Contents
About the Book
Rules of Combat
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
1 Stick-Fighting
2 Tyron the Artificer
3 The Stench of Blood
4 The Grudge Match
5 Two Important Rules
6 Kwin
7 A Bit of a Disappointment
8 The Bow
9 For Absolute Beginners
10 The Bone Room
11 Nobody Fights a Girl
12 Your Sort
13 The Westmere Plaza
14 The Red Boots
15 The Legend of Math
16 The Cowardice of Math
17 Money
18 The Commonality
19 The Tassels
20 Fighting by Instinct
21 Genthai
22 The Trainee Tournament
23 Arena 13
24 Hob
25 Whom Do You Love?
26 Dignity
27 The Memorial Service
The Midgard Glossary
Sneak Preview
About the Author
Also by Joseph Delaney
Copyright
ABOUT THE BOOK
Leif has one ambition: to become the best fighter in the notorious Arena 13.
Here, punters place wagers on which fighter will draw first blood. And in grudge matches, they bet on which fighter is to die.
But the country is terrorized by the creature Hob, an evil being who delights in torturing its people, displaying his devastating power by challenging an Arena 13 combatant in a fight to the death whenever he chooses.
And this is exactly what Leif wants . . .
For he knows well Hob’s crimes. And at the heart of his ambition burns the desire for vengeance. Leif is going to take on the monster who destroyed his family.
Even if it kills him.
RULES OF COMBAT
PRIMARY RULES
1. The objective of Arena 13 combat is to cut flesh and spill blood. Human combatants are the targets.
2. No human combatant may wear armour or protective clothing of any kind. Leather jerkins and shorts are mandatory; flesh must be open to a blade.
3. An Arena 13 contest is won and concluded when a cut is made to one’s opponent and blood is spilled. This can occur during combat or may be a ritual cut made after a fight is concluded. If it occurs during combat, hostilities must cease immediately to prevent death or serious maiming.
4. If death should occur, no guilt or blame may be attached to the victor. There shall be no redress in law. Any attempt to punish or hurt the victorious combatant outside the arena is punishable by death.
5. The right to make a ritual cut is earned by disabling one’s opponent’s lac or lacs.
6. The defeated combatant must accept this ritual cut to the upper arm. The substance kransin is used to intensify the pain of that cut.
7. An unseemly cowardly reaction to the ritual cut after combat is punishable by a three-month ban from the arena. Bravery is mandatory.
8. Simulacra, commonly known as lacs, are used in both attack and defence of the human combatants.
9. The min combatant fights behind one lac; the mag combatant fights behind three lacs.
10. For the first five minutes combatants must fight behind their lacs. Then the warning gong sounds and they must change position and fight in front of them, where they are more vulnerable to the blades of their opponent.
11. A lac is disabled when a blade is inserted in its throat-socket. This calls the wurde endoff; the lac collapses and becomes inert.
13. Arena 13 combatants may also fight under Special Rules.
SPECIAL RULES
1. Grudge match rules
The objective of a grudge match is to kill one’s opponent. All Primary Rules apply, but for the following changes:
• If blood is spilled during combat, hostilities need not cease; the fight continues.
• After an opponent’s lac or lacs have been disabled, the opponent is slain. The throat may be slit, or the head severed from the neck – the decision belongs to the victor. The death blow is carried out by either the victorious human combatant or his lac.
• Alternatively the victor may grant clemency in return for an apology or an agreed financial penalty.
2. Trainee Tournament rules
The objective of this tournament is to advance the training of first-year trainees by pitting them against their peers in Arena 13. For the protection of the trainees and to mitigate the full rigour of Arena 13 contests, there are two changes to the Primary Rules:
• The whole contest must be fought behind the lacs.
• Kransin is not used on blades for the ritual cut.
3. A challenge from Hob
• When Hob visits Arena 13 to make a challenge, a min combatant must fight him on behalf of the Wheel.
• All min combatants must assemble in the green room, where that combatant will be chosen by lottery.
• Grudge match rules apply, but for one: there is no clemency.
• The fight is to the death. If the human combatant is beaten then, alive or dead, he may be taken away by Hob. Combatants, spectators and officials must not interfere.
SECONDARY RULES
1. Blades must not be carried into the green room or the changing room.
2. No Arena 13 combatant may fight with blades outside the arena. An oath must be taken at registration to abide by that rule. Any infringement shall result in a lifetime ban from Arena 13 combat.
3. Spitting in the arena is forbidden.
4. Cursing and swearing in the arena is forbidden.
5. Abuse of one’s opponent during combat is forbidden.
6. In the case of any dispute, the Chief Marshal’s decision is absolute. There can be no appeal.
For Marie
The dead do dream.
They dream of the world of Nym and twist hopelessly
within its dark labyrinths,
seeking that which they can never reach.
But for a few, a very few, a wurde is called.
It is a wurde that summons them again to life.
Cursed are the twice-born.
PROLOGUE
Within that thirteen-spired citadel dwells Hob. He is thirsty for blood.
We will give him blood until he drowns.
Amabramdata: the Genthai Book of Prophecy
Hob is waiting for the woman in the darkness; waiting just beyond the river, under the trees where the pale light of the moon cannot reach him. He sniffs the air twice, exploring it tentatively until the sharp scent of her blood is carried towards him on the breeze. Now he can taste her on the back of his tongue.
Shola is alone. Her husband and child are left behind in the farmhouse at the top of the hill. Her son is sleeping; the husband, Lasar, can do nothing to help her now.
The summons is strong; more powerful than ever. Shola must answer Hob’s call. Her will deserts her, and she runs down the slope until she reaches the river. She knows exactly where to go. She kicks off her shoes, lifts her dress to her knees and begins to wade through the shallow water towards the waiting darkness of the trees. At one point she almost loses her balance on the slippery stones. The water is cool and caresses her feet like the touch of a silk scarf, but her brow is hot and fevered and her mouth is dry.
The woman is at war with herself. One part of her wishes she could remain behind with her family, but she quickly dismisses the thought. If she does not go when summoned, then Hob will climb the slope to the farmhouse and kill her son.
Hob has threatened this.
Her husband would be unable to defend their son.
Better to suffer the wi
ll of Hob.
Tonight, as the sun went down, Lasar carried the battered leather case down from the attic, limped across the flags and placed it on the kitchen table. He drew from it two blades with ornate handles, each crafted in the shape of a wolf’s head.
These were the Trigladius blades; the blades he’d once wielded in Arena 13 in the city of Gindeen, a lifetime ago.
‘Don’t go to him!’ His voice was filled with anger. ‘I will go in your place. Tonight I will cut the creature into pieces!’
‘No!’ Shola protested. ‘Think of our son. If I don’t go, Hob will kill him. He’s warned me of that many times. You know that even if you were able to kill him this night, another would replace him tomorrow. You can’t fight them all. You above all must know this! Please! Please! Let me go to him.’
At last, to Shola’s relief, Lasar relented and replaced the blades in the leather case. He wept as he did so.
Now, as she steps out of the moonlight, she sees the outline of Hob’s body against the sky. His eyes glitter in the darkness, brighter than the stars. He is huge; larger than she has ever seen him before.
She stands before him, trembling; her heart is pounding and the breath flutters in her throat like a soul ready for flight. She sways but does not fall. Hob has moved closer now and has gripped her hard by the shoulders.
He will just take a little of her blood, she tells herself; her heart will labour for a while and her legs will tremble. There will be some pain, but she will be able to endure it. It will be just like the other times, soon over, and then she will be free to return to her family.
But this is different. This is the time she has always feared – the last time he will ever summon her. She has heard the tales; she knew that it would come to an end eventually . . . One night Hob would not allow her to return.
His teeth pierce her throat very deeply – too deeply. The pain is worse than ever before. He is drinking her blood in great greedy gulps.
This is the beginning of her death.
As her vision darkens, memories of her husband and child flicker into her mind and she is submerged by a wave of sadness and longing. She struggles to block them out. Memories bring only pain.
And as she falls into darkness, she experiences something even more terrible. It is as if a hand is reaching deep within her to snatch and twist and loosen; reaching beyond her heart, beyond her flesh, to draw her essence forth like a tooth.
It is as if something is sucking forth her very soul.
Some call him Old Hob. Others whisper Pouke to frighten children. Some name him Gob or Gobble. Women call him Fang.
By any name he is an abomination.
A creature such as this deserves to be cut into pieces and scattered to the winds.
But men are weak and afraid, and here Hob rules.
For this is Midgard, the land of a defeated and fallen people.
This is the Place Where Men Dwell.
1
Stick-Fighting
Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But wurdes are far more deadly.
The Compendium of Ancient Tales and Ballads
I watched the two stick-fighters circling each other warily. The boy with the blond hair was tall and fast, a local champion who was taking on all comers. I’d already watched him beat four opponents with ease, but this fifth one was giving him a harder time. He was squat and muscular but had surprisingly rapid reactions.
These fighters were a couple of years older – maybe seventeen or eighteen – and much bigger than me. Could I beat the champion? Was I good enough? I wondered.
Blows had already been exchanged, but none had struck home where it counted; a blow to the face or head would result in immediate victory.
They were fighting on waste ground at the outskirts of the city, within an excited circle of spectators who were punching the air and shouting, clutching betting tickets they’d bought from the tout who was watching the contest from a distance. Mostly the crowd was young – teenagers like myself – but there were middle-aged people there too; they displayed the same degree of enthusiasm, waving and shouting encouragement to the fighter they supported.
Betting against the champion was risky: you were likely to lose your money. Though if by chance you won, you received four times your stake. I wouldn’t have risked a bet against this champion. Despite the skill of his adversary, he looked certain to triumph.
Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t bet because I had no money. I’d been walking for almost two weeks and had only just arrived in the city of Gindeen. I’d eaten nothing for over a day and desperately needed food. That’s why I’d come to watch the stick-fighting. I hoped to take part. The tout arranged the bouts so that he could make money from the betting, but only paid the winning fighter.
Suddenly the short, muscular boy threw caution to the wind and attacked wildly, driving his opponent backwards. For a few seconds it looked as if his aggression and speed would prevail. But the tall blond boy stepped forward and smashed his stick hard into his opponent’s mouth.
As the polished wood made contact with flesh and teeth, there was a hard thwack followed by a soft squelching sound.
The loser staggered backward, spitting out fragments of tooth as blood poured from his mouth to drench the front of his shirt.
That was it: over. Now it was my time – or at least, I hoped it was.
I joined the back of the small queue of spectators who were waiting to collect their winnings. At last I reached the front and stared up at the tout. He was wearing a blue sash diagonally across his body; the mark of his trade – a gambling agent. His strong jaw and close-set eyes made him look tough; moreover, his nose had been badly broken and squashed back against his face.
‘Where’s your betting ticket?’ he demanded. ‘Hurry up. I haven’t got all day!’
As he spoke, I saw the missing and broken teeth. I guessed that he’d once been a stick-fighter himself.
‘I’m not here to bet,’ I told him. ‘I want to fight.’
‘From down south, are you?’ he sneered.
I nodded.
‘New to Gindeen?’
I nodded again.
‘Done much stick-fighting before?’
‘A lot.’ I stared up into his eyes, trying not to blink. ‘I usually win.’
‘Do you now?’ He laughed. ‘What do they call you, lad?’
‘My name’s Leif.’
‘Well, you’ve got spirit, Leif, I’ll give you that. So I’ll let you have a chance. You can fight next. The crowd like to see a bit of new blood!’
I’d got my opportunity more easily than I’d anticipated.
He led me to the centre of the patch of muddy grass and put his big beefy left hand on the top of my head. Then he pointed to the tall blond boy, whose previous opponent was no longer to be seen, and beckoned him forward to stand on his right-hand side.
‘Rob won again!’ he cried. ‘Will this lad ever be beaten? Well, maybe his time has finally come . . . This is Leif, who’s new to the city. He’s fought before, down south. He’s fought and he’s won. Perhaps a provincial boy can show you city lads a thing or two. So come and place your bets!’
A moment or two passed before anybody reacted. Over two hundred pairs of eyes were judging me. Some of the spectators were grinning; others were staring at me with open contempt.
Meanwhile I sized up my opponent. His white shirt gleamed in the late-afternoon sunlight and his dark trousers and leather boots were of good quality. In contrast my green checked shirt was smeared with dirt from the journey and my left trouser knee had a hole in it. People were now staring down at my shoes, the soles flapping free of the toes. My skin was also darker than that of anyone else present. Some spectators simply shook their heads and walked away.
If nobody wanted to bet, I wouldn’t get to fight. I needed to fight and I needed to win.
However, to my relief, a small queue soon formed in front of us and bets were placed.
On
ce that was over I faced my next problem.
‘I haven’t got a stick to fight with. I don’t suppose somebody would lend me one . . .’ I asked the tout, pitching my voice so that the crowd could hear as well.
I’d left my fighting sticks back home with my friend Peter. I hadn’t travelled to Gindeen to become a stick-fighter. I’d thought those days were behind me.
The tout rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath, and some of the queue fell away, suddenly uninterested. But then someone placed a stick in my right hand, and moments later I faced the champion while the crowd formed a circle around us. Immediately I saw that I faced yet another dilemma. It was late afternoon and the sun was quite low in the sky. I was looking directly into it.
My opponent moved towards me in a crouch, a dark silhouette against the sun. I squinted at him, waiting for his attack, and he lunged forward. He was fast and I barely avoided the blow. I twisted left and began to circle while he tracked me with his eyes.
The crowd began to chant his name: ‘Rob! Rob! Rob!’
They wanted him to win. I was an outsider.
I continued to circle until I was no longer blinded by the sun and stared back into the blue of his eyes. He wasn’t crouching any more, and I noted again just how tall he was. His reach would be far greater than mine. I needed to make him over-commit and then get in close.
He attacked again, and I ducked away as his stick flashed over my right shoulder. He’d almost caught me that time. My shoes weren’t helping. With each step I took, the loose soles slapped down on the damp, slippery grass.
Concentrate, Leif, concentrate, I told myself.
The next time he attacked I wasn’t quick enough. He dealt me a painful blow on my right arm and I dropped the stick.
Immediately the crowd gave a great cheer of glee.
One rule of stick-fighting is that, whatever happens, you must not drop your weapon. Do that and it’s as good as over – your opponent can move in close and strike you without fear of counterattack. The blow had struck a nerve and numbed my right arm, which now hung uselessly at my side.
Arena 13 Page 1
