He looked up. Vance stood in front of him.
“It’s time,” Vance said.
Rathis stood by Vance’s side. He was nearly as old as Syrus, with all the feathers on his scalp long gone and his diamond-patterned skin so faded it was hard to tell where one segment started and the other finished.
“We are here to see you off,” the skalen said. His tone was grave. “No one should walk through the gate alone.”
Taimin knew from Vance that the gate led from the room filled with prisoners, along a corridor, up a sloped path, and to the sandy floor of the arena. As the pounding of boots on stone benches continued, Taimin glanced up at the ceiling, Vance scratched his neat beard and spoke again. “I might have some bad news.”
Taimin’s head jerked. He focused on the man in front of him and wondered how his situation could get any worse.
“Look,” Vance said, nodding toward the far end of the room. “Sarg is gone.”
Taimin turned and his heart sank. Sarg was the arena champion. The biggest of the trulls, he had survived longer than anyone else.
Rathis’s voice was cautioning. “It is not certain you will be up against Sarg.”
“Just concentrate on the fight,” Vance said. “Focus on survival.”
“What will I fight with?”
“You’ll get a sword. Cheap and basic, but serviceable,” Vance said. “Don’t expect steel.”
“Wastelander!” a rough voice called from the far side of the room.
Taimin’s gaze shot to the gate and he saw the guard on the other side scowling at him.
“He means you,” Vance said.
“I realize that,” Taimin said dryly.
“Are you ready?”
Taimin drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
He began to walk toward the gate while Vance and Rathis flanked him. He understood without being told that this was part of the ritual of the arena: being given the comfort of companionship as he walked to what would likely be his death. As his heart beat faster and faster, he continued the heavy breathing, and flexed his shoulders and arms to prepare himself for combat.
A pair of the prison guards—a rougher kind than the Protector’s uniformed soldiers—stood on the other side of the gate, watching Taimin approach. They hauled the gate open and the three companions passed through. The gate slammed closed a moment later.
Taimin turned a corner and looked up a sloped path. The bright light of day shone through an archway at the end of the corridor, where a portcullis was already open. The archway, twice the height of a man, led directly to the fighting pit.
The light was temporarily blinding. Taimin clamped down on his fear, knowing it could weaken him. He heard a roar as thousands of voices bellowed, a burst of sound that jangled his already taut nerves.
Vance and Rathis stayed with him until he was just a dozen paces from the archway.
“That’s far enough, you two,” one of the guards called out to them. “As for you,” he glared at Taimin and patted the heavy club that dangled from his waist, “keep moving.”
“By the rains,” Vance muttered when he saw what awaited Taimin in the pit.
Taimin came to a sudden halt. Fear made him freeze when he saw what he was about to face on the sand. The black shape was as big as a wyvern but insectile, with a coiled tail and twin pincers as dark and shining as obsidian. Three bent legs on each side supported the creature’s lean body. Four eyes jutted out on stalks, above a gaping maw filled with rows of sharp black teeth.
“It’s a hellstinger scorpion,” Vance said. His face was pale.
Abi spoke in Taimin’s mind.
I don’t need to tell you to avoid scorpions. They range from no larger than your finger to the size of a wyvern. The biggest are the hellstingers. If you find yourself facing one, the only way to survive is to cut off its tail. You’ll ruin its balance and remove the threat of the sting. Its other weapons are its claws, which are razor sharp and can take off a limb as easily as you can pick a cactus flower, and its spit, which is a painful acid. Just avoid them, Taimin. Avoid them at all costs.
“Listen, Taimin,” Vance said. “If it stings you, and I get a chance, do you want me to end it?”
Taimin knew what Vance was asking. The poison in the hellstinger’s tail was said to be unlike anything else: lingering and excruciating, leading to hours of mindless screaming followed by certain death.
“You won’t get a chance. Galen wants to see me suffer. But if you do . . . then yes. And, Vance?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“Move!” the prison guard growled at Taimin.
Vance squeezed Taimin’s shoulder and Rathis gave a nod. Leaving Vance and Rathis behind, Taimin forced himself to keep walking toward another pair of guards at the end of the corridor. He could feel his companions’ eyes on his back.
One of the guards below the portcullis passed him a short hardwood sword. Taimin swiftly examined the blade. It was chipped in places, but at least it looked sharp. When the fight was done, either way, the sword would be taken from him. He left this last pair of guards behind. Light poured from the archway. He tested the balance of the sword, gripping the hilt in his right hand, trying to hold it firmly but not too tightly, the way Abi had shown him. To drop it would be to die.
He stepped out into the open. A roar greeted his appearance.
Behind him, the raised portcullis dropped down. He was now trapped. Dex’s glare was blinding and Lux shone angrily from a higher place in the sky. On all sides he saw tiered benches, protected from the sandy floor by a tall wooden fence. People called out from all directions, their faces flushed. Laborers in ragged clothing made up the majority of the crowd, but there were also well-dressed citizens on the tiers at the back. Youths jumped up and down in excitement. Fathers held up their children so they could see.
As he took it all in, despite his situation, Taimin was surprised. From the thumping he had heard down below, he had thought the crowd must be in a frenzy. It was true that many of the onlookers were leaning forward in eager anticipation, but others, particularly from the poorer sections at the front, looked like they wished they were anywhere else.
He knew in any case that he had to ignore them. Returning his attention to the pit, he walked in a slow circle around the hellstinger, swinging his arms and preparing himself. The immense scorpion lashed its tail but appeared to be confused by its surroundings. Meanwhile, Taimin blotted out the sights and sounds above. He resisted the temptation to look for Galen. Of course the commander of the city guard would be watching, but Taimin couldn’t think about him now. He had to survive.
The hellstinger’s attention was now entirely focused on Taimin. Aware that one human was closer than any other, the creature made a hissing sound.
Taimin decided he was ready and came to a halt. He faced the hellstinger and turned his body to the side to present a smaller target. He lifted the tip of his sword and watched the hellstinger warily.
He almost jumped when he heard a strident horn blast and the crowd went silent. A prison guard opened a gate in the wooden fence to allow a herald to enter the fighting pit. Even though both Taimin and the hellstinger were on the far side of the floor, the herald walked only a short distance from the fence before he came to a halt, his nervous eyes on the huge black scorpion. He was a plump man in expensive clothing, with a wobbling chin and a crown of curly hair.
The herald opened his arms. “Citizens of Zorn!” he bellowed. “Welcome once more to the arena! I bring you these words from our exalted Protector, which I will convey to you now.”
As the herald paused to clear his throat, Taimin wondered what it was that the Protector intended to communicate to the crowd.
“Today, my people, I, the Protector of Zorn, gazed out from the Great Tower. As I searched the lands around our fair city, I watched raptors fight over the carcass of a firehound. I saw skalen gnaw at the bones of a child. I heard bax as
they laughed over the ruins of a human homestead. I witnessed the efforts of our valiant soldiers as they killed those same bax where they stood. Zorn is safe! Your Protector sees all.”
The words had the pattern of something the crowd had heard before. No one appeared to be surprised at the horrific scenes that the herald described, and he moved on as soon as he had finished.
“Now, without further ado,” the herald cried, “I bring you one whose heinous crimes have brought him to do battle here today. This man, a wastelander without a shred of civilized custom, came to Zorn to steal our wealth and plot against our Protector. In cold blood he murdered the soldier Kurt, a proud member of the city guard and the blood of our commander, Galen. He then fled into the waste like the coward he is. With relentless courage our commander hunted this man down and captured him alive so that we may witness his death today. He is to fight a hellstinger scorpion, and if, by chance, he is victorious, he is to then fight the mighty Sarg, most vicious of the trulls. Justice will be done.”
When the herald mentioned Sarg, Taimin drew in a sharp breath. He saw the snub-nosed trull standing in an enclosure behind the protection of the wooden fence. Sarg looked at Taimin and grinned, showing off his long teeth.
Then Taimin inadvertently raised his gaze. He scanned the sea of faces until he saw him.
Galen sat at a high tier where he had a clear view of the fighting pit. He was leaning forward, and although his face was as cold as ever, his gleaming eyes betrayed his anticipation.
“Let the battle begin!”
No sooner were the words out of the herald’s mouth than he fled back through the gate. The horn blasted again, louder this time, and the hellstinger reared back at the noise, claws clicking together as its eyes on stalks twitched one way and then another. Taimin continued to wait. If he was a nimbler man, he might try to take the hellstinger by surprise, but with his bad foot he knew it would be better to save his strength and let the creature come for him.
“Fight!” someone from the crowd jeered. “Coward!”
With his sword gripped in both hands, Taimin continued to wait.
More people called out and hissed. Above and behind them, Galen smiled with thin lips.
Taimin saw Sarg gesturing as he said something to one of the guards. The guard nodded, and Sarg left the enclosure to enter the fighting pit. Moving slowly, the trull crept up close to the hellstinger. Even Sarg was clearly afraid as he gripped his spiked club and stretched his arm. As swiftly as he could, he swung his weapon at the hellstinger’s tail. It was a rap more than a hard blow, yet it clearly enraged the creature. Sarg leaped away as the tail lashed the air. He darted back, before exiting the fighting pit once more.
As soon as its tail stopped swishing, the hellstinger sped forward on scuttling legs.
Taimin’s senses became heightened as fear surged through his veins. A snapping claw thrust at his head and he ducked. The fight had begun.
He knew the hellstinger would spin to bring its tail forward and he watched for the movement, even as he ducked another swipe from a claw. He came in close and slashed his sword at the hellstinger’s eye stalks, but missed. He was forced to dive and roll when a claw grabbed at his abdomen. The moment he shot back up again, the hellstinger whirled to face him and spat.
White fluid shot from the scorpion’s maw and splashed onto Taimin’s shoulder. The leather vest barely protected him. Pain seared across his neck and upper arm. But he knew how to fight pain and pushed it down.
The hellstinger had closed in to spit and Taimin saw an opportunity. He swung his sword at one of the four eye stalks. The pale wooden blade sliced clean through and sent the eye it was attached to flying. Even as Taimin cut, he leaped backward, and then the hellstinger spun its body.
The tail uncurled and came forward, where its path would take it into Taimin’s torso.
The crowd roared.
Taimin fell flat onto his back. He saw the black tail cleave the air in front of his nose and heard the whistle of its passage. He tried to raise himself fast enough to swing the sword at the tail. His blow struck the sand.
The hellstinger’s motion took it in a complete rotation. Taimin again faced the enraged creature as it spat a second time. He lunged to the side and the white spray missed him by inches. When he returned to a standing position, he found himself panting heavily as he fought the pain in his shoulder and the crunch of bones in his foot.
The hellstinger now began a flurry of blows from its claws, pushing Taimin back and forcing him to give ground. Taimin thrust with his sword but the blade was too short and the creature too fast. He knew he would have to come in close if he wanted to halt his retreat and prevent himself from being pushed back against the fence.
He initiated a series of attacks at the eye stalks, but every time he tried to land a blow it was blocked by the scorpion’s claws. Then his intuition told him that the hellstinger was going to spin again.
This time he crouched down, and as the tail came around he jumped into the air. Even with most of his weight on his good leg his jump was weak, and the tail struck his foot, knocking him down.
The back of his head hit the sand. He blindly swung.
He felt the sharp blade make contact. As his sword sliced through the tail at its midpoint, he swiftly rolled to avoid the severed section, desperate to keep it away from his skin.
The hellstinger gave a terrible, piercing shriek and reared back onto its stump, but there was no tail to give it balance. The crowd bellowed approval.
Taimin pushed himself back to his feet. His chest heaved as he gathered himself and waited for his opportunity. The hellstinger lurched from side to side. The creature’s claws snapped together and its three remaining eye stalks twitched.
Taimin tried to circle around it, his stride hobbled whenever he put his weight on his bad leg. The hellstinger kept turning to face him so he launched into a shuffling sideways run to force it to constantly change position. He knew that he often fell when he attempted to run, but he pushed the thought from his mind.
Spying an opening, he darted forward while the scorpion’s eyes faced the wrong direction. He plunged his sword into the hellstinger’s carapace and withdrew it immediately. He then slashed at the three stalks, taking them off with a single blow. The creature’s six legs trembled and then it collapsed as the life went out of it. Taimin waited for its death throes to finish while he gathered his breath.
He had forgotten the crowd, and once more he heard their cries. He lifted his gaze. Some of the loudest people were calling encouragement, telling him to do the same to the trull; others jeered, shouting that he was about to meet his match.
The horn blasted. The herald entered the pit, again as far as possible from Taimin.
“We at the arena promise to always give you a fight to remember, and today we have delivered on that promise!” the plump herald cried, his chin jiggling with every word. “Now let this man of dark deeds fight the arena champion, the one you have come here to see, the strongest in a race known for its strength. Give a warm welcome to Sarg!”
The trull lifted his snout and raised his club into the air as he entered the fighting pit. He had half an ear and his brow was wrinkled in a perpetual scowl, but it was clear that he took pride in his title of champion. His supporters in the crowd cheered him on. He walked toward Taimin with purposeful strides. The gate in the fence slammed closed behind the herald.
There was no chance for Taimin to rest as he watched his opponent advance. The trull was much taller than him, with a thick body that rippled with muscle. Taimin knew he wasn’t strong enough to fight again, let alone take on a trull. Sarg met his eyes and grinned.
“Come, human,” Sarg said in a throaty voice. “What are you afraid of?”
Taimin shifted his position, but then he came to a halt on the sand. His shoulders slumped. Fatigue washed over him as the sharp pain on his shoulder returned with intensity. A trull’s weakness was lack of speed, but there was no way he could outman
euver a skilled fighter in his current state.
He did the only thing he could. He held up his sword and then threw it past his opponent, to the far side of the fighting pit. He spread his hands to show he was unarmed.
Some of the onlookers cried out in despair.
Sarg smiled as he closed in. The trull was confident and held his club overhead, ready to bring it down. People yelled at Taimin to fight, but he just stood and waited, panting with exhaustion. There was only one option available to him. It might be the last move he ever made. He watched his opponent approach until he was ten paces away, and then eight.
Taimin’s eyes rested on the ground between them. When Sarg was six paces away, Taimin took a deep breath and then dived forward.
He landed heavily on one knee, but at least the churned-up sand cushioned the impact. Even as pain shot up his leg, he took hold of a moist, slippery stump: the hellstinger’s severed tail. The thick end of the tail was wet with the hellstinger’s blood and Taimin thought he felt a stinging sensation. Regardless, his was an act of desperation.
He held on tight with both hands and twisted his body at the same time to swing the tail with all his strength.
The sharp end of the black tail left a red gash across the trull’s cheek. As Sarg’s eyes shot wide open, he screamed.
Taimin threw the tail away from him. He brought his body into a crouch, watching his opponent. He slowly straightened.
Sarg was roaring with agonizing, terrible pain. The trull clasped his hand against his face and then fell to his knees. He tumbled backward and started to roll. His body twitched while he continued to howl.
Taimin waited, but there was no fight left in his opponent. His plan had worked. Someone else might have realized what he was doing, but trulls weren’t known for their quick thinking.
Breathing heavily, covered in sweat, he realized that the crowd was in shock; every mouth was open and every voice utterly silent. Taimin walked over to his sword and picked it up. He then returned to the trull and looked up at Galen.
The commander’s stony expression was gone; he could barely contain his rage. Galen watched as Taimin thrust the point of his sword into the writhing trull’s neck, and then the arena champion was dead.
A Girl From Nowhere Page 23
