arms; Darius would have to have the people behind him to make it through this. Another glance at the general as they strode across the square spoke volumes. The way Kiva watched him suggested the ageing general was sharing much the same thoughts.
The arena, though makeshift, was a fairly solid affair. The warden of the Imperial prison here had had it constructed for rebellious prisoners to fight each other. This was an Imperial prison, so they would never fight to the death, as the Emperors would occasionally have a change of heart and pardon someone, but there would be blood. Today, in the earth and timber arena, there would be blood again. Hopefully not Imperial blood.
Phythian’s men were escorted, not quite as prisoners, to the edge of the arena, where they stood and watched their captain stride through the entrance. He’d left his crossbow and cloak outside and drew a long, narrow blade, flexing it and giving it a few practice swings. Behind him the huge timber gate was slid shut.
The other end of the arena remained open for long minutes as crowds of the men of Hadrus drifted in to the surrounding area, taking their place on the slope and vying for the best view of the sandy ground. Within minutes the expectant hum grew to become deafening as the command unit pushed their way to the front. Athas literally pushed men aside to make room for the general and his companions. Kiva stood watching the arena, his brows knitted together in unhappy concentration. Darius, the showman he was becoming, was waiting for the prime moment to enter.
And that moment came. The hum had died away, leaving a low susurration that permeated the air around the killing ground. Into the almost silence strode Darius, in his full armour with the shoulder pelt hanging from his sword arm side. His bronze breastplate shone in the early autumn sunlight as he stepped quietly to the mark that had been drawn in the sand. Removing his sword from its sheath, he swung the curved, northern blade a few times, stretching his arm muscles as the wooden gate was slid shut behind him.
The whispering died away into silence and Kiva watched intently, his knuckles white and his fingernails biting into the wooden perimeter. Next to him, Athas patted him on the shoulder.
“He’s good. He really is.”
“I bloody hope so,” the general muttered, as the two men in the sandy oval started to walk slowly toward one another.
“He is, and he’s got something to prove too. Better he does it here in these conditions than on a battlefield against a dozen.”
Kiva grunted, his eyes fixed on the action before him, and shook his head as Darius picked up speed, making a run against his opponent. “Too soon.”
The general looked away momentarily as Phythian danced lightly aside. Darius hadn’t even swung his blade. Pirouetting gracefully, Darius came to a halt several feet from his opponent. Phythian smiled and flexed his sword once more. He spoke in lowered tones that would not be heard by the watching crowd. “I know you don’t think much of me, young Emperor, but remember that it’s a hard world out there and you do what you have to do to keep yourself and your unit afloat. It will give me absolutely no pleasure to draw your blood, let along kill you.”
Darius grunted. “Contrition or excuses, captain? If you’re willing to kill a young man of true Imperial blood, what makes you hesitate over me?”
Phythian stood straight and dropped his sword down to his side, point touching the floor. “I have been very wrong in some of my decisions and I freely admit that, but do not expect me to lay down my life easily just to appeal to your ego.”
“My ego?” Darius laughed. “You really don’t know me. This I do for the Wolves and for Quintillian, who was a brother to me. And for them,” he added, gesturing at the crowd. “My ego has no say in this. Truth be told I’ve never killed anyone that didn’t wish the same of me. Don’t judge me by Velutio’s standard.”
With a smile, Phythian made a quick step forward and thrust his sword out at Darius’ chest. It was a deliberately slow attack, designed to give the crowd something to watch. The young Emperor knocked it aside with practised ease.
“You expect me to lay down my cards and invite you into the fold because your conscience gnaws at you? You should have thought of that before you sacrificed people on the altar of Velutio’s arrogance.”
Phythian’s smile widened. “You really do believe in this, don’t you? You’re actually prepared to face the most powerful man in the world and try to take everything away from him. I expected to find a puppet in the hands of Caerdin. You surprise me.”
Darius’ face remained flat and expressionless. “This verbal duelling is all very well, but it’s not what they came to see. Problem is: now that we’ve started this, there’s no way either of us can let the other walk out of here. You know that, don’t you?”
Phythian’s reply was lost in the action as he made another lunge, this time for real. The blade came dangerously close to Darius’ neck, but he bent almost double, dipping out of the way of the blade and bringing his own sword up in a swing that Phythian barely blocked. The two stepped back once more, aware of the roar and murmur of the crowd.
“Truly,” the captain commented. “Shame, though. I think in retrospect I’d have liked to have fought with you. You remind me of Kiva in the old days.”
As Darius raised an eyebrow, Phythian flexed his muscles. “I suppose we’d best give the crowd what they want, then?”
The young Emperor nodded as Phythian transferred the sword back to his right hand and took a step to the side. The next attack, when it came, was swifter again than the last and from a very unexpected angle, the blade coming down from a height. Darius twisted once more and brought his own sword up to block it, dropping to one knee and rolling beneath as the blade swept down and across. Even as he came back up, he was moving, the sword flicking out behind him and almost catching the captain in the back as he turned.
Again and again they lunged, ducked and leapt, their swords glinting and flickering in the afternoon light, dancing their deadly waltz in the sand. The crowd around them caught their breath; groaned; cheered, and still the energetic frenzy went on.
And suddenly the crowd moaned in dismay. Phythian, coming out of a spin, had lunged forward unexpectedly, his blade piercing Darius’ thigh just above the knee and pushing through until it appeared, covered in life blood, from the back. The disbelief and anguish was palatable. Phythian was smiling, where he stood leaning over the crouched Emperor, his blade dripping onto the sand.
And then, grin still fixed to his face, he toppled gently backwards and, as he did, Darius’ sword slowly unsheathed itself from the captain’s torso, where it had driven in low in the stomach and penetrated inside vertically, almost to the neck. A wash of blood splashed out as the tip of the blade came free and Phythian, shuddering, fell to the sand.
Darius staggered sideways and slowly pulled the blade from his leg, gritting his teeth. He crouched over the shaking body.
“The Gods take you Captain Phythian” he intoned, but the captain gripped his arm.
“Help me up!”
A frown upon his brow, Darius staggered under the weight of the dying captain and slowly hauled him to his feet. As he came upright, a great gob of dark blood poured from the man’s mouth and he coughed to clear his throat of blood. He took a deep unsteady breath, the horrible noises from within suggesting that Darius’ blade had sheared one of his lungs, Phythian shouted out across the arena.
“Hail the Emperor!”
As the last syllable fell from his mouth along with deep red, he slumped against Darius’ shoulder and slid gently to the sand.
For a long time there was silence as the young man stood, putting the weight on his good leg and looking down at the body of the crossbow captain, a confusing mix of emotions running through him. He was vaguely aware of the roar from the crowd and noted without reaction that the commanders had hauled the gate aside and were running across the arena toward him. He looked up in confusion as he was hauled up by the shoulders and all but carried across the sand. Kiva fell in beside him.
“That was brave, selfless, impressive, and stupid. You did well, but don’t ever do anything like that again, do you hear me?”
Darius nodded vaguely, still dazed. He barely felt the pain in his leg, though he knew he would later when the adrenaline had faded. H left the arena in the arms of his friends as the crowd went wild with joy over the personal victory of their Emperor. Now all he had to do was give them a victory on the battlefield.
