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 12
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 aro
und, 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.
Yarr whirled around to get some distance between himself and the gargant. He did not reach for the dagger he held in reserve. Instead, he crouched and whirled around again with his hands wide and his legs bent and ready to leap. Dhon struck at G'rkyr's head, chest, and chest again. The gargant blocked each strike and then, with a sudden swiftness, his blade lashed out again. Dhon groaned, and the ax, pulled back with both hands over his head in preparation for a strike, fell to the dirt.
Even as Yarr leaped into the air, G'rkyr cut his blade across Dhon's middle, and Dhon cried out, "Grim take you!" But the voice was straggled and far away as Dhon staggered and fell. The Fhurtroll held in his guts with one hand while he groped the ground for his ax handle with the other. Yarr landed on G'rkyr's back at the same time the gargant tried to kick away Dhon's ax.
Yarr used his legs, locked them around the gargant's neck and squeezed with all his might. His hands he locked around the chin to keep the gargant's head where he wanted it.
Amidst the cheers, claps, and boot stomps, Yarr felt the world slow and shift around him. It was almost as if he was the only one alive. That everyone and everything else was beyond this time and place. That he was seeing through another's eyes. He heard a voice. It seemed very far away; it was screaming, screaming a single word: "Nooooooooooooooo!"
Yarr was falling, but it was the gargant who fell and not him. His legs and arms were fixed in place. He waited until the last, dropped and rolled as the gargant hit the ground, squarely on his back. The sharp strike was meant to crush Yarr, but instead pushed the wind out of the gargant.
Yarr closed his eyes against the dust spray, but did not pause. He drew his dagger, lunged forward from his knees. He found the gap between the gargant's armor and shoulder, shoved the dagger in. Using the blade dug into flesh as leverage, he swing himself up to the gargant's chest, then withdrew the blade and aimed it at the gargant's throat.
G'rkyr diverted the blow clumsily and Yarr drew a red line across the back of the gargant's hand. G'rkyr snarled, his face suddenly suffused with fire. He slammed his other hand into Yarr. Yarr felt the jolt of the blow in his chest and shoulders as he went sprawling.
Yarr hit the dirt on his side, rolled around, and jumped to his feet. His moves were almost catlike but the gargant was just as quick. The gargant stood over Yarr, both hands bunched into fists. He bore down, aiming to crush Yarr with a double blow. Yarr twisted his body, moved back, and the fists slid by.
Yarr delivered a counterstrike with his dagger, but not fast enough. G'rkyr dropped back to a guarded position, watching Yarr, his eyes wide, his face alive with fire. G'rkyr was still winded and wounded; he went to a knee, put a hand up as if to say stop, no more.
Yarr spun forward, deftly lunging, his dagger gliding toward the gargant. He slipped by the gargant's counter, stuck the blade into the knee joint of the gargant's armor, and twisted his body around the dagger until the hilt snapped off in his hand.
G'rkyr gasped, tried frantically to withdraw the blade. The blood made the blade too slippery to grip at first but he dug the blade out after a pair of heartbeats. Panting and groaning in pain, he looked up at Yarr, his face no longer lit with fire, his eyes questioning.
"Death knows you now, and you know her," Yarr said plainly as he jumped up and kicked the gargant in the face with both of his heavy boots. The move sent Yarr flying in one direction as the gargant fell back in the opposite direction.
Yarr rolled as he hit the ground and came back up on his feet. He stalked around the gargant until he was standing behind the other's head, then he lifted both arms in the air, hands balled into fists. "Your day's entertainment," he shouted in Cikathian as he awaited the judgement, "Blood and death! Damn you all!"
Chapter 13
The twin suns of Cyvair began their decent as the mob roared and cheered Yarr's condemnation. Makhatar went to her feet. Reveling in the moment, she turned alternately left and right. Martin's expression said that he wanted no part of any of it, but he played to the crowd all the same while his Trykath counterpart stood mutely.
Yarr panted and sucked at the air. He scooped up a
discarded sword and pike, drove them into the dirt at his feet. He was a bloody, dirty mess and bone tired. He stood ready, listened for turning wheels, the screech of the gates, the slide of the slats--sounds that meant new nightmares were coming his way. The mob had wanted his death only moments ago. Makhatar wanted his death still. If she wished it, he would breathe his last breath soon.
When Yarr turned to look for Dierá, sudden tears in his eyes matched her earlier tears. It seemed an age since he had cried, but it seemed all he could do. It was not anguish or sorrow or remorse that caused the tears, but absence and pity and grace. He was devastated to find Dierá absent; he pitied the mob and their hatred; and yet he had found grace. "Élvemere lives," he whispered to his father and mother, for he felt their presence as strongly as he had ever in life, "if only as a dream in my dying heart."
Yarr turned calm, sympathetic eyes to Makhatar. He pitied her most of all. Her life was the smaller one. Truly. She was the thing to be studied and pitied. The wealth of the Hundred Worlds was hers, and yet she was so self-loathing and jaded she could not find joy in any of it. She felt the weight of the worlds every day and had lived less in her centuries of freedom than he had lived in a hundred years in captivity; she was the slave and not he. He could let go of this life and find freedom. She would never be free, not in this life or in the next.
Yarr was about to shake his fists in the air, but sank to his knees instead for he felt them then. The soft presence and the mighty one; both demanding his attention.
"You just don't know when to die properly, do you, Alv?" The sharp voice in his mind was unmistakable; it was Makhatar's.
"Be strong," Yarr said as he swept up the sword from the dirt. He turned his eyes to Dierá among the hawkers and gravers, answering her soft call to him as he did so. "The Merciless One knows you and will welcome you."
Dragons of the Hundred Worlds Omnibus Page 19
