Nightfall: Book Two of the Chronicles of Arden

by Shiriluna Nott

  Cold laughter rippled from Alerio’s parted lips. “Spoken like a true politician! Perhaps you’ll make an excellent advisor to your future king after all.”

  Joel swallowed, glaring at the ground beneath his sandaled feet. Are they picking fun at Hasain? Is this some kind of joke? Did they invite us to sit with them just for their amusement?

  “Yes,” Stavros agreed, smirking. “The son of the ‘notorious traitor’ shows potential!”

  The Imperial youths shared a round of sinister laughter, and to Joel’s dismay, Liro indulged in their mirth as well. The mage bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood on his tongue. Why are they tormenting him? Why are they being so cruel? And Liro too! Stop it! Stop laughing!

  Hasain’s face was drawn, his complexion washed out and pale. His typical poised, self-assured shell seemed to have crumbled, leaving behind a vulnerable and exposed child who clearly wasn’t used to being scorned in such a way. Joel wanted to offer words of comfort. He wanted to defend his cousin. But Joel smartly held his tongue, knowing he was already treading thin water.

  Hasain opened his mouth, but at that moment, a horn blared from far below and all eyes turned toward the arena.

  “About time,” Alerio groaned, taking another drink from his half-empty chalice.

  The sound of grinding hinges echoed across the amphitheater as the heavy metal gates within the arena were raised. Joel shifted forward in his seat to get a better view.

  Twenty men trotted through the open gates and onto the playing field. Each had donned plate armor and carried a shield and weapon. The gleam of metal blades and sharpened pikes sent a shiver careening up the length of Joel’s spine.

  The gladiators lifted their weapons into the air, kicking up dust in their wake as they strode along the outer edge of the arena. The crowd clapped and cheered. Joel couldn’t bring himself to do either. All he could think about was how, in a matter of minutes, almost all of these warriors would be dead. He peered down, looking at the Emperor’s dais, trying to catch a glimpse of his father or mentor. Neither was visible. A terrible fear gripped Joel’s heart. He’d never felt so alone.

  Alerio and his two cronies were discussing which of the gladiators they believed would be victorious. Pulling a money pouch free from his waistband, Balios glared at Stavros and snorted. “It’s obvious you haven’t any common sense. The Thief from Paion has no chance of winning!”

  Stavros let out an incredulous laugh. “And what makes you so confident Nikodemos the Murderer will win?”

  “I heard he took down half a dozen Imperial soldiers when they came to arrest him,” Balios replied. “It took a small army to overtake and subdue him. The man’s an animal.”

  “Ten golden coins says you’re wrong.”

  “You’re on!”

  Joel couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Were they really placing bets on which gladiator they thought would win? Were they really speaking about these people in such a degrading way? As though they were cattle or dogs?

  Balios turned his eyes onto Alerio. “What say you, Prince? Who do you think will win?”

  The Imperial prince stroked his clean-shaven chin. After a moment of reflection, he pointed toward a brute of a man, one so tall he towered over the rest of the warriors. “I’ll bet ten gold coins on the barbarian.”

  Stavros quirked an eyebrow. “The savage from the mountains, eh? Not a bad choice, I suppose. He may be dumber than common livestock, but at least he’s built like an ox.”

  “Precisely,” Alerio replied, smiling most self-assuredly. “I feel brawn will prevail.”

  A second round of horns sounded from the arena floor, and Joel watched as the gladiators spread out now, standing within several paces of each other, but far enough away that they were out of arm’s reach. Each man knelt on one knee, bowing to the Emperor.

  The master of ceremonies, a wiry, grey-haired man dressed in red silk, made his way to a podium above the ring and raised both hands into the air. Silence fell across the amphitheater, and Joel waited to see what would happen next.

  “Under the watchful eye of our good and gracious Emperor Lichas Sarpedon, Supreme Ruler of the North, and in the presence of the mighty Blessed Son of Light and Giver of All Power, welcome to the arena.” The announcer’s voice was crisp and clear, carrying well across the coliseum. “Fighters, you’ve entered this sacred ground as convicts, thieves, and murderers, but you will leave as champions.”

  The gladiators stared forward with vapid eyes, shields and weapons in hand. Their armored bodies shimmered as the midday sun cast harsh, bright light down from the heavens. They stood silent and unmoving. Waiting.

  The announcer continued his speech. “In the end, most of you will be dead. But fear not. By fighting and dying valiantly, redemption shall be earned and your souls will be cleared of all wrong-doing in the eyes of our God. What say you, gladiators? Are you ready to yield yourselves to destiny? Are you ready to be redeemed?”

  At once, swords and pikes were raised into the air, and the warriors voices joined together in one unified and resounding response. “Yes!”

  “Then without further delay, let the match begin!” the announcer called above them. “Good luck, champions. Show your Emperor and adoring Imperial enthusiasts a good time!”

  The crowd clapped and the warriors below took fighting stances. For a moment, time stood still. They appeared to be sizing each other up, making strategies against their opponents. Joel’s heart pounded. He couldn’t imagine what it must have felt like to be down there, having to choose who was the weakest, who to attack first.

  “Well, come on!” Prince Alerio bellowed, drawing the attention of everyone around them. “Someone do something!”

  From the open gates came the sound of hooves and the whine of metal wheels on stone. As the wheels transitioned onto the sand, the noise changed to a soft scratching that grated on Joel’s nerves. He looked on as half a dozen chariots driven by men wearing leather loin guards and not much else sped toward the competitors with drawn cutlasses in their hands. A team of horses pulled each chariot. The beasts reared and snorted, the sound of their hooves pounding off the soft ground reaching every corner of the amphitheater. Sunlight glared off the horses’ bronze armor, forcing spectators and warriors alike to shield their eyes.

  Hasain grunted. “The horses are armored, but the riders aren’t?”

  “That’s right.” Alerio grinned. “The horses are valuable—the mountain savages, not so much.”

  Joel had to bite his tongue to keep himself in check. Hasain, likewise, said nothing, but the way his face remained pinched was a clear indication of his displeasure.

  Down below, the warriors moved into a defensive formation, putting their backs together. It would appear for now they would work together against these new foes. The chariots circled the men, coming closer with each cycle. Joel held his breath, noting how even the wheels of the chariots were dangerous. The hubs had been modified. Instead of blunt axle caps, each wheel sported a long, sharp barb. It was only a matter of moments before several gladiators cried out and dropped down to clutch at their slashed thighs. Joel put his hand to his mouth as he watched blood paint the white sand crimson.

  One of the gladiators let out a fierce battle cry and lifted his pike. Taking aim, he hurled the weapon toward an oncoming rider as the chariot closed in. The pike shot through the air, a blur of lethal motion too fast for the rider to avoid. Joel gasped as the rider fell from the chariot, the pike driven through his stomach.

  Alerio and his cronies cheered and hollered while Liro smiled savagely.

  “I told you Nikodemos was a sure bet! Look at him!” Balios exclaimed.

  Stavros crossed his arms over his lean upper torso. “We’ll see when the chariot riders are knocked out and the alliance is broken. Perhaps your Nikodemos will have only managed to put a mark above his head.”

  Joel couldn’t be bothered to listen to any more of their blather. The wounded driver lay on the ground, writhi
ng and crying out in agony as blood pooled beneath him. The horse he’d been steering made for an open gate, expertly navigating any obstacles in its way. Clearly the beast had been trained in the event its rider should fall. Joel imagined someone was waiting just out of sight to collect the valuable animal and take it back to its stable. The man with the pike through his gut had already stopped moving. No one came to collect him.

  One by one, the other riders fell, but not before six or seven warriors had been gashed open by cutlasses or the barbed wheels of the chariots. Any sense of comradery shared at the start of the match had vanished by this point, and Joel watched numbly as the able-bodied overwhelmed any who’d been weakened. The sound of swords clashing and cries of despair echoed off the stone walls. Hasain retched when a head rolled away from its body, and Joel slammed his eyes shut a moment too late. He’d seen the blood as it spurted from the severed stump that had been the gladiator’s neck. The vision would haunt Joel forever, he was sure.

  Alerio jabbed his cousin in the ribs, heckling him. “Look at your little thief, thinking he can take on the barbarian. He has a spine! I’ll give him that.”

  Joel risked opening his eyes. Below, Stavros’ pick, the Thief from Paion, went head to head with the hulking barbarian. The two warriors spun around one other in a dance with death, each taking swings and jabs with their swords. Joel could hear the swish of metal as the blades cut through the air.

  Stavros smirked at Alerio. “Your barbarian may be bigger, but the thief has speed on his side.”

  His victorious smile was short lived, as Balios pointed out a flaw in the thief’s plan. “If he keeps backing up, he’s going to fall right into the pit!”

  Pit?

  Joel peered down into the arena and realized, with a sense of dread, that Balios was right. Along the outer edges of the field, the ground yielded, giving way to half a dozen deep, square pits. He couldn’t see into them but was certain something terrible waited at the bottom. His mind conjured up images of sharpened spikes before he could push the terrible thought away.

  Liro leaned forward, also inspecting the pits. “Are they merely deep holes or is there something lethal at the bottom of each?”

  “Patience, exalted guest.” Alerio’s grin chilled Joel to the bone.

  Stavros lifted both hands into the air, worry tracing his handsome face. He gritted his teeth and seemed to hold his breath. Joel didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t force his eyes shut either. He watched in abject horror as the thief took a step back and then another, and finally, one too many. The gladiator wheeled his arms in an attempt to catch his balance, but his efforts were in vain. The Thief from Paion toppled into the pit.

  Alerio and his companions, Liro included, cried out in various states of distress or victory. Balios made some sort of snide comment about Stavros needing to pay up.

  Joel slammed his eyes closed again, trying to block out the sound of the thief’s tortured screams. What was down there to make him plead so? A moment later, the howl of a large cat rose up to meet Joel’s ears. The fallen warrior screamed for some time before his cries grew more akin to gurgles and helpless whimpers. And then silence. Joel could feel Hasain tremble.

  The fighting continued, some men tumbling into the pits while others were pushed into them. Countless more fell under competitor swords until only three men remained standing atop the blood-soaked ground. Of them, Nikodemos and the barbarian dwarfed a third nameless man. Liro raised the question of his identity, and even Alerio seemed not to know.

  “He’s fast, but his luck will no doubt run out any moment.”

  “Luck?” Liro asked. “I thought they were the victors. Is the match not over?”

  Again came the smile that would have Joel scrabble away. “Wait and see.”

  Before any more questions could be asked, a horn blared and the master of ceremonies reappeared at the podium. “For the pleasure of our people and the challenge of our champions, we have one final surprise! Fighters, prepare yourselves, for your greatest task has yet to come!”

  What more could there possibly be? Hadn’t these men done enough to reclaim their status as human? Joel swallowed against his churning stomach, wishing with all he was that he could be anywhere else. He’d had more than his fill of this blood sport, though it appeared his opinion was in the minority. The crowd’s excitement was a tangible force buzzing all around him. How can these people enjoy this? I don’t understand—

  An awful, bloodcurdling shriek nearly made Joel’s heart stop beating. He whipped his head toward the arena gate even as every other spectator in the amphitheater did the same. A spike of cold coursed through his body, from the tips of his toes to his fingers. What was that? What kind of beast makes such a sound? Some sort of giant, wild cat? The warriors gripped their weapons, and with wary eyes, they too watched the distant gate. Movement from the shadowed enclave beyond the gate caught Joel’s attention and he observed, paralyzed, unable to tear his gaze away.

  From inside the gate, the shriek ripped through the air again, more sharply than before. A guttural growl followed. Joel’s eyes widened when the unidentified creature stepped from the darkness and into the light of the arena. His heart sank. This wasn’t a big cat. This was something much worse.

  With a face and upper body reminiscent of a man, the creature was clearly some sort of Otherfolk, but not one Joel had ever seen before. It stood no taller than the average human, but sharp horns and large, feathered wings gave the impression it was dangerous. It had powerful legs, similar to quadrupedal animals, with the shortened thighs and hock joints over upright feet. Instead of hair, it sported a mane of long, dark feathers which caught the sunlight and glittered as it moved. The feathers trailed the length of its spine and swept down its powerful tail.

  Shackles hung from the creature’s arms, legs, neck, and wings, and a team of soldiers yanked on the chains and prodded it with sharpened pikes. The creature had nowhere to go and no way to lash out as they pulled it into the ring.

  Each time a soldier would venture too close, the beast would hiss or growl, only to be rewarded with a sharp jab. One such blow fell low on its side, drawing blood. The creature cried out miserably and rolled onto its side, refusing to go any farther. A soldier jabbed it in the ribs, and it howled again but didn’t move.

  The remaining gladiators began to advance, but one of the soldiers commanded them back. As they hesitated, the master of ceremonies’ voice boomed across the amphitheater. “It would seem the beast doesn’t wish to comply. Should it be taught a lesson?”

  Joel looked on in horror as the crowd roared. All around him, men were placing bets and exchanging coins. No one cared about the injustice of the situation. What had this poor creature done to deserve this treatment? And why was it deemed fair for the gladiators to now have to fight it?

  In the arena, one of the soldiers had broken away from the others and was now on his way back with a metal poker. Joel trembled when he realized one end of the rod was red hot. The creature seemed to realize this as well and scrambled to gain its feet. It wasn’t fast enough. The soldier holding the hot poker lunged, and Joel looked away.

  It bleated, one of the most mournful sounds Joel had ever heard. Beside him, Hasain wheezed and fell back in his seat, visibly trying to distance himself from the horror below. Face pale and constricted, the young lord looked as though he might pass out. Joel put a hand on Hasain’s shoulder, causing him to jump. The grief and terror in his eyes were nearly enough to undo Joel.

  “Hasain?” he whispered. His cousin declined to respond.

  The soldiers retreated back through the gate, and the bars were once again lowered, locking the three gladiators and single beast inside the arena. As if by magic, the shackles holding down the creature fell away, clanking as they hit the sand. An eerie hush fell over the crowd, and Joel could hear his heart pounding in his ears. What now?

  Men and beast stood in a stalemate for what felt like an eternity before one of the gladiators lifted his
pike and took a tentative step forward.

  The creature’s response was instantaneous. It dropped into a low crouch, holding out a trembling hand. “No,” it cried. “Please, mercy!”

  Joel retched, clapping a hand to his mouth. “It speaks.”

  “Of course he speaks.” Hasain’s terse voice reprimanded Joel as if he should have known better. The Radek lord’s dark eyes were still trained on the arena. “Demharlin are people, just like humans. He may not speak much of the Imperial language, but he’s no animal. He understands what they mean to do.”

  Demharlin? Joel thought back to one of his academic texts, Annals of the Unknown Peoples, which outlined the different known species of Otherfolk. The demharlin derived from old harpy, goblin, and demon bloodlines and tended to live high in the mountains or on cliff sides where they could keep an eye out for predators. Joel grimaced. Hasain must be right. The more Joel thought on it, the more sure he was.

  “Why doesn’t he fly?” Hasain whispered. If Joel hadn’t been so close, he wouldn’t have heard his cousin speak.

  Joel kept his voice low. “Perhaps magic? Maybe it can’t fly—”

  “He.” Hasain corrected in no uncertain terms. “He’s male.”

  The demharlin shrieked again, and Joel turned back to watch. The barbarian had thrown the pike but missed. Wild eyes searching desperately for an escape, the demharlin skittered away from the weapon, kicking up sand in its wake.

  Joel watched as it ran to the far wall of the stadium. Using clawed hands and feet, the demharlin latched onto the brick barrier and hauled itself upward. The people seated above gasped. Some of them even leapt to their feet. Joel held his breath. The poor creature was nowhere near the top of the wall yet and very likely wouldn’t make it. Already winded, it slipped, losing almost half of its progress. The warriors were now directly below, waiting like hunting hounds at the base of the wall.