The Crosser's Maze (The Heroes of Spira Book 2)

by Dorian Hart

  “I volunteer,” said Grey Wolf. “Let me—”

  “We need to talk about it,” Ernie interrupted. “How long do we have to pick our warrior?”

  “Tomorrow, after sleep. Yarakt with human will be very popular. You get meals, water. Blankets. Guard will collect you. Others can watch, cheer, brawl. Now soft-skin go to Persk for healing, for ull.” The earcuffs didn’t translate ull. Ernie hoped it wasn’t something bad.

  One of the prison guards walked to Dranko and hoisted him up easily, cradling him in his hairy green arms. Irligg stood up, and the nearest bodyguard indicated they should all do the same.

  Ernie bowed. “Thank you.”

  “Hrgh.” The shaman turned and left, followed by the goblin carrying Dranko, and finally the four bodyguards.

  “Let me fight,” said Grey Wolf, as soon as they had left. “Tor’s in no shape for it.”

  Ernie looked at him as coolly as he could manage. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Let someone else do it.”

  “Why is that?” asked Morningstar. “Grey Wolf is our most experienced warrior.”

  Grey Wolf glared hard at him. Ernie stared back, daring Grey Wolf to offer up the explanation, but the sellsword stayed silent. Ernie knew, just knew, that if Grey Wolf got into a fight with a goblin, he’d break the goblin’s neck if he could. He wouldn’t fight to entertain the shaman or the crowd. He’d want blood.

  Ernie drew a deep breath. “Should I tell them?”

  Grey Wolf didn’t answer.

  “Tell us what?” asked Morningstar. “What is going on here?”

  “I’ll fight,” said Kibi.

  Grey Wolf turned on him. “You can’t fight. You’re hopeless.”

  “With a weapon, sure. But we ain’t gonna be usin’ weapons. I’m slow, but I did a fair bit a’ wrastlin’ when I was young. Only stopped ’cause I didn’t want to hurt no one.”

  Aravia nodded agreement, frowning at Grey Wolf as she did so. “We all know how strong Kibi is. Why don’t we give him a chance?”

  “That’s a great idea,” said Ernie. “If any one of us is going to match a goblin warrior in terms of muscles, it’s Kibi.”

  Morningstar looked back and forth between Ernie and Grey Wolf. “Are you keeping something secret?”

  Grey Wolf’s eyes flicked to the two goblins still standing guard in the entrance to their cave. They watched Horn’s Company but didn’t look particularly interested in their conversation.

  “Yes.” Grey Wolf flatly. “I am. But this is not the time or place to share it.” He looked at Kibi. “Go ahead. Fight the goblin. Just promise me you won’t hold back.”

  Kibi narrowed his eyes. “I ain’t gonna promise nothin’ ’cept I’ll try to make a good show of it and do my best not to have my head knocked in.”

  Grey Wolf looked away. Ernie fretted. Were the goblins truly healing Dranko? And was Kibi about to have his neck broken? Sure, he was strong, but Ernie had seen him try to fight. Grey Wolf had attempted to teach him swordplay, had tried him out with Morningstar’s mace, had let him spar using that ridiculous pick he used to carry. He could never land a hit; his footwork was hopeless, his reflexes slow, his instincts abysmal. What good would strength and wrestling experience be if he wasn’t fast enough to grab his opponent?

  The day had already been long, though Ernie couldn’t say whether it was night or day outside. Before long, goblins brought them rough wool blankets, a small cask of cold water, and beaten metal plates heaped with seared fish. They fell to the meal with gusto; none of their own belongings had been returned to them, so this was their first food in hours.

  After Ernie had eaten, sleep came easily.

  * * *

  In the “morning,” they were given more water and bowls of chopped apples. They had barely finished the meal when a half-dozen armed and armored goblins returned to the jail.

  “How is Dranko?” asked Morningstar.

  The goblins ignored her question. “Have you chosen your warrior for Yarakt?”

  “I’m it,” said Kibi.

  “Go with Gavke. Will prepare you for Yarakt. Others will sit with shaman, watch Yarakt, cheer, scream for good fight.”

  Kibi was broad-chested but on the short side. The goblin who stepped toward him was a foot taller, and he laughed as he looked down at the company’s choice of champion. “Will enjoy hearing noise of cracking human bones. Come. We get you ready, give you chance to pray.”

  The goblin led Kibi away. One of the others unhitched a long length of rope from his belt and used it to tie the remaining half-dozen of them in a line, wrists bound. Grey Wolf offered half-hearted and ineffectual resistance, which didn’t seem to bother the goblins at all.

  The streets of Aggantis were thronged with goblins, all moving in the same direction. Many of the creatures hollered at the sight of Horn’s Company while others waggled their jaws and made a low buzzing noise in their throats. Twice more within two minutes they were sprayed with water by goblins, neither time by children.

  “Why do they do that?” Ernie asked one of the guards.

  The goblin looked almost thoughtful, as if there wasn’t an obvious answer. “Not take you seriously. Show disapproval. Mark as unworthy.”

  The teeming masses were converging on the huge circular building. Its walls reached nearly to the cavern’s high ceiling. The guard pointed. “Big crowd for Yarakt. See human get beaten to bloody rags.”

  Ernie hoped not! Kibi was such a gentle soul, it was hard to imagine him standing toe to toe with a goblin warrior, likely getting pummeled into pudding. Not that Kibi was a pacifist; Ernie could remember clearly that fight in Sand’s Edge, when Kibi had killed a Black Circle thug by flinging a barrel at his head. But punching and grappling didn’t seem to be in his nature.

  Goblins jostled and shouldered one another at the many entryways to the arena. Fistfights and impromptu wrestling matches broke out all around, accompanied by cheers and laughter. Two goblins took long drinks from skins and sprayed the company thoroughly as they passed beneath the shadow of the main entrance. The act was rewarded with shouts of approval from the others.

  Their guards hustled them into the main concourse, brightly lit by hundreds of torches and filled with their smoke. Goblins pressed in from all sides, hurrying this way and that, buying meat on sticks from vendors and occasionally walloping one another for no reason that Ernie could discern. Sweaty goblin stink filled his nostrils, mixing with the smells of seared meat and something sour and beery.

  “You sit with shaman. Great honor. Seems wrong for humans, but Irligg says so.”

  They were led up a series of gentle ramps. Crowds thronged the causeways. If not for the burly presence of their guards, Horn’s Company surely would have been trampled. At last the six were shuffled through a mouth-like opening and into the arena’s central ring.

  The fighting surface was a flat dirt circle maybe fifty feet across, trampled down and scuffed so severely that it was impossible to pick out individual footprints. Thirty rows of tiered stone benches were stacked on top of one another, the lowest offering a nearly ground-level view of the battle area, the highest a birds-eye view from eighty feet up and just as far back. All the benches were rapidly filling up with goblins, some of whom shoved and fought over seating. One goblin picked up another and threw him several rows down, where he landed on two others and knocked a third over the wall and into the fighting ground. That last one could climb back up only to the lowest row of benches with help from another, but his seat had been taken; another scrum ensued.

  The goblins brought Horn’s Company to a long bench three rows from the bottom, the only mostly empty stretch of seating Ernie could see. The shaman Irligg sat there with two bodyguards, merrily drinking from a large metal cup and tearing off pieces of meat from a skewer.

  “Humans! Come, sit.” Irligg ordered them untied. “You will not interfere with Yarakt. Too many goblins. Would tear you to pieces, no?”

  Ernie wasn’t so certain that Grey
Wolf wouldn’t try something stupid but was glad enough to have the ropes removed from his wrists. Their marching order resulted in him sitting close to the shaman, with only a single guard between them.

  “I hope Kibi doesn’t get too badly hurt,” Ernie said to Certain Step, who sat beside him on his left.

  “It is said that a man finds his truest strength in his darkest moments,” said Step, leaning close. “Have faith in Kibi.”

  Irligg grinned. “Goblins’ truest strength is in back and shoulders.”

  Ernie laughed nervously. “Sir, uh, do you have a title? How should we address you?”

  Irligg laughed at him. “Irligg! Already told you name. Humans have trouble remembering?”

  “Irligg, the goblins seem to hate us. Are you worried about being seen sitting with humans?”

  The shaman bit a piece of meat from a stick and talked while he chewed. “Sitting with enemy shows strength. Also goblins judge on actions. Only human action we know is making war on goblins, driving us from sunlit lands. But word of you saving Worsk has spread.” He gestured to the arena floor. “Enjoy fight. Hope your friend is entertaining. Time to start.”

  Irligg stood up and thrust his fist into the air. Hundreds of goblins roared their excitement. There was only one gap in the wall surrounding the arena floor (a wall marked all along its perimeter with dripping red fists), and out from the darkness strode the goblin champion.

  Ernie’s hope abandoned him. The goblin was huge, a seven-foot-tall tower of oiled muscle, wearing nothing but a brown loincloth and red tattoos. His tusks were stained a deep crimson. He raised his arms as he entered, inciting the crowd to a riotous thunder of bellowing and foot-stomping. Kibi was uncommonly strong, yes, but this goblin looked every bit as tough and twice as big. Even his walk projected power.

  After a moment, the crowd became silent and attentive.

  “I am Vawlk,” the champion shouted. “I come to fight Yarakt!”

  The goblins erupted into screams of approval, more foot-stomping, and some scattered fistfights.

  “Vawlk is strongest warrior,” Irligg shouted over the din. “Not fight in Yarakt for many weeks. Wins too easily. Also excellent blacksmith.”

  Vawlk paraded himself around the arena with a ritualistic ease.

  “Hope things not over too quickly,” added Irligg.

  The crowd noise died down again. Vawlk ceased his posturing and looked toward the entrance, massive arms folded across his massive chest. Out of the shadows came Kibi, walking slowly, looking up and around with nervous worry clear on his face. The goblins in the stands began a rhythmic shaking of their betusked jaws, emitting a strange buzzing noise as they did so. No one cheered. Many of the goblins on the lowest row of benches had brought small kegs of water. Though Kibi was out of range, these goblins filled their mouths and sprayed emphatically into the arena.

  Kibi himself was quite the sight. Like the goblin he wore nothing but a loincloth tied around his waist, and his arms and face were adorned with painted patterns. A red spiral had even been drawn onto the top of his bald head. Kibi was barrel-chested and thick-legged, but next to the enormous goblin he looked like a child.

  When the goblins finished expressing their disapproval, they quieted themselves and stared at Kibi.

  “I am Kibilhathur!” His voice was louder than Ernie had ever heard it. “I come to fight Yarakt!”

  From somewhere high up on the far side of the arena, a loud horn blast sounded. A goblin voice filled the coliseum, rising over the crackling of the torches.

  “Vawlk Blacksmith and Kibilhathur Bimson—Yarakt!”

  At the word “Yarakt” the goblins in the crowd went berserk, hollering and stomping even more loudly than before, which hardly seemed possible. Vawlk swung his arms loosely and approached Kibi with the confidence of someone who knows he’s about to break most of his opponent’s limbs.

  Kibi backpedaled, drawing more buzzing and jowl-waggling from the goblins. Then Vawlk charged, covering ground quickly on his long muscle-bunched legs, and slammed his lowered shoulder into Kibi’s chest. Kibi sailed backward several feet and landed on his rear. While the spectators bellowed their appreciation, Vawlk turned his back on Kibi, cricked his neck, and took several slow strides away.

  Kibi stayed on the ground for a few seconds before pushing himself to his feet. His movements, always slow and ponderous, seemed downright lethargic in the presence of the goblin champion. Vawlk turned to face him, shook out his hands, and walked quickly back to engage. This time Kibi planted his feet and set his hands in a boxer’s stance. The goblin feinted with his left fist; Kibi lowered his guard, and Vawlk’s right fist connected whip-quick with Kibi’s jaw. Kibi staggered backward two steps and again fell heavily to a sitting position.

  This elicited from the goblin crowd a mix of cheering for their champion and a jaw-shaking disdain for Kibi’s poor showing. Again Vawlk stepped back, this time raising his hands to the crowd, urging them to a rising frenzy. Ernie found himself gripping the edge of his bench hard enough to make his fingers ache.

  Kibi stood once more, then took a lurching step to the side. He looked dazed, his eyes unfocused.

  “He has no idea what he’s doing,” Grey Wolf grumbled. “I should be out there. That goblin is going to kill him.”

  Maybe, but Vawlk was willing to take his time about it. He took another step back, flexed his arms, then made a “come here” motion with one great green hand. Kibi shook off his confusion, again put up his hands, and shuffled forward. This time the goblin waited. Kibi tried a slow circle, but Vawlk simply pivoted to keep facing him.

  Unexpectedly—at least to Ernie, and probably the goblin spectators—Kibi lunged forward and threw a right-handed haymaker at his opponent. But Vawlk was more than ready. He sidestepped the slow-motion punch and kicked low, sweeping Kibi’s legs out from under him. For a third time Kibi fell, landing on his back. Vawlk sprang forward and landed hard on Kibi’s chest, leading with his elbow. Kibi’s arms and legs flailed as the wind was driven from his lungs. Vawlk brought up his forearm and pressed it across Kibi’s neck.

  The crowd surged to their feet, certainly expecting the battle would end with Kibi’s throat being crushed. Ernie looked over to Irligg, who could probably call it off any time he wanted to.

  “Please, tell him to stop. He’s going to kill Kibi!”

  Irligg didn’t look away from the combatants as he spoke. “So soon? Yarakt only just begin!”

  “It’s also about to end,” said Ernie. “Kibi’s not a warrior. Your champion is going to kill him!”

  Irligg shrugged. “Happens sometimes.”

  Kibi squirmed frantically, trying to get his arms or legs between him and the goblin atop him. The torchlight did odd things to skin tone, but it looked as though Kibi’s face was rapidly turning red. Vawlk, glorying in his dominance, pressed his shoulder into Kibi’s chest, raised the arm not choking Kibi to death, and waved to the crowd.

  And then he flew.

  The crowd gasped. Vawlk landed head first with a thud that everyone in the arena could hear because they had all gone quiet. Ernie looked back at Kibi, legs fully extended into the air, his back braced firmly against the ground.

  Ernie expected more of the buzzing, now that something had gone the human’s way, but instead the goblins erupted in their loudest cheers yet.

  “Kibilhathur stronger than he looks,” Irligg observed approvingly.

  “Yes,” said Ernie faintly. “He is.”

  Both combatants slowly regained their feet. Kibi’s chest heaved with heavy breaths as he sought to refill his lungs. Vawlk stared hard at his adversary, perhaps for the first time taking him seriously. Ernie still wouldn’t have bet any silver on his friend; Kibi wobbled on his feet, while Vawlk looked more annoyed than injured. A goblin in the row behind Ernie loudly urged Vawlk to pull Kibi’s arms from their sockets.

  The goblin closed again, but taking short, cautious steps. Kibi once more planted his feet and raised his fists
to ward his face, but just as Vawlk sped up his approach, Kibi rushed him in return, likely hoping to do to the goblin what the goblin had first done to him. It failed miserably; Vawlk nimbly sidestepped and kicked the small of Kibi’s back as he passed. Kibi stumbled forward and kept his balance only by briefly skittering on all fours.

  Vawlk pressed the attack, and Kibi barely got himself turned around to face the charge. The goblin unleashed a barrage of furious fist-blows. Kibi was able to block some with his arms, but a few landed solidly on his shoulders, chest, and face. Ernie could hardly watch as Vawlk battered his friend. Kibi hid his face behind his forearms, not even trying to counterpunch, let alone run away from the assault. One of the blows that got through his guard snapped his jaw sideways, sending a gob of bloody spit flying away. The goblins in the crowd again stood up, screaming out their lungs, certain of their champion’s imminent victory.

  Vawlk reared back and threw a final punch that could have smashed through a brick wall…and Kibi caught it, reaching out at the last moment. No one looked as surprised as Kibi, except maybe the goblin warrior, who surely didn’t understand why his arm had stopped moving.

  Kibi recovered his composure first. He grabbed Vawlk’s forearm with his other hand and spun on his heels. Vawlk left his feet as Kibi twirled around, once, twice, three times, building momentum before he let go. The goblin champion of Aggantis flew twenty feet through the air and would have gone a few more had he not collided with the wall of the arena.

  For a breath or two, all the goblins were silent again. Kibi’s chest rose and fell from the exertion of throwing a four-hundred pound goblin. From somewhere high up came a shout for Vawlk to stand up, and that got the crowd going again. They screamed, they howled, they stomped and clapped and boomed their excitement. Ernie heard Kibi’s name mixed in with the shouting.

  Kibi stood for a moment, looking around the arena as if unsure of what to do next. Ernie glanced at Irligg. Had Kibi won? One of the torches sputtered, and just for a second Kibi looked as much like a statue as a man, his skin flecked with spots of granite gray. Then Kibi turned and spat blood from his mouth, and the illusion vanished. He was just a man—a man with bruises blooming on his face, who looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else than a stadium full of unruly goblins.