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

by Wacht, Peter

  “I require a gladiator to serve as her Protector.”

  Declan studied the Duke of the Southern Marches for almost a full minute, until he was satisfied that he had spoken truthfully. Serving as a Protector was an honorable task, though much like a gladiator, a Protector had no personal freedom. But Declan was surprised by the admission. It was an archaic practice. No one had served as a Protector for at least five decades. “And I’m assuming that you’ve already selected a gladiator to serve as your daughter’s Protector.”

  “I have,” answered Kevan. “The gladiator who defeated the black dragon.”

  Declan’s heart rose in his throat, choking him for a brief moment. Of course, he shouldn’t have been so shocked. Bryen was one of the best gladiators to ever fight in the Pit, despite his relative youth. Why wouldn’t the Duke of the Southern Marches want the best to serve as a Protector for his daughter? He searched furiously for a way to prevent the deal, but nothing came to mind. There was no legitimate way that he could stop the sale of a gladiator. Then again, perhaps he was looking at this from the wrong perspective. Perhaps this would help Bryen in some way. If nothing else, it would release him from the Pit. Bryen clearly wasn’t interested in glory, the only thing attainable to a gladiator now. True, slave he would remain, but his life wouldn’t hang in the balance based on the changing moon. And serving as a Protector couldn’t prove to be a worse fate than the one that awaited him on the white sand, regardless of the threats Duke Winborne may have been concerned about. If Bryen could survive the Pit for ten years, then he could certainly endure watching over the Duke’s most likely spoiled daughter. After struggling a few seconds more with what he knew had already been decided, he nodded his head in acquiescence, then quietly left the room through a doorway at the back of the office.

  “Well, my lord, despite the trouble put up by our honorable Master of the Gladiators, it looks like you will have the gladiator that you require.” Beluchmel rubbed his hands in anticipation. Matters were finally getting interesting, in his opinion -- another contribution of golds to his pocket.

  “Your price?” Kevan asked the question sharply, clearly not interested in the drawn-out haggling so much a part of the general marketplace in Tintagel. Though some enjoyed it, and Beluchmel appeared to relish it quite a bit judging by the brief turn of disappointment on his face, Kevan did not.

  “Fifty golds,” answered Beluchmel with a straight face, his eyes sharp. They had entered his arena now.

  “Fifty!” objected Tarin. “For a gladiator? That’s robbery.”

  “Done,” answered Kevan, judging the price cheap after having seen the gladiator in action. The cost of protecting his daughter was nothing to him, and based on this gladiator’s performance, Kevan knew that he was buying the best.

  “But Duke Winborne!” protested Tarin.

  “The golds, Tarin,” commanded Kevan.

  Knowing from experience that arguing with his lord once he had made up his mind was a bad idea, Tarin began pulling out the pieces of gold from a large purse hidden beneath his cloak.

  “Oh, my apologies, Duke Winborne. But I forgot the transfer fee required by the crown. That’s an additional ten golds, for a total of sixty.” Beluchmel grinned mischievously, knowing that he had won. The cost of this gladiator was obviously not a concern to Duke Winborne, so why not try to extract as much as possible.

  Tarin was about to protest once again, but Kevan cut him off. “So be it. Sixty.”

  Throwing up his arms in mock despair, Tarin placed the heavy, thick coins in a smaller leather bag. The Captain of the Guard shook his head in frustration. The boy they were buying may be a fighter, but he was not a soldier. Hopefully that fact wouldn’t cause the Duke of the Southern Marches to rue his decision.

  * * *

  “Stop moving around. How am I supposed to take care of your wounds if you flop about like a small child with a splinter in his finger?”

  Bryen couldn’t help but smile at Lycia’s command, though her touch was anything but light as she first checked the slice on his arm from the black dragon’s claw and then rewrapped that wound once she was satisfied that the physick had done good work with the sutures. She then turned her attention to the burns on his left arm and leg caused by the animal’s venom. For those there was little that she could do other than make sure that Bryen continued to apply the healing ointment that sat next to him on the wooden bench so that they didn’t become infected.

  “You’re babying him, Lycia,” said Davin. “Leave him be. He’s had worse injuries than these.”

  “I’m making sure that he’s well, that’s all,” said Lycia, her voice turning hard. Her brother had a knack for getting a rise out of her, often for the most innocuous of comments.

  “You never show so much concern for me,” protested Davin. “Besides, I had the harder fight. Two starved lions are much more difficult than a black dragon.”

  “The only reason it was a harder fight,” corrected Lycia, “was because of those skinny legs of yours. You spent more time tripping over yourself than actually fighting those poor beasts. Besides, you weren’t even hurt. Not even a scratch.”

  Bryen closed his eyes for a moment and settled the back of his head against the brick wall. The bickering between brother and sister washed over him, and he allowed his focus to waver for just a few minutes. After all that he had been through that afternoon, this being the closest yet that he had come to his own death, he found the incessant wrangling between Davin and Lycia relaxing.

  Brother and sister had arrived in the Colosseum three years before, and Bryen remembered the day clearly. They had entered through the gates arguing with one another and it hadn’t stopped since. When he had first seen Lycia, he had thought that she was the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on, and he and Davin had become fast friends, one of his few here in the training barracks. There was a great deal of respect between him and the other gladiators. He had survived the longest of any of the men or women forced to bleed on the white sand, other than Declan himself. But because the prospect of death was always near that mutual respect rarely turned into friendship. Not when you might be charged with killing a friend in the Pit. Thankfully, Bryen had not yet had to fight Davin or Lycia. Next to him, his two friends were the best gladiators in Tintagel, and Beluchmel had no desire to interfere with the stream of money he earned whenever one of the three entered the Pit. The Master of the Colosseum was a greedy, soulless man, but he was not stupid. He would not do anything that would affect his potential earnings negatively.

  Bryen was drawn from his peaceful reverie by the silence that settled suddenly within the gladiators’ quarters. He opened his eyes and saw that both Lycia and Davin were staring at Declan, who stood in the doorway. Bryen took in Declan’s serious expression. Though Declan was always serious, this time his eyes suggested something else. There was a touch of sorrow and anger at the edges of his flinty glare and perhaps even a hint of hope. “What’s the matter, Declan?”

  The Master of the Gladiators was about to answer, but he couldn’t find the words, his emotions threatening to erupt, and that wasn’t something that he knew how to manage effectively. So as he’d done all his life, he simply pushed the feelings roiling through him to the back of his mind and locked them away. “I’m sorry, lad, but there was nothing that I could do. Come along.”

  Declan walked out of the gladiators’ changing room, shaking his head in what Bryen took to be disgust but was actually sorrow.

  Bryen had no idea why the Master of the Gladiators was acting this way. He looked to Davin and Lycia for guidance, but his two friends were just as surprised and confused as he was, both shrugging their shoulders in response. Declan could be moody at times, but they had never seen anything like this from him before.

  Shrugging his shoulders as well, Bryen exited the room and hobbled after Declan as pain flared in his leg with every step that he took, a sense of unease settling within his stomach. He hadn’t felt this nervous even wh
en he was fighting the black dragon.

  * * *

  Only a few minutes had passed before Declan reappeared, and behind him came the gladiator from the Pit. He was younger than Kevan had expected, perhaps only a year or two older than his daughter, but his struggles on the white sand had aged him. His hair and short beard were mostly white, a few strands of light brown peeking through, and his grey eyes that contained faint specks of green held the haunted expression of a man who had seen the worst that life had to offer. Yet, there was something else there too, something that had confirmed for Kevan that this gladiator would defeat the black dragon -- an intelligence, or perhaps cunning, tempered with a self-confidence that displayed true character, not arrogance. All in all, Kevan was quite pleased with his selection.

  “Bryen,” said Declan, “this is Duke Kevan Winborne of the Southern Marches. He has a need for a gladiator, and he has chosen you. You are in his charge now.” The words seemed to physically injure Declan, the vigorous, strong man shrinking in upon himself. The Master of the Gladiators couldn’t bring himself to look at Bryen while saying them.

  Bryen was clearly shocked by the statement, Declan not having prepared him for the announcement. The gladiator stared painfully at the Master of the Gladiators, then examined the other men in the room. His eyes passed over Beluchmel with barely a pause -- someone who was not a threat, at least not directly, surmised Kevan -- then rested on Tarin for a moment, sizing him up. Kevan thought that he could read the gladiator’s mind. A soldier, skilled and experienced, but then just as quickly, another kill if need be. Finally his gaze fell on Kevan, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. For an instant, Kevan thought that he saw a flash of hate within those hard eyes, but then just as quickly it was gone, replaced by a deceptive calm. This gladiator did indeed have the appearance of a volkun, a wolf in the old tongue, waiting calmly, confidently, for its prey, pretending a lack of interest. But when the time was right, the volkun would strike quickly and with an uncontrolled ferocity. The moniker that Kevan heard being hurled down upon this young man after his victory over the black dragon certainly fit him.

  Beluchmel reached for the bag of gold that Tarin had dropped on Declan’s desk, but Kevan stepped in front of him -- no easy task considering the large man’s bulk -- before he could grab it with his fat, greedy fingers. “I’m sure you can make better use of this than Beluchmel can,” Kevan said, speaking to the Master of the Gladiators.

  “But …” Beluchmel’s attempted protest was cut short by a sharp glance from Tarin, whose hand was once again on the hilt of his sword.

  “Yes, Duke Winborne, I can. Thank you. But it is a hard price to pay.” Declan’s eyes remained on the stone floor, still unwilling and unable to look at Bryen.

  Kevan nodded his understanding, then motioned for Tarin to come forward. The Captain of the Guard pulled wrist restraints and a short chain from his belt. Having no good reason to resist, and still a bit astonished by what was happening, Bryen held out his hands, his eyes boring a hole through the far wall. Tarin was careful to avoid the bandage on Bryen’s right forearm, a reminder of the black dragon’s sharp claws. Satisfied that the shackles were secure, Tarin stepped away and nodded to Duke Winborne.

  Kevan immediately walked out of the small room, Beluchmel following after, trying to figure out some way to get a fair share of the gold now resting in Declan’s hands.

  “Time to go,” said Tarin, giving Bryen a shove to his shoulder. Much to his aggravation he had to do it again, this time harder, as his initial effort had no effect whatsoever, the gladiator simply looking down at him with those eyes that revealed nothing. “You may be leaving the Pit, but that doesn’t change your place in the world. Remember that. You’re still a convicted criminal. Still a slave.”

  “Free he may not be,” said Declan harshly, his eyes finally lifting off the ground and burning with their customary fire. “But he is not a slave. He is a gladiator. A fighter. Treat him as such, Captain.”

  Though Tarin knew that he should be insulted by Declan’s outburst, he was more surprised than anything else and somewhat taken aback.

  Bryen smiled grimly, locking eyes with his former trainer. There was no need for words as the master and the student studied one another for the last time.

  “Thank you for giving me the skills to survive, Declan,” said Bryen quietly, his soft voice sounding more like that of a poet than a man accustomed to the blade. He then shuffled out the door, slowed by the burns on his left leg from the dragon’s venom, now wrapped in a loose bandage that Lycia had fiddled with until she had gotten it exactly how she wanted it. Tarin followed him outside, seeking to intimidate Declan with a glare, but failing miserably.

  Declan nodded to his young charge, struggling to restrain the tears that threatened to fall as he watched the boy who had in many ways become his son take his leave.

  Looking for More …

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