Shadow War (5 page)

They fought until
both of them were heaving for air, stumbling apart to eye each other, only to
attack and clash again.

There had to be
some way to outwit this creature, Caelan thought with rising desperation.

What had Orlo
said? The barbarian had sheer strength and brute force? How true. Orlo had also
warned Caelan not to prance about, but to use every dirty trick he had.

Caelan wearily
cast about for something he had not yet tried. He had used everything Orlo had
taught him. He had used everything the other gladiators had taught him in
barracks. He had used the tactics old veterans tried on each other in combat.
He had even watched the Madrun’s style of fighting and returned some of that to
the man.

The Madrun’s eyes
widened, but he only bared his teeth anew and fought harder.

Evading him once
again, Caelan circled to gain a breather.
Severance
would keep him going
until his heart exploded. Then he would drop dead in the sand, and it would be
over.

Caelan gritted his
teeth. There had to be another way.

There was, of
course. He had known it even as he stood in his ready room and boasted to
Prince Tirhin that he would fight with everything he had until he prevailed.

He had hoped it
would not come to this, but now he knew such a hope was futile. One trick left,
something he had never used before, had never seen used in the arena. Only a
few of the oldest veterans ever mentioned the Dance of Death, and then in
lowered, awe-hushed voices.

Now that the time
had come, Caelan felt a coldness that had nothing to do with
severance.

Of course he could
still cut the Madrun’s threads of life, but although the barbarian’s sudden
collapse would look natural enough considering the amount of blood he’d lost,
it would be a poor finish to this battle. It would not gain Caelan his freedom.

No, he had to give
the crowd the ultimate spectacle. Never mind fear. Never mind his own doubts.

Meanwhile the
Madrun still kept pace with him, still circled with him. The Madrun was looking
pale from blood loss, but he would fight until he dropped. The stories were
true; Madruns did not fear death. Caelan could see nothing in the man’s eyes
but the desire to kill.

Still, it had to
be tried.

Caelan shifted
severance,
sucking in a sharp breath as pain swept him, and reached out
with
sevaisin.
Weakened now, the Madrun still throbbed with hatred, but
Caelan caught glimmers of what churned beneath.

Withdrawing back
to the cold safety of
severance,
Caelan was able to catch his breath and
steady himself in time to meet the Madrun’s next attack. He had his answer now.

Blades flashing,
they fought with a fury and speed nearly equal to when they had begun. Caelan
gritted his teeth, forcing himself to hang on, forcing himself to ignore the
scream in his muscles, to keep going for as long as it took.

Wait, Caelan kept
telling himself. Don’t miss the chance.

At last it came.
He saw the Madrun tilt his blade for the lunge attempt Caelan had been waiting
for. Over and over in drills, Orlo had taught Caelan how to meet such an
attack. Catch the opponent’s blade with the flat of yours and lift, using the
other’s impetus to carry his lunge past its target.

Instead, Caelan
caught the Madrun’s blade and twisted it beneath his. The circular motion of
his blade directed the Madrun’s sword point straight into Caelan’s side.

The Madrun’s eyes
flew open wide in astonishment, but Caelan twisted even harder, leveraging the
Madrun’s blade with his hilt guard to pull the blade into himself.

The crowd screamed
exactly at the moment it pierced his ribs. He heard himself grunt from the
impact, felt the blade invade his body ... so huge, so horrible. It was worse
than he could have imagined. He seemed to have lost his breath, and for a
moment he thought he would lose
severance,
which was all that now held
him together. He was burning inside from the strain, and yet it all happened in
a split second. His own sword arm was still moving, still twisting around the
Madrun’s blade, which was now trapped in his body and useless. Disengaging from
the Madrun’s blade, Caelan’s sword shifted up to thrust deep into the man’s
heart.

The Madrun
released a thin, high-pitched scream that sounded piercing loud in the sudden
silence. Arching his back, he toppled slowly backward, sliding off Caelan’s
sword. As he fell, his sword pulled from Caelan’s side. The agony of that
withdrawal was a thousand times more brutal than the entry.

With all his
strength and will, Caelan braced his legs apart and managed to stay upright.

The Madrun seemed
to fall forever; then his solid body crashed to the sand. Dust puffed up. He
lay still, his open, sightless eyes staring into eternity.

The roaring in
Caelan’s ears remained the only sound. He seemed to stand in a place that did
not exist at all.

Once before he had
had a vision in the arena, one in which his dead father approached him. Now,
feeling death reaching into his body, Caelan was certain Beva would appear
before him again. But there was nothing except him and the pain that beat
harder and harder. He looked down and saw a crimson river flowing at his feet.
If he tried to look in the direction the river was running, he saw only a
terrifying blackness as though endless night waited on the other side.

He must dam the
river.

Bending down, he
reached out until he could plunge his hand into that crimson flood. Spreading
his fingers wide, he grimaced against the agony and expended his last ounce of
strength on the command to
stop
flowing.

The rapid rush
slowed to a trickle, then ceased altogether. Where there had been a river
seconds before, there was now only drying sand, marked here and there by
steaming puddles.

Caelan
straightened, pulling all the life force back into himself and holding it
inside by sheer willpower. He felt as though he might break apart from the
effort, and yet he held.

His vision cleared
and he was back in the arena, standing there with a dead opponent at his feet.
Cheering roared from the stands. Streamers, flowers, and other gifts rained
down, glittering in the sunlight. Caelan swallowed hard and dragged in a thin,
unsteady breath, then a deeper one.

He heard the
attendants coming at a run from behind him and forced himself to turn around
slowly.

Although it was
almost beyond his strength, he lifted his bloody sword to his master, who was
actually standing as though in alarm.

Caelan’s salute,
however, apparently reassured the prince, who waved and resumed his seat.

By then the
attendants had reached Caelan. A boy, wide-eyed and pale, carried Caelan’s blue
victory cloak. He stood there, staring up at Caelan, while the men knelt around
the dead Madrun.

The boy’s lips
were trembling. “You ... you let him—” His voice broke off, and he could not
finish his sentence.

In silence Caelan
took his cloak from the boy’s arms and shook out the folds one-handed. He
swirled the garment around his shoulders, hiding the wound in his side and most
of the blood. Someone shoved the boy aside and took the sword carefully from
Caelan’s hand.

His fingers ached
from having gripped it so hard. Grimly he flexed them, but doing so only
reminded him of the cut in his arm. Tucking his arm tight against his side
beneath the concealment of the cloak, he hesitated only to gather himself, then
strode across the arena, waving as he went.

He remained the
champion, beyond all doubt, beyond all expectations.

He circled the
arena with his head high and his shoulders erect, hiding everything that might
mar this moment. The spectators waved back, called out to him, leaned over the
walls as though to touch him, threw coins and flowers.

He felt
light-headed and strange, as though he might faint, and yet he knew he would
not.

By the time he
completed his victory walk, the stricken faces had cleared. Everyone was
laughing and congratulating each other. He saw some counting their wager
tokens, making faces or openly gloating, depending on how much they had risked
that day.

The steps leading
up to the imperial box looked endless and slightly crooked. But the fire
blazing ever hotter in his side gave him strength, and he forced himself up the
steps. He would have his freedom today. He had more than earned it. He had more
than kept his word.

To his surprise,
the prince left the imperial box and came halfway down to meet him.

It was an
unheard-of honor. Tirhin’s guards—obviously caught unawares—scrambled to follow
him, but the prince strode down the steps through the midst of the spectators
and met Caelan with a broad smile.

Behind him, up in
the imperial box, Caelan saw the emperor sitting with little expression at all.
The high priest Sien stood near the emperor’s chair, watching Kostimon with a
small, evil smile.

The prince smiled
and waved to the crowd, accepting the fresh accolades and cheering as though
they were for him alone. When he reached Caelan, however, his smile was
replaced by a frown of consternation.

“My dear Giant,”
he said, then stopped himself from saying more. Straightening his shoulders, he
withdrew into formality, and his smile reappeared—public, practiced, and false.
“Well done,” he said, the way he would have praised his best stag hound.

Rebuffed, Caelan
met Tirhin’s eyes, seeking approval, seeking confirmation that he would receive
his reward. But the prince’s gaze was unreadable. As he listened to the crowd’s
shouts, Tirhin’s smile widened.

Caelan had no
choice but to extend the formalities. With all his strength, Caelan forced
himself to speak clearly and without any evidence of his inner strain. “Sir, I
bring you this day’s victory.”

Formal words,
demanded by tradition and spoken countless times before. Yet they didn’t begin
to say all that he meant or all that he yearned for.

Let it be true,
he prayed in his weary heart.
Oh, Gault, in thy mercy, let this man keep his
word to me as I have kept mine to him.

“And I accept this
victory, fought on this auspicious day in my name,” the prince said. His
baritone voice rang out loudly, carrying across the hushed stands.

A servant joined
him with a silk pillow supporting the victory crown of ivy. As Caelan bowed,
the prince set the crown on his head. The leafy vines scratched, as usual.

“You have served
us well, champion,” the prince said. “You have defeated an enemy of the empire,
as our armies will defeat the Madruns and drive them far from our borders.”

Cheering surged
up, drowning out his words until the prince lifted his hands. With quiet
restored, he continued. “We thank you, champion. We admire your strength,
courage, and fighting prowess, shown this day as never before. In appreciation
of this magnificent effort, which has more than surpassed my expectations, I
wish to give you a special reward.”

Caelan’s gaze
snapped up, and his heart surged. Suddenly his ears were roaring. He tried to
swallow and couldn’t. His eyes filled with tears that he struggled manfully to
hold back.

Tirhin smiled,
glancing around to be sure the crowd was still watching. “Here is a personal
token of my pleasure.”

As he spoke, he
took a heavy gold chain off the pillow. “Wear it with pride, my champion.”

Caelan stood
there, stricken and silent. Disappointment crashed through him, and he felt as
though he were falling a very long distance.

A frown touched
the prince’s features momentarily, and he cleared his throat.

Belatedly, Caelan
somehow managed to bow his head, although his neck felt so stiff he thought it
might snap. Tirhin slipped the chain around Caelan’s throat, and a smith
appeared from the crowd to close the final link.

Then the prince
leaned near and whispered into Caelan’s ear in a voice that was low and
furious, “You fool, you weren’t to take a scratch. If you collapse publicly
from this stunt, I shall see your soul damned for all eternity.”

With that, he
extended his hand to Caelan, who had to kneel and press Tirhin’s fingertips to
his sweaty brow.

Fresh cheering
swelled, but in Caelan’s heart there was only fire and bitter disillusionment.
What cruel betrayal was this? His master was a fair man. They had bargained
squarely. The prince had given his word ... somehow Caelan choked off the
desperate round of thoughts spinning through his brain.

He climbed to his
feet, although the effort made him dizzy, and held on. He was too proud now to
show any weakness. Nor would he meet the prince’s gaze again, fearing he would
not be able to conceal his fury.

The prince stepped
back and lifted his arms in a cheerful wave to the crowd. He was still smiling.
But his eyes were like stones.

With more waves
for the crowd, he walked back up the steps.

Caelan stood
there, stunned. That was it. That was all. Whatever he had expected, it was not
this. As he watched his master’s retreating back, Caelan’s temper rose. Of all
the ungrateful ...

An attendant
prodded his arm, distracting him from his furious disappointment. Recalling
where he was, Caelan executed a very small, very stiff bow to the prince’s
retreating back.

There remained the
crowd, chanting his name. Like an endless sea, the faces surrounded him, held
back only by the soldiers.

Caelan battled
himself, trying to believe there would be more later. He was a fool to expect
the prince to free him on the spot.

Yet a little voice
in his heart whispered,
He could have.

Crossing the arena
had never been so difficult. It took an eternity, and despite the crisp winter
air Caelan was sweating. He could feel himself weakening with every step, yet
he kept his chin high and his shoulders erect, forcing one foot ahead of the
next as the guards escorted him to the ramp. Behind him, young boys ran across
the arena sand with crimson and blue streamers unfurling from their hands while
Tirhin’s slaves threw coins and favors into the crowd as part of the
celebration.