The Tolrahkali had come to the continent almost five centuries ago according to the local histories. Where they came from, no one could quite agree on, not even the Tolrahkali themselves. Their skin, unlike the other humans living on the continent, was a deep golden brown. Tales told of a fleet of great ships that arrived with a storm one night. Dozens of the ships were wrecked as they collided with the rocky coast. It was to their credit that any of them survived on the shore of the Great Desert. Barely a handful of date palms grew out of the earth, drinking up what little water passed beneath the sands. On one point all the historians agree though: the Tolrahkali found a way to control the Korant ants that lived in the area. Korant ants were about the size of large dogs. As the Tolrahkali builders, the ants burrowed deep below the earth to dig for resources for their masters. They carried impossibly heavy stones and built for them the great city that the current king of the Tolrahkali, or the Drokga, as he styled himself, still ruled.
The city of Tolrahk Esal, meaning literally Tolrahk home, stood on a wide plain on the southern edge of the Great Desert, known locally as the Green Sea. Its strangely organic architecture and smooth, slick buildings made it unique in all the known world.
If the North had a common refuse pit, then Tolrahk Esal was it. The city, last and least of the Free Cities, was a moldering sore on the edge of civilization. The Tolrahkali had no farmlands or mines beyond those of the Korant ants. No great craftsmen like the Dreth, no great scholars and mages like the Bialtans, no great priests like the Abolians, or famous artists like the Keralans. The Tolrahkali had only themselves, but they were happy to trade. From the first, the greatest exports of the city-state were slaves, prostitutes, and mercenaries. The mercenary companies that sold their services in the city were now countless, as were the pleasure palaces. The slave markets were always crowded, and the blood sports in the city’s many arenas always attracted large crowds. Though slavery was illegal in most of the northern nations, many were the rich and powerful who imported a handful of the wretches for a variety of unsavory tasks.
Carver had only been in Tolrahk Esal a few hours. He looked out over the city from a balcony in a modest inn and waited with a patience that seemed unnatural. His thinning gray hair hung in a lank mess in front of his wrinkled, gray-skinned face. He constantly had to brush it aside to see, a task made difficult by his twisted spine and weak legs. He was never without a sturdy walking stick and, because of it, could never use more than one hand for anything while standing. Physically, he well knew, he was the object of pity at best, revulsion at worst. He watched multitudes of people scurry around like the oversized insects that served them. Their meaningless lives were devoted to the trivial pursuits of wealth and self-indulgence.
Carver’s sworn enemy was disorder. Disorder created the corruption, pain, and death that mortals brought to one another time and again. Following the example of his former master, he was striving to find a solution, a way of fixing civilization, of creating something truly eternal. He had yet to find a solution in his thousand years of searching. But what was time to him? He had conquered death, and one day, he was sure, he would remake the world.
He looked down at the people, free men or slaves, going about their business, none more significant than a worm to him. Strange that the very things I loathe most make it easier for me to carry out my work. Tolrahk Esal sickened him. Nothing would give Carver greater satisfaction than to grind the whole corrupt mess to dust. There will be time enough for that later. For now, the Tolrahkali offer unique opportunities and resources. And I’ll have to worm my way into the favor of their tyrant to get them.
The Tolrahkali themselves, those golden-skinned descendants of the original seafaring people, were not half as self- indulgent as the multitudes of visitors and foreign residents. They were warriors all. The only thing they respected was strength, and the greatest soldiers and generals among them were given a level of respect that the local temples could only dream of.
There were other paths to power in the city though. Carver had seen the adulation granted a famed weaponsmith or a talented healer. That was how he would win a place among these barbarians. He would give them the means to kill more efficiently.
He needed to catch the attention of someone in power, of course, but it seemed like Tolrahk Esal was a city made for displays of power and force. Carver had counted seven arenas and fighting pits in his short walk into the city proper. One of those would give him the opportunity he needed. That the Tolrahkali traded in flesh and that most, though by no means all, of the gladiators who fought in the pits and arenas were slaves would work to his advantage. Showing what his arts could do for a pit fighter would attract all the attention he needed. A sudden transformation in a lowly combatant would be a better demonstration, but no one in power would attend such a display, nor would anyone remember the fighter’s previous lack of prowess. No, he would need to purchase a famous slave. Perhaps one who’d been maimed or crippled. His funds were limited, so he’d need to choose his subject carefully—there would be no second chance.
A clear goal in mind, Carver set out to find the highest- profile arena in the city. A few days to find a likely subject, a few weeks to prepare him for a return to the arena. Two days for the Drokga to invite me into the palace after that.
As it turned out, only one arena hosted combats between Chosen or magically equipped combatants. It was a small place that only held bouts once every twenty days. Only the richest could afford to attend the exclusive fights.
Carver arrived early to the small arena on fight day. He sacrificed the gold coin to pay the exorbitant entrance charge, eager to start looking over potential subjects. The arena assigned a slave to attend to his needs while he was there. The slave led him to a comfortable seat overlooking the sands. Awnings were stretched over each seat to protect the patrons from the harsh desert sun, as well as to offer some small level of anonymity.
“Would you care for some refreshment, my lord?”
Carver ignored the question. “Who is fighting today? Are any of them famous?”
Apparently well used to ignorant foreigners attending the games, the slave answered without hesitation. “Several popular fighters are taking to the sands today, my lord. Iraxtes, Godchosen of the lady of the thirsting sands, will fight a Godchosen from a rival god, Craltic, champion of the god of storms and skyfire. I have seen both fight in the past; they should provide an impressive show.” Carver fought down the urge to berate the slave over the Tolrahkali superstition against naming gods and let him continue.
“The Old Man will also fight at the end of the day. He is the greatest champion this arena has ever known. He has been fighting for seven years and has yet to take a wound. He’ll be facing Maran Vras, a champion only slightly less famous than the Old Man himself. Maran is a brute of a man, vicious and bloodthirsty. They will fight to the death today.”
Carver was disappointed. It was hardly surprising that a large number of warriors had sworn service to one of the many desert gods in exchange for power in a city like Tolrahk Esal. But Godchosen were of no interest to him. He refused to fight for control over one of his creations with an upstart deity. Since the only other high-profile match was a death match, it likely wouldn’t be possible for him to purchase either fighter.
“And the rest of the day?” asked Carver.
“Combatants of varying skill, my lord. Some may be Chosen; others carry objects of power. Many should provide entertainment.”
Carver sighed. He would have to watch and hope that one of the lesser fighters would prove adequate. He didn’t want to waste nearly another month waiting for the next round of fights. He settled in for an afternoon of violence, measuring each specimen’s merits and interrogating the slave about each combatant’s popularity and owner.
The Old Man was the oldest champion in Tolrahk Esal, easily thirty years the senior of any other gladiator in the city. And yet, in the seven years since he’d signed himself up to fight as a free man, he had
never been defeated. No one had ever drawn blood or landed even the most trivial of blows on him in almost ninety duels. That he was some kind of Chosen was widely accepted, though none could agree whether he was Warchosen or the champion of some obscure god. The champion kept his own counsel. The Old Man was all that he called himself. No one had been able to dig up anything else about him, who he was or where he came from. The mystery only fueled his popularity.
Walking out slowly onto the sands, the Old Man took his place at the center of the arena. If he heard the shouts and cheers of thousands of fans, he made no sign. He just trudged forward, dragging his oversized weapon with him, its design somewhere between a halberd and a falchion. A wide blade extended up the side of the spear shaft with a few handholds cut into it, then extended another arm’s length beyond the shaft tip in a curved sweep. The shaft dug a deep furrow into the sands behind the Old Man as he struggled to drag it into place. The champion was not the only gladiator to disdain the use of armor, but few went so far as to fight in a loincloth and sandals as he did. He stood next to his strange weapon, sweat already running freely down his body, a body that would not seem exceptional for any man in his late seventies. His wrinkled skin hung loosely off his skeletal frame. His chest heaved as he fought to catch his breath.
Today’s challenger was more what one would expect of a pit fighter. He had Tolrahkali coloring though he was obviously of mixed heritage; his eyes had an odd yellowish hue, and bony plates growing over his skin in patches betrayed deep desert blood. His body had been oiled up before he came out onto the sands to better show off his impressive physique. Tall and lean with tight ropes of muscle bunching under his skin, Maran Vras looked every bit a predator, eager for the kill. He didn’t wear much armor, either, though his thick skin made the gesture less significant. He carried a large spiked shield nearly half as tall as he was and wore a heavy, barbed, blackened steel armguard and gauntlet that covered his weapon arm all the way up to his shoulder. His weapon was a crowd-pleaser. A vicious-looking mace with a profusion of sharp barbs and hooks meant to catch and tear skin. A large helm in the shape of a snarling beast finished his look. Maran Vras knew the crowds came to see blood, and he never disappointed them. He was a champion himself in truth, though less storied than the Old Man. This was his chance to become truly famous. The fighter who defeated the Old Man would be talked about for decades.
The crowd’s cheers were deafening. The Tolrahkali had squeezed in more spectators than usual that day. The stands were overcrowded. Not a single seat or step was free, and not a single person in the crowd wasn’t on their feet cheering at the top of their lungs. Two real champions rarely met on the sands, and almost never in a death match. But the Old Man was adamant. He would not fight a bout where more than one combatant left the sands breathing.
Maran was calm. He was ready. He had seen the Old Man fight several times over the years. His style and technique would not be able to surprise him. Maran was Warchosen himself, though he had decided to emulate the Old Man in his tight-lipped manner and didn’t speak of his abilities to those he didn’t trust. The Old Man’s glaive, as Maran had heard it called, would not be the only enchanted weapon on the sands today. Maran’s mace had been prepared for him by a wealthy patron in the Arcanum of Bialta itself. But the mace was not Maran’s only advantage. His shield had been with him since his first days in the pits, before he had made a name for himself. Year after year, every copper penny he had been given by his owner went to further enchant the shield. There were so many layers of magic within it, Maran doubted anything could pierce it, not even the Old Man’s glaive.
He looked across the sands at the Old Man. The guard pose at the center of the arena was obviously a big part of his fighting style. In every one of his fights it was the same.
The crowd went perfectly silent as the arena master gestured for the signal horn to be blown. Maran charged forward the moment the sound split the air. He knew he was fast. Far faster than any of those he’d seen the Old Man fight, certainly. The old bastard always defended, countering more by placing his weapon in his opponent’s way than by attacking himself, tipping the unwieldy glaive into their path as he moved around the weapon that remained set in the sand. They died one and all, splitting themselves open on that incredibly sharp edge.
Maran wouldn’t make that mistake. He would batter the champion aside with his shield and crush him when he’d been knocked out of position. As expected, the Old Man dodged to the side around his weapon, the foot of it not moving from its place in the sand. Maran slammed his shield into the glaive, intent on knocking it aside or at least destabilizing his opponent’s grip. Nothing. His shield stopped dead the instant it touched the glaive, all momentum lost. Maran was so shocked, he stopped for a moment and almost died as the Old Man shifted his position and brought the head of the glaive slashing down toward him. Maran danced away. At least the shield held. The seeming incompetence of the Old Man’s previous opponents made more sense now. Maran would have to be extremely careful not to allow his attacks to even brush up against the damned weapon. He hadn’t become a champion without facing some unusual opponents though. His brutish exterior hid surprising skill and intelligence. He played up the part of mindless brute both to please the crowd and to throw off his opponents. This time might well be one of those occasions when brutish strength and roaring wouldn’t be enough.
When Maran charged in again, his act was gone. He made a series of complex feints and probing attacks, not looking to kill, just seeing what he could sneak past the old bastard’s incredible defense. Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing. He cursed in frustration as the spry old fighter danced around his weapon, lowering and raising the blade to block and threaten with incredible speed.
Maran had never faced an opponent like this. He had never faced a real challenge, to tell the truth. His Warchosen talent was considerable. His mind was quick and his training second to none. A little burst of talent was usually all it took. He only ever fought at his full potential in training against stone or wood training dummies. Above all, he was a showman. Making a fight too one-sided didn’t attract the fans’ attention, nor did it improve his master’s betting odds. His attacks now became more complex series of maneuvers, feints, and probes. But, still, each time he tried to land a blow, the damned glaive just barely caught the edge of his mace and stopped his swing dead. And through it all the Old Man stayed impassive, almost distracted, a blank look in his eyes as if breathing and keeping himself moving were the only challenges at hand. But this . . . this was Maran’s chance to show what he could really do. His speed gradually increased beyond what was humanly possible. He didn’t waste his efforts on strength. The glaive made any such attempt meaningless. No, he would land a blow on the old fucker if it was the last thing he did. Then it was there. A perfect opportunity. Maran reached around the glaive’s blade, while it was turned away from him, in a one-armed hug. He jabbed his barbed mace forward in an attempt to catch the Old Man as he dodged around.
Maran’s blow missed, just barely passing between the glaive and the Old Man’s stomach. But as he reached farther he stumbled, pulled by his own momentum, and one barb from his armguard raked across the Old Man’s chest. Blood dribbled out of the deep scratch. Success! He had managed to wound the old bastard at last. It was possible. He would wear him down with little cuts and scratches if he had to, but he would win. Pain flashed in his arm. Maran glanced down quickly and saw the glaive had sliced through his armguard while he was reaching in to land his blow. His bicep was half cut through and he hadn’t even felt it happen. He looked up at the Old Man and saw him touching the cut on his chest, then looking at the blood on his fingers.
The Old Man’s eyes snapped to Maran’s. The disconnected, vacant expression was gone. Hatred and rage boiled in the Old Man’s stare. His frail body started to tremble. His muscles clenched. Maran took a step backward, unsure what to expect. The roar of the crowd was gone from his mind for the first time since he had become a glad
iator. He watched in confusion while the Old Man rocked back and forth on his feet, before launching himself forward. He propelled himself into the air with the glaive and dragged it after him. He made a perfect somersault in the air, the tip of the glaive only barely brushing the sand before sweeping over him. . . . And then the huge weapon was coming down straight toward Maran with its full weight behind it. Caught flat-footed, Maran had no choice but to raise his shield. It had held against the glaive already. And yet he felt a spark of fear deep within him as he raised the slab of steel above his head and braced for impact.
Time seemed to slow down. The wait for the blow to land was endless, the Old Man seemingly suspended in the air about to smash his weapon down. The glaive hit the shield with the sound of a temple bell, the weight of a world behind it. Maran’s arm shattered, as did both his knees, before his own shield collided with his helm and everything went dark. The crowd had gone mad screaming and cheering when the two fighters wounded each other. Then they had surged to their feet in astonishment as the champion had vaulted into the air. To them it seemed like Maran Vras was crushed into the sands like a bug beneath a boot heel.
The Old Man stood panting and shaking uncontrollably. It took him several minutes to get his weapon upright again and to drag it back to set it in the center of the arena. The arena master sent two guards forward to check on Maran. With great difficulty they managed to lift the large shield off him and set it aside.
“He’s still breathing!” one of them called. The crowd cheered all the more. The show wasn’t over.
The arena master looked down to the Old Man, who shook his head slowly. Then he spoke in a ragged, wheezing voice. “He . . . drew blood . . . let him live.” The arena master nodded back and then clapped his hands. Healers and servants swarmed out to attend to the fighters.
High in the stands, Betar smiled. Maran had been a great investment. He had brought Betar a lot of gold over the years. He had always won when Betar demanded it of him, and this time, the time that Betar had bet against his own slave, he had lost. Not that Maran had had any idea of the bet, of course. Or even of the strength-sapping poison Betar had added to his water before the fight. He probably hadn’t lasted long enough for it to start taking effect in any case. And now Betar had received another unexpected windfall from the slave gladiator. Moments after the fight ended and Maran was pronounced living, a slave had slipped him a note. It promised a most generous sum of gold for the wounded slave. Nearly as much as Betar had made off the gladiator in the last year, truth be told. And given his current state, even if Maran did survive his wounds, costly magics and alchemies would have to be used to return him to fighting condition. Whoever this Carver was, he was a fool. But Betar had no qualms about taking a fool’s money.
The Bones of the Past (Books of Dust and Bone) Page 5
