Arena of Antares (18 page)

A gruff old hyr-kaidur with a potbelly and graying hair and with his green favor stained with grease about his shoulder looked me over, behind the bars of the green coys’ entrance. He pulled his thick lower lip. He was apim, a man like me, and a comfortable sort, called Morok, and because he was a green, only a day ago I would have cheerfully killed him.

“Well, my lad,” he said, pulling his lip. “You’re in a right old leem’s nest, and no mistake.” And then he roared until the tears squeezed past his eyelids at his own jest.

Mind you — it made me feel like a good belly laugh, too.

This leem’s nest was likely to be the last bed I lay upon, either here on Kregen or upon the Earth of my birth, four hundred light-years away.

When he had recovered himself a trifle, he spluttered out: “Can you use a thraxter, lad?”

“Aye.”

He took me by the arm, looking swiftly about at the coys who had been shouted off from us, here up at the bars with the shine of the silver sand waiting beyond. “Hush, lad! We’ve had orders to give you a weapon you might perchance not savvy the use of. You slew the black neemu with a thraxter?”

“Aye.”

He furtively looked around again, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He was a green — but I had to pull myself out of this Jikhorkdun nonsense. He was a man, and he didn’t much care for what he was being forced to do, sending a man up against a wild leem.

“Forget you said that, lad. I’ll see you get a thraxter.” Then he hawked and spat at a scuttling liki, and drowned it in the sand, its eight legs feebly writhing in a lake of spittle. “The leem will serve you like that, lad. Thraxter or stux or spear or anything.”

“Perhaps.”

“You’re a cool one, by Kaidun! I’ll say that.” He looked at me and so did not see the tall gaunt form of the Pallan Mahmud walking from the milling coys toward us. “You’ll get a thraxter, my lad, or my name ain’t Morok the Mangier.”

Pallan Mahmud spoke in that detached icy voice: “Your name may well be Morok the Mangled, kaidur, if you disobey the queen’s express orders.” He gestured behind him as Morok shrank back, his potbelly quivering, his face stricken. “The queen has given commands that this yetch, since he fancies the sword so much, is to be given a strange sword. One the like of which is unfamiliar to us. She believes the thraxter will give him too much advantage, and what the queen believes is so, kaidur!”

“Indeed, yes, Notor Pallan, indeed yes!”

Two Rapas came forward at the pallan’s bidding. I was looking at Morok the Mangier and thinking how strange are the ways of men. Had he known I had fought as kaidur for the reds he would have cursed me, and here he had almost run headlong into punishment on my behalf. So I took no notice of the Rapas.

“We had a slave who swore by outlandish gods and blasphemed Havil the Green,” said Mahmud. He, like the queen, no doubt gave only lip service to the state religion. “He wished to fight for the reds, and so, naturally, he was given to the greens. He brought his own outlandish and uncouth weapon with him; but we took it from him as a curiosity, and the queen hung it in her trophy hall.” Pallan Mahmud sniggered. “No man can really swing the sword, so monstrous is it. But, Dray Prescot, by the queen’s express command you are to go up against the wild leem bearing this steel monstrosity.”

So saying Mahmud gestured again to the two Rapas. Between them they carried the monstrous object forward, bowed, and presented it to Mahmud. He stepped back, pettishly waving them away. “Give it to this loudmouthed Morok the Mangled! Yetches, must I tell you everything!”

Mahmud flicked a lace handkerchief — a group of coys out there had just been butchered and the smell was warmish — and the kaidur Morok the Mangier, of the green, stepped forward to take this queen’s gift of a sword from the two Rapas. He whistled his astonishment.

“Now, by Kaidun! You are doomed with this useless rubbish, Dray Prescot! It is a show sword, heavy and slow . . .”

I stared.

I, Dray Prescot, stared at the weapon this kaidur held all uncomprehendingly. What did he know of its magical secrets?

A man had once died out there in the arena, at my feet, and had gasped a last word of greeting to his Krozair brothers of Zamu. And another man had come from the Eye of the World, and he had brought with him that which Morok now held, and these kleeshes had not allowed him to use it in the arena. Had he done so he would have become the greatest of hyr-kaidurs.

I had fancied the evil queen had designed to send me up against a leem with a rapier; that would have been a jest much to her liking.

But she had surpassed herself.

They would not let me take the weapon yet, for fear I ran berserk before I was thrust out with the iron rakes into the arena. I glared hungrily upon that sword. I knew what manner of sword that was. It had come here, to the Jikhorkdun of Huringa, in the land of Hyrklana, in far Havilfar, all the way from the Eye of the World.

Could I believe that the Savanti — even, perhaps, the Star Lords — had intervened on my behalf?

That was the reading I thought then to put on this miracle.

Neither the Grodnims of the north shore nor the Zairians of the south shore of the inner sea go much afaring in the outer oceans as mercenaries. But a Krozair had once done so, for reasons I knew were not important, and had fought his way around the wide curve of the world, and so, at last, found himself taken up by the foul slave-masters seeking fodder for the Jikhorkdun. I saluted his memory.

There was only one other possible sword I could have preferred for the work in hand, and that was the Savanti sword.

But I was content with the beautiful blade that Morok the Mangier so contemptuously condemned, and tucked under his arm with a curse for the retreating backs of the Pallan Mahmud and his Rapa slaves.

I kept trying to look more clearly at the scabbard, for both scabbard and hilt, as well as blade, are marked.

This happening, I felt convinced, marked a new and important phase in my relations with those unseen forces that controlled my life.

Brazen trumpets blasted the hot air above our heads. A huge roar welled up from the packed seats. The time had come. I was naked. I held out my hand to Morok.

He looked sorrowful. “You’re a dead man with this, Dray Prescot.” He hefted the sword. “By Kaidun! What manner of imbecile made it so long? So hefty! And the length of the handle — the pommel flies about like a gregarian on a string.”

Again the trumpets blasted their brazen notes into the heated air. The twin suns — and now if ever was the time to call them Zim and Genodras — flooded their mingled streaming light down in an opaz glory. The silver sand glittered. The roar continued, thousands of throats yelling for the spectacle to begin.

Morok the Mangier held out the sword to me.

“May the glass eye and the brass sword of Beng Thrax go with you, Dray Prescot. Aye, and his emerald lungs blow danger away from your path!”

A group of Rhaclaw kaidur-handlers came up, prodding, and so the time had at last come. I said, “My thanks, Morok. May Opaz guide you.”

He concealed his shock. He held the scabbarded sword in both hands. “Havil the Green—” he began unconvincingly.

The Rhaclaws shouted, and the uproar from the crowd outside increased so that the very air shivered. I said to Morok, “I will not need the scabbard.”

And so I, Dray Prescot, Krozair of Zy, once more took into my two fists a great Krozair longsword.

With this as weapon I would fight three leems. Or so I felt then, so elated, so buoyant, so cocksure — alas, all youthful follies — but . . . but . . . once more to grasp a great Krozair longsword!

Memories ghosted up — to be instantly suppressed — of the clean onward rush of a swifter, of the shock of ramming and the wild elation of boarding, of the glorious red of Sanurkazz smiting down the hated green of Magdag. And, in my fists — gripped in that cunning Krozair grip — a great longsword!

I marched out into the arena and the howl that went up at the sight of me dwarfed anything before. The crowd had been inflamed. The queen had ordered this rogue slaughtered for their pleasure, and a man against a leem was a rare and wonderful sight. And, too, brother, the seats were free!

I had long experience as kaidur in knowing from which different pens the wild beasts would be let out. Not that I had fought a beast for some time, for kaidurs were reserved for more skillful combat one against another. So I walked slowly out, and I must have presented a lonely figure, a lone spectacle, a single man dwarfed to insignificance in that mighty amphitheater and the vast sanded arena below.

The animal roar from the crowd could be erased from my consciousness except as it might signal the leem’s release behind my back. I could feel the sand under my feet — dear God! — I can feel it now! The warmth of the suns pressed on my back. I held the longsword in my left hand, under the pommel, loosely, the blade slanted up over my left shoulder. How the crowd enjoyed the sight of that monstrous blade! How incongruous it seemed to them. They were accustomed to the cut-and-thrust thraxter, with its medium-length straight blade. The Krozair longsword dwarfed the thraxter at every point. Truly, this longsword was no weapon for a man unskilled in its use. A kaidur might seek to use it, and no doubt would acquit himself well; but for a great Jikai one must indeed be a Krozair!

The hideous shrieks from the crowd reached incredible proportions — and then fell eerily silent, and so I knew the leem had been released. I turned slowly to face the pen, for the clever managers of the Jikhorkdun had waited until my back was turned to release the leem. Maybe they thought they were doing me a favor, and that it would be all over before I had a chance to turn. If that, then they risked Queen Fahia’s regal displeasure.

There had been time, in that short interval, to look at the sword. It was a quality blade. Neatly incised, it bore a name — a name I will not reveal to you — followed by the letters KRZY. So I knew I had the best brand possible in my fists.

The chance I had accepted was that the queen might play a further jest on me and release a volleem, one of the flying monsters we had met on our journey to Migla, or some other of the specialized forms of leem. But the beast that slunk toward me over the silver sand, belly low, tail flicking, his clawed paws going up and down in a regular stalking rhythm, very menacingly, was the normal variety of leem I knew from my days with my clansmen guarding our herds of chunkrah on the great plains of Segesthes.

A leem is a feral beast, eight-legged, furry, feline and vicious, with a wedge-shaped head armed with fangs that can strike through oak. It is weasel-shaped but leopard-sized. Its paws can smash a man’s head.

This one was a fine vicious specimen, with ocher-colored fur, and black paws, and a black tuft to his tail, which is unusual. He had been saved against a great occasion, and the crowd knew Queen Fahia would never release him against someone she did not want ripped into the tiniest of bloody scraps.

I do not believe myself to be an overly superstitious man. I know what I know about the dark forces that may — or may not — have their being beyond the walls of our senses. But when, with that damned leem stalking me across the sand, I saw a patch of blood not properly raked and saw the unevenness of the sand there, I paused. The slaves charged with sprinkling and raking and clearing away the corpses and the abandoned equipment had been in just as much a rush to finish as the crowd to begin. And the arena was a large arena. I kicked the rough sand. The first kick revealed the hilt of a thraxter, broken off. I frowned. This would be no place to make a stand when I would need all my agility. I kicked again. A scrap of red cloth showed.

Again — was it the Savanti — was it the Star Lords?

Who can say?

I bent and jerked the red cloth free. Someone of the reds had died here. I stuck the longsword point first into the sand and wrapped the breechclout about me, tucking the end between my legs and pulling it up and tucking that in, and this time I made a thorough job of it, thinking of my past ignominy.

The crowd started yelling again as I did this, and a few rotten gregarians came hurtling down. I took the longsword out of the sand and this time I held it in the Krozair grip. My right hand gripped firmly but most subtly close up to the guard, my left fist beneath the pommel. That way, with about two handspaces between my fists, the tremendous speed of leverage that makes the Krozair longsword so deadly was fully available. As to the power — I knew this leem would feel that.

The leem was hungry.

Well, that made two of us.

He opened his jaws in that wedge-shaped head, showing his fangs. There were shrieks from the terraces. That sight alone was enough to make a coy faint.

He paced slowly toward me, readying himself for the spring, no doubt already imagining himself settling down with me between his front paws to satisfy his appetite.

Leems are able to spring for enormous distances.

I moved away, making the crowd screech. I wished to clear that treacherous unraked area of sand. If the crowd did not wonder why I was not running like a crazed loon around the arena I put that down to the fraught feelings of everyone there. They all knew this was a confrontation.

I heard the odd single comment, spurting through the crowd’s noise. The leem advanced. I set myself. The sword went up over my right shoulder. The crowd slowly fell silent. The suns shone, there was no wind down here in the arena. I was sweating a little, and the leem stalked forward. His head was low, his eyes upturned to me, and his jaws opened as his tail flicked from side to side. One after the other with menacing precision he put those eight great claw-armed pads down, the talons extended and gleaming brilliantly.

The leem sprang.

So fast it all was. So fast and deadly.

He soared into the air with his four front paws extended, his rear paws trailing, and his tail rigid. So fast . . . I went for a knee-bending roll one way and then came back the other and as he went past cut the great sword down. I put tremendous effort into that blow, an effort more of aim and precision than of mere muscular strength, knowing the Krozair longsword would do the work if it was handled correctly.