Reign of Shadows (38 page)

Like
the trainers who expected Caelan to fail, all the other fighters believed it
too. They taunted him at every opportunity. Brawling was forbidden, so Caelan
had to grit his teeth and take it. Hut every day he worked harder and harder,
driving himself more than the trainers did. At night, he lay on his pallet and
ran the drills through his mind, visualizing the footwork over and over until
he could do it without thinking. During brief moments of rest, he watched the
veterans working with each other and he look mental notes of their skills and
advanced tactics. They had many tricks and shortcuts that he mulled over
constantly. In the darkness, he tried to imagine himself wielding a sword with
grace and skill. He thought of reeds rippling in the breeze across the marshes.
Sometimes it felt so natural as he lay there imagining it. He could actually
feel the heft of a sword hilt in his hand, the tension in his wrist. At such
times he believed he could master the weapon.

But
by day, even if his footwork improved, his ability to work with the fake
weapons did not. It was as though some strange force blocked the messages from
his brain to his arm. By concentrating extremely hard, he could finally get his
wrist and arm into the correct rhythm and perform the drills correctly, but as
soon as his opponent shifted or attacked, Caelan muffed the whole thing and
ended up with the blunt end of his opponent’s practice weapon rammed painfully
against his breastbone or pressing hard against his neck.

“By
the gods, I’d like to cut off your bloody head,” swore Nux when their practice
bout ended in the usual way. He held Caelan pinned for longer than was allowed,
glaring into Caelan’s eyes.

“I
will cut it off tomorrow,” he said. A brawny Serian with a flat broken nose and
no front teeth, he was a veteran of the arena and had been here for two years,
the longest of anyone.

He
fought in a weird style unlike any of the others, and his taunts were the
worst. Somehow he always seemed to know what his opponent secretly feared the
most, and he preyed on that, laughing as he attacked. He had never been deemed
good enough to make it to the private arenas, despite the fact that he’d
survived four seasons in the last two years.

A
season lasted three months, with three months’ rest while new fighters were
trained. That meant each year was supposed to have two seasons. However, when
the common arena was at rest, many of the private arenas were in season. That
meant any citizen of Imperia, providing he had the means and the access, could
attend a gladiatorial contest any given day of the year.

It
was a bloody madness, a public obsession at its worst here in the capital city.
It used up men voraciously, with the dead piling up in a carnage nearly equal
to that of a battlefield. While the war with Madrun continued, there were
plenty of prisoners of war to be hauled in to supplement the ranks of fighters.

Many
people in Imperia disapproved of the practice, and that disapproval was said to
be slowly gaining popularity. Critics who dared speak out claimed the arena
games were an outdated piece of savagery. The empire had grown and matured
beyond such barbarism, and the arena should be left behind in the dim past of a
less civilized era, where it belonged.

Of
course to criticize the games was to criticize the emperor, who had organized
them long, long ago in his first incarnation. It was even whispered that those
who wanted the games banned and the arenas closed wanted the emperor to die
that the world might go on into a modern age.

There
were many discoveries, many practices of new knowledge supposedly banned by
imperial decree. As the centuries had passed, the emperor seemed to want to
cling to the old ways more and more. He resisted modern progress in every way possible.
That’s why the army was still organized into fighting legions, still armed with
old-fashioned short
swords for the infantry,
still encumbered with ancient rituals while the officers rebelliously wore
modern armor plate and carried more efficient weapons.

Now and then people were heard to say, “When Tirhin is
emperor, things will change.”

But they did not say such things often or very loudly,
without first looking over their shoulders. It was still considered treason to
utter such a statement. And officially Tirhin had not been named as successor.

The prince himself was apparently as avid a supporter of
the arena as his father. It was the prince who had instigated private arenas
and taken his teams out of the common combat. The nobles who could afford it
followed suit. The result had left the common arena shabbier and bloodier, with
half-trained gladiators hacking brutally at each other with little regard for
rules of combat. The masses enjoyed the spectacle, but the nobles came to the
common arena less and less. This embittered the trainers, like Orlo, who felt
betrayed and abandoned.

It also meant the age-old rule that an arena survivor was
rewarded by receiving his freedom did not really apply anymore. Only the
privately owned gladiators had a chance of that reward. According to the word
in the barracks, several arena champions had won their freedom but continued to
fight for plump salaries and special privileges.

Thus, men like Nux were forgotten or ignored. Having
survived, they faced only another grinding season, when any unguarded moment in
the ring could mean destruction or maiming injury.

Nux knew Caelan was privately owned by the prince. They all
did. And while Caelan’s abilities seemed too poor to threaten anyone here, he
at least had the nominal chance to leave, which they did not. Resentment flared
hot in the practice bouts, and Caelan came out bruised and battered.

“Let
him up, Nux!” roared Orlo now, seeing Caelan still pinned with the blunt
practice sword on his neck. “Let him up!”

Nux
slid the metal edge along Caelan’s neck, pressing hard enough to hurt. His eyes
blazed with hostility. “Tomorrow it will be real swords, Traulander. Tomorrow,
when I do this, your pretty head will fall on the sand and the crowds will
cheer my name.”

He
stepped back just as Orlo came striding up. Looking innocent, Nux slid his
practice sword into the rack and walked away.

Orlo
gave Caelan a kick. “Hopeless,” he said. “I knew it from the first. The prince
sent you here to humiliate me. Stupid Traulanders, afraid to fight, afraid of
the dark, afraid, afraid, afraid. Bah!”

Still
breathing hard from the bout, Caelan knelt on the sand and found himself at eye
level with the hilt of Orlo’s dagger. The hilt was wrapped with very fine
copper wire and had a brass knob on the end. It reminded Caelan of the old
dagger he had bought from the Neika tribesman the day the Thyzarenes attacked
the hold.

Mesmerized
by the sight of it, Caelan half closed his eyes and listened to the faint song
of the metal. It was as though the weapon called to him in a low, nearly
inaudible voice. He could almost understand it, and he wanted to hold it.

A
swift whack of his outstretched hand recalled him to the present. Blinking,
feeling dizzy, Caelan dodged another slap from Orlo and scrambled to his feet.

The
trainer glared at him. “Try something that stupid again, and I’ll cut off your
hand.”

Caelan
tried not to look at the dagger and failed. It still sang somewhere deep within
him. Try as he might, he could not shake it. “Your dagger looks very old and
fine. Where did it come from?”

Orlo’s
mouth dropped open, as though he couldn’t believe Caelan had dared ask a
personal question.

Turning
red, Orlo raised his cattail club. “Get to barracks! Wash your filthy hide!”

Caelan
ducked his head and ran. Humiliation and rage at himself burned within him. He
wouldn’t have taken the dagger from Orlo. He wouldn’t have attacked the man
with it. He was simply curious. But slaves weren’t allowed to explain. They
were judged and punished.

Slaves
weren’t allowed to be curious either. No opinions. No conversation. No
questions. No privileges.

It
seemed he would never learn.

And
now there was no more time. Tomorrow morning the games would commence.

As
he jogged across the drilling field with the others, he glanced at the arena
itself. Dozens of workers swarmed it, scrubbing steps and setting up railings
to direct the crowd. Beyond the gates, concessioners congregated impatiently,
with their wares and cooking grills stacked haphazardly. They were shouting
offers at the guards, trying to bribe their way in early.

As
yet, Caelan had not been inside it. He wondered what it would be like.
Supposedly the ring was divided into six sections. In the first game, twelve
gladiators were positioned, two to a section. The six victors then fought,
until there were three. Then there would be a free-for-all among the three men,
or lots would be tossed to see who fought first. Only one victor left the ring
each day.

On
the following day, the lone victor would again be a member of twelve gladiators.
The same procedure would be followed. Usually the least trained men fought
first, with the veterans coming in fresh on subsequent days. Each week was
called a rotation. At the end of the seventh day, the survivors would draw lots
to see which day of the next rotation they would fight. And so on, until the
end of the season.

In
Caelan’s barracks, the trainees were quiet. Most looked frightened. Tomorrow
was looming larger and larger. Word had gone round that this was the last day
they would see the sun except in the arena itself until season ended. Tonight
they would go into the catacombs beneath the arena, a dark mysterious place
that the veterans seemed to dread.

And
what was the initiation this afternoon? None of the veterans had mentioned it
before, nor would they discuss it now, which was odd.

Caelan
ignored the whispered worries of the others. Standing in the doorway of the
barracks, he stared out at the sandy jogging track and the wall towering beyond
it. The sun beat down on the dry earth, and only a slight ragged breeze stirred
the dust.

He
thought of the glacier of home, the ice-capped mountains, and fragrant pine
forests. He thought of the dazzling lights in the winter sky, of the apple
harvests and the smoky smell of peat. All that seemed a hundred years in the
past. Now he stood here, in a place of death. The smell of it already lay in
his nostrils, although combat would not commence until tomorrow. He felt cold
and shivery as a strange feeling passed over him. Glancing over his shoulder,
he took in his comrades. He had not troubled to learn most of their names, and
now as he gazed at them he saw their flesh fade away. They were a collection of
skeletons sitting, standing, lolling on their pallets in unexpected idleness.
The vision faded, and Caelan wrenched his gaze back to the jogging track.

Breathing
hard, he wiped clammy sweat from his forehead. He’d had such visions before.
These men were doomed. they would die tomorrow, or the next day, or the next.

And
him?

He
did not know, but his own death seemed to be the most certain thing of all.

They
were fed
a midday meal—an unheard-of luxury.

While
they ate, Caelan heard a clamor outside. Half the men went to the window to
look. The rest, Caelan included, took the chance to grab all the food
available. In minutes guards appeared at the door, yelling for them to assemble
outside.

Squinting
in the glaring sunshine, they milled around uncertainly while all the veterans
filed out from their barracks as well.

“Form
ranks!” Orlo shouted.

In
the broiling sun, they divided themselves into two lines. Veterans on one side,
trainees on the other, facing each other. The guards were extra vigilant today,
keyed up even more than the fighters.

Caelan
felt increasingly nervous. His stomach knotted up, and he wished he had not
eaten so much. He kept swallowing, trying to ease the dryness in his mouth. He
tried not to think of tomorrow, and yet it was impossible.

While
they stood lined up, the gates to the compound opened, and a procession of priests
entered, swinging incense holders that burned with crimson smoke. The priests
were chanting something unintelligible that sent eerie chills up Caelan’s
spine.

The
priests wore long brown robes with leopard hides across their shoulders. Their
heads and faces were shaven. Still chanting, they walked between the two long
rows of fighters, then circled around and headed up the steps into the arena
itself. Prodded by the guards, the fighters filed after them.