Even all the high buildings adjoining the square had people waving in the open windows and balconies. All the people were enjoying themselves and it seemed that all of Mindra’s Haven must be here, cheering and mingling with their fellows. Some, however, were silent and had steady eyes upon the balcony of Mindra’s Temple. No doubt they were waiting for the temple’s fire to turn blue so they could be of the first to see the lords of Devdan proclaim peace.
Suddenly, Aleksi caught sight of a unique flag flying over a large tent in the distance. Jumping down from the barrel, the youth made his way through the mob. Katrina had told him that the official arena tent had a flag of a silver gauntlet above its center pole. She had said that was where the arena fighters registered and typically congregated until the matches began. Aleksi had the feeling, however, that she had told him this with the hope that seeing the tent’s clientele would shake his resolve. As he approached, Aleksi noticed that normal citizens kept a wide berth as they made their way around the tent. He assumed that was not because of its armed guards but more likely due to its notorious patrons.
Emerging from the crowd, Aleksi nodded to the guards and they gave him a dubious look. After walking under the tent’s awning, Aleksi saw a scribe dressed in a formal uniform. He was seated at a table and writing in a large and ornate Runic ledger. Over a white shirt with a tight-cropped collar, the man wore a vest of black twill with a golden sash. As Aleksi approached, the scribe didn’t bother to look up from his work, and Aleksi wondered what type of Runic technology was embedded in the book. Behind another set of sentries, Aleksi could see many rows of tables under the tent. Seated at the benches were all manner of warriors from across Terra. They were talking in small groups, all eyeing each other keenly.
Aleksi walked up to the scribe and, clearing his throat, addressed the man formally. “Sir, I would like to register for the exhibition matches.”
“You could have registered here twelve hours ago, boy.” Without further words, the scribe went back to writing in the Runic book in front of him.
Aleksi frowned. Katrina had neglected to mention any time limit on registration. “My apologies, sir,” Aleksi continued. “Is there somewhere else I could register, then?”
“The festival started yesterday at Zenith-down and registration is therefore closed. Besides”—the man looked Aleksi up and down—“you’re not missing anything, except possibly some broken bones or an untimely death. This place does not take kindly to children.”
“Sir, if given the chance, I—”
“We are closed. Leave now, or I will have you forcibly removed.”
Out of nowhere, a black pearl landed on the scribe’s book with a thud. “I don’t think you’re closed just yet.” The smug voice came from directly behind Aleksi. The official’s eyes widened and Aleksi spun around to look at the newcomer.
The voice belonged to a tall man with blue eyes, sharp features, and a Zenith-tanned face. Under his bead-braided hair, he wore a wide-brimmed captain’s hat and had a tightly cropped beard. The man had a somewhat gaudy sword at his hip tucked into a thick cloth belt held with a lacquered blue buckle. His amber arms were crossed over an ornate vest and he projected more self-assurance than Aleksi had ever seen. There was no mistaking the attire and cocky swagger—this was the same captain that Aleksi had seen yesterday at the docks talking to Arva Vatana and Beck Al’Beth.
At the captain’s right side, a boy of about twelve stood mimicking his father’s stance. To the captain’s left, a young man in a faded red shirt and black pants stood with his palm resting on the hilt of his sheathed blade. All three had the icy-blue eyes and long blond hair of the Western Thalassocracy.
Before the scribe could say anything, the captain spoke again. “I’ve got a man on my crew who wants to enter. I’ve also got enough pearls to see him through.”
“As I’ve said, we’re closed.” The scribe’s eyes glanced at the iridescent Runic denomination inscribed on the pearl in front of him. “You must know of the Eastern custom. No man can enter the tournament after the festival has begun. You aren’t asking me to defy the will of the Guardians, are you?”
Two more black pearls landed next to the original and the scribe’s lips curled up into a grin. “Friend,” the captain chuckled, “Mindra himself grants us his pardon.”
“Well, I’m sure we would have his blessing to make an exception for ones as generous as you,” the scribe said, picking one of the pearls up and twisting it between thumb and forefinger. He smiled again as the pearl Runicly split into ten equally sized replications of itself. The only difference between the replications was that each bore a numerical denomination of one-tenth of the original stack.
“And this one, too,” the captain said, nodding to Aleksi. “Every man deserves a chance at glory.”
The scribe looked at Aleksi doubtfully as he closed his fist around the cluster of black pearls, causing them to Runicly reform back into a single stacked orb. “I don’t think—”
“Kefta,” the captain interrupted, turning to the young man at his left, “give the scribe your information. Let us be done with this before the proclamation is given.”
The young man in red stepped forward. “Kefta Vanarus, and make sure not to misspell anything; I want my champion decree to be legible.”
“Champion, aye?” the scribe said, opening to a fresh page in his ledger. “You do know Nara Simha is here, don’t you? They don’t call him the Lionman for nothing.”
“Just write down my name.”
The captain smiled as the scribe shook his head and added Kefta’s information in the Runic ledger.
After a moment, everyone’s eyes went to Aleksi.
“And you, boy?”
“My name is . . . Astya.”
“Surname?” the scribe said with a sneer.
“Astya is enough.”
The scribe looked back and forth between Aleksi and the remaining pearls on his desk. Muttering under his breath, he started writing again in his ornately bound book.
After another moment, the scribe instructed Kefta to sign his name on a blank page and then place his hand over the signature. As soon as Kefta’s palm touched the open book, his handprint darkened on the page. After the biogram was complete, the scribe made additional notes next to the newly formed moniker before repeating the process on a blank page for Aleksi. Aleksi was careful to use his left hand, keeping his bandaged palm out of sight.
The scribe then flipped to the back of the book and carefully tore out two pages filled with printed information. He handed one of them to Aleksi and the other to Kefta. Each page was personalized, outlining their names, heats, and fighting information.
“Be at the arena in two days,” the scribe said with a sigh. “Find the flag with this first Rune on it. That is where you wait. The second Rune is for when you will fight. If you make it past your first round”—the man eyed Aleksi doubtfully—“a new Rune will appear, which tells you your next heat. Oh, and remember, no fighting until your appointed time. If you break the arena pact, the punishment is quite severe.”
When the scribe was done, the captain tipped his hat and began to walk away with his entourage in tow.
“Sir,” Aleksi said, calling after him, “what is your name and how can I repay you?”
The captain turned and looked Aleksi in the eye. “The name’s Domadred. And how about this, if you win the tournament, I get half the earnings?”
“Agreed,” Aleksi replied instantly. “But only if you can take me to Vai’kel immediately after the match.” The boy next to Domadred snickered and Kefta put a hand to his mouth, trying to hide a smirk.
“Astya,” Domadred laughed, “if you place even in the top ten, I will take you anywhere you wish to go in all of Terra. That, my boy, is a promise!”
“Agreed and well met, Captain Domadred.” Aleksi placed his hands together at his heart and then to his forehead, bowing deeply. “I then swear by the Guardians, you will have half of my winnings upon safe arriva
l to Vai’kel. Find me when the final matches are over. I look forward to our journey together.”
Domadred’s eyes narrowed. “I haven’t seen that bow in a while. Well, it’s a deal, then, son. I think I just made a very good investment.”
As Domadred turned away, Kefta raised a hand and spoke to Aleksi over his shoulder. “I’ll see you soon, but you need to remember one thing: no hard feelings, alright?”
Aleksi didn’t respond and turned back to the table. He saw that the black pearls had vanished from in front of the scribe. The man’s head was down and he was already busy writing once again.
Passing several rows of empty tables, Aleksi made his way farther into the fighters’ tent. Before him were nearly fifty men and women, all bearing weapons and armor as different as the lands they hailed from. The classic weapon of Terra was a two-handed, slightly curved sword called a blade. Measuring longer than a man’s arm, this was the same weapon that Aleksi wore at his hip. Masters of the Academy used these traditional swords exclusively, seeing all other edged weapons as utterly inferior. This same mentality extended to the aristocracy of each nation of Terra, who, no matter what corner of the globe they came from, preferred this curved blade over other assorted arms. Most commoners, however, did not have the opportunity to study the Masters’ famed “art of the blade,” and thus turned to other, less conventional weapons such as shields, maces, spears, and pole arms. Aleksi had even been taught of the rare Berzerker warriors in the North-Eastern Mountains of Iksir who used large two-handed axes during their hallucinogen-induced battle rages.
As Aleksi continued through the tent, he saw a hooded Southerner polishing a heavily curved scimitar. Its dark material seemed to soak up the light in the tent as the sickly pale man from Neberu worked it with an oiled cloth. On his left, Aleksi noticed a group of what looked to be North-Western Kaymahn mercenaries. They wore the traditional leather mail of their people and leaned on their long pole arms as they talked in a small circle. As Aleksi continued on, the youth then saw the red-flecked brown eyes of a South-Easterner look at him dubiously from under his ceremonial headdress scarf. The Salbatan man’s dark skin was mostly concealed by his sand-colored cloak, but the series of curved daggers tucked in his belt was plain for all to see.
What impressed the youth most of all, however, was a group of men surrounding the largest warrior Aleksi had ever seen. Over a head taller than most all the others, the man had broad shoulders laden with rippling muscle and crisscrossed with innumerable deep scars. His striking green eyes with yellow flecks marked him a North-Easterner by birth, hailing from the high mountains of Iksir. In addition, Aleksi noticed that the man wore no weapon and instead carried two long, oversized steel gauntlets strapped to a thick leather belt.
“Don’t be fooled by him, boy,” a female voice with a thick South-Western accent said from behind Aleksi. “He’s nothing but show.”
Turning, Aleksi saw a woman lounging on an adjacent bench. She had the striking turquoise-flecked amethyst eyes of a Sihtu native. Possessing a long whip at her side, the woman was scantily clad in leather and chain mail. Her dark and semicovered body was lithe and strong, showing a multitude of intricate tribal tattoos scrawled across deep olive skin. Aleksi thought her armor probably did more to highlight her feminine assets than actually protect her in battle. As Aleksi continued to glance over her body, the woman smiled amusedly.
“Pardon?” Aleksi asked, averting his eyes from her curves.
“I saw you admiring the so-called Lionman over there. You should know, Nara is nothing but a glory-seeking entertainer. Not a true warrior of Terra.”
“I’ll . . . be sure to keep that in mind.”
“All will see him fall by my hand in two days. But then again, many wish to take the title of champion from him.” She paused, eyeing Aleksi with a wry smile. “Son, you’re very cute, but aren’t you a bit young for the arena?”
There was a short silence before Aleksi responded. “Age, like many things, can be deceiving. A similar question could be asked of a woman who thinks to challenge a warrior as renowned as the Lionman.” Aleksi looked over at Nara. The giant of a man had his back to them. The youth could see Nara’s massive shoulders tense and relax, the muscles heaving, as he laughed on the other side of the tent.
“I hope you are not implying that I am weak because I am a woman,” the warrioress said, crossing her arms over supple breasts. “While that’s a fatal mistake most men make, they make it only once.”
At the Academy, men were not heralded as more powerful or more able than women in any way. However, without the proper training, the gap in physical strength was very difficult to overcome. But this Sihtu woman before him was lean and strong, and Aleksi had a feeling that whatever she lacked in raw power, she made up for in dexterity, skill, and cunning.
“That’s exactly my point—” But before Aleksi could continue, he was interrupted by a voice behind him.
“Oh, I’m sure Astya’s implication is clear, madam.”
They both turned to see Kefta, the red-shirted fighter whom Domadred had just registered moments before.
Kefta made an elegant bow before continuing. “Women have many wonderful talents and traits, but strength in battle is certainly not one of them.”
“No, that’s not—” Before Aleksi could continue, he was cut off again.
“Is that so, little sailor boy?” the Sihtu woman said, standing up as her accent grew thicker. “I doubt sea trash such as you knows anything of a woman. Other than the price he must pay to bed one, that is.”
“I’m sure that is a bit of knowledge we both share in common,” Kefta said with a grin. “Although I’m certain you’re on the receiving end of it, so to speak.”
The woman’s hand gripped her whip tightly and her turquoise-and-amethyst eyes flared.
“And you truly fight with that toy?” Kefta continued, gesturing to her whip. “Who has ever heard such nonsense as fighting with a whip?”
“Then you have not heard of the Pa’alna or of their wrath!” the woman said harshly. “But I would be happy to—”
“I have,” Aleksi interrupted, taking a step forward. “You hail from the South-Western Isles of Sihtu, correct? And your capital island of Pa’alna is named after the color of your people’s eyes.”
“You know of my people?” the woman asked, surprised.
“Yes, my teachers speak very highly of their martial prowess and valor.”
“Come now,” Kefta said. “I don’t care what backwater fringe island you come from—a woman can never stand against a man in combat, especially when facing the greatest warrior this age has known. Besides”—Kefta smiled wide—“all know Nara would rather fondle that pretty body of yours than fight it.”
There was a very uncomfortable silence as the woman gave Kefta a murderous glare.
“A thing in which he has much experience, or so he told me. For isn’t that why Nara didn’t fight you at the Southern games? If memory serves, he forfeited the final match, saying he would not fight a Sihtu whore.”
“Hold your tongue, sea trash, lest I rip it out,” the woman growled. “I care not for the arena’s pact. I will take pleasure in killing you here and now!”
“Ahh, so his words were true. I guess women do have a way to win battles, eh? It’s not just how they make their money, but how they fight their wars, too!”
The woman grabbed her cloak and stalked toward Nara, who was still engaged in conversation on the other side of the tent.
Aleksi looked at Kefta, aghast.
“What?” Kefta said innocently. “You should be thanking me. They have some bad blood and I’m just thinning out the top competition.” He gave Aleksi a wink. “No hard feelings, remember?”
Aleksi shook his head and followed the Sihtu woman as she made her way across the tent to Nara. The large man was midsentence in conversation with an old soldier who wore a short sword and shield.
“Kendell,” Nara said to the man, “you aren’t fooli
ng anyone dyeing your hair black. Don’t you think you’re getting a little old for the arena? The crowd will notice, friend.”
“I’m young enough to best you when I get the chance,” Kendell growled back. “You are nothing without your Berzerker war paint, Simha! And the crowd will notice, alright—notice who is standing above you when you fall!”
Nara threw back his head and laughed. Raising a massive arm, he flexed his bicep, and thick veins bulged from his muscles as he spoke. “Kendell, I have more strength in a single arm than you have in your entire body. Lest you wish to be sent to an early retirement, I suggest you leave now.” Kendell glared at Nara but strode away.
Wasting no time, the woman from Sihtu stalked up and spoke in a commanding tone. “Nara, do not continue to pretend to not remember me!”
Startled, the Lionman looked the woman up and down. He took a deep breath before speaking. “My dear Fa’ell, you are not easy to forget and harder still to find. I will have you know—”
“I won’t let you humiliate me and shame my family again,” Fa’ell interrupted. “You will fight me this time, or I will take my family’s vengeance here and now.”
Nara raised his hands and a look of unease washed over his face. “Fa’ell, you must know I truly had no idea—”
“No!” Fa’ell shouted. “No more of your pretty words. Now even sailor trash mocks me. You have dishonored my people and broken my house. But I will regain what is lost. Give me your word, or we fight now!”
“You know the rules, Fa’ell; we cannot fight until the arena.” Nara lowered his voice and cast a nervous eye about the tent. “I’m profoundly sorry for what happened, but it changes nothing; I still—”
Fa’ell flicked her wrist and, like a swift clap of thunder, the sharp report of her whip cracked above their heads. “No excuses, Nara,” she snarled. “Give me your word!”
The man ran a callused hand through his short blond hair. “You have my word, Fa’ell. But—”
Before he could finish, Fa’ell stormed out of the tent.
Rune of the Apprentice (The Rune Chronicles) Page 12
