by J. F. Lewis
“How far forward?” Tyree shook his canteen. It was old and battered but also obviously of Dwarven make. “This canteen Uncle Japesh left me may keep the water situation under control, but I’m going to run out of food if we don’t restock somewhere. I’m not a bad hunter, nor a good one either, but I can’t hunt where there isn’t any game.”
“Another day until we reach a supply store and a guard station.”
“More bug rations.” Tyree’s veneer of unflappability dimmed then brightened again. “That will be the fifth one. I may be a little off, but that means, unless you’ve suddenly started doing things differently, that we’ve covered around two hundred and forty miles. We’ve passed completely beyond the Eldren Plains haven’t we?”
“No,” Kreej lied.
“How did you manage that without the Eldrennai catching you out?”
“We work toward His secret purpose,” Kreej hissed, rising up on his hind legs, tapping his chest with his foreclaws. “The scarbacks would have found us as they have in the past, but the scarbacks are gone. The Eldrennai cannot stand against the chosen of Secret and Shadow.”
“Calm down.” Captain Tyree held his arms wide. “I’m on your side, remember? To His secret purpose, Musky. Remember? Who got you guys the information you wanted? Who is going to advise Captain Dryga?”
“You did.” Kreej dropped to all fours, clawing angrily at the back of his scales. “To His secret purpose.”
Tyree smiled again, and Kreej felt simultaneously soothed and alarmed. Something was wrong with this ally, and Kreej did not like one scale of it.
*
I don’t like this, Kholster thought at Vander.
Walking through the gates of this Guild City twisted an uncomfortable knot in Kholster’s stomach. He’d never walked its tree-lined streets, but the looks in the eyes of the people working and training here unsettled him. They watched him with, for the most part, the same gaze some Elevens did. Unable to meet his gaze but unable to stop staring when his gaze moved past them. He saw awe and worship in their faces as they paused in their training on the various grounds and tiered buildings. . . . Some practicing archery, others with melee weapons or unarmed techniques.
The students and instructors at the open-air schools of Warfare crowded at the fences edging their practice areas. Indoor schools found the windows and doors thrown open as the occupants of those buildings leaned out of windows, over balcony railings, or filed out the doors to crowd the edges of the street.
Walking at an even pace toward the hexagonal building he did not want to enter, Kholster frowned, the facial expression generating scattered cheers and hoots of approval. He caught himself wishing that Teru were still with them carrying Cadence or that the conversation with Dean Sedric, at the Long Speaker’s College, had taken longer and given him a better excuse for moving on without acceding to the Guild Masters’ request for an audience.
“Your word is unimpeachable, Kholster,” the sour-faced human had said. “If you say this drug-addled creature has promise then I will train her myself. We will get her off the god rock. And, as I have not yet awarded the Dean’s Scholarship for the coming term, she will receive it.” He’d waved away all protest. “I have awarded it in previous years for deeds less noteworthy than having impressed the being who conquered my order only to help rebuild, restore, and then relinquish control of it.”
Kholster would have even found arguing with the Patron or Matron of the Harvester’s Temple preferable to this “audience,” but Torgrimm’s followers helped anyone or anything which bore a soul, just as he’d known they would. They’d cooed over the child so much even Rae’en had no second thoughts about surrendering him to their care.
I feel like we’re walking into an ambush, Kholster thought as the building loomed larger. An arena dedicated to Shidarva was one thing, but one dedicated to Dienox, fighting for fighting’s sake. . . . How did the humans, with such short lives, justify this waste?
Even from this distance, Kholster could pick out the statues of Dienox (with flaming hair worked in bronze even though Nomi had long ago stolen those fiery tresses from the actual deity) wielding different weapons of war. Four stories high and granite, the thing made Kholster want to tear it apart, to leave no stone upon another, as he had done so long ago with the arena the Oathbreakers had built at the site of the Battle of As You Please.
“Can we?” Rae’en asked, reaching back for her warpick. “You know?” She nearly shook with pride at the adulation of the crowd.
The Guild Masters want you to meet them in Warfare at Dienox’s Grand Arena? Whatever could seem suspect about that? Vander practically chortled.
“You want to brandish our weapons?” Kholster asked Rae’en while sending Sarcasm does not become you to Vander.
Sure it does, Vander thought back. What doesn’t become me is this weather.
“Kholster?” Rae’en asked.
“If you want.” Kholster unslung his warpick and, on Rae’en’s signal, thrust it into the air above his head. What had been scattered applause and cheering broke into a torrent of sound.
Even Captain Pallos sported a wide grin.
“They love us!” Rae’en almost sparkled, doubled canines bared in as broad a grin as Kholster had ever seen on her face.
“The idea of us, perhaps.” Kholster frowned at the Lane of Champions where twin wedges of polished obsidian stood, one on either side of the Champion’s Entrance to the arena—immense iron doors through which only those acknowledged as Champions of the Arena could enter, lest they be honor-bound to compete in an exhibition bout . . . or worse . . . depending on the mood of the Guild Masters. To Vander, he sent Weather?
Sky is clear and the wind is fair, but the swells are getting higher and higher. Coal says he smells a hurricane.
Where are you exactly? Peering at the mental map generated by the Overwatches with the invasion fleet, Kholster growled, Too small, and let the map take up more of his field of vision, with enough of his surroundings still showing at the bottom that he could see to walk. He traced the fleet’s course, from the Dwarven-Aernese Collective to Veynir, the most Aernese-friendly of the Nallish ports, then across the Queelayan Ocean to Kankt on Gromm’s southern peninsula, where his Aern would have eaten their fill and taken on new supplies. Vander noted five of the Long Arms manning the Dragon’s Perch had swapped out there, which Kholster didn’t like, but which was in keeping with the contracts he’d taken out with the Long Speakers. Apparently being so close to a dragon for so long was alarming for humans.
Due to the delay caused by his own slower than expected pace, Vander had then cut back and sheltered at the Altan Islands, all that remained of the land once holy to Shidarva which had been sacrificed in Shidarva’s bid to become ruler of the gods. In fair weather, the islands were a boon to sailors, but during the rainy season the islands had a tendency to flood so much they became almost completely submerged.
Before the small continent had broken up and sunk beneath the waves, the storm route had taken bad weather mostly into the Gromman side of the waters, but now . . . it could land anywhere . . . it could chase his fleet right to the Strait of Mioden and—
Isn’t it a little early for hurricanes?
Yes. Not unheard of, though. Vander laughed bitterly. Coal said we should wake him when we could see the storm wall, so he could take wing.
You could make for Gromm or Castleguard. Kholster didn’t like the idea of revealing his intention to invade before the initial attack, but he didn’t want to have to send the Ossuarian warsuits marching underwater to retrieve the bones of his army either. Sure, the warsuits could breathe for the Armored Aern, and they were technically immortal; and even if something truly disastrous happened the warsuits could haul the bodies up to Gromm, bring the warsuits, all of them, buy enough cattle to fill the armor with blood, and allow the army to regenerate, but . . . what if too much had changed? Would the Aern be able to reunite with their warsuits after all this time, even under those cir
cumstances? Besides, they’d likely lose his brother-in-law, the humans with them, and possibly even their dragon in the process. It wasn’t a good solution.
And have the Eldrennai get word of sixty Aernese ships hauling a dragon with them? Vander sent, interrupting his thoughts. I think if we push on, make for the Strait of Mioden, we can use the weather to our advantage and pass through hidden by the storm.
Storm might turn north and hit Gromm, Kholster admitted. Or go south and hit Castleguard or even Bridgeland.
Right, Vander thought back. It’s not as if the gods have sent the storm to chase us. They’re never done something like THAT before.
Point taken. I was there, too. Show me the—
Do you mean to be fighting in the arena? Vander interrupted. If not . . . No, never mind. You’re through.
“Through what?” Banishing the sea map, Kholster looked around to find himself standing in the midst of the Champion’s Gate with Rae’en smiling, surrounded by a group of men and women in the various robes of their chosen guilds. He smelled saltwater and fish under a layer of blood and sweat.
A curse lay ready to deploy at the tip of his tongue, but it wasn’t worth it. Cursing would let Rae’en know how disappointed he was that she’d led him into an arena fight when any blame ought to lay firmly with him. He’d allowed himself to be so distracted by the fleet’s issues he’d missed what was right in front of him. He’d also forgotten how much youth could crave a battle.
But all of that was in the past. It could not be altered. So instead of growling at Rae’en or continuing to berate himself, Kholster bared his teeth.
“You wanted to see Aern fight?” He held out his arms and turned in a slow circle. “Here we are. What’s it going to be?”
CHAPTER 34
BATTLE BEGINS
“Take this.” Kholster held out his warpick, the sun highlighting the blood oak detail work on the weapon’s head. The crowd, too far away to hear her father’s voice, erupted into a cheer. Rae’en took one final look around the stadium, the tiers of people. What looked like thousands, tens of thousands, of boisterous blood-hungry humans, gnomes, Dwarves, and even a manitou or three, cheered, howled, and hooted from the stands. The manitou in particular stole her attention, bestial-looking shape-shifters each in a chimerical combination of animal parts, united to create truly unique and ever-changing forms.
“Were they all here just in case we said yes?” Rae’en dumbly took her father’s warpick.
“No.” Kholster scanned the crowd looking for Bone Finders. He spotted three but felt certain he’d missed one. They couldn’t give him a battle map, like Overwatches, but as these particular Bone Finders were Armored, they could still relay him information via Bloodmane. “They have bouts daily. The single largest peacetime source of income for Warfare.”
He sent Malmung an image of Rae’en’s four Overwatches and got a map in response, showing them nearing Juchim.
Not quite halfway then. No use.
You could take Draekar’s Overwatches, Vander thought at him.
No, Kholster frowned. They’re on duty. We should be fine.
“Give me Testament,” Kholster prompted.
“I fight better with Testament.” Looking down, Rae’en balked at the feeling of Grudge in her hands again.
“True, but I smell seawater.”
“What?”
“Your warpick,” Kholster hissed through a smile.
“Fine,” Rae’en shouted. “Gods!” Warpick unslung, she more threw than handed him the weapon.
It’s going to be okay. Kholster’s voice rang out in her head. He smiled at the crowd. Clear your head and catch the scent of what is happening here.
What IS happening here?
You volunteered us, didn’t you?
Yes, but you’re acting like this is more than a fight.
This is a campaign on multiple fronts. Normally they don’t try to kill me until I’m in Bridgeland.
Kill you?
Yes.
Who?
Anyone who wants to prevent the Conjunction from taking place.
Who would want that?
Anyone who wants the Aern destroyed.
What?
Well, I often set out on day three hundred of a Conjunction Year and spend a few months with the Vael in The Parliament of Ages before going on to Oot. In preparation, the Vael send their representative on to Port Ammond and allow them to spend time with the Eldrennai. I don’t know why the Oathbreakers think it necessary, but I don’t meet the Vael representative until I see her at Oot on three hundred and ninety-seven. The Conjunction begins, and on day one of the next year, I leave Oot.
Rae’en did a little mental math. It’s already three hundred and seventy-two!
Twenty-five days is still enough time to make the trip, but we’ll have to be faster now. Your tour of Castleguard will wait until after the Conjunction, perhaps after the war. I still want you to see the Changing of the Gods on our way through, but—
A drum beat began from somewhere up toward the middle of the seats. Kholster spotted the drummers, pounding the hide-covered instruments with huge padded mallets, beating out a rhythm—a phrase in Zaurtol, the tail language of the reptilian Zaur—he hadn’t heard in years.
Many thought it meant simply “Bloodmane,” but it was actually a sentence: “Bloodmane is coming” or more literally “Red Irkanth Hunts.”
“I wonder where they learned that?”
“Does it mean something?”
“To the Zaur,” Kholster said, nodding, “it means me.”
“How can a drum beat mean anything?”
“Ask the Zaur.” All humor left Kholster’s face as their opponents walked out into the staging area of the arena. Ten opponents. One for each month of the year. “We’re fighting the past year’s worth of champions.”
“That’s not so bad, right?” Rae’en looked back at him seeking something. Approval? Reassurance? Kholster couldn’t tell, so he grabbed her arm to steady her as the ground began to shift underneath them.
“I knew I smelled saltwater.”
More cheers rose up from the crowd as the floor receded in six equal plates, sliding under the stands, leaving nothing upon which the combatants could stand except for a central platform roughly five paces across where the floor plates had met and a series of six beams running from the edge of the arena to the central platform—each no wider than a handsbreadth. Kholster growled, already in motion.
*
Following Kholster’s lead, Rae’en leapt from the edge of the rapidly shrinking platform onto the scant beam. She overbalanced herself, landing too low, not used to acrobatics, while holding Grudge in her hands. Blowing out a tense blast of breath, she hooked Grudge under the lip of the beam behind her back to keep herself from going into the water.
Rae’en saw the creatures before the gasp of the crowd announced them, feeling no matching sense of exhilaration.
I thought this wasn’t a fight to the death, Kholster.
Perched on all fours next to her on the beam, Kholster pivoted and stood, arms extended for balance, feet toe to heel with one another. One is encouraged not to fall in.
Sleek black figures moved beneath the water, stripes of neon blue pulsing in circles highlighting their dead eyes and racing back along their spines and along their sharp fins.
What are they? Rae’en regained her balance, winding up facing away from the platform, toward the outside edge of the ring.
Sharks of some kind. Her father was engaged in a race for the middle platform with three of the more agile opponents: a gnome wielding curved daggers and no appreciable armor, a man with a length of weighted chain wrapped around his shoulders and upper arms, and a woman with noticeably pointed ears and features which suggested at least partial Eldrennai heritage or a slightly crystal-twisted birth carrying a quarterstaff.
What kind of shark glows? Rae’en followed after, close, but not too close.
I’m not sure. They taste th
e same. The woman with the quarterstaff broke into a run, and Kholster burst into a sprint. See the lip around the edge of the arena?
Yes. Rae’en answered.
Make for it. Circle them. Don’t fall in.
Rae’en broke off and shifted direction awkwardly, bobbing and lurching in short jerks to keep her balance until she had it again. If I do, I’ll get a chance to see what shark tastes like—
Try not to eat the outer skin.
Out of the corner of her eye, Rae’en saw Kholster meet the woman with the staff on the platform, but instead of engaging directly, the woman played for time, thrusting at Kholster and circling the platform. The ferrules at the end of the staff were a familiar pearlescent color, and Rae’en smirked.
Bone-steel AGAINST an Aern? Stupid.
Kholster twisted too far to one side, leaving an apparent opening, and the woman took it, sweeping the back of his knee with a satisfying crack that garnered surprised oohs from the crowd and scattered cheers and shouts. An even bigger cry went up when the staff wouldn’t pull free of her father, the ring of bone-steel sticking to him as firmly as Testament clung to his back.
Why not eat the skin? Rae’en asked, keeping her balance as she moved toward the rim.
*
It has scales like little teeth. Kholster slid the leg to which the quarterstaff was attached back and planted it hard to see if his opponent would fight him for the staff. I think Glin calls them denticles. Makes the dried skin a good wrap for a hilt, though.
With a grunt the woman let go. Maybe she felt she’d done her best, or maybe she realized the futility of engaging an Aern who weighed more than forty stone in a tug-of-war. Kholster snatched up the staff in time to start it twirling as the next two opponents, those he mentally dubbed Chains and Daggers, made it onto the platform. Daggers circled left, and Chains circled right, twirling the chain ends in both hands.
Two of the other combatants, a lean, wiry woman with iron paws clenched in either hand, giving her the appearance of possessing metal claws sticking out past her knuckles, and a dour-looking bald human with an axe frogged at his waist, moved along the lip of the ring toward Rae’en.
