With a metallic groan, the large wrought-iron gates on either end of the arena opened, chains rattling. There had been a low, anxious murmur in the crowd for the last hour or so, but now the fifteen thousand were utterly quiet as the final two combatants stepped into the arena. It was tradition that the final matches take place on the same day—the first bout at noon to determine the championship fight, and the final bout an hour later. Fighting one bout so soon after the next, the last two combatants’ strength would be sorely tested. The victor of such a taxing ordeal was surely the chosen of Laijon. But Sterling thought the rule and tradition was a waste. By this time most gladiators were so beaten down and beset with injury that the final match was ofttimes a bore.
The oghul, Shkill Gha, was one such wearied fighter. Out of the northern gate, he hobbled into the arena, plate armor strapped over heavily bandaged arms, many of the wounds still bleeding through, coating the armor black. Only the shards of his jagged yellow teeth and prickling eyes were visible between the bars of his horned iron helm. He carried a massive serrated longsword in one limp hand. Though he had emerged victorious, Shkill Gha’s earlier battle with the Vallè pirate, Val-Ce-Laveroc, had not gone well. There was an eagerness in the way the young Vallè swordsman had fought—he’d had a quickness of reaction and footwork that grabbed one’s attention, held one’s eye, his sword work dazzling, riddling the oghul with jab and cut and counter. But it had taken just one forceful, if not lucky, blow from Shkill Gha’s mighty sword to squash the head of the lithe Vallè. The toll the earlier fight had exacted on the oghul’s body was apparent to all. More than likely, by order of the arena judges, the oghul had been pumped full of numbing agents just to make his entrance.
Squireck, on the other hand, strolled through the southern gate and into the arena unbloodied, wearing naught save a leather loincloth for armor and a wreath of white heather crowning his head. He gripped a sword in one hand and two silver daggers in the other. The Prince of Saint Only had proven to be the most cunning gladiator Sterling had ever seen. The Vallè pirate Squireck had been earlier matched against was a quick one with about a half-dozen small daggers hidden in his scaled leaf-mail armor. He whipped them out early and fast, zinging them one after the next at Squireck—his wrist a flicker of movement. But Squireck danced away each time. His own long silver dagger tumbled through the air with a snap of his hand, punching into his foe’s stomach, staggering him. Squireck rushed in and jammed his sword into the Vallè’s chest—twist and then out again, quick as you please—and the Vallè pirate, Val-Rievaux, dropped to his knees. Squireck plunged his sword straight down through the fellow’s neck and into his heart, ending it.
At Squireck’s victory, a roar of boos had washed over the arena as the Prince of Saint Only held his sword aloft in mock salute to the crowd, then struck the head from his dead opponent and tossed it into the stands in the direction of the grand vicar.
There came a low hum from the orchestra as the names of the final two were announced: a roar of cheers for Shkill Gha, a thunder of boos for the Prince of Saint Only. Then the orchestra bells gonged a deep Boom! Boom! Boom! and the crowd began to chant, “Shkill Gha! Shkill Gha! Shkill Gha!”
Sterling thought of Edmon Guy Van Hester, King of Adin Wyte, the conquered and fallen Lord of Saint Only, father of Squireck. Word of the gladiator matches had surely reached the impoverished Isle of Adin Wyte by now. What must the disgraced father think of the disgraced son? The once-golden Prince of Saint Only had certainly fallen from favor: betrothed to the sister of the king of Gul Kana as a child, the most beautiful woman in the realm, prince of a fallen kingdom as an adult, imprisoned for murder, a gladiator after that. The murder of Archbishop Lucas was the most infamous crime of an age. Much rumor had swirled around the fallen king of Adin Wyte in the aftermath. Some said that King Edmon Guy Van Hester initially denied his son’s sins. Others claimed that Edmon had promptly disowned his son, leaving it to the graces of the grand vicar to decide Squireck’s fate. A few asserted that King Edmon had bribed Denarius with what few riches were left in Adin Wyte in an effort to stay the immediate execution of his boy. And still others believed that it was Edmon who had forced his son into the gladiator arena to prove his innocence and to fight for the honor of the entirety of Adin Wyte. But Sterling had his own theories. In truth, great shame had driven the once-proud King Edmon into the highest towers of the Fortress of Saint Only. It was there that he remained most days, in a self-imposed exile, supping with the dogs he kept company with, his conquered kingdom fallen into ruin, living purely by the sufferance of Aeros Raijael.
As the two gladiators prepared for battle below, Sterling glanced at the grand vicar, expecting to see Denarius’ face stamped with worry. Squireck was fresh, the oghul not. But as the vicar looked back at him, his eyes sparkled with confidence. Sterling’s own eyes traveled back to the arena floor when the signal to begin the fight was given.
To Sterling’s surprise, the oghul, with renewed vigor, swung his sword over his head and roared, his massive, serrated-steel blade gleaming in the afternoon sun as he charged. Squireck jammed the point of his own sword into the sand, pulled back his arm, aimed one of his daggers at the oghul lumbering toward him, and threw.
The first dagger, like silver lightning, spun end over end straight and true. It punched through Shkill Gha’s breastplate but did not slow him. The oghul picked up speed. Squireck’s second dagger sank into the oghul just under his thick neck. But again, Shkill Gha did not break stride; instead he raised his weapon, closing fast. The Prince of Saint Only yanked his own sword from the sand. He lunged toward Shkill Gha with springing steps, almost skipping as he swung.
There was a brutal, deafening clamor. The sound of the two great swords clashing sent a tremor through the air, the concussion nearly wrenching the weapons from both gladiators’ hands. Magnificent! Sterling thought as the huge blades hit. All power and raw fury!
Squireck stumbled away, legs churning in the sand, searching for balance. Shkill Gha stood his ground, swinging again in a burst of speed never before seen in the beast. The prince ducked the blow. The oghul’s serrated steel snagged a stray lock of hair and sliced it clean off. Squireck rolled in the sand as the oghul swung again, blade a humming blur, striking the ground where Squireck had just been. But the Prince of Saint Only was on his feet in a flash, backing away from Shkill Gha.
Sterling soon realized that someone had drugged the oghul not only with pain-numbing agents, but with rauthouin bane as well, a drug known for injecting the user with sudden, unnatural bursts of strength. Some in Sør Sevier—Bloodwood assassins to be exact—gave the drug to their horses to make them feisty and rabid in battle. A red-eyed stallion or mare infected with rauthouin bane was considered more dangerous than the assassin atop it. The oghul’s previous injuries would not be a factor in this bout.
Excitement rippled through the crowd as Shkill Gha again charged Squireck, roaring, thick legs a storm of motion. Squireck backed away, shifting the weight of his own blade, stumbling again as the oghul’s next swing almost took him in the face. Squireck did not try meeting the much more powerful oghul blade-for-blade again, except for the occasional glancing block. Instead he used quick, flawless footwork to gain back his advantage and methodically wear down the oghul. The magnificent muscles of his arms and shoulders swelled and rippled with every smooth slash and counter.
In the end, Shkill Gha was fighting against his own impatience, his mistakes becoming clear and frequent. Disappointment was again infecting the crowd. The oghul’s attacks grew more ponderous and slow as the rauthouin bane wore off. It wasn’t long before the oghul stopped attacking altogether and just leaned there on his sword in the center of the arena, breathing heavily.
Squireck did not end it there, though. Sword in hand, he paced before the oghul, back and forth, back and forth, almost taunting the beast. The orchestra bell gonged a deep Boom! Boom! Squireck began circling his opponent. The orchestra bell gonged another deep Boom! And Squ
ireck circled. Boom!
Chants of “Shkill Gha! Shkill Gha! Shkill Gha!” sounded through the arena. But oghul just leaned on his sword, legs wobbly, heavy horned helm drooping further with each passing moment.
Then it happened. With blistering speed and power, Squireck Van Hester struck the oghul with the greatest burst of rage yet seen. Still planted in the sand, the oghul’s own sword buckled and gave way under the power of Squireck’s blow, the prince’s sword sweeping through the beast’s midsection and out the other side. A shower of blood bloomed outward from Shkill Gha’s chest as Squireck’s sword cleaved through plate armor and all. The oghul threw back his head, gurgled a barrage of guttural sounds, and then fell heavily to the ground, horned helm tumbling from his head, body splayed on its back, blood spraying from his wound. Not a drop fell upon the Prince of Saint Only.
The crowd was silent as Squireck placed one bare foot on the oghul’s sword, pinning the serrated weapon to the ground, and with the tip of his blade touched the base of his opponent’s leathery throat. Squireck leaned on his sword, pushing it clear through Shkill Gha’s throat and up into the oghul’s brain case, killing him.
Squireck Van Hester, Prince of Saint Only, removed his bare foot from the dead oghul’s blade and stepped away, triumphant eyes finding the king’s suite above.
A sudden commotion under one of the wrought-iron gates drew everyone’s attention. Princess Jondralyn Bronachell came striding from under the gate and out onto the floor of the arena. She carried a clay jug that sloshed clear liquid onto the sand. She headed straight for Squireck, with several Silver Guards as escort. When she reached him, she dropped to her knees and took up one of the champion’s bare feet. Pouring the liquid from the jug over it, she washed it and then the other foot, scrubbing vigorously and with purpose. This seemingly humble act by Jondralyn Bronachell set the crowd to clapping and cheering with wild applause that grew more robust as she continued to scrub.
Many eyes in the king’s suite were on Denarius, including Sterling’s. The portly man was trying to put on a smile, but what he managed looked more like a leering grimace. He seemed to be glaring daggers at one of the archbishops—Spencerville. And when he looked away from his fellow churchman, Denarius seemed a bit older than just moments before, fleshier even, with new lines under his eyes.
Sterling found that somehow pleased him.
There was a tug on his cloak, and he turned to find a fellow Dayknight standing behind him, a grim look on his mustached face. “I’ve bad news to relay, Ser.” The dour-faced knight leaned over and whispered in Sterling’s ear. “The kitchen matron, Dame Vilamina, was found dead in her cell under the Hall of the Dayknights. And the serving wench, Delia, the one who knifed King Jovan, has escaped Purgatory.”
Sterling awaited the arrival of the grand vicar. He took the time to make sure that everything in this hallway hadn’t also gone to shit in the short time that he’d been gone. But everything seemed in order. So he dismissed the two Silver Guards and opened the door behind them to check on the sick girl. Lawri Le Graven lay on her bed, snug asleep under the covers, pale face poking out, alone in the room. He shut the door and stood guard. He would watch over the girl before the vicar arrived, while the vicar ministered to her, and after. Grand Vicar Denarius had ordered the Dayknights to keep her safe. And at the moment, the only person Sterling trusted with the post was himself.
As things were, there was no place now safe in Amadon, no dungeon impervious to escape. First it had been Hawkwood who’d escaped Purgatory. And now, the serving wench, Delia, apparently having killed the nosy old kitchen matron in her escape.
Perhaps the slave quarry of Riven Rock out near the Hallowed Grove was a more secure place to keep captives. He would advise Jovan to use it in the future.
Sterling had been certain the serving wench had not been the assassin. Now he wasn’t so sure. His investigation had turned up little. Delia’s cell was empty. Vilamina was dead in the cell across the hall. Both cell doors were locked when Vilamina’s body had been discovered. The two Silver Guards posted at the top of the stairs above the cells had not seen or heard a thing. Sterling had them stripped of their rank and then sent out to Riven Rock to pound stone themselves. He wasn’t naive enough to believe that the Hall of the Dayknights was immune from secret passageways that even he did not know of. He had once prided himself on knowing almost every nook and cranny of the city, along with every secret passageway in Amadon Castle, the Grand Vicar’s Palace, the Temple of the Laijon Statue, and the Hall of the Dayknights combined. But over time, he realized there was much he did not know. Now he was a mere hairsbreadth away from being stripped of his rank and tossed into the dungeons himself.
He stood straighter at his post as his attention was drawn to the sound of voices at the far end of the corridor. He straightened his chain-mail cuirass and leather greaves. Tonight he wore the more casual attire of the Dayknights, more comfortable than the formal black armor he was forced to wear at the arena and other such events—at least this light chain mail did not itch like the black-lacquered armor.
Tala Bronachell rounded the corner of the passageway. She came with Glade Chaparral and Lindholf Le Graven. As the three approached, Sterling felt a cold whisper of dread. Protocol demanded that each member of the royal family be accompanied through the castle by at least two Silver Guards at all times until they turned eighteen. That Tala was unescorted was troubling, especially in light of the assassination attempt on Jovan.
“What brings you here, m’lady?” he asked, injecting a hefty ration of authority into his voice. “What Silver Guards were assigned to you today? I will have their necks. And where is Dame Mairgrid?”
“We’ve come to visit my sister,” Lindholf Le Graven said.
“I was not speaking to you, whelp,” Sterling snapped. “Nobody is allowed into Lawri’s chamber but for the holy vicar himself.”
Tala fired, “And what right do you have—”
“The right granted by the grand vicar.” Sterling cut the princess off brusquely, eyes still fixed on Lindholf. “Do not presume to test my patience.” Though he held the lord of Eskander in high regard, he had never cared for Lord Lott’s son. It wasn’t necessarily the clumping of unsightly scars and burns and deformed ears on Lindholf’s face that disturbed Sterling, but more the young man’s narrow eyes. Lindholf’s eyes were hard and black, an off-putting contrast to his pale skin and unkempt hair.
Glade, loitering a few paces behind Lindholf, was spinning a small Vallè-made ball-and-chain mace around his arms in a whirl. It made a humming noise that echoed down the passageway and set Sterling’s nerves atingle. “Put that away,” he growled. Glade kept the thing spinning as if he hadn’t heard.
“As the king’s sister, I order you to let us pass,” Tala said.
“I take my orders from the grand vicar,” Sterling said evenly, his hand now lingering on the black opal in the pommel of his Dayknight sword. “And with all due respect, m’lady, the vicar outranks even you.”
Sterling had known Tala her whole life. Normally a submissive, shy girl, it was only recently that she had shown signs of that Bronachell stubbornness so prevalent in her father and her mother . . . and her older sister. It was to be admired. But not today. In most situations, Sterling tried to make his face as expressionless as he could. His intent was to show nothing. Not even a raised eyebrow. But this time, he gave the princess his most scathing look, hoping to frighten her off.
Yet the determined expression on her intelligent face didn’t change. Nor did the Chaparral lordling’s face. Chain-mace toy still spinning in one hand, Glade was studying him through dark, flinty eyes. Sterling did not like what he saw there. Lindholf, on the other hand, had already backed down the hall. That was no surprise. There was always something slouched and drooping about Lindholf Le Graven—the boy was one dopey hunk of sod.
“Off with you now,” he said, seeing that none of them had much more prepared beyond staring. They had probably gathered to
gether just moments ago and hatched their plan: Let’s throw our royal names about and frighten the doddering old Dayknight captain into letting us into Lawri’s room. They must have thought it would be that easy.
“Go on, git,” he said.
Tala’s dark brown eyes glared at him with open malevolence.
“Please don’t pout and cry,” he said. “Heaven forbid I get accused of setting off a great flood of royal whining. You must learn to deal with things as they are. Make the best of things. Soldier up, as we say in the Dayknights.”
“I’m afraid you are mistaken,” Tala said, the anger growing behind her eyes. “We will not whine or cry. We will see our friend Lawri.”
“Git, I say. Now!”
The girl glowered, her dark eyes boring into his, face expressionless. She’s good, this one. Sterling’s eyes traveled over her, scrutinizing her garb. Indeed, she’s taking after her older sister. Today she was even dressed like Jondralyn was sometimes lately apt to: shirt, tunic, leather belt, and black-handled dagger at her hip, unladylike leather boots and pants. He saw a lot of Jondralyn’s fire in young Tala.
“Lawri is to remain alone by order of the vicar,” he said, softening his tone. “He will be arriving soon.” Clearly his hardened approach was not working. Most everyone confronted with his harsh orders adopted a servile tone and immediately obeyed. But the children of royalty were not like the common soldier who’d grown up in the smith shop or on the sheep farm. It was hard for the spoiled youth of the court to take orders.
“Lawri’s illness could be catching,” he continued, thinking how full of life the girl had been before this illness had struck. Truth be told, it bothered him that Lawri was suffering from such a debilitating sickness.
He stood straighter. “My order is to bar entry to all but the grand vicar. I am to stand guard while he ministers to her. Do you wish me to fall derelict in my duty, what with the events surrounding the attempt on our king’s life?”
The Forgetting Moon Page 54
