His raspy laugh was the only sound as the guards removed Marcellus' bonds. What they saw on his face caused them to reach for their weapons.
Gile's laughter cut off short. He sneered at Marcellus' murderous expression. "Come now, m'lord, don't do anything rash. You're to die out there, and I won't risk Valdemar's wrath to teach you manners. I'm here to present you with the arms you'll take to the field of battle." He picked up two objects that were leaning against the wall and thrust them at Marcellus.
"Much work went into the craftsmanship." A twisted grin spread across his face. "Have a care how you use them."
It was a sword and shield, at least in theory. The sword was a practice weapon; wooden slats tied together with twine and fitted with a handle, such as used by novices training in swordsmanship. The shield was a flimsy round jest, sheetwood encircled by a rim of flattened metal and nailed loosely together. A child's plaything, something he could punch through with his fist.
Valdemar had been telling the truth. It was to be an execution, not a real fight at all.
Marcellus held his calm as he looked at Gile. "I'll use them well."
He swung the practice sword with all his strength. The slats slapped against Gile's shocked face and held for a second before they burst apart, scoring splinters in the man's cheek and forehead and narrowly missing his good eye. The guards pulled Marcellus away before he could shove the jagged remains into Gile's throat.
Gile clutched his face and howled as droplets of blood spattered from between his fingers. "You bleeding sard! I'd strangle you with your own guts if you didn't have worse coming. You're maggot food, you hear me? The buzzards will have their fill of you!" He continued to curse and threaten as he was led away by a pair of guards.
Marcellus ignored Gile as he hefted the shield. Completely useless.
"Don't force us to kill you," one the guards said. Marcellus hadn't noticed the dozen blades glinting dully in the half-lit chamber. A step forward and all his worries and pain would be over.
Death and glory.
The guard gestured to the doors. "You die in here. Or you die out there."
Marcellus nodded. "I'll die out there."
The guard signaled, and the two at the door grasped the great stone handles and pulled. Muscles knotted in their arms as the massive doors slowly opened. Bright daylight and a cloud of grainy dust rushed in along with a savage, guttural roar; the cries of a thousand hate-filled tongues caught in the ecstasy of bloodlust.
It was Marcellus' blood that they called for.
The sound of their animal howling made the crowds he had passed through earlier seem tame by comparison. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward. The doors quickly slammed behind him. He was left to face the fury of the mob in the most fearsome arena made by human hands.
Alaku Ehus was a massive circular monstrosity hacked out of the earth, carved of granite and sandstone with rows of benched seats leading downward to the arena floor where the hapless victims were separated from the crowd by a thick stone wall. Towering poles were erected haphazardly, engraved with every sort of vulgarity and fixed with blades and spikes of various lengths. The only exits were the doors that shut behind him, and the doors on the opposite side where the other contestants would enter.
As Marcellus became visible, the crowd's roars grew even louder, if that were possible. He felt the waves of pure murderous hatred that bore down upon him, invisible hands that crushed his shoulders and gripped his throat, forcing him to breathe nothing but the choking dust that swirled about the arena.
He raised his mock shield in salute to the mob that hated him.
Trumpets sounded from the balconies, and rose petals rained around the far doors. The noise of the crowd changed from hatred to adulation without pause as dragon banners waved to and fro across the stadium. When the far doors slowly opened with a heavy creaking sound, the crowds cheered as though they were the gates to the heavens.
Marcellus' heart tried to beat its way out of his chest.
Now!
Ducking low, he sprinted forward as all eyes turned to the emerging Lord of Bruallia.
Valdemar Basilis emerged from the gloom of the tunnel, a dark god riding on a magnificent fiery-colored steed that stepped as if it were the king of horses. A dragon-emblazoned scarlet surcoat covered the warlord's gleaming black mail. His dragon-engraved helmet was equipped with heavy leather lames that fell to his shoulders. A scarlet-lined silk cape fluttered behind him to complete his look of the triumphant conqueror. As the flower petals drifted upon his head and shoulders, he raised gloved hands to the crowds who worshiped him.
Marcellus ducked low from one graven pole to the next, trying to stay out of the line of sight of Valdemar. By then the crowds had noticed his approach and roared in outrage, but Valdemar could not possibly know what they shouted. Sweat slicked Marcellus' face; the frantic beating of his heart drowned out the sound of the enraged mob.
Seconds had passed. Seconds were all he had left.
His injured leg throbbed, threatening to buckle under the pressure. A deranged snarl ripped from his throat as he cleared the last pole and bolted forward desperately. He gripped the shield as if it were a large discus. He had been a fair throw when competing in the Great Games. He would have to be perfect with his cast.
Valdemar emerged completely from the doors. They would close any moment.
The warlord turned. There was no shock in his face, no hesitation as he unsheathed his sword with all the speed of a striking cobra.
At that moment Marcellus hurled the shield.
It hummed as it left his hand. For a moment he feared he had aimed too low, but as if guided by an unseen force the shield suddenly tilted upwards, catching Valdemar directly under the chin. It exploded in a burst of splintered wood.
The sword sailed upwards, glinting in the morning light. Marcellus never stopped running, and as Valdemar tilted backward, he leaped onto the saddle and shoved Valdemar off. The warlord unceremoniously toppled to the ground in a burst of powdery dust.
Marcellus caught the hilt of the sword as it fell, striking the doorman who rushed out to aid his master. The great stallion whinnied and reared wildly. Valdemar rolled on the ground, snarling as he tried to avoid being trampled by his horse. Blood trickled unheeded from his face.
How many seconds have passed? How many do I have left?
Marcellus fought the stallion down. It was a Barbar, one of the rare breeds raised in the desert men called the Sea of Sand by nomad tribes that made their fortune in breeding and racing. Their great size, speed, and power characterized them from other racing breeds, in addition to their smaller heads and narrow muzzles. Shadowdancer had been such a horse. Marcellus knew how to handle their kind.
He jerked the reigns so that the stallion's flanks crushed the second doorman against the wall. As the man's bones cracked, Marcellus looked into the tunnel. Incensed guards ran toward him. Behind him, furious Bruallians–soldiers and peasants, priests and commoners–leaped and clambered down the walls. Heedless of the drop that caused many to damage themselves, they leaped on top of one another and staggered toward the scene. Those least injured raced to protect their lord and tear his attacker to pieces.
Valdemar's face was pure murder as he rose to his feet.
Now.
Marcellus roared and dug his heels in the horse's flanks. The stallion shot into the tunnel with a wall-vibrating neigh. The approaching guards had the option of leaping out the way or being trampled. Most chose the former, though one not swift enough met his end under the flashing hooves. Marcellus swung, and the only guard who thought to bring a bow fell with a gurgled scream.
The only thing louder than the stallion and the yells of the guards was the scream of feral rage that tore from Valdemar's throat; a savage roar of pure hate that swelled and chased them up the tunnel.
Sunlight tried its best to creep through the cracks of the exit door to show Marcellus how close freedom was. Only tw
o guards barred the way. They drew swords, but fear shimmered in their eyes as they beheld him racing up the tunnel with a bloody sword in his hand.
They leaped out of the way as the stallion lowered his head and turned slightly to ram the barred doors with his shoulder. The heavy-hinged gate exploded outward as if made of rotted wood.
They sailed out of the stadium tunnel in an eruption of splinters, straight into the crowd outside. Spectators fell over one another in their haste to leap out of the way.
The stallion once again attempted to throw Marcellus. The people leaped back as he tried to fight the horse down. A few applauded as they watched him determinedly hang on somehow, unaware that he had just struck down their beloved lord.
His arms and legs trembled. It had already taken much to endure the abuse of the crowd, coupled with the half-healed wounds that still hounded him. But freedom perfumed his nostrils; the wind stroked his face and stirred his hair as though welcoming him home.
Guards broke through the cheering crowd, brandishing their weapons and yelling for him to dismount. Pandemonium resulted as they wrestled with the crowd to reach him while the people ran the opposite way to stay clear of the fighting.
Marcellus used the moment of panic to spur the stallion forward and shoot through the crowds. A wildfire flared in his chest as his heart pounded with the need, the animal urge to escape. Freedom or death were his only options.
Freedom or death.
Chapter 13: Valdemar
Valdemar gave the blade a vicious twist before pulling it out of the guard's belly. The man gurgled and lay still. Livid crowds buzzed around about like bees whose hive had just been robbed. They jammed the tunnel in numbers so thick that Valdemar was sure he could hear men choking to death from the lack of air.
Mindless fools.
He stabbed the guard one more time for good measure. The man should have been quicker. Marcellus would never have escaped if he had.
Just like you? You had him in your grasp and let him shame you in front of all your people. How does the great Lord feel now?
He slapped his temples with gauntleted hands. "Shut up, shut up!"
General Ganbatar Basilis pushed through the crowd along with a squad of knights in the glistening black and crimson scale armor of the Dragonist Order. Ganbatar had opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it shut at Valdemar's outburst. Valdemar glared at him, knowing he looked a disgrace. His raiment was soiled, blood dried in his thick mustache and tracked down his chin and neck.
"He will go west, toward the Dragonspine. But he will not get far; he is not familiar with the city. We will be able to get through faster and can cut him off before he can escape. Do not fire arrows at the man–you may hit Daemon. The horse must not be injured. And most importantly, Marcellus Admorran is to be brought to me alive. Now get me away from this filth." He flicked his hand toward the milling crowd. "And find me a decent mount. I will ride with you."
The Dragonists saluted and immediately cleared a path through the mob. They battered with their shields, sword pommels, and when necessary, the edge of their swords. Valdemar walked in their midst without regard as his thoughts pursued a frantic knight on a fiery steed.
MINUTES LATER HE TROTTED down the dusty streets surrounded by his Dragonists. Spectators swiftly found other places to be as black-garbed soldiers filled the lanes–the entire army unleashed on the city. It was only a matter of time. There was no chance the man could have cleared the winding streets. It was difficult to find a quick route even to those native to it.
Inside, Valdemar seethed. He was only too aware of how difficult Marcellus had made his situation. He–Lord of Bruallia, humbled by the legend of Leodia in full view of practically everyone in the city. The talk would surely spread like the plague. He would make an exceptionally painful example of Marcellus once they caught the man. And they would catch him. It was only a matter of time.
It was only chance that the flash of red caught his eye and compelled him to peer down the cramped alley. On the other side, a man sat atop a large crimson stallion. A man whose eyes searched desperately until they met Valdemar's own.
Even as Valdemar's mouth opened in a furious roar, Marcellus booted Daemon forward and out of sight. The alley was too cramped for even a single horse to enter, so Valdemar was forced to wheel his borrowed mount around until he raced down an adjacent street. He could hear his guard following but didn't care if they kept up or not. He caught glimpses of his quarry as they flashed along the streets. They both spurred their horses as though in the races.
An arrow whizzed by Marcellus' head. Archers ran on the rooftops, following his flight. They did not hit him, however. Valdemar noticed with satisfaction that they missed purposely; striking the nearest building to mark his path so the others could follow.
A horn bellowed, and black-garbed men on foot and horse spilled forward like ants behind Valdemar. His horse leaped over a hedge wall, hooves shattering the top bricks as it barely cleared it. Valdemar ruthlessly spurred it even faster.
The streets came alive with soldiers. They flooded over the wall as Valdemar and Marcellus streaked ahead. The city was left behind, and the street opened to a view Valdemar knew Marcellus had dreamed of seeing—the distant, jagged points of the Dragonspine.
But he was determined to make sure that view would be Marcellus' last. He pulled sharply and exploded from the foliage nearly on top of Marcellus, whose eyes widened in surprise. Valdemar's sword flashed. Marcellus managed to parry, but the force of the blow knocked the weapon out of his hand. Valdemar raised his arm again, wild with the urge to kill. Marcellus jerked the reins and the horses collided, giving him the chance to grab Valdemar's upraised arm. They grappled, snarling with mirrored fury as the sword flashed between them.
Unbelievably, Valdemar's own stolen horse decided enough was enough. Daemon turned and savagely bit the other steed on the neck, forcing its head downward. With a curse, Valdemar flung himself away as the horse toppled. Marcellus somehow managed to keep his grip on the pommel of the saddle and was lost in a cloud of dust.
Valdemar rolled quickly to avoid being trampled by his riders. He stood slowly, ignoring the pain as he furiously watched his quarry escape again. Pain was for lesser men–like mercy, like love. Such things did not touch the Lord of Bruallia.
He caught the saddle of the next horse that passed, snatched himself up, and unhorsed the soldier that rode. That the man was immediately trodden made no difference to him. His soldiers had sworn to die for him, and he would have them fulfill that vow at one time or another. He flogged the horse's neck with the bridle ends and dug in its ribs until he joined the riders up front. The knight had the better mount, but Valdemar knew where the road ended.
The sparse brush and thicket gave way to rocky plain, and Daemon ran as if he never meant to stop; as if running was a dream finally realized. Valdemar signaled his men to pull rein. Marcellus still was at full gallop, but he had to pull up short as Valdemar expected. Even with his back turned, the knight's disappointment was obvious.
A hundred spans away, the ground simply ran out. Nothing lay beyond except clouds and empty space. Somewhere deep in the canyon was the River Hun, the border between Bruallia and Komura. Marcellus could go nowhere.
It was over.
Valdemar exhaled softly as Gile Noman pulled up. The one-eyed foreigner had been the one to deliver Marcellus from the battlefield, but Valdemar still did not trust the man completely. He was just a paid sword, a man loyal to no one.
"He's just beyond arrow range, m'lord. You want for us to pull forward?"
"No. Stay where you are." Valdemar brought his horse forward a few spans, shadowed by two of his Dragonists.
"Marcellus Admorran!" He spread his arms. "You have nowhere to go. Come, return my horse in peace and I will grant you a clean death right here, upon my honor. You have proven your valor, and you deserve that much."
Marcellus' face was unreadable from the distance. For a moment all was quiet. The w
ind tugged at cloaks and scattered dust in stinging clouds as he looked from white-filled canyon beyond to where Valdemar and his company stood expectantly.
Marcellus wheeled Daemon around and faced the misty chasm.
No.
Valdemar opened his mouth, but Daemon had already trotted forward. His speed picked up, and then he flew. The edge of the cliff rushed toward them. Nothing was real except the sound of iron-shod hooves tearing great clods of earth apart as steely muscles took horse and rider to the end of the world.
Rock and pebbles exploded as Daemon leaped like an eagle soaring, legs outstretched as though the stallion believed it could fly. Marcellus released the bridle and threw back his arms, whether in triumph or surrender Valdemar could not tell. Beneath them was nothing but pure white cloud, and they sailed above as though borne on wings.
Then they fell.
Chapter 14: Marcellus
The stallion dipped forward with flailing limbs. His screaming whinny forced Marcellus to open his eyes.
That was when he saw it.
Cloud had hidden it, but in front of them was the gray, slightly dampened rock of the facing cliff. The horse had already missed it, but as it continued to fall, Marcellus leaped with his feet on the saddle. He knew it was an impossible chance even as he launched forward. The wind howled and seemed to push him across the void as his arms desperately stretched.
His breath exploded from his lungs when he slammed into the cliff face and slid, grabbing at anything. The ground was moist; the soft rock came apart in his hands. His fingers dug grooves in the stone as his descent continued.
He found thick green branches and clutched them in sheer desperation. The brush tore partway out, but the roots managed to hold. The shock of the sudden stop sent jolts of pain from his shoulders to fingers, but he hung on with all his strength. Stone and dust powdered his head and shoulders; his legs dangled precariously over empty air. Below him, the clouds swallowed the stallion as he continued to fall; his terrified whinny filled the canyon. Despite Marcellus' danger, he felt a stab of sadness to see another great steed die because of him.
The Eye of Everfell Page 14
