by Джеффри Лорд
«Many of those who come to us from the Forest think only that they will die. They do not think how they may live. So they do die, and many of them soon.» Kuka gave Blade a sharp, appraising stare. «I think you will live to become one of the Ten Brothers, unless the Forest Spirit is unjust.»
«I will rely more on my strength and good steel than on the Forest Spirit,» said Blade.
«As you should,» said Kuka, and patted Blade’s hair.
Once more the notion of the gladiators of Hapanu as the crew of a ship occurred to Blade. They were men apart, cut off from the outside world, able to depend only on each other, living or dying without anyone’s caring as long as they put on a good show. They were a good crew, proud, skilled, and tough in spite of the inevitable handful of bad apples.
They were also a crew without a captain, apart from the Ten Brothers and Skroga. There was no one who could lead them in one particular direction. If such a leader emerged, what might happen with a thousand tough fighters all ready to march?
Quite a lot, Blade suspected. However, before he could hope to offer himself as that leader, he would have to gain a name for himself. That meant not just surviving but winning in the Games of Hapanu.
Chapter 17
The day of Blade’s first appearance in the Games dawned bright, warm, and windy. From his bench in the waiting room at the outer end of the tunnel, Blade could see the steady march of white clouds across a blue sky and feel the breeze on his skin. It carried the sea-smell of the brackish water at the mouth of the Great River.
The sunlight and the sea-smell were things about Gerhaa Blade could enjoy. He hadn’t realized until he left the Forest how tired he’d become of the greenish tinge to the sunlight, the windless heat under the trees, the odors of vegetation, decay, and sluggish streams. Gerhaa was a welcome contrast. It would have been positively lovely, if he hadn’t been about to fight for his life to amuse its decadent people and worse-than-decadent ruler.
The waiting room was long and low. On benches along either side sat fifty-odd gladiators. All wore open-faced helmets, leather loinguards, ankle-high boots, and leather wrist braces. The weapons were more varied. Blade saw broadswords, short swords, clubs and maces, daggers, throwing and thrusting spears, weighted nets and ropes, things like pitchforks with barbed points and heavy crossbars, and things like golf clubs with oversized heads and spikes on both ends of the shaft. A few of the men carried shields of bronze-sheathed wood, with razor-sharp edges and spikes jutting out of the heavy iron bosses in the middle. Blade had seldom seen such an impressive collection of weaponry in the hands of men who looked so fit and ready to use it.
Down the middle of the room ran a line of well-made litters. By the head of each litter sat two of the men told off by lot to act as litter-bearers and first-aid men in today’s Games. Each had a leather pouch slung across his back, holding bandages and medicines. The medical care the fighters in the Games received was definitely on the rough and ready side, as not only the first-aid men but the «doctors» were entirely self-taught. However, they got plenty of practice, and they had to learn fast. If they didn’t, they were likely to die in their next fight or even in a «brawl» in the barracks. Blade hadn’t seen anything like the Shield of Life in Gerhaa, but he was reasonably confident of receiving decent medical care if he had the bad luck to be wounded.
From beyond the mouth of the tunnel Blade heard the swelling rumble and murmur of the crowd as it gathered in the amphitheater overhead. Women’s voices rose high and shrill, vendors praised their fruit, wine, and sweet cakes, pet dogs and monkeys barked and squealed. Just as the din seemed to be getting out of hand, a drum began to roll. Then horns sounded and two huge brass gongs began to boom.
No words were needed. Except for Blade, all the men in the room had gone through the ritual many times, and Blade had heard it described until he could have done it all in his sleep. They marched out of the waiting room, onto a wooden drawbridge forty feet long and thirty feet above the water. Underneath two boats full of soldiers rowed back and forth, and Blade saw Ho-Marn sitting in the stern of one. The officer recognized him and called out cheerfully, «Good blooding, Englishman.»
«As Hapanu wills it,» Blade shouted back. It was a ritual response to a ritual good wish, but then Ho-Marn could hardly do or say anything for Blade here that would call attention to himself.
Blade looked over his shoulder at the amphitheater. Not quite a full house-no more than half of the ten thousand seats were filled. A good crowd, though, for a Game where the Protector wasn’t attending. The nobles’ seats at the front of the great bowl carved into the side of the cliff were almost filled. Blade saw ranks of colored silks and velvets, veils and scarves floating in the breeze, noticed the sun winking from brooches and jeweled rings, could almost smell the heavy perfumes. The only thing the noblemen of Gerhaa spent more money on than their own vices was the vices of their wives and mistresses.
The gladiators carefully avoided keeping in step as they crossed the bridge. This was a point of pride with them, for each man to march at his own pace. It showed they were not the soldiers, let alone the Protector’s Pets!
At the other end of the bridge a flight of stone steps led down to the sandy arena covering most of the Island of Death. A low fence of pointed iron stakes surrounded the sand. It did not block the spectators’ view of the blood and death on the Island, but it kept gladiators from falling into the water lapping around the Island.
In the water lay a more certain death than any a man could face in the arena. The waters of the Great River around Gerhaa swarmed with hungry life-a variety of Horned One, sea snakes, giant eels, things like sharks and barracuda, dozens of kinds of smaller creatures with large appetites. Anyone who found himself in the water would die quickly if he was lucky.
As the last man reached the arena, the drawbridge rose with a clatter of chains and a creak of timbers. The cheers of the crowd drowned out the drumrolls and horn blasts. Blade looked across the arena as the gladiators spread out along the railing. The trampled yellow sand was beginning to blaze like a pool of molten gold as the sun grew brighter. Out there on the hundred-yard circle lay the only way back across the drawbridge for every man now standing by the railing. Some would return on their feet and others on the litters, to live or die as their wounds and their comrades’ skill dictated. Those whose lives ended on the sand would not return at all. They would still be lying on the sand when darkness came. Then the Horned Ones would also come, slithering and snuffling through the gaps left in the fence just for them. When they slipped back into the water, the bodies would be gone.
The whole system of the Games in Gerhaa and the Island of Death was an ugly one, reeking of a sadistic imagination. No doubt it was supposed to fill the gladiators with terror and a degrading sense of being doomed and helpless. In fact, it only gave the gladiators an even stronger sense of being men apart, standing together against that doom, only able to trust one another. Blade wondered how long it would be before someone outside the fighters’ barracks discovered what a deadly thing the people of Gerhaa had created in the pursuit of their own amusement.
The Captain of the Games was always an experienced fighter, often one of the Ten Brothers. Today the Captain was Kuka of the Banum. He was assisted by two Lesser Captains and the Crier of the Games. The Crier was always chosen for his loud voice, and was given a large gold-mounted seashell both as a badge of office and a sort of megaphone. He was supposed to be heard in the most distant seats of the amphitheater and usually was.
Kuka marched out into the center of the arena while the Crier climbed back up the stairs and announced the first fight. «Three on three, with casting spear, short sword, and shield. Wearing the red-«three names Blade didn’t catch. «Wearing the green-«three more names, the last one producing a mixture of cheers and boos. There was a short pause as the six fighters marched out onto the sand. Kuka stepped back, and the last bets were made in the audience. Then Kuka raised his spear of office and the
fight began.
After a short time Blade stopped paying much attention to it. The six men were all well-matched, past the beginner stage but none of them real experts. One of the men wearing green seemed to be fond of tricky swordwork. No doubt he was the one who’d been cheered and booed by the crowd. He was spectacular to watch, but Blade suspected the man would soon be crippled or dead if his skill didn’t catch up with his desire to show off.
The first fight of the Games was seldom more than a warming-up for later, bloodier events. When it was over, four of the six fighters walked out of the arena on their own feet. Neither of the two who came out on litters was dangerously hurt.
Two more fights went by without any spectacular bloodshed, and Blade began to expect trouble. His fight was the next but one, and he could hear the rumble of the crowd growing behind him. They were beginning to want a little gore and guts on the sand. If they didn’t get it before he came on, they might be howling for his.
Blade was lucky, although his good luck was bad luck for one of the men in the fight before him. The unlucky man took a sword cut across the thigh, thought his manhood was gone, and suddenly went berserk. The other three fighters had to turn against him and almost hack him to pieces before he died. The yells of the crowd showed that their taste for blood was satisfied for the moment.
Blade still felt five thousand pairs of eyes riveted on his back as he marched out into the arena to face his first opponent. He’d have more than his share of the attention, too. A new fighter making his debut was always matched in single combat.
Blade’s opponent was a Kylanan peasant sold to the Games for debt. He was as strong as an ox and not much smaller than one, but still fast enough on his feet to be a thoroughly dangerous opponent. If Blade hadn’t already known this, he would have learned it with the man’s first swordcut. It came at him like a flash of lightning, and there were more flashes in front of his eyes as the sword clanged off his helmet.
The other man stepped back to give Blade a chance to recover. This wasn’t a fight that had to end in blood. Blade listened to the mixture of cheers and catcalls from the crowd, and tried to interpret it. What kind of show were they expecting from him and the peasant?
Well, whatever they were expecting, he’d give them a surprise they’d remember. He stepped forward again, made a clumsy swing with his own sword, and got his shield up barely in time to block his opponent’s weapon. A half-second slower and he’d have lost an arm. The uproar from the crowd was even louder.
Blade followed the same pattern three more times, and listened to the crowd between each exchange. He’d guessed just about right. They thought he was a hopeless amateur, a beginner who’d never live to become experienced. They were waiting for his opponent to get through playing with him, hammer down his guard, and send him out on a litter.
They’re going to have to wait a while before they see me on a litter, thought Blade. He let four more blows come dangerously close. The last two jarred him so violently he wasn’t sure all his bones were still in one piece. It was time to stop playing, before the other man’s luck turned.
Suddenly the frightened amateur desperately defending himself became a smoothly-moving fighting machine. Blade closed in, took a swordcut on top of his shield, thrust the shield’s spike at his opponent’s face, and at the same time brought his sword around. It crashed into the peasant’s helmet with a clang like a great bell, knocking the helmet askew on his head. The man staggered, but strength and stubbornness kept him on his feet. Blade shifted his grip as the man’s guard dropped, smashed him across the left elbow with the flat of the sword, and finally hacked the spike off his shield. The man still tried to raise his sword, but Blade parried it, then let his own edge slip down to open a gash in the back of the man’s sword hand.
«Yield?» he asked.
«Yield,» the man gasped. He’d barely worked up a sweat, but his wits seemed fuddled. Perhaps it was the blow on the head, perhaps it was simply the astounding transformation of Blade.
Blade’s opponent wasn’t the only man surprised at his transformation. The crowd gaped at Blade’s attack in stunned silence. Then as his opponent threw down his weapons, it seemed everyone started cheering at once. Blade looked back and saw scarves and bunches of flowers waving. He even heard the «Hooa-hooa-hooa!» cry that real experts in the crowd used to hail particularly impressive pieces of work in the arena. His career in the Games seemed to be off to a good start.
Kuka came up to the two fighters and asked Blade’s opponent if he wanted a litter. The man shook his head, then raised his wounded hand in salute to Blade and walked off toward the fence. The Captain looked Blade over from head to foot, as though he was counting the pores of Blade’s skin. He seemed about to speak, then shook his head slightly and signalled Blade to follow his opponent to the sidelines.
Back in his place by the fence, Blade drank the water and ate the fruit the litter-bearers handed him, then let them sponge him off with scented oil. He was aware that other fighters beside the Captain were looking oddly at him. Two or three muttered to each other behind their hands as they looked at him. Blade ignored them, preferring to watch the more skilled fighters now at work.
The morning round of fights came to an end. A boat put off the mainland and delivered food for the men on the Island of Death-chunks of fried fish, porridge, vegetable stew, fruit, and beer. The guards in the boat were under the command of Ho-Marn. Again he waved, this time without speaking, and Blade waved back.
In the amphitheater those who had servants ate lunch under embroidered silk canopies. The vendors made the rounds for the less well-off. A dozen drummers gave an impromptu concert in the rear of the amphitheater, pounding away until Blade would have cheerfully gone back to them and slit every one of their drum-heads with his sword. At last the horns sounded again, the gongs boomed, Kuka and the Crier stood up, and the fighting was on again.
Blade fought once, about mid-afternoon, in one of two four-man teams matched against each other. He hadn’t intended to try putting on a show this time, but he wound up having no choice. One of the four men on his team was a boy at that dangerous point where a fighter thought he knew practically everything and actually knew very little. He tried an impossibly complicated spear pass and wound up with one leg a bloody ruin. That left Blade facing two opponents, both of them considerably more skilled than his first man.
For ten minutes Blade wove a curtain of steel in front of him, taking a couple of minor nicks and giving a few more. He lost all awareness of how the rest of the fight was going, and whether his teammates were alive or dead. He was only aware of the sweat pouring down him, the stinging of his cuts, the flash of his opponents’ weapons, and the growing roar of the crowd behind him.
Eventually something else crept into Blade’s mind-a growing anger at both his opponents and at the crowd behind him, apparently ready to go on cheering him all day if he would go on sweating, bleeding, and giving them a good show. The anger grew, and as it did so did Blade’s strength and speed.
Suddenly one of his opponents was reeling back, cheek and temple gaping open, half-blind with pain, surprise, and the flowing of blood. The other man didn’t stop or slow down for a moment, but alone he was no match for Blade. In three passes Blade wounded him three times, lightly in the thigh and shoulder and more seriously in the right arm. Blade didn’t need to ask him to yield.
As the roar of the crowd died away, Blade realized that he was the only one of the eight men still on his feet. He pulled off his armband and was applying it as a tourniquet to his opponent’s wounded arm when Kuka came up. This time he looked everywhere but at Blade, and his face was so carefully under control that Blade was nearly ready to ask him what was on his mind. This was against the rules of the Games, but Blade usually preferred to be a rule-breaker rather than a corpse.
Instead the Captain dismissed Blade in silence. He drank more water, ate more fruit, had his wounds bound up, and watched the last few scheduled fights. The aftern
oon wore on, and the air grew heavy with heat, the smell of blood, and the cries of the wounded. At last the scheduled matches came to an end, the three dead men were pulled to one side, and the Crier announced the Challenge Hour.
The Challenge Hour was just what its name implied-a time when any fighter who wanted to challenge another could do so. Most of these bouts were either grudge fights or between expert fighters who wanted to deliberately test each other or show off their skills for the crowd.
Blade was surprised when his name was the first one called out, as the object of a challenge by one Vosgu of Hosh. He’d heard of the man-a thin, dark veteran, so fast that in a fight he seemed to be in three places at once, and with a temper as quick as his steel. He particularly liked to challenge promising beginners and wound them badly enough to take away some of their reputation. Perhaps Vosgu’s challenge shouldn’t have been such a surprise after all.
They were going to use spear and short sword, without shields. That was going to make things risky, given Vosgu’s speed, but not impossible. Blade knew he was about as fast as any fighting man he’d ever met, and he had a good three inches on Vosgu in height and reach.
The two men stepped toward each other, and cheers rose. Blade heard some shouting of «Vosgu!» but he heard even more shouting of «Blade!» Vosgu also heard this, and his dark face turned still darker. As he approached Blade, he already looked ready to kill.
The fighters closed, feinting with their spears, swords held low for a thrust at legs or belly. Slowly they circled each other, eyes never leaving the other man, moving from his eyes to his weapons to his feet and back again. They went on circling until they’d worn a distinct ring in the blood-caked sand. The crowd behind them was silent now, sensing what Blade already knew. This fight might go on for quite a while before the first exchange of blows, but then it would be over very quickly.
