by Paul Collins
As it was, they stayed under till their lungs were bursting, then surfaced, gasping for air. The voice now broke into laughter.
‘What a bedraggled pair of candidates!’
In place of the dragon stood a youth of about fourteen years. He helped them out of the pool and they sat on a stone ledge, catching their breath.
‘My name is Osric. I am Candidate Keeper to the Sacred Worms.’ He said it proudly, obviously expecting them to be awed by his status. When they gazed at him with incomprehension, his face fell. ‘You are strangers from afar, I fear.’
‘Very far,’ said Zimak. ‘But thanks for saving our lives. I appreciate it. He probably doesn’t, but I do.’ Zimak gestured at Daretor.
‘You called us candidates. Are we to be like you, and tend to the dragons?’
Osric laughed. ‘You are too old to be mind-melded to a Wormling. No, you are to be gladiators and you will fight in the next Games and win much honour for your native country before dying gloriously.’
Daretor nodded. ‘That is good news.’
Zimak stared at him nonplussed. ‘That’s good news? What about escaping? What about being made royal guests? What about winding up in a harem instead of an abattoir? Huh? Any of those remotely qualify as “good news” to you?’
Osric stared at Zimak, amazed by the flow of words. ‘Your friend must be a scribe, to talk so,’ he said to Daretor.
‘Not at all. He is simply deranged. It would be best if you ignore most of what he says.’
Zimak stood, brushing bits of muck from his skin. ‘Can we get some clothes? And maybe something to eat?’
‘Of course,’ said Osric. ‘Those-Who-Will-Soon-Be-Dead are always afforded every comfort. But you cannot tarry. Training begins at once.’
‘When are the next Games?’ Daretor asked.
‘Five days. I hope you are good fighters. I wish you a speedy and painless death.’
‘Can you stop saying that stuff?’ Zimak snapped. ‘It’s defeatist.’
They saw little of the castle over the next five days. The gladiatorial training was tough and dangerous, especially for Zimak who seemed to have lost some of his swordsmanship and Siluvian kick-fist abilities. But the food was good and so were the women. As Those-Who-Will-Soon-Be-Dead – or ‘gladiator fodder’, as Zimak put it – they were provided with an endless supply of courtesans, each of whom felt it was her unique privilege to bed a gladiator about to die in battle. Zimak took full advantage, while Daretor spent his time conversing with Osric.
The only fly in the ointment was the Master-at-Arms, a short heavily scarred man with an utterly cavalier attitude towards death, mainly that of others. He drilled Daretor and Zimak relentlessly along with the other ‘candidates’ – men captured in battle. It was from just such a battle that the dragon squad was returning when one of their number spotted Daretor and Zimak tumbling through the air. It was generally believed that they had fallen from another dragon cruising at a higher altitude. Daretor and Zimak did not correct this view.
By day they trained with mock weapons, sometimes alone, sometimes in teams. For some reason it was assumed that Daretor and Zimak were a fighting unit. However, it was not long before their unique abilities were discovered.
On one occasion, Zimak was attacked by a horned half-human creature, its lower half not unlike that of a goat. Zimak feinted, stabbed, and was jumping back to feint again when he tripped. The goat-man lunged for the kill. Zimak snap-rolled aside but the goat-man was on him in a flash. Hardly thinking, Zimak managed to get to his feet and jump.
He sailed over the head of his assailant, who stared up at him in amazement. Fighting stopped everywhere in the arena as gladiators caught sight of the prodigious feat.
The Master-at-Arms hurried over, looking Zimak up and down.
‘Do it again,’ he said.
Zimak stared at him for a moment. The Master-at-Arms raised his shortsword and plunged it towards Zimak’s genitals – or where they would have been had he not sprung back. Zimak sailed a good thirty feet before landing and stumbling.
After a long moment the Master-at-Arms clapped his hands. ‘Back to work!’ he roared. He said nothing more about the incident.
Daretor helped Zimak to his feet. ‘I’ll warrant something nasty is going through that fellow’s brain right now,’ he said. ‘And I would say he will keep your skills a secret, and bet heavily on you in the Games.’
They went back to their training. The other advantage that Daretor had noticed on the first day was also borne out soon enough. With an ease that soon had the other candidates talking, they won all their fights. They were significantly stronger than the men of this world. Their bones would not break as easily, nor did they bruise as quickly. One punch from Daretor could flatten the strongest adversary, while even Zimak outclassed all the other candidates in speed, strength, and stamina.
One evening Osric pointed out that this would prove a wonderful boon, as the winning gladiator or gladiator-team was always freed.
‘You mean we can just walk out of here?’ asked Zimak in amazement.
Osric shook his head. ‘No, of course not. None who enter the Tower Inviolate, except the Freemen, may ever leave. But you will be given a position of status and comfort, probably in the harem –’ Zimak’s eyes lit up. ‘As a eunuch,’ Osric finished off. Zimak’s face fell so quickly that even Daretor laughed.
‘Well, we must try to preserve Zimak’s patrimony at whatever cost. Tell me, Osric, how are the dragons controlled? They seem like wild beasts much of the time, yet the dragonriders fly them fearlessly.’
‘The Riders are chosen when young and are mind-melded to a particular dragon. Only then will a dragon allow a human to approach it. No others will it permit unless by request of its mind-melded companion. The dragons are a very proud and ancient race.’
‘You have also been mind-melded to one, have you not?’ Daretor asked, casually.
Osric nodded. ‘It is necessary for those charged with the care of the creatures to be mind-melded, otherwise they could not carry out their duties.’
‘Have you ever thought of escaping on your dragon?’
Osric stared at Daretor. ‘Escape? But where would I escape to? And why?’
‘Were you not brought here as a prisoner?’ Daretor demanded. ‘Do you not have a home, a family? They must miss you.’
‘I come from the mighty Bazite High Plains.’ But then Osric closed down. ‘We must not talk of this,’ he said, and left.
Zimak studied Daretor in admiration. After a long silence, he said, ‘So tell me, O Wise One, what is the plan?’
The night before the Games commenced, the gladiator candidates were led up a spiral hallway to the main hall of the castle. Here they were feted in grand style. They were served exotic dishes and sweet-meats, and two flagons of mead per table. For entertainment, they watched jugglers, jesters, and a troupe of women dancers whose long hair managed to partially, and teasingly, conceal their nudity.
As the evening drew to a close, Daretor spied the Master-at-Arms conversing with an unsavoury looking man and pointing in their direction. The man then approached the gaunt-faced King Amida III, who sat on a raised dais at the head of the hall.
The next day they were awakened early. Each candidate was led by two nubile women into a private bath and there bathed with exquisite care, before being rubbed with aromatic oils, and dressed in full fighting harness. Finally, they were bedecked with garlands of bright flowers and led to a staging pen from whence they would be taken into the gladiatorial stadium.
From where they waited, Daretor and Zimak could see a portion of the stadium. It was easily eight hundred feet across and rose in tier after tier, the thousands of seats jammed with a howling, exuberant crowd.
As the day wore on, gladiators and gladiator-teams and squads jogged onto the bloody floor of the stadium and did battle. Sometimes they fought with other gladiators. Sometimes with wild men. But just as often with savage beasts, the like of which the Q’zarans had neve
r seen.
Finally, it was their turn. Zimak was pale and shaking. He turned to Daretor. ‘I’ll see you in the Halls of the Dead,’ he said.
‘Just do as I tell you. Keep your eyes open,’ Daretor replied.
They walked into the stadium. As they had been taught, they turned and bowed towards the King, who signalled for the match to begin.
‘See the pulsing red orb medallion about the King’s neck?’ Zimak said. ‘I’ll wager that’s worth his ransom.’
‘I said keep your eyes open for danger,’ Daretor seethed. ‘And keep your thieving thoughts to yourself!’
‘Daretor, I’ve got nothing else to hang on to.’
Daretor raised his broadsword in anger at Zimak. The crowd mistook his action as one of gladiatorial defiance and roared its approval.
‘Hie,’ Zimak said. ‘I think they like us.’
The first round was against two gladiators who were quickly dispatched. Then came a knot of longhaired wild men waving cudgels and screaming incoherently. They, too, were easily slain. The crowd roared at each success. Though the first time Zimak leaped over the heads of their assailants the stadium fell silent, then roared again, louder than before.
Two hours later, Daretor and Zimak were still undefeated. The King collected significant wagers off several of his noblemen, who glared at the pair of gladiators. Then a trumpet sounded and a page stepped forth and bellowed for all to hear: ‘King Amida has commanded that the final battle shall be against the mantid.’
The crowd hushed and a ripple of unease swept the gallery. Archers appeared on the lower stand, fixing arrows to bows, and aiming them down into the arena.
‘A mantid? What in White Quell’s name is that?’ asked Zimak.
Daretor wiped blood from his brow and dried his hands with sand. ‘I rather think we shall find out soon enough.’
At the far end of the stadium a heavy portcullis was slowly being raised. Even before it was a foot off the ground something impacted with it on the other side, almost tearing it from its oiled runners. A fierce roar erupted from the holding pen and again the portcullis shook from a massive splintering impact.
Zimak tried to swallow his fear. The blood had drained from his face. ‘I was thinking, we could easily leap the wall into the lower stands, and take our chance in the chasms.’
‘You should have thought of that before the archers were positioned there.’
‘Well you think of something,’ Zimak countered.
Daretor waved Zimak aside and took several steps away himself. His eyes never left the cranking portcullis. ‘Whatever is coming will be very hard to kill. If there is a chance at all, we will have to co-ordinate our attack. Look, there’s Osric, in the stand above the portcullis.’
Osric was standing beside a thick column. ‘Great,’ said Zimak. ‘I thought you were befriending him to help us.’
A sudden commotion drew their attention back to the portcullis. It was now half way up. With a great roar, something exploded through the wooden gate and hurtled towards them in a blur of speed. It looked like a giant crab only it had the mandibles of an insect or spider. Its six legs smashed into the ground like pistons as it whirled towards them.
‘Jump!’ shouted Daretor.
Zimak complied. Fortunately, they jumped in opposite directions, confusing the walnut-sized brain of the creature. It skidded to a stop, then cocked its head first one way then the other to glare at each of them.
With amazing speed it darted towards Zimak. Its forward pincers snapped the air where he’d been a second before. Instead, he was sailing through the air to land some forty feet behind the creature.
It spun round and charged for Daretor, who stood his ground till almost the last second. Then he darted between the creature’s legs, peering up at its underbelly, seeking a vulnerable point. But there was none. Its entire body seemed to be encased in rock-hard armour plating. He slashed at it anyway, then darted out again and jumped for safety. The whole manoeuvre took only seconds.
The crowd went wild, cheering the gladiators till they were hoarse. No one had ever lasted this long against the mantid. The fact that they had done so was miraculous; the fact that they still had all their limbs was unprecedented.
Daretor caught sight of Osric still standing by the column. The dragon guardian’s face was tense as he leaned against the balustrade. He raised his hand and made quick jabbing movements towards his nose. Daretor frowned, then something dawned on him. He called to Zimak.
‘Distract it!’
Zimak stared at Daretor with a look he reserved only for the profoundly insane. Since the mantid was scuttling in his direction anyway he simply ran – or jumped – for his life. The mantid veered after him, slamming into the restraining wall of the stadium. The impact ripped out chunks of wall and pulverised dozens of pitchers. It also knocked two archers into the stadium. The mantid pounced on them, rending them to pieces and stuffing them into its twitching mandibles. The crowd roared.
Daretor launched himself through the air, landing on the creature’s neck. Utter silence fell instantly. Even the King leaned forward, shocked by the sheer boldness of the move.
Before the mantid could react, Daretor leaned down and plunged his sword up its nostril, burying the blade to the hilt. The mantid reared up, screeching in mind-sawing agony. Daretor was flung off to land fifty feet away. Zimak hurried to his side and helped him up. Daretor was dazed, but there was no further danger from the mantid.
With an ear-splitting screech it pitched over backwards and lay with its massive legs twitching in the air, a green ichor pooling on the sand beneath its head.
Complete silence reigned for what seemed like an age. Then the crowd erupted, going berserk. Money, charms, food, and items of clothing – including women’s underwear – rained down into the arena.
Daretor and Zimak stumbled to the centre of the arena and saluted first the King and then the crowd. Pages ran out and escorted the heroes away amidst chanting adulation.
‘So let me get this right,’ Zimak said, addressing Osric. ‘Because we won the Games we get our freedom, but our freedom is really that we just get to live here for the rest of our lives as eunuchs. Is that it?’
Osric looked perplexed. ‘There is nothing better these people can offer.’
‘Gah,’ said Zimak. ‘Just tell me one thing. Who do we petition about this?’
Daretor took Osric by the arm and sat him down. ‘Osric,’ he said, sitting beside him, ‘we are not staying here. We plan to escape and we want your help.’
Osric stared at him. ‘I do not understand.’
‘I have learned many things from you. I have learned that King Amida and his people rule these lands because they control the dragons, and none can fight against them. Yet you have also said that your own people rear dragons. Why do you not fight back?’
‘Who can fight back? We have no female dragons of the warrior strain left; just sickly males. Only here are the crimson females to be found. Bazitian dragons have become weak, they do not breathe fire, and are small compared to these.’
‘What would happen,’ Daretor said, slowly, ‘if you stole the crimson female in your care and took it back to Bazite? It is female, is it not?’
Osric looked at him in frightened wonder. ‘S’cressling is female, yes. And I – I would be a hero, the saviour of my people. But –’
‘But what?’ Zimak asked, impatiently.
‘I am scared. I was brought here as a boy of eight years. Perhaps my people will not want me any more.’ His eyes brimmed with tears. An old pain had surfaced and Daretor saw that he must move carefully.
‘Is there no prophecy amongst your people of one who will rise to liberate them?’
Osric’s eyes suddenly shone. He looked thunderstruck. ‘Of course there is, and it is said that He will come on the back of a crimson dragon, breathing fire to shatter the bonds of His people!’
‘Well,’ said Daretor, ‘I think it’s time he came, don’t you?’
Later that night, as the castle slept, three figures lurked in the shadows of the Dragon Keepers’ quarters. One of them crept forward and stole silently through a door. A moment later there was a sharp cry, and the figure emerged bearing a ring of keys that he took care to stop from jangling.
The three then crossed to the holding pens, moving to one in particular. They stopped in front of it. Osric whispered, ‘I must go in alone and speak to her. I will tell her we are going on a training flight. She will not care. Dragons do not think as we do.’
He vanished into the pen and there were a series of low growls, then a kind of odd purring noise. Osric returned and beckoned them in. The dragon, which was still an adolescent, was hunched on the floor. Osric had rigged a canopy on its back. He helped Daretor and Zimak to climb the dragon’s flank and buckle themselves in to the seating harness. Then he took the pilot’s seat and placing the palm of his hand on the dragon’s neck, whispered a soft command.
The dragon moved forward. It entered the hangar and had almost reached the launching area when the alarm was given. A squad of soldiers, roused from their sleep, charged onto the hangar floor just as Osric’s dragon sprang from the launching pad and sailed into the night air of the vast crater.
Picking up speed, it shot towards the canyon in the distant wall.
Daretor raised his voice above the hissing slipstream. ‘How soon can they launch a pursuit?’
Osric shook his head. ‘Bare moments, I fear, but dragons cannot navigate the canyon with any certainty at night when there are no moons in the sky. If we get that far, we are safe.’
‘Then what makes you think we can get through the canyon?’ Zimak asked.
‘This dragon is half the size of the adults. It will be easy.’
Zimak frowned. ‘S’cressling has three of us to carry and our pursuers will only have one.’
Daretor looked behind. ‘They’re coming!’
Spouts of flame lit up the face of the Tower Inviolate as a trio of adult dragons launched themselves in pursuit. The adults may have been too big to negotiate the narrow canyon in the dark, but they were also faster than the adolescent. With dismaying speed, they closed the gap.
