Magician (100 page)

Milamber’s expression indicated
that he didn’t agree. Judging the time right for the question,
he said, “Hocho, have you noticed any of the Shinzawai Family
in attendance?”

He glanced around the stadium, looking
for the family banners of the more prominent houses of the Empire.
“Minwanabi, Anasati, Keda, Tonmargu, Xacatecas, Acoma . . . No,
Milamber. I can’t say if any of your former, ah, benefactors
are to be seen about. Not that I would expect them to be.”

“Why?”

“They find themselves in the
Warlord’s bad graces of late. Something to do with failing some
task or another he gave them. And I have heard that they are
considered suspect, despite their clan’s suddenly rejoining the
war effort. The Kanazawai Clan is lost in its past glories, and the
Shinzawai are the most old-fashioned of the lot.”

Through the afternoon the matches wore
on, each more artful than the previous as the skill level of the
opponents increased Soon the last pairs were done. Now the crowd
waited in hushed anticipation, even the nobles quieted, for the next
event was unusual. A team of twenty fighters, Midkemian from their
size, marched out into the center of the arena. They carried ropes,
weighted nets, spears, and long curved knives. They wore only
loincloths, their bodies oiled and gleaming in the late afternoon
light. They stood around looking relaxed, but the soldiers in the
crowd recognized the subtle signs of tension common to fighters
before a battle. After a minute the large double doors at the
opposite end of the stadium opened, and a six-legged horror came
shambling into the arena.

The harulth was all long teeth and
sharp claws, complete with a belligerent attitude and a hidelike
armor, and close to the size of a Midkemian elephant. It hesitated
only long enough to blink at the light, then charged straight at the
party of men before it.

They scattered before the creature,
seeking to confuse it. The harulth, through simple- or
single-mindedness, pursued one hapless fellow. In three enormous
strides he ground the man underfoot, then gobbled him down in two
bites. The others regrouped behind the animal and quickly deployed
the nets. The hexapod spun about, faster than looked possible for a
creature of such bulk, and charged again. This time the men waited
until the last moment, tossed the nets, then dived away. The nets
were edged with hooks to catch in the thick hide of the beast. It
stepped into them and soon was busily tearing apart the mesh. While
it was momentarily occupied, the spearmen ran in to strike. The
harulth reacted in confusion, not being sure from which quarter its
torment originated. The spears were proving ineffectual, for they
could not penetrate the hide of the beast. Quickly realizing the
futility of this approach, one fighter grabbed another and pointed to
the rear of the creature. They dashed back toward the tail, which was
sweeping back and forth along the ground with the force of a
battering ram.

They conferred momentarily, then
dropped their spears as the creature decided upon a target. It lashed
forward and had another man in its maw. For a moment it was still as
it swallowed its prey. The two men at the rear ran forward, leaping
high up onto the tail of the animal. It seemed not to notice for a
moment, then reacted by swinging around violently, throwing the
second man off. Having come completely about, it stopped to devour
the stunned man. The other somehow contrived to hang on and employed
the few moments the harulth used to eat his comrade to pull himself
higher on the creature’s tail, where it joined the animal’s
haunches. With an overhand stroke he plunged his long-bladed knife
between two vertebrae where they were outlined by loose-hanging skin.
It was a desperate gamble, and the stadium crowd screamed approval.
The knife penetrated the tough cartilage between the bone segments
and pierced the spinal column. The creature bellowed with rage and
started to spin, threatening to toss the unwelcome rider, but in a
moment the rearmost pair of legs collapsed. The harulth stood baffled
for a moment, its two forward pairs of legs pulling against the dead
weight of its hind quarters. Twice it tried vainly to snap at its
small tormentor, but its thick neck was insufficient for the task.
The man pulled the blade loose and crawled forward along the spine
while the surviving spearmen darted in and out, distracting the
creature. Three times he was nearly tossed off the animal’s
back, but somehow he managed to retain his position. When he found
himself slightly forward of the middle pair of legs, he drove his
blade between vertebrae. The central legs collapsed an instant later,
and the man was thrown clear of the animal’s back. The harulth
screamed its rage and pain, but was effectively immobilized. The
fighters backed away and waited. Two spinal cuts proved to be enough,
for minutes later the harulth fell over in shock, thrashed its
forelegs for a time, and lay still.

The crowd shouted its enthusiastic
approval of the contest, for never had a group of fighters bested a
harulth without losing at least five times as many men. In this
contest only three had died. The fighters stood around, exhaustion
causing weapons to fall from limp fingers. The battle had lasted less
than ten minutes, but the expenditure in energy, concentration,
sweat, and fear had worn each man to near-prostration. Numbly
oblivious to the crowds cheering, they stumbled toward the exit. Only
the man who had actually driven in the knife showed any expression,
and he was openly weeping as he moved across the sand.

“Why do you think that man is so
distraught?” asked Shimone. “It was a grand triumph.”

Milamber said in a voice forced to
calmness, “Because he is exhausted and afraid, and sick from
it.” He then added softly, “And he is very far from
home.” He swallowed hard, struggling against outrage, then
said, “He knows it is for nothing. Again and again he will
march into this arena, to fight other creatures, other men, even
friends from his homeland, and sooner or later he will die.”
Hochopepa stared at Milamber, and Shimone looked confused. “But
for chance, I might have been with those below,” added
Milamber. “Those who fought are men. They had families and
homes, they loved and laughed. Now they wait to die.”

Hochopepa waved a hand absently.
“Milamber, you have a disturbing habit of taking things
personally.”

Milamber felt sickened and angered by
the bloody spectacle, but forced those emotions down within himself.
He was determined to stay. He would be Tsurani.

The sand was cleared and trumpets blew
again, signaling the final match of the afternoon. A dozen
proud-looking warriors dressed in leather battle harnesses,
wristbands set with studs, and headdresses plumed in many colors came
striding out of one end of the arena. Milamber had never seen their
like in person, but recognized their dress from his vision on the
tower. These were the descendants of the proud Serpent Riders, the
Thuril Each wore a hard-eyed expression of grim determination.

From the other end, twelve warriors in
color-splashed imitations of Midkemian armor marched out. Their own
metal armor had been deemed both too valuable and too dull for the
contest, and Tsurani artisans had provided stylized imitations.

The Thuril stood watching the newcomers
with implacable contempt. Of all the races of humanity, only the
Thuril had been able to withstand the Empire. The Thuril were
uncontestedly the finest mountain fighters in Kelewan, and their
mountain holds and high farm pastures were impossible to conquer.
They had held the Empire at bay for years until peace had been
declared. They were a tall people, the result of their lack of
interbreeding with the shorter races of Kelewan, whom they considered
inferior.

The trumpets blew again, and a hush
fell over the crowd. A herald shouted in a clear voice, “As
these soldiers of the Thuril Confederacy have violated the treaty
between their own nations and the Empire, by making war upon the
soldiers of the Emperor, they have been cast out by their own people,
who have named them outlaws and bound them over for punishment. They
will fight the captives from the world of Midkemia. All will strive
until one is left standing.” The crowd cheered.

The trumpet sounded, and the fighters
squared off. The Midkemians crouched, weapons at the ready, but the
Thuril stood tall, defiant looks upon their faces. One of the Thuril
strode forward, halting before the nearest Midkemian. With
contemptuous tones he spoke rapidly and made a sweeping motion around
the arena.

Milamber felt a hot flush of anger
begin to grow inside, coupled with shame at what he was seeing. There
were games in Midkemia—he had heard of them—but they were
nothing like this. The men who fought in Krondor and other places
throughout the Kingdom were professionals who made a living by
fighting to first blood. Occasionally a duel to the death would be
fought, but it was always a personal matter, after all other means of
settling the dispute had been exhausted. This was a mindless waste of
human life for the titillation of the bored and idle, the satiated in
search of more and more vivid reminders that their own lives were
worth something. Milamber looked around and felt disgust at the
expressions on the faces of those nearby.

The Thuril warrior continued his
ranting, while the Midkemian watched, with something in their manner
suggesting a shift of mood. Before, they were tensed, battle-ready,
now they seemed almost relaxed. The Thuril continued pointing up at
the assembled throng.

Then a Midkemian, tall and
broad-shouldered, stepped forward as if to speak. The Thuril came on
guard, his sword high, ready to strike. A voice rang out from behind,
as another warrior said something that carried a note of reassurance.
The first Thuril visibly relaxed.

The Midkemian slowly removed his helm,
revealing a tired, haggard face, framed by damp, stringy black hair.
He looked about the arena while the crowd began to whisper and
grumble at the unexpected behavior of the warriors, and then gave a
curt nod. He dropped his sword and shield and said something to his
companions. Quickly the other fighters in the arena followed suit,
and soon all weapons were lying upon the ground.

Milamber wondered at this strange
behavior, and Shimone said, “This will end a shambles. The
Thuril will not fight their own kind, and it seems they won’t
fight the barbarians either. I once saw six Thuril kill everyone sent
against them, then refuse to fight one another. When the guards came
to kill them, they fought, driving them back. Finally bowmen on the
wall had to shoot them down It was a disgrace. The crowd rioted, and
the games director was torn to bits. Over a hundred citizens died.”

Milamber felt relief: at least he would
be spared the spectacle of Katala’s people and his own killing
one another. Then the crowd began to shout their disapproval, jeering
the reluctant combatants.

Hochopepa nudged Milamber and said,
“The Warlord appears less than amused by this.”

Milamber saw the Warlord’s livid
expression as he watched his presentation to the Emperor turned into
a farce. Almecho slowly rose from his place near the Light of Heaven
and bellowed, “Let the fighting begin!”

Burly handlers, guards who worked on
behalf of the games director, ran into the arena, wielding whips.
They circled the motionless fighters and began lashing out at them
Milamber felt his gorge rise as the handlers laid about, tearing the
exposed skin from the arms and legs of the Thuril and Midkemian
soldiers. No stranger to the whip when in the swamp, he knew its
terrible touch. He felt each stroke as it fell upon those on the sand
below.

The crowd began to grow restive, for
watching motionless men being whipped was not what they had come to
see. Jeers and catcalls rang down upon those in the imperial box, and
a few bolder souls threw litter and small coins into the arena,
showing what they thought of such sport. Finally one of the handlers
grew impatient, stepped up to a Thuril warrior, and struck him across
the face with a whip handle. Before the handler could react, the
Thuril sprang forward and tore the whip from the startled man’s
hands. In an instant he had it firmly wrapped about the man’s
throat, choking him.

The other handlers turned their
attention to the warrior attacking their companion and began to flail
wildly at him. After a dozen or so blows the Thuril began to wobble,
and fell to his knees. But he held tightly to the whip, strangling
the gasping handler. Again and again blows rained down upon the
Thunl, until all his armor ran red with blood from the lashing. Still
he held on to his victim.

When the handler died, eyes protruding
from a blue face, whatever strength left to the Thuril seemed to die
as well. As the handler’s limp body came to rest on the sand,
the Thuril warrior fell beside him.

It was a Midkemian soldier who reacted
first. With cold detachment he simply picked up a sword and ran one
of the handlers through. Then, as one, the Thuril and Midkemian
soldiers had weapons in hand, and within a minute all the handlers
were dead. Then, again as one, the prisoners threw their weapons to
the ground.

Milamber battled to stay calm in the
face of such display. He felt nothing but admiration for those men.
They accepted death rather than slay one another. Possibly some of
those men had ridden through the valley with him on the raid to
discover the rift machine so many years before. Outwardly he appeared
calm, a Tsurani, but inwardly he seethed.

Hochopepa whispered, “I have a
bad feeling here. Whatever gain Almecho sought from this day to
bolster his position with the Emperor is badly shaken. I fear he is
not taking well your former countrymen’s reluctance to die for
the entertainment of the Light of Heaven.”