The trumpets blared, but they were almost inaudible for the shouting of the crowds-tens of thousands of voices all raised as one, fists pounding the air as the gladiators strode out onto the sands. Vendors hawked spiced cakes, fruited ice, and watered wine. Here and there, pockets of gaudy color marked the spectators: Men and women who rooted for particular gladiators, and wore gold or green or violet to show it. Some even dyed their hair to match the colors of their favorite combatant. But most were common citizens, commonly dressed, who had come to watch men fight and die-or pretend to die-for their amusement.
There were thirty-two gladiators in all. When the last of the numerous bouts was over, one would emerge triumphant, to be lavished with all manner of luxuries for the next season, until the Midsummer Games arrived. At the year’s end, the four seasonal champions could battle for the greatest prize of all: a golden key that would open the iron collars they wore around their necks. For today, though, the reward was glory, not freedom.
The “sands” were, in fact, large wooden platforms erected on the floor of the Arena, each dusted with sawdust. Between these were pits of fire and boiling oil, spanned by narrow wooden bridges: these were more show, concocted to make things more interesting for the audiences. No gladiator had ever died in the Death Pits.
Sitting between his sister and Lord Tithian, Cathan watched the gladiators take their positions on the platforms; they wore scanty armor of gold and jewels, useless when it came to stopping real blows. Their weapons-swords and tridents and knives-looked no different, at a distance, from those used in true battle. They flashed in the late morning sunlight as the warriors raised them high. The cheering grew even louder than before.
Amid the tumult, Rockbreaker and Raag emerged to stand together at the center of the sands. The dwarf flashed a wicked grin; the ogre folded arms like tree trunks across his chest and glowered. A hush fell over the crowd as Rockbreaker raised his stunted arms.
One by one, the dwarf introduced the warriors. There was Pheragas of Ergoth, a brawny, dusky-skinned man with a shaven head; Kiiri the Sirine, a broad-shouldered woman whose greenish skin was either paint or proof that she was one of the fabled merfolk who dwelt in the oceans off the Seldjuki coast; a man named Rolf who was more than seven feet tall and wore nothing more than a breechclout of metal scales; the Red Minotaur, whose horned head towered above the rest and whose snout curled in disdain as he regarded the crowds. These four, the most exotic of the bunch, were the crowd favorites; the rest were men assembled from all over Istar. Several looked terrified, but most grinned and strutted as Rockbreaker called out their names. When all had been named, they turned as one and looked up at the imperial box, at the gleaming figure sitting close to Cathan.
“
Merciful Paladine, Cathan thought, staring at Beldinas as he rose from his satin couch and signed the triangle over the assemblage. With a movement like the waves on the sea, the folk of Istar fell to their knees before the Kingpriest.
“Hear me, children of the god,” Beldinas declared, his voice easily carrying without shouting. “This is a great day for the empire. Our greatest hero has returned to us-a hero who was at my side from the beginning, who fought for me at Govinna and Lattakay, who strove for years to put an end to the darkness that lives among us, who even sacrificed his life to save my own. These Games shall be convened in his honor.
“People of Istar, I give you Cathan MarSevrin, the Twice-Born!”
Cathan felt the blood drain from his face as all eyes-spectators’ and gladiators’ alike-turned to gaze at him. He felt sick. He didn’t want this farce dedicated to him!
Tithian’s elbow dug into his ribs. “Don’t just sit there,” the Grand Marshal bade, grinning. “Wave to them, or something.”
“Oh,” was all Cathan could manage to say. Grimacing, he got halfway to his feet and raised his hand.
It was enough to set the mob off again, and then it was some time before they calmed down enough to hear the Kingpriest. “
Cathan sat back down, started to reach for the amulet, then stopped himself. Tithian touched his shoulder. He wore a mask shaped as a hawk’s head.
“Are you all right? You look ill.”
Cathan shook his head. “A little too much wine last night.”
“Again?” The Grand Marshal shook his head, chuckling. “You’d think you’d have learned, after that night in Chidell. Oh, look-they’re starting the first bout.”
Cathan stared at Tithian. His old squire was grinning, leaning forward as two gladiators strode out onto the sands. One was the Ergothian named Pheragas, which prompted a lot of hollering from the pockets of sea-blue in the crowds (and some jeers from the other colors). The other was a frightened-looking youth named Ajan, who looked like he’d been given his sword just this morning. They raised their weapons to each other, then to the crowds. Rockbreaker held a curving dragon’s horn to his lips and blew a long, thunderous note. Tithian cheered as loud as anyone. He was enjoying this!
By rights, the duel should have been over as soon as it began. Pheragas was a fine fighter, if a bit wild, and the Yule champion besides; as a warrior, Ajan left much to be desired. His footwork was atrocious, and he couldn’t keep his shield in line. Watching him, Cathan counted six fatal missteps in the first minute of the fight, but Pheragas-who surely noticed his opponent’s mistakes too-did nothing to capitalize on his advantage. Slowly, it dawned on Cathan: the fights weren’t just harmless, but were scripted as well. When Ajan exposed the flesh beneath his left arm, Pheragas held back; when he stumbled and fell to one knee, Pheragas’s finishing stroke went wide; when the younger man got frustrated and threw his shield at his foe, Pheragas actually backed off long enough for him to dive and get it back. The Ergothman drew out the performance with expert patience, toying with his opponent. Their swords came together, high then low, high then low, in a pattern so rhythmic it was ludicrous. The masses devoured it, gleefully crying Pheragas’s name.
Cathan bowed his head. He’d never despised the people of Istar so much in his life.
“Cathan?” Tithian asked.
“This is a mockery,” Cathan muttered.
“So it is,” the Grand Marshal agreed, nodding at the crowds. “But it keeps them happy, and who is harmed by it?”
Cathan was opening his mouth to argue the matter when cheering drowned him out. He looked down just in time to see Pheragas finish the match. Stepping inside the younger man’s defenses-a move that would have gotten him skewered in wartime-he brought his sword around and thrust it into Ajan’s breast, shoving its collapsible blade in down to the hilt. The younger gladiator’s eyes went wide, and a gallon of fake blood sprayed everywhere, spattering Pheragas and the ground alike. Cathan looked away, feeling ill. The crowd went berserk as Ajan staggered theatrically, then dropped in an unmoving heap.
Several gladiators in training-slaves all, by their collars-hauled Ajan’s “corpse” away. Pheragas lifted his blood-streaked sword, and the blue-clad onlookers whooped and pounded on drums. Terror gripped Cathan’s heart: in his mind’s eye, he saw the burning hammer, dropping down onto the Arena while these supposedly good folk cried for blood. He had to stop this.
Had to stop
Beldinas sat quietly, lost in his aura. There was no telling whether he was watching the Games, but Cathan stole glances at the Kingpriest for the next several bouts. He saw the Red Minotaur win the second, and Rolf the fourth; the rest he didn’t even notice. The fights were sloppy travesties of true battle. When he pointed this out to Tithian, however, the Grand Marshal shrugged.
“Half those men are still better swordsmen than the knights these days,” he sighed.
Wentha brushed Cathan’s arm. He saw that Rath and Tancred were both gone already. “It’s the seventh bout,” she murmured, waving toward the platforms.
The next two combatants came out, to cries from the onlookers. Rockbreaker announced them. The top- ranked was a squat man in ridiculous blue war paint, carrying a brutal-looking morningstar that was undoubtedly as harmless as the other weapons in the Arena. Valeric was his name. The other, a towering youth clad in furs, held a saber that looked like it could cleave a man in two. The dwarf called him the Barbarian, but Cathan saw at once that the man was Taoli, just like himself.
“Quarath’s new man,” Tithian said. “And Valeric belongs to Lord Onygion-he and the Emissary have been
