Rise of the Fallen

by Robert Stanek

  Jdost and Dhon moved to help Yarr defend against the monstrosity; the beast wanted nothing of them. It kicked them back. Before they could break through, other foes found them.

  Yarr defended wildly. Though he wielded his great sword with one hand at times, the weapon was meant for two-handed work. One weapon in two hands could not keep back such a beast, no matter how well wielded.

  He felt death close in around him, fought to move out of the beast’s kill box—the place where its three heads could all reach for him at once. He swung the blade in a wide arc, dropped his shoulder, rolled to avoid the gaping maws. He came back around, found another pair of waiting jaws. He stabbed, drew blood. He turned, thrust, drew blood.

  The wounds brought rage and howls. His blood raced; his heart pounded.

  The great stage was a mass of confusion and motion. Yarr caught glimpses of Dhon and Jdost as he defended. He knew the one direction he had to go to live. He spun, dashed around the hungry mouths, and fled toward open ground. He heard a roar of wind above him, and then suddenly the ground was rushing up to meet him. He screamed, tried to ensure he kept his grip on his sword, as he rolled and bumped along on his side and shoulder.

  When he came to a stop, Yarr looked up to see three ravenous mouths diving toward him. He raked the ground, reached for his sword. Even as the beast came on, he thrust the blade up, struck a clean blow between two of the four front legs, and then dove frantically to one side.

  The beast let out a sudden roar, clawing at the air. Moving too fast as it dropped to the ground, it skidded along and began to tumble end over end. Yarr heard a sharp crack, and the beast yelped.

  Yarr regained his feet, looked around. It was a clean break to the neck of the first head, yet even as that head died, the other two sought to reach him.

  Yarr drove in with his blade, thrusting deep into the middle head. His blade pierced one of the terrible eyes; he pushed in and up, ramming the blade in and out the other side. The creature howled piteously as it clawed the earth and sought to rise.

  With the blade wedged, he switched to daggers. Taking one in each hand, Yarr went to dispatch the beast, but this death was something the mob did not want. They taunted and booed.

  Yarr lifted his daggers and turned about on his heel until he faced the box seats, where he saw the ageless king, the consort, the son of Rnothen, and the Drakón prince. Their disappointment gave him power. He was the fly that buzzed and could not be swatted, the buzzer that bit and could not be caught. They could loathe him, but they could not kill him. Not in a fair fight anyway.

  Her presence, though, took his power as much as Martin’s had previously. She was unexpected. The sight of her broke him in ways he never imagined possible.

  “My Dierá,” he heard his second self say. Afterward, he heard a soft woman’s voice calling to him, but it was not Dierá’s. It was his mother’s. “Hope for Élvemere,” she said. His father seemed to agree, but his words were strange. “Windrunner,” his father said. “The foals. One a colt now. Ride him. Dierá takes the other.”

  Second sight faded. Yarr knew only the colosseum. A dagger in each hand, he dispatched the third head even as the creature died of its wounds. He hacked off one of the heads, picked it up with both hands, and threw it. He spat, shouted out in Cikathian, “Élvemere lives forever!” With his point made, he went back to his bloody work.

  On the other side of a struggling knot of Dwelmish, Yarr saw the huge Monsjurin Jdost, his sword lifting to clean the opposition out of his way. Yarr ran toward the gargant. Surely he could regroup with the gargant, but where was Dhon? Yarr did not see the Fhurtroll at first, and then he saw the other. Dhon was wounded, trying to regain his weapon; Jdost was defending alone against a pair of ktoth who were being marshaled by a S’h’dith.

  Yarr reached Jdost at the same time as a large figure clad in well-worn leathers and helm. He slammed into the other. The other’s shield rolled away, though he managed to keep a grip on his sword.

  Yarr reached back with his daggers, preparing to strike. “Yarr, Yarr!” the other shouted. “It’s me.”

  Yarr lowered his daggers. “Xerc? You live?”

  Other Trykathians behind Xerc were pushing past. They swept by Jdost, began pushing the attackers back. Xerc replied, “For now.”

  Yarr reached up to grip the Trykathian’s shoulder, and saw a ktoth sweeping down at him as he did. He turned the dagger in his hand around; the blade met flesh. He thrust with the dagger in his other hand, met flesh again. The ktoth crumpled at his feet.

  Xerc blinked, pushed back his helmet. As he did, Yarr saw the other’s wounds. He had been mauled about the head, and only the helmet kept everything together. He wondered how the other kept his feet. Trykathians were hearty, but Xerc must have been exceptionally so.

  “Yarr,” Xerc said. “It’s been my honor—”

  “Look out,” Yarr shouted, and bulled into his friend, knocking over the large Trykathian and taking him down. One of the S’h’dith flashed past, his sword reaching out and catching Yarr in the shoulder.

  Yarr felt the hot sting of the cut even as he struck back. His blows missed; Xerc’s did not. Xerc took the other in the back. A clean strike. Yarr finished it, running the edge of his dagger from one side of the S’h’dith’s throat to the other.

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you,” Yarr said. “I’d thought you were lost early on.”

  “Lost now,” Xerc said, sinking to his knees. “It’s been a good fight. Glory in death; death in glory.”

  Yarr helped steady his friend. “No death yet,” he told the other, but as he said it, he saw the unmistakable shadow of a ktoth. He looked back as he spun around. Another S’h’dith was marshaling a group of ktoth, and he was joined by several companions. They were lining up for a thrust.

  Yarr called out a warning. “Defend, ktoth! Meet the line!”

  The ktoth hurtled toward them. The S’h’dith were only steps behind. Jdost and what remained of the Trykathian cavaliers met the line with a weak but still fighting Dhon amongst them. Yarr gripped his daggers and rushed forward.

  He met a ktoth head on, moved left, and dug his blades into the side of the big cat’s head. He leapt over the dying ktoth in a great swooshing arc that met the leading S’h’dith. His blows crushed the side of the scaly head.

  Jdost lifted his blade and swung wildly at the next S’h’dith, as the other swerved to avoid him. Jodst missed; Yarr did not. The S’h’dith tumbled to the ground and was still.

  Jdost looked over, pleased to see Yarr. “Dhon,” he said. “He’s not well.”

  “Xerc also,” Yarr replied. “Only us soon.”

  Without warning a ktoth hurled itself at Yarr, plowing into his side and carrying him painfully to the dirt. Yarr lost one of his daggers, but swung at the ktoth with the other. The dagger glanced off, not even breaking the ktoth’s hide.

  The ktoth tore at Yarr with its fangs, drawing back just enough to come back at Yarr with its massive paws. It drove the air from his lungs.

  Jdost came up behind the ktoth, grabbed it around the neck with both brawny arms. He squeezed, applying pressure until there was a loud crunch of bone and the big cat went limp.

  Yarr got up just in time to see a S’h’dith coming for him. He turned, with a dagger clutched in his fist.

  Jdost ducked rushing paws, blocked fangs, but went down on his backside, slipping in a bloody pool. He came back up with the sword he had lost moments before, scrambled ahead with Yarr. A bloodied Trykathian met them as they came on, but Yarr recognized the other as Xerc before striking. He shouted through the tumult and din, “Form up, behind!”

  Yarr thought Xerc did as instructed, but he was not sure. The cavalier was haggard and had the look of death in his eyes. Yarr started moving again, staggering off into the wild melee of the colosseum. Soon after Yarr lost track of Xerc and Jdost, knew only the increasingly sluggish sweep of his dagger. His arm stopped when there were no more foes in front of him.
/>   Exhausted, Yarr collapsed to the bloody field. He collected himself for a few handfuls of heartbeats, and then scavenged weapons for whatever came next. Others around him did the same. They rested, collected weapons, and prepared. Soon the few who remained were gathered in a knot. Yarr was pleased to see Dhon, Jdost, and Xerc among them, but they were not close.

  Not far off, Yarr heard shrieks and howls. “What’s happening?” He called out.

  A Trykathian replied, “There, at the wall. Something emerges.”

  “From the tunnels?” Yarr shouted. “What?”

  The Trykathian said, “Only Grim knows.”

  Whatever it was the mob had mixed feelings. Yarr heard calls of “Jurin, Jurin, Jurin!”

  The knot of survivors fanned out into a loose ring. In their midst, Yarr saw him then, the Empyrjurin, wielding a sword as tall as Yarr himself. As the gargant approached, recognition came. Yarr knew it was G’rkyr even before Makhatar called out the other’s arrival.

  “Behold,” Makhatar proclaimed in the language of the ageless. Martin and a Trykath Yarr did not recognize, chained at Makhatar’s feet, were made to stand and shout out the same in Cikathian. “The personal champion of the Prince of Praxix. Best him and you will be freed from the games for all time.”

  Yarr knew then that he was truly cursed. In this there could be no victor, no victory. If he killed G’rkyr he would live, but he would lose Dierá’s heart even if she told him otherwise.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Deepening shadows on the field told Yarr the day was nearing its end. He marshaled the survivors, brought them into a tight knot in the center of the colosseum. They were not many in number, but those who breathed wore the cloth. It was victory regardless of what happened in the moments to come.

  Side tunnels opened; hawkers and gravers entered. Yarr looked to Xerc, Dhon, and Jdost as he could. All three were injured; Xerc, the worst. In truth, there was little Yarr could do for any of them. Perhaps it was some trait of Trykathians that Yarr did not understand, but it seemed Xerc was dead and had only neglected to stop breathing. And yet Xerc gripped his great sword, much as Yarr gripped his own sword.

  The gargant seemed in no hurry to make his way across the field. His armor with its spines and great horned helm seemed to displease him as much as it displeased Yarr. The onlookers loved the drama; alternately they applauded and jeered.

  Yarr gave pointers to those with enough strength left to defend and fight. The armor would be difficult to pierce. He saw weaknesses only at the joints and neck. The face was open, but impossible for one of his stature to reach. When Yarr finished, Dhon said, “Beware the sweep of the blade. A reach half again as far as you think.”

  Jdost added, “The great sword is not his own. Not græsteel. Likely he won’t be able to fire it.”

  “A pincer,” Dhon said, opening and closing his large hand like a claw. “Jdost, Yarr and I go in direct. The rest, in two columns, come in from either side. Our best hope.”

  Yarr signaled his agreement, took a count of those who seemed able to fight. Xerc was not among them. It seemed his death had finally found him. “Go to your mother Beqheth,” Yarr whispered as he closed Xerc’s eyes. He turned sorrow to strength. He would have no regrets when this day was done. Either he would live to see the darkness of night or the darkness would take him. It would be as it would be.

  Yarr brought his sword around as he awaited G’rkyr. Jdost and Dhon formed up those who could stand into two groups. None were unwounded. They were Dwelms, Erlanders, Kingdomers, Jurins, trolls, and Trykaths.

  “I know this one,” Yarr said quietly when Dhon and Jodst returned to his side. “I would count him a friend under other circumstances.”

  Jdost at first thought Yarr was making light of the situation, but then seemed to understand. “You, Yarr, are a contradiction,” the Monsjurin said as he unslung his great widowmaker sword and donned his plumed helm. “The only Alv I know able to carry his ale and befriend us Jurin. Yrenil and the Wanderer would both be pleased to know you.”

  Yarr clasped forearms with Jdost and then with Dhon. “It’s been an honor to know you.”

  “It’s been my privilege,” the Fhurtroll said as he readied a battleax.

  Jdost took a wide stance. “And mine. You are forever welcome on R’hamtil. Simply speak my name to any of my order. They will know the truth of you.”

  Yarr flexed his tired legs, brought his sword to the ready. His Alvish eyes allowed him to see Dierá in perfect detail. Tears in her eyes matched the anguish on her face; whether for what was about to happen or for what he had become, he did not know. She sat at the feet of the fat Drakón prince who always bet against Yarr. Next to the prince was the son of Rnothen, the titan who came unendingly to see Yarr’s death. He whispered in the Drakón king’s ear while the king’s consort on the king’s other side muttered what must have been curses. Martin and an odd Trykath sat at the consort’s feet.

  One of the Erlanders let out an alarm. Yarr looked back in time to see dozens of Gnog pikers make running leaps from the beast exits. Jdost and Dhon turned, took positions at Yarr’s sides, forming the triangle of a working trio. Each took a double step forward, readied for what came.

  “Form two lines,” Yarr shouted. “Meet the charge!”

  Dhon blew out a breath. “A final toll.”

  Yarr turned his shoulder, prepared to receive G’rkyr’s great sword. His position allowed him to see both the gargant’s approach and the onrush of the Gnogs. “Not even that long. Jdost?”

  “I’d wager not,” Jdost said.

  Down in the lines, one of the Dwelms cried out. Yarr saw a pike protruding from the man’s chest. The man rolled back and then fell quietly to his side.

  “His name is G’rkyr,” Yarr said, “I know his brother, Zanük, as well.”

  An Erlander in the lines twisted around abruptly. He blinked a few times, put a hand to his throat where blood spouted. His eyes unfocused, he toppled to his side, a pike piercing his neck.

  A foursome of Dwelms made running leaps, pushing into the oncoming Gnogs. They defended gallantly for a handful of beats, swords glistening in the light.

  Dhon and Jdost took a single step back, closing ranks and preparing for pikes coming their way. Yarr brought his sword around, still waiting for G’rkyr to engage. “Begin, cowards,” Yarr shouted in Cikathian. “Close already! We wait!”

  The ranks closed; no more waiting. A second Erlander got stuck. A Gnog slammed a pike into the man’s chest, below his ribs. The man let out a piercing cry, his blood suddenly a froth from his mouth.

  A Trykath took a pike to the side of his head, even as he gave with his sword. The Trykath’s head rolled back. He folded down and did not move again. The Gnog toppled to his side as well, the Trykath’s sword piercing his belly.

  A Dwelm crouched down behind his shield, tucking in his stocky legs and arms. A pike was rammed into the shield, pierced it, and went into the Dwelm’s shoulder. The wound did not look life-threatening, but when the pike was ripped back out, the Dwelm went limp.

  Yarr decided to close the distance between himself and G’rkyr. He took a step forward, then another. Jdost and Dhon turned and took two steps as well.

  The main line was breaking now. A group of Kingdomers finished it by running. As soon as they turned to escape, they cried out almost as one and Yarr saw long, dark pikes impaling their chests, arms, and legs. They fell to the ground with shouts, some landing on top of each other.

  A pair of Trykaths caught these Gnogs. Their swords met unprotected backsides. One of the Kingdomers tried to rise, but as soon as he did, a Gnog pushed a pike through him. A Trykath struck square to the Gnog’s neck, pushed his blade in and through, much as the Gnog had just done with a pike. Blood fountained from the both sides of the Gnog’s neck when the Trykath removed the blade.

  In the stands the mob went wild, roaring and cheering. Jdost, Dhon, and Yarr chose this moment to launch. Jdost took the gargant from the right. Dhon,
from the left. Yarr, from the front; three as one.

  G’rkyr turned away Yarr’s attack with a knee, stopped Jdost’s sword with an arm, and met Dhon’s ax with his sword. Sparks flew when the ax head met the sword’s edge.

  Jdost came back around with his blade as Yarr swept in. G’rkyr let out a shout and rolled forward, deflecting Jdost’s blade into Yarr’s attack. As the Monsjurin’s blade swept across the front of the gargant’s body, Yarr pulled back, went to go around, and came back in. Dhon spun, brought his ax sweeping across his body in a vicious arc at the gargant’s head.

  G’rkyr seemed to wait until the very last moment to move, and then he moved as fast as Yarr had ever seen anyone move. He thrust his mailed fist into Yarr’s chest, nearly knocking the wind out of him, while at the same time twisting his body to one side so that the line of his body was beyond the descending sweep of the ax. The ax missed and slammed into the ground at G’rkyr’s feet, where it kicked up a spray of dust and small rocks.

  G’rkyr’s sword was not still during this time. It was rising, coming around, then plunging into Jdost’s side. Jdost’s expression fell; a deep calm seemed to come over him. His stood stiffly, his mouth agape. The air whooshed out of his lungs as he let out a sudden, short groan. His fingers lost their grip on his sword, and then he folded down.

  Yarr looked on in horror. G’rkyr tore the sword back out of Jdost’s side and came around at Dhon, meeting the Fhurtroll’s ax. The sound of clashing steel echoed throughout the colosseum. Blood on the gargant’s blade sprayed outward. Yarr assessed, rushed in with his blade, and caught G’rkyr’s next blow on it, hoping to give Dhon time to maneuver.

  Yarr followed with four more blows, in a series of rapid thrusts, but the gargant deflected them all, despite Yarr’s sheer speed and short, quick movements. Yarr was too close in and low to the ground to see the next strike, but he heard the resonant clash of steel on steel as Dhon’s ax met G’rkyr’s sword.

  Yarr seized the opportunity to come in even closer, but as Yarr lashed out, G’rkyr brought the hilt of his sword down with both hands, bringing all his crushing might into Yarr’s hands and then sweeping away Yarr’s sword. The sword flew off somewhere behind him and he heard it land with a dull thud.