“Friends and citizens,” said Avarice. “I welcome you to the Gilded Amphitheater. The spectacle you are about to be treated to is in honor of High Princess Kastet Alquin, second heir to the throne of Hearthold and the Realm of Merinia.
“Ten years ago, I forbade the gladiators of Veridan’s Coast from partaking in blood bouts under the penalty of exile. Today, in honor of High Princess Kastet, who hails from mainland Merinia where no such prohibition exists, I will wave this restriction.”
Damon blinked, the meaning in the words sinking in once, twice, three times before he truly understood.
“Two brave, honorable warriors have entered the arena,” said Avarice. “Only one shall depart alive.”
CHAPTER 43
The crowd let out a savage roar of approval in response to Avarice’s words. Damon stared up at the Godking, noting the sudden shift in Princess Kastet’s expression.
She was surprised to an extent that made him think that the blood bout hadn’t been her idea, an assumption immediately reinforced by the way she moved to Avarice’s side and whispered something into his ear.
Avarice smiled, seeming unmoved by whatever concern the princess had expressed. It was as much a statement of the power balance between the Godking and his Merinian allies as anything could be, and left Damon wondering if perhaps Kastet was more of a pampered hostage than an honored guest.
Avarice waved to the crowd, his eyes passing once more over the two gladiators as he lowered himself back into his seat. Damon felt a sudden urge to scream at him, his anger shifting from the Godking to Len as another realization took hold.
He drew the new sword Len had brought him and touched a finger to its edge, which as expected, was razor sharp. Austine flinched back, staring at Damon with an expression as deep set into confusion as he’d ever seen it.
“Len set us up!” he shouted. “The guards, Aust! We can talk to them. They can’t force us to fight.”
He knew even as he spoke the words aloud that the sentiment was desperate and hollow. The nearest guard made a show of ignoring Damon as he shouted his appeal, lowering his spear to point at Damon’s chest as he attempted to draw near the exit leading back to the pits.
“Do not belabor this further, brave gladiators,” boomed the Godking. “The crowd wishes their entertainment, as do I, and as does the princess.”
“We could attack the guards…” said Damon, his voice betraying his growing despair.
Austine drew his sword and gave a slow, resolved nod. “So be it. Damon… may the True Divine forgive us both.”
He attacked, and even though Damon saw it coming and had plenty of time, he still fumbled his block. The sound of the first touch of their swords, metal chiming against metal, was suffocated by the crowd’s booming reaction.
The surreal, empty moment in between strikes fed into Damon’s gut-wrenching horror like fresh air against a dry grass fire. Austine stared at him with eyes that said so much and yet so very little.
It was hard, near impossible, to hold that gaze. To accept the paradox presented by knowing that the man who was undoubtedly his best friend might be seconds away from killing him.
“Aust!” he shouted.
He felt like a child. The only thing that kept him from crying, from actually crying in front of a crowd of thousands of jeering onlookers, was his hardened performance persona, the trick of tensing his jaw and blinking a bit faster than normal to steady his emotions through physical impulse.
They met with swords again, gleaming blades clashing in the sunlight twice in quick succession before each dodged past the other. The fight was almost progressing along the same routine they’d discussed early, the movements faster and far more dangerous, but the pacing a near perfect match.
Damon kept expecting Austine to break character, to fling his weapon aside and appeal to the judgment of the crowd and the Godking and the aggressive guards. It never happened, and his hope made what he saw in his friend’s expression feel that much more like a betrayal.
There was a resolve in both the set of his eyes and the thin line of his mouth. It was so much worse and so much more than just seeing that Austine was desperate to be the one who lived.
Rather, it was as though Austine’s chosen strategy under the pressure of the moment was to win the subtle battle of mentalities, the inner clash of confidence and self-worth.
To make Damon look away first. To catch him with the feints and dirty tricks that he’d always hated and been vulnerable to. To win, to survive, even if it took cannibalizing the essence of years of devoted friendship.
Austine blurred left. Damon swung, feeling his blade catch as the other man blocked and immediately whirling into a reverse strike. Austine dodged back and countered with an overhead slash, which Damon dodged. He cut low. Austine jumped high.
They were both the best at what they did, and what they did was sword fighting. Performing at their level had developed within them a level of skill and instinct far beyond most talented duelists, specifically because of the restraints, the fact that their fights needed to go on for longer and approach the edge of death more dramatically than most warriors even considered possible.
The crowd, in Damon’s honest opinion, was reprehensible in its collective excitement. Men and women were screaming, louder and more reactive to each and every movement than they ever had been during his previous, carefully rehearsed bouts.
It all seemed so pointless, the choreography, the effort, the storytelling they’d attempted through combat, all just a distracting veneer painted over the bloodlust of the mob.
Damon was suddenly on the defensive, blocking a series of cuts and slashes that surprised him more with intensity rather than form.
The surrealness of the fight hit him again, and he could almost convince himself that it was just practice. Like the time they’d worked on a new routine after a few rounds at the tavern, the careless strength, the impulsive commitments.
He made as though to block one of Austine’s side slashes and dodged at the last second instead. It left him with an opportunity to attack, one which he took a second too long to consider and let pass him by.
Austine whirled, cutting in a spinning arc. Damon hopped back an instant too late, the tip of his friend’s sword tearing open both his jerkin and the top layer of skin across his chest.
There was a moment of numbness followed by stinging pain and the distinct sense of a wound warning him not to make a wrong move unless he wanted it to tear further open. He felt the true depths of his doubt, realizing that Austine knew the nature of his every move, the core of his every weakness.
But he couldn’t lose. True Divine, he simply could not lose. Damon leaned into his speed, the one advantage he’d always had over Austine. He alternated between defense, counter attacks, and vicious assaults, falling into the rhythm of the fight.
A part of him enjoyed it. Most of him despised it. He pushed Austine back, attacking fast enough to force a stumble. Again, he hesitated, but so did his friend, catching his breath rather than seizing the opening.
“Did you know?” he asked.
Austine blinked, his expression breaking into fury as he shook his head. “You would ask me that, Damon? Truly? Rovahn’s balls, of course I didn’t!”
“Then why?” he shouted. “If we worked together, we could—”
“We could what?” snapped Austine. “Die together? Against the guards? Against the Godking?”
The crowd roared, responding to their body language if not their words.
“You’re my friend, Damon,” hissed Austine. “You’re more than that. A brother, really. That’s why at least one of us needs to continue on, regardless of what it takes.”
Damon could hear the honesty in Austine’s voice, the belief and commitment he had to the sentiment. He’d always been that way, so capable of making a decision and sticking to it, hesitation and self-doubt be damned. It made Damon furious to see that side of him surfacing now, in a context with actual, deadly conse
quences.
He harnessed that anger, attacking Austine with a series of his best slashes, angling toward the weak points he’d normally have avoided, rather than exploited. He was snarling, flinging every ounce of muscle in his body into brutal, punishing strikes.
They fell into a series of attacks and counters that was almost identical to one of their more impressive routines, which gave Damon a sudden idea. There was a spinning slash at the end which Austine would be expecting in the routine. If he replaced it with a thrust or low sweep…
The idea felt too vile, too underhanded for him to use against a friend. Damon committed to the spinning slash as he normally would have, perhaps a bit faster and a bit harder, but otherwise no different from how he would have thrown it in practice.
There was no sharp clang, no stiff recoil. He felt the edge of his sword sink into Austine’s torso, barely even slowing down as it found an angle to dig through muscle and side of his ribs. Damon stared in disbelief as his friend stumbled, falling sideways, blood spurting freely, too much blood.
“Austine…” he said. He couldn’t hear his own voice over the surge of cheers from the crowd, clapping hands and stomping feet, a disgusting amount of enthusiasm.
He came back to the world, to what was happening, and immediately went to his friend’s side. He made a pathetic attempt at trying to apply pressure to the wound he’d just created, cradling Austine, shaking his head in disbelief, frustration, and an incomparable sense of guilt.
“You were supposed to block…” hissed Damon. “It’s always a block there.”
Austine coughed, spraying a fine mist of blood on Damon’s face. He perked his eyebrows up and somehow managed a smile. “I know.”
“Did you…?”
“Nah,” muttered Austine. “Maybe… I was distracted.”
“Bullshit.”
“I saw a pretty face in the crowd,” muttered Austine. “Blonde hair. You know the one.”
“You’re not going to die.” Damon squeezed his hand tighter against the oozing gash in his friend’s side, only relenting when he saw the way it made him wince. “You idiot. You can’t die.”
“This was it,” said Austine. “This was the best fight we ever had. Best performance, too. So dramatic.”
Damon smeared blood on his face in an attempt to figure out why his eyes felt so hot and blurry. “Yeah… I guess it was.”
“Make sure Len dies for this, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Austine’s veneer of stoic calm finally broke. His face contorted in pain, and tears began streaming down his cheeks. It only lasted for a couple of seconds before his stare became blank, unfocused, and empty. Damon felt the exact moment when his best friend took his last breath.
CHAPTER 44
“A champion has arisen,” boomed the Godking Avarice. “Damon Al-Kendras. You have fought with true honor and valor on this day.”
Damon was moving before he even knew what he was doing. He lifted his sword, still slick and crimson with Austine’s blood, and hurled it into the stands, at the heart of Avarice himself.
It was a good throw, imbued with all the strength he had left. His blade arced through the air, spinning point to hilt, crossing the distance toward its target.
It melted and fell to the ground as it came within a dozen feet of the Godking’s aura, liquid metal steaming and dripping across one of the lower seats.
The sapphires inset into the hilt briefly caught the sun as they bounced out of sight. The crowd seemed to hesitate before surging with a variety of reactions, cheers and screams and plenty of anger directed toward Damon.
A rock struck him on the shoulder, followed by a deluge of additional projectiles as more of the crowd opted to fling whatever they could find at him. Damon neither flinched away nor tried to shield himself. He simply stared up at Avarice, knowing that his revenge was directed as much at the Godking as it was at Len.
“I was in the mood to offer you an additional reward,” said Avarice. “It could have been money, status, or power. Now it shall simply be mercy, the forgiveness of your liege in the wake of such a thoughtless, impulsive action.”
Damon gritted his teeth, overcome by hot fury at the fact that his life was being spared by such a detestable example of smirking evil. The Godking waved a hand, and the arena guards seized him by the shoulders, dragging him away from Austine’s body and into the pits.
***
The next hour of Damon’s life passed by in a surreal blur. He felt one of the Godking’s clerks pushing a bag of coins into his hands, and the guards were leading him out of the venue, past a growing crowd of both fans and furious avengers loyal to Avarice.
He was aware of them releasing him in the market, once he was away from the attention of those who’d watched the blood bout. He was less aware of how he made it back to the Window Glow Inn, what he’d said to the innkeeper or how much he’d paid him. He remembered mumbling something about paying for a hot bath and a private room.
He was in a wooden tub. The water was steaming from the last round of buckets the servants had brought in for him. He could still feel Aust’s blood on his hands, despite having washed them dozens of times over.
There was a knock at the door. Damon ignored it, sinking lower into the water, wishing he could simply dissolve his awareness into its warmth.
“Damon,” called Vel. “I know you’re in there.”
He heard her try the door, only for it catch against the drop bar. He’d paid the innkeeper for that permission and hadn’t hesitated to take advantage of it.
“It was my fault,” she said, voice quiet. “I saw everything. It was my idea, my suggestion for Kastet to have a gladiator fight. Damon, I’m so sorry.”
He heard her words, but they couldn’t reach him. Nothing could, not then, not with Austine’s blank, glassed over eyes still burning as an afterimage against his memory. He heard her try the door again and briefly considered reassuring her, or yelling for her to go away, but the lump in his throat simply refused to yield.
“I’m not leaving,” said Vel. “Damon, please let me in.”
Blonde hair. You know the one.
He lifted his hand from the water, letting drops fall back into the tub.
“Say something!” shouted Vel. “Please!”
He took a breath and made an attempt. “Vel, I’m… fine.”
He wasn’t, and he knew there’d be no convincing her otherwise. In truth, there was so much else that he desperately wanted to say and needed to share. It was more than just the fight, more than just his anger, by so much.
It was the story of Damon and Austine, years of friendship and adventures which had been meaningful and compelling.
If anything, the core of his current frustration was directed toward how much he hated the memories of their brotherhood being tainted by the deception and trickery which lead up to Austine’s death. Such a horrific ending had no place in defining their shared legacy.
“You aren’t alone, Damon,” said Vel. “Please don’t forget that.”
He stayed in the bath until all of the water’s warmth had faded, still feeling dazed as he dried off and clothed himself. Vel was waiting in the inn’s common room and immediately pulled him over to sit at her table.
She didn’t stop him from drinking ale to dull the pain, and she didn’t break the silence which still held him. Rather, she held his hand, gently caressing his knuckles, staying close while giving him space.
She brought food for both of them, buttered bread and bowls of chicken and carrot stew. Damon had no appetite, but still forced as many bites down as he could, knowing it would only worry Vel further if he refused to eat.
The combination of food and drink and company was enough to revive him, at least partially. He blinked a couple of times, noticing the setting sun outside the window, realizing what it meant.
“You have to get back,” he said.
Vel started, surprised to hear him speak. “Kastet will understand if I—”
>
“I’m fine,” he said, a bit more forcefully than he’d meant to. “Really. I am.”
Vel shook her head, but she seemed to think better of pushing her point. She finished the last bite of her bread and pushed her chair back with a scrape.
“I’ll walk you to your lodgings,” he offered.
Vel’s expression softened, and she reached out to take and squeeze his hand. “No, that’s alright. I’m fine on my own, Damon. Just like you.”
***
The innkeeper’s sense of the situation had apparently been expanded from several of the patrons who’d been at the Gilded Amphitheater for the fight.
Damon found himself with the nicest available room at no extra cost. He stretched out in bed, shivering under the sheets despite the fact that he didn’t feel all that cold.
He heard a faint knock at the door, followed by the sound of it creaking open. He hadn’t bothered locking it, given how little he had other than his newly earned bag of silver sables, which was safe underneath his pillow.
He recognized a familiar silhouette. A petite woman in a simple nightgown wearing a cat mask with golden glitter that sparkled in the faint moonlight. He sat up in bed, feeling a sudden surge of confusion which refused to give way as he pushed his thoughts into it.
“What…” He trailed off as the woman pulled her gown up and over her head, taking care as the cloth passed over her mask, which she kept tied onto her face.
She slid back the sheets and joined him in bed, sitting half on her knees and half in his lap. Damon wore only his undershorts, and he could feel the heat of her body like a freshly kindled hearth.
He kissed her, more out of reflex than intention. He’d thought so much about her, about the night of the Turning Festival and the implications of her hidden identity. Each of his questions had the same answer, one he suspected he already knew. He reached out, taking hold of the mask.
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