happened to you?”
Rol had no idea what he was talking about. “I’m the same as always.”
“Not hardly. Your face is all, whaddayacall, covered in crap.”
One of the thugs said, “Maybe we should have a healer look at ’im.”
Sasker looked at him as if he was insane. “Right,
Defensively, the thug asked, “What if it’s contagious-like?”
The look on Sasker’s face didn’t change. “You’re bein’ paid to keep the fighters in line. You ain’t bein’ paid to, whaddayacall,
“You don’t pay me.”
“Fine, earn Calbit and Jago their keep, then. C’mon, let’s go.”
At that point, Rol could do the walk to the arena in his sleep. The three guards were at triangle points around him too far for him to grab, but far enough away to be able to effectively use their swords if he made a false move.
His hands really, really hurt.
They brought him into the waiting area and then Jago started doing his routine, and Rol could barely hear it over the crowd noise.
The noise just would not stop. Rol tried to ignore it, but it wouldn’t go away, and he tried to listen to something else, but there was just the noise and nothing else and it was just making his headache worse and worse. He needed to find
That wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but somehow, that voice-that annoying voice, that voice which had been in the back of his head since that night in the desert and that would not go away no matter how many times he tried-didn’t make his headache worse.
In fact, right then, hearing the voice, the headache went away.
And his hands didn’t hurt.
So finally, after not listening to the voice, after wishing the voice would go away, he embraced the voice.
He barely paid attention to Jago as he droned on about fights and battles and other nonsense. The crowd was cheering, but he paid even less attention to that.
All he saw was the thri-kreen facing him in the arena.
The thri-kreen skittered on all his legs across the arena, trying to avoid Rol, then jumping up onto his hind legs to slice at Rol with his pincers.
Rol smiled. He’d faced the thri-kreen before, and usually ducked and dodged his pincers, mainly out of a desire to keep the pustules from bursting.
Suddenly, that was just what he wanted.
A pincer came at his face and Rol didn’t move. It cut through one of the pustules, causing a minor bit of pain in Rol’s cheek and sending red ooze spraying out onto the thri-kreen.
Dimly, Rol registered the gasp of the crowd. Jago had taken to blaming Rol’s “affliction” on his nonexistent trip to the Beastbarrens, where he met “strange creatures beyond all possible imagining” and that one had done that to him.
So naturally there was concern when one of the strange red bumps that were covering him burst all over the thri-kreen.
That concern no doubt elevated when the thri-kreen started to scream.
Rol’s smile widened. The Voidharrow would not be denied. It would spread and bring magnificent chaos.
And deep down in the darkest recesses of Rol Mandred’s mind, that thought terrified him. And the fact that his terror was so deeply buried while he was outwardly thrilled at the very concept terrified him even more.
CHAPTER NINE
Drahar hated coming to the arena.
When he first was appointed to be King Hamanu’s chamberlain-the previous appointee having made the mistake of publicly disagreeing with one of the royal edicts-the king had attended the fights at the absurdly named “Pit of Black Death” once a month. And, of course, all the highest ranking members of the court had to attend as well.
At first, Drahar had dreaded the very notion. He had been born into a sirdar family, and one of the benefits of being born to that higher class was that he didn’t have to participate in the gutter practices of those beneath his station. From the time he was born, he knew he was destined for great things, especially once he proved to have some psionic ability, and therefore received training in the Way at the King’s Academy. Of course, as a scion of the sirdars, he was able to receive the advanced training.
Many options were open to Drahar after graduating the Academy, but he found himself gravitating to politics. The true power in Athas belonged with those who ruled the city-states, and Drahar knew he had to be part of that. His only plan was to work his way into the king’s inner circle. His skills in the Way got him appointments he might not have received otherwise, and his own intelligence and craftiness took him the rest of the way. He became a sirdar, just like his parents.
Unlike his parents, he was able to elevate himself to one of the highest positions possible for someone not actually of royal bloodlines.
Stupidly, he had assumed that would mean never having to go to the arena. What was the point of being one of the most powerful people in Urik if he couldn’t avoid the things that revolted him? And there was
But to call two people punching each other repeatedly “sport” made a mockery of
However, affairs of state were often conducted in the royal box at the Pit. A critical trade agreement was hammered out during one of the fights between Gorbin and Szanka, before Szanka died in his sleep of unknown causes.
According to Hamanu, that was when the fights started going downhill. It was Drahar’s considered opinion that they were already deep in a valley, but he said nothing, mindful of his predecessor’s fate.
After a while, Gorbin won every fight quickly, and after a while, the king got bored with the fights. Drahar could have danced in the streets, he was so overjoyed when two months went by without an arena visit.
Soon the king turned to other hobbies-including, to Drahar’s joy, simtot-and Drahar was convinced that he would never need to set foot in the Pit, or any other such place, again.
Unfortunately, it was Templar Tharson’s favorite entertainment. And Drahar needed Tharson on his side.
Tharson actually went to the Pit every night he was able to. Sometimes-often, in fact-his duties as commander of the Imperial Guard kept him away, but if he was free, he was there. The king even let Tharson use the royal box, which had the benefit of being raised high above the arena. If Drahar
