An event, a spectacle, bloody and fierce, held every week to sate the appetite of the unwashed, to give them someone lower than even themselves to gloat over. To remind them that no matter how low their own station in life, at least they weren’t in there, fighting, bleeding, dying for the entertainment of noble and peasant alike.
For the poor souls, captured, plucked from their homelands many hundreds of miles apart; they were less than nothing. They were not even worth the shekel and hassle of being bought as slaves. No, it was because of their very pride, their very refusal to be broken that they were now even less than they could have been, had they chosen to submit.
They were meat for the grinder. Horses to be bet upon in a race where even the victor was still, ultimately, a loser.
One such horse stood, numbed to the roar of the crowd, the sound muted as though heard underwater as he stood, lost in a world of his own thoughts. For this horse was lame. This horse was ready to be put out of its misery.
But the crowd had other ideas. They thirsted for entertainment.
And it was provided, willingly or not.
A creak of thin, metal wire and the heavy manacles about Alann’s wrists fell away, as did their brothers on the wrists of all those lined up alongside him. A clanking of metal and the kicking up of dust, as the chains that had bound the captives together were dragged away from the arena floor, through a gate in the side of the wall where a portcullis dropped with a resounding crash of finality.
Ten had entered the Arena floor, where they would face whatever horrors the crowd hungered for the sight of that night. Whoever remained standing by the end of the battle would be allowed to live for at least another week until the next Games inevitable rolled around. For in the end to be entered into the Games was to be sentenced to death; your successes only serving to stay the executioner’s axe for another seven days at a time…
The relentless roar of the crowd came at him in bloodthirsty waves, until finally, Alann had to look up, to scan the unending lines of faces that were baying for his death. Faces that, had situations been different, had they been born in the Hills of the North, rather than the Steppes of the South, might have been in his place. Oh, had things only been different, that it were they down here, facing death by means unknown; him, up there in the stands, baying for blood. But he shook his head. That was not him. Could never be him. He was Alann, father, husband. He had lived ten years for vengeance and it had granted him nothing.
Violence was never an answer.
The feelings of resignation were challenged as he looked up into the stands, spying the Council’s box, wherein sat the Immortal Few, lavishly attended by servants who brought them wine, fruit.
There, the accursed Hunter, the booming and barrel-chested figure sloshing his stone stein, nearly spilling it on the person sat next to him. The handsome figure, tall, laughing, must have been Bavard, the General of the Clans. To the right of them, a startlingly beautiful woman, with raven-hair and moonlight skin. She must have been the Seeress, though he’d never seen her before. Memphias of the Khrdas was also a Councilman, also known to watch the Games, or so he’d heard. He could be anywhere, him being the master of assassins, but he was certainly not in the box this night, for there was only one seat remaining, the stone throne in the middle of the group and the figure that sat in that was unmistakable.
As the man rose, Alann had to restrain himself from taking a step backwards in awe, feeling the same emotion rippling through the line of captives beside him. For this man was a legend made manifest, a figure from the stories told him by the village elders as he and the other children had sat, listening, by the wheel of the mill beneath the mid-day sun.
This was the God-King, Invictus and, despite himself, despite the revulsion he felt for all this man had accomplished – taking a Kingdom of Barbarians and wielding it as though to settle a personal and everlasting vendetta – he couldn’t help but be drawn in by the man’s charisma, his scale, the luminous inhumanity of those eerie green eyes.
The crowd fell silent, the trumpets falling from lips, the vendors content to stand and wait. The ruler spoke, his voice mighty, strident and confident, each syllable filling the arena with ease, the tones honeyed and rich, massaging the ears with pleasure, yet at the same time filled with an authority he’d never heard on the lips of any man.
Every woman wanted him.
Every man wanted to be him.
Save, perhaps, those few on the arena floor.
They wanted to kill him.
“My friends, my loyal subjects, thank you for coming. We have a treat for you this night. A rare and delicious treat. For not very often does the arena floor grace us with a rebel leader…”
The crowd gasped. A rebel leader? Wars were fought on every front against sedition. Why, only less than a year ago was Pen-Tulador crushed, its leader deposed, presumed dead. Often the captives from these expeditions were brought back, infantrymen, spoils of war. But leaders? Never. They fought till the last, giving up their lives in futile rebellion against the King. What manner of cowardly leader could this be, that would let himself be captured and abandon his men?
With a shudder, Alann felt the gaze of the King upon him, as the ruler continued his address.
“May I present to you, my people, the Woodsman, enemy of the Kingdom and leader of the Foresters of the North.”
An eruption of boos and hisses so as to almost blow him off his feet with the vehemence of their hatred. A hushed voice from alongside him, cutting through the roar:
“Quite the introduction, Woodsman. Please don’t be offended if I disassociate myself from you…”
Alann turned, seeing a tall, olive-skinned Plainsman grinning to his side, his traditional braid of hair having been cut by his captors, so that his face was framed by a messy black mop. The Woodsman nodded.
“Don’t blame you. However, until we leave this arena, we are a team.” His voice rose, loud, and confident to the rest of the captives that stood waiting, trembling, some of them nearly crying. “You hear that? Whilst we are in this, we work together. If we do, there is a chance some of us may live.”
A chorus of nods and grunts as his words had the desired effect, instilling a tiny glimmer of hope, the smallest grain of confidence into their wavering hearts.
“Whatever we face,” Alann growled, “we stand a better chance if we face it together.”
A grinding of metal on stone, the clanking of chains, as a portcullised gate in the side of the Arena wall rose, slowly, inch by inch, unveiling a dark and yawning maw behind it, from which would sally forth whatever horror the crowd had selected for tonight’s entertainment.
With a great snort of breath, the beast strode forth from its lair, the gathered bunch of captives giving an involuntary gasp of fear, shuffling back several paces as the monster loomed high.
Alann narrowed his eyes, his voice steady despite the heart that hammered in his chest.
“Together…”
***
Be proud of your station, they had told him. Not everyone has the opportunity to serve the Clans, to work in the hallowed halls of Pen-Merethia. Why, you can even buy a slave, should you so choose; how many of your brothers and sisters could ever say the same?
The thoughts rang loud and clear, mocking Naresh as he trundled the small cart down yet another cold and dark tunnel, hewn into the very cliffs, far below the Pen itself, far below the halls where his family believed him to work, far below the Arena where this very night his superiors would be sitting, jubilant and excited as they watched the drama of the Games unfold.
Station? Hah! His station was the lowest of the low, in a very literal sense. Endless hours of toil, heaving the carts of salted meats, spices and exotic wines that had arrived on ships at the docks, heaving them up through the dark winding labyrinth of tunnels to the stores, then beyond, further up, to the kitchen that fed the garrisons of Clansmen. And for what, this back breaking labour? To have the opportunity of buying a slave?
He laughed to himself. On fifty shekels a week? And living, as he did, in the underground kitchen servants’ quarters with the rest of the plebs? No, that benefit, so widely prized and talked about by the public, had been grossly oversold him when he’d enquired after a job at the Quartermaster’s office. No expenses. Free lodgings. Purchase a slave for your family; they work in the blacksmith quarter of the city? Excellent – a slave would come in handy. Just sign your life away here. What’s that? No, you won’t have a day off on Slave Market day. No, they can’t go in your stead. Yes, you can go to the city proper on your one day off a week, but it will take you two hours to reach the surface and you have to be back by dusk or the guards will shut you out for the night…
No; few and far between were the perks of working for the Clans, despite what they might tell you. But they were there if you could look hard enough. If you could be cunning enough.
Another trundling cart coming the other way, its torch attached to the front burning a bright and flickering orange; Largeer, by the looks of it. Closer, yes definitely him, no mistaking that nose. As long as the idiot didn’t try to make conversation; it took forever to break away from him once he started talking. He loved the sound of his own voice.
Then again, not much else to listen to in the dark tunnels.
“Naresh, my friend! How goes it?”
Damn. It had only been an hour since they had last passed each other. Why did he need to go through this every single time? Don’t answer him, walk on by. Nod and pretend you didn’t hear.
“As good as it can be, Largeer.”
Double damn!
“I hear you, friend! Say, did you hear the news?”
Sigh.
“Nope, I’m pretty much out of the loop down here.”
The other lad continued, excited, unable to hear the exasperation in his words.
“Well, I heard from Elliah – you know the baker in the kitchen below Two Scimitars? – that the Games tonight are something special!”
“Really.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of disinterest. It wasn’t taken as such.
“Aye! Apparently, she says, one of the fighters tonight is none other than the Woodsman!”
“…refresh my memory.”
“The leader of that rebel group from the North. What are they called? Ah yes – the Foresters!”
Naresh raised an eyebrow. If that was true, then he was doubly sore not to be attending. Lord Kurnos had made a big deal of his victory in the North, quashing the rebels and bringing home Slaves aplenty for the Market. To actually see the leader of a rebel group, a man of courage enough to stand up against the status quo… now that would be something.
“And how did Elliah come by this information, pray tell?”
The other lad looked smug, as though privy to secret knowledge.
“Well, don’t tell anyone, but she’s going steady with a Marzban from the Clan.”
Naresh snorted, laughing, the sound echoing loud and mocking in the cramped tunnel.
“Oh aye, for Marzbans of Clan Two-Scimitars are well known for frequenting the kitchens and making eyes at the bakers! Good bye, Largeer. See you in another hour. See what news you can dredge up from the docks, eh? Maybe one of the sailors is dallying with the Seeress.”
He chuckled to himself at the sounds of chuntering receding behind him as the two parted ways. He traversed a crossroads, an intersection between tunnels, leading off in different directions to various lower level stores, cool down here for the keeping of meats and cheeses. He stopped by a rock that looked no different from the others, grinning to himself as he moved it aside, revealing a gap behind it. A gap that had been his friend the last two years.
Raising the tarpaulin cover of his burden, he licked his lips as he made his choice, settling on a nice round wheel of cheese from the Merchant Coast. He picked it up with both hands; it was hefty. That would do nicely.
The perks were there, if you knew where to look.
Rolling the rock back into place to conceal his acquisition, he continued on up the tunnel, humming to himself, content. He got only a few paces up, when the clatter of falling rock echoed up the hallway behind him. He grabbed the torch from the front of his cart and span, holding it out to illuminate the tunnel with its orange glow. The rock was on the floor now. Moving closer, he frowned. The cheese was gone.
“Who’s there?”
His voice echoed back at him in the empty corridor. A second later, another voice called back up at him. Largeer, a hundred yards away. It couldn’t have been him.
“You okay?”
“Aye,” he called into the distance. “Just thought I saw something, is all.”
A pause, then a shouted response, dulled by the distance.
“Probably rats! See you later!”
Rats, thought Naresh as he glared, annoyed, at the space vacated by the cheese wheel.
Fucking big rats…
***
Another cracking report as the thick tail whipped out again, catching one of the captives on the side, hurling him across the arena floor to the cheers of the crowd.
The beast was playing with them.
Crocodile. Alann had heard tales of such beasts, from time to time. Wandering travellers had described them to him once, as he’d sat in rapt attention as a child, their skin still brown and swarthy from exposure to the desert sun. They live in the oases of the Western Deserts, they’d told him. As long as a fallen tree and just as tough to hurt, with hide like wood and gnashing teeth the size of knifes. He’d laughed as he’d grown up, realising the tales for what they were; embellished, designed to bestow a sense of wonder on the children, lure them into a false sense of security so that they’d be more willing to part with coin for the trinkets and amulets the merchants had brought with them to the Hills.
But as he regarded the creature before him, he had to wonder whether the tales had even done the monsters justice at all.
So far, none of the ten captives had been killed, the green-scaled beast confronting them content to take things slow, only lashing out once in a while with its massive tree-trunk tail, not yet bringing its enormous, smiling mouth into play. But soon it would, of that he was sure. From what he’d heard of the Games, those in charge of the animals liked to keep them hungry.
And Alann and his fellow captives were perfect, bite-sized snacks.
“Stick together!” he called out. “Stay close; wander off and it may single you out!”
Like it or not his voice carried with it a certain authority and experience after his years in the Foresters. They obeyed him.
“Any ideas?”
It was the Plainsman again, his tall, wiry body tense and ready to flee at the slightest hint of the creature lunging towards them.
“Working on it.”
Another tell-tale grinding of a portcullis, as wary Clansmen wheeled out a rack of weapons on the far side of the crocodile, before retreating. Bows. Spears. Swords. An axe. Alann nodded in understanding. The Games were all about keeping the masses entertained. Ten men running in circles about a crocodile until one or the other fell dead of exhaustion was not the most interesting spectacle.
But give those men weapons and they might think they stood a chance, no matter how slim. They may even go on the offensive.
“A bow!”
The cry came from a burly and tough looking captive, his skin dark and his voice gruff. He had a long moustache, but where the Clansmen had a topknot, tall and proud, his hair had been cut short, his honour taken. Perhaps this Steppes man had fallen afoul of his superiors.
“No! Stay together!”
Alann’s cries fell on deaf ears as the once-Clansman sprinted away from the group, taking his chance to make for the weapons rack. The crowd cheered in glee as, just as Alann had feared, the beast turned away from the group, following the man with interest, a ravenous hunger now flaring in the vertical slits of its cold reptilian eyes.
The monster lunged forwards, snapping wit
h its great jaws, the reactions of the Steppes warrior saving him as he rolled on the ground, just avoiding the razor teeth that closed above his head. He rose, his sprint not slowed, even for a second, reaching the rack and snatching a bow and a handful of arrows, turning with glee, even as the cumbersome beast snapped about, ready to attack again.
Arrows, thought the Woodsman. Against that thing?
Again, his instincts proved right, as the former soldier unleashed shot after shot into the approaching crocodile, backing away in mounting terror as the missiles clattered harmlessly from its toughened hide, each shot more futile than the last. With a start, the Barbarian stopped, noting with a grunt that he had backed himself into the wall. A wall soon to be painted red with the gushing spray of his lifeblood.
The captives moaned in desperate horror as the creature flung the Barbarian’s corpse into the air, gulping it down, to the ecstatic cries of the crowd, in one great mouthful, before slowly turning once more, its hunger not yet sated, to the huddle of men behind it.
Alann’s mind raced, for the men were looking to him for leadership.
“The Barbarian was right, we need those weapons if we’re to stand a chance. But we go as a group, backs to the wall, shuffling right.”
The men all nodded their agreement, waiting on his word.
“Move!”
As one, the group shuffled, sideways, towards the weapons rack, keeping a wary distance from the beast. The creature eyed them, hungrily, yet was unsure whether to attack them, gathered as they were, unable to discern a single target with its poor eyesight. It was a daytime hunter, and the orange flames that flickered from the fire-bowls barely sufficed.
The crocodile turned, slowly, its massive clawed feet digging into the dirt of the arena floor as it followed them, but finally they made it to the rack without incident. Only yards away, the red-stained wall that still dripped with glistening blood. Alann noted, with a small shiver of horror, the foot that had been left on the floor, so ferociously had the beast snatched the Clansman from the ground.
The Fall to Power (The Graeme Stone Saga) Page 13
