! Dear god, don’t do—”
His plea cut itself short, though, as the woman, Sona, fell to the pit floor, head, left shoulder, and left arm to one side, and the rest of her to the other.
“God,” Kal mumbled, falling heavily back into his seat. “Laor save us all. That beast—”
“Is not for us to judge,” Talo finished for him. His eyes never left the pit, watching the atherian get to his feet over the body of his first victory. “There’s little of Laor’s light in that one, I grant you, but I think we would have been deluding ourselves if we expected otherwise. Consider why he is doing this before you condemn him for doing it. For a man like that, there is little but the belief that there is no other way.”
As some of us know better than others, he finished the thought privately.
Beside him, Kal was quivering, seemingly unable to look away from the pit. Leaving him to his shock, Talo gave his full attention back to the fight.
Raz i’Syul hadn’t done more than stand up since he’d landed, letting the three tourney victors left make their advance. They knew better than to separate, now. With his spear in hand, the atherian would pick them off one by one without so much as blinking if they spread too far apart.
Despite this, Talo got the distinct impression they were only delaying the inevitable.
He had never, in all his years, seen anything like Raz i’Syul Arro, in the Arena or out. He was not, though it was hard to believe, the largest he’d ever come across—the Lifetaker had faced off against a mountain man once who’d been more giant than human—but he was by far the fastest. From the moment Tern had said the word, the atherian had been little more than a flash of dark scales, red wings, and silver steel. Though stories would embellish it to great lengths by nightfall, Sona and her crossbow had fallen within fifteen seconds of the start of the match.
The crowd gasped. The shield brothers, Wellen Ryvers and Tymoth Barse, were demonstrating their superior experience fighting together. Leaving the last finalist, Lelan val’En, to his own fate, they’d collapsed on each other and rushed i’Syul, shields side by side, weapons held high in preparation of a quick strike. They’d assumed the atherian would fall back at the onslaught, as any other warrior would, leaving them the momentary opening of the retreat to attack.
What they had not expected was for i’Syul to stand his ground, using his two-headed spear’s superior reach to swing wide and around, attempting to catch Ryvers from the side. The man’s quick shift, rolling his shield left, was all that saved him from being cleaved mostly in half.
Then again, it did nothing to defend him from the atherian’s armored fist, once again bearing every ounce of i’Syul’s mass behind it as he bolted forward, too quick for Barth to catch him with his mace. Sharpened plate steel collided with temple, and what looked like most of the inside of Ryvers’ head sprayed a dozen yards across the pit.
Barth, to his credit, tried to correct as best he could. One clawed foot caught him a massive kick in the side before he could bring his shield around, though, and the man went flying. He hit the ground hard, shield and mace skidding away until they thunked against the wall of the pit.
Before he could so much as move to stand up, the great shadow of Raz i’Syul Arro crossed over him, a dark form leaping some eight feet in the air, bearing Ahna’s twin points down with driving force.
The blades took Barth through the chest, cutting through flesh, bone, and earth alike.
The crowd was in an uproar. Had he not been so focused on the fight, Talo might have thought to cover his ears to save them from ringing later. Instead he watched the atherian stand, leaving Ahna where she was, pinning the dying Tymoth Barth to the pit floor.
“He left the spear?” Kal demanded, confused. “Why would he leave it? There’s still one standing!”
To Talo, though, it made perfect sense.
“To set an example,” he explained. “To prove beyond a doubt that he is not one to be trifled with. I would have done the same thing, in his place, had I been capable of it.”
“Do what?” Kal shouted, eyes wide as the atherian turned to face Lelan val’En, the last of the finalists left alive. “What’s he going to do?”
“I would say watch, but it might be best if you covered your eyes for this part, Kal. And don’t mention a word of it to Carro tonight.”
Kal look half horrified, half fascinated, but he did not look away. Instead he watched Raz bear down on val’En with a terrifying calmness, the sort of deadly grace one might find in the fine edge of a new sword, wings half spread to either side, tail snaking along behind him.
Talo even thought the atherian seemed to be smiling, though it was hard to tell on those reptilian features.
val’En, on the other hand, had lost all nerve. Blades held before him, both sword and dagger shaking violently, he was retreating with every step Raz took in his direction. When his back hit the wall, such terror framed the man’s Southern features that Talo could make it out even from his place in the stands.
Raz, though, stopped moving within easy reach of val’En’s blades. He stood, unflinching, even as the crowd screamed for blood. val’En, seeing what he thought was his one opportunity to live, took full advantage of the opening.
Just as you’re meant to, fool, Talo
thought with a frown.
Sure enough, his first strike hit nothing but empty air. His second and third did no better, missing the atherian by inches each time as i’Syul dodged and weaved out of the way. For about thirty seconds val’En was allowed to fight for his life and, in doing so, demonstrate to a crowd of thirteen thousand that it would take more than skill and steel to bring down Raz i’Syul Arro, the Scourge of the South.
Then the thirty seconds were up, and val’En’s fight ended brutally.
As the man’s sword came around for a wide sweep, Raz caught the wielding wrist in one hand, and broke it. As val’En screamed, Raz stripped him of the sword, twisted, and ran the man through the belly with it.
The blade ripped through him, hit the stone behind him, and snapped with the sort of ringing crack only shattered metal can make.
val’En staggered against the wall where he stood for a few moments, utterly shocked as he gaped at the hilt and three inches of steel protruding from his gut. Then he began to wail, dagger dropping from his left hand as he fell to his knees, hands scrabbling at the blood pouring from his wound.
Raz stood over him for a time, watching. Then, bending down, he picked up the abandoned dagger from the ground.
“Look away, Kal,” Talo warned.
Kal at last tore his wide eyes from the scene to look at him.
“Why should—?” he started to ask, but Talo cut him off.
“Look away, Kal.”
Kal hesitated a moment more. Then, though it seemed hard for him to do, he tilted his head up to look beyond the pit, beyond the crowd, and into the gray sky above.
Below the heavens, Raz was toying with the knife. val’En still knelt before him, screaming his life away in fear and pain.
End it quick, Talo prayed. Let him end it quickly.
He prayed, knowing full well it was in vain.
Slowly, almost caringly, i’Syul’s hand reached out. For a moment he gripped the dying man’s shoulder, steadying him. It seemed that i’Syul said something to val’En, there in the break.
The Warring Son (The Wings of War Book 2) Page 18