Last Knight (The Champion Chronicles Book 2) (22 page)

              The prince let her strike him several times before her hands got sore.  When the blows stopped, he grabbed her hands.  His hands were large and easily encompassed hers. She had stopped resisting and stood looking up at him.

              “If we are truly to have peace between our kingdoms, then I must acknowledge my grievous error, and you must forgive me.”

              Elissa looked into his cold, stern face.  He was a warrior, through and through.  His shoulders were thick and strong from years of training.  He hands were calloused from practicing with the sword.  But then Elissa saw past his stoic face and into his eyes, which were soft and filled with compassion and sorrow.  She relaxed and felt the comfortable warmth of his hands around hers.  She shivered, not because she was cold, but because she was afraid.

              “The Taran emissary named Hibold has the mouth of a devil.  He convinced me that it was time for Thell to finally conquer Karmon.  He said all the right things and I believed him.  Add in the anger that I had been taught from a young boy, and the only outcome was going to be war. I didn’t strike your father down with my hand, but I did so with my actions.  I am sorry.  I hope you can forgive me.”

              Elissa dropped to her knees in the mud.  The tears were again flowing.  She hated herself for the tears.  She was queen.  She should not be crying like a little girl.  But she could only see her father, laid flat on the back of a wagon, his sword laying across his chest.  She did not want to forgive the man who killed her father.

              “If I could bring your father back from the dead, I would.  But I can only ask that you forgive me for my part in your father’s death.”  He held out a hand to her.

              She looked at the hand.  It was his right hand, the one that would hold a sword, if he were wielding one.  It was the one he had likely used to kill her own people.  As Elissa, daughter of a loving father, she hated him.  She hated his every being for who he was.  But she was more than just Elissa.  She was queen.  There were times that it was more important for her to be queen than the young lady who lost her father.  She hated it.  She hated that she had to be queen, but she also knew that it was what she was supposed to be.  Maybe in time she would forget.

              She took his hand and stood up.  She gave a slight nod and said, “I forgive you.  Our kingdoms will need to move on from this.  And it needs to start with me.”

              She smiled past her tears.  “I would be honored to attend your Ice Festival.  But then you must attend my masquerade ball.”

              “Oh?” Toknon exclaimed.  “That sounds intriguing.  What is such a thing?”

              Elissa playfully laughed and swatted at his arm.  “It is a grand party where everyone dresses as someone else to hide who they are.  It shall be so much fun!”

              “I would be honored to attend that.”

              Toknon continued to hold onto her hand.  She did not release it as they continued walking through the garden maze.

Chapter Seventeen

Conner awoke to darkness and a throbbing headache.  He sat up and looked around.  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see a fuzziness that might be something.  But the harder he tried to focus, the more his head hurt.  He felt around and figured he was laying on a hard, flat bed of some sort.  A blanket had been placed over him, keeping him warm.  There was a cool dampness around him, similar to what he felt when he was in the lowest levels of the dungeon.

Panic swept over him.  At first he thought he was in a cell of complete darkness like Goshin was in, but as his eyes started to work again, he realized that he was in some other sort of cell.  It wasn’t a very big cell, about ten feet deep and twenty feet wide.  Three sides of the cell were roughly carved from rock.  The fourth wall was vertical iron bars with a hinged door at the center.  Other than his bunk and a bucket near the door, there was nothing in the cell.  The panic of being in a dark, solitary cell left him, but the fear of being a prisoner was still there.

He swung his legs off the bed and tried to stand up.  But the pain in his head continued to throb, and he sat back down.

              “Hello?” Conner called out.  His voice echoed through the empty darkness.  When there was no immediate response, he shouted even louder, “Hello!”

              A moment later a bright light appeared followed by a large figure holding a torch.  “
Karak
!  Quiet!”

              “Where am I?” Conner asked loudly.

              “Gladiator pens.  Now keep it down!”

              He did not know what being in the gladiator pen meant, but it could not be good.  He had no idea how he got into the cell.  The last thing that he remembered was being in the dungeon with Prince Tarcious and Hibold at Goshin’s cell.  Then something was said that made Prince Tarcious angry and then there was an explosion.  He rubbed his head hoping that it would help the pain in his head go away.

              He stepped over to the iron bars and shouted out, “What am I doing here?”  This time, there was no response.

              At least he was not alone.  There were other cells directly cross from his.  They were also small and only had a small cot.  They were occupied with either someone lying on their bed or sitting on the floor.  No one acknowledged him, even when he called out.  There were more cells along the walls to his left, but to his right he could see the chamber open up into a larger room.  A large man with a round, smooth face was trudging down the corridor towards him.  He wore a thick leather apron, but did not have a shirt underneath.  His plump body was covered with hair, almost as if it were fur.  He was fumbling with a set of keys and by the time he reached his cell, he had found the right one. 

              He looked up at Conner and smiled.  “You have been called.”

              “What?”

              The man quickly unlocked the cell door and pulled it open for Conner to walk through.  Conner was not sure that he really wanted to leave his cell.  There was something ominous about being told he had been called.

              “It is time for you to prepare for your show.  Are you well rested?”

              “My show?”

              The man grinned with a set of rotten teeth.  “You are to fight in today’s contest.  It is such an honor!”

              Conner did not move from the center of his cell.

              “You will not come?  You will not fight?”

              Conner shook his head.  “Where am I?  I don’t know what you are talking about?”

              “You have been chosen.  It is an honor.  Most take weeks before their first fight.  They must train and train and learn.  But you, you must be a warrior already.  Are you?”

              “A Knight,” Conner said without thinking.  “A Knight of Karmon.”

              The man’s eyes widened.  “What an honor!  For me to meet a Knight of Karmon.  They are the greatest of warriors.  Even better than the greatest centurions!  Come, come!  We must prepare you!”

              “I am not going to fight,” Conner said.  “I don’t know where I am or why you want me to fight.”

The large man’s smile faded away.  “You will fight.  Even when you say you won’t, you do.  You always do.  You can go out there on your own, with a sword and a shield, or you can be thrown out there.  If you are smart, you’ll go out there with a weapon and then you might survive.  If you don’t, then you will die.  It will be quick, sure enough, but you will be dead nonetheless.”

“Go where?” Conner asked.  “Who am I fighting?”

“To the show arena, of course,” the man said.  “You to fight a great centurion.  Korkus, of the great barbarian wars.  A great hero, they say.”

The large man waved his hands, beckoning Conner to follow.  “Come, come!  It is almost time.  You must prepare.”

              Still unsure about his circumstances, Conner left the cell and followed the man.  The large man he followed seemed just a bit odd.  Friendly enough, but just a bit off.

              The large man fell into step beside Conner.  “I am Garonk.  I am the caretaker of this cellblock.”  He shook his ring of keys.  “These are only for the cells within the block.  They are not for the doors that lead out of the dungeon.  So don’t bother trying to take them.  If you are good, I do not lock your cell.  But if you are bad, then you must stay locked in.”

              “Where am I?” Conner asked again.  “I don’t understand what you are talking about.”

              They passed more cells all exactly like the ones he had already seen.  Some were empty, but most had a prisoner inside.  Those that were awake glanced up at him with blank stares as he passed by.  The corridor of cells opened up into a wide and tall cavern.  In the center were long tables that held various instruments of combat.  It was almost like the armory underneath the castle at South Karmon, but instead of neat racks of weapons, they were all scattered about the tables.  A number of men in aprons just like Garonk’s were working at the tables repairing weapons.

Around the large cavern were clusters of men training together.  Most were working on combat skills, but some of them were doing odd things.  There was one group that was picking up and throwing a very large boulder to one another.  There was even a small group of six that were running around the outer wall.  It seemed as if they were not running anywhere, just in a very large circle.

              “This is where you will train,” Garonk said.  “If you survive.”

              Conner stopped.  “If I survive?”

              “Of course.  The shows are fights to the death.  Well, most of them are.  Sometimes Emperor Hargon or Prince Tarcious will grant the combatants mercy.”

Conner watched two men practicing with swords nearby.  They were slow and clumsy and would hardly survive one minute against a competent soldier. “They train together?  And they go out and fight to the death?”

              “No!  Of course not.  There are four dungeons like this one.  Combat is only between those from another dungeon.  After a show, the dungeon that performed the best gets the best food as well.  It’s all about motivation.”  He stopped at a table with a pile of various types of swords.  All of them were worn and well used.  A few had large notches in the edge of the blade.  None seemed very sharp.  “Choose your sword.”

              Conner looked at them all.  He was looking for two long and thin rapier-style swords, but he did not see any.  There were plenty of wide-bladed broadswords, thinner and longer longswords, and short, thrusting short swords.  There were also many other types of swords that he did not recognize: swords with very wide blades that were sharpened on only one side or swords that were taller than he was with a hilt longer than his arm.

              His hesitation seemed to make Garonk think that Conner was not familiar with swords.  “Do you not know swords?  Have you not ever used one?”

              “I have,” Conner said grimly.  He was having a hard time believing that this was happening to him.  He was a prisoner, and the only way of survival was to fight to the death.  If he had ever been unsure about leaving Karmon, he was now convinced.  He never should have left.  Even facing a company of Royal Guards would have been better than being sent into an arena to fight some battle-hardened hero.

              “This is a fine blade,” Garonk said, pulling out a wide-bladed broadsword.

There was one large notch near the center of the sword, but other than that, it seemed fine enough of a sword.  But Conner knew that such a blade should only be used by large and strong swordsmen.  There would be no slicing or stabbing with the sword, it would only be bashing and slashing.  He knew he was strong, just not strong enough to effectively use such a weapon.  He looked up at Garonk and wondered whether the man had any idea about weapons, or if he was trying to get Conner killed.

              Conner reached out and grabbed a thinner longsword.  The hilt was partially broken, but it had the best blade of all the other longswords that he could see.  “This one.  And what about a shield?”

              Garonk lifted an eyebrow, his eyes studying the weapon that Conner chose.  “That is not the weapon of a Karmon Knight.  They are big and heavy weapons.  Not something so skinny and pointed.”

              “What do you know about Karmon Knights?”

              Garonk shrugged his shoulders.  “I have never seen one, but it is what they say.”

              “Who says?”

              Again Garonk shrugged his shoulders.  “They?  Everyone.  I don’t know.  But don’t you use a big sword?”

              Conner eyed the longsword more closely.  It was not a very good weapon compared to what he had seen in the castle armory, but it would still cut and slice well enough.  “Most knights are big.  Bigger than me.  But not all knights carry large swords.  Some of us use smaller ones.  We can kill just as well with a small sword as a large one.  Now, what about a shield?”

              “Any armor is handed out just as you go out to fight.  We only have swords here.  And some wood shields for practice.”

              A horn blew from the far end of the cavern and four centurions marched into the chamber.  Three held crossbows cocked and loaded.  The fourth, the leader of the group, was yelling something in Taran.  Everyone stopped what they were doing and stood still, as if they were waiting for something.

              The lead centurion pointed at Conner and said, “You!  Come.”

              “It is time,” Garonk said to Conner, who did not move.  “Bring your sword.  You have been selected, you must go now.  The first one is always the hardest.  They get easier.  They really do.  If you can get through this one, then with a little luck and some hard training, maybe you, too, can be a hero.”

              Conner was the only one chosen and he followed the centurions out of the chamber.  He passed through two gates that were guarded by centurions armed with crossbows cocked and ready to be fired. After the second gate, he found himself in a narrow chamber lined with various pieces of armor hanging from the wall.  While the swords and other weapons were mostly useful, the pieces of armor were junk.  There were some chainmail shirts, but they had slices and rips in them that would have made them virtually useless.  There were parts of full plate armor that had extra straps attached.  This allowed pieces of armor to be used without having a full set.  But even those were not fully functional.  They were dented and scratched and covered with rust and stained with blood.

              He looked at the armor and wondered if he should put on a chainmail shirt or strap on some of the plate armor.  He was concerned that he would find it awkward and uncomfortable if he were to put on armor pieces that he was not used to.  If there was a light leather shirt, he would have taken it.  Such a light piece of protection would not save him from a mortal blow, but it would keep him from getting nicked and sliced by glancing blows.

              One of the centurions, noticing that he was just standing and looking at the armor gave him a shove.  “Take, or move on,” the centurion said.

              Without seeing anything that he wanted, he kept walking.  At the end of the chamber there were shields stacked on the ground.  With the centurion still prodding him, he grabbed a round shield.  It was missing a full strap on the inside that he could wrap around his arm, but the strap that was there was long enough to hang onto.

              Armed as well as he could be, he moved on past the armory.  Another iron bar gate blocked him from leaving.  A centurion on the other side unlocked it and let the four centurions and Conner through.

              The tunnel that led out of the dungeons was wide enough for three or four men to walk side-by-side.  The walls were rough, but the floor was smooth, having been trampled on for many years by combatants marching to the arena.  The floor rose slightly for about fifty paces before it made a sharp right turn to a steep ramp that led to an open archway.  The coldness of the outside air struck him as sharply as the loud rumble of sound that came from the crowd of the arena.

              Conner stood at the bottom of the ramp and did not move.  The centurions behind him did not push him forward; they let him stand there taking in what was about to happen.