TEN
THE GREAT ARENA of Brigantia rested between the Little Fork of the River Norn, the Ridge, the heights of Palace Mondragon, and the curved bowl of Deep Bay. The River Norn gathered itself from a series of tributaries spilling from the Norn Mountains. It flowed swift and wild at first, then slowed as it marched toward the city proper.
On the outskirts, confronting the blockade of the Ridge, it split. The larger right fork kept its original name, flowing past the row of embassies perched upon the back of the Ridge before disgorging itself into Shallow Bay. The second and much smaller vein, the Little Fork, flowed left and emptied into Deep Bay. It trundled along as little more than a stream in high summer. Seen from above, the forks resembled a necklace draped about the neck of Eagle’s Head promontory, which split the bays neatly in two.
Only the Korda dominated the Great Arena. When compared to each other, they were like the dwarf to the giant, yet they relegated the grandeur of nature to a pale and insignificant third.
They were dissimilar in structure. While the Korda towered above the earth for all to see, the arena rose barely thirty meters. One could only see its true magnificence from within. The interior was a bowl-shaped depression one hundred meters deep, and like the Korda, it had a dome. From the central summit, a fluted column dropped like a giant stalactite to within five meters of the pit floor. From there it broadened and rounded, appearing like a bulbous spider dangling from its web: the Royal Box.
Watching from her position inside, Ashara Sid thought the spider was an apt depiction. Though her family surrounded her, she felt caught like a fly that had wandered into the web of its own volition.
Below her marched the gaily dressed panoply of dancers, weaving and undulating to the strains of the Faerwyn-Joss anthem. As she watched them, trying to dredge up some pleasure, they joined to form the celeness, the multi-hued flower symbolizing her world. She felt her throat constrict with an overflow of emotion. Angrily, she blinked back the tears threatening to spill out.
Could the Serum be affecting her thus? Through the long hours of the morning, expectation had driven her to fever pitch. Yet the actuality had been simplicity itself. A momentary prick upon her skin and she was now and forever one of the long-lived. The irony of it caused her to glance at her father on her right, his head sunk low as he drowsed. Her brother caught her eye and nodded encouragement. He alone understood her mood and her thoughts.
An empty seat rested to her left. It was to have been Zel’s. She was grateful beyond measure and hoped the absence would continue. She had no wish to suffer his lustful attentions this turn.
There were other empty seats. The Grimman-Seth had not attended, and neither had the D’ia Mor. Even the baroness had not deigned to appear. An open slight, yet in her opinion a blessing. She glanced up and saw the archduke rise and make his way to her, then sit in the vacant seat.
“My son has forfeited his right for now,” he said, offering her a smile. She thought she saw pity in his eyes, but she could not be sure. He reached out and covered her hand. In the touch, she read the unspoken apology and was grateful.
“I trust the entertainment has so far been enjoyable?”
She nodded, hardly trusting herself to speak. “It has, Your Grace.”
It had been fantastic. If only her circumstances were different, it would be the most magical turn of her life. The crowning moment had been the tribute of F’Arundel, a special love song he had written for her. Standing alone on the floor of the arena—which had become a carpet of flowers from every known world in the Pentarchy—he had sung to her. With his final momentous note, the actuality of her life and her future had come crashing down upon her awareness more thunderously than even the tumultuous applause of the crowd.
Then had come the salute of the Gardai: one hundred Adepts of the First Rank, five abreast, a line for each of her twenty cycles. The Lord Marshal had led them, carrying the proudly raised flag of the Pentarchy. Following in their footsteps were the wenlords, Shaka, Shida Khan, and the giant Thorgrim Halfinger. They had paused in front of her and summoned the Flame in unison, shouting the name of the Rianna of Faerwyn-Joss for all to hear. It had been glorious, the only time she had smiled.
A host of other entertainments had followed, including a breathtaking spectacle of ancient pyrotechnics, the knowledge of which Kronus had somehow gleaned from the scrolls. Then came an endless parade of floats from various worlds of the Pentarchy. She had never heard of some, yet she appreciated all of them as they flowed by offering their salutations.
And more. So much more her mind whirled in a confusing blend of sights and sounds. Yet always her eyes roamed elsewhere, seeking the one who had not yet arrived. He could be in the vast multitude below her, yet she knew his figure would be unmistakable, even there. She had seen Fortunatus and Arkadies Venn, yet neither Mendiko nor Ryder Talisman had been in their company. She prayed they would come before the ending of the celebration.
Below her, the horde of dancers had assembled in their final formation, a vast and intricate flag of Faerwyn-Joss. As if it were a cue, the archduke returned to his seat. The sudden whispering voice of her father startled her.
“Now we shall witness the most delightful entertainment of the festival, my dear. I am sure it will please you.”
Even as he spoke, the screens rose around the perimeter. They were transparent, yet constructed of a filament stronger than steel. She recognized their implication and something inside her grew cold. A dire premonition slid along her backbone, cold as death.
Though common on many worlds under the dominion of the Grimman-Seth, contests of bloodsport were non-existent elsewhere. Yet there had been a tendency in the last few cycles to opt for this questionable form of entertainment: battles between beasts, or beasts and men, and sometimes only men. Such exhibitions constrained themselves to primitive worlds near the periphery at first, yet there was an insidious creep inward. That such a thing could happen in Brigantia on this of all turns shocked her, and even more filled her with disgust. Her father would never have considered it only a few cycles ago.
Once more, she caught her brother’s eye. His shrug told her he knew nothing of what was taking place.
“What does this mean?” The archduke’s voice was tight with barely suppressed anger, yet her father smiled with childish delight.
“I kept it from the list at the request of your son, Zel,” Odrim said. “We worked it out together, a surprise contrived especially for Ashara.” His rasping voice turned apologetic. “I didn’t realize you were interested in such things, my dear, but Zel explained it would please you more than anything else. He warned me he might be late, but to tell you this is a token of his devotion. His hopes it will strengthen the bonds of your impending marriage.”
“What exactly is it?” the archduke demanded, struggling to remain civil.
“Well…”
Ashara saw that her father’s mind already wandered.
“…It is a contest, the like of which no one has ever seen within the bounds of the empire.”
With a flash of insight, Ashara remembered the troubled face of Garth before their departure. His look had implied he had something to say, but there had been no opportunity with her father present. She now knew with dread certainty what it was, and the knowledge shook her already troubled mind.
“Father, you remember the promise you made to me? A binding promise you would fulfill on the turn of my majority?”
Odrim’s smiled broadened. “I do. Any gift within my power to give shall be yours, Daughter.”
“I have decided,” she said. “I wish the immediate release of the tharfi.”
Odrim’s smile slipped from his withered face, replaced by a mounting look of confusion. His mouth worked, but no words formed at first. Then he babbled. “What? But that is impossible. It was Zel’s idea, and I agreed with him. All that bothersome noise interrupting everyone’s sleep. And there was the ever-present danger from a wild and vicious beast that has no doubt killed often before.” Petulance and rising anger replaced the confusion. “What in the world could you want such a thing for? It is only an animal.”
“No, Father, he is much more. I will explain later, but now I want your word.”
Odrim shook his head, and his eyes showed a trace of their former spirit. “It is much too late. I’m sorry, Ashara, but…”
A trumpet fanfare drowned his voice and the dancers streamed excitedly for the exits. Ashara watched in desperation as five Vanard entered the pit. They were humanoid in appearance, tall and massively muscled, their bodies covered by thick hair. Coupled with their facial features, which were broad and deformed by human standards, they appeared barely above the level of beasts themselves. They originated from the planet Triton, the Earth-class world the D’ia Mor had claimed as their home. Although of limited intelligence, they were fearless in battle and renowned as hunters. Many of the larger Houses used them as keepers of their menageries.
Each carried what at first glance looked like a long spear. They stopped in front of the royal box and raised their weapons in salute. As they turned, the center of the pit opened. The small orifice swiftly enlarged until its jagged edges resembled the gaping maw of a carnivore.
A platform slowly rose to pit level. Upon it was a glowing force field in the shape of a cage. Inside moved an indistinct figure, its shadow pacing back and forth. A series of howls resounded one upon the other, rivaling even the horns in volume.
Ashara needed no further explanation. The blast of emotions assaulted her mind, wild yet hauntingly familiar: overwhelming rage and hate, coupled with confusion and fear. All were distorted and blurred, as though the creature could not focus.
Zel had planned well, choosing that moment to make his appearance. He entered the box with the ever-present D’ia Mor flanking him on either side. At the sight of him, Ashara’s eyes grew wild with anger.
The archduke stared at his son tightlipped, his jaws bulging with the effort to maintain control. “Explain this.”
Zel bowed low, his face a picture of ease. “Greetings, Father. And my lovely Ashara. I and the gracious Odrim have arranged this entertainment as a special tribute to my future bride.” He nodded toward the pit. “These brave Vanard will live like kings on Triton if they survive this deadly work. And what adversary could be worthy enough for such esteemed warriors?” He waved his arm in a theatrical gesture. “I give you…tharfi!”
The force field evaporated to reveal the enraged beast. The air was suddenly replete with maddened screams torn from a half-million excited throats.
Ashara sensed the mood-shift. What had been simple appreciation and joy had now turned to blood lust.
“Ah, yes,” Zel murmured. “How they love such sport. Is it not wonderful how we have preserved the heated blood of our ancestors?”
Ashara wanted to strike him, so great was her hate. As if sensing her wish, Zel moved to stand behind her seat. She cringed as she felt the delicate yet insidious touch of his mind.
‘Remember our secret.’
‘Why are you torturing me this way?’
‘You must divest yourself of softness. Such weakness is unfitting for one who is to be my mate. I will burn it from you.’
Ashara tore her mind free. Out on the field, the animal sensed the Vanard and at once moved to attack, but Ashara saw something amiss. Wulf walked as if his legs had become disjointed. At one point he stumbled as though suffering a loss of balance, but righted before falling. He lifted his head, staring myopically, and she felt the overwhelming sense of confusion.
They have drugged him, she thought in disbelief.
The Vanard shifted quickly. She sensed their uneasiness at the sight of such a formidable foe, yet they moved in an orderly manner, circling the tharfi. At least two would be out of his sight at all times.
The tharfi lurched forward, maddened by his clumsiness. Two of the Vanard jabbed their spears in unison. The huge beast howled in shock and pain, whirling to confront the threat. Ashara’s surprise was no less. A bright gout of blood now covered the creature’s fur at both points of contact. Though not a warrior, she knew the force of the blows could not have accounted for such damage.
Zel leaned forward once more and whispered. “We must give some credit to our Grimman-Seth allies. The spears are a variation of the Stent, used to control the movement of beasts the size of the shagtusk. When set to their highest level…well, you have seen the result.”
His grin was more a leer. As she looked into his eyes, she saw only the emptiness of death.
“It would be unsporting to pit them against such a deadly creature as the tharfi armed only with wooden spears. It would be almost…barbaric.”
The tharfi whirled again as another Vanard struck a telling blow. The movement appeared swift, yet Ashara could tell it was much slower than normal.
The Vanard retreated, his Stent-spear held in front of him to frustrate any assault by the tharfi. The remaining four attackers used the opportunity to strike in concert. The maddened mob echoed each howl of the creature’s agony.
‘Please stop it…I beg you.’
As she looked once more into the black well of madness, Zel shook his head.
‘I would not, even if I could.’
She jerked around as a surging roar lifted from the crowd of onlookers. The tharfi now bled from a score of wounds. His right hind leg dragged behind him, hindering his movement even further. Crippled as he was, the outcome now seemed certain.
And yet, she noticed something the Vanard had not. Though cunning and able, they had limited intelligence. The pain had increased the tharfi’s stimulus and the drug’s effects were wearing thin. Though weakened and hindered by its wounds, the creature’s movements were no longer as sluggish as before.
The closest Vanard sensed victory and moved to attack. He struck and the blow fell true. Yet instead of retreating, he pressed forward. The tharfi suffered the blow and its retaliation was lightning swift. The right paw with its razor-sharp claws ripped across the other’s abdomen and the Vanard stood stupidly as his entrails drooped to the ground. Then the tharfi’s great jaws closed on his neck, snapping his spine.
The remaining Vanard showed their mettle, for they were not cowards. They sprang forward, jabbing their Stent-spears at the remaining back leg. The tharfi tried to swing around but was too late. All four Stents landed unerringly. Howling in agony, the creature dropped to the ground, unable to support its weight. It dragged itself forward by the forepaws, fighting to get within reach. The Vanard retreated, jabbing as they did. The great jaws snapped ineffectually. The front paws struggled to ward off the blows, then not at all as the creature stilled. Only the flesh jerked spasmodically as the stents continued to strike.
The crowd grew silent. Even they realized the inequality of the contest.
Shaan’s shield now glimmered brightly. Anger had distorted his face into a terrible mask. He turned to the archduke, his words barely audible. “My lord, has not this sport gone on long enough?”
The archduke rose to his feet, his intention plain. Yet once again, Zel caused him to hesitate.
“These brave Vanard have risked their lives, Father. One has paid the highest penalty. Is it right to deprive them of their glorious victory?”
“Who is that?”
They jerked around in surprise at Odrim’s outburst. They followed his gaze and saw three figures racing from the entranceway across the pit, heading straight for the area of combat. In the rear was a young woman, lithe as a panther, a glinting blade gripped in her hand. In front raced two men stripped to their loincloths, bearing long staffs as though they were throwing spears.
Shaan’s sharp eyes picked out the shorter of the two, and they widened in disbelief. “By the Rim! It is Mendiko!”
Ashara too had noticed, though her eyes followed the taller of the two men. For the first time that turn, her heart raced with gladness. She could not mistake the lion’s mane, or the glowing green eyes that burned with such fury she had never seen.