“So how does this work?” Royce asked, checking over his dagger.
The sun had risen on a gray day. The seven of them ate together on the balcony. The food—leftovers from the warlord—was now suitable for the dogs.
Hadrian said, “The battle will be five against five. I was thinking Wesley and Poe ought to be the ones to sit out. They’re the youngest—”
“We will draw lots,” Wesley declared firmly.
“Wesley, you’ve never fought the Ba Ran Ghazel before. They’re extremely dangerous. They’re stronger than men—faster too. To disarm them you literally have to, well, disarm them.”
“We will draw lots,” Wesley repeated, and finding a dead branch he snapped seven twigs—two shorter than the others.
“I have to fight. It’s part of the deal,” Hadrian said.
Wesley nodded and tossed one of the long twigs away.
“I’m fighting too,” Royce told him.
“We need to do this fairly,” Wesley protested.
“If Hadrian fights, so do I,” Royce declared.
Hadrian nodded. “So it will be between you five.”
Wesley hesitated, then threw aside another twig and held his fist out. Wyatt pulled the first stick, a long one. Poe drew next and got the first short twig. He showed no emotion and simply stepped back. Grady drew—a long one. Derning drew last, receiving the other short stick, leaving the last long twig in Wesley’s fist.
“When do we fight?”
“At sunset,” Hadrian replied. “Ghazel prefer to fight in the dark. That gives us the day to plan, practice a few things, and take a quick nap before facing them.”
“I don’t think I can sleep,” Wesley told them.
“Best give it a try anyway.”
“I’ve never even seen a Ghazel,” Grady admitted. “What are we talking about here?”
“Well,” Hadrian began, “they have deadly fangs, and if given the chance, they will hold you down and rip with their teeth and claws. The Ghazel have no qualms about eating you alive. In fact, they relish it.”
“So they’re animals?” Wyatt asked. “Like bears or something?”
“Not really. They’re also intelligent and proficient with weapons.” He let this sink in a moment before continuing. “They’re usually short-looking, but that’s misleading. They walk hunched over and can stand up to our height, or taller. They are strong and fast and can see well in the dark. The biggest problem—”
“There’s a bigger problem?” Royce asked.
“Yeah, funny that, but you see, the Ghazel are clan fighters, so they’re organized. A clan is a group of five made up of a chief, a warrior, an oberdaza, a finisher, and a range. The chief is usually not as good of a fighter as the warrior. And don’t confuse a Ghazel oberdaza with a Tenkin. The Ghazel version wields real magic, dark magic, and he should be the first one we target to kill. They won’t know we’re aware of his importance, so that might give us an edge.”
“Leave him to me,” Royce announced.
“The finisher is the fastest of the group, and it’ll be his job to kill us while the warriors and oberdaza keep us busy. The range will be armed with a trilon—the Ghazel version of a bow—and maybe throwing knives as well. He’ll likely stay near the oberdaza. The trilon isn’t terribly accurate, but it’s fast. His job won’t be so much to kill us as to distract. You’ll want to keep your shield arm facing him.”
“Will we have shields?” Grady asked.
“Good point.” Hadrian looked over the weapons provided. “No, I don’t see any. Well, look at it this way: that’s one less thing to worry about, right? The clan is well organized and experienced. They will communicate through clicks and chattering that will be gibberish to us, but they can understand everything we say. We’ll use that to our advantage.”
“How do we win?” Wyatt asked.
“By killing all of them before they kill all of us.”
They spent the morning hours sparring and practicing. Luckily, they were all adept with basic combat. Wesley had trained with his brother and as a result was a far better swordsman than Hadrian had expected. Grady was tough and surprisingly fast. Wyatt was the most impressive. His ability with a cutlass showed real skill, the kind Hadrian recognized instantly as something he called killing experience.
Hadrian demonstrated some basic moves to counter likely scenarios. Most dealt with parrying multiple attacks, like those from both mouths and claws, something none of them had any training in. He also showed them how to use the trilon Erandabon had provided, and each took his turn, with Grady showing the most promise.
Hungry after the morning’s practice, they sat to eat once more.
“So, what’s our battle plan?” Wyatt asked.
“Wesley and Grady will stay to the rear. Grady, you’re on the trilon.”
He looked nervous. “I’ll do the best I can.”
“That’s fine. Just don’t aim anywhere near the rest of us. Ignore the battle in the center of the arena and concentrate your arrows on the oberdaza and the range. Keep them off balance as much as possible. You don’t have to hit them, just keep them ducking.
“Wesley, you protect Grady. Wyatt, you and I will form the front and engage the warrior and chief. Just remember to say what I told you and stay away from him. Questions?”
“What about Royce?” Wyatt asked.
“He knows what to do,” Hadrian said, and Royce nodded. “Anything else?”
If there was anything, no one spoke up, so they all bedded down for a nap. After the workout even Wesley managed to fall asleep.
The arena was a large oval open-air pit surrounded by a stone wall, behind which tiers of spectators rose. Two gates at opposite ends provided entrance to opposing teams. Giant braziers mounted on poles illuminated the area. The dirt killing field, like everything else at the Palace of the Four Winds, had suffered from neglect. Large blocks of stone had fallen and small trees grew around them. Near the center a shallow muddy pool formed. A partially hidden rib cage glimmered eerily in the firelight, and a skull hung from a pike that protruded from the earth.
As Hadrian walked out, his mind reeled with memories. The scent of blood and the cheering crowd opened a door he had thought locked forever. He had been only seventeen the first time he had entered an arena, yet his training had made victory a certainty. He had been the more knowledgeable, the more skilled, and the crowds loved him. He had defeated opponent after opponent with ease. Larger, stronger men had challenged him and died. When he had fought teams of two and three, the results were always the same. The crowds had begun to chant his new name, Galenti—killer.
He had traveled throughout Calis, meeting with royalty, eating at banquets held in his honor, and sleeping with women who had been given in tribute. He had entertained his hosts with displays of skill and prowess. Eventually the battles had become macabre. Multiple strong men had not been enough to defeat him. They had tested him against Ghazel and wild animals. He had fought boars, a pair of leopards, and finally the tiger.
He had killed scores of men in the arena without a thought, but the tiger in Mandalin had been his last arena fight. Perhaps the blood he had spilled had finally soaked in, or he had grown older and had matured beyond his desire for fame. Even now he was unsure what was the truth and what he merely wanted to believe. Regardless, everything changed when the tiger died.
Each man he had battled had chosen to fight, but not the cat. As he had watched the regal beast die, for the first time he had felt like a murderer. In the stands above, the crowd had shouted, Galenti! The meaning had never sunk in until that moment. His father’s words had reached him at last, but Danbury would die before Hadrian could apologize. Like the tiger, his father had deserved better.
Now, as he entered the arena, the crowd once again shouted the name—Galenti! They cheered and stomped their feet like thunder. “Remember, Mr. Wesley, stay back and guard Grady,” Hadrian said as they gathered not far from where the skull hung.
The far gate opened a
nd into the arena came the Ba Ran Ghazel. Hadrian could tell from his friends’ shocked expressions that even after his description, they had never expected what now came toward them. Everyone had heard tall tales of hideous goblins, but no one really expected to see one—much less five, scurrying in full battle regalia illuminated by the flickering red glow of giant torch fires.
They were not human, not animal, nor anything at all familiar. They did not appear to be of the same world. Movements defied eyesight, and muscles flexed unnaturally. They drifted across the ground on all fours. Rather than walk, they skittered, their claws clicking on the stones in the dirt. Their eyes flashed in the darkness, lit from within, a sickly yellow glow rising behind an oval pupil. Muscles rippled along hunched backs and arms as thick as a man’s thigh. Their mouths were filled with row upon row of needle-sharp teeth that spilled out each side as if there was not enough room to contain them.
The warrior and the chief advanced to the center. They were large, and even hunched over, they still towered above Hadrian and Wyatt. Behind them the smaller oberdaza, decorated in dozens of multicolored feathers, danced and hummed.
“I thought they were supposed to be smaller,” Wyatt whispered to Hadrian.
“Ignore it. They’re puffing themselves up like frogs—trying to intimidate you—make you think you can’t win.”
“They’re doing a good job.”
“The warrior is on the left, and the chief is on the right,” Hadrian told him. “Let me take the warrior. You have the chief. Try to stay on his left side, swing low, and don’t get too close. He’ll likely kill you if you do. And watch for arrows from the range.”
From the walls a flaming arrow struck the center of the field, and the moment it did, drums began to beat.
“That’s our cue,” Hadrian said, and walked forward along with Royce and Wyatt.
The Ghazel chief and warrior waited for them in the center. Each held a short curved blade and a small round shield. They hissed at Hadrian and Wyatt as they approached. Wyatt had his cutlass drawn, but Hadrian purposely walked to meet them with his weapons sheathed. This brought a look from Wyatt.
“It’s my way of puffing up.”
Before they reached the center of the arena, Hadrian had lost track of Royce, who veered away into a shadow beyond the glow of bonfires.
“When do we start?” Wyatt asked.
“Listen for the sound of the horn.”
This comment was overheard by the chief, causing him to smile. He chattered to the warrior, who chattered back.
“They can’t understand us, right?” Wyatt recited his line.
“Of course not,” Hadrian lied. “They’re just dumb animals. Remember, we want to draw them forward so Royce can slip up behind the chief and kill him. He’s the one we need to kill first. He’s their leader. Without him, they will all fall apart. Just step back as you fight, and he will follow you right into the trap.”
More chattering.
Two more flaming arrows whistled and struck the ground.
“Get ready,” Hadrian whispered, then very slowly he drew both swords.
A horn sounded from the stands.
Wesley watched as Hadrian and the warrior slammed into each other, metal clanging. Wyatt, however, shuffled back like a dancer, his cutlass held up and ready. The chief stood still, sniffing the air.
Grady let loose the first of his arrows. He aimed at the distant pile of dancing feathers but greatly overshot. “Damn,” he cursed, working to fit another in the string.
“Lower your aim,” Wesley snapped.
“I never said I was a marksman, did I?”
Something hissed, unseen, by Wesley’s ear. Grady fired a second shot. It landed too short, coming close to where Wyatt feinted, trying to persuade the chief to follow him.
Hissing whistled by again.
“I think they are shooting their arrows at us,” Wesley said, turning just in time to see Grady collapse with a black shaft buried in his chest. He hit the ground, coughing and kicking. His hands struggled to reach the arrow. His fingers went limp, and his hands flapped on the ends of his wrists. He flailed on the dirt, spitting blood, struggling to breathe. A third arrow hissed and struck Grady in his boot. His leg struggled to recoil, but his foot was pinned to the ground.
Wesley stared in horror as Grady shuddered, then fell still.
Royce was already close to the oberdaza when the horn sounded. The clash of steel let him know the fight was on. He had slipped around one of the shattered stone blocks, trying to find a position behind the witch doctor, when the air felt wrong. It was no longer blowing, but bouncing—hitting something unseen. A quick glance at the field revealed only four Ghazel: the chief, the warrior, the oberdaza, and the range. Royce ducked just in time to avoid a slit throat. He spun, cutting air with Alverstone. Turning, he found himself alone. On instinct, he dodged right. Something cut through his cloak. He thrust back his elbow and was rewarded with a solid, meaty thump. Then it was gone again.
Royce spun completely around, but he could see nothing.
In the center of the arena, Hadrian battled with the warrior while Wyatt taunted the chief, who was still reluctant to engage. The range fired arrow after arrow. Beside him, the oberdaza danced and sang.
Intuition told Royce to move again, only he was too late. Thick, heavy arms gripped him as the weight of a body drove him forward. His feet slipped and he fell, pulled down to the bloodstained earth. He turned his blade and stabbed, but it passed through thin air. He could feel clawed hands trying to pin him. Royce twisted like a snake, depriving his attacker of a firm grip. He repeatedly cut at the shadowy thing, but nothing connected. Then he felt the hot breath of the Ghazel finisher.
Hadrian’s stroke glanced off the Ghazel’s shield. He thrust with his other sword but found it blocked by an excellent parry. The warrior was good. Hadrian had not anticipated his skill. He was strong and fast, but more importantly, more frighteningly, the Ghazel anticipated Hadrian’s moves perfectly. The warrior stabbed and Hadrian dodged back and to the left. The Ghazel bashed his face with his shield, having started his swing even before Hadrian turned. It was as if his opponent were reading his mind. Hadrian staggered backward, putting distance between them to catch his breath.
Above, the crowd booed their displeasure with Galenti. Beside him, Wyatt was still playing with the chief. His ruse had bought the helmsman time. The chief was too afraid of Royce to engage, but it would not last long. Hadrian needed to finish his opponent quickly, only now he was not even certain he could win.
The warrior advanced and swung. Hadrian spun to the left. Once more the Ghazel anticipated his move and cut Hadrian across the arm. He staggered back and dodged behind a large fallen block, keeping it between him and his opponent.
The crowd booed and stomped their feet.
Something was very wrong. The warrior should not be this good. His form was bad, his strokes lacking expertise, yet he was beating him. The warrior attacked again. Hadrian took a step back and his foot caught on a rock and he stumbled. Once more the Ghazel appeared to foresee this and was ready with a kick that sent Hadrian into the dirt.
He lay flat on his back. The warrior screamed a cry of victory and raised his sword for a downward penetrating kill. Hadrian started to twist left to dodge the thrust, but at the last minute, while still concentrating his thoughts on turning left, he pulled back to center. The stroke of the warrior pierced the turf exactly where Hadrian would have been.
Grady was dead and the arrows were still coming.
Wesley was shaken. He had already failed in his duty. Not knowing what else to do, he picked up the trilon, fitted an arrow, and let it loose. Wesley was no archer. The arrow did not even fly straight, but spun wildly, falling flat on the ground not more than five yards ahead of him.
In the center of the field, Hadrian was avoiding his opponent and the chief had finally decided to engage Wyatt. Royce was in the distance, on the ground, wrestling with something invisible not f
ar from where the oberdaza danced and chanted.
This was not going as planned. Grady was dead and Hadrian … Wesley saw the warrior raise his sword for the killing blow.
“No!” Wesley shouted. Just then, the sharp exploding pain from an arrow pierced his right shoulder, and he fell to his knees.
The world spun. His eyes blurred. He gasped for air and gritted his teeth as darkness threatened at the edges of his eyesight. In his ears, a deafening silence grew, swallowing the sounds of the crowd.
The oberdaza! The memory of Hadrian’s instructions surfaced. The Ghazel version wields real magic, dark magic, and he should be the first one we target to kill.
Wesley clutched the hilt of his sword, fighting back, willing himself not to pass out. He ordered his legs to lift him. Shaking, wobbling, they slowly obeyed. His heart calmed, and his breathing grew deeper. The world came into focus once more and the roar of the crowd returned.
Wesley looked across the field at the witch doctor. He glanced at the trilon and knew he could never use it. He tried to raise the sword, but his right arm did not move. He shifted the pommel to the left. It felt awkward and clumsy, but it had strength. Listening to the sound of his heart pounding, he walked forward, slowly at first, but faster with each step. Another arrow hissed. He ignored it and began to jog. His feet pounded the moist, muddy ground. Wesley held his sword high like a banner. His hat flew off, his hair flowing in the breeze.
Another arrow landed just a step ahead of him and he snapped it as he ran. He felt a strange painful pulling and realized the wind was blowing against the feathers of the arrow that still protruded from his shoulder. He focused on the dancing witch doctor.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the range put down his bow and run at him, drawing a blade. He was too late. Only a few more strides. The oberdaza danced and sang with his eyes closed. He could not see Wesley’s charge.
Wesley never checked his pace. He never bothered to slow down. He merely lowered the point of his blade as if it were a lance and put on a last burst of speed—jousting like his famous brother—jousting on foot. Already the darkness was creeping in, tunneling his vision once more. His strength was running out, flowing away with his blood.
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