The gate opened with a snap that startled her. Ampris ran out into the deep sand, stumbling slightly as it caught her feet. A handler seized her on one side and unfastened the buckles to her battle harness. Another released the catch on her battle collar.
Astonished, Ampris twisted in their hands. “What are you doing?”
It was forbidden to speak to a handler. One of them slapped her across the muzzle. “Silence!”
Pulling the harness and collar off her, they gave her a shove that sent her staggering on into the openness of the arena. Another handler ran after her and pressed a glaudoon into her hand.
Ampris took it absently, looking behind her. Despite her puzzlement, she knew the drill: Run from the gate into the center of the arena as fast as possible. Turn and get set to meet your opponent.
But she heard no bell, heard no second gate slam. She looked behind her again, and still Sheir’s gate did not open.
Ampris backed her ears, trying to understand what was happening. Why had the handlers stripped her? Instead of switching on the modulator on her battle collar so that the conditioning words would activate her training, she was entirely on her own.
Anger flared inside her. This wasn’t fair.
Then she realized she wouldn’t have to battle the equipment for control of her emotions or her wits. She could keep her cool head. She could remember her own strategy instead of being driven artificially into bestial rage.
But where was Sheir? Ampris could hear the other Aaroun screaming and slamming herself around inside her gate. Why hadn’t they turned her out?
“Run, you fool!” a handler shouted at her. “Get to the center and look like you know what you’re doing. The judge is watching!”
Collecting her wits, Ampris turned and did as she was told.
She had confused impressions of sound—great tides of it washing over her as the crowd shouted. They weren’t cheering for her, she knew. They were cheering for combat, for blood. She felt dwarfed by the arena, arching up high, high over her. The spectators themselves, a mixture of trainees, instructors, buyers, and the merely curious, were a blur surrounding her on all sides. The cams hovering overhead floated lower to record her.
She reached the center of the arena and stood awkwardly, feeling increasingly ill-at-ease and nervous.
The scoreboard changed colors, shimmering as names and scores were abruptly canceled. As they vanished and a blank red screen glowed in their place, Ampris stared up at it and backed her ears in alarm.
What did this mean? Why weren’t her name and number on the board? Wasn’t she going to be scored at all?
A fresh roar from the spectators made her look up swiftly, expecting to see Sheir coming at last. Instead, she saw the judge and referrents leaving the arena, the latter dragging their nets with them.
The blood drained from Ampris’s head. She stared, unwilling to believe what their departure meant.
The loudspeaker boomed, bringing quiet to the stands.
“Scoring is halted,” the announcement came. “Combat is challenge by trainee One-one-A to instructor. Open rules.”
Cheers swelled up from the trainees in the stands. The announcement, however, had been made for the buying agents, some of whom were craning their necks and murmuring to each other. Some tossed down their refreshments and moved intently to the edge of their seats. Others spoke hurriedly into their hand-links.
Ampris stared with her mouth open, unable to believe her ears. Her request hadn’t been denied after all. But which instructor was she to fight?
That mattered less than the fact that the combat was to be held under open rules. Suddenly she understood all too clearly what the red scoreboard and departing referrents meant. This was to be a real competition, a real battle, with no team of referrents to save her once she was pinned or struck down.
This was to be a fight to the death . . . and if fortune did not suddenly smile on her, it would be her death.
Ampris’s courage deserted her. What insanity was this? In seeking to avoid dying in an arena, she had brought about that very situation. And even sooner than she might otherwise have had to face it.
Her heart froze in her chest. Her legs lost their strength, and she barely kept herself from sinking to the sand. She wanted to run, but all the gates were closed and guards stood everywhere.
From the holding pen came a ragged, savage cheer. “Ampris!” the graduates called her name. She saw several of them holding their fists aloft and snarling. “Saa-vel harh!”
Ampris swallowed hard. Saa-vel harh meant to draw first blood. It was both a war cry and a wish for victory. They were cheering for her, giving her their support.
Her heart started thumping again. She drew in a full breath. Never mind that her heart was beating too fast, or that her mind was racing, or that her grip felt awkward and slippery on her glaudoon. They had wished her victory, these comrades who were not supposed to be friends.
A sudden hush dropped over the crowd, warning her even as she saw the gate open that her wait had ended. Ampris backed her ears and held her breath, straining to see who it was.
The instructor who came striding out was Mobar, a male Aaroun of middle-years, at the peak of his physical prowess. He was the gruffest, most demanding, most short-tempered of the instructors, the perfectionist she could never satisfy. Heavy-shouldered and short-necked, he crossed the arena as though he owned it. Gray silvered his shoulders and chest, but his muscles were thick and strong, and his stride sure. For the first time, Ampris understood what it was like to face an arena veteran, to see the confidence, the economical movements, the dangerous intensity all radiating from an individual who intended to kill her.
As he drew near, his dark brown eyes glared at her intently, already sizing her up as prey. He swung his weapon in the air. To her horror, Ampris saw that it was a glevritar, longer than her utilitarian glaudoon, its blade curved, serrated, and gleaming bright under the artificial lights. Her courage sank inside her. She wanted to flee, to call out to the judge for mercy, to retract her stupid request. What had ever made her think she could take on an instructor?
But there was no more time to wonder, no more time to fear. Mobar was now holding his glevritar in attack grip. Crouching low, he shifted into a run, closing the final meters between them with a speed and agility she hadn’t expected.
Swiftly Ampris pulled herself together, realizing that to stand there flat-footed and staring was the stupidest mistake she could possibly make. From the very first day of training she had been told to keep moving, to stay in constant motion, to never stand still.
But although she shifted her feet, it was only to retreat before his advance. She realized she was expecting him to stop and launch into one of his dry, terse lectures. Mobar’s training sessions were filled with dull, repetitive moves. Over and over he forced trainees to work on footwork and correct swing techniques. He was capable of working them at a single move all day, while he screamed criticisms. Ruthless, bitter, and exacting, he had often put Ampris and others through hours of rigorous calisthenics until their tongues were lolling in distress and their muscles burned like fire.
Ampris retreated again, scrambling away from him and bringing jeers from the stands. Low score, she thought automatically, then grew angry at herself.
There was no score. There was only life or death. She had to remember that, had to get herself together.
Furiously, she shifted her stance, settling her weight on her back foot, reminding herself yet again that Mobar wasn’t going to stop. She met his eyes, and saw a stranger there—one calculating the swiftest, most efficient way to disembowel her.
He reached her, the glevritar swinging high in the air with a flash of light down its blade. Ampris willed her muscles to respond, to swing up her glaudoon and meet his attack.
Instead, a sheet of fear dropped through her. She panted, finding her lungs suddenly unable to draw enough air. Instead of parrying his weapon, she dodged the blow—ducked it like a co
ward before she could stop herself.
Boos and jeers came from the stands. But they were nothing compared with the scorn and contempt Ampris felt for herself. Backing her ears in raw humiliation, she shifted her feet again, darting in recklessly under his guard and slashing with all her might.
Her glaudoon cut him between ribs and hip, shocking Ampris but astounding Mobar more. With widened eyes, he roared in pain and knocked her weapon aside, giving himself time to spin out of reach.
Stumbling in the deep sand as he knocked her off balance, Ampris twisted around to face him and brought her glaudoon up in readiness as she’d been taught.
Her fear vanished, and suddenly she could think again. It was as though time slowed around her, and she understood his strategy perfectly. He had counted on her fear, had expected her to stand there frozen before his initial attack. He had intended to rush her, grab her, and finish her with one swift thrust. His attack had been swift and terrifying, but sloppy, as evidenced by his failure to guard his own flank. He hadn’t expected her to attack him in return.
Luck had given her this chance to draw first blood. But as Ampris met his furious gaze, she knew she could not depend on luck again. She had to fight as she never had before. She could afford no more mistakes.
Up in the stands, the crowd was banging on the benches more loudly than ever, but that noise hardly came through the roaring in Ampris’s ears. Her mind had shifted into another dimension. She was intently focused, weighing and discarding options rapidly. She realized that while blood now stained the blade of her glaudoon, she had not struck a killing blow. Failing to strike with lethal force was a mistake that opened the door to defeat. Oh, yes, she had heard that often enough. Now she knew that it was true. Too many mistakes had been made already, but she was learning fast.
In the distance she heard cheers and the words “Saa-vel harh!”
Ampris bared her teeth in satisfaction. First blood dripped from her sword, not his.
The momentary astonishment that had flared in Mobar’s dark eyes was already gone. He roared and attacked again.
Ampris roared back and met him halfway, parrying his glevritar with her stout glaudoon. The weapons clanged loudly together, and Mobar bared his teeth as he tried to force her sword down with his own brute strength. Ampris resisted as long as she could, feeling her muscles strain with the effort, then she suddenly dropped her weapon, twisted it away from his, and tried to feint.
He knew the trick, of course. He had taught it to her. He met the feint with a swift parry that nearly knocked her weapon from her hand.
Ampris shifted back from his reach, aware that she couldn’t last long against such a master in direct swordplay. Again she read his eyes, trying to come up with a strategy of her own.
She darted around him, forcing him to turn with her to protect his back. She knew she was faster than he, more agile. She was also younger, and she wasn’t losing blood.
With calculation, she eyed the blood matting his fur and trickling down his leg. She had caught him low, below the ribs, where every movement and flex of his body would pull at the wound, bringing him pain, bringing him more loss of blood.
The smell of it, hot and fresh, excited her. She inhaled, using it to awaken her courage. Then she ducked her head and somersaulted at his feet, slicing at his unprotected lower body as she came out of the roll. He leaped aside, evading her, but as he landed he staggered.
Ampris bared her teeth. She knew what to do now. Keep him moving. Keep him off center. Keep him bleeding. She could wear him down, until he grew too weak to fight.
But that was the easy way. Even if the scoreboard wasn’t posting her points, she knew the instructors were all watching intently. The crowd might be fooled, but the instructors would know the difference. If she was to earn a place among their ranks, she knew, she must fight with skill and courage. She must bring Mobar down decisively.
Their weapons crossed again, clanging in a swift attack, counter-attack rhythm that made her blood sing in her veins. For a moment they were perfectly matched. Nothing he did surprised her. He could not move faster than she. She met him for the first time as an equal. His blade and hers danced in exhilaration. She was his best pupil. He was her most respected instructor. She had mastered everything he taught her, and she displayed that skill now, feeling her arm muscles burn in a good way. It was a signal of fatigue, but she was not yet tired. She rode the wave of adrenaline and knew a flare of sheer joy that made her roar aloud.
Then Mobar attacked her in a three-part feint, feint, parry move that caught her by surprise. Unable to follow it and furious at him for using a trick he hadn’t taught her, Ampris realized he had been only toying with her until now, tiring her arm in that lengthy exchange. Now he was leaving her behind with this dazzling trick. But Ampris refused to follow a second feint and came straight at him in an attack of her own that left her guard wide open.
Baring her teeth and roaring, she swarmed him, breaking under his guard and hitting his chest with her shoulder.
He fell beneath her, but rolled before she could pin him and grip his throat. His sword edge raked across her thigh, and she felt a sting of pain so fierce it robbed her of breath.
His blade smacked hers hard and twisted her glaudoon right out of her grip. The weapon went flying, to land out of reach on the sand.
Again the crowd jumped to its feet, shouting and cheering.
Desperate, Ampris flung herself toward her glaudoon, but Mobar held her back. They rolled over, grappling together in the sand, too close now for him to use his long glevritar. Had this been the professional arena, of course, they would have been carrying a multitude of weapons.
Ampris felt his fingers twist her ear, then gouge at her eye. She turned her head aside quickly enough that his blow jabbed harmlessly into her cheekbone, then she snapped savagely at his thumb.
Her teeth crunched on bone, tissue, and sinew. Mobar screamed and flailed beneath her. His fist, still wrapped around his sword hilt, crashed into her face, but Ampris did not let go. He rolled her over, pinning her beneath his heavy weight, and pressed his forearm across her throat to choke her.
Growling, she twisted her head, and tore off his thumb. Blood spurted across her jaw, and Mobar reeled back. In that moment, Ampris sat up and knocked him off her.
Sprawling in the sand, Mobar gathered himself in an instant. He surged up to meet her, slinging blood, his teeth bared, his eyes enraged.
Ampris jumped to her feet, staggered as the pain in her thigh threw her momentarily off balance, and barely managed to duck his whistling glevritar. Again she rolled in a somersault, and this time she kicked his feet out from under him.
He fell hard, with a muffled grunt. Ampris whirled to get her glaudoon, still lying in the kicked-up sand, but Mobar managed to snag her ankle and pull her down. She landed awkwardly and painfully on her side and found herself being dragged toward his sword point.
Snarling, Ampris kicked him in the face, knocking him back. She got free and scrambled for her glaudoon. Behind her, Mobar reared up on his knees and swung his glevritar. Glimpsing this from the corner of her eye, Ampris launched herself desperately at her glaudoon. She expected him to cleave her in half, but her quickness saved her. She felt a glancing blow across the back of her ribs, but she twisted desperately and gripped her glaudoon. Rolling onto her back, she brought the weapon up and around desperately, just as Mobar roared in victory and flung himself at her.
Ampris rose partially to meet him, and her short, straight blade plunged deep into his chest.
His momentum carried him onto the blade, and his eyes flared wide in brief astonishment. Then he landed on top of her, and the jolt drove her glaudoon’s point out through his back.
Pinned beneath him, with the breath crushed from her, Ampris lay there stunned a moment, wondering if she also had taken a mortal blow.
When Mobar did not move, she backed her ears and heaved him off.
He sprawled there, his blood thick and wet
around the glaudoon haft protruding from his chest.
Panting hard, dizzy from lack of oxygen, Ampris realized the combat was over.
She staggered upright, nearly fell, and finally gained her feet.
Mobar lay still, canted awkwardly on his side with the glaudoon through him, her opponent no longer. Ampris stared down at him, seeing his eyes dulled and fading, seeing the thick blood smearing his fur. It covered her as well, his blood. She could smell it, was drowning in it.
For a moment the arena spun around her, then a hard grip on her arm brought her back to reality.
She blinked and focused, saw the harsh gaze of a handler on her. He buckled her collar back around her neck while a referrent ran up to them. The medics came hard on his heels.
“The blood on you,” the handler was saying to her. “Yours or his?”
Only then did Ampris finally comprehend that she had won. She had actually defeated one of the best instructors of the Bizsi Mo’ad. She had drawn blood. She had spilled her opponent’s blood—was spilling her own now.
Aching all over, she watched the judge stride out to make his evaluation. He barely looked at her, his Viis eyes cold and remote. “How much of the blood on you is yours?” he asked her.
Ampris pulled her shoulders back and lifted her head with pride. She was still panting from her exertions, but she had done what she set herself to do and nothing mattered except that. “I have a thigh cut,” she said. “A scratch across my back. The rest is his.”
Still, the judge insisted the medics prod her chest for evidence of wounds. They found none. Flicking out his tongue, the judge turned away from her.
Now, at last, she could hear the crowd cheering. Over and over they chanted her name: “Ampris! Ampris! Ampris!”
She panted, lifting her head to look at them. She could not see individual faces. They seemed both close and far away. She felt dizzy still, unable to get enough air in her lungs. Her muscles trembled and burned, but she was the victor.
The Crimson Claw Page 2
