The Chimaera Regiment

by Nathaniel Turner

  *

  The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

  The twenty-fourth of the month of Anthemen

  Early in the second hour

  Four days later, in the northeastern woodlands, Hector was roused by a sharp kick. He recoiled at the light pouring over him. Their “housing,” as Eitromal had called it, consisted of a series of pits dug into the ground at the edge a second clearing, northwest of the obelisk. Once Hector and his companions were dropped inside, one person to each pit, they were covered by a row of wooden planks, blocking out all light.

  Hector had lost track of the days. Food was delivered inconsistently, and usually rotten. Hector ate what he could and promised sacrifices to Anthea if Bronwyn were receiving better care than he. Normally, his food was tossed in quickly; never before had someone joined him in his pit.

  He looked up to see Veither standing beside him. “Get up, you filth,” the Keldan spat, “Sounds like your friend could use some help in the arena.”

  Weakly, Hector climbed to his feet. The full brightness of the morning sun was blinding after so long in the dark. Veither forced him up a rope ladder, lowered into his pit for this purpose.

  An array of sensations filled his eyes, his ears, his nose; his pit had been black, muddy, and quiet, but the world outside was filled with light, the sweet aroma of late summer, and the sounds of life. He felt like a man deaf and blind being given all of his senses in full.

  Once out of the pit, Veither shoved him toward the structure at the center of the clearing. Hector had seen it briefly when they had been brought here before; a stone wall, about seven feet high, surrounded a large, oval area. At the eastern end, where Veither was pushing Hector, there was a small gate; at the western end, an edifice stood above the wall, about thirty feet high in total. This was the arena of the Keldans.

  The gate was wooden and ancient; its stale, musty odor contrasted sharply with the pleasant scent of the field. As the gate swung open and admitted them to the arena, Hector realized that the worsening stench was not a result of old pine. On the floor of the arena, intermixed with the imported sand, was a mess of gore and death.

  Hector swallowed the rising lump of bile in his throat as Veither trudged him across the sandy ground. Veither saw his discomfort and laughed. “You’ve got a lot to look forward to, whelp,” he mocked.

  The arena dipped sharply before reaching the edifice at the west end. This served two purposes: first, it kept the combatants from being able to reach the spectators, and second, it provided the underground entrance to the cells below.

  That entrance was a heavy iron gate, rusted by the rain that flowed down from the arena. Inside, four Keldans, each armed with a long spear, stood near the door, guarding against the escape of their prisoners.

  Veither prodded Hector down into the facility. The boy’s strength dwindled as he was robbed of the sights and sounds of the outside world once again. The tunnel opened into a broad, but shallow hall. Long rows of square cages filled the room; each cage afforded its prisoner about six feet on a side.

  Hector retched involuntarily. The room swept around behind the tunnel and, in part, lay underneath the arena floor itself. The carnage above seeped below and commingled with the stink of unwashed combatants.

  Veither laughed again. Taking the miserable boy by the shoulder, he thrust him around the corner and toward the worst of the reek. They passed dozens of men, many of them wounded, all of them grimy and emaciated. Veither shoved Hector into an empty cell along the back wall, about as far as anyone could get from the entrance tunnel.

  The cell was damp and rusted. Hector’s imagination ran wild with visions of blood coating the bars and oxidizing the iron, never realizing that rain soaked through the sand and stone more than gore ever did. Fear began to creep in as he settled against the bars: fear that he would die in this place, sequestered and alone, or above on the arena floor at the hands of some other prisoner; fear that he would never see Bronwyn or Caradoc or his mother or Lord Aneirin again; fear that the gods had abandoned him and, by extension, the world to the hands of cruel men. He did not object when Veither slammed the cage shut and left him behind; he cowered.

  “Hector?”

  The boy spun, frightened by the sudden noise over his whimpering. There was a man in the adjoining cage, bruised and beaten and bloodied. He had dark hair and a dark beard, splintered by scars, and dark eyes that seemed to drown the meager torch-light. He was large, but hunched slightly, as if towering over the boy, like a demon ready to devour him. Hector’s tongue caught in his throat, and he could not answer.

  “Hector,” the man said again, his voice hoarse from disuse, “It’s me—Brynjar.” He stepped closer, and he was illumined anew; Hector saw the familiar features, the hard jaw, the human frame.

  “Brynjar!” he exclaimed, and rushed closer. Each man clasped the other’s shoulder through the bars, an awkward embrace. “I feared you were dead.”

  “Not yet,” Brynjar replied wryly. “I have fought half a dozen times in their arena since we last met. How many days has it been?”

  Hector shook his head. “I don’t know. They’ve kept us in pits at the edge of the clearing.” He paused, frowning, and corrected, “Well, they’ve kept me in a pit. I haven’t seen the others since the trial.”

  Brynjar shook his head in turn. “Neither have I. Most of the men I fight are slaves and criminals, for the entertainment of a mob. From what I can see during a fight, they’re mostly locals.”

  Hector looked around, with new courage found in his friend. “Why have they brought me here?” he asked, “What do they expect of me?”

  Brynjar swallowed hard, not wanting to answer. Hector turned to him, and he relented. “If you’re to be housed here, then you’re to fight up above,” he said. Hesitantly, he added, “And they expect you to die.”

  *

  The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

  The twenty-fourth of the month of Anthemen

  Late in the eighth hour

  That afternoon, a Keldan soldier came for both of them. Two other guards menaced them with spears as the soldier dragged them from their cells and pushed them toward the entry tunnel. He did not prod them with a weapon, but his hand rested meaningfully on his sword hilt to discourage attempts at escape.

  They trudged in silence as they were pressed up the tunnel. Before they reached the open air, the soldier stopped them. Ahead, they could see three more Keldans and four more prisoners, closer to the arena floor. The iron gate was creaked open, but no one moved. From outside, Hector could hear someone shouting to the crowd.

  “—seen them fight dozens of times before. They are your favorite team, and they’re just one victory away from winning their freedom! They are... the Keldan assassins of old Captain Hetya, Hero of the North!”

  At that, the four prisoners ahead of them charged into the open. They were followed by their guards, who stood just outside the gate.

  “Their opponents today are relative newcomers to our arena! You’ve seen one fight battle after battle, never relenting, never giving in, but now he has a weak link to protect!”

  Brynjar casually turned to Hector. There was resolution in his eyes, and any softness that Hector might once have found there was gone. He spoke softly. “Remember what I taught you,” he advised, “Take courage.”

  “Before you can control a battle,” Hector recalled aloud, “You first have to control yourself.”

  “Travelers, vagabonds, trespassers, they are!” the announcer outside continued, “They have violated our lands and seek to destroy our way of life! They are... the villains from the west!”

  Hector felt a jab in his back as their guard prodded him forward with one gauntleted hand. Brynjar was already marching into the hot sunlight. The southern warrior was defiant and resolved; he moved without hesitation, without reservation. Hector set his jaw, banished his fears, and followed his friend onto the burning sand.

  The brilliant glare of midday startled him, and he raise
d an arm to shield his eyes. When the world came into focus, he saw the forest beyond the wall, gently swaying in the breeze. Briefly, he envied those trees; each was forever rooted to one spot, yet they were freer than he was at this moment. As his gaze settled earthward, he saw Brynjar and, beyond him, the four barbaric criminals that had preceded them.

  The jeering of the crowds was deafening. Now that the announcer had spoken his piece, nothing prevented their taunts. Hector turned to face the gallery; he saw many men, but women, too, and even children. Watching the games was a family affair for the Keldans; that thought twisted Hector’s stomach.

  Turning back, he stepped abreast with Brynjar. Realizing that he was still unarmed, he frowned. He whispered urgently to Brynjar, “What are we supposed to fight with?”

  The warrior nodded toward the space in the middle of the arena. “Those,” he answered.

  Hector looked. About equidistant between them and the criminals, two swords and one spear stood point-down in the sand. Fear reestablished its foothold in his heart as he recognized their predicament: the six men on the field would be forced to fight for a weapon, and then use it to kill the enemy. Hector tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but succeeded only in straining his neck muscles.

  Brynjar offered one more piece of advice: “Don’t hesitate.”

  Then the announcer shouted, “Begin!”

  With a roar, the criminals charged toward the center of the ring. Brynjar took off for the spear in the very center, leaving Hector to go for one of the swords. As panic tore through him, the boy ran stutteringly forward, aiming at the sword closest to him, nearer the north side of the arena.

  His legs felt like dead weight as he footslogged through the sand. The dread pulled at him, draining his strength. Two of the criminals were chasing the spear, a third was running for the sword on the right, and the last looked to compete with Hector for the sword on the left.

  Hector despaired.

  But then he remembered his hope. “I know that you’re strong enough to do what the gods are asking of you,” Bronwyn had said. Hector wanted to say that the gods were asking too much, that his suffering was too great—but not so great, he knew, as it would be if Bronwyn came to harm. Eitromal had implied threats against them all if Brynjar should fall in the arena; Hector could not allow that.

  With renewed vigor, he charged across the hot sands. Yet his delays cost him: the criminal reached the sword first. Like caution to the wind, Hector threw himself bodily at the man. The impact took them both off their feet. The sword had barely left the earth when it thudded back down again.

  Hector threw wild punches. He kicked sharply at the man beneath him. The criminal was startled by the savagery of this foreigner. He raised his arms, trying to shield his face from the blows. Hector did not relent, even as his hands ached and bled from the fight.

  At last, the criminal recovered from his surprise. Pushing outward with arms and legs, he launched Hector away onto the arena floor. He scrambled through the sand, seeking the sword, but Hector reacted faster. The Alkimite regained his footing and kicked the criminal in the ribs before diving for the sword. The man yelped and tumbled over as Hector fell face-first into the dense sand. His hand found the hilt.

  Hector rolled onto his back. The criminal was clambering toward him. Hector raised the sword just in time; the Keldan impaled himself as he charged the boy. His weight carried him farther, landing him heavily on top of Hector. His face, twisted in horror, was only inches from his foe’s. The young Alkimite watched as the light escaped from his eyes.

  Hector felt sick. Blood was seeping down the hilt onto his hands, and he released it instinctively. He pushed away and scrabbled out from under the corpse, crossing the sandy floor on his back. He rose to his knees, gasping for breath. The roars of the crowd reached his ears again, and he looked up.

  Brynjar was about twenty feet away, wrenching his spear from the last of the criminals. He was beaten and bloodied anew, but he was alive, and the Keldans were not.

  The guards rushed out from the tunnel gate. Archers stood on the roof of the gallery, threatening both survivors with their drawn weapons. Hector was heaved upward and shoved back toward the prison. He watched Brynjar drop his spear and throw up his hands in surrender.

  As the lump rose back into Hector’s throat, he wondered how any of them were going to survive.

  *

  The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

  The second of the month of Ennemen

  Early in the second hour

  Eight days passed; twelve since Fero died. Fintan and Einar had been guards outside the lords’ tent almost every night since then.

  Drystan had requested them specifically; Fintan could not fathom why the traitorous Guardian trusted them, but he was glad to be so close to the top. Here, they could listen in on most of the meetings that Derek had with his captains and gather information that Einar could report to Duncan.

  Even more curiously, Einar found himself the de facto captain of their new troop. Fintan had expected that honor to fall to either Mort or Umbra, but both southerners had been called away by a captain that Fintan did not know. The Sundan speculated that Derek wanted them to scout in advance, but he had heard nothing about their assignment. As a result, their troop was again short, this time by two.

  He and Einar stood at attention, unwavering in their apparent devotion. In truth, both men wished they could barge into the lords’ tent and kill Derek where he sat, but they knew it would be a futile effort. If Derek did not kill them, Drystan would, and their entire scheme would be exposed. It was better to wait, and learn.

  But Drystan had not been in the lords’ tent. The Guardian approached presently, passing by the two soldiers without acknowledging them. Einar looked at Fintan after the Traitor passed, and both men leaned a little closer to the tent opening.

  “The Thuites,” Drystan was saying, “are planning to defend their town from its walls. No doubt they expect the stones to hold.”

  “No doubt,” Derek replied. “Are there any others? Outside the walls?”

  Fintan thought that Drystan paused then, but only for the slightest of moments. “No, milord,” the Guardian replied.

  “Very well,” Derek answered, “I trust you.” There was a pause, then a shuffle from another part of the tent. Fintan resisted the urge to open the tent flap and get a glimpse of the proceedings. “I believe you are still loyal to me,” Derek continued, “unlike several of my best warriors.”

  There was the sound of wooden crates being cracked open. There was no audible reaction from Drystan, but Derek said, “They tried to murder me last night, friend. My guards, thank the gods, were very efficient; this was all they left of these two.” Fintan looked at Einar meaningfully, but the other man’s expression was as clueless as his own. “Still,” Derek was saying, “they did betray their own when they poisoned Lord Fero. It’s just as I always say, eh, friend?” There was a significant pause before Derek concluded, “Once a traitor, always a traitor.” Derek laughed artificially.

  Drystan replied evenly, “How unfortunate for them that you are so wise, milord.”

  There was more shuffling; Fintan and Einar quickly stood at attention. Drystan stormed out past them. A few moments later, two soldiers stepped out carrying a pair of small wooden crates. Einar gestured to them curiously, indicating the crates. Now that they were out of Derek’s sight, they were unafraid of his wrath. They opened the crates as quietly as they could.

  Inside were the severed heads of Mort and Umbra.

  Chapter Seven

  The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

  The second of the month of Ennemen

  Late in the sixth hour

  Getting out of the Regiment camp to see Duncan was not easy. The camp was full of soldiers, and navigation among them required an agile step under the best of conditions. Meeting during the day was a fool’s errand, but Einar knew that he had no choice.

  Not long after Drystan’s departure from t
he lords’ tent that morning, a scout had arrived to notify Derek of his findings. He had explained that the Thuites were mostly lined up on their walls, but they were also spread across the forest region to the west of the Regiment’s approach.

  In response, Derek had expressed two sentiments: his desire to punish Drystan for lying to him, and his desire to exterminate the Thuites for standing in his way. Einar did not know what schedule could dictate that plan; he only knew that he had to get a warning to the Thuites.

  Escaping individual notice was easy enough. Every soldier in the camp had his own duties and interests requiring his attention, so no one paid attention as Einar slipped away. Einar’s greater concern was that the lords still did not trust him; they might have had him followed. If anyone caught him meeting with Duncan, it would put both of them in mortal danger, not to mention Azos and Fintan.

  Duncan had agreed to keep northeast of the Regiment camp at all times, but without landmarks, finding his exact location was a challenge. Einar took a circuitous route through the camp, ostensibly on patrol. After most of an hour, he reached the northeast edge of the camp, which was situated in a wide field. Farther east and a little north, there was a small copse; if Duncan were nearby, that was where he would be. Taking one last suspicious glance around, Einar made for the copse.

  The weather was clear, and the air was crisp and cold. A light breeze, carrying the scent of loam, swept across the plain from the east, cutting through the fur garment Einar was wearing. The trees in the thicket ahead were already losing their colorful coiffures to the chill. Einar wrapped his arms around his chest, tucked his head down, and increased his pace toward the dense grove.