Escana (38 page)

Yalem nodded. 'Piss weak.'

Dyson snorted, coming from Yalem
that was a harsh condemnation.

The damn sand had begun tickling
his feet once again, the stuff got everywhere. He had told the dregs
in B-company to clear the pathways, he made a mental note of it.

He still didn't know what to make
of this oily looking fellow. He can't have been an idiot to have
survived the journey to Greyhawk, so why would he ask such a
dangerous question?

'What do you make of the one who
wanted my fowl, Yalem?' he asked.

Yalem grunted. 'Dangerous.'

That stopped him short. He turned
to address the impassive face of his protector. 'What makes you say
that?'

Yalem shrugged. 'Refined.'

Dyson nodded, recalling it now.
There was a certain calculation and fluidity in the way he approached
the desk. Fuck all help it would do him if he couldn't back it up in
the trials. That gave him something to look forward to at least.

The tasks appointed to the
Corporal in residence were unending in their stress and monotony, a
blip such as this could provide days of entertainment before he lost
his nerve.

Dyson had delegated most of the
strenuous work to his squat underling, Tub. He still observed the
sessions and occasionally would descend to intimidate and belittle,
for the most part he felt that a distance needed to be kept.

It had paid off with an extended
service in this shit hole which on the whole was preferable to the
treatment he would have got back home. If any of them had known he
had ended up here they would have tracked him down and hung him by
his entrails.

He barely noticed one of his
soldiers snap a quick salute as he entered the building, he cursed
himself for it. In an environment such as this he couldn't rely on
the likes of Yalem to catch every possible threat. He felt he was
getting altogether too soft with age, perhaps another sparring
session with Tub was in order.

His room was a small and
unfurnished area located on the third floor, his actual sleeping
quarters were a mystery he kept from everyone. The desk still had a
few papers clinging to the edges, they could wait for another time.

Settling himself into his
hard-backed chair, he planted his sandy boots on the desk. Rubbing
his chin thoughtfully he stared at Yalem, who seemed entirely
unperturbed with his fascination.

'Tell me Yalem, why should I
trust you again?'

Yalem shrugged. 'Service.'

Dyson waved his hand in
irritation. 'Yes, yes, I know you've been here twenty years and have
yet to fail me but what's stopping you from finishing me now?'

Yalem smiled at the age-old
question. 'You are finished.'

Dyson laughed at that. Perhaps a
little harder than he really felt. It was an old joke which served to
ease his paranoia somewhat. Of course Yalem could be trusted,
otherwise the fear of his impending demise would have driven him
insane over the years.

Unless that was his plan.

'I suppose every Corporal of this
godforsaken place is doomed to failure, a life in which death becomes
sweet release should you last long enough.'

Yalem snorted. 'Poetic
horseshit.'

'I know, I know, can't you allow
me the briefest of ruminations in the privacy of my own room? Are
your ears that deaf to the higher arts?'

Yalem didn't respond. He tended
to do that a lot.

'You're right I suppose, there's
no point in thinking too hard on the inescapable permanence we have
both been placed into, in another era you would be considered a
profound philosopher.'

He heard the slightly quickened
intakes of breath from Yalem's laughter click in his throat, who'd
have thought that would become the most joyous sound of his long
days?

'Fowl man?'

Ah,
yes,
the
displayed
calculation
of
a
man
starving
to
death.

'He's
a
lingering
thought
amongst
all
the
rest.
I
don't
plan
on
giving
him
any
preference
just
yet.
We'll
stick
him
in
C-company
to
make
sure
we
haven't
misjudged
him.
He's
less
likely
to
get
killed
that
way
and
may
have
a
chance
to
show
us
he's
worth
something.'

Yalem nodded and Dyson felt
pleased with his agreement. Sometimes he wondered whether the better
decisions came from his mind or his protector's.

He mulled over the organised
papers with precise care, it wouldn't do to have any of these
damaged.

The transcription from slate to
paper of information regarding training, deaths, new recruits and
match results was by far his most arduous task. This month's efforts
would be transported with the Urtaka and cages back to the city,
there the guild would make sure that they reached Levanin without
things going amiss. He wished he could have the man who demanded such
nonsense stood here before him, he'd throttle him with glee. Why did
such a bloody business now require detailed reports on the training?
What was it they were looking for with all this? His job had been
much simpler at the beginning before all this crap came in.

Having said that, he wasn't about
to underestimate the reach of Levanin should he defy even their most
petty and pointless demands. His tenure here seemed to stretch out
for a ridiculous length of time and coincide largely with this new
method. He wasn't about to change his way of working, even if it was
some idiot bureaucrat behind it. No, if the two were linked and this
came from upon high then he'd helpfully pretend to be king of the
castle for the rest of his days.

He slept fitfully that night in
his hidden room, there was something wrong about the eyes of the fowl
man.

T
he gruel
wasn't the worst Hern had tasted, though that may have been because
he hadn't paused to taste it at all. When a man is starving to death
he isn't overly picky about the texture or flavour of things.

In truth he was waiting for the
poison to take effect. He had been under no illusions that the
display he had just seen was merely the beginning of a very dangerous
game. There was undoubtedly a conditioning here that he was required
to take part in. Whilst many of these men would go through it
willingly and obliviously, Hern wasn't about to let someone pry with
the ordering of his mind.

As
his
strength
started
to
recover
and
he
noticed
the
foul
stench
of
the
greyish
muck
dribbling
off
his
chin,
he
began
to
peer
around
him
again
.
They
appeared
to
all
be
in
this
together
still,
each
man
gobbling
down
as
much
gruel
as
he
could
stand,
ladled
out
of
large
rusty
cylinders.
So
that
was
where
the
occasional
crunchy
bit
had
got
mixed
in
.

The speed with which they ate
proved to be a wise decision, as their time to do so was never going
to be infinite. The lids slammed down with a thunderous crack,
causing Hern to jump into readiness. The guards advanced, weapons
drawn, and ushered them through the next door and down a flight of
roughly hewn steps.

They were being shuttled down a
dark corridor which turned sharply to the right without warning, at
the end of this corridor they spied a square of light.

The marching slowed as they grew
closer, the guards allowing their eyes chance to adjust again so that
they weren't caught in some futile backlash from their impoverished
quarry.

It was as Hern had expected at
this point, the arena itself.

Two huge swaths of what looked
like canvas covered the seats in the oval, large sandy walls curving
around provided an impossible climb. Hern had seen the various
artistic depictions and even studied the diagrams of the Levanin
Colosseum drawn up by the guild. He knew that this must hold but a
tenth of the power and majesty of such a place but he still felt a
sense of awe at having arrived within something so large and ancient.

The Greyhawk oval was the oldest
active arena in all the land. Not that this brought it much prestige
from anyone but archaeologists and historians, most of whom didn't
have the stomach for the actual bloody competition it hosted.

The combat within the multitude
of arenas spread across the land was wildly popular in all parts of
society. The squalid underclass thirsting for some momentary release
from their hellish lives through the gambling merchants and nobles.
It even extended right up to the politicians that would feign
interest in the sport to appease their subjects.

The seats were empty but for two
men at the far end, carefully studying them as they stood blinking in
the bright light.

A squat man standing in the arena
started the usual tirade. Hern listened in for a moment, heard the
threats and the imposition and the clunky mind games that would work
fear into the hearts of some. There was no real import to the words,
it was the standard agreement that he had been bound to so long ago.
He silently longed to work under the previous man, at least then
there may be some substance to spice up the tedium.

The screaming abruptly abated and
they quietly shuffled into a line, the fat man who called himself Tub
paced up and down, eyeing them all unkindly and daring them to look
back the same way. Nobody was deluded enough to make that mistake it
would seem.

He could see that the man wasn't
entirely mindless, he was assessing them carefully in his own beady
way. Hern caught sight of two guards peeling off from the main group,
they returned with a large mannequin of an unknown material, securing
it firmly with a click into the ground.

'As some of you skulking shit
stains have probably noticed my boys here have set up a dummy. This
is the first and last time you will strike an immobile target. That
is until there's a fresh corpse beneath you.' He turned and spat into
the dirt. 'Some of you I will beckon forward, others I will shove
back. A few I may leave as they stand. You respond in any way and my
men fill you full of bolts.'

He barrelled into one of the
smaller men and sent him flying into the dirt. 'End him boys!' he
shouted, swinging his arm down in a decisive arc. The sound of three
bolts cut off the terrified scream, none of the other men dared to
look.

'When I come at you, you fall you
die. If you stand you live. If you react you die.'

This didn't bode well at all.

He beckoned the next man forward,
sweat beading across his face but eyes resolutely fixed into middle
distance. Tub promptly left him standing there and threw himself into
the next man who stood firm and stifled the murderous thoughts Hern
felt rising from him.

Slowly and steadily Tub worked
his way through the men and closer to Hern, no more bolts were fired
in that time. It would seem that the rest of the slaves had no
illusions about how much danger they were in now. Hern tensed up,
knowing that he couldn't afford to be touched by the likes of this
man even if it meant safe passage. His slight form wasn't going to
stand up to this barrel of lard even if he braced himself, there
seemed no other way out.

His
mind
raced,
he
risked
glances
around
him
to
determine
distances
and
numbers.
Judging
from
the
sounds
of
the
reloading
there
were
four
crossbow
carriers
and
having
counted
the
number
of
guards
that
had
escorted
them
out
that
left
at
least
twenty
others.
The
longer
he
thought
about
it
the
more
he
realised
there
was
no
choice.
He
certainly
wasn't
going
to
receive
any
help
from
his
comrades,
better
to
die
on
his
feet
than
his
back.
What
a
surprisingly
short
vacation
this
has
been.
Perhaps
the
guild
were
right
after
all,
though
it's
easy
to
say
that
when
the
odds
were
so
stacked
in
their
favour
.