Shadow War

The fanfare of
trumpets came at last, a bugling summons that filled the arena and reached all
the way down into the subcaverns below. The milling activity in the preparation
rooms, barracks, and passageways briefly ceased as attendants, scrub-boys,
healers, trainers, and gladiators lifted their heads to listen. Even a
momentary hush fell over the guards at their posts.

Inside his private
ready room, Caelan E’non was pacing restlessly back and forth, aware of time
passing, his blood raging in anticipation of what lay ahead.

He heard the
trumpets, faint at first, then growing louder. They sounded for him.

Caelan stopped
pacing in mid-stride. His heart soared toward the sound. For a moment he could
not breathe. Swallowing, he tipped back his head and gazed at the ceiling. Even
all the way down here he could hear the dull roar of cheering. The stone
structure around him absorbed the shouts of acclaim until the walls themselves
seemed to vibrate from the force of so much sound.

They were
screaming for the champion.

They were
screaming for him.

An endless day of
waiting came down to this moment, glory and anticipation all tangled together.

Caelan’s mouth
went dry. He longed for a drink of water, yet did not touch the dipper in the
pail. He could swallow nothing.

As three-time
champion of the private gladiatorial seasons, Caelan was the star attraction in
the final event of today’s spectacular display of combat and slaughter. He had
come here to the old public arena at dawn, brought in all the pomp of a closed
chariot bearing him, his personal trainer, and his slaves, the whole flanked by
guards on horseback. He had been fed, massaged, and oiled. An hour past, he had
been dressed for the arena in a leather loincloth and fighting harness. The
slaves had braided back his long, blond hair. He wore a leather headband across
his brow to keep the sweat from his eyes. Now he stood, tall and muscular, his
broad shoulders square, his loins narrow.

Orlo, his trainer,
had long since dismissed the slaves and cleared the room to allow Caelan his
privacy. It was Caelan’s habit to wait alone, pulling deep within himself,
wrapping himself in concentric rings of mental readiness. He performed drills
in his mind, making the moves over and over. He also limbered his secret gifts,
first
severing
himself from all emotion and thought until he stood at
the center of a cold, still void, then shifting back to the warmth of
sevaisin,
the joining of completion and harmony.

Today, however,
concentration proved difficult to maintain. It had been well over a year since
he’d been in the old public arena. It seemed antiquated and foreign to him now.
He was used to private quarters, efficient sluice bath facilities, and his own
entry into the ring hung with his ivy crowns and trophies. But here, the
subcaverns were cramped, ill lit, and dank. The place reminded him of dark
times, of when he’d first been brought to Imperia and sold at the gladiator
auction. Ill trained and harshly treated, he had been expected to die in his
first combat.

Drawing in deep
breaths, Caelan forced the memories away. His thoughts scattered like dry
leaves in the winter wind. Despite his efforts to remain calm, his blood was
pumping. Even his constant pacing had failed to keep his muscles as loose as he
wished. Now he felt the edge, the excitement rising in him with cold chills.
His body thrummed with impatience, and he circled the small room to face the
door. Time for the guards to open it. The trumpets sounded again, and he wanted
to cry out something savage and wordless in response.

Instead nothing
happened. No guards came to fetch him. Orlo did not return. It was time, past
time. The crowd was calling for him. He walked the edge of readiness, and this
delay irked him.

Frowning, he tried
to curb his annoyance at the slipshod manner in which this old arena was run.
What was behind the delay? Had one of the gates broken? Had one of the fighters
gone berserk and broken into the crowd?

Stupid to be here
in the first place. This wasn’t part of the regular season, which had already
ended. The public arena was for the dregs of the fighters, men broken and
desperate, prisoners of war, criminals who were condemned to spill their life’s
blood for the enjoyment of the masses.

Like all privately
owned gladiators, Caelan held little but scorn for a ramshackle place like
this. It was beneath him to be brought here.

But he had no
choice in the matter.

In honor of the
coming coronation of his empress, Emperor Kostimon was holding a day’s worth of
games offered free to the public. All businesses had closed. All workers were
dismissed for the day in order to attend the games. This was the biggest arena
in the city, and the emperor’s personal favorite. As champion, Caelan had to
appear in today’s contest, unless his owner wanted to cause a riot. Caelan was
the citywide betting favorite, known to everyone. There would be thousands of
people present today who ordinarily could not afford the entrance fee to see
Caelan fight. Through the generosity of the emperor and the graciousness of
Prince Tirhin, Caelan’s owner, the people would have this single opportunity to
come and watch the fighter whose fame was growing across the empire.

According to the
guards, the arena was packed to maximum capacity and beyond.

Why did no one
come for him? Caelan’s frown deepened, and he resumed pacing. It took but five
minutes to clear corpses from the arena and rake the sand. Why sound the
trumpets if he wasn’t going to be let out?

His hands worked
at his sides, and he longed to have a weapon in his grip. As champion, he’d
earned the privilege of carrying his weapons into the ring. It helped calm him
to have his sword in hand ahead of time. But here, the strict rules forbidding
such liberties remained, with no exceptions.

Even Orlo hadn’t
returned, and he should have been back long ago. Caelan reached out and struck
the door with his fist as he paced past it. Even as he did so, he knew he
should have curbed the urge. He was expected to stay loose, to keep his mind
clear and empty.

Instead here he
was, making another circle, feeling increasingly grim and impatient. Bad enough
to wait all day for the last event. But this delay was an insult.

As champion, his
responsibility was to keep nerves of steel. If he let himself look worried or
nervous, the odds changed immediately. There were bookmakers’ spies everywhere;
impossible to keep them out when even the guards were willing to take bribes to
turn informer. Banging on the door should give them something to talk about.

It was the mark of
an amateur, not a veteran such as himself. Orlo would be furious when he heard
about it, but then his trainer should have been here instead of wandering off
to spy on Caelan’s opponent.

The door burst
open. Even as Caelan turned, Orlo— bald, stocky, and swinging his club—came
striding inside with a scowl on his face.

“Murdeth and Fury!”
he said and kicked shut the door in the faces of onlookers crowding behind him
to catch a glimpse of Caelan. “Damned tricksters! No wonder the emperor’s entry
was kept such a close secret.”

Caelan hated to
talk just before he went into the arena. It spoiled his mental preparation.
However, now he stared at his trainer with a frown of his own. “Who is the
challenger?”

“An unknown.” Orlo
spat in the corner and shook his club as though he wanted to bring it down
across someone’s shoulders.

Once he used to
regularly beat Caelan with it. No longer.

Caelan shrugged. “What
does it matter? If he’s green—”

“I saw the brute.
He’s a Madrun.”

Caelan’s careful
edifice of detachment crumbled. “Great Gault!” he said in astonishment. “How
did he get one of those?”

“Prisoner of war,”
Orlo said bitterly. “Brought in chains, with half of his handlers clearly
afraid of him. He’s not even gentled, by the looks of him. Certainly not
trained for the arena. Bah! I hate these political gestures. Why couldn’t you
be pitted against a decent fighter instead of a barbarian?”

In spite of his
alarm, Caelan had to smile. There was a time when Orlo had considered
him
a barbarian. Still, to go in against a Madrun ... Caelan looked at Orlo and
frowned.

Orlo’s expression
changed at once. “Never mind,” he said gruffly. “It makes no difference. I’m
just angry at the unfairness of it. Just when you have finally developed some finesse
to show off before the lords and ladies, along comes this savage. Bah! What
good is all my work?”

Wryly, Caelan
nodded. Orlo was a master of understatement when it came to the days and hours
of grueling practice drills he’d put Caelan through, simply to learn the extra
flourishes that played to the crowd. Even to days when Caelan faced weak,
ineffectual opponents, he had to make the contest look good. Moreover, he had
learned how to inflict wounds that looked fatal, when in fact often the healers
could save the defeated men.

“You can’t prance
around today,” Orlo said. “This isn’t an exhibition game. The Madrun will maul
you if he can. He’s big and solid, a good match. It will be a tremendous
spectacle, but you must stand prepared for his speed and strength, which may be
close to yours. Business only. Keep well focused. Match his savagery with every
dirty trick you know. Understand?”

“No rules in the
arena,” Caelan quoted softly.

“You’ve become a
cynic.”

Old bitterness
soured Caelan’s mouth. Considering the kind of life he led, how could he be
anything less than cynical?

Caelan changed the
subject. “What is the delay? I heard the trumpets sound. I should be going up.”

“Not yet.”

Caelan snorted and
clenched his fists. He wouldn’t complain; it did no good. Usually Orlo would be
complaining for him, but the trainer was still scowling into the distance.

“When do I get my
sword?” Caelan asked. “I thought you would bring it in with you.”

Orlo roused
himself from his thoughts. “No chance of that today. With the emperor here and
the whole city in the stands, the guards are terrified there will be trouble.
Old women, the lot of them. No sword until you enter.”

“Fine,” Caelan
snapped, losing his temper. “And am I to be blindfolded and manacled like the
old days? Prince Tirhin could have saved himself the entry fee, because I won’t—”

“Silence!” Orlo
roared. “You’ve been insulted little enough, and no one’s going to put you in
shackles.”

Caelan heard the
trumpets again, and with them came a roar that seemed to shake the stone walls.
The sound fed into Caelan, pulsing through his nerves.

Edgy and tense, he
swung away from Orlo. “How long?”

“It’s not quite
time,” Orlo said. “There’s some sort of entertainment being staged in the
emperor’s honor. Find your patience and keep to it.”

A knock sounded on
the door with unexpected courtesy.

Surprised, Caelan
opened his mouth, but Orlo spoke first:

“Enter.”

The door opened,
and two men stepped inside. One had brown leathery skin and cold eyes that
stared intently at Caelan. Robed in a saffron tunic that reached to the floor,
a leopard hide across his shoulder, and his sleeves banded with brown stripes
of rank, the priest was clearly someone of importance, although Caelan did not
know him. He wore a wide collar necklace fitted with the gold emblem of the
Vindicants in its center. His long-fingered hands carried a staff tipped with
the same emblem at its top.

Gazing at the man,
Caelan felt a strange chill tingle at the back of his neck. It took all his
innate stubbornness not to step back.

The other man was
black-haired and handsome, with a mustache and chin-strap beard. He wore a blue
velvet tunic, a snowy linen shirt, and a gold-embroidered cap perched rakishly
on his head. It was to this man that Caelan bowed.

Inside, he felt a
rush of pride. Prince Tirhin rarely visited him before combat. This was a
tremendous honor, a mark of the highest favor. Even so, that cynical inner
voice whispered to Caelan that the prince came only to reassure himself that
his champion would give his best today. The visit meant nothing more than that.

Squelching such
thoughts, Caelan raised himself with a small smile for his master alone. He
felt ready now to take on as many entrants as dared to meet him.

Pulling off his
gloves in the doorway, the prince glanced back over his shoulder, and Caelan
caught a glimpse of the blue-cloaked soldiers of Tirhin’s personal bodyguard
out in the passageway before the door was closed firmly.

Although Caelan
stood tall and straight, Orlo was still bowing. “As you can see, sir, he is
ready.”