Contents
Cover
About the Book
Rules of Combat
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
1 Stick-Fighting
2 Tyron the Artificer
3 The Stench of Blood
4 The Grudge Match
5 Two Important Rules
6 Kwin
7 A Bit of a Disappointment
8 The Bow
9 For Absolute Beginners
10 The Bone Room
11 Nobody Fights a Girl
12 Your Sort
13 The Westmere Plaza
14 The Red Boots
15 The Legend of Math
16 The Cowardice of Math
17 Money
18 The Commonality
19 The Tassels
20 Fighting by Instinct
21 Genthai
22 The Trainee Tournament
23 Arena 13
24 Hob
25 Whom Do You Love?
26 Dignity
27 The Memorial Service
The Midgard Glossary
Sneak Preview
About the Author
Also by Joseph Delaney
Copyright
1. The objective of Arena 13 combat is to cut flesh and spill blood. Human combatants are the targets.
2. No human combatant may wear armour or protective clothing of any kind. Leather jerkins and shorts are mandatory; flesh must be open to a blade.
3. An Arena 13 contest is won and concluded when a cut is made to one’s opponent and blood is spilled. This can occur during combat or may be a ritual cut made after a fight is concluded. If it occurs during combat, hostilities must cease immediately to prevent death or serious maiming.
4. If death should occur, no guilt or blame may be attached to the victor. There shall be no redress in law. Any attempt to punish or hurt the victorious combatant outside the arena is punishable by death.
5. The right to make a ritual cut is earned by disabling one’s opponent’s lac or lacs.
6. The defeated combatant must accept this ritual cut to the upper arm. The substance kransin is used to intensify the pain of that cut.
7. An unseemly cowardly reaction to the ritual cut after combat is punishable by a three-month ban from the arena. Bravery is mandatory.
8. Simulacra, commonly known as lacs, are used in both attack and defence of the human combatants.
9. The min combatant fights behind one lac; the mag combatant fights behind three lacs.
10. For the first five minutes combatants must fight behind their lacs. Then the warning gong sounds and they must change position and fight in front of them, where they are more vulnerable to the blades of their opponent.
11. A lac is disabled when a blade is inserted in its throat-socket. This calls the wurde endoff; the lac collapses and becomes inert.
13. Arena 13 combatants may also fight under Special Rules.
1. Grudge match rules
The objective of a grudge match is to kill one’s opponent. All Primary Rules apply, but for the following changes:
• If blood is spilled during combat, hostilities need not cease; the fight continues.
• After an opponent’s lac or lacs have been disabled, the opponent is slain. The throat may be slit, or the head severed from the neck – the decision belongs to the victor. The death blow is carried out by either the victorious human combatant or his lac.
• Alternatively the victor may grant clemency in return for an apology or an agreed financial penalty.
2. Trainee Tournament rules
The objective of this tournament is to advance the training of first-year trainees by pitting them against their peers in Arena 13. For the protection of the trainees and to mitigate the full rigour of Arena 13 contests, there are two changes to the Primary Rules:
• The whole contest must be fought behind the lacs.
• Kransin is not used on blades for the ritual cut.
3. A challenge from Hob
• When Hob visits Arena 13 to make a challenge, a min combatant must fight him on behalf of the Wheel.
• All min combatants must assemble in the green room, where that combatant will be chosen by lottery.
• Grudge match rules apply, but for one: there is no clemency.
• The fight is to the death. If the human combatant is beaten then, alive or dead, he may be taken away by Hob. Combatants, spectators and officials must not interfere.
1. Blades must not be carried into the green room or the changing room.
2. No Arena 13 combatant may fight with blades outside the arena. An oath must be taken at registration to abide by that rule. Any infringement shall result in a lifetime ban from Arena 13 combat.
3. Spitting in the arena is forbidden.
4. Cursing and swearing in the arena is forbidden.
5. Abuse of one’s opponent during combat is forbidden.
6. In the case of any dispute, the Chief Marshal’s decision is absolute. There can be no appeal.
THE WARDSTONE CHRONICLES
THE STARBLADE CHRONICLES
ARENA 13
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 978 1 448 19534 3
Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Penguin Random House Company
This ebook edition published 2015
Copyright © Joseph Delaney, 2015
Cover illustration by Jeff Nentrup © Penguin Random House Children’s UK
First Published in Great Britain
Bodley Head 978 1 782 30037 3 2015
The right of Joseph Delaney to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
For Marie
The dead do dream.
They dream of the world of Nym and twist hopelessly
within its dark labyrinths,
seeking that which they can never reach.
But for a few, a very few, a wurde is called.
It is a wurde that summons them again to life.
Cursed are the twice-born.
Within that thirteen-spired citadel dwells Hob. He is thirsty for blood.
We will give him blood until he drowns.
Amabramdata: the Genthai Book of Prophecy
Hob is waiting for the woman in the darkness; waiting just beyond the river, under the trees where the pale light of the moon cannot reach him. He sniffs the air twice, exploring it tentatively until the sharp scent of her blood is carried towards him on the breeze. Now he can taste her on the back of his tongue.
Shola is alone. Her husband and child are left behind in the farmhouse at the top of the hill. Her son is sleeping; the husband, Lasar, can do nothing to help her now.
The summons is strong; more powerful than ever. Shola must answer Hob’s call. Her will deserts her, and she runs down the slope until she reaches the river. She knows exactly where to go. She kicks off her shoes, lifts her dress to her knees and begins to wade through the shallow water towards the waiting darkness of the trees. At one point she almost loses her balance on the slippery stones. The water is cool and caresses her feet like the touch of a silk scarf, but her brow is hot and fevered and her mouth is dry.
The woman is at war with herself. One part of her wishes she could remain behind with her family, but she quickly dismisses the thought. If she does not go when summoned, then Hob will climb the slope to the farmhouse and kill her son.
Hob has threatened this.
Her husband would be unable to defend their son.
Better to suffer the will of Hob.
Tonight, as the sun went down, Lasar carried the battered leather case down from the attic, limped across the flags and placed it on the kitchen table. He drew from it two blades with ornate handles, each crafted in the shape of a wolf’s head.
These were the Trigladius blades; the blades he’d once wielded in Arena 13 in the city of Gindeen, a lifetime ago.
‘Don’t go to him!’ His voice was filled with anger. ‘I will go in your place. Tonight I will cut the creature into pieces!’
‘No!’ Shola protested. ‘Think of our son. If I don’t go, Hob will kill him. He’s warned me of that many times. You know that even if you were able to kill him this night, another would replace him tomorrow. You can’t fight them all. You above all must know this! Please! Please! Let me go to him.’
At last, to Shola’s relief, Lasar relented and replaced the blades in the leather case. He wept as he did so.
Now, as she steps out of the moonlight, she sees the outline of Hob’s body against the sky. His eyes glitter in the darkness, brighter than the stars. He is huge; larger than she has ever seen him before.
She stands before him, trembling; her heart is pounding and the breath flutters in her throat like a soul ready for flight. She sways but does not fall. Hob has moved closer now and has gripped her hard by the shoulders.
He will just take a little of her blood, she tells herself; her heart will labour for a while and her legs will tremble. There will be some pain, but she will be able to endure it. It will be just like the other times, soon over, and then she will be free to return to her family.
But this is different. This is the time she has always feared – the last time he will ever summon her. She has heard the tales; she knew that it would come to an end eventually . . . One night Hob would not allow her to return.
His teeth pierce her throat very deeply – too deeply. The pain is worse than ever before. He is drinking her blood in great greedy gulps.
This is the beginning of her death.
As her vision darkens, memories of her husband and child flicker into her mind and she is submerged by a wave of sadness and longing. She struggles to block them out. Memories bring only pain.
And as she falls into darkness, she experiences something even more terrible. It is as if a hand is reaching deep within her to snatch and twist and loosen; reaching beyond her heart, beyond her flesh, to draw her essence forth like a tooth.
It is as if something is sucking forth her very soul.
Some call him Old Hob. Others whisper Pouke to frighten children. Some name him Gob or Gobble. Women call him Fang.
By any name he is an abomination.
A creature such as this deserves to be cut into pieces and scattered to the winds.
But men are weak and afraid, and here Hob rules.
For this is Midgard, the land of a defeated and fallen people.
This is the Place Where Men Dwell.
Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But wurdes are far more deadly.
The Compendium of Ancient Tales and Ballads
I watched the two stick-fighters circling each other warily. The boy with the blond hair was tall and fast, a local champion who was taking on all comers. I’d already watched him beat four opponents with ease, but this fifth one was giving him a harder time. He was squat and muscular but had surprisingly rapid reactions.
These fighters were a couple of years older – maybe seventeen or eighteen – and much bigger than me. Could I beat the champion? Was I good enough? I wondered.
Blows had already been exchanged, but none had struck home where it counted; a blow to the face or head would result in immediate victory.
They were fighting on waste ground at the outskirts of the city, within an excited circle of spectators who were punching the air and shouting, clutching betting tickets they’d bought from the tout who was watching the contest from a distance. Mostly the crowd was young – teenagers like myself – but there were middle-aged people there too; they displayed the same degree of enthusiasm, waving and shouting encouragement to the fighter they supported.
Betting against the champion was risky: you were likely to lose your money. Though if by chance you won, you received four times your stake. I wouldn’t have risked a bet against this champion. Despite the skill of his adversary, he looked certain to triumph.
Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t bet because I had no money. I’d been walking for almost two weeks and had only just arrived in the city of Gindeen. I’d eaten nothing for over a day and desperately needed food. That’s why I’d come to watch the stick-fighting. I hoped to take part. The tout arranged the bouts so that he could make money from the betting, but only paid the winning fighter.
Suddenly the short, muscular boy threw caution to the wind and attacked wildly, driving his opponent backwards. For a few seconds it looked as if his aggression and speed would prevail. But the tall blond boy stepped forward and smashed his stick hard into his opponent’s mouth.
As the polished wood made contact with flesh and teeth, there was a hard thwack followed by a soft squelching sound.
The loser staggered backward, spitting out fragments of tooth as blood poured from his mouth to drench the front of his shirt.
That was it: over. Now it was my time – or at least, I hoped it was.
I joined the back of the small queue of spectators who were waiting to collect their winnings. At last I reached the front and stared up at the tout. He was wearing a blue sash diagonally across his body; the mark of his trade – a gambling agent. His strong jaw and close-set eyes made him look tough; moreover, his nose had been badly broken and squashed back against his face.
‘Where’s your betting ticket?’ he demanded. ‘Hurry up. I haven’t got all day!’
As he spoke, I saw the missing and broken teeth. I guessed that he’d once been a stick-fighter himself.
‘I’m not here to bet,’ I told him. ‘I want to fight.’
‘From down south, are you?’ he sneered.
I nodded.
‘New to Gindeen?’
I nodded again.
‘Done much stick-fighting before?’
‘A lot.’ I stared up into his eyes, trying not to blink. ‘I usually win.’
‘Do you now?’ He laughed. ‘What do they call you, lad?’
‘My name’s Leif.’
‘Well, you’ve got spirit, Leif, I’ll give you that. So I’ll let you have a chance. You can fight next. The crowd like to see a bit of new blood!’
I’d got my opportunity more easily than I’d anticipated.
He led me to the centre of the patch of muddy grass and put his big beefy left hand on the top of my head. Then he pointed to the tall blond boy, whose previous opponent was no longer to be seen, and beckoned him forward to stand on his right-hand side.
‘Rob won again!’ he cried. ‘Will this lad ever be beaten? Well, maybe his time has finally come . . . This is Leif, who’s new to the city. He’s fought before, down south. He’s fought and he’s won. Perhaps a provincial boy can show you city lads a thing or two. So come and place your bets!’
A moment or two passed before anybody reacted. Over two hundred pairs of eyes were judging me. Some of the spectators were grinning; others were staring at me with open contempt.
Meanwhile I sized up my opponent. His white shirt gleamed in the late-afternoon sunlight and his dark trousers and leather boots were of good quality. In contrast my green checked shirt was smeared with dirt from the journey and my left trouser knee had a hole in it. People were now staring down at my shoes, the soles flapping free of the toes. My skin was also darker than that of anyone else present. Some spectators simply shook their heads and walked away.
If nobody wanted to bet, I wouldn’t get to fight. I needed to fight and I needed to win.
However, to my relief, a small queue soon formed in front of us and bets were placed.
Once that was over I faced my next problem.
‘I haven’t got a stick to fight with. I don’t suppose somebody would lend me one . . .’ I asked the tout, pitching my voice so that the crowd could hear as well.
I’d left my fighting sticks back home with my friend Peter. I hadn’t travelled to Gindeen to become a stick-fighter. I’d thought those days were behind me.
The tout rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath, and some of the queue fell away, suddenly uninterested. But then someone placed a stick in my right hand, and moments later I faced the champion while the crowd formed a circle around us. Immediately I saw that I faced yet another dilemma. It was late afternoon and the sun was quite low in the sky. I was looking directly into it.
My opponent moved towards me in a crouch, a dark silhouette against the sun. I squinted at him, waiting for his attack, and he lunged forward. He was fast and I barely avoided the blow. I twisted left and began to circle while he tracked me with his eyes.
The crowd began to chant his name: ‘Rob! Rob! Rob!’
They wanted him to win. I was an outsider.
I continued to circle until I was no longer blinded by the sun and stared back into the blue of his eyes. He wasn’t crouching any more, and I noted again just how tall he was. His reach would be far greater than mine. I needed to make him over-commit and then get in close.
He attacked again, and I ducked away as his stick flashed over my right shoulder. He’d almost caught me that time. My shoes weren’t helping. With each step I took, the loose soles slapped down on the damp, slippery grass.
Concentrate, Leif, concentrate, I told myself.
The next time he attacked I wasn’t quick enough. He dealt me a painful blow on my right arm and I dropped the stick.
Immediately the crowd gave a great cheer of glee.
One rule of stick-fighting is that, whatever happens, you must not drop your weapon. Do that and it’s as good as over – your opponent can move in close and strike you without fear of counterattack. The blow had struck a nerve and numbed my right arm, which now hung uselessly at my side.
I’d begun with a degree of confidence – I remembered all my victories back home – but maybe I’d misjudged the situation. After all, the city was far more populous than the rural area I came from. It stood to reason that, with more stick-fighters, the standards would be higher.
Rob was smiling, his stick raised as he approached. I wondered if he would go for my mouth – if so, I’d probably lose my teeth.
The crowd began to chant again, louder and louder: ‘Run, rabbit, run! Run, rabbit, run! Run! Run! Run!’
They were laughing as they chanted. They wanted me to give up and run away.
Running would have been the sensible thing to do. Why wait here to have my teeth smashed in?
I never found out whether Rob was aiming for my forehead or my mouth. I dived in under the blow and rolled close to his boots, snatching up my stick with my left hand. I was already on my feet before he’d turned to face me.
Then I kicked off my useless shoes – first the right one and then the left. Time seemed to slow, and I heard each one slap down onto the grass. I spread my toes and gripped the grassy surface. That felt better. Next I took a firm grip on the stick. My right arm was still numb, but that didn’t matter. I favour my right hand but I’m almost as good with my left. I can fight with either.
I attacked.
Rob was fast, but I am fast too – very fast. Maybe I wasn’t as quick in my bare feet as I’d have been wearing a good pair of boots, but I was quick enough. I caught him on the right wrist, then high on his left shoulder – not hard enough to numb his arm and make him drop his stick, but I succeeded in enraging him, and that was exactly what I’d wanted.
I had good reason to be angry myself. I’d been hurt, and there were very few people watching who wanted me to win. Only about four people had bet on me. But a stick-fighter whose vision clouds with anger has taken a big step towards defeat. When I fought, I always tried to keep calm, but I could see that my opponent was furious. No doubt he was rarely hit. Maybe he felt shamed in front of his supporters and wanted revenge. Whatever the reason, now I’d got under his skin and he became reckless. He came at me, swinging his stick as if he wanted to strike my head from my shoulders.
He missed three times because I was dancing away, retreating across the grass. But after his third attempt I suddenly stepped inside his guard.
For a second he was wide open – so I took my chance.
I could have struck him in the mouth – repeating what he’d done to the previous combatant. Some fighters were brutal and liked to inflict the maximum damage on their opponent. But I really liked stick-fighting, preferring to exercise the skill and speed that led to victory rather than deal the blow that ended the bout.
So I hit Rob with minimum force; just a quick strike to the forehead which didn’t even draw blood.
It was enough.
Rob looked stunned. The crowd fell silent.
I’d won. That was all that mattered.
The tout was smiling when he paid me out. ‘You are good. Very fast!’ he said. ‘Come back tomorrow at the same time and I’ll find you someone even better to fight.’
‘Maybe,’ I said with a smile, just to be polite. I’d no intention of doing so. Stick-fighting didn’t figure in my plans.
I was now able to buy food and had a little money left over – enough to get my shoes stitched back together.
That night I slept in a barn on the edge of the city. I was up at dawn and washed at a street pump, trying to make myself as presentable as possible for the meeting I had in mind – with Tyron, one of the most important men in the city of Gindeen.
I had a winning blue ticket. It gave me the right to be trained by the best – and that was Tyron.
I wanted him to train me to fight in Arena 13.
Whom the gods wish to destroy they curse with madness.
Whom the gods wish to flourish they bless with luck.
Amabramsum: the Genthai Book of Wisdom
‘Sit down, sit down!’ commanded Tyron, nodding impatiently towards the chair opposite his desk.
No sooner had I done so than he shook his head fiercely and pointed back at the open door behind me. ‘We don’t want everybody knowing our business, boy.’
He had a point. This was a public building, the Wheel’s administration offices, and the corridor outside was busy.
Having closed the door and sat down once more, I waited for Tyron to speak. I was doing my very best to be patient. I’d given him my blue ticket early in the morning, explaining what I wanted. Now it was less than half an hour before sunset; he’d had plenty of time to make up his mind.
What would he decide to do? Why had it taken him so long?
The room had no windows: suspended from the ceiling was a three-branched wooden candelabrum, the stubby yellow candles burning steadily in the still air. There was an odour of tallow and sweat.
Tyron shuffled papers about as he searched his large leather-topped desk. My chair was much lower than his so that, even if I’d been as tall as him, he’d still have been able to look down at me. I felt sure this wasn’t an accident.
I could have taken my winning ticket to any of the trainers in Gindeen, but I’d chosen to present it to Tyron. Everybody in the whole country seemed to think he was the best. Even back home people knew his name. He looked different to the man I’d imagined: he was thick-set, with a ruddy complexion, and greying hair cut very short to disguise the fact that it was thinning at the front. Character was etched into his face: here was someone who had lived a lot and knew things.
‘Look, you’ve won the right, boy,’ he said now, holding my ticket aloft. ‘I can’t take that away from you. But how much is it worth?’
I didn’t know what he meant. You couldn’t sell a winning ticket. It couldn’t be exchanged for money. And it was only valid once it had been checked and signed by the overseer of the gambling houses. I’d seen to that, so now it could only be used by me.
‘Supposing I find you a trade apprenticeship instead?’ he suggested, and my heart sank. ‘Something nice and steady. The city’s becoming more prosperous. You could be a builder or a joiner. When you come out of your time five years from now, you could earn a good living. Be set up for life. All you have to do is put this ticket back in your pocket and forget all about it. I’ll even pay for your apprenticeship, your accommodation and food – and you won’t owe me a penny.’
Why would he do that? I wondered. Why did he want to get rid of me so badly that he would pay my keep elsewhere? After all, giving me what I wanted wouldn’t cost him anything. The gambling houses supported five trainees each season. This was partly funded by the thousands of tickets sold to young hopefuls. Or, more usually, to fathers who bought them on their behalf. Blue tickets were expensive.
Arena 13 in Gindeen attracted those who sought excitement and a chance of fame; the opportunity to earn real money, rather than being bound to some trade or, even worse, stuck in the drudgery of unskilled labouring. This was why I wanted to fight there too – though I had another, more personal reason that I wasn’t prepared to divulge to anyone yet – not even Tyron.
‘Well, what do you say?’ he asked. ‘What trade would you like to follow?’
‘I want to work for you, sir,’ I repeated. ‘I want to learn how to fight in the arena.’
‘What’s your name again?’ Tyron demanded.
I took a deep breath and gave him the information for the third time. ‘My name is Leif,’ I reminded him.
He got to his feet. ‘Look, I don’t want you, Leif.’ His voice was louder now, and edged with real anger. ‘Why should I give you a place when I’ve dozens with proven ability already clamouring at my door? The system says that your winning ticket gives you the right to be trained, but that doesn’t necessarily mean trained by me. You’re just trying to live out a dream like lots of other young lads from the provinces. The reality of this life is not what you’ve been led to believe. None of it is. I bet you’ve never even been inside the Wheel or seen any of the arenas.’
I bowed my head. He was right. This was my first visit to Gindeen.
‘I only arrived yesterday. I haven’t had a chance to see anything yet.’
‘Who brought you here?’ Tyron demanded. ‘Whose wagon was it?’
‘Nobody brought me.’
‘Nobody? You’ll be telling me next that you walked!’
‘Yes, I did. I walked.’
‘What! All the way from Mypocine?’
I nodded.
Tyron raised his eyebrows in astonishment. I thought he was going to make some comment, but instead he asked, ‘Tell me about that ticket, boy! Who paid for it – your father?’
‘My father’s dead and so is my mother.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that. But I asked you a question. When I ask a question, I expect to be answered.’
‘Two weeks ago a merchant came to Mypocine,’ I explained. ‘He had a big convoy of five wagons, and everyone came for miles around to barter or buy. Late in the afternoon the men started drinking and he joined them. After a while he suggested that the local lads should put on a bit of a show for him and he’d give a prize to the winner. So we started stick-fighting, three against one.
‘As usual, I won, but I was really disappointed when my prize was only a blue lottery ticket—’
‘Hold it there a minute,’ Tyron interrupted. ‘What did you say?’
I thought I’d spoken clearly but I repeated, ‘I said I was disappointed because I’d only won a blue—’
‘No, not that – it was your first two words that caught my attention. You said you’d won as usual. Did I hear you right?’
I nodded. I wasn’t showing off; just telling the truth. ‘I was the best stick-fighter in Mypocine – the champion. Since turning fourteen I’ve only ever lost once. That was because it was wet and I slipped in the mud – though that’s no excuse. If you want to win, you don’t slip.’
‘And how old are you now?’
‘I was fifteen last week.’
‘So you usually fought alone against a team of three boys?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, mostly it was one against three, just like the lacs in Arena 13. But occasionally it was one against one.’
‘Go on with your tale. You said you were disappointed with your prize. Why would that be?’
‘Because I’m just not lucky,’ I told him. ‘I never have been. Only five of all those thousands bought each year are winning tickets. But the Chief Marshal pulled mine from a lottery orb. I’d won! So I set off for the city straight away. As I told you, I walked all the way and it’s taken me since then to get here.’
‘This merchant – describe him!’ commanded Tyron.
‘He was a big man, probably about your age. He had red hair and a red beard.’
Tyron sighed long and deeply, and the expression on his face made me think that he knew the man I’d described.
There was an uncomfortable silence and I ended it, talking fast.
‘I’ve walked all the way from Mypocine. Doesn’t that show how much I want to be here and fight in the arena? I want to be trained by the best – that’s why I chose you! I want to be one of the greatest and most successful combatants ever. That’s been my dream since I was a child. Please give me a chance. I’ll work as your servant without pay until you see what I can do.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Until you see me fight.’
‘You can’t fight until you’ve been trained, and I’ve already told you that I’m not prepared to train you. So I’m not going to waste any more of my breath. Now, off you go, boy! Go and bother somebody else!’ Tyron snapped, pointing at the door.
I got to my feet and pushed back my chair to leave, filled with a mixture of emotions. I stared at him for a moment before turning and heading for the door.
‘Here!’ Tyron shouted. ‘Catch!’
As I turned back towards him, he snatched something from his leather belt and hurled it at me.
It was a dagger.
It spun towards me, its blade gleaming in the candlelight. End over end it came. Concentrating, I noted that it was aimed a full hand-span to the right of my head. Tyron didn’t want to hurt me; just to shock me. This was a test.
I reached up and plucked the dagger out of the air, walked back to the desk and set it down on the black leather, the hilt towards him. Then, slowly and quite deliberately, I bowed.
When I lifted my head again, Tyron was staring straight into my eyes; it was a long time before he spoke.
‘Well, Leif, that earns you a visit to the Wheel,’ he said at last. ‘But that’s all. I’ve a two-year-old grandson who can catch as well as that!’
Victory is marked by a ritual cut to the arm of the defeated combatant.
Although, in combat, the intention is not to kill, accidents do happen.
The Manual of Trigladius Combat
As I followed Tyron through Gindeen’s deserted narrow streets, it was getting dark, though the rain that had been pouring down when I arrived in the city had finally stopped. My heart felt as heavy as lead. Yes, it would be good to visit the Wheel. But I wanted more; much more . . .
It was still early in the spring, and all day long, hauled by teams of heavy dray-horses, wagons had been churning fresh furrows into the city. Running along outside the houses were wooden walkways, but many were in a bad state of repair, with missing planks and rotten boards; piles of rubbish obstructed some of the alleys between them. What I could see was a far cry from the big city of my imagination. I’d expected impressive buildings, order and tidiness.
While waiting for Tyron to make his decision, I’d spent part of my day watching the flow of traffic. Some wagons were loaded high with coal or wood, while others were huge canvas caravans, each home to some hopeful combatant from the provinces.
The Trig season started today and would last until early in the autumn. My father, who had fought in Gindeen, had told me that during this time the population almost doubled.
The sun still hadn’t gone down, but from our vantage point on the hillside, the streets looked dark, with just the occasional lantern suspended from a hook. I had a feeling that we were being watched from the shadows. Maybe Tyron felt it too, because he was striding at a fast pace across the city.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. To my left a monstrous shadow twitched across the whole width of an alley.
I came to a sudden halt. Could it be Hob? I wondered.
I remained frozen to the spot, and Tyron turned, frowning with annoyance.
‘What is it, boy?’
I pointed to the shadow and the frown left his face. He took a cautious step into the alley, paused for a moment, and then beckoned me to his side, indicating a window which I could now see was the source.
It was the only one on the gloomy street that was illuminated, and through a gap in the curtains I saw someone staring out into the alley. The broad face was coarse and brutal, the nose flattened, the mouth open and devoid of teeth. A candle flame projected the man’s shadow, distorting him far beyond human into some dark grotesque ogre. He was big and, although toothless, not far past his prime.
The candle stood behind him, and now he turned and reached for it, lifting it out of its holder. He pulled the flame close to his mouth as if he intended to eat it, but then a sudden paroxysm shook his whole body and he pursed his lips, expanded his cheeks and blew out the flame, plunging the room within into utter blackness.
‘I saw a big shadow and thought it was Hob,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’
‘There’s no need to be sorry. For all we know, that could be Hob,’ Tyron whispered, picking up his pace again. ‘Hob could certainly be abroad on a night like this,’ he went on. ‘There are lots of tales about him. Mostly it’s just superstition, but they’re often based on truth.’
Hob was the djinni who terrorized the whole country of Midgard, though this city was the focus of that terror. He lived in a citadel on a hill high above Gindeen. It was fear of Hob that forced people off the streets during the hours of darkness. I didn’t comment on what Tyron had said. I knew all about Hob. Who didn’t?
We walked on in silence.
The city was built on the slopes of a great hill, the buildings constructed of wood, like almost everything else in Midgard. In fact, Gindeen was the only city in my country; Mypocine, far to the south, where I was born, had the second largest population, but compared to this it was tiny. I’d never seen so many houses, such a maze of streets. Even so, I could have found my own way to the Wheel. Rivalled only by the huge dark block of the slaughterhouse to the east, it was the most impressive structure on view, rising high above the city.
The Wheel was where the thirteen arenas were located. It was also where the gambling houses had their headquarters; the centre of activity in a city that largely depended on arena combat and gambling for its prosperity. All the other wealth came from the surrounding farms and the cattle that were sold in the markets and driven to the slaughterhouse to feed the city’s inhabitants.
The Wheel was a vast circular wooden edifice. The curved walls reared up into the sky like a cliff, topped by a high copper dome which was now bathed in a red glow from the last rays of the setting sun. It was far bigger than I had imagined; it took my breath away. The city had been a disappointment, but this was beyond my wildest dreams.
Above it, at least a score of black vultures circled ominously, soaring in slow widdershins spirals against the sun. It was said that the vultures spent the day haunting the slaughterhouse and the meat-wagons, but as the sun sank into the Western Ocean, they descended like harpies to the dome, flocking there when someone was about to die in Arena 13.
As I approached the entrance to the Wheel, I noticed a couple of large men in blue uniforms standing on either side of it. They glanced at me with a scowl, although Tyron just went in confidently as if they weren’t there.
It was a shock to leave the cool, quiet, deserted streets and find myself in the hot, noisy, packed interior of the Wheel. I could almost taste the sweat. It was full of spectators jostling and pushing each other, with the loud buzz of conversation echoing back from the high ceiling above us. My head whirled with the excitement. Never had I seen so many people crammed together in one space, all struggling desperately to worm their way through the queues, but continually held back by the throng. The only time anyone halted was to exchange coins for tickets – which I knew meant that they were placing bets on likely victors in the various arenas.
I halted for a moment and stared up at the inside of the massive dome.
It was a big mistake.
When I looked down again, Tyron was almost out of sight, leaving me behind. A large, grim-faced man wearing a red diagonal sash was making straight for me. He carried a club at his belt and I was fairly sure he wasn’t planning on giving me a friendly welcome.
Was it the way I was dressed? I wondered. The man scowled at me as the guards outside had done. I’d noticed a queue to enter the Wheel. Maybe, unlike Tyron, ordinary people had to pay an entrance fee.
Just in time, Tyron stepped back and grabbed hold of me.
The man bowed to him. ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t realize he was with you.’
Tyron gave him a curt nod and the man moved away, satisfied.
‘The red sashes tell you that he’s a marshal representing the Wheel Directorate,’ Tyron explained. ‘Inside the Wheel, they’re the law. Outside, as you just saw, it’s the Protector’s Guard, the big men in the blue uniforms, that you need to be wary of.’
The Protector ruled our country. He was rarely seen outside his palace. Those who had glimpsed him said that he looked like a middle-aged man, but there was speculation about his origins; some believed that he was a djinni. He had surely lived too long to be human.
‘I haven’t seen many guards before today,’ I told him.
‘You wouldn’t, I suppose, out in the provinces. It’s different here, very different. There are several thousand in barracks just north of the city. Keep a low profile and never look them in the eye, that’s the key. They’re bored, and sometimes that’s all the excuse they need to find a problem with you.’
Tyron led me through a narrow door to a flight of steep stone steps. ‘Follow me, boy,’ he said as he began to descend. ‘Before we visit any of the arenas I want you to see something else.’
At the foot of the staircase we entered a large cellar, a great gloomy vault lit only by a single flickering candle near the door.
Snatching it up, Tyron headed towards a long bench that stood against the far wall. My mouth went dry with fear, for upon it lay what looked like several dead bodies.
Was this a morgue? Why had Tyron brought me here? I wondered. I’d thought I was here to see the fighting.
‘These are some of the lacs that I own,’ Tyron said, gesturing towards the bench. ‘They’re used by Arena 13 combatants who work for me.’
I felt foolish. Of course they were lacs. Even so, a strong sense of unease took hold of me. I saw that some were covered with sheets, but Tyron led me towards one that was dressed in full armour. It lay on its back, the chain mail, helmet, mask and armoured plates on shoulders, arms, chest and knees in place.
I’d met people back in Mypocine who, like my father, had worked in Gindeen and encountered lacs. However, their descriptions hadn’t prepared me for the thing that disturbed me most: the stink of the creatures.
There was a repulsive mixture of different odours: an animal smell that reminded me of a wet dog, along with rotting vegetation and foul straw. There was also a faint stench of excrement. I wondered what the lacs ate and if they were ever washed. There was so much that I didn’t know.
‘This is a simulacrum, but everybody uses the abbreviation “lac”. It’s a creature fashioned in the image of a man. Its flesh is similar to ours: it will bleed if cut and bruise if struck, but its mind is very different. It is not aware as we are aware. Its behaviour and actions are informed and executed by the patterning language called Nym – a language controlled by humans.’
Most of what Tyron was telling me was stuff I already knew, but I listened attentively, eager for even the smallest piece of new knowledge.
‘A human combatant isn’t permitted to wear armour in the arena,’ Tyron continued, ‘but lacs are different. Here one important piece of armour is still missing. Look . . .’
The lac had a thick muscular neck, and where Tyron now pointed I saw a vertical slit in the bare throat, the wound a dark purple that showed up against the white skin.
‘That’s the throat-slit – and this contains the socket that fits inside it . . .’ Tyron bent down and picked up a large collar. He spat onto the narrow metal socket and eased it gently into the creature’s throat-slit. As he did so, the lac groaned deep down in its belly.