He had killed scores of men in the arena without a thought, but the tiger in Mandalin was the last. Perhaps the blood he spilled finally soaked in, or he had grown older and matured beyond his desire for fame. Even now, he was unw name, Ga what was the truth and what he merely wanted to believe. Regardless, everything changed when the tiger died.
Each man he fought had a choice, but not the cat. As he watched the regal beast die, for the first time he felt like a murderer. In the stands above, the crowd shouted Galenti! The meaning never sunk in until that moment. His father’s words reached him at last, but Danbury would die before Hadrian could apologize. Like the tiger, his father deserved better.
Now, as he entered the arena, the crowd once again shouted the name—Galenti! They cheered and stomped their feet like thunder. “Remember, Mister Wesley, stay back and guard Grady,” Hadrian said, as they gathered not far from where the skull hung.
The far gate opened, and into the arena came the Ba Ran Ghazel. Hadrian could tell from his friends shocked expressions that even after his description they never expected what now came toward them. Everyone had heard tall tales of hideous goblins but no one really expected to see one, much less five, scurrying in full battle regalia illuminated by the flickering red glow of giant torch fires.
They were not human, not animal, nor anything at all familiar. They did not appear to be of the same world. Movements defied eyesight, muscles flexed unnaturally. They drifted across the ground on all fours. Rather than walk, they skittered, their claws clicking on the stones in the dirt. Their eyes flashed in the darkness, lit from within, a sickly yellow glow rising behind an oval pupil. Muscles rippled along hunched backs and arms as thick as a man’s thigh. Their mouths were filled with row upon row of needle-sharp teeth that spilled out each side as if there was not enough room to contain them.
The warrior and the chief advanced to the center. They were large, and even hunched over still towered above Hadrian and Wyatt. Behind them, the smaller oberdaza, decorated in dozens of multicolored feathers, danced and hummed.
“I thought they were supposed to be smaller,” Wyatt whispered to Hadrian.
“Ignore it, they’re puffing themselves up like frogs—trying to intimidate you—make you think you can’t win.”
“They’re doing a good job.”
“The warrior is on the left, the chief is on the right,” Hadrian told him. “Let me take the warrior, you have the chief. Try to stay on his left side, swing low, and don’t get too close. He’ll likely kill you if you do, and watch for arrows from the range.”
From the walls, a flaming arrow struck the center of the field and the moment it did, drums began to beat.
“That’s our cue,” Hadrian said, and walked forward along with Royce and Wyatt.
The Ghazel chief and warrior waited for them at the center. Each held a short curved blade and a small round shield. They hissed at Hadrian and Wyatt as they approached. Wyatt had his cutlass drawn, but Hadrian purposely walked to meet them with his weapons sheathed. This brought a look from Wyatt.
“It’s my way of puffing up.”
Before they reached the center of the arena, Hadrian had lost track of Royce, who veered away into a shadow between the glow of bonfires.
“When do we start?” Wyatt asked.
“Listen for the sound of the horn.”
This comment, overheard by the chief caused him to smile and he chattered to the warrior who chattered back.
“They can’t understand us right?” Wyatt recited his line.
“Of course not,” Hadrian lied. “They’re just dumb animals. Remember we want to draw them forward so Royce can slip up behind the chief and kill him. He’s the one we need to kill first. He’s their leader. Without him, they will all fall apart. Just step back as you fight and he will follow you right into the trap.”
More chattering.
Two more flaming arrows whistled and struck the ground.
“Get ready,” Hadrian whispered, and very slowly drew both swords.
***
A horn sounded from the stands.
Wesley watched as Hadrian and the warrior slammed into one another, metal hissing. Wyatt however shuffled back like a dancer, his cutlass held up and ready. The chief stood still. Wary, the chief chose not to follow. Instead, he turned and sniffed the air.
Grady promptly let loose the first of his arrows. He aimed at the distant pile of dancing feathers, but greatly overshot. “Damn,” he cursed, working to fit another in the string.
“Lower your aim,” Wesley snapped.
“I never said I was a marksman, did I?”
Something hissed unseen by Wesley’s ear. Grady fired a second shot. It landed too short, coming close to where Wyatt feinted trying to persuade the chief to follow him.
Hissing whistled by again.
“I think they’re shooting their arrows at us,” Wesley said, turning just in time to see Grady collapse with a black shaft buried in his chest. He hit the ground coughing and kicking, his hands struggled to reach the arrow. His fingers went limp, his hands flapped on the ends of his wrists. He flailed on the dirt, spitting blood, struggling to breathe. A third arrow hissed and struck Grady in the boot. His leg struggled to recoil, but his foot was pinned to the ground.
Wesley stared at him in horror as Grady shuddered then fell still.
***
Royce was already close to the oberdaza when the horn sounded. The clash of steel let him know the fight was on. He slipped around one of the shattered stone blocks, trying to find a position behind the witchdoctor, when the air felt wrong. It was no longer blowing, but bouncing—hitting something unseen. A quick glance at the field revealed only four Ghazel, the chief, the warrior, the oberdaza and the range. Royce ducked just in time to avoid a slit throat. He spun, cutting air with Alverstone. Turning, he found himself alone. On instinct, he dodged right and something cut through his cloak. He thrust back his elbow, and was rewarded with a solid meaty thump. Then it was gone again.
Royce spun completely around, but he could see nothing.
In the center of the arena, Hadrian battled with the warrior while Wyatt taunted the chief, reluctant to engage. The range fired arrow after arrow. Beside him, the oberdaza danced and sang.
Instinct told him to move again, only he was too late. Thick, heavy arms gripped Royce, the weight of a body drove him forward. His feet slipped and he fell, pulled down to the bloodstained earth. He turned his blade and stabbed, but it passed through thin air. He could feel clawed hands trying to pin him. Royce twisted like a snake, depriving his attacker of a firm grip. Repeatedly, Royce cut at the shadowy thing, but nothing connected. Then he felt the hot breath of the Ghazel finisher.
***
His stroke glanced off the Ghazel’s shield. Hadrian thrust with his other sword, but found it blocked by an excellent parry. The warrior was good. Hadrian had not anticipated his skill. He was strong and fast, but more importantly, more frighteningly, the Ghazel anticipated Hadrian’s moves perfectly. The warrior stabbed and Hadrian dodged back and to the left. The Ghazel bashed his face with his shield, having started his swing even before Hadrian turned. It was as if he was reading his mind. Hadrian staggered backward, putting distance between him so he could catch his breath.
Above, the crowd booed their displeasure with Galenti. Beside him, Wyatt was still playing with the chief. His ruse had bought the helmsman time. The chief was too afraid of Royce to engage, but it would not last long. Hadrian needed to finish his opponent quickly, only now he was not even certain he could win.
The warrior advanced and swung. Hadrian spun to the left. Once more, the Ghazel anticipated his move and cut Hadrian across the arm. He staggered back and dodged behind a large fallen block keeping it between himself and his opponent.
Towd booed and stomped their feet.
Something was very wrong. The warrior should not be this good. His form was bad, his strokes lacking expertise, and yet he was beating him. The warrior attack
ed again. Hadrian took a step back and his foot caught on a rock and he stumbled. Once more, the Ghazel appeared to foresee this and was ready with a kick that sent Hadrian into the dirt.
He lay flat on his back. The warrior screamed a cry of victory and raised his sword for a downward, penetrating kill. Hadrian started to twist left to dodge the thrust, but at the last minute, while still concentrating his thoughts on turning left he pulled back to center. The stroke of the warrior pierced the turf exactly where Hadrian would have been.
***
Grady was dead and the arrows still coming.
Wesley was shaken. He already failed in his duty, and not knowing what else to do, he picked up the trilon, fitted an arrow, and let it loose. Wesley was no archer and the arrow did not even fly straight, but spun wildly, falling flat on the ground not more than five yards ahead of him.
In the center of the field, Hadrian was avoiding his opponent, and the chief had decided to engage Wyatt. Royce was in the distance, on the ground and wrestling with something invisible not far from where the oberdaza danced and chanted.
This was not going as planned. Grady was dead and Hadrian…he saw the warrior raise his sword for the killing blow.
“No!” Wesley shouted. Just then, the sharp exploding pain from an arrow pierced his right shoulder, and he fell to his knees.
The world spun. His eyes blurred. He gasped for air and gritted his teeth as darkness threatened at the edges of his eyesight. In his ears, a deafening silence grew, swallowing the sounds of the crowd.
The oberdaza! The memory of Hadrian’s instructions surfaced. The Ghazel version wields real magic, dark magic, and he should be the first one we target to kill.
Wesley clutched the hilt of his sword, fighting back, willing himself not to pass out. He ordered his legs to lift him. Shaking, wobbling, they slowly obeyed. His heart calmed, his breathing grew longer. The world came into focus once more and the roar of the crowd returned.
Wesley looked across the field at the witchdoctor. He glanced at the trilon and knew he could never use it. He tried to raise the sword, but his right arm did not move. He shifted the pommel to the left. It felt awkward, and clumsy, but it had strength. Listening to the sound of his heart pounding, he walked forward, slowly at first, but faster with each step. Another arrow hissed. He ignored it and began to jog. His feet pounded the moist muddy ground. He held his sword high like a banner, his hat flew off, his hair flowing in the breeze.
Another arrow landed just a step ahead of him and he snapped it as he ran. He felt a strange painful pulling and realized the wind was blowing against the feathers of the arrow that still protruded from his shoulder. He focused on the dancing witchdoctor.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the range put down his bow and run at him drawing a blade. He was too late. Only a few more strides. The oberdaza danced and sang with his eyes closed. He could not see Wesley’s charge.
Wesley never checked his pace. He never bothered to slow down. He merely lowered the point of his blade as if it were a lance and put on a last burst of speed—jousting like his famous brother—jousting on foot. Already the darkness was creeping in, tunneling his vision once more. His strength was running out, flowing away with his blood.
Wesley plowed into the oberdaza. The two collided with a loud thrump! They skidded together and then rolled apart. Wesley’s sword was gone from his hands. The arrow in his shoulder had snapped. The taste of blood was in his mouth as he lay face down struggling to push himself up. A hot pain burst across his back, but it faded quickly askness swallowed him.
***
Royce twisted but could not break free of the claws that cut into his flesh, struggling to break his grip on Alverstone. He could not grab the shadow. Its body felt loose and slippery, as if it existed only where it wanted. Royce would get a partial grip and then it would dissolve.
Teeth grazed him as the Ghazel snapped, trying to rip his throat out. Each time, Royce knew to move. On the third attempt, he gambled and butted forward with his own head. There was a thunk and pain, but he was able to break free.
He looked around and once more the finisher was invisible.
Royce caught a glimpse of Wesley running across the field with his sword out in front of him then dodged another attack. He avoided the blow, but fell to the ground. Weight hit him once more. This time the claws got a better grip. Rear claws scraped along Royce’s legs, pinning him, stretching him out, holding him helpless. He felt the hot breath again.
There was a noise of impact not far away and a burst of feathers.
Suddenly Royce saw yellow eyes, bright glowing orbs inches away from his own. Fangs drenched with spit drooled on him.
“Ad haz urba!” the creature gibbered.
The Alverstone was still in Royce’s hand. He just needed a little movement from his wrist. He spit in the Ghazel’s eye and twisted. Like cutting through ripe fruit, the blade severed the hand of the Ghazel at the wrist. With a howl, the finisher lost support and fell forward. Royce rolled him over, using two hands to restrain his remaining claw and pinning the Ghazel with his knees. The finisher continued to snap, snarl and rake. Royce severed the goblin’s other hand and the beast shrieked in pain until Royce removed its head.
***
The Ghazel warrior staggered suddenly, though Hadrian had not touched him. Trying to keep his distance, Hadrian was a good two sword lengths away, but the warrior clearly rocked as if struck. The Ghazel paused, confidence faded from his eyes and he hesitated.
Hadrian looked over his shoulder to the hill and spotted Grady’s body, but Wesley was gone. He looked over his opponent’s shoulder and found Wesley on the ground. At his side, the oberdaza lay with the midshipman’s cutlass buried in his chest and as he watched, the range stabbed Wesley in the back.
“Wesley, no!” he shouted.
Then Hadrian’s eyes locked sharply on the warrior before him. “I only wish you could read my thoughts now,” he said, sheathing both swords.
Confusion crossed the warrior’s face, until he saw Hadrian draw forth the large spadone from his back. Seizing the chance the warrior swung. Hadrian blocked the stroke, which made the spadone sing. He followed this with a false swing, which the Ghazel nevertheless moved to dodge, setting it off balance. Hadrian continued to spin, carrying the stroke round in a full circle. He leveled the blade at waist height. There was nowhere for the Ghazel to go, and the great sword cut the warrior in half.
Wyatt was fighting the chief now, their swords ringing like an alarm bell as they repeatedly clashed. Blow after blow drove Wyatt farther and farther backward until Hadrian thrust the spadone through the Chief’s shoulder blades.
With a roar like a violent wind, the crowd jumped to their feet cheering and applauding.
Turning, Hadrian saw Royce kneeling beside Wesley’s dead body. The range lay dead beside him. Hadrian ran to them as Wyatt checked on Grady.
Royce shook his head in silent reply to Hadrian’s look.
“Grady is dead,” Wyatt reported when he reached them.
Neither said a word.
The gates opened and Erandabon entered with a bright smile. Poe and Derning followed him. Derning stared at Grady’s body. Erandabon lifted his arms to the stands like a conquering hero as the crowd cheered even louder. He approached them exuberant and delighted.
ⱜExcellent! Excellent! Erandabon ez very pleazed!”
Hadrian strode forward. “Get us to that ship now. Give me time to think, and I swear I’ll will introduce you to Oberlin myself!”
Chapter 20
The Tower
Modina watched Arista as she sat on the floor of her bedroom within the chalk circle and burned the hair. Together they watched the smoke drift.
“What is that awful smell?” Amilia entered the bedroom waving a hand before her face while Nimbus trailed behind her.
“Arista was performing a spell to locate Gaunt,” Modina explained.
“She’s doing magic—in here?” Amilia loo
ked aghast and then added, “Did it work?”
“Sort of,” Arista said, with a decidedly disappointed tone. “He’s somewhere directly northeast of here, but I can’t pinpoint the exact location. That’s always been the problem.”
Amilia stiffened, her eyes glancing at Nimbus accusingly.
“I didn’t say a word,” he told her.
Amilia asked Arista, “If you find Degan Gaunt, what are you planning to do?”
“Help him escape.”
“He is the general of an army poised to attack us.” She turned to Modina. “I don’t see why you are helping her—”
“I’m not trying to return him to his army,” Arista cut in. “I need him to help me find something—something only the Heir of Novron can locate.”
“So, you…and Gaunt…will leave?”
“Yes,” Arista told her.
“And what if you are caught? Will you betray the empress by revealing the aid she has provided you?”
“No, of course not. I would never do anything to harm her.”
“Why are you asking this, Amilia?” Modina looked from her to Nimbus and back again. “What do you know?”
Amilia hesitated for only a moment then spoke. “There is a Seret Knight standing guard in the base of the north tower.”
“I am not familiar with your palace. Is that unusual?” Arista asked.
“There’s nothing to guard there,” Amilia explained. “It’s a prison tower, but none of the cells hold prisoners. Yet last night I watched two fourth floor guards deliver a pot of soup there.”
“To the guard?”
“No,” Amilia said, “they delivered the soup to the tower. Less than five minutes later, I arrived. The soup was gone, pot and all.”
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