Nathaniel Grey and the Obsidian Crown

by Farrell Keeling

  ‘Would you be able to?’ Nathaniel asked.

  ‘Probably not,’ Solas shrugged in reply. ‘Though Pegs’ wine seemed to help last time. Speaking of which – how is he doing? I heard you went through the mines.’

  ‘Same old jovial Pegs,’ Nathaniel said.

  ‘Hm.’

  Solas’s face became pensive as he moved towards one of the bookcases. ‘You’re probably wondering why I’m here,’ he said, running a finger absent-mindedly over the ridges of book spines.

  ‘That has crossed my mind,’ Nathaniel admitted, joining his brother at the bookcase. ‘I assume you’re not here to admire Elder Calaem’s collection?’

  ‘Not quite. I’ve come with a proposition.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  Solas glanced casually back at the white guardsmen then leant in ever so slightly towards his brother. Speaking quietly, he said, ‘I want to free you.’

  Nathaniel was careful to hide his laugh. ‘You seemed happy to let me rot in the cells, Solas,’ Nathaniel snorted. ‘Why the sudden change of heart?’

  Solas chewed his lower lip. ‘I was angry,’ he said after a moment. ‘I don’t want to see you die, Nathaniel, even after all you’ve done.’

  ‘After all I’ve done?’ Nathaniel scoffed. ‘You still think I killed the Emperor, don’t you?’

  Solas wrung his hands together pleadingly, as he drew his voice to an even barer whisper. ‘I can get you out of here, Nathaniel, I… don’t really know how yet but I swear I’ll do it.’

  ‘And what about Samir, Gabe, Kaira, and Brey? Can you get them out too?’ Nathaniel asked.

  Solas blinked. ‘The Lycans? Who cares?’

  ‘Then I guess I’m staying, thanks,’ Nathaniel replied coolly, throwing himself back into the chair to underpin the point.

  Solas looked at his brother with a stunned expression, his jaw almost dropping to the floor. ‘You would rather die with those… with those dogs?’ Solas spat the last word out with pure venom. ‘Why else did you murder the Emperor, if not to stop his insane plan?’

  ‘Better the dogs than the murderers, brother,’ Nathaniel retorted.

  SMACK!

  Solas’ fist had cracked across Nathaniel’s face so quickly he barely had time to register it. He fell out of the chair, clutching his profusely bleeding nose.

  ‘You damned– you bloody damned idiot!’ Solas yelled. He was struggling against the grip of one of the white guardsmen, who had burst forward and seized the Regal, not a second after the punch had been thrown.

  ‘Do you have any idea what the Szar has planned for you? You’re going to die in that arena, brother! All that will remain of you is a patch of blood in the sand before you fade into nothingness!’

  The look of pure malice on Solas’ face, just before the white guardsmen slammed the door shut, hurt even more than when he had left him in the palace cells. Nathaniel sank to the floor, half-wishing the carpet would swallow him up, fighting hard against the tears that threatened to well up in his eyes.

  Chapter 42

  The arena was an intimidatingly large amphitheatre, buried beyond the Emperor’s Palace and into the adjoining mountain. With its cavernous, craggy roof and hundreds of torches working to keep the place alight, it reminded Nathaniel a little of Dün Moine. A circle of sand covered paving stone, roughly two hundred metres in diameter, waited for Nathaniel beyond the portcullis. Beyond the sand, Nathaniel could make out one of several, red-bricked tiers of seating, rising up into the mountain wall. Each tier, no doubt, filled to the brim with his kin.

  Nathaniel stole a look at the white-armoured Elder guard, who had accompanied him to the portcullis. The guard had kept his helmet on, holding himself stiffly beside Nathaniel, lance in hand. He was quietly thankful it hadn’t been one of the Szar’s Royal Guard who had escorted him to the arena. The sneers and whispered threats that Nathaniel had received… well, they had made it very clear that the white guardsman was all that stopped them from inflicting harm upon him.

  A gong, diminished by the din inside the arena, sounded off from above somewhere. This was followed by the screeching tremble of gears as the portcullis slowly began to rise.

  ‘It is time.’ The white guardsman’s voice rasped through his visor like a bell toll.

  Nathaniel felt butterflies fluttering in his stomach but ignored how suddenly uncomfortable his armour felt across his shoulders. He took back his longsword and dagger and secured them at the belt. With a closed fist to his forehead, Nathaniel mouthed a quick and silent appeal to the Gods, then stepped through the open portcullis into the arena.

  *

  From the Royal Box, the Szar, Princess Illiara, and Nathaniel’s father watched the lone figure emerge onto the sand with mixed emotions. Kusk thought he heard Laevan gasp softly, but he made no comment. It was his son after all. The Princess had been glaring at the Szar ever since they had first sat down. Shaking her head intermittently, out of a mixture of anger, disappointment… and mounting fear for what horrors he had planned for Nathaniel.

  ‘Shall I order one of the Royal Guard down, your grace?’ Captain Aviendel inquired of the Szar.

  ‘No,’ Kusk replied, simply. His lips began to curl unpleasantly after a moment’s thought. ‘This is no ordinary criminal before us, Aviendel. I think our Kinslayer deserves something a little more… special… for his first round, don’t you think?’

  Aviendel’s face dropped at first. Though, knowing his station, the Guard Captain quickly composed himself and slapped his arms against his sides.

  ‘As my lord commands,’ the Regal bowed, before whisking out of sight down the tunnel behind them.

  ‘What have you planned, Draeden?’ Illiara demanded.

  ‘Something I think the crowd will enjoy, Princess,’ Kusk said. ‘Such a pity the Hunter Lord won’t be here to witness one of his little pets.’ Kusk’s lip curled at the mention of Zaine. A pity it most certainly was not.

  Illiara tensed in her seat.

  ‘You wouldn’t…’ she breathed.

  The Szar’s smile was paper thin.

  ‘Draeden. It will tear him apart.’

  The crowd within the arena fell silent as Kusk rose and held aloft his arms to embrace them. ‘What the crowd wants…’ the Szar called back over his shoulder.

  ‘But he’s just a boy.’

  ‘The boy who murdered your father in cold blood.’

  Illiara had been about to refute that statement, before she bit down sharply on her tongue. She didn’t know what to think of Nathaniel’s supposed innocence but she knew she strongly disliked this method of determining the truth. What good would it do to exonerate a liar well versed in swordplay or, indeed, murder an innocent with fumbling hands?

  ‘Don’t do this, Draeden.’

  ‘Is that an order, Princess? Sadly, I’m afraid, until your crowning ceremony, it counts for naught at this moment in time.’

  ‘You! Guard-Captain!’ Illumina fixed her eyes on Laevan Grey. ‘You’re Nathaniel’s father, aren’t you? You can’t surely think this is true justice? Convince the Szar of his foolishness!’

  Laevan swallowed guiltily but refused to meet Illiara’s penetrating gaze. Staring straight ahead, over the expanse of sand, he replied limply, ‘the Szar has the right, your highness.’

  ‘Athrana’s grace… are all the Royal Guard this lacking in backbone?’ Illiara demanded.

  Laevan Grey didn’t have an answer to that, but continued to stare blankly ahead, lost in his own thoughts.

  ‘REGALS OF OBSIDIA!’ Kusk’s voice boomed suddenly across the arena. ‘YOU HAVE BEEN PATIENT FOR LONGER THAN YOU NEEDED! BUT NOW THE MOMENT HAS COME AND THE KINSLAYER STANDS BEFORE YOU ALL, AWAITING JUDGEMENT FOR HIS HEINOUS CRIME!’

  A wave of pumping fists cascaded around the arena, as thousands of Regals roared and booed at the red-haired boy standing in the sand.

  ‘LET ATHRANA’S JUSTICE BE SWIFT!’

  With that announcement, the Szar dropped, smugly, back in his seat
and awaited what would come out of the arena pen. That fool boy was well and truly doomed.

  *

  A pungent smell, like that of a wet dog, scoured Nathaniel’s nostrils as another, considerably larger, portcullis rose before him. Noticeably, scraping off years of rust as it did so.

  A pair of ghostly white eyes blinked curiously at him, eyes too large for any humanoid opponent. Nathaniel would have appreciated the manticore as a truly magnificent beast, were it not the case that the thing was about a hundred metres away from eating him alive. He had almost dropped his sword when its grizzled mane emerged out of the shadows, snout raised appraisingly. It ruffled its wings and wafted its tail lazily across the sand. The spines on the club-end of the tail, making deep furrows in the sand, were as long as Nathaniel’s forearm and as sharp as daggers. No wonder Solas had tried to spare him from the arena.

  Nathaniel calmed his breathing, as much as he could, and focused on remembering the lessons Zaine had taught him. Trying not to focus on the fact he hadn’t been trained to fight monsters. It seemed ironic that the Hunter hadn’t considered he might one day need to fight a creature such as this. Or maybe he hadn’t expected it to be so soon.

  He crouched, holding his sword parallel to the ground at shoulder height, as the manticore approached him tentatively. Keeping his knees bent, ready to spring at any given moment. The manticore didn’t roar or give any other warning of its opening attack. It unfurled its black wings and leapt, covering the distance separating the two in the blink of an eye. Heavy paws slamming into the sand where Nathaniel had been standing, as he dived and rolled out of the way. The creature did not follow him immediately, as he sought refuge closer to the arena wall, perhaps surprised by his agility.

  The baying crowd cheered, urging the beast to end the contest. The manticore uttered a derisive snort, dust pluming up around its legs, as it pawed against the arena floor.

  CRACK

  One of the spines shot off from the beast’s arched tail. Nathaniel ducked just in time, feeling the spine brush past the tips of his hair before sinking deeply into the wall.

  Then, with a savage growl, the beast charged.

  Nathaniel’s eyes widened but he, again, just managed to dive out of the way, slashing his sword across the beast’s leading leg, before the manticore’s jaw snapped shut around the space his upper body had formerly occupied. But his escape had not been without cost. Nathaniel cried out as the tips of the creature’s claws caught his thigh, sending him rolling in the sand.

  Once again, the arena roared its approval, as Nathaniel crawled away with his bloodied leg. A relatively minor graze from this creature but it felt like someone had stabbed a dagger into his thigh. Nathaniel’s eyes fell on the sizeable gash he’d inflicted upon the creature’s thigh, spilling a steady stream of turquoise down its leg. Though, out of the two of them, he imagined he was far worse for wear.

  The manticore padded slowly towards him, apparently in no rush to finish off its prey, despite the crowd’s desperate pleas. How in the world was the Szar allowed to get away with this? How was this a fair contest?

  Growling through gritted teeth, he clambered back to his feet. Nathaniel backed away from the manticore, as quickly as he could manage, his right leg burning all the while.

  How am I going to get out of this?

  No one answered his thoughts. Nathaniel suddenly remembered that he’d left the rod back in his saddlebag. Truly, he was alone in his plight.

  The manticore seemed to sense his desperation and increased the pace of its hunt, eyes glistening hungrily. Nathaniel half considered proffering his head forward, in the vain hope the beast would grant him a quick death. The thought of the Szar lapping up the crowd’s praise afterwards vanquished the idea, as quickly as it had come, and Nathaniel held his sword more tightly before him.

  Perhaps, now bored of playing with its food, the manticore had settled into a gallop towards the Regal, clouds of sand dancing in its wake. Its roar made the ground tremble.

  Though his heart pounded fiercely against his chest, Nathaniel’s grip remained steady on his sword. Defiantly, he yelled a hoarse battle cry at the onrushing creature. To his great surprise, the manticore suddenly slid to a halt, as if stunned by Nathaniel’s cry. When Nathaniel followed the creature’s gaze down to its side, however, and to the golden lance buried in its flank, it was clear that the beast’s hesitation was not his doing. The white guardsman holding the lance swiftly pulled the bloodied tip out, jumped over the manticore’s sweeping tail, and then clambered up its leg and onto its back.

  Nathaniel glanced up. The Szar had risen up in the Royal Box, gesticulating wildly at the battle unfolding beneath him. Though it was impossible to hear what he was saying, over the clamour of the arena crowd, Nathaniel was pleased to see his obvious anger.

  Staggering side to side, the manticore struggled to shake the guardsman off its back. The guardsman twirled the lance about in the air, batting away and dodging the flurry of spines that burst from the manticore’s tail, whilst somehow maintaining his balance. The man’s movements were so quick, so fluid, he may as well have been a shadow dancing on the beast’s back. When the last spine had been flung, the guardsman snapped up his lance in the air with both hands and drove the blade into the beast’s neck. The manticore’s white eyes widened and then it slumped to the floor, with such force that Nathaniel almost lost his footing where he stood.

  The Regals in the arena were speechless and, in the silence, the Szar took the opportunity to express his rage. ‘HOW DARE YOU! YOU HAD NO RIGHT TO INTEREFERE!’

  Kusk pointed accusingly at the grey robed Elders sat in the Eastern box.

  ‘WE HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS, YOU WARMONGERING FOOL!’ The reply sounded like it came from Elder Calaem.

  ‘REVEAL YOURSELF! IMPOSTER!’ Elder Ailas cried, shaking his fist at the white guardsman below.

  The white guardsman left the lance impaled in the creature’s neck, as he hopped down onto the sand and placed his hands either side of his helmet.

  The man looked too tall to be Gabe… maybe it was Samir? No. The boy hated fighting…

  The helmet made a dull thud as it hit the sand. Nathaniel gasped as the guardsman’s silver eyes met his. ‘Zaine!’

  The crowd suddenly found its voice. Though, while the majority were clearly hostile, Nathaniel was sure he heard some cheer.

  A dozen guardsmen, half bearing the royal black, half the Elder white, spilled into the arena. The white guardsmen held their lances with the poise of statues but some of the Royal Guard looked uneasy, underneath their open-faced helmets at the sight of the Hunter.

  ‘Stand aside, stand aside!’

  Black cloak whipping about behind him, Captain Aviendel pushed aside two of his guard on his way over. Another, garbed in a cloak and armed with a sword, followed after him, patting the shoulders of the guardsmen Aviendel had barged past.

  Of all the things he had hoped to say to Laevan Grey, ‘father,’ was simply not it. A hundred times Nathaniel had ran over the accusations he’d lay at his father’s feet. Face-to-face, however, Nathaniel felt his resolve melt.

  ‘Nathaniel,’ his father whispered back solemnly, his eyes remaining downcast. ‘You did well.’

  ‘As touching as this is, Laevan, we’ve the next round to get on with,’ Aviendel butted in. His eyes ran over the dead manticore with a grimace. ‘You lot!’ he pointed at his guardsmen, ‘get the beast out of here! And you!’ Aviendel’s sword blurred into his hand, which he used to point at the Hunter, ‘don’t make me put you down.’

  Zaine raised a brow, bemusedly. ‘I’d advise you call back your guard, if that is truly your intention, Captain.’

  Aviendel glanced at his men surrounding the manticore. He looked unsure about his chances alone.

  ‘However, I have no wish to harm you Aviendel, I’ll come willingly,’ Zaine said.

  ‘Zaine…’

  The Hunter laid a hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder as he passed and leant in bri
efly. ‘Remember what I taught you, Nathaniel. Whatever comes into this arena, you must survive it. What-or who-ever comes.’

  To Nathaniel’s puzzlement, the Hunter looked pointedly at Nathaniel’s father. Laevan’s chin seemed to sink deeper into his chest, a mournful expression painted across his face.

  The Szar wasted no time, as both the Hunter and the manticore’s corpse were escorted out of the arena. ‘REGALS OF OBSIDIA! THE KINSLAYER MAY HAVE SURVIVED THIS ROUND BUT KNOW THIS – ATHRANA’S JUSTICE IS PATIENT. NO ONE MAY ESCAPE IT!’

  The portcullis rumbled and began to rise once more, with the clack clack clack of gears. ‘WELCOME ATHRANA’S CHAMPION! READY TO DELIVER JUSTICE IN HER NAME!’

  Nathaniel squinted into the darkness, beyond the portcullis, hoping that the Szar didn’t have a spare manticore to throw at him. What walked out into the arena, however, was a thousand times worse than any number of manticores.

  Oh no. How could you?

  The blonde boy strode towards Nathaniel, grimly. The Regal’s hand gripped the lance shaft, so tightly, his knuckles were white. Nathaniel glanced up at the Royal Box, at the Szar leering down.

  Not even you could be so cruel.

  ‘You should have ran while you could… brother,’ Solas said.

  Chapter 43

  No, no, no, no, this couldn’t be happening.

  Once he was a few paces away from Nathaniel, Solas spun on his heels. He planted his lance into the sand and dropped to one knee, in acknowledgment to the Szar.

  Kusk replied with a half-bow before returning to his seat beside Illiara. Nathaniel squinted his eyes at the Princess but from the distance between them her face was unreadable.

  Solas jumped back to his feet and held his lance out before him.

  ‘Pick up your sword, Kinslayer,’ Solas said.

  Nathaniel’s hand clenched against nothing but thin air. He hadn’t even realised that he’d dropped it.

  Please don’t make do this.

  He scoured the Royal Box for their father. Aviendel had just appeared next to the Szar but Laevan Grey was out of sight. Had he known? Could he not bear to watch?