Rhen looked surprised at that.
“Well that would explain a lot. When he was fighting, Talo had women of all kinds throwing themselves at him on a weekly basis. I always thought he turned them down because had some secret wife tucked away somewhere, hidden where no one could use her against him in the pit.”
“Oh, is that how you know him, then?” Raz couldn’t help himself smiling despite the predicament. “Were you one of his scorned women? Did he let you down easy?”
“I know Talo Brahnt because the Lifetaker is the one who gave me this scar.”
Raz felt as though the whole room had gone silent. For a moment even the crackle of the flames and the rumbling of the men and women on the other side of the door were quieted. He took in Alyssa Rhen’s face pointedly, marking the details of the ugly lines that marred her otherwise attractive features, pulling down the edge of her right eye and twisting up the corner of her mouth.
“That was the fight that ended it for Talo,” the Doctore continued, not waiting for Raz to pose a question. “For both of us, actually. We’d never been close, always in our own circles, but the crowd had demanded the match, and so we gave it to them. I’m told Talo was reluctant to agree, but I leapt on the chance, thinking it the perfect opportunity to prove myself once and for all. To my credit, I gave it everything I had, and I wasn’t the only one left bleeding. Still, I knew the instant we started our engagements that I was going to lose. Talo was just too strong, too fast. The only reason I lasted as long as I did was because he was hesitant. I thought it was because he saw me as nothing more than a woman, and it infuriated me, making me fight even harder. Looking back, though, I see his hesitation was more due to the Lifetaker’s unraveling than anything else. Talo must have had his doubts for some time, to leave like he did. I was just the push that sent him over the edge.”
There was another moment of silence. Raz was processing all of this in a rush, coming to terms with every puzzle piece that was falling into place.
“He has more history with this place than he ever let on…” he said quietly. “He should have told me…”
“If he didn’t, it’s because he was protecting you,” Rhen said. “The Lifetaker died that day, and the man Talo Brahnt was always meant to be was finally allowed his birth. The next time I saw him was years later, and the Priest’s robes fit him well. Over the course of a decade he spearheaded the shutting down of Azbar’s Arena, and every other Arena in the North shortly after. In the same way people used to be drawn to his presence in the pit, so were they drawn to him as he preached. No one else could have done what he did.”
“He should have just burned the place to the ground and been done with it,” Raz growled.
“Azbar would have only rebuilt.”
Raz nodded in resigned agreement. “Talo Brahnt,” he said slowly, speaking to no one in particular. “What kind of trouble have you dragged me into?”
XXXIII
“All are capable of evil. It often seems, in fact, that it is in the very nature of man to be evil. Greed, envy, lust… We blame all wars, inevitably, on some outside causation, some external factor. Religion, resources, revenge. The truth, however, is more base: war comes from within. War comes from man himself. Man, and his infinite capability to do evil.”
—XAVIUN FUERD, HIGH PRIEST OF CYURGI’ DI, C. 550 V.S.
“I THINK we’ve found ourselves a new favorite,” Azzeki had to shout over the cheering crowd.
Quin nodded in agreement, but didn’t say anything. He was too enthralled in the mayhem that was ensuing below them, too enraptured in his own creation.
The melees weren’t his idea, in truth, but the suggestion was an old one, and he couldn’t remember who had come up with it initially, weeks ago when the Monster had first shown up on their doorstep. It had been toyed with, then discarded, because it seemed a total waste of resources. In a duel or skirmish, the Arena only ever lost a few fighters at a time. In an all-out melee, though, the toll was much greater. While not all the defeated ended up dead, some ended up close, and the remainder were often too maimed to be of any use to the pit. Quin had decided, placing profit above desire, that such battles weren’t worth the cost.
Today, though, he’d resurrected the thought, and was seriously reconsidering his prior decision.
Quin intended this day to be a one to shame all days within the Arena’s walls. He didn’t just want the men and women of the crowd to remember their experience, this time. He wanted them to feel it, wanted them to carry word of it home, beyond the borders of Azbar’s woods, and all throughout the North.
Today was the day Quin Tern, Chairman of the council of the great city of Azbar, brought the terror of the Monster to heel.
And to start: the melees.
On opening day of the tourney, the Arena lists held over five hundred names. Raz i’Syul had frightened off a huge portion of that number with the actions of his first fight—as he had intended, Quin had no doubt. The lizard had probably expected the names would continue to dwindle until no one was left to face him, but Quin had seen to it that that plot failed miserably. By promising a building pot as time continued and the Monster remained undefeated, he had created an irresistible pull to the Arena. Today, with the coming of the freeze’s first true storm, was the first day less than a score of new volunteers had slunk through the city gates to add their names to the lists.
It made for a large pot to draw from, and suddenly the council’s fears of having no one left to fight had seemed much less significant.
The melees consisted of eight names each, drawn at random. The Doctore had not been asked to consult, nor had any special consideration been given to who faced who, and the results were spectacular. Of the four battles they’d already seen that morning, only one had been at all balanced, and it had been by far the most uneventful of the lot. The others, like that which they were witnessing now, were tilted so unfairly in one direction or the other that each brawl was almost as fun as watching Raz i’Syul fight.
“Zeko won’t last much longer if he keeps this up,” Azzeki said disapprovingly, still watching the pit.
“He’ll last long enough to end it,” Quin disagreed.
Ajana Zeko, the Percian they spoke of, was a massive specimen, nearly as broad as the mountain men who’d descended out of their cliffs to throw their names in for the pot, and half a head taller. He wore little more than furs around his waist and over his shoulders, along with a steel round helm crowned with a long, thin spike over a chain-mail neck guard. In his thick arms he wielded a massive two-handed warhammer, which he was flailing about to devastating effect. Two of the other seven were already still at his feet, one with her head caved in and the other with his hands resting where he’d clawed at crushed ribs that must have ripped through lung and heart alike. The other five were in chaos, half-concerned with steering clear of the dark-skinned behemoth while also attempting to smartly engage each other during the tumult.
It was utter chaos, and Quin couldn’t take his eyes off it.
Nor, it seemed, could the crowd. Their combined voices ebbed and spiked as the battle ensued, reaching heights they usually only achieved on a four-day when the Monster himself was in the pit. As Zeko barreled around the ring, swinging his hammer with the same efficiency he might have had a battering ram, the stadium fawned over him, cheering him on in a bloodthirsty chorus. When one of his blows took a helmeted head so completely clean off its shoulders and sent it inadvertently flying into the crowd, the only piercing wails to be heard were the jealous cries of those not flecked in the dead man’s blood.
Quin smiled. He had wanted to give the spectators an experience, today. He’d wanted to give them something almost tangible in its appeal, something sublime in its violence.
And he knew he was well on his way to succeeding.
“My Lord.”
It took a moment for Quin to register the greeting, and another to realize that the voice didn’t belong to Azzeki. Finally pulling his gaze awa
y from the maelstrom of muscle and heavy steel that was Zeko below him, Quin looked around to find Kerret Terovel—one of Azzeki’s most trusted soldiers, and the eldest son of a councilman—hovering behind his right shoulder. The man was out of uniform today, clothed in plain, uncolored layers that would have made it impossible to distinguish him in a crowd.
Which was the point, because the package he held in his hands was the most important part of Quin’s plans for the day.
Quin felt his face fall at the sight of it, though.
“Already?” he asked, disappointed. “I’d hoped it would have taken the morning, at least.”
Kerret shook his head, holding the package out for Azzeki as the Captain-Commander stepped forward to take it.
“Barely lasted two hours, My Lord,” he said with a shrug. “Wasn’t much to him in the end.”
“I suppose so,” Quin muttered in annoyance, following the parcel as Azzeki brought it forward. It was a box, he knew, but the pine lining of the thing itself was all hidden by a heavy burgundy cloth that had been wrapped around it for safekeeping. As Azzeki set it down on the wide arm of his chair, Quin itched to reach out and peel away the layers to see the wood itself, maybe even crack it open and peek at what lay inside.
He refrained, though, knowing the moment would be worth the wait.
There was upheaval of noise from the crowd, and Quin looked around in time to see Ajana Zeko pin his last competitor, a narrow spearwoman with the tanned skin of the Imperium, to the slanted wall of the pit with both hands. His hammer had been discarded—though whether this was out of necessity or in desire to provide the greatest show possible, Quin didn’t know—but Zeko had hardly need of it. At first Quin thought the Percian would snap the woman’s neck and be done with it, but to his great delight the man did no such thing. Instead he merely held her there, squeezing slowly, choking the life out of her one second at a time. The stands were suddenly quiet, the spectators falling silent as they watched, so that the rasping wheezes of the dying woman were just discernible, echoing off the walls of the stadium. For almost a full minute she kicked, her fingers scrabbling at Zeko’s wrists, trying in vain to pull the man’s hands free of her throat. It wasn’t long before her face went pale, then blue, then purple, and shortly after her fighting began to lessen. First her motions became sluggish and lazy, her kicks grew slow and her grasps at the Percian’s arms broad and pointless. Then her larger motions stopped altogether, and only the jump of her legs and the twitch of slack arms remained.
Finally, she stilled altogether, and Zeko let the woman’s corpse slide to the snowy pit floor with a dull thump.
Quin should have known to expect the explosion of cheering by now. He had borne witness to a dozen of the Monster’s fights, after all. Still, the roar took him by surprise, pitching with the keening shriek of excitement usually reserved only for the atherian.
A new crowd favorite indeed, Quin thought with a smile, watching Ajana Zeko turn slowly in place, both fists held in the air in triumph, basking in the glory of the crowd’s approval. Then Quin’s eyes shifted to the box at his arm, hidden beneath the red cloth that hung over it like the veil of a grieving woman, and he smiled.
He smiled , because he had so, so much more to share before the day was done.
XXXIV
“Of all the evils I have witnessed in my life, there are a few that cling to my dreams like angry spirits, insisting on haunting my very thoughts. That day, as the crowd rose above me and the chill of snow and wind bit into my flesh and bone, is perhaps the greatest of those nightmares.”
—THE MONSTER OF KARTH
RAZ AND the Doctore had been sitting in silence for some time when the clunk of the handle and the grind of hinges told them someone was opening the door. They’d been in Rhen’s offices for hours by then, and had long since exhausted all theories they had about what might be going on out in the world and the Arena above. The only visitors they’d been allowed were an attendant who’d brought them each meals at midday, and another later to replenish the wood supply so they could keep the fire fed and the chambers warm.
Raz had been rapidly approaching his last nerve by the time the door opened this third time. He had told himself he would give the Chairman his mystery, grant him some patience. It wasn’t as though he had any other choice with two dozen guards outside the room and another several hundred swords looking for any excuse to claim his head just beyond them. Still, Raz had to do something, and pretending he was giving Quin Tern some leeway was a heck of a lot easier than admitting there was virtually nothing they could do.
“Master Arro, I’ve been instructed to tell you to prepare yourself.”
Raz looked around. Officer Erute was in the arch of the door, peering in at them. Raz had a retort on the tip of his tongue prepared, but decided to stow it.
There is a time for bravado, he told himself instead, standing up to face the man. This is not it.
“Can I at least prep outside?” he asked, reaching up to tap knuckles against the ceiling’s wooden crossbeams for emphasis. “I could use the space.”
The officer paused, then nodded. Raz heard Rhen stand up behind him as he pulled Ahna from her place on the wall, joining him as he made for the door.
“Have you heard anything more?” she asked Erute quietly as they passed. “Anything else you can tell us?”
The officer said nothing. Instead he instructed his men to stay put, then indicated a space between them and led the way.
The underworks were almost empty compared to what they had looked like that morning. A few stragglers—maybe a dozen in all—were still huddled about the walls, most groaning and nursing wounds, trying to get the strength together to get back on their feet. One or two of them, Raz realized as they passed still forms huddled in corners, would never stand again.
They weren’t taken to the physicians? he wondered in amazement. Why? Were they not deemed worth saving? Or maybe there have just been too many injured for the surgeons to keep pace with?
“What’s the Chairman been up to?” he asked once they were out of earshot of the other guards. “Where did everyone go?”
“Most were sent away this morning shortly after your arrival,” Erute said, coming to a halt in the wide space at the bottom of the gangway. “Heralds arrived to draw names, and those not chosen were told to go home.”
“Draw?” the Doctore asked him, obviously surprised. “How many? For what?”
The man shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to tell you,” he said sternly before waving at the dirt floor around them. “I’ll leave you to your preparations. My men and I are at your disposal should you need anything more.”
With a final nod, he turned on his heel and walked away.
At once Raz began to loosen up, rolling his shoulders and flexing his arms as he stretched his wings out to their full extent. He hadn’t put them to much use of late, given how much more vulnerable their thin membranes were to the frigid cold than the rest of him, but it never hurt to be prepared.
The Doctore, in the meantime, stared at him.
“What are you doing?” she demanded of him as he squatted and bounced, stretching out his hips and knees.
Raz looked at her blankly. “Getting ready?” he stated, unsure of what other answer she might expect. “I don’t know what’s waiting for me up there. Could be a hundred armed men. Maybe they’ll just set the stands loose on me and give the purse to whoever is left with the biggest chunk of Monster at the end.”
“You’re going to fight?” the woman hissed, stepping in front of him. Even kneeling so that he sat nearly on his heels, they were practically eye to eye. “Without knowing what you’re up against? Without a plan?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he told her with a shrug, standing up. “The real world doesn’t run on a schedule, Rhen. Your battles aren’t picked from a list. If I survived the Mahsadën and all their horrors, I can survive whatever Tern is going to throw at me.”
“But thi
s wasn’t part of the deal, Arro! This wasn’t part of the contract you—!”
“No, it wasn’t,” Raz cut the woman off, reaching back to loosen his gladius in its scabbard. “And if Tern feels he’d like to renegotiate our terms without informing me first, I’ll let him know in spectacular fashion how poor a decision that is. For the time being, though, you and I are stuck. So—if you don’t mind—you should get out of the way. It would be poor form for the Arena Doctore to get herself killed during my warm-up exercises.”
Rhen frowned, but stepped back, and the next ten minutes were spent with Raz moving the dviassegai about him in smooth, gentle circles, prepping his body for whatever was to come. His concentration was hard to come by, his focus broken by the sound of battle rolling down the ramp from the pit above them. Still, he did his best to block it all out, and by the time the sounds quieted he was feeling good, the tension of sitting all day having been worked from his body.
Above them the portcullis started to rise, and abruptly attendants were all about them, come dutifully running from whatever chores they’d been about. Over a dozen in all, a few stole glances at Raz as they passed, but most ignored him, which he didn’t mind. He’d been around the Arena too long now for any of the place’s workers to be truly mystified by him anymore. In a ragged line they filed up the ramp, ducking into the light of the afternoon outside as a herald’s voice began to call out over the crowd.
“Winner of your eighth and final melee!” the voice roared above the noises of the stadium. “All stand and hail the mighty Helena, Shield Bearer of the Seven Cities!”
The cheers pitched in response. There was a thump, and the first body came rolling down the gangway.
“Not one among you can deny the spectacle you have observed today, citizens of Azbar! You have borne witness to eight trials, and seen eight titans emerge victorious from them.”
The Warring Son (The Wings of War Book 2) Page 30