“Come on, then,” he growled, circling the collapsed brothers as they struggled to free themselves of the icy muck and each other. “You call yourselves fighters? Maybe I should consider asking your Doctore if she’ll let me take on the next group unarmed and blindfolded.”
It was meant to taunt the two gladiators.
It worked like a charm.
“Damn lizard!” Ajuk Rothe, a heavy man in a half helm and iron breastplate, cursed as he managed to shake himself free of his sibling. He had only one sword left of the two he’d started with, but regardless he charged Raz head-on, bringing the blade up with two hands for an overhead slash. Aiming for the vulnerable space between neck and shoulder, he let the steel fall, slicing down, going for the kill.
What he found instead of flesh and bone, though, was air and dirt.
“Too slow,” Raz growled from beside him as the man stumbled forward behind his own impetus.
Before Ajuk could fall again, however, one clawed hand caught the back collar of his breastplate, the other slamming up to take the man in the abdomen. Sweeping the gladiator’s feet out from under him with a leg, Raz shoved upward, tossing the man into the air even as he continued forward.
The result was a cumbersome front flip, ending when Ajuk crashed hard to the pit floor on his back, from which he didn’t rise again.
By now, though, the other fighter was back on his feet, and Raz turned to face him bare-handed. Smaller and leaner than his brother, Brüg Rothe had the brains not to attempt to take his faster, stronger opponent in a rush. Instead he held back, finding good footing and hefting his long pike before him defensively.
“Ain’t coming to you, ya scaly bastard!” he shouted after spitting out a mouthful of mud. “You feel like bein’ skewered, you’re gonna have to come do it yerself.”
“I appreciate the warning,” Raz said with a shrug, following Brüg’s movements as the man started making a careful circle around him. “I’ve been poked full of holes plenty of times before, though. Don’t think another couple more is going to matter much.”
Then he shot forward.
For a minute or two he let the gladiator believe he had a chance. For all intents and purposes the man was good with his pike, taking full advantage of its reach to keep a good distance between Raz and himself. Raz, for his part, dodged left and right and down as needed in rapid repetitions, allowing the iron point of the weapon to sneak within inches of his belly, legs, and shoulders. Had he had Ahna in his hands, or even his gladius, the pike or its wielder or both would have lost their head any number of times.
While the blood might have won some people over, though, such a rapid end would have done little to please the crowd.
Still, eventually the theatrics had to come to a close. As Brüg began to tire, Raz knew his dance would get obvious and boring. Therefore, the next time the pike was thrust outward a little too far, Raz stepped around and forward, making good use of old footwork to close the gap between their two bodies in a blink.
His extended arm caught Brüg below the neck, clotheslining him so abruptly he hit the pit floor with no less force than his brother had. The pike followed a moment after, and the fight was done.
Sound returned suddenly and sharply to Raz’s world. What he’d droned out during the fight came back in a single wave, riding along with the explosive cheering, hollering, and applause of ten thousand bodies taking to their feet in the stands above. Raz looked up, gazing into the crowd that commended him so fondly.
All the while wondering if there might have been a time in his life, even not so long ago, that he might have enjoyed their praise.
When the chanting started, Raz didn’t fight the frown. These men and women of the North didn’t know him well enough yet to read his mood by his face, but even if they had he doubted they’d notice or care. Still, when the word became clear, rising in volume with every repetition, he felt the familiar angry tension building within him.
“SCOURGE! SCOURGE! SCOURGE! SCOURGE!”
Over and over again they shouted it, feeding off the title and their own bloodlust. When he finally had enough, when he felt the anticipation had built to the point of bursting, Raz raised a single hand in silent acknowledgement. The crowd exploded again, their roar trailing behind Raz as he turned his back on the pit, leaving behind the Rothe brothers’ unconscious forms as he made for the rising portcullis that led to the Arena’s underworks.
Men and women alike stepped smartly out of the way as Raz reached the bottom of the uneven earthen gangway that led down from the Arena floor. He was in the waiting chambers, the series of large dirt-and-timber rooms where gladiators were housed as they awaited their moments of glory, as well as the wild animals sometimes used as complements to the entertainment. Heavy iron sconces bearing torches along the walls supplemented what little grayish light made its way down through the arched gateway at the top of the ramp, illuminating the mass of people scattered around the room. There were no beasts today. A week ago a number of half-starved wolves had been chained to one end of the chamber, but they’d been killed off in a well-publicized fight that had claimed the life of one of the Doctore’s prized gladiators, as well as the arm of another.
Now the only things in the waiting area were fighters themselves, a few preparing for the two or three encore matches that would follow Raz’s series of theatrical fights, but most nursing minor wounds and bruises. A number of these looked up when Raz passed, spitting on the ground as he went by or else cursing him in a variety of languages he didn’t often recognize. They were men and women of every culture and ethnicity Raz had ever heard of, and many he hadn’t. Azbar’s Arena was—as anyone involved in its newfound success was quick to repeat—the largest of the Northern fighting pits. Even after hundreds of Azbar’s own had volunteered to learn and train under Alyssa Rhen and her subordinates, dozens more had come through the city gates over the summer from every corner of the known world. Imperialists and Islers from the West. Southern sarydâ—true Southern sarydâ—along with many a Percian and former soldier from the armies of the Seven Cities. There were even a handful of mountain men from the range tribes throughout the North, big, burly figures with long hair and beards who fought just as well with their fists as they did with the massive axes and war-hammers that had accompanied them down.
The only thing most of the Arena gladiators had in common, in fact, was a mutual and distinct hatred of Raz.
Nothing new there, Raz thought humorlessly as he made his way through the chambers towards the heavy wood-and-iron door set at the very back. Reaching it, he took a moment to bang most of the mud that caked his armor and furs free, shaking his wings to clear them of the offending muck, then pulled it open.
Inside was a smaller chamber, cut into the earth with a lower ceiling. Raz had to duck to make it under the door, and the tops of his ears hit the wide timber crossbeams that held up the packed earth above his head. The air was warmer and brighter here, though, alight from the orange flames that leapt from the well-ventilated fireplace dug out of the wall at the back of the room. It lit up the collection of old tapestries, maps, and oil paintings spaced evenly around the chamber, and outlined the heavy carved bureau that took up the middle of floor.
It outlined, too, the shape of the woman who stood over the desk, contemplating a series of narrow parchments she held flattened upon the wood.
She looked up when Raz entered the room, shutting the door behind him. As he approached the desk he allowed his wings to extend a few feet to either side of him, bathing them in the warmth of the fire. As one week had turned into two, the temperatures—even during the brightest parts of what sunny days they were still getting—had continued to fall. Raz was acclimating as best he could, learning how to layer furs on leather and always keep moving to stay warm, but it wasn’t easy. Any opportunity he got to stand near a fire, he took it. The only time he didn’t think about the cold, in fact, was when he was fighting in the pit, or else home with Lueski and Arrun.
“How did it go?”
Alyssa Rhen stood straight as Raz came to stand over the desk. The firelight did nothing to ease the edge of the scar on her face, but as always she held herself with such stolidity it demanded a sort of respect.
“First two fights were smooth,” Raz said with a shrug. “Pynus, Garrut, and Sofia need to learn to coordinate better. I had them split away from each other within a minute of the gates lifting, and it actually took some work to make it entertaining from there. The next pair were better for a while, but impatient. I had to end it fast after Boten nearly cleaved Dakker in two with that bastard sword of his. I hope you got him to a surgeon in time. He needed sewing up, and Boten needs a smaller sword. He’s good, but doesn’t have the strength to wield a hand-and-a-half properly.”
“I’ll speak to him.” Alyssa acknowledged the advice with a nod. “What of the Rothe brothers?”
“The best you’ve thrown at me so far. Both have talent, but Brüg has discipline his brother lacks. He would be much better off paired with a different partner or group. Maybe the shield-bearers you had me face last week? Or that other spearwoman you had matched up with the two mountain men a few days ago—what did she call herself?”
“Esha the Raven,” Rhen replied with half an amused smile. “And I agree, but Brüg won’t fight with anyone other than Ajuk. Family ties and all that.”
Raz shrugged. “His loss. Maybe when Ajuk gets himself killed, Brüg will see sense.”
“Let’s hope, but in the meantime”—Alyssa waved a hand at the curling papers on her desk—“you have other things to worry about than the welfare of men who would kill you in your sleep if I let them.”
Raz chuckled, but reached down and picked up one of the sheets, pulling it flat. Numbers lined the left side, paralled by a long list of names he could barely make out.
“Your scribes need some work on their handwriting,” he grumbled after a moment. “What is this?”
“Your handiwork.” Rhen moved to take a seat in the padded leather chair behind her desk. “The result of your birds.”
That caught Raz’s attention. More carefully he perused the list, trying to make out the names.
“So, the gamble paid off,” he mumbled, still peering at the scribbles. “I assume Tern is pleased.”
“Ecstatic, though I’m not so sure you’re actually winning the gamble. That’s the first part of the records the gate guard have compiled based on reported comings and goings. These are the other three”—she crossed her legs and put a finger on the short stack of parchment before her—“comprising some three hundred hopeful combatants so far.”
For a moment she paused, watching Raz continue to peruse the list.
“Some of those are undoubtedly fake,” she continued eventually. “Titles of old legends, ancient warriors.”
“Retribution,” Raz nodded. “Queen of Arrows. Lifetaker. I’ve seen those before, and unless the dead and decrepit are rising from their rest for a chance at my head, I’d say you’re on the mark.”
“Let’s hope.” Alyssa leaned back in her chair. “Sylar Kern would have given you a run for your money, and my own gold would not have been bet on you if you’d gone toe-to-toe with the Lifetaker. Still, even with the fakes looking for their shot at wealth and glory, there are names on there that should concern you. Bounty hunters, assassins, even an exiled former admiral in the Imperium’s flotilla. The men and women under my wing are good, atherian, but we both know they don’t pose much threat to you one way or the other. These names, on the other hand”—she indicated the sheets again as Raz placed the parchment he’d been examining back on the desk—“are of a different caliber altogether.”
“Let’s hope so,” Raz nodded with a half smile of his own. “I imagine your crowds would eventually get bored of watching me embarrass the gladiators they’ve considered their pride and joy for months now.”
The Doctore didn’t so much as flinch at the underhanded slight. Instead, she shrugged.
“Most likely. Then again, let’s not pretend you care in the least what the crowd thinks and feels. The better your opponent, the less likely the next man is to pick up the sword when he falls. You’ve thought it all out, atherian, and I give you credit for it. Spill enough of the blood of legends, and eventually they’ll stop trying. Isn’t that the plan?”
Raz smiled again, giving the woman a sidelong look.
“As always, Doctore,” he said as he turned away from her, making for the wall and shelf where Ahna, his gladius, war ax, and dagger rested innocently, “you see far too much.”
Often, as he started his walk home, Raz felt there were more admirers outside the Arena than in the stands themselves. He’d given up any attempt at guile or disguise, as no matter by which way he left there always seemed to be a group of enthusiastic spectators waiting for him to regale in that day’s glories. Not once had he ever sated their shouts for tales regarding his past adventures, or answered requests to reveal Ahna or his other blades to the crowd. He didn’t even acknowledge the groups with a wave anymore, as he had the first few times, because even this small gesture of appreciation seemed to galvanize the mob into greater excitement and made it all the more difficult to escape them.
Instead, head bowed under the heavy black-and-silver-fur mantel that also covered his still-dirty armor and weapons, he made his way briskly through the crowd, Ahna thrown over one shoulder. The throng of hopefuls were not so foolish as to stand in his way as he moved, preferring rather to shout their admirations from a safe distance when it became clear Raz was once again in no mood to delay. Neither did they follow him past the edge of the wide cobbled ring that surrounded the Arena on all sides. Once Raz ducked into the narrower alleys of the town proper, they generally left him to his business.
Once Raz had ducked into the narrower alleys of the town proper, he could breathe easy again.
As he picked his way south along the familiar path through the maze of homes, shops, and buildings, Raz considered his fans. Not for the first time, either. Fighting in the Arena was nothing like when he had worked for the Mahsadën. Then, he’d always been torn. He’d deluded himself, sure, but there had been some part of him that had always pulled away from his decision, some fragment of the conscience the Arros had worked so hard with him to build. In the Arena, he felt no such inner battle. Even when he considered how he would likely return to killing rather than incapacitating soon enough, he didn’t feel the doubt.
Taking the heads of the men and women who had come to Azbar for a shot at claiming his own seemed fair enough, after all.
But still, despite his clear conscience, it felt odd to be so openly praised for his actions. It was not a completely new experience—he’d won plenty of public duels, challenges, and plain old fights in his time—but while the admiration of those crowds had been genuine, it had always been grudgingly granted. In the South, Raz had always felt his skills were considered rather similarly to how one might view the venomous bite of a sandviper: respected, but not necessarily appreciated.
Here, Raz felt his skills were all too much appreciated.
“Guess it’s a good problem to have,” Raz muttered to the dviassegai by his cheek as he descended a narrow, curved stairwell that lined a small hill of tall fir trees. “Can’t say that a year ago I would have complained about a little glory. Should be a nice change of pace…”
Still, maybe it was more than the alien concept of appreciation that put him at odds with the Arena spectators. While Raz didn’t consider himself a peaceful man by any measurement, he wasn’t sure he qualified as an innately violent one either. His methods might speak volumes otherwise to some, he was sure, but he had never really taken pleasure in his work in the true sense of the phrase. He felt pride for his skills, sure, as well as a twisted sense of content in his reputation. Perhaps it could even be argued he garnered satisfaction in his success, a sort of perverted fulfillment in his campaign to free the world from the grasp of those who built perfect lives for thems
elves on the backs of the downtrodden and helpless.
But pleasure? Never. Not when he had torn Corm Ayzenbas limb from limb for the butchery of the Arros. Not when he had sent bits of one of the šef to the man’s colleagues in gift baskets. Not when he had speared Imaneal Evony through the heart, effectively cutting off the head of the Miropan Mahsadën, if only for a while.
Pleasure had never been part of the deal.
How, then, could pleasure be such an integral part of the Arena, whose muddy floor was soaked with more blood than Raz thought he could spill in a hundred lifetimes?
He stopped, pausing in his pursuit to get home before dark. After following a cobblestone road for several minutes, he’d come to a bend in the track, the curve of which was blocked by no building, and opened up the world. Down the hill, towards the outer wall where he was headed, Azbar was alight once more as evening fell. Though it was not aglow with points of orange-and-white flame, as it would be once night came in truth, there was something distinctly taking in the way smoke furled over a thousand slate and wood-slat rooftops, each a different shade of gray, brown, or reddish green. Beyond that, the wall itself cut across the scene like a dark stroke, separating the town from the open plain and heavy woodlands beyond. Rolling like waves on an ocean, the great greenery of the trees rode their hills and valleys, rising and dipping in layers across the land. As distant winds licked at them, Raz could see the whole forest ripple and sway like a field in the breeze. Above all of it, the sky churned gray with clouds, a lingering storm that never actually broke. Every so often the heavens would shift enough to let the Sun peek through, and for a brief time one could watch daylight dance down in faded rays, moving across the hills and trees until the clouds closed up once more.
The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1 Page 46
