The Gladiator

by Jon Kiln

  And then Draken realized something else. It must have been Sula who’d converted Pul. It was the only explanation. Remembering his old friend, Sula, Draken did lose his strength, and he painted the opposite wall of the alley with the clear remains of his baptism.

  He didn’t think about Sula as much as his wife, Carella, these days. There was as much guilt bound up in Sula as there was anger or loss. But with Pul back, he couldn’t keep his mind off her. Even without an audience, his story marched on in his head.

  Chapter 14

  “And is there anything else I can get you while I’m out, your majesty?” Pul asked, rising from one of Draken’s ornate couches.

  “No, no.” Draken sighed in exaggerated malaise. It was a game of theirs—that Draken was a spoiled celebrity, unable to suffer even the smallest inconvenience—that had become less of a jest and more of a role as time wore on. “The pastries should suffice.”

  Draken’s eyes followed his brother across the admittedly lavish room. He was one of only a dozen fighters that were given their own residences in the actual arena. When Pul got to the door however, it opened before he had a chance to even grab the handle. A girl tumbled in, looking ragged and terrified. To Draken, she looked to be about the same age he was, eighteen. Her dark skin marked her as a likely southerner, though there were a few second-generation Figans that had lived here all their lives.

  Draken was out of his seat in an instant, his instincts honed to such an edge in the arena that even in his rooms he never fully allowed himself to be unwary. Pul was saying, “Who are you?” but his words were pointless once Draken had the girl’s shirt in his hands and he was hauling her up against the wall. He had all of her attention, and Pul might as well have not spoken.

  “Who are you?” Draken hissed as if he, too, had not noticed his brother ask the same question moments before.

  “Sula,” she said earnestly, as if she thought she’d impress them with her forthrightness.

  “Why are you here?” Draken said, intense veins popping out on his neck. His internal alarms were screaming danger; no one had ever come into any of his spaces without permission. Not even news-callers or the urchins they sent out to collect information for them. It happened to other fighters, but none with a strength, or temper, as legendary as Draken’s.

  “You’re right,” she said, “there is danger, but not from me.”

  His face went pale, and he pulled her into the room, slamming the door shut behind her. Had she read his mind? Was such a thing even possible?

  “What are you doing?” Pul asked Draken. “This girl could be anyone, could have anyone tailing her or watching out for her. You can’t bring her in here.”

  But how could Draken explain? He needed to know how she’d read his thoughts, if indeed she had. And anyway, there was something else about this girl. Not a romantic or sexual attraction, she was pretty enough, but few girls compared to the elite he could court at his softest whim. There was something more visceral here.

  “It’s all right,” he said. Then, turning to the girl, “She’s not going to hurt us, is she?” He directed these last two words at her as he searched her for weapons or poisons, making no attempt to be delicate.

  “No!” she said, shaking her head. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. You’re too strong. But it doesn’t matter, because I don’t. Want to, I mean. I don’t want to hurt you.” If Draken had had any doubts that this girl, this Sula, was herself from the southern country of Eda and not just her parents, he was convinced by her accent. She could speak the language of Drammata fluently enough, many people in foreign countries could, but it was obviously her second language.

  “You know who she is?” Pul asked.

  Draken was satisfied she had no weapons or other implements of death. He moved her bodily to the nearest couch, and he took his accustomed seat on the elaborate hard-backed chair where he had a good view of both the room and the arena pit out the window. “No, I don’t know who she is, but she’s just about to tell us. Isn’t that right?”

  Pul remained standing, but he folded his arms, an unconscious signal that he would wait for her response before causing any trouble.

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you for listening to me. And for letting me in. The men who were following me wouldn’t dare to come here. No one would.” She smiled at Draken, as if this allusion to his reputation would flatter him.

  “Except you, apparently,” Pul chimed in.

  “You are not safe when you leave this place. Not unless you do as I tell you.” Draken didn’t bother accusing her of threatening him. He knew what she meant. “There are men near the entrance. They take shifts so no one will notice them loitering. And who would anyway, on a street as thronged as this one? But they wait for you, Draken. They want to take you to Eda.”

  “Where you’re from?” Draken asked.

  “Yes. They are very angry with you for killing Vgar.”

  At this mention of the mountain fighter Draken had killed years before, his first true taste of the fame and infamy that could be awarded from the pit, he realized what it was about her that so enthralled him. She had that same air about her as the monstrous warrior he’d known briefly but intimately on the stage of death. She seemed larger than life, untouchable, unbreakable, even though she was just a young, sylphlike girl. And even though Draken knew this affectation was a myth—had he not proved as much when he’d divorced the two halves of Vgar’s head?—it was still impressive to him. He may have become a legend here, but he didn’t think when people looked at him they saw something so imperturbable as Vgar or this girl.

  Pul became animated at this pronouncement. He paced between Draken and Sula. “Draken had to kill Vgar. What choice did he have? It was either that or die.”

  She nodded. “It should be simple enough to see the men of which I speak would rather Draken chosen the later of the two paths.”

  “What business is it of theirs? It’s not like that… that ogre, was forced into the ring. And certainly not by Draken.”

  “You don’t need to convince me,” the girl said, and though her dirty clothes were torn and threadbare and her hair was a ratty nest of tangles, she had the manner of a princess or priestess. “I don’t agree with these men.”

  Draken was burning with curiosity. This intrigue was the most interesting thing that had happened to him since he’d become a champion, and that had been nearly three years ago. “Who are they?” he asked, trying not to let his childish impatience show.

  Before she could answer, there was a knock at the door. Three sharp raps, spread evenly with a second between each one. Draken didn’t take his eyes from Sula’s as he said, “My other brother is here. I suggest you hide somewhere before Pul opens the door.”

  Clearly, Pul was happy with the idea of putting the girl in a panic. Turnabout was fair play and all that, so he strode purposefully to the door.

  “Why?” she said, and Draken was surprised to see she did seem uncertain, at least a little. Maybe she hadn’t had as much time as Vgar had to perfect the assuredness she wished to project.

  “Because he’s a news-caller, and he’d have a field day with you no matter what Pul or I told him not to talk about.”

  And she was up in a flash. She moved so swiftly it nearly beggared belief. Draken remembered how fast Vgar had been for his size. Maybe it was an Edan thing.

  She had secreted herself in one of his two baths by the time Pul answered the door.

  “Hello,” he said.

  Debbin barged in with the turning of the knob almost as greedy for entry as the girl had been. “Have you heard?” he said to Draken, ignoring his middle brother’s greeting.

  “Heard what?”

  “The arena magistrate, dead and cut open, his innards and bones strung across the archway of his home’s gate.”

  “What?” Pul roared. “That can’t be!”

  “When did this happen?” Draken asked, only a little more calmly.

  “No one is sure,” Deb
bin told them. “They must have put up their little… display quickly. It was the middle of the day. I can’t believe no one saw them.”

  “No one?” Pul asked.

  “Let me rephrase that,” Debbin said, pacing to one of the open-air windows facing the arena pit. “I don’t believe no one saw them. But no one’s talking. If you believe the people on that end of town, it just appeared there about an hour ago.”

  Draken sighed, and both of his older brothers looked at him in surprise.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Debbin said. “I didn’t realize this would be boring for you.”

  “It’s not that. It’s just, well, why are you here?”

  Debbin looked taken aback, then anger flushed his face, and Draken thought how much alike they all looked when they were mad. “What do you mean by that? I’m here to tell you, to see if you knew about it.”

  “When you could be gathering information at the scene of the crime? I don’t think so. I think the thought may have crossed your mind that you could get a statement from one of the most popular arena champions in Figa before anybody else got to him.”

  Debbin didn’t miss a beat. He turned viciously on Draken. “So what if I did? You’re my brother, aren’t you? Is it some big crime to help me get a lead on this story? Pul’s your manager for Dramm’s sake! You can’t give me a bloody quote?”

  Draken sighed again. “I’m sad,” he said.

  “You’re sad? That’s it?”

  “I’m very sad,” Draken said. “Both by the death of the magistrate and by the selfishness of my brother. Does that sound like a good story for your scrolls?”

  Pul said, “Draken, come on.” Pul had long been the mediator between Draken and Debbin, who had never been able to live peaceably. “What will it hurt you to—”

  “Fine,” Draken said, standing. “You can say that I’m shocked by this news. He was a good man, and the only magistrate I’ve ever worked under. You can say I can’t imagine working with anyone else, can’t imagine anyone who could fill his shoes, but that I’m also sure the arena will continue to thrive. You can add that I think this is the greatest arena in the world, that’s the kind of thing the arena council really likes us to say, but be sure not to draw attention to the fact that I’ve never been to another arena in my life and therefore don’t really have any authority to say this is the best one.” He crossed to the door and opened it. “How does that suit you?”

  Debbin closed his eyes. Both of his brothers knew he was counting to ten. When he opened his eyes again, the petulant brother was gone, and a politic young news-caller stared out. “It suits me well. Thank you.” And without another word, he left.

  Draken slammed the door behind him.

  Sula was back in the room before he even turned back around. He gasped. She was as silent as she was swift.

  She smiled. “It’s the same men looking for you. They follow the terrible bear.”

  Chapter 15

  Sula took residence in Draken’s living area after that. It was easy enough for her to move her things in; she didn’t have any. She swore to them both that to leave his rooms would be a death sentence. The followers of E’ghat, the ancient, ruthless, so-called god of bears, would have her head, or worse, for her betrayal. She told them she’d been raised by two of the most devout cultists, but that she had never worshiped except when forced.

  After running away she’d learned about the four-five gods, and had dedicated herself to their service, specifically Shinna, the goddess of beautiful things, ever since.

  About a week after she’d arrived, once she had more or less settled in, Pul questioned her on this point, while Draken sharpened his blade at his custom-made whetstone wheel.

  “How could you have not known about the four-five gods before running away?” he said, biting a grape in half in the manner that had always annoyed Draken. Why not just eat the whole thing? “I know you’re from Eda, but it’s my understanding that everyone worships the same gods there as we do.”

  “Almost everyone,” she said, legs folded under her. Draken knew what she was doing, looking dainty and feminine like that for Pul’s benefit. If she wanted to kill him right now, Pul wouldn’t have a chance. Draken would never let his guard down for such a childish trick. “In Eda the four-five gods are nearly as popular as they are here. But there are pockets of those who follow the bear. Even though it is illegal to worship the bear, they persist. Dramm-Teskata’s church is not as strong or as wealthy in Eda. They’ve clung to their false beliefs for centuries, hidden from public view. But the followers of the bear are still strong. We are taught from the time we can walk how to fight and defend ourselves, and how to move.”

  Pul nodded, half-listening. Clearly there was something else on his mind, as well. “So, they murdered the magistrate because he allowed one of their members to be killed?”

  “Yes. E’ghat has very strict laws regarding how his firmest believers are to be treated, and his followers have no issue imposing those laws on others, even if they know nothing of them.”

  “And Draken is in danger because he is the one who carried out the act?”

  Draken stopped grinding away at the edge of his blade. “Now, hang on. I don’t like you saying I’m in danger. I’d rather you just say there are people out there who’d like to kill me. It’s not like I can’t take them if it comes down to it.”

  “One of them,” Sula said. “You could kill any one of them, no question. Probably any two of them. But not four, or five, or ten. These are skilled fighters in their own right. Each of the bear-masks that are in Figa right now have been trained as warriors since before you were born.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Pul said. Draken knew it wasn’t good for a manager to be too in awe of his client’s abilities, but Pul could be caught with stars in his eyes after a particularly harrowing display of Draken’s skill and savagery. Draken suspected his brother was even more confident in his capabilities than he himself was. “How many did you say were in town, in all?”

  “Twelve.”

  Pul’s smile drooped. He turned to Draken, and said, “That’s too many.”

  “You think?” Draken had resumed the wheel. He loved sharpening his sword. It was the one time he felt truly at peace. Sadly, it already looked close to done. “But there aren’t many places twelve men could jump me without making a scene. And it would be even more difficult for them because they don’t want to kill me, isn’t that right, Sula?”

  “Why do you say that?” she said.

  “If they’re cultists, fanatics like you say, then I’m guessing there’s a ritual way they’d like me to die. Their rules, their location. There’s a lot of stuff like that in the Canon.”

  “I’m impressed,” she said. “They want to take you to their temple in Eda.”

  “See? It’s a lot harder to take hold of somebody and move them someplace than it is to kill them where they stand.”

  Sula became serious. “You don’t know these men. They can get you if you leave. You are as much a prisoner here as I am, or for your own good you should be.”

  “Not only is that advice unreasonable, it’s also just not something I’m willing to do. I’ll try to be more careful out there, but I’m not staying locked up in here for another day, let alone weeks or months. I’ll keep an eye out for trouble. That’s going to have to be enough.”

  “It won’t be,” she said.

  Pul took his turn. “You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

  “I am.”

  There was a silence. Draken looked at Pul, expecting him to talk. But then Draken saw it in Pul’s eyes, and inwardly he groaned. Pul had lost it for this girl. He’d been totally pulled in by her. He was in love, or he thought he was. It all amounted to the same thing as far as Draken was concerned. Trouble.

  Chapter 16

  Draken woke up in a bed sometime after passing out in the alley. His hangover was not as extreme as he might have expected. He probably had throwing up to thank for that, though he did
n’t remember getting to that point. But as far as the luxury of waking up in a bed went, he hadn’t the first idea where his gratitude should be directed. He couldn’t make out the room; the sunlight streaming in was far too bright for him to open his eyes wider than a slit.

  He called out, “Hello?” and instantly regretted it. The word was like an earthquake in the faults of his mind, and the pain flared up in a way as familiar as the booze itself had been.

  For a while, no one came or returned his call, though he felt certain he wasn’t alone in the… wherever he was. Eventually, the rustling of feet and fabric accompanied an entrance.

  “Try not to talk,” the person said. Male or female, Draken couldn’t tell at first. It didn’t matter. He was grateful for the hospitality either way, especially considering the person spoke in tones soft enough not to risk another flare-up of his headache.

  “All right,” Draken said, to show he was lucid enough to hear and understand, but even these two syllables were too much, and he squinted against the pain.

  “Shh, shh,” the person said with quiet amusement. “Don’t talk at all. Soon you will be able to speak. I know you don’t want food, but there are many herbal teas available, and three of them will help you feel better.” Draken felt a light finger on his. “Move your finger when I say the kind of tea you want. That way, you don’t have to talk.”

  Draken chose from three equally soothing sounding teas, and the person was gone, moving, not silently, but with the same grace with which the wind moves through blades of tall grass. Still, he could not determine their gender, but he thought now he could guess what this person looked like. Obviously a shaman. Probably in a white or gray robe. Shaved head.