The Defender of the Light: Book 9 of The Sylvan Chronicles

by Wacht, Peter

  “Your Majesty, obviously you know my decision, for there is no choice but one to be made. However, as I noted, my daughter is young and strong-willed. She will most likely not understand what is going on between us, between the crown and the Southern Marches. With your permission, I would like to speak with her first and present your proposal to her. I will then send you my reply, which of course is simply a formality.” Kevan held his breath, waiting to see if his delaying tactic would work. He expected Tetric to see through his maneuver immediately, and, in fact, he sensed that the Chief Advisor was about to quash his attempt at deflecting the request, but this time Marden beat him to it.

  “Of course you may, Kevan. I must have your official response by the fall Council of the Kingdom, so you have a few months to educate your daughter on the role she is to play. And I expect no further delays. If I don’t receive word of your daughter’s acceptance by then, I will, of course, be sorely disappointed, and we will have a much more serious conversation.”

  Tetric’s face turned bright red, his rage barely contained, but control it he did. The fool! They had maneuvered Kevan into a corner from which he could not escape, but Marden had just given him a small path he could use to slip away.

  “Of course, your Majesty. Thank you for your generosity. If I may, your Majesty, it is a long ride back to the Southern Marches. The sooner I am off, the sooner this matter can be settled to both our satisfaction.”

  “Then off with you, Kevan. I will wait on your reply. And remember … Father … don’t keep me waiting.”

  “Thank you, your Majesty.” Bowing at the waist, Kevan exited the royal box just as the crowd burst into a thunderous roar. He glanced down toward the white sand and saw exactly what he had expected. He had been right. The gladiator had won. As had he, at least for a time, having escaped Tetric’s trap for the moment. But only for the moment. Kevan cursed his luck under his breath. What was he to do?

  * * *

  Kevan took his time as he made his way to the stable at the bottom of the Colosseum, used for the horses and carriages of only the richest and most powerful men and women of Caledonia, as he wanted to think a bit more about what had just happened and how to evade the net Marden and Tetric were attempting to throw over him and his daughter. It was there that he found Tarin, his Captain of the Guard, already in the saddle, the reins of Kevan’s horse held firmly in his hands. Tarin seemed to have the ability to read minds, knowing that Kevan wanted to leave quickly. But he hadn’t foreseen the dilemma that now plagued the Duke of the Southern Marches.

  “Not yet, Tarin,” said Kevan. “There is something that I must do first.”

  Tarin shrugged. “I had expected as much.” He had served Kevan for more than a decade. He was well aware of his lord’s moods and habits, and he could tell that Kevan’s mind was working on a problem at a furious pace.

  “Is it as we feared?” asked Tarin, sliding off his saddle and tying the reins of both horses to a gate.

  “Worse, I’m afraid,” replied Kevan. “Much worse.” Kevan stood there for a minute, until finally the path that he needed to take formed in front of him. It just might be the solution, or at least part of the solution, that he was looking for. Besides, there was little risk to what he had in mind. “Who is responsible for the gladiator who just defeated the black dragon?”

  Tarin gave his lord a quizzical look, not expecting the question. “I believe Beluchmel,” replied Tarin.

  “Did you watch the combat, Tarin?”

  “I did.” It had been an impressive display for someone with little or no military instruction. True, gladiators were taught to fight. But Tarin was a career soldier and came from a family of career soldiers. His prejudices favored those with a military upbringing, seeing a distinct difference between that and the training to be a gladiator.

  “And your thoughts?”

  The Captain of the Guard waited a moment before answering. Tarin rarely answered anything right away, for he was a man of caution, a trait that certainly benefited him as a soldier, yet could also prove a hindrance at times. “He fought with intelligence, with a patience and skill rarely seen in gladiators. Usually they come charging across the Pit, looking to end the combat as soon as possible, often not caring if they live or die. This one let the fight come to him, and his decision making is beyond dispute. He picked the perfect moment to make his move.”

  “Let us go in search of this Beluchmel,” decided Kevan, nodding his head in agreement. “We have business to conduct.”

  * * *

  “What do you think, Tetric? Will my soon-to-be father-in-law try to back out?”

  “It will be hard for him to do so,” replied Tetric. “Though I doubt that he has any intention of allowing his daughter to go through with it if he can avoid it. His responses were quite vague, you know. He didn’t commit to anything other than speaking to the girl about the proposal.” He and Marden had watched Kevan walk quickly from the royal box. They both suspected the decision that Kevan wanted to make. Therefore, they needed to ensure that he had but one option to select from, a choice that favored their plan.

  “I agree,” said Marden. “Still, do you think he will break if we apply the right amount of pressure?”

  “No. He will not.”

  “We need him or his daughter, not both.” Marden tore his gaze away from the opened doors and glanced back to the white sand of the Pit. The attendants had already removed the dragon’s body and the next combat was about to begin, this one pitting a tall, red-haired gladiator against two starved lions. He already had guessed the outcome, so he turned his attention back to his advisor. “We need to find some other way, Tetric. Some other way to ensure that the Duke of the Southern Marches does our bidding.”

  “Yes, your Majesty, we will. I will make sure that everything is in place.”

  Chapter 3. A Deal

  “This is most unusual, Duke Winborne,” said Beluchmel, his massive frame shaking as he pounded with a large fist on the oak door wrapped in steel bands. His size was deceptive, as the luxurious silk robes that he preferred to wear hid more fat than muscle. “Most unusual. In fact, I can’t even remember when a request such as this has been made, and I’ve been Master of the Colosseum for the last three decades.”

  Kevan ignored the chatter coming from the large man. The bright sun gleamed brightly off Beluchmel’s bald pate, long stringy hair near his ears running down to his shoulders. Serving as the Master of the Colosseum had its obvious perks, so long as you didn’t bring too much attention to yourself. The fact that Beluchmel had survived in his position for such a long time, and had obviously profited from it, testified to his abilities, no matter how nefarious they may be. Based on his large, red, bulbous nose, the veins thick and obvious, Kevan assumed that much of the fortune the man had acquired was used to keep the Master of the Colosseum in drink and other pleasures.

  “What’s the price?”

  An eyehole opened before them, then closed just as quickly, the grunt heard from the other side of the large gates acknowledging Beluchmel’s authority, though clearly with some reluctance. Slowly, the gates began to open, winches on both sides pulling them apart. Beluchmel squeezed his bulk through, stomping into the training ground, followed by Kevan and the always cautious Tarin, who laid a wary hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Practice yard it may be, but to Kevan’s eyes, it looked more like a prison stockade. A ten-foot wall made of brick and mortar surrounded the entire complex, and ten feet beyond that wall rose a twenty-foot wall. Ten feet beyond that barrier, a wall thirty feet in height loomed above the complex, blocking much of the late afternoon sun. Along each wall at fifty-foot increments a bored guard stood looking down at the activities below.

  Tarin’s soldierly eye took it all in, guessing that something unpleasant waited between the walls of varying heights for any gladiator foolish enough to try to escape. Even a full-scale revolt would fail, he concluded. The gladiators’ compound lay against the back of the Colosseum. O
n the remaining three sides just outside the walls was the permanent headquarters for the King’s Royal Guard. If the gladiators somehow succeeded in escaping from their small enclosure, and the likelihood of that appeared to be poor at best, they still had to fight their way through a small army. All in all, it was the most effective prison Tarin had ever seen constructed.

  On each side of the field, a long, ramshackle barracks stood in disrepair, the paint peeling off as the stone baked in the noonday sun. In several places, holes were visible in the roof. Obviously, Beluchmel had done his best to siphon off as much of the money directed toward the upkeep of the gladiators’ compound as possible.

  A field several hundred feet long lay before them, more dirt than grass. Markers divided the field into distinct areas. The gladiators assigned to each space trained with specific equipment, honing their skills in order to improve their chances of surviving in the Pit. Tarin immediately noted that none of the gladiators were very old with perhaps just a handful beyond their early twenties. Try as the gladiators might to sharpen their abilities, he wasn’t surprised that their efforts could only take them so far. He understood that once a man or woman set foot on the white sand their death was assured, for most in a matter of months. When you were required to fight four times a month, it was inevitable that eventually your luck would run out. No matter how skilled a gladiator may be, all it would take would be a momentary lapse in concentration, a single poorly timed lunge or a slip on the white sand, and the end would come. Nevertheless, he was impressed by their diligence. Some balanced on a thin pole while trying to stave off the jabs of their compatriots’ spears. Others lifted stones that he guessed weighed several hundred pounds, and then those same gladiators tried to run through sand placed there to mimic the fighting floor of the Pit. And still more worked to master a dozen other tasks, all designed to extend the time until their unavoidable death.

  “The price will depend on the gladiator you select,” answered Beluchmel, leading them quickly across the field toward the main building that squared off the compound. Though this structure was in a better state compared to the gladiators’ quarters, its age was apparent. Mortar crumbled slowly between the stones, and the roof, this one made of wood shingles rather than hay, sloped dangerously toward the ground on one end.

  Beluchmel pushed his bulk through the opening, his sides scraping against the stone. The door had long since been removed, or most likely it simply had disintegrated over time, mused Kevan. He and Tarin followed the Master of the Colosseum into a small room in which a man sat quietly behind a desk made of two sawhorses and what Kevan guessed was the missing door. The solidly built man, his grey hair shorn close to his scalp, ignored them, continuing to work through a stack of papers. He didn’t seem to be a man who enjoyed his task. He had the hardened appearance of a gladiator, a man who had survived many combats in the Pit, and he had the scars on his arms and legs, revealed by the shirt and training shorts he wore, to prove it. Though the man was older, Kevan suspected that he could return to the Pit right then and still emerge victorious, though he doubted that the man had fought on the white sand for quite some time.

  Beluchmel, obviously uncomfortable in his surroundings, cleared his throat a few times, hoping to gain the quiet man’s attention. But the serious-minded fellow continued to ignore them. “Declan, I bring with me prestigious visitors. Rise and offer them the appropriate courtesies.”

  The man failed to lift his head as he continued to sift through the papers on his makeshift desk. “I am busy, Beluchmel, and I have no time for visitors. I barely have time for anything but trying to keep my men and women alive.” Having completed what he had been working on, finally Declan looked up from his papers, his sharp eyes giving a glimpse of the quick temper that lay just beneath his outward calm. “Now where is the fresh hay you promised me for the roofs? And the other building materials, Beluchmel? Where are they? We’ve waited for months. If the King feels the need to put on this bloody show, then he needs to take better care of the men and women consigned to play a role in it.”

  Declan rose from his chair and walked around his desk. Though Beluchmel towered over the shorter man, that was of little import. Beluchmel wouldn’t last a second alone with Declan. “How am I supposed to train my gladiators to fight in the Pit if I can’t even give them habitable quarters and good, healthy food? And tell me, Beluchmel, how will you fill your pockets with gold if you have no gladiators fighting for the King’s pleasure? How will you keep that large head of yours on your portly body if the good King Beleron doesn’t have his favorite entertainment to keep the people’s minds off their own troubles?”

  Beluchmel gulped loudly, a sheen of sweat appearing on his forehead. Kevan and Tarin now understood why their guide had seemed so uncomfortable entering the gladiators’ compound. Though Beluchmel managed the Colosseum, this kept man ruled the gladiators.

  “You will have everything I promised you, Declan, everything. The shipments have simply been delayed. A few more weeks is what I have been told. Surely you can wait that …”

  “I’m tired of your excuses, Beluchmel,” said Declan, stepping closer to the Master of the Colosseum and causing the larger man to step back in fear. “If I had half a mind, I’d break you in two and leave you for …”

  “Although that would truly be an interesting sight,” interrupted Kevan, stepping between the two men before Declan could make good on his promise, “I have a bit of business to discuss with you first. And since we must leave within the hour, we need to take care of it now. Once that’s concluded, you can do whatever you want to this one.” Kevan pointed to Beluchmel, who clearly welcomed the interruption and had begun to sweat profusely despite the chill of the late afternoon. “I’m assuming that you are the Master of the Gladiators?”

  “I am,” replied Declan, the anger leaving his face, if only for a moment.

  “Excellent. I am Kevan Winborne, Duke of the Southern Marches. And this is Tarin Tentillin, Captain of my Guard.” Tarin and Declan eyed one another, judging strengths and weaknesses in an instant. It was a common habit when two soldiers met for the first time. Satisfied by what each one saw in the other, they nodded a wary greeting.

  “Duke Winborne,” said Declan, giving the lord a perfunctory nod of his head. “You mentioned business. We have few visitors to the training ground. What can I do for you?”

  “I am in need of a gladiator, Declan.”

  Declan chuckled softly. He had heard that some of the wealthy and powerful had strange tastes, yet this seemed a bit out of the ordinary. Declan picked up on much of what was going on in the Kingdom during his wanderings through the Colosseum and the city, but he had never heard anything unique, unseemly, or untoward about the Duke of the Southern Marches. In fact, from what he could tell from the various pieces of information that he had gathered, this Duke was more austere than most of his colleagues. Of course, not every rumor made its way to the Colosseum, Declan admitted, and every man was entitled to his private fancies, within reason, of course.

  “May I ask the reason why you require a gladiator?” asked Declan.

  “It’s none of your concern,” answered Tarin, who stepped forward, his hand caressing the hilt of his sword. The insolence of this Master of the Gladiators, former soldier though he may be, irritated the Captain of the Battersea Guard.

  “It is my concern,” grated Declan, his face red with anger. “I’ve trained these men and women, some since they were children, to be fighters, survivors. Fate gave them a bad hand sending them here to die, but I’ve done everything I could to ensure that they die with honor, and more importantly, that they delay their deaths for as long as possible. I will not release a single gladiator until I know your purpose, Duke Winborne. It is that simple.”

  “You will not release …” sputtered Tarin, his blade half out of his sheath. Kevan quickly grabbed his captain’s hand, forcing the blade back into the scabbard. Tarin was a stickler for everything in life, whether protocol or his own appe
arance, as seen by his usually spotless uniform, perfectly parted hair and waxed mustache. But Declan didn’t appear to be flustered by Tarin’s display. In fact, he seemed to be less than impressed, obviously believing that he’d have little trouble dispatching Tarin if there was cause to do so.

  “Declan, don’t be a fool,” said Beluchmel, worried that his business deal was about to fall through. “If the Duke of the Southern Marches requires a gladiator, then he will have one, even if I must bring a company of the King’s Royal Guard in here to ensure that he gets one.”

  “Then you’d finally be giving me the opportunity that my gladiators and I have been waiting for,” said Declan quietly, his eyes glowing with a hard anticipation. Beluchmel took another step away from the Master of the Gladiators, quivering with fear.

  During the entire exchange, Kevan had studied Declan, sizing him up. He saw loyalty there, and honor, and, perhaps his most noble trait, compassion. He cared about the men and women whom he trained. That alone earned Kevan’s respect.

  “Enough of this,” said Kevan in a thunderous voice, quelling the three men into silence, even the feisty gladiator. “Declan, I admire loyalty. It is a trait rarely seen these days, in even the best of men. You ask a fair question, and you will have an answer. I have a daughter, a teenage daughter. As the Duke of the Southern Marches, there are certain risks that I have to worry about, and it seems that those dangers are becoming more real, not only for me, but also for my daughter.”

  Declan nodded his head knowingly. Slave he may be, but he was not a fool. Duke Winborne was the leading contender for the throne should anything happen to King Beleron. Based on what he knew of the Duke of the Southern Marches that could be a good thing for Caledonia, though he doubted that the man would live very long if he ever demonstrated any interest in the throne, not with Tetric lurking in the shadows.