by Beth Alvarez
The street they walked was curved, its end disappearing around the bend. Small trees separated the road into two avenues, grasses and shrubbery planted in stone-walled boxes around their bases. There would have been flowers too, he assumed, were the weather not so cool. Rune wasn't accustomed to changing seasons, but he figured it to be autumn now. There had been flowers in bloom when he'd first arrived on the mainland, six months before.
A jerk on the chain and an angry shout from the guards jolted him into motion again. He hadn't realized he'd stopped as he studied the plants he couldn't name. Perhaps if he'd known them, he wouldn't have ended up in such a mess to begin with. But he didn't know how to hunt in unfamiliar country and he didn't know how to forage when the flora was strange to him. Necessity had driven him into the city. Necessity, he reminded himself, would get him out.
People stood along the sides of the street, watching the procession of prisoners and guards. The farther they went, the more there were, some shaking their heads, others scowling, a few crying. Most of the prisoners tried to ignore them, marching onward until they reached the end of the curved street and the guards brought them to a pause.
The avenue widened and then ended abruptly at a wall of hedges, rather than the wall of stone one might expect to encircle a palace. Milky-white and gleaming under the sun, the Spiral Palace jutted into the sky like a twisted horn. Balconies protruded from its sides here and there. Three-striped banners of gold, green, and blue hung from their rails.
The prisoners weren't given long to stare before barked orders set them on the move again. Though they wound ever closer to the palace, it wasn't their destination, and Rune knew the arena the moment he laid eyes on it.
Close to the base of the Spiral Palace, teeming crowds milled around the arches and columns, eager to enter. The arena beyond looked something like an amphitheater, a great bowl carved into the earth with a deep pit in the center for combatants to be kept in. From what Rune could see, the tiered stands were already full. Just ahead, one of the other prisoners gave a long, dismayed moan. Uneasy as the sound made him, Rune remained stone-faced.
The guards gave the crowds a wide berth and led the procession to a small building set to the side, its gates watched by more men in armor. A heavy iron portcullis guarded the entrance, which proved to be the mouth of a tunnel that dipped beneath the stands.
The trip through the tunnel was shorter than Rune expected, and it ended with him and the dozen or so prisoners being pushed into a large iron cage. The door was shut and locked behind them with a loud, final clang. One of the men grabbed the guide chain and jerked the line of prisoners to the side of the cage so their manacles could be unfastened. Rune rubbed his wrists when they were freed. In the moment of stillness that followed, he studied this new cell.
Large as the cage was, there was scarcely room for the prisoners to move without bumping into one another. One wall was another portcullis, through which he could see the arena's pit. There was nothing in the dusty bowl, no shelters or obstacles—nothing but empty ground. His eyes narrowed and he moved closer to the portcullis to peer out. Another iron grill on the far side of the arena lifted as he watched. The crowd that ringed the arena erupted in a roar as an armed and armored knight strode into the pit. A handful of weapons lay in the cage behind the man, though not enough for all the prisoners to arm themselves. So it wasn't to be a battle, then. It was meant to be a slaughter.
Rune stepped back and blinked when the cell's iron bars blocked his path. The walls were closer than he remembered. And moving closer. He'd missed the clanking of gears with the noise of the crowd just outside.
A man on the other side of the bars turned a wheel that shrank the cage, forcing the captives toward the portcullis as it began to rise. Some of the prisoners pressed forward and eyed the weapons as their only chance for salvation. The rest moved to the back of the shrinking cell and resisted the push of the iron bars behind them. Rune set his jaw and stayed one step ahead of the cage wall.
Someone ducked under the half-raised grille and raced for the weapons on the other side of the pit. A surge of prisoners followed his lead, more than one stumbling in the dust.
Too many men, not enough weapons. Rune was better off with his magic. He gritted his teeth and reached for the flows of energy that swirled everywhere around him. They skirted his grasp and he spat a curse. He thought he would have power here!
Wheeling to face the guards that still stood on the other side of the shrinking cage, he laid eyes on the mage who held the flows just outside his grasp. Desperate, Rune threw himself against the bars and lashed out with one clawed hand. His claws grazed the fabric of the mage's shirt. The heavy gears clacked as the iron bars fell into place, flush with the arena wall.
Screams and shouts behind him signaled the first death. Rune spun just in time to see the armored knight pull his sword free from the corpse of the prisoner foolish enough to attack him. The knight beckoned the other prisoners, the sound of his gloating a tinny echo that was all but drowned out by the noise of the spectators. A handful of prisoners fell into a group and advanced on the knight. Rune cursed again, his eyes darting around the arena.
The pit was flat and broad, with no entries or exits beyond the two the combatants had entered through. Towering walls encircled the space, topped with pikes and ringed with iron fencing. There was no chance of climbing the walls, not with the bowmen waiting on the other side of the fence. He had to get a weapon. Claws would be useless against armor. He caught a glimpse of the dead man's knife, kicked about in the dust as the knight moved to face the prisoners.
Twisting and twirling, the knight deflected strikes from the men, their dull weapons glancing off his shining armor when he missed. It was a show, not a fight. The knight played with them, luring them to attack with feigned openings, fending them off with little effort before striking them down one by one. The other prisoners rushed in to seek blades lost by the fallen. The knight cleaved one of the men in two before he could rise with his newfound weapon, then paused, struggling to pull his blade free.
Rune darted forward to seize a weapon. He skidded in the dust, snatched something from the ground, and regained his footing before he looked at the weapon in his hand. His eyes widened when he found nothing more than the wooden handle of a broken axe.
The knight descended on him before he could curse again. He braced with both hands as his opponent's sword took a chunk from the scrap of wood in his grasp.
There had to be another weapon somewhere. Rune scanned the bloodstained ground and barely lifted his eyes in time to evade a second swing. He sprang back, slipped in the blood and grime, steadied himself with a hand against the earth. The other prisoners moved back, hugging the walls, none among the living brave enough to lend a hand.
Rune got to his feet, gripping the axe handle and waiting for the next move. He wasn't foolish enough to attack. Instead, he watched the way the knight paced to the side, forcing their movements to morph into a circle.
The knight lunged and Rune swung the handle to deflect the man's blade. Wood cracked with a shower of splinters as he knocked the armored man off balance. Something glinted in the dust and Rune lunged for it. A dagger. He shifted the splintered wood to his left hand and scooped the dagger into his right. The roar of his pulse in his ears made the jeering crowd seem distant.
As the knight regained his balance, he shouted something that sounded like profanity. He staggered forward, clearly flustered. Though the knight's blade was nowhere near him, Rune still moved back. The man swung wildly, angry words muted by his helmet.
Rune crossed his dagger and broken axe and brought them down hard on his opponent's sword. The blow drove the blade into the dirt. The man's hold on the hilt broke. The knight fell forward as he lost his weapon and Rune darted in to slam an elbow into the back of the man's helmet. The knight staggered and Rune followed with a swift kick to the chest. He regretted it the moment he struck the breastplate. A jolt of pain shot up his leg and he s
tumbled as the knight toppled backwards into the dust.
No time for weakness. Rune gritted his teeth and snatched the lost sword from the ground. His foot throbbed, protesting every step he took to put distance between him and his downed opponent.
The tone of the crowds above them changed, voices sounding concerned, surprised. There was no question who the crowds cheered for, but if their champion being disarmed caused that much distress, how unusual was it?
The knight spat words Rune couldn't understand as he climbed back to his feet. He cut off with a cough. Choking dust made it hard to breathe, every footfall stirring more of it into the air. The man clawed at his helmet and gasped for air when it came off. He wasn't quite what Rune expected—older, with salt-and-pepper hair and a pointed beard. His eyes were wild with anger, the set of his jaw saying more than his language could. He hadn't expected to encounter an opponent that knew how to fight. Still, he drew his off-hand blade and moved into a stance that invited attack, the prisoners cowering against the walls of the arena long forgotten.
Rune advanced on him, twirling the sword in hand. The knight had played with his opponents before striking them down. How well would he respond to being toyed with the same way? Flashy as it was, armor came at cost of mobility, and now that he had the better weapon, Rune had the upper hand. He darted in, his sword just skirting the man's armor, teasing a blow he could have landed.
The knight's shorter blade darted here and stabbed there, each strike short or swatted away. The noise of the spectators grew anxious, their fear reflected in the face of the knight he faced. Rune kept his own expression still, his mouth grim, his eyes cold and hard as the steel in hand. He circled the older man, taunted him with nicks carved into his gleaming armor.
Anxiety became fury, and with bared teeth and an angry bellow, the knight surged forward. He threw himself into a desperate lunge that drove his short sword toward his enemy's chest. Rune swept his sword upward and knocked the smaller weapon from the knight's hand. He twirled his blade as he caught the man's armor with his free hand and spun, hauling the man closer. The tip of his sword found a gap in armor and plunged into flesh.
Every voice above them fell silent.
Rune shoved the blade deeper. His eyes flicked up to skim the stunned faces of the bowmen perched above the pit. None of them held arrows ready. None of them looked able to draw, their bows beside their knees. He let the knight go and the man's body crumpled to the earth. Not even a whisper could be heard overhead as he turned and walked calmly back to the iron gate from whence he'd come. The other prisoners scattered, staring at him in a mixture of fear and disbelief, an expression mirrored by the guards on the other side of the bars. They heaved the cage wall back as Rune came near and dropped the portcullis behind him, separating him from the prisoners still in the arena.
He held out his hands for the manacles that awaited him, face solemn as the guards fastened his manacles to the lead chain. They pulled him from the cage and he walked with his head held high.
Behind him, the arena erupted in screams of panic and rage.
Redoram blinked at the sound of voices and shuffled across his cell to peer out through the barred door. When he saw the guards, he grimaced, pulled back, and leaned against the wall. Curiosity needled at him like a mosquito's nose, but he pretended not to pay attention. They never came back so quickly, not on arena days.
They sounded angry. Angry and concerned, and they spoke too fast for him to catch much of what was said. Something about combat, something about a knight. Then they came into sight and Redoram frowned. They dragged someone between them. Surely someone hadn't come back alive.
The men threw their captive into the cell across the hallway. The cluster of guards moved in after him. One threw the prisoner's lead chain over a hook in the ceiling and hauled their captive up onto his toes. Redoram saw the first swing of the club, grimaced again, and looked away. He'd seen many a prisoner beaten. He didn't want to see it again.
Closing his eyes didn't help him escape. He didn't have to look, didn't have to see them blacken eyes and bruise ribs, but he couldn't close his ears. The dull thump of clubs striking flesh and the sharp snapping of whips made his stomach churn. This time was different. It wasn't duty that drove the guards; they were angry. It went on far longer than it should have and stilled only when a shout from someone at the front of the prison beckoned the men back out.
Stroking his beard in feigned nonchalance, Redoram turned to look at the guards as if noticing them for the first time. They filed out of the cell and locked it behind them. Dark liquid stained more than two hands.
Only after they were gone did Redoram move forward again and peer across the hallway to see the poor sod who angered them so. When his eyes fell on the bloodied man that struggled to his hands and knees on the prison floor, Redoram's eyebrows lifted.
Beaten and dirty, but still breathing, still alive. The same creature, the same strange whatever-it-was that had left that very cell a scant few hours before.
Redoram glanced toward the front of the prison and listened for the guards. Quiet. They were gone. “I didn't expect you would come back,” he said. Despite their lack of company, he kept his voice low.
Only silence answered.
He frowned and went on. “No one's ever come back from the arena, you know.”
The stranger across the hall looked at him, his peculiar eyes gleaming a baleful red in the dim prison. “I... can imagine... they wouldn't want to,” he wheezed. He managed to sit up, though he gasped and grimaced as he leaned back against the cool stone wall.
“I take it you killed your opponent, then?” Redoram nodded without verification. The look on the other inmate's face made it clear he wouldn't get it. “Well then, I'm afraid you've embroiled yourself in quite a mess of politics.”
The other prisoner's face twisted with displeasure.
Redoram paused and leaned against the bars of his cell's door, trying to get a better look at the stranger on the other side of the prison. Like the guards, he'd thought the prisoner some sort of beast. He chided himself for it now. The fellow was clearly some sort of man, and one with some measure of skill.
“You've had training with a blade?” When he got no reply, Redoram ducked his head in another attempt to get a decent look at his companion's face. It would be just his luck to have them put a man with a decent brain in the opposite cell, only to beat him to death the first time they had a chance. “Rune?” He made a face as the unusual name left his tongue.
“Some,” Rune replied. Just that word seemed to take a great deal of effort. A long moment passed before he spoke again, but when he did, he seemed to have caught his breath. “I thought you said I'd have my magic in the arena?”
“I said I believed you would. And I did. The spectators usually like some fireworks.” Redoram twisted the end of his beard around one finger. Would that the flows were free, so he might properly evaluate the man's Gift. He could feel the spark of it, but couldn't sense how it connected to the energies around them, not when they were both cut off from the source. “If they didn't loose the wards, they were likely afraid of you.”
Again, he received no reply. Redoram sighed and tried to make himself comfortable against the bars. “I know you are weary, but you must listen while we are able to speak. You must understand what you'll be facing now. I didn't expect you to come back alive. The sort of people they send to the arena aren't the sort with the strength to kill a man. The prisoners here are nobody. People in the military are somebody. Somebodies have peculiar ways of avoiding prison, if you see what I'm saying.”
“Then how did a somebody like a high-born mage end up in a cell?” Rune asked, never looking his way.
Redoram hesitated. “Garam Kaith is a good man, but like most good men, he listens when he is given orders.”
“Kaith?”
“The Captain of the Guard. The man who came to visit yesterday, the one with dark skin. Were it up to him, I'm sure I wouldn't be he
re. Then again, I may not stay here forever, if we're clever enough.” The old man smiled to himself. “Now, shall I teach you about the mess you're in?”
Rune turned his head just enough to look across the narrow walkway between their cells. Even as beaten and bloodied as he was, there was still a spark of spirit in his eyes. With luck, that spirit would be enough to pull them through. “I'm listening.”
“Good.” Redoram folded his legs beneath him and rested his knobby hands on his knees. “First, you must understand the men who enter the arena to kill prisoners are among the city's elite. The wealthiest and most powerful of knights, soldiers, and nobles venture into the arena to satisfy their want to kill. It poses little risk to them. The prisoners are usually little more than peasants who were arrested for being drunk and disorderly, or farmers who couldn't pay their taxes. Even if you'd had use of your Gift, the man you faced would have had a mage of his own on the sidelines, ready to shield him. The arena is open only once a week, and only for one round. It takes a great deal of money, power, or influence to be the one in armor on arena day. Sometimes all three.”
“So I've made some high-ranking enemies.” Rune snorted softly and glanced away. “Wouldn't be the first time.”
Redoram raised a brow. “Some enemies, yes. There will be those who seek to avenge the fallen for sake of their allied houses. There will also be those who hope you'll continue to best your opponents, narrowing the field of competition among the Royal City's wealthy.”
Wiping a trickle of dark blood from his upper lip, Rune sighed. “How many do I have to kill before they'll let me out?”
“Let you out?” The old mage chortled. “They don't let anyone out. I've been here for several years already.”
“For expressing an opinion?” Rune asked. Skepticism burned in his tone.
“Indeed.” An opinion that still seemed justified, in Redoram's mind. “But we'll go over that, in time. There's much I need to teach you, if you're to return to the arena. You must know who to kill and who to spare, in order to sway factions in your favor. In essence, the kingdom is split into three provinces. There's a province ruled by the Grand College of Mages in Lore, a province ruled by the ancient Aldaanan, and then Roberian, an agricultural province politically trampled between the two. Swaying one side or another is the only chance you'll have at being pulled out of here.”
