by Anthony Ryan
“My lord!”
Vaelin ducked instinctively at Orven’s shouted warning, something flickering past his head too fast to see. He dragged Scar about to face three men running towards him through the haze, each lightly armoured and bearing a sword in each hand. Kuritai.
Orven blocked the charge of the leader, crouching low to sweep his sword at the slave-elite’s legs. The Kuritai leapt the blade easily and whirled in midair, his blade aimed at Orven’s neck. The captain, however, was no novice and parried the blow, jabbing his own sword into the Kuritai’s face, then bringing the sword up and around in a swift and near-perfect riposte that left the man staggering with a gaping throat wound.
He turned to engage another as the third dodged past them and made for Vaelin, leaping with twin swords raised high. Mishara met him in midair, fastening her fangs on his head and bearing him to the ground, shaking him until his neck gave an audible crack.
Vaelin spurred Scar forward, seeing Orven being hard-pressed by the remaining Kuritai, the twin swords delivering a swift and complex pattern of blows that forced the guardsman to his knees. Vaelin was still ten feet short of them when the Kuritai sent Orven’s sword spinning from his grasp and raised his blades for the final blow, then abruptly stiffened, head snapping up as Lorkan blinked into view, arm extended to thrust a dagger into the base of the slave-elite’s skull.
The Gifted withdrew the blade with a distasteful grimace and looked up at Vaelin as he trotted closer. His face was streaked with blood from a cut somewhere in the dark mane of his hair, obliging him to continually wipe it from his eyes.
“You have to come,” he said, swaying a little as he pointed his bloody dagger to the raging struggle nearby. “It’s Alturk.”
The wolves went ahead of him, tearing apart the ragged Volarian line of wounded and part-blinded Varitai, allowing him to charge through with Wise Bear and Iron Claw close behind. He saw Alturk twenty yards ahead, war club whirling as he spun and dodged amidst a circle of red men. The Sentar were attempting to come to his side but were being held back by a company of Kuritai, Lonak and slave-elite locked in a vicious struggle as the Tahlessa fought hopeless odds. But still he lived, cuts on his arms, face and legs, but he remained standing as the red men danced.
Vaelin urged more speed from Scar but the warhorse was tiring now, foam covering his flanks and mouth, his stride laboured and shuddering with effort. Vaelin watched as Alturk dodged a sword and brought his club around to slam into his assailant’s side, deliberately avoiding the killing blow to the head as Vaelin had instructed. The red men, however, had clearly allowed the blow to land to draw Alturk forward, two of them dancing closer to slash at his legs. He sidestepped the first stroke but not the second, the blade biting deep into his thigh and sending him to one knee, teeth bared in a grimace.
Another red man leapt and delivered a kick to Alturk’s jaw, sending him sprawling. The red man landed nimbly astride the Tahlessa’s prostrate form, a wide smile on his lips as he raised his sword. Alturk spat blood into his face and the red man stepped back, smile vanished into a snarling mask of malice.
Scar collided with a Kuritai, sending him spinning, Vaelin rising high in the saddle as the red man lunged at Alturk, then collapsed as an arrow sank into his leg. Another red-armoured figure darted towards the Lonak but drew up as Vaelin closed, sword raised too late to counter Scar’s flailing hooves, taking a kick to the chest and flying backwards.
The remaining red men closed on Vaelin, moving with uncanny speed. Another arrow streaked from the surrounding turmoil to take the leader in the leg. The others paused, crouched low and eyes scanning for enemies. Kiral came into view, walking forward at an almost leisurely pace as she loosed arrows from her stout flat bow, each of the red men falling as the shafts found their legs.
The wolves moved in as Vaelin dismounted, running to Alturk’s side where Kiral was already crouched. The red men screamed and railed as the wolves took hold of their limbs and Wise Bear slid from Iron Claw’s back. He walked from one to the other, crouching to touch his palm to their heads, their cries falling silent one by one. He paused at the last one, drawing back with his squat features tensed in confusion.
“Can’t…” Alturk grunted and clutched at the wound in his leg. “Can’t you even allow me a decent death?”
Kiral slapped him, a hard smack to the cheek, berating him in her own language. Vaelin’s knowledge of Lonak was poor but he did catch the word “father” amidst the angry torrent. Alturk’s anger faded as she continued to rail at him, tearing a strip from his buckskins and moving to bind his wound.
Vaelin rose and went to where Wise Bear stood over the remaining red man, the wolves’ teeth having silenced the others. The shaman frowned, shaking his head in confusion as the red man stared up at him, spread-eagled in the wolves’ grip, sweat covering his face, blood flowing freely from his nose and the corners of his eyes. Vaelin felt it then, a sudden doubling of his heartbeat, a tremble seizing his limbs.
The power to freeze a man’s heart with fear, he recalled and found himself laughing. “Fear,” he said, crouching next to the red man and capturing his gaze. “In truth it’s a small thing, and an old friend.” He drove the pommel of his sword hard into the man’s temple, leaving him sagging and barely conscious. Wise Bear shook his head, muttering a curse in his own tongue then crouching to press a hand to the red man’s brow. He stiffened for a moment, a chilled gasp escaping his chest, then lay still.
Vaelin turned away as the wolves finished the task, watching the last of the Kuritai fall to the Sentar. Somewhere behind him the tribesfolk were singing some kind of victory song, the tune was discordant but they all seemed to know the words.
“My lord,” Lorkan said, appearing as his side, a bloody rag pressed to his head. “I feel this an opportune moment to resign from your service. For this is an experience I should not like to repeat, regardless of Cara’s opinions.”
“Accepted, good sir,” Vaelin told him. “And with thanks for your service.”
He turned as Mishara gave a sudden hiss, her hackles rising as she turned and began sprinting towards the ridge where they had left her mistress.
Vaelin’s gaze tracked over the corpses of the red men. Four, and the other two. Six. But Mirvald said seven …
He ran to Scar and leapt into the saddle, heels thumping hard into his flanks as he spurred to the gallop.
The ridge was wreathed in cloud and rain as he halted a near-spent Scar at its base. He had seen the clouds descend as they rode towards the ridge, far too fast to be anything other than Cara’s work. Mishara was several yards ahead and quickly disappeared into the curtain of rain as lightning flashed somewhere up ahead.
Vaelin hurled himself up the ridge, seeing bodies lying amidst the rocks, the Wolf People’s warriors, all seemingly cut down in seconds. He found Marken’s cat next, slumped and lifeless, the hulking Gifted himself lay a few yards on, bearded features slack and unmoving in the lashing rain.
Vaelin tore his gaze away and forced himself on. The smell reached him first, burnt, acrid, cloying. The stench of recently seared flesh. Cara came into view as he crested the ridge, a small, still form sitting in the rain, pale features staring with wide eyes at something nearby, something blackened and charred but somehow still moving, the part-melted remnants of red armour sticking to the roasted flesh as it twitched.
“Didn’t see it,” Cara said in a whisper. “We shared … I couldn’t see … It happened so fast…”
Vaelin crouched next to her, seeing the blood streaming from her nose, turning pink and dissolving in the torrent. He touched his hands to hers. “Enough,” he said. “It’s done.”
She blinked at him, then sagged, the rain dwindling to drizzle as he caught her. “Lightning,” she murmured. “Didn’t know I could.”
“Cara.” He lifted her chin. “Where is Lady Dahrena?”
Somewhere up ahead he heard Mishara voice a plaintive, forlorn call.
“I’m sorry,” Cara sa
id, voice small and choked. “It happened so fast…”
He rested her back against a rock and rose from her side, moving away and following the sound as Mishara continued to voice her mournful cry.
She was slumped on her side next to the rain-wasted remnants of the fire he had built for her the night before, still wrapped in furs. There was no blood, no sign of any injury at all. One who could kill with a single touch …
He sat next to her, drawing her small, limp form into his arms, teasing the silken hair back from her ice-chilled forehead. “I want to go home,” he said. “I want to go home with you.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Reva
She landed hard, rolling with the impact to absorb the shock, but still it left an aching burn in her legs as she surged to her feet, sprinting towards the nearest beast-handler. She was grateful for the crowd’s bloodlust, their roaring excitement at her appearance robbing the handler of any warning until she was nearly on him. He turned just before she whipped her manacles across his face, teeth shattering and lips shredded by the impact, his scream a shrill gurgle as he collapsed to his knees, the chains slipping from his hands.
The three dagger-teeth he had been guiding towards their prey immediately whirled at the sudden loss of restraint, hissing at Reva and crouching to spring. She dived towards the handler, snatching the whip from the strap on his wrist, snapping it at the nearest cat, forcing it back. She raised her gaze, finding the Shield and Allern standing unmolested in the centre of the arena, the two other handlers staring at her in wide-eyed shock. The Shield reacted first, sprinting forward to hack down the nearest beast, the short sword cutting through its neck as its companions howled and lashed their claws at him. He danced back on nimble feet, though not without suffering a trio of parallel scars on his chest.
The fallen handler’s cats lunged at Reva, dragging her attention away. She struck with the whip again, then ran forward, leaping over a slashing claw. She whirled as they pursued, the whip cutting the air with a vicious crack. The dagger-teeth recoiled once more, then paused as one, as if in answer to some unspoken but shared understanding, turning to regard the wounded handler, now attempting to stumble towards a door in the arena wall, hands held to his face as he trailed blood across the sand. The cats gave an identical hiss and bounded after him, one leaping onto his back and bearing him to the sand, whilst the others savaged his legs, their long fangs piercing flesh and bone with appalling ease. His screams were short and the cats soon fell to contented feeding, ignoring Reva completely.
She turned to see Allern attempting to keep the three cats facing him at bay with short jabs of his spear. Their handler, however, was considerably distracted by Reva’s charge, blanching and dropping his chains before sprinting away. He made it to within ten feet of a door before a volley of arrows from the Varitai archers on the upper tiers streaked down to pin him to the sand.
Free of restraint, his cats began to circle Allern, moving in a whirling dance of slashing claws and teeth-baring lunges, seeking an opening as he spun, his spear moving in a blur. Reva sprinted towards the nearest cat, the whip snaking out to wrap around its leg, pulling it back as it thrashed and howled. Allern saw his chance and speared the beast in the shoulder, though the force of the thrust sent the spear-blade through the animal, stuck fast amidst bone and sinew. Allern cursed, trying to draw the weapon free, the two other cats closing in for the kill.
Reva’s whip cracked once more, forcing them back. “Leave it!” she told Allern, pushing him back from the corpse. “Take this.” She handed him the whip then placed her foot on the haft of the spear, stamping down to snap it in two. She rolled the dead cat over and took hold of the spear-blade, drawing it clear of the carcass in a gout of blood.
“Keep them back!” she ordered Allern, turning to see the Shield now on his back, legs raised to hold off the cat snarling atop him, jaws snapping, its terrible fangs within a whisker of his face. The surviving handler loosed his remaining cat and retreated, gazing wildly about, knowing to flee meant death but clearly wanting no part of this suddenly equal struggle. The freed cat circled the struggling pair in a rapid scrabble, sliding to a halt near Ell-Nestra’s head, tensing for a strike, jaws widening as it leapt … Reva’s broken spear-blade took the cat in the side in midair, its limp form colliding with the dagger-tooth atop the Shield, forcing it to rear back, leaving just enough room for Ell-Nestra to thrust his sword up into its neck.
He rolled free as the corpse came down, dragging the blade from the body, then crouching as the handler’s whip left a long red stripe on his upper arm. He turned to regard the plainly terrified beast-master with a raised eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
The handler stared at him in terrorised indecision; fighting or fleeing meant the same fate. Reva spared him further consideration, leaping to plant both feet in the centre of his face, sending him senseless to the sand. She knelt to retrieve his whip and a small dagger protruding from his boot.
“May I say, my lady,” the Shield greeted her with a bow, “how very fetching you look today. Red is truly your colour.”
She grunted and ran towards Allern. “You’d have a better chance with these beasts.”
Allern had driven the two surviving cats to the edge of the arena, chest heaving as he swung the whip, containing every rush and lunge they tried to make. Reva used her own whip to snag one around the foreleg, dragging it down so the Shield could finish it with his sword. She killed the last one herself, taunting it into a charge, dodging to the side, then leaping onto its back, the dagger stabbing down beneath its shoulder blades, again and again until its struggles ceased and a final piteous hiss escaped its snout.
As she rose from the corpse the exultation of the crowd descended like a deluge, the tiers above a sea of joyous faces, screaming in admiration and, she saw with disgust, naked lust. Men leered at her, women bared their breasts, and a torrent of flowers cascaded onto the sand. One landed near her feet, an orchid, the petals a pale shade of pink that darkened to deep red at the edges.
“Pick it up!” the Shield hissed at her and she noted he had a clutch of flowers in his hands. “You too, lad!” he called to Allern. “Pick them up, quickly!”
Reva knelt and retrieved the orchid, noting how the crowd’s feverish adulation rose to an even greater pitch.
“A sign of their favour!” the Shield shouted to her above the tumult before casting a cautious glance at the Empress’s balcony. “Hard to ignore for those who orchestrate these spectacles.”
Reva looked to the balcony, seeing the Empress’s slender form still seated on her bench, face veiled in shadow. She seemed utterly still and Reva wondered if she had slipped into another vacant episode. She also doubted that the Empress held any regard for the traditions formerly observed here. She hates them, she remembered, glancing at the crowd. What does she care for their favour?
She saw the Empress raise a hand to cast a casual flick at Varulek, the black-clad striding forward to order the trumpets sounded once more. This time the crowd’s obedience was not so instant, the exultation and lust taking longer to fade, leaving a simmering murmur that continued even after the Empress rose and moved to the edge of the balcony. Reva’s spirits sank at the expression she saw on her face. No fury or frustration, just warm, and sincere, affection. Her lips moved in a silent endearment, easily read, “You truly are my sister.”
She found Lieza pacing when they returned her to the chamber, the girl starting in surprise and relief as Reva stepped inside and the door slammed shut. Lieza came forward with a tremulous laugh, drawing up short at the sight of the blood that spattered Reva from head to toe, though she seemed more shocked by what she held in her hands.
“Where you get that?” she asked.
Reva glanced down at the orchid. She had kept hold of it as the Empress decreed the spectacles had concluded for the day and a dozen Kuritai trooped into the arena. Allern and the Shield were shackled and led off to another door, though not before the young guardsman san
k to one knee before her, gazing up with near-frantic devotion. “The Father has blessed me, my lady!” he called as they dragged him away. “In allowing me to fight with you this day!”
The Shield was notably less enthused. “We won no victory here,” he said over his shoulder. “You know that, I assume?”
“We’re alive,” she replied. “And you’re welcome, my lord.”
Reva wondered why Varulek hadn’t taken the flower from her. The Master of the Arena had been silent on their journey back to the cell, his expression more tense than before and his eyes continually straying to the flower in her grasp. “Did I spoil the story?” she asked him as they came to the chamber door. “The legend had a different ending, I suppose.”
“Morivek and Korsev stood at the entrance to the fire pits and held back the harbingers for a day and a night.” The black-clad stood back as the Kuritai removed her shackles with their customary caution. “Morivek, the eldest, fell mortally wounded and beseeched his brother to flee. But Korsev stayed, possessed of such a rage that he killed every harbinger to emerge from the pit and, seeing his brother now dead, cast himself into the bowels of the earth, seeking yet more vengeance, never to be seen again. Though, as with any legend,” he added as the door swung open, “the tale changes depending on the author.”
“In the arena,” she told Lieza, holding out the orchid. “Take it if you want.”
The girl shrank back, shaking her head. “Not for me.” She glanced again at Reva’s bloodied form and moved towards the far end of the chamber. “I make you bath.”
Reva sat on the marble steps as the water gushed from the ornate bronze spigot in the wall, massaging her wrists as the steam rose. “I wash that for you,” Lieza said, pointing to Reva’s bloodied clothing.
“You are not my slave,” she said.
“Not free either.” Lieza shrugged. “Nothing else to do.”