The Emerald Storm (36 page)

“Done.”

“I also want you to look into finding an elven girl who is called Allie. She may have been brought with the last shipment from Avryn. If she is alive, I want her brought here.”

Erandabon looked doubtful, but nodded.

“I want my companions freed, treated well, and all of our weapons and gear returned to us immediately.”

“I vill ’ave dee dogs you fought vis brought ’ere so you can feast vis dem veen I am gone. Along vis vaat other veapons you might need.”

“And the others?”

“Dey did not keel my men, but I ’ave deal vis dem. I ’old dem until deal ez done. All goes vell—I send dem on deir vey. Deal no good, dey go to dee Ghazel. Do vee have a deal?”

“Yes. I agree.”

“Excellent, Erandabon ez very ’appy. I get to see Galenti fight in my arena once more.” Erandabon clapped twice and warriors appeared on the balcony each reverently carrying one of Hadrian’s three swords. More approached with the rest of their gear. Erandabon took Hadrian’s spadone and lifted it.

“Erandabon ’as ’eard of your famous sword. Et ez an old veapon of dee ancient style.”

“It’s a family heirloom.”

The warlord gave it to Hadrian. “,” the warlord said, picking up Royce’s dagger, “Dis Erandabon ’as never seen dee like. Does it belong to dee small one? Dee one ou fought next to you?”

“Yes.” Hadrian saw the greed in Erandabon’s eyes. “That’s Alverstone. You don’t even want to think of keeping
that
weapon.”

“You vill not fight if Erandabon does?”

“That too,” Hadrian told him.

“Dat one ez a
kaz
?”

“Yes, and as you saw he is a good fighter. I need him and his weapon.” Hadrian strapped his swords back on, feeling more like himself again.

“So, dee Tiger of Mandalin vill fight for Erandabon.”

“It looks that way,” Hadrian said then sighed.

“So, two sit the battle out?” Royce asked checking over his dagger.

The sun had risen on a gray day. The seven of them ate together on the balcony. The food—leftovers from the warlord—was now suitable for the dogs.

Hadrian nodded. “I was thinking Wesley and Poe ought to be the ones, they’re the youngest—”

“We’ll draw lots,” Wesley declared firmly.

“Wesley, you’ve never fought the Ba Ran Ghazel before. They are extremely dangerous. They’re stronger than men, faster too, and to disarm them you literally have to, well, disarm them.”

“We’ll draw lots,” Wesley repeated, and finding a dead branch snapped seven twigs—two shorter than the others.

“I have to fight, it’s part of the deal,” Hadrian said.

Wesley nodded and tossed one of the long twigs away.

“I’m fighting too,” Royce told him.

“We need to do this fairly,” Wesley protested.

“If Hadrian fights, so do I,” the thief declared.

Hadrian nodded. “So, it will be between you five.”

Wesley hesitated then threw aside another twig and held his fist out. Wyatt pulled the first stick, a long one. Poe drew next and got the first short twig. He showed no emotion and simply stepped back. Grady drew—a long one. Derning drew last receiving the other short stick leaving the last long twig in Wesley’s fist.

“When do we fight?”

“Tomorrow at sunset,” Hadrian explained. “Ghazel prefer to fight in the dark. That gives us the day to plan, practice a few things, and take a quick nap before facing them.”

“I don’t think I can sleep,” Wesley told them.

“Best give it a try anyway.”

“I’ve never even seen a Ghazel,” Grady admitted. “What are we talking about here?”

“Well,” Hadrian began, “they have deadly fangs and if given the chance will hold you down and rip with their teeth and claws. The Ghazel have no qualms about eating you alive. In fact, they relish it.”

“So they’re animals?” Wyatt asked. “Like bears or something?”

“Not really. They’re also intelligent and proficient with weapons.” He let this sink in a moment before continuing, “They’re usually short looking, but that’s misleading as they walk hunched over and can stand up to our height or taller. They are strong and fast and can see well in the dark. The biggest problem—”

“There’s a bigger problem?” Royce asked.

“Yeah, funny that, but you see the Ghazel are clan fighters, so they’re organized. A clan is a group of five made up of a chief, a warrior, an oberdaza, a finisher, and a range. The chief is usually not as good a fighter as the warrior. And don’t confuse a Ghazel oberdaza with a Tenkin. The Ghazel version wields real magic, dark magic, and he should be the first one we target to kill. They won’t know we are aware of his importance so that might give us an edge.”

“Leave him to me,” Royce announced.

“The finisher is the fastest of the group, and it will be his job to kill us while the warriors and oberdaza keep us busy. The range will be armed with a trilon, the Ghazel version of a bow, and maybe throwing knives as well. He will likely stay near the oberdaza. The trilon isn’t terribly accurate, but it’s fast. His job won’t be so much to kill us as to distract. You will want to keep your shield arm facing him.”

“Will we have shields?” Grady asked.

“Good point.” Hadrian looked over the weapons provided. “No, I don’t see any.”

“The clan is well organized and experienced. They will communicate through clicks and chattering which will be gibberish to us, but they can understand everything we say. We’ll use that to our advantage.”

“How do we win?” Wyatt asked.

“By killing all of them before they kill all of us.”

They spent the morning hours sparring and practicing. Luckily, they were all adept with basic combat. Wesley had trained with his brother and as a result was a far better swordsman than Hadrian expected. Grady was tough and surprisingly fast. Wyatt was the most impressive. His ability with a cutlass showed real skill, the kind Hadrian recognized instantly as something he called
killing experience
.

Hadrian demonstrated some basic moves to counter likely scenarios. Most dealt with parrying multiple attacks, like those from both mouths and claws, something none of them had any training in. He also showed them how to use the trilon Erandabon provided, and each took their turn with Grady showing the most promise.

Hungry after the morning’s practice, they sat to eat once more.

“So, what’s our battle plan?” Wyatt asked.

“Wesley and Grady will stay to the rear. Grady you’re on the trilon.”

He looked nervous, “I’ll do the best I can.”

“That’s fine, just don’t aim anywhere near the rest of us. Ignore the battle in the center of the arena and concentrate your arrows on the oberdaza and the range. Keep them off balance as much as possible. You don’t have to hit them, just keep them ducking.

“Wesley, you protect Grady. Wyatt, you and I will form the front and engage the warrior and chief. Just remember your line and stay away from him. Questions?”

If there were any, no one spoke up, so they all bedded down for a nap. After the workout, even Wesley managed to fall asleep.

The arena was a large oval open-air pit surrounded by a stone wall behind which tiers of spectators rose. Two gates at opposite ends provided entrance to opposing teams. Giant braziers mounted on poles illuminated the area. The dirt killing field, like everything else at the Palace of the Four Winds, had suffered from neglect. Large blocks of stone had fallen and small trees grew around them. Near the center, a shallow muddy pool formed. A partially hidden ribcage glimmered eerily in the firelight and a skull hung from a pike that protruded from the earth.

Walking out, Hadrian’s mind reeled with memories. The scent of blood and cheering crowd opened a door he had thought locked forever. He was only seventeen the first time he entered an arena, yet his training made victory a certainty. He was the more knowledgeable, the more skilled, and the crowds loved him. He defeated opponent after opponent with ease. Larger, stronger men challenged him and died. When he fought teams of two and three, the results were always the same. The crowds began to chant his new name, Galenti—
killer
.

He traveled throughout Calis meeting with royalty, eating at banquets held in his honor, and sleeping with women given in tribute. He entertained his hosts with displays of skill and prowess. Eventually the battles became macabre. Multiple strong men were not enough. They tested him on Ghazel and wild animals. He fought boars, a pair of leopards, and finally the tiger.

He had killed scores of men in the arena without a thought, but the tiger in Mandalin was the last. Perhaps the blood he spilled finally soaked in, or he had grown older and matured beyond his desire for fame. Even now, he was unw name, Ga what was the truth and what he merely wanted to believe. Regardless, everything changed when the tiger died.

Each man he fought had a choice, but not the cat. As he watched the regal beast die, for the first time he felt like a murderer. In the stands above, the crowd shouted
Galenti!
The meaning never sunk in until that moment. His father’s words reached him at last, but Danbury would die before Hadrian could apologize. Like the tiger, his father deserved better.

Now, as he entered the arena, the crowd once again shouted the name—
Galenti!
They cheered and stomped their feet like thunder. “Remember, Mister Wesley, stay back and guard Grady,” Hadrian said, as they gathered not far from where the skull hung.

The far gate opened, and into the arena came the Ba Ran Ghazel. Hadrian could tell from his friends shocked expressions that even after his description they never expected what now came toward them. Everyone had heard tall tales of hideous goblins but no one really expected to see one, much less five, scurrying in full battle regalia illuminated by the flickering red glow of giant torch fires.

They were not human, not animal, nor anything at all familiar. They did not appear to be of the same world. Movements defied eyesight, muscles flexed unnaturally. They drifted across the ground on all fours. Rather than walk, they skittered, their claws clicking on the stones in the dirt. Their eyes flashed in the darkness, lit from within, a sickly yellow glow rising behind an oval pupil. Muscles rippled along hunched backs and arms as thick as a man’s thigh. Their mouths were filled with row upon row of needle-sharp teeth that spilled out each side as if there was not enough room to contain them.

The warrior and the chief advanced to the center. They were large, and even hunched over still towered above Hadrian and Wyatt. Behind them, the smaller oberdaza, decorated in dozens of multicolored feathers, danced and hummed.

“I thought they were supposed to be smaller,” Wyatt whispered to Hadrian.

“Ignore it, they’re puffing themselves up like frogs—trying to intimidate you—make you think you can’t win.”

“They’re doing a good job.”

“The warrior is on the left, the chief is on the right,” Hadrian told him. “Let me take the warrior, you have the chief. Try to stay on his left side, swing low, and don’t get too close. He’ll likely kill you if you do, and watch for arrows from the range.”

From the walls, a flaming arrow struck the center of the field and the moment it did, drums began to beat.

“That’s our cue,” Hadrian said, and walked forward along with Royce and Wyatt.

The Ghazel chief and warrior waited for them at the center. Each held a short curved blade and a small round shield. They hissed at Hadrian and Wyatt as they approached. Wyatt had his cutlass drawn, but Hadrian purposely walked to meet them with his weapons sheathed. This brought a look from Wyatt.

“It’s my way of puffing up.”

Before they reached the center of the arena, Hadrian had lost track of Royce, who veered away into a shadow between the glow of bonfires.

“When do we start?” Wyatt asked.

“Listen for the sound of the horn.”

This comment, overheard by the chief caused him to smile and he chattered to the warrior who chattered back.

“They can’t understand us right?” Wyatt recited his line.

“Of course not,” Hadrian lied. “They’re just dumb animals. Remember we want to draw them forward so Royce can slip up behind the chief and kill him. He’s the one we need to kill first. He’s their leader. Without him, they will all fall apart. Just step back as you fight and he will follow you right into the trap.”

More chattering.

Two more flaming arrows whistled and struck the ground.

“Get ready,” Hadrian whispered, and very slowly drew both swords.

A horn sounded from the stands.

Wesley watched as Hadrian and the warrior slammed into one another, metal hissing. Wyatt however shuffled back like a dancer, his cutlass held up and ready. The chief stood still. Wary, the chief chose not to follow. Instead, he turned and sniffed the air.

Grady promptly let loose the first of his arrows. He aimed at the distant pile of dancing feathers, but greatly overshot. “Damn,” he cursed, working to fit another in the string.

“Lower your aim,” Wesley snapped.

“I never said I was a marksman, did I?”

Something hissed unseen by Wesley’s ear. Grady fired a second shot. It landed too short, coming close to where Wyatt feinted trying to persuade the chief to follow him.

Hissing whistled by again.

“I think they’re shooting their arrows at us,” Wesley said, turning just in time to see Grady collapse with a black shaft buried in his chest. He hit the ground coughing and kicking, his hands struggled to reach the arrow. His fingers went limp, his hands flapped on the ends of his wrists. He flailed on the dirt, spitting blood, struggling to breathe. A third arrow hissed and struck Grady in the boot. His leg struggled to recoil, but his foot was pinned to the ground.

Wesley stared at him in horror as Grady shuddered then fell still.

Royce was already close to the oberdaza when the horn sounded. The clash of steel let him know the fight was on. He slipped around one of the shattered stone blocks, trying to find a position behind the witchdoctor, when the air felt wrong. It was no longer blowing, but bouncing—hitting something unseen. A quick glance at the field revealed only four Ghazel, the chief, the warrior, the oberdaza and the range. Royce ducked just in time to avoid a slit throat. He spun, cutting air with Alverstone. Turning, he found himself alone. On instinct, he dodged right and something cut through his cloak. He thrust back his elbow, and was rewarded with a solid meaty thump. Then it was gone again.