Rise Of Empire (94 page)

“Wesley, you protect Grady. Wyatt, you and I will form the front and engage the warrior and chief. Just remember to say what I told you and stay away from him. Questions?”

“What about Royce?” Wyatt asked.

“He knows what to do,” Hadrian said, and Royce nodded. “Anything else?”

If there was anything, no one spoke up, so they all bedded down for a nap. After the workout even Wesley managed to fall asleep.

The arena was a large oval open-air pit surrounded by a stone wall, behind which tiers of spectators rose. Two gates at opposite ends provided entrance to opposing teams. Giant braziers mounted on poles illuminated the area. The dirt killing field,
like everything else at the Palace of the Four Winds, had suffered from neglect. Large blocks of stone had fallen and small trees grew around them. Near the center a shallow muddy pool formed. A partially hidden rib cage glimmered eerily in the firelight, and a skull hung from a pike that protruded from the earth.

As Hadrian walked out, his mind reeled with memories. The scent of blood and the cheering crowd opened a door he had thought locked forever. He had been only seventeen the first time he had entered an arena, yet his training had made victory a certainty. He had been the more knowledgeable, the more skilled, and the crowds loved him. He had defeated opponent after opponent with ease. Larger, stronger men had challenged him and died. When he had fought teams of two and three, the results were always the same. The crowds had begun to chant his new name, Galenti—
killer.

He had traveled throughout Calis, meeting with royalty, eating at banquets held in his honor, and sleeping with women who had been given in tribute. He had entertained his hosts with displays of skill and prowess. Eventually the battles had become macabre. Multiple strong men had not been enough to defeat him. They had tested him against Ghazel and wild animals. He had fought boars, a pair of leopards, and finally the tiger.

He had killed scores of men in the arena without a thought, but the tiger in Mandalin had been his last arena fight. Perhaps the blood he had spilled had finally soaked in, or he had grown older and had matured beyond his desire for fame. Even now he was unsure what was the truth and what he merely wanted to believe. Regardless, everything changed when the tiger died.

Each man he had battled had chosen to fight, but not the cat. As he had watched the regal beast die, for the first time he
had felt like a murderer. In the stands above, the crowd had shouted,
Galenti!
The meaning had never sunk in until that moment. His father’s words had reached him at last, but Danbury would die before Hadrian could apologize. Like the tiger, his father had 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, Mr. 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 had 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, and 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, they 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, and 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 in 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 beyond the glow of bonfires.

“When do we start?” Wyatt asked.

“Listen for the sound of the horn.”

This comment was overheard by the chief, causing him to smile. 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, then very slowly he drew both swords.

A horn sounded from the stands.

Wesley watched as Hadrian and the warrior slammed into each other, metal clanging. Wyatt, however, shuffled back like a dancer, his cutlass held up and ready. The chief stood still, sniffing the air.

Grady 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 are 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, and 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 his boot. His leg struggled to recoil, but his foot was pinned to the ground.

Wesley stared 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 had slipped around one of the shattered stone blocks, trying to find a position behind the witch doctor, 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. 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, who was still reluctant to engage. The range fired arrow after arrow. Beside him, the oberdaza danced and sang.

Intuition told Royce to move again, only he was too late. Thick, heavy arms gripped him as 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. He repeatedly cut at the shadowy thing, but nothing connected. Then he felt the hot breath of the Ghazel finisher.

Hadrian’s stroke glanced off the Ghazel’s shield. He 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 his opponent were reading his mind. Hadrian staggered backward, putting distance between them to 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.