by Ben Galley
‘Can you do it?’
Krugis levelled a sausage-like finger at Irien. ‘You,’ he grunted. ‘better get me that commission. And a hundred silver leaves for my trouble.’
A silk purse of coins landed on the workbench before Farden even saw Irien dip into a pocket.
‘It’ll take me some time,’ said Krugis.
‘How long?’
‘All this? Three days, maybe more to reforge the sword as well.’
Another handful of coins joined the purse. ‘Make sure it’s two.’
As Krugis began to examine the armour in more detail, the others left the forge and escaped into fresher, cooler air. All except Farden. He found a tree stump nearby and perched his weary bones on it.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Irien.
‘You think I’m going to leave my armour here, with a stranger, in a city I’ve never seen before?’
Irien scoffed. ‘Krugis is a reputable smith, famous for leagues around.’
‘I trust nobody.’
Irien chuckled and stared instead at the central tower that speared the Viscera’s underbelly. A passerby caught her attention instead. ‘If it isn’t Antor Sleck! Always a displeasure,’ she cried.
Farden and the others turned to see the man with the bulbous hat once more. The man Farden had throttled against a wall. The mage glared at him.
Antor sketched a bow. ‘The Lady of Whispers. It’s nice to see you in Vensk for once. You must enjoy the one week a year you are allowed into your own city.’
Irien admired the crossbow on her left arm, checking the bolt and tensed strings with a musical note. ‘I enjoy it as much as I can with the riffraff they allow in these days. It seems anyone can be a patron. Who is it you’ve entered this year?’
The question made Antor’s throat bob up and down. ‘I am still considering several fighters.’
‘Time’s running out while the price goes up, Antor,’ warned Irien. ‘You’ll get the hang of it one year.’
Crushed, the man muttered something impolite as he and his sour-faced guards wandered off into the maze beneath the Viscera.
‘I am somewhat… banished from Vensk and most of Golikar. The Tourney week is open to all. It’s the only time I am allowed back to my home,’ Irien explained. It was the first time she had appeared irked by anything.
Farden nodded, not wishing to pick at that scab of conversation.
‘Will you not watch?’ Irien asked of Farden. ‘Or do you plan to sit here for three days? You know I can vouch for this smith.’
Farden shook his head. ‘I don’t mean to be rude. I trust nobody with that armour.’
‘Then forgive me, but watching the Tourney is the high point of my year. I must head above,’ said Irien. Farden caught her eye before she turned. She looked disappointed.
Farden arched his shoulders and leaned his elbows on his thighs. Drums thundered above them in the Viscera, so loud he felt their throb in his ribs.
Aspala sat beside Farden. Now awake, Krugis’ dog came out from under the bench to sniff at his master’s customers. He was the kind of hound with drooping eyes and jowls, and with a slow shuffle to his walk. Aspala held her hands out and let the hound lick her fingers. ‘Are you really going to wait for three days?’ she asked.
‘If I have to. I’ve never had much trust for smiths. Something to do with a fake silver mirror decades ago.’
‘Then I will stay too.’
Farden nodded, thankful for company for once. He made conversation. ‘What does that golden sword mean to you?’
‘Perhaps not as much as your armour means to you.’ Her dark skin creased as she smiled. ‘It is a symbol of freedom. You know what Malvus did to Paraia. He enslaved half of us to build his roads and his armies. The rest he persecuted for their rebellion and forced to fight in arenas just like this one. At least these fighters choose their own fate.’
Farden finally understood the curious scowl that had sat on Aspala’s face for most of the morning.
‘We are a free people, as you know,’ she said. ‘No queen or king has ever ruled over Paraia, not from Troacles to Galadaë. Our gods do not even rule us. So it was, I rebelled.’ The Paraian wrinkled her nose in disgust as if the memories offended her. ‘This was my mother’s sword. She was the captain of a rich trader’s guard, the kind of woman born with a sword in her hand, and she taught me all she knew of blades and spilling blood. I could put up a fight before I could walk. Useful on the long caravan journeys to the rich south. I was a woman myself when Malvus started to worm his way into Paraia. When he started levying taxes on merchants and markets, the trader refused. He was arrested and beaten. My mother was a loyal kind, and she stepped in to defend him.’ Aspala turned to face Farden. ‘They executed her along with the whole caravan, along with the raider’s family, too. They took my mother’s head right there in the market square. Before the axe reached my neck, I managed to escape and spent the next few years getting my sword back from the Arka executioner who had taken it as a prize. I took his head as payment and began to journey north to Scalussen to fight for you. I will never forget the day I saw Modren’s bookship off the Cape of Glass. The rest, as you Emaneska say, is history.’
The mention of Modren had thrown Farden off. Sharp needles of emotion prickled his eyes. ‘He saved so many,’ he whispered. ‘Including me.’
Scraping a line in the dirt with his heel and clearing his throat, he pointed to the minotaur. ‘And you, Warbringer. How does a minotaur come by a hammer like yours?’ asked Farden. ‘One that captures souls? I’ve never heard anything like it.’
The ghosts within Voidaran screeched as Warbringer swung it with little effort. ‘It came to us from the stars. From gods.’
‘How so?’
Warbringer’s big claws drew a sharp line through the air. ‘Fell one night from the sky. Onto head of oldest and first Warbringer. He was in middle of execution. The bloodmonger that was saved named hammer Voidaran. Means Dark Saviour. Realised it stole souls every time it killed. He was first to unite the clans. We say it come from our god Dotharadine. Every Warbringer of my clan carry it since. Now me, like mother before. This is why I understand you, King. To die so far from Efjar would mean clan loses Voidaran.’
‘Where are the others?’ Mithrid yelled over the roar of the Viscera. It filled her ears, rattled her bones. She had tried several times to take it all in and failed. The crowds were a colossal whirlpool of motion around the main bowl shape of the Viscera. Streamers and petals filled the air to such a degree Mithrid couldn’t make out the far side of the arena.
Irien had to lean close to be heard. ‘Your mage trusts my smith so little he has stayed to watch him finish the job.’
Durnus tutted. ‘Gods, does he love that armour.’
Mithrid dared once again to look over the edge of Irien’s private balcony within the masses.
They sat upon a shelf that encircled the Viscera. There was nothing but a disgustingly long drop and the sea of people. Beyond them, another drop to the floor of the arena: a vast oval of dust and peach-coloured clay. A broad pillar sat at its centre. It was so tall to be level with Mithrid, and at its top, a flat platform surrounded. Banners plastered its battlements. A varnished wooden bell hung above the platform. And pride of place beneath it, on a pedestal surrounded by flowers, was what looked to be the resemblance of a decapitated head, made of stone.
‘Is that…?’ Mithrid began to ask.
‘The Head of Sigrimur? Yes indeed,’ Irien confirmed. ‘Your prize is gifted to the Queen of Golikar by last year’s surviving champion. It is blessed with the soil of the Viscera and raised to the pillar. It stays there alongside the royalty until a new champion emerges.’
Durnus seemed content with that explanation, but Mithrid was not. She still had questions, but the Viscera had begun to fill with the fighters, one by one.
Men and women entered the Viscera to thunderous roars. Most ascended by lifts embedded in the clay. The others walked in via an archw
ay at the far side. The first of the fighters were human. Several beastpeople like Aspala followed. One immense woman was covered in scales like a dragon-rider. Mithrid wouldn’t have been surprised if she was Eyrum’s long lost sister.
‘Only one wins, right?’ asked Durnus.
‘Correct.’
Mithrid chimed in. ‘Aren’t they worried about the odds?’
‘No, child,’ Irien said. ‘Because they think they’re the best and they’re willing to bet their lives on it. It’s solely down to the Viscera to teach them whether they’re right or wrong.’
It sounded too great a risk to Mithrid, but even then, she scanned the growing lines of fighters. Women and men with fierce faces and more scars than could be counted. She silently matched herself against each of them, and wondered – with a cold feeling in her gut – whether she could have survived the Viscera. Even without her dark magick.
The roar of the Viscera verged on deafening. Even without it, the ringing hammers of the smiths and general hubbub beneath the arena would have done the job.
With their conversation muted, Aspala and Warbringer stared up at the Viscera’s foundations. There hammering of feet and fists and clapping hands made the ground tremble. The chips of bark and leaves quivered around Farden’s feet, where the hound had decided to curl up. He only stared at the smith, watching him as he examined the mage’s vambraces. Farden’s jaw clenched but he kept himself still.
Another wave of dizziness came, and he fought it off bitterly. Farden kept brushing his arms as if the rough feel of his own skin was foreign to him. He stared down at his hands and found them trembling as he clawed his remaining fingers back and forth. Perhaps it was his tired eyes, but he swore they had never looked so gaunt. Scarred, yes, but wrinkles bunched at his knuckles. His veins looked black in the low light at the roots of Vensk. He felt beaten by the quest already. He could not wait to have his armour fixed, and rid himself of the hideous feeling of time gnawing at him. Taking greater chunks of him each day. Farden caught the smith’s eye over the red and gold scales of the vambrace. Krugis glowered before turning away, a hammer in one hand.
It took a moment to realise what the discomfort was. He was nervous. Scared, even. The armour and its magick had been one of the few dependable constants in his arduous existence. He feared losing it more than he feared losing a limb. He had avoided the crushing wheels of time for so long that he was now petrified of them. And now, to his horror, it seemed they were seeking to catch up with him. There was no ignoring it: the magick of his armour was fading slowly but surely. Time was his enemy now. Farden snarled and pushed the worry deep within as he always did, as if he were stone instead of flesh. Stone had no heart to ache. Farden clenched his fists, and fought back the tear that threatened to escape down his cheek.
Farden looked up to see Warbringer was licking her lips. She was looking at a small flock of sheep corralled between the forges and factories. They constantly circled their pen in an off-white circle.
‘What is it, Warbringer?’
‘Hungry.’
‘You’re always hungry.’
Warbringer smacked a fist against her stomach. The muscles beneath her matted charcoal hair barely flinched. ‘Bigger than you. And I am starved of pink-flesh. Not the same.’
The minotaur was already taking steps to where steam and smoke drifted, from kitchens further into the gloom of the tree trunks.
Between the smell of hot steel and charcoal, Farden could taste something enticing. Something with spices and roast meats. It caused his insides to growl, but he stayed put.
‘I could eat,’ Aspala shouted over the noise.
Farden shook his head. ‘You two go hunt down some food if you wish. I’m staying right here.’
Patting their stomachs, Aspala and Warbringer began to drift away. Farden closed his eyes.
Fifty… fifty-one… Mithrid counted as each fighter entered.
Once they had taken their place in the growing lines, they turned to the pillar at the centre of the Viscera and bowed, saluted, or knelt in honour. That was where the royalty of Golikar sat, or so Irien informed them. The queen of Golikar and her princely-looking harem were hidden somewhere between the streamers and petals. And now orange and red smoke, lit by spectators far below her. It was a riot of colour and noise, not diminishing for a moment.
Sixty-four, sixty-five.
Farden’s stomach rumbled for the dozenth time. There was nothing like the power of hunger after a night of wine. It had become painful.
The mage was torn. Krugis hadn’t turned around in a while, busy at work with fine tools and layers of spectacles.
Farden cursed quietly to himself. The noise from above was beginning to grate on him. It only seemed to get louder. Contender after contender was fed into the core of the Viscera. Farden could see them rising up in winch-lifts into the arena’s belly. Crowds were now milling around the workshops, making arrangements for the week. It reminded Farden of Scalussen Underspire and the forges that never slept. It certainly sounded like them.
Again, his stomach protested.
‘Damn it,’ Farden hissed as he got to his feet. Boots crunching on the dry loam and dirt and taking nothing but the ornate knife, Farden walked in the direction Aspala and Warbringer had disappeared. He felt strangely light without his armour encasing him. His pale tunic moved too freely. His trews felt baggy. Farden felt as if he jumped he’d end up on a rooftop.
There were makeshift streets through the mess of low buildings. Beasts bayed from pens and paddocks. Children scampered about, running errand after errand, only stopping to clamour around the fighters. And still no sign of horns above the crowds.
‘Aspala!’ Farden called out, voice useless again the roar of the Viscera. ‘Warbringer!’
An old woman bent over an anvil whistled to him. ‘Looking for that cow creature?’
Farden glared. ‘A minotaur, you mean?’
She shrugged. ‘Guess so. My husband took ’em to the sculleries.’ As the woman pointed, Farden glimpsed Warbringer’s broad back disappearing between smoke.
Farden left without thanks, eager not to lose them. Had he lingered or bothered to turn, he might have questioned the woman’s wolfish smirk.
Instead, Farden pressed on.
‘Aspala!’
Eighty-seven… Though the crowd of fighters now seemed huge, the Viscera was still vastly empty.
Durnus’ voice cracked as he tried to be heard. ‘Are any of these fighters mages, or wizards, Irien?’
The vampyre’s question snapped the Lady of Whispers from her reverie.
‘You Emaneskans and your magick. It does not solve everything, and there are plenty in Golikar and the Easterealm who see it as a problem to be solved,’ replied the Lady of Whispers. ‘No magick whatsoever is allowed in the Scarlet Tourney. No charmed or magick weapons, either. Only sharp edges, strength, speed, cunning. It is a true fight, and that is why there are only two fighters to a bout. See those bars around the edges of the Viscera? Those are the cells where the fighters stay for the next five days under the queen’s guard. They are tended by their retinues, fed, healed, have their armour and weapons repaired, and even have whores delivered, but they may not leave the Viscera once they enter it. The tradition is supposed to keep them from cheating or killing each other, really. Most of the time it works.’
A fanfare of trumpets cut Irien short and deafened Mithrid. Durnus clamped his hands over his ears. Even shut his eyes, if that would help.
‘What’s happening?’ Mithrid yelled.
Irien put on a beaming smile. ‘The Scarlet Tourney is about to begin! Just watch, my dears, and you will see.’
‘Aspala!’
Farden ducked through a waft of steam that smelled vaguely of rotten cabbage. Wincing against the light of a lantern, he could barely see them ahead, but they were walking fast, and Farden was still weak. Or hungover. Possibly both, he cursed inwardly. He spared a moment to catch his breath, and realised that they had
wandered past the edge of the buildings, along paddocks of nervous cows. Machinery for the Viscera clanked loudly. Water ran through puddles and rivulets here, making the ground boggy. Hardly a soul could be seen except the unmistakable figure of Warbringer, two more smaller silhouettes by her side.
There, Farden saw them: shapes emerging from the herds of cows, dressed in black and baring clubs. Farden tried to shout, but the machinery was too loud. The bandits, whoever they were, had chosen a fine spot to strike.
Farden drew his knife and begun to catch up when the first figures pounced on Warbringer. There were at least a dozen of them, sprawled across her back and arms like cats on a curtain. Their clubs hammered at her skull. For every one she plucked off with her claws or crushed senseless with Voidaran, another two pounced on her. Aspala was mobbed in moments, driven into the ground. Even so, she managed to break the necks of one and kick one so hard in the face his nose had disappeared.
Farden ran all the faster, ignoring the aches that stabbing him in the back and legs.
They had somehow dragged Voidaran from Warbringer’s fist. Her roars grew in ferocity, overriding the machinery and roar of the Viscera. One man she simply bit the face from before using him as a makeshift hammer.
A score of dead lay around her, and yet still more of the attackers appeared. Ropes had appeared. They lassoed the minotaur’s horns first, then her arms and hooves. Warbringer managed to gore two of the bastards with her horns before they dropped her. Writhing and bellowing, they began to drag her and Aspala onto a sloped wagon. They worked painfully fast. The mage ran breathlessly for them.
Farden was a spear’s throw from them when the trumpets sounded. The fanfare was ear-splitting even outside the Viscera. When Farden’s looked back, he found a dozen shadows blocking his path. All of them hovered on the edge of the nearest lantern, casting an arc around him. Their faces were plain wooden masks, two black eyes punched in the middle to make them ghoulish.
‘Get him!’ one hissed, conveniently driving his fellows forwards before him. In pairs, they came at the mage, clubs raised.
