Servant of the Empire (55 page)

Even Lujan was impressed. ‘These men show courage.’

Kevin answered in bitter pride, ‘My countrymen know how to look death in the eye.’

The harulth felt the prick at his back. It heaved and snapped, and nets unravelled, whirled away like torn string. The tail hammered down into sand, and the blow shook one man off. He sailed through the air and crashed, too stunned to run. The harulth snapped him in half. The remaining man
clung grimly. To jump down was to be trampled; to stay, an art of sheer folly. The scales made treacherous handholds, and the harulth was maddened to fury. It spun and snapped and slashed, missing its mark by scant inches; for the man had resumed his climb.

The crowds murmured their appreciation. Higher the man climbed, though tossed on his perch like a monkey on a storm-shaken branch. He reached the juncture above the stamping hind legs and drove his blade to the hilt into the creature’s back.

The hindmost pair of legs violently collapsed, all but throwing the man. He slipped, clawed a hold, and clung as the harulth shuddered and writhed in rage and pain. It whipped its neck, trying to bite at its tormentor; but its thick body lacked the suppleness to bend enough to snatch its tiny foe.

The man flexed a blood-spattered wrist and jerked his blade. The weapon cleared bone and hide with difficulty. The harulth bellowed and slashed, and the drag of useless limbs gouged up furrows in the sand. The man hung on, inching torturously forward to the next joint of the spine. Again he drove his blade between the knobs of vertebrae and successfully severed the spine. The middle segment of legs went limp.

Quickly the men on the ground raced in to blind and distract the paralysed monster until their companion could jump clear. Once he reached the sand safely, they all gave the stricken predator a wide berth until its struggles slowed, and it perished.

The crowd yelled their approval, and Lujan made free with admiration. As if he momentarily forgot that he addressed a slave, he said, ‘No harulth has been felled by warriors without five times more losses. Your countrymen do themselves honour.’

Kevin wept unabashedly. Though all of these men were
strangers to him, he felt he knew each one in his heart. He understood that they took no pleasure or pride from what they had achieved; what the Tsurani counted pride was to these men merely survival.

Tears also streamed down the cheeks of Kevin’s countrymen. Exhausted, alone, and aware they might never see their home again, the Midkemians left the arena, while needra teams were rushed in to haul away the harulth’s carcass, and rakers and slaves with drags scraped the marks of conflict from the sand.

Abruptly aware that he had drawn Mara’s scrutiny, Kevin made an effort to mend his glaring disregard for proper behaviour. Though she must show no flicker of sympathy in her pose as Ruling Lady, she handed her empty drink cup to Arakasi and exchanged a surreptitious whisper. ‘Have we remained long enough to satisfy the needs of our status in the council?’

Arakasi glanced pointedly at Kevin, warning the barbarian not to show reaction to the possibility that the Lady might not care for blood sports. ‘I wish I could say yes, my Lady, but if you were to leave now, before your enemies move to depart …’

Mara returned a slight nod and faced dutifully forward. And the fact that she must endure strictly for the sake of appearances sparked a wild anger in Kevin. Under his breath, in reckless reaction, he hissed, ‘I will never understand your people and your game –’

The trumpets drowned out his protest. The grounds crew left the arena at a run, as yet another door boomed open. A dozen fighting men in outlandish battle harnesses strutted onto the sand. Each wore leather wristbands set with studs, and headdresses of varicoloured plumes. They advanced in total disregard of the audience for whom they were imported to amuse, and halted finally at the arena centre, their swords and shields held in relaxed confidence.

Kevin had heard of the proud mountain men who inhabited the far eastern highlands. Alone among the people to defeat the Empire, they had forced a truce between nations some years before the Tsurani invasion of Midkemia.

The trumpets blew again and the herald cried an introduction. ‘As these soldiers of the Thuril Confederation have violated the treaty between their own nations and the Empire, by making war upon the soldiers of the Emperor, they have been cast out by their own people, who have named them outlaws and bound them over for punishment. They will fight the captives from the world of Midkemia. All will strive until one is left standing.’

Trumpets called for the event to begin. As the large doors at the end of the arena swung ponderously open, Lujan volunteered an observation. ‘What is the games director thinking of? Thuril will not fight one another if they defeat the Midkemians. They’ll die cursing the Emperor first.’

‘My Lady, be ready to leave quickly,’ Arakasi broke in. ‘If the fight is a disappointment, the mob will likely turn ugly …’

Since Tsurani custom seated commoners on the levels above the nobility, in the event of violence the higher classes of the Empire would need to fight their way up through a riot to reach the available exits. Kevin wondered at the much vaunted Tsurani discipline, but as if sensing his thought, Arakasi contradicted.

‘These games sometimes awaken a bloodlust in the common folk. There have been riots before, and nobles have died in them.’

The seemingly endless contradictions of these people baffled Kevin only briefly, for that moment a dozen Midkemians marched from the opened archway opposite the Warlord’s dais. Their original metal armour was far too costly an extravagance to be used for arena entertainment;
in place of good chain mail and armoured helms and shields, these captives wore garishly painted facsimiles fashioned of Tsurani materials. One shield bore the wolf’s head of LaMut, and another, in too bright, splashy colours, the horse blazon of Zun.

Kevin bit his lip to keep from voicing his anguish. He could not help his countrymen! He would only get himself uselessly killed and leave his beloved Lady an inheritance of shame. But the outrage and the pain he felt would never answer to logic. Smouldering with pent-up emotions, Kevin closed his eyes and lowered his head. These Imperial Games were a barbarity, and he was unwilling to watch good men wasted for the perverse sake of a spectacle.

But instead of the clash of combat, a murmuring arose from the crowd. Kevin risked a look. The warriors of Thuril and Midkemia were not fighting but speaking. Catcalls and whistles drifted down from the highest rim of the stadium as the two combatants faced one another with something less than a bellicose posture. Now one of the Thuril pointed at the crowd. While his words were too distant to hear, his expression reflected contempt.

One of the Midkemians stepped forward and a Thuril came on guard, but a shout from his companion caused him to retreat a step. The Midkemian removed his leather helm and glared about the arena. Then, unthinkably insolent, he cast both armour and sword upon the sand. His shield followed, the thump of its impact clearly audible in the absolute silence. He spoke something to his companions and folded his arms.

His example was shortly followed by the others in the arena. Swords, helms, and shields tumbled from loosened fingers, until in a moment both Midkemians and Thuril confronted one another, disarmed.

More catcalls came from the commoners, but as yet the
higher classes seemed more amused than offended by this odd behaviour. Danger did not seem imminent.

Until Arakasi tapped Kevin lightly and quietly on the arm. ‘Take this,’ he whispered.

A knife haft slipped into the barbarian’s palm. He all but flinched in astonishment before his fingers closed. For a slave to carry arms meant a death sentence, and honourless was the freeman who dared to flaunt this law. That the Spy Master did so indicated a circumstance of deadly peril. To Mara, Arakasi murmured, ‘Lady, I will fetch your guards and litter and have them brought as close to the arena entrance as the Imperial Guards will permit. Then I will run back to your town house and muster your remaining soldiers. Come away and meet us in the streets, as you can. I have … that feeling I spoke of earlier. I fear the worst from this.’

Mara gave no visible sign that she had heard, but Lujan set his hand upon his sword hilt, and Kenji and the other two warriors came alert. Arakasi slipped quietly away.

Kevin held the blade against his forearm, eyes glued to the strange tableau, while his peripheral senses took stock of the advisers who conferred with masters and mistresses in the adjacent boxes.

Within the imperial box, the Warlord surged to his feet. The resounding catcalls and shouts redoubled. Mottled scarlet with rage, he shouted, ‘Let the fighting begin!’

When the fighters on the sand defiantly held their ground, burly, leather-clad handlers rushed in to end their recalcitrance. They uncoiled needra-hide whips and began lashing the warriors.

The crowd began to shout their impatience. Whistles and obscenities blended into a note ominously rising, as even the wellborn nobles objected to watching motionless men being whipped. Suddenly one of the Thuril grabbed a handler, jerked the man off balance, and caught the trailing lash. He
whipped the leather around his enemy’s neck and began strangling the life from him. The other handlers turned upon the renegade and flailed at him viciously. Their blows drove him to his knees, but his determination did not relent. He twisted the leather tighter and tighter, while his victim puffed and turned purple, and finally died.

In the next stunned instant, before any could react, the Thuril soldiers recovered their dropped weapons and surged to the attack. The Midkemians joined them, and handlers died, their whips cut into pieces and spattered red with their blood.

An ugly mutter raced through the upper concourses. Kevin glanced toward the magicians to see if they might intervene, but it seemed they had troubles of their own. The bearded one called Milamber was standing, and though the Black Robes on either side entreated him to return to his seat, the magician would hear no pleas. Rage burned in his eyes, hot enough to be felt across distance, and Kevin knew fear.

He glanced back to Mara, but a slight signal from Lujan indicated they must wait, even yet, to depart. Arakasi must have time to fetch the litter and guard and bring them to the outside stair. To be caught without an escort in the street was far too great a risk.

Suddenly a Black Robe at the Warlord’s side rose and swept his hand in an arc. A shudder ran down Kevin’s spine and the hair prickled at his nape. Magic! And done with no more effort than a wave of one hand; dumbstruck, the Midkemian saw the rebels on the sand buckle at the knees and fall limp.

The Warlord’s shout echoed over their helpless, prostrate forms. ‘Now go bind them, build a platform, and hang them for all to see.’

The crowd went still as a storm front. Lujan murmured, ‘Be ready!’

Kenji and the warriors shifted forward in their seats. Kevin put a hand upon Mara’s shoulder. Poised, and apparently at ease throughout the entire exchange, the Lady was hardly immune to the sense of danger. Through touch, the man who loved her could feel that she trembled. He ached to reassure her, but the tension in the arena continued threateningly to build.

Young officers in the first rank of seats cried out in rage at the Warlord’s order. Vociferously they raised objection and demanded the prisoners below be permitted a warrior’s death. Many had been Patrol Leaders in the forefront of the war against the Midkemians or the Thuril. Enemies or aliens, the captives on the sand had proven their mettle in battle; to hang them like soulless slaves would bring shame to all the Empire.

Neither were the Great Ones remaining passive. Milamber exchanged what appeared to be heated words with another Black Robe, who strove unsuccessfully to placate him. At length Milamber shouldered past, still speaking; the stout one rose to hurry after, too late. The Great One who had once been Midkemian was poised midway up the steps that separated the Black Robes from the imperial box.

On the sands of the arena, chaos reigned. Carpenters rushed in dragging tools and lengths of lumber, while warriors in Almecho’s white armour escorted handlers to gather up and bind the stunned warriors.

Warned by some nameless instinct, Kevin knew an instant of apprehension. The vast crowd in the amphitheatre seemed locked in the grip of the moment, mesmerized by fascination. Catcalls and shouts wavered off into silence, and all eyes watched the dark-robed figure next to the Warlord’s box.

Milamber raised his arm. Blue flames slashed the air, scintillating even in full sunlight, and a bolt hurled
downward and exploded amid the Warlord’s guards. Living men were tossed in all directions, scattered like leaves before wind. Carpenters and craftsmen lost their footing, and the boards and tools brought for scaffolding were whirled away like straw. Nobles in the lower seats were hammered into their chairbacks by the fury of the detonation, and a gust clapped in backlash over the rising tiers of seats. Milamber’s hand made a striking motion, and his voice cut through the stunned silence left in the aftermath of the explosion. ‘No more!’

The fat magician abruptly gave up pursuit. As fast as stout legs could carry him, he rushed into the imperial box, his thin companion right behind him. The two Great Ones conferred briefly with the Light of Heaven, who arose from his chair. The next instant, with no warning, both Great Ones and Emperor vanished.

Too shaken to examine his amazement, Kevin caught Mara’s arm. ‘Right. That tears it.’ Unceremoniously he raised her from her chair. ‘If His Majesty sees fit to depart, we’re leaving, too.’