Severance was one means of keeping himself steady. But experience in the arena had taught him to control himself without that severity of detachment. A man could grow dependent on it. Better to save it until he needed it in combat. Besides, he needed sevaisin, the joining, in order to evaluate his opponent in the first moment of confrontation.
So he had grown progressively calmer, colder, unemotional in public, training himself to remain focused and empty of all save his own assigned tasks. His mental toughness had given him an aura of grim purpose, which spoke its own kind of authority to people. They respected him, whether slave or free, and they moved aside as he passed by, only to surge after him in a mob eager to watch the coming contest.
Up the worn stone steps. Past the shadowy walls stained black with smoke from years of torchlight. Then, at the top of the steps, a shout from someone in warning, the outcry flashing on from person to person ahead of him.
“He’s coming! Giant is coming! Make way for the champion!”
A flurry broke out ahead of him as men scurried up the ramp to find seats for themselves. Sunlight slanted down the ramp to meet him as he emerged from the darkness.
And the roar of sound, tremendous, overwhelming, deafening. It never stopped, never diminished. It was a force in and of itself, like a living thing, this mighty cheering. He could feel a wave of sheer anticipation hit him like a wall.
He started to sweat lightly. His heart was thumping like mad in his chest. Orlo patted his shoulder and said something Caelan could not hear.
He lost awareness of his trainer. Something in the cheering, stamping crowd mesmerized him and called him forth. Without hesitation he squared his shoulders and strode ahead of Orlo into sunlight and sound, becoming one with both.
The crowd screamed his name, and if possible the cheering grew louder.
Caelan strode across the freshly raked sand to the center of the arena, then turned to face the stands. Halfway up in the prime seating was the emperor’s box with its red-striped awning. Imperial flags streamed in the breeze, and the emperor, his son, and their guests sat watching. Caelan lifted his hand high in salute, and saw Prince Tirhin raise his wine cup in return. The emperor was chatting with someone else and paid no attention, but Tirhin’s gaze never wavered from Caelan.
His words passed through Caelan’s mind, and Caelan felt a shiver inside himself. He wanted this win and what it would bring him. The desire was so strong he could taste it.
Caelan spun around and yanked off his cloak. The winter sunlight fell warm on his shoulders. When he lifted his bared sword to the crowd, they went into fresh frenzy. Many threw coins and flowers onto the sand, while a young boy raced to gather up Caelan’s cloak.
A scream of bestial rage came from the holding pen on the south side of the arena. Caelan let his gaze flicker in that direction even as he saluted the crowd again.
A Madrun was only a man, he reminded himself quickly. There was no demon blood, nothing to fear. He had faced lurkers and wind spirits before and survived. He would succeed in this.
Were his opponent a veteran fighter like himself, Caelan would have continued to pose and posture for the crowd. They liked that sort of nonsense. He had once found it embarrassing, but now he did it without thinking. However, he remembered Orlo’s words of warning and decided to take no chances. He had never seen a Madrun before, not face to face. But their fighting prowess was legendary, and they reputedly had no fear for their own lives at all. A man who did not fear death had the upper hand in any combat, but Caelan intended that to be the Madrun’s only advantage. He vowed he would not be killed at the hands of a dirty savage. Moreover, he was determined to make good his promise to fight as they had never seen him fight before.
Another bellow came from the holding pen. Handlers scurried around, swearing at each other and sliding long, barbed poles between the wide slats to drive the occupant back from the gate.
It was rumored that in some of the more backward provinces, wild animals and lurkers were sometimes loosed in the arenas as opponents. Perhaps it was no Madrun he faced, but instead some beast.
Caelan ran his fingertips lightly along the flat of his blade, gently flexing it. He faced the holding pen, concentrating on it.
The crowd was slowly settling down, although they continued to shriek his name. Normally he would have continued to salute them or flourish his sword about. They loved seeing him execute drills to warm up.
Today, however, was no occasion for playacting, exactly as Orlo had warned him.
Another bellow came from the holding pen, and one of the handlers fell back with a scream. The crowd jeered a bit in impatience, then grew reluctantly quieter. Anticipation rolled down from the top of the stands.
Shivers crawled along Caelan’s spine in response to it.
Normally he waited until his opponent appeared before reaching out with sevaisin, but now Caelan dared to join early.
A wall of rage hit him, red-hot, and so forceful he felt momentarily stunned.
There was no joining with that. It was murderous rage, a blind hatred as impenetrable as a shield.
Caelan’s mouth went dry. During his stint as a gladiator, he had relied on his special, secret gifts to give him the winning advantage. He depended on them, and now he realized sevaisin would be useless.
How would he anticipate the man’s next moves? How could he make sure he outguessed and outmaneuvered him?
Ruthlessly he shoved his rising doubts away. This was no time for alarm. He must rely on what Orlo had taught him. If nothing else, he could sever the man’s life.
And if he could not cut through that rage with the reverse side of his gift?
Before Caelan could even dare think about that alarming possibility, the solid wood gate to the holding pen burst open. One of the handlers flung a sword onto the ground for the Madrun, and they all fled.
The crowd screamed with glee.
“Giant! Victory! Giant! Victory!” they chanted.
Caelan well remembered his first day in the public arena in what now seemed a lifetime ago. The sight of the stone bleachers rising above him in a towering circle had been overwhelming. The magnitude of the crowd, the noise, the blinding sunlight after such a long time down in the darkness below ... arena shock was an involuntary reaction in anyone new to the games.
The Madrun who emerged came scuttling outside in a half-crouch, dropped to scoop up the sword, glanced left and right to get his bearings, spied Caelan, and came at him with a shrill war cry that raised the hair on the back of Caelan’s neck.
It was as though the Madrun didn’t notice the crowd or the noise. It was as though he didn’t care.
Surprised in spite of all his preparation and Orlo’s warnings, Caelan set himself and waited for the man’s rush.
It was his first mistake.
The Madrun was big, nearly as tall as Caelan, and built like a bull. His massive shoulders rippled with muscle as he swung the sword around his head in a circle, running full tilt now through the deep sand. His head was shaven except for a bushy stripe of rust-red hair, and his ears were misshapen with mutilation scars. He was older than Caelan by at least five years, a man in his full fighting prime. The deep sand did not slow him. The sunlight did not blind him. The crowd did not distract him. His fight with his handlers had not tired him.
Still screaming in his own incomprehensible tongue, he was suddenly upon Caelan. Too late, Caelan snapped to attention and realized he should have been moving to meet the man. To wait for the first strike was a tactical mistake made by the greenest recruits. The speed built up by the Madrun would knock him flat, even if he did manage to deflect that shining blade.
Swearing at himself, Caelan drew on his incredible speed and pivoted at the last possible second, dodging his opponent and moving toward him rather than away.
Their swords clashed with a resounding bang of steel against steel that had the crowd back on its feet, cheering. To the crowd, their champion had seemingly waited calmly un
til the very last minute before moving. To the crowd, their champion looked very courageous against this barbaric enemy of the empire.
To the crowd, Caelan looked daring. To Orlo and Prince Tirhin, he must look like a lunatic.
Grimly Caelan put the prince’s threat from his mind yet again. He exchanged a fast series of blows, then backed up, dancing around the Madrun in a circle. He wanted to evaluate this creature’s fighting skills before he closed with him again.
The Madrun’s red eyes glared at Caelan without wavering. With teeth bared, he rushed again, forcing Caelan to feint and spin without even an attack in return.
Hating being on the defensive, Caelan feinted, then feinted again, but the Madrun was not fooled. He simply attacked, hacking and screaming while the crowd moaned and jeered.
When Caelan had boasted he would fight as Tirhin had never seen him fight before, he had not intended this.
Forget that, Caelan told himself. Concentrate.
The Madrun slashed, and white-hot pain sliced through Caelan’s arm. He struck back in anger, forcing the Madrun to retreat a little, then circled to catch his breath. Blood dripped steadily down his arm, his fighting arm. Already he could feel blood pooling between his palm and the hilt of his sword, making the grip slippery.
Sometimes the game would be halted, if one of the owners wanted a fighter’s wound bound up so the contest could continue equally. But Prince Tirhin would never do that, not for his champion, not for the fighter considered the best in the empire, a man who needed no coddling, a man who had not been wounded in over a season.
Every time Caelan flexed his arm, the wound opened and air rushed in, making it burn like fire.
Caelan frowned and severed the pain. Stepping into icy detachment, he felt the wound fade from his consciousness. Everything around him seemed a bit slower; the Madrun looked a bit smaller than before. His fear dropped from him, as did his distractions. On one level he laughed at the Vindicant priest’s offering him a potion to increase his fighting strength. This was all he needed.
Caelan drank in the coldness, letting confidence increase almost to arrogance. At the edge of his vision he could see the threads of life. How easy it would be to cut those surrounding the Madrun right now.
The temptation grew in him as time seemed to stand still. He held the power of life and death in his grip. It was sweet and exhilarating. The more he drew on it, the more pleasure he derived from using it.
And here, in the void of severance where there were no lies and no need for lies, he could admit to himself that this was why he fought. In the arena he could sip from this forbidden pool as much as he wanted.
But it was not right for a mere man to have such knowledge.
He feared the strength of severance’s pull; he always had. He knew what he would become if he ever gave way completely to it.
Besides, merely killing the Madrun was not what the prince had requested.
With a wrench, Caelan brought himself away from the edge of danger. Severance must always remain his tool, never become his master. He needed only to block the pain of his wound, nothing more.
Meanwhile, in those few split seconds when the world had paused for Caelan, the Madrun continued to circle him, eyeing him steadily. Now, as Caelan met his gaze, the Madrun lifted his sword and licked Caelan’s blood off the edge of the blade. Then he laughed.
Caelan rushed him in a swift attack that caught the man unawares. Grunting in surprise, the Madrun stumbled back, defending himself strongly but clumsily. He learned fast. Caelan found the same trick did not work twice with this man, who was a better swordsman than he appeared.
Back and forth they parried, their blades ringing out in a steady crisscross of deadly force. Up and down pumped their arms, fast and furious, attack and counterattack, until suddenly in one shining moment Caelan felt himself riding a surge of sheer, unbridled joy.
He laughed aloud, and the Madrun was caught by surprise a second time. The Madrun stumbled, made a mistake, and barely evaded Caelan’s lunge. Scrambling back, the Madrun found himself pressed hard by Caelan, who gave him no quarter. Caelan pushed him across the arena nearly to the wall.
The crowd roared approval.
Caelan’s sword was slipping in his hand despite his stranglehold on the hilt, and he didn’t know if he was streaming sweat or blood. He knew only that he had this man where he wanted him. The wall loomed just steps away from the Madrun’s back. And when the Madrun bumped into it, Caelan would finish him.
But suddenly the Madrun dropped his arm, exposing himself to Caelan’s blade. A split second before Caelan could lop the head from his shoulders, the Madrun dove to the ground and rolled toward Caelan’s feet.
Caelan leaped over him and sensed more than saw the Madrun’s blade coming at his vulnerable lower body. Twisting desperately in midair, Caelan brought his sword around and deflected the blade just in time to save himself from losing a leg.
That was all he could do, however. Caelan fell and rolled blindly, unsure where the Madrun was. He scrambled to his feet at once, but the Madrun was already tackling him, and brought him down with an impact that jolted half the breath from Caelan’s lungs. Caelan kicked and squirmed, but he found himself pinned by the man’s weight with the Madrun’s forearm pressed down across his throat. The Madrun lifted his sword to plunge it into Caelan’s side.
However, the swords were too long to fight with at such close quarters. Caelan got one hand free and jabbed his fingers into the Madrun’s eyes.
Howling with pain, the Madrun shifted but didn’t let go. Caelan chopped him in the throat. The Madrun made a strangling, gasping noise and went slack enough for Caelan to push free. Kicking hard against the man’s side, Caelan scrambled away, recovered his sword, and swung it around.
Just before the blade connected, however, the Madrun flung a handful of sand at Caelan’s face. Caelan had been caught once long ago by that ancient trick, but never again.
He ducked, closing his eyes, even as he finished his sword swing.
A choked cry of pain coupled with the jolting bite of steel into meat told him he had hit his mark.
Blinking, Caelan saw he had sliced into the man’s hip, but the Madrun half hobbled, half crawled away from him and recovered his sword.
Good spectacle demanded that Caelan let the man regain his feet. Good sense told him to finish the Madrun quickly while he had the chance.
Caelan wavered for an instant. Tirhin wanted more than a quick victory; he wanted the crowd in his hand. Even now, half the crowd was shouting for Caelan to finish the kill but the rest were roaring approval as Caelan stepped back and waited for the Madrun to recover. The show was not finished yet, and they loved it.
Forcing a smile, Caelan turned to the crowd and lifted his bloody sword in quick salute. They clapped and cheered all the more.
It was his second mistake.
In that moment of inattention, the Madrun regained his feet and impossibly rushed at Caelan with all the speed and fury of before. Disbelief hit Caelan at the same time as the Madrun did.
Caelan parried the attacking blow clumsily, feeling the jolt travel into his wrist and up his arm. There was no time to wonder how the Madrun could move like this with such a deep wound in his hip. There was no time for Caelan to curse his own stupidity. There was only desperation throttling him now as he fought off the Madrun again. Despite severance, he could not ignore the leaden ache creeping through his arm. As he tired from exhaustion and blood loss, he would get slower. He could not continue much longer. Yet what choice had he? The Madrun seemed tireless. Despite the blood coating his leg, the barbarian gave no evidence of pain or distress. His red eyes glared as fiercely as ever.
Perhaps he understood the principles of severance too.
That was a disconcerting thought, at a time when it was foolhardy to think too much. Grimly, Caelan forced himself to ignore everything save keeping his blade in motion. No faltering, no mistakes. He had been lucky thus far. He could not depend
on fortune to save him a third time.
Back and forth they fought, scrambling and dodging, only to rush at each other again. No trick Caelan tried seemed to work. No amount of skill seemed to be enough to break through the Madrun’s guard.
Well matched, Orlo had said. It was true. For the first time, Caelan felt he had met his equal.
He could hear himself gulping air. Little black spots began to dance across his vision. Everything but the Madrun was a blur. Yet Caelan would not give up. Tirhin had promised him his freedom, and for that Caelan would go to the wall.
Caelan felt as though he had fought for hours. It should be enough. Let the crowd be happy this once so he could go home. Let the other man fall down; let him die so Caelan could end this.
But the Madrun would not surrender either. He would not weaken. He would not die.
They fought until both of them were heaving for air, stumbling apart to eye each other, only to attack and clash again.
There had to be some way to outwit this creature, Caelan thought with rising desperation.
What had Orlo said? The barbarian had sheer strength and brute force? How true. Orlo had also warned Caelan not to prance about, but to use every dirty trick he had.
Caelan wearily cast about for something he had not yet tried. He had used everything Orlo had taught him. He had used everything the other gladiators had taught him in barracks. He had used the tactics old veterans tried on each other in combat. He had even watched the Madrun’s style of fighting and returned some of that to the man.
The Madrun’s eyes widened, but he only bared his teeth anew and fought harder.
Evading him once again, Caelan circled to gain a breather. Severance would keep him going until his heart exploded. Then he would drop dead in the sand, and it would be over.
Caelan gritted his teeth. There had to be another way.
There was, of course. He had known it even as he stood in his ready room and boasted to Prince Tirhin that he would fight with everything he had until he prevailed.
Shadow War Page 3
