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Authors: Nathaniel Turner

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Veither prodded Hector down into the facility. The boy’s strength dwindled as he was robbed of the sights and sounds of the outside world once again. The tunnel opened into a broad, but shallow hall. Long rows of square cages filled the room; each cage afforded its prisoner about six feet on a side.

Hector retched involuntarily. The room swept around behind the tunnel and, in part, lay underneath the arena floor itself. The carnage above seeped below and commingled with the stink of unwashed combatants.

Veither laughed again. Taking the miserable boy by the shoulder, he thrust him around the corner and toward the worst of the reek. They passed dozens of men, many of them wounded, all of them grimy and emaciated. Veither shoved Hector into an empty cell along the back wall, about as far as anyone could get from the entrance tunnel.

The cell was damp and rusted. Hector’s imagination ran wild with visions of blood coating the bars and oxidizing the iron, never realizing that rain soaked through the sand and stone more than gore ever did. Fear began to creep in as he settled against the bars: fear that he would die in this place, sequestered and alone, or above on the arena floor at the hands of some other prisoner; fear that he would never see Bronwyn or Caradoc or his mother or Lord Aneirin again; fear that the gods had abandoned him and, by extension, the world to the hands of cruel men. He did not object when Veither slammed the cage shut and left him behind; he cowered.

“Hector?”

The boy spun, frightened by the sudden noise over his whimpering. There was a man in the adjoining cage, bruised and beaten and bloodied. He had dark hair and a dark beard, splintered by scars, and dark eyes that seemed to drown the meager torch-light. He was large, but hunched slightly, as if towering over the boy, like a demon ready to devour him. Hector’s tongue caught in his throat, and he could not answer.

“Hector,” the man said again, his voice hoarse from disuse, “It’s me—Brynjar.” He stepped closer, and he was illumined anew; Hector saw the familiar features, the hard jaw, the human frame.

“Brynjar!” he exclaimed, and rushed closer. Each man clasped the other’s shoulder through the bars, an awkward embrace. “I feared you were dead.”

“Not yet,” Brynjar replied wryly. “I have fought half a dozen times in their arena since we last met. How many days has it been?”

Hector shook his head. “I don’t know. They’ve kept us in pits at the edge of the clearing.” He paused, frowning, and corrected, “Well, they’ve kept me in a pit. I haven’t seen the others since the trial.”

Brynjar shook his head in turn. “Neither have I. Most of the men I fight are slaves and criminals, for the entertainment of a mob. From what I can see during a fight, they’re mostly locals.”

Hector looked around, with new courage found in his friend. “Why have they brought me here?” he asked, “What do they expect of me?”

Brynjar swallowed hard, not wanting to answer. Hector turned to him, and he relented. “If you’re to be housed here, then you’re to fight up above,” he said. Hesitantly, he added, “And they expect you to die.”

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The twenty-fourth of the month of Anthemen

Late in the eighth hour

That afternoon, a Keldan soldier came for both of them. Two other guards menaced them with spears as the soldier dragged them from their cells and pushed them toward the entry tunnel. He did not prod them with a weapon, but his hand rested meaningfully on his sword hilt to discourage attempts at escape.

They trudged in silence as they were pressed up the tunnel. Before they reached the open air, the soldier stopped them. Ahead, they could see three more Keldans and four more prisoners, closer to the arena floor. The iron gate was creaked open, but no one moved. From outside, Hector could hear someone shouting to the crowd.

“—seen them fight dozens of times before. They are your favorite team, and they’re just one victory away from winning their freedom! They are... the Keldan assassins of old Captain Hetya, Hero of the North!”

At that, the four prisoners ahead of them charged into the open. They were followed by their guards, who stood just outside the gate.

“Their opponents today are relative newcomers to our arena! You’ve seen one fight battle after battle, never relenting, never giving in, but now he has a weak link to protect!”

Brynjar casually turned to Hector. There was resolution in his eyes, and any softness that Hector might once have found there was gone. He spoke softly. “Remember what I taught you,” he advised, “Take courage.”

“Before you can control a battle,” Hector recalled aloud, “You first have to control yourself.”

“Travelers, vagabonds, trespassers, they are!” the announcer outside continued, “They have violated our lands and seek to destroy our way of life! They are... the villains from the west!”

Hector felt a jab in his back as their guard prodded him forward with one gauntleted hand. Brynjar was already marching into the hot sunlight. The southern warrior was defiant and resolved; he moved without hesitation, without reservation. Hector set his jaw, banished his fears, and followed his friend onto the burning sand.

The brilliant glare of midday startled him, and he raised an arm to shield his eyes. When the world came into focus, he saw the forest beyond the wall, gently swaying in the breeze. Briefly, he envied those trees; each was forever rooted to one spot, yet they were freer than he was at this moment. As his gaze settled earthward, he saw Brynjar and, beyond him, the four barbaric criminals that had preceded them.

The jeering of the crowds was deafening. Now that the announcer had spoken his piece, nothing prevented their taunts. Hector turned to face the gallery; he saw many men, but women, too, and even children. Watching the games was a family affair for the Keldans; that thought twisted Hector’s stomach.

Turning back, he stepped abreast with Brynjar. Realizing that he was still unarmed, he frowned. He whispered urgently to Brynjar, “What are we supposed to fight with?”

The warrior nodded toward the space in the middle of the arena. “Those,” he answered.

Hector looked. About equidistant between them and the criminals, two swords and one spear stood point-down in the sand. Fear reestablished its foothold in his heart as he recognized their predicament: the six men on the field would be forced to fight for a weapon, and then use it to kill the enemy. Hector tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but succeeded only in straining his neck muscles.

Brynjar offered one more piece of advice: “Don’t hesitate.”

Then the announcer shouted, “Begin!”

With a roar, the criminals charged toward the center of the ring. Brynjar took off for the spear in the very center, leaving Hector to go for one of the swords. As panic tore through him, the boy ran stutteringly forward, aiming at the sword closest to him, nearer the north side of the arena.

His legs felt like dead weight as he footslogged through the sand. The dread pulled at him, draining his strength. Two of the criminals were chasing the spear, a third was running for the sword on the right, and the last looked to compete with Hector for the sword on the left.

Hector despaired.

But then he remembered his hope. “I know that you’re strong enough to do what the gods are asking of you,” Bronwyn had said. Hector wanted to say that the gods were asking too much, that his suffering was too great—but not so great, he knew, as it would be if Bronwyn came to harm. Eitromal had implied threats against them all if Brynjar should fall in the arena; Hector could not allow that.

With renewed vigor, he charged across the hot sands. Yet his delays cost him: the criminal reached the sword first. Like caution to the wind, Hector threw himself bodily at the man. The impact took them both off their feet. The sword had barely left the earth when it thudded back down again.

Hector threw wild punches. He kicked sharply at the man beneath him. The criminal was startled by the savagery of this foreigner. He raised his arms, trying to shield his face from the blows. Hector did not relent, even as his hands ached and bled from the fight.

At last, the criminal recovered from his surprise. Pushing outward with arms and legs, he launched Hector away onto the arena floor. He scrambled through the sand, seeking the sword, but Hector reacted faster. The Alkimite regained his footing and kicked the criminal in the ribs before diving for the sword. The man yelped and tumbled over as Hector fell face-first into the dense sand. His hand found the hilt.

Hector rolled onto his back. The criminal was clambering toward him. Hector raised the sword just in time; the Keldan impaled himself as he charged the boy. His weight carried him farther, landing him heavily on top of Hector. His face, twisted in horror, was only inches from his foe’s. The young Alkimite watched as the light escaped from his eyes.

Hector felt sick. Blood was seeping down the hilt onto his hands, and he released it instinctively. He pushed away and scrabbled out from under the corpse, crossing the sandy floor on his back. He rose to his knees, gasping for breath. The roars of the crowd reached his ears again, and he looked up.

Brynjar was about twenty feet away, wrenching his spear from the last of the criminals. He was beaten and bloodied anew, but he was alive, and the Keldans were not.

The guards rushed out from the tunnel gate. Archers stood on the roof of the gallery, threatening both survivors with their drawn weapons. Hector was heaved upward and shoved back toward the prison. He watched Brynjar drop his spear and throw up his hands in surrender.

As the lump rose back into Hector’s throat, he wondered how any of them were going to survive.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The second of the month of Ennemen

Early in the second hour

Eight days passed; twelve since Fero died. Fintan and Einar had been guards outside the lords’ tent almost every night since then.

Drystan had requested them specifically; Fintan could not fathom why the traitorous Guardian trusted them, but he was glad to be so close to the top. Here, they could listen in on most of the meetings that Derek had with his captains and gather information that Einar could report to Duncan.

Even more curiously, Einar found himself the
de facto
captain of their new troop. Fintan had expected that honor to fall to either Mort or Umbra, but both southerners had been called away by a captain that Fintan did not know. The Sundan speculated that Derek wanted them to scout in advance, but he had heard nothing about their assignment. As a result, their troop was again short, this time by two.

He and Einar stood at attention, unwavering in their apparent devotion. In truth, both men wished they could barge into the lords’ tent and kill Derek where he sat, but they knew it would be a futile effort. If Derek did not kill them, Drystan would, and their entire scheme would be exposed. It was better to wait, and learn.

But Drystan had not been in the lords’ tent. The Guardian approached presently, passing by the two soldiers without acknowledging them. Einar looked at Fintan after the Traitor passed, and both men leaned a little closer to the tent opening.

“The Thuites,” Drystan was saying, “are planning to defend their town from its walls. No doubt they expect the stones to hold.”

“No doubt,” Derek replied. “Are there any others? Outside the walls?”

Fintan thought that Drystan paused then, but only for the slightest of moments. “No, milord,” the Guardian replied.

“Very well,” Derek answered, “I trust you.” There was a pause, then a shuffle from another part of the tent. Fintan resisted the urge to open the tent flap and get a glimpse of the proceedings. “I believe you are still loyal to me,” Derek continued, “unlike several of my best warriors.”

There was the sound of wooden crates being cracked open. There was no audible reaction from Drystan, but Derek said, “They tried to murder me last night, friend. My guards, thank the gods, were very efficient; this was all they left of these two.” Fintan looked at Einar meaningfully, but the other man’s expression was as clueless as his own. “Still,” Derek was saying, “they did betray their own when they poisoned Lord Fero. It’s just as I always say, eh, friend?” There was a significant pause before Derek concluded, “Once a traitor, always a traitor.” Derek laughed artificially.

Drystan replied evenly, “How unfortunate for them that you are so wise, milord.”

There was more shuffling; Fintan and Einar quickly stood at attention. Drystan stormed out past them. A few moments later, two soldiers stepped out carrying a pair of small wooden crates. Einar gestured to them curiously, indicating the crates. Now that they were out of Derek’s sight, they were unafraid of his wrath. They opened the crates as quietly as they could.

Inside were the severed heads of Mort and Umbra.

Chapter Seven

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The second of the month of Ennemen

Late in the sixth hour

Getting out of the Regiment camp to see Duncan was not easy. The camp was full of soldiers, and navigation among them required an agile step under the best of conditions. Meeting during the day was a fool’s errand, but Einar knew that he had no choice.

Not long after Drystan’s departure from the lords’ tent that morning, a scout had arrived to notify Derek of his findings. He had explained that the Thuites were mostly lined up on their walls, but they were also spread across the forest region to the west of the Regiment’s approach.

In response, Derek had expressed two sentiments: his desire to punish Drystan for lying to him, and his desire to exterminate the Thuites for standing in his way. Einar did not know what schedule could dictate that plan; he only knew that he had to get a warning to the Thuites.

Escaping individual notice was easy enough. Every soldier in the camp had his own duties and interests requiring his attention, so no one paid attention as Einar slipped away. Einar’s greater concern was that the lords still did not trust him; they might have had him followed. If anyone caught him meeting with Duncan, it would put both of them in mortal danger, not to mention Azos and Fintan.

Duncan had agreed to keep northeast of the Regiment camp at all times, but without landmarks, finding his exact location was a challenge. Einar took a circuitous route through the camp, ostensibly on patrol. After most of an hour, he reached the northeast edge of the camp, which was situated in a wide field. Farther east and a little north, there was a small copse; if Duncan were nearby, that was where he would be. Taking one last suspicious glance around, Einar made for the copse.

The weather was clear, and the air was crisp and cold. A light breeze, carrying the scent of loam, swept across the plain from the east, cutting through the fur garment Einar was wearing. The trees in the thicket ahead were already losing their colorful coiffures to the chill. Einar wrapped his arms around his chest, tucked his head down, and increased his pace toward the dense grove.

When he drew near, he slowed, keeping a wary eye for Regiment scouts or native predators. The area seemed peaceful enough, but Einar did not want to take any chances. The leaves on the ground and in the trees rustled in the wind, muffling potential hints of danger. Suspicion tensed Einar’s muscles as he tried to silence his footsteps, falling with indelicate crunches on dead leaves.

He almost jumped from his skin when Duncan beckoned him with a sharp whistle. The taller man peeked into the open from a stretch of thick underbrush.

“Wrack it!” Einar exclaimed, “Be more subtle, man!” He gestured with the sword now in his hand, drawn in the heat of the moment. “I might have killed you!”

Duncan smirked. “Not likely,” he retorted in good humor. The two men embraced in a brief hug, then parted, slapping each other on the shoulder. “What could be so important as to risk this?” Duncan asked; his tone was serious now.

Einar explained quickly, detailing what he had learned about the Thuites and Derek’s plans for them. Duncan’s expression grew increasingly worried as he listened. “They think they’re going to trap Derek,” Duncan summarized, “but they have no idea what they’re really up against.”

“No kidding,” Einar replied; now that he saw it on the march every day, the size of the Regiment astounded the Alkimite. “Derek already knows their plans. He’ll counteract, and the Thuites will be wiped out.”

“I’ll warn them,” Duncan resolved, “At least they’ll get the women and children away first. With any luck, I can convince them to abandon the town and return later to rebuild.”

Einar nodded. “Good,” he affirmed, “I think the damage will be minimal if there is no resistance.” As he cast a wary look at their surroundings, he said, disquieted, “I should get back before I’m missed.”

Duncan smiled grimly and slapped him on the shoulder once more. “Be cautious,” he warned, “Derek is likely to get more dangerous as we near the Valley and his goals are within reach.”

With that, the two men parted. Einar checked over his shoulder half a dozen times to make sure that Duncan could not be seen across the field. He never spied the other Alkimite. Unless there were Regiment scouts in the area, Einar guessed that his friend would be safe.

When he returned to his camp, he found Drystan and a man he did not recognize waiting for him. The man bore the rank of captain on his broad shoulders, just below a thick mat of unruly blond hair. The man’s eyes were a sharp blue and shone with a perilous light. He was not all brawn, like the late southerners, Mort and Umbra, but was lean with practiced muscles. He said nothing as Einar approached, but Drystan snapped, “Where have you been, Outis?”

Einar frowned. “A guard at the prisoner tent came down ill,” he lied, “He looked fine to me, but he swore he needed some private time away from camp, so I stood in for him.”

Drystan sneered. “Next time, report it first,” he said, dissatisfied. Without pausing to regain any sense of composure, he gestured to his companion. “This is Captain Cassus, of Derek’s most elite troop of soldiers. He will be leading the charge into the Thuite town tomorrow; I want you and your troop alongside him.”

“Well met,” Cassus said. His voice was deep, but harsh. A scar on his neck suggested an old wound was to blame.

Einar bowed his head. “And you,” he answered swiftly. He turned to Drystan: “Of course I will obey, milord,” he responded, “We will be there.”

Drystan nodded curtly, then turned away. Cassus followed him closely. Einar wondered how many of Derek’s men the Guardian planned on turning against the warlord before their inevitable confrontation.

*

The 2040th year of the Sixth Era

The third of the month of Ennemen

Late in the first hour

The next morning, Hector was roused from sleep by the repetitive clanging of a Keldan rapping iron bars with his sword. The young Alkimite pulled himself off the musty pile of straw that served as his bed and rose to his feet. Glancing over, he saw that Brynjar was already awake.

“What’s going on?” Hector asked, hoping in vain for good news.

“Another fight,” Brynjar answered curtly. “Our turn again.”

“Again?” Hector objected. “It’s only been—” he tried to count, “uh, three days—or was it four? Anyway, it hasn’t been that long since we were last out there.”

“We’re a popular team,” Brynjar said, his tone betraying his anger at their predicament. Hector was beginning to understand Brynjar’s behavior; he suspected that the warrior wanted to break his chains, burst free from the cell, and slaughter the Keldans for this ignominy. “They like the idea of their own people killing the trespassing foreigners.”

Hector sighed. “I wonder who it will be this time,” he commented with a heavy dose of apathy in his voice. The identities of their opponents were only epithets and generalizations; he had killed two men now, and he had no idea what their names had been. In quiet moments, when Brynjar was asleep, Hector allowed himself to weep. Brynjar would have admonished him for such weakness, but the boy had felt a roiling pit in his stomach constantly after that first battle. It was a gift of the gods that he did not retch everything he ate, but the emotional toll was almost unbearable.

But every time he felt overwhelmed, when the world seemed to crush him under its weight, he remembered Bronwyn, and he remembered her trust in him. It was enough to keep him going—barely.

“On your feet!” a guard commanded. It was the same Keldan that had taken the two of them to the arena for the last two fights. Hector had heard him called Folguen. He was not the harshest of the Keldans they had encountered; Hector wondered if the dark-haired man regretted his lot in life. The Keldans had shown no more courtesy to their own than to their guests; surely, Hector thought, some of them must be disappointed in their chieftain.

“I said, get up!” Folguen snapped at them. Hector watched Brynjar out of the corner of his eye; the Drengar had been sorely wounded over the past weeks, but he hid it beneath his pride. Slowly, the older warrior rose to his feet, forcing his sprained knee to open in spite of the pain that Hector saw flit across his face.

At the same speed, Hector stood in his own cell. Folguen was neither amused nor impressed. The Keldan jerked his head toward the ramp up to the arena. After a few days in the dank cells, the Keldans had begun to forgo a group of armed guards for the two foreigners. Folguen, though, still rested his hand meaningfully on his sword hilt as he walked his prisoners to the ramp.

This time, they were the first to arrive. Herded up to the entry gate, Hector and Brynjar were pressed close to the metal and held there by additional guards. This position provided Hector with more of the announcer’s spiel than he had heard before.

“Welcome to the Grand Arena!” the announcer began, “Your great host, Lord Eitromal, bids you his salutations as he presents to you this latest combat for your pleasure! Two teams will engage in battle until only one remains alive. Make sure to keep back from the arena wall—you never know what may happen!”

Hector wondered if that kind of warning was heeded by an audience that cheered the deaths of guests and suppliants. But perhaps that was the point; the Keldans were often careful to phrase their statements so that blame could be laid on another. Hector and Brynjar were not “guests,” they were “trespassers.” The announcer pretended his jeering enticements were actually warnings. Hector realized that, on some level, the Keldans still feared the gods, but instead of that fear inspiring moral action, it inspired only an outward façade free of criminal implication. The Keldans were certain that the gods examined only the exterior of a man. As a result, all they needed to justify their crimes was to dress them up as piety.

“In the far field, a pair you know too well!” the announcer continued, “They have won many victories, but perhaps tonight they will fall! Travelers, vagabonds, and trespassers, they are! They seek to destroy our way of life! They are... the villains from the west!”

Hector felt a spear-haft slap against his shoulder blades. He pushed against the gate. It gave under the pressure. He and Brynjar hurried out, circling the field to reach its eastern end amid a chorus of boos. The morning sun peeked out through the trees beyond that wall. Hector saw five weapons stashed in the center of the ring, but resisted the urge to take one before the beginning of the match. Keldan archers waited eagerly atop the western edifice, quick to dispatch anyone at a nod from the gallery.

Now that they had a few moments to look, Hector examined the people in the gallery. As he had seen before, there were many men there, but women and children, too. Lord Eitromal sat in a splendiferous throne, excessively gaudy and all too self-absorbed. A troop of guards flanked him, surrounding him as if protecting him from the people more than the gladiators. After seeing Eitromal’s treatment of his own people, Hector wondered if perhaps his impression of the guards was actual fact.

“Today, they face enemies no man has ever faced before, and lived to tell the tale! Fresh from their arrival within our borders, they are dauntless warriors from the frigid north. Stronger than oxen and tougher than the winter itself, they outnumber our villains more than two-to-one! Will they be victorious, or will they, too, fall prey to these blackguards? I give you... the rapscallions from the north!”

Five men burst out of the gate like bats at dusk. They spread across the sandy field, their superior numbers allowing them to force Hector and Brynjar into a weaker defensive posture. They were brawny men, scarred and hoary from their life in the unfeeling northlands. Three of them had unruly blond hair topping their haggard faces, which were covered with unkempt beards. The fourth had a shock of burnt orange locks hanging past his shoulders, and the last was bald except for a long, gray braid hanging from the base of his skull. Fear crept into Hector’s heart as he watched the foe deploy across the arena, ready to surround and conquer.

“Backs together,” Brynjar said, drawing him back to courage, “once we have our weapons. Don’t let them flank you.”

Hector nodded as he watched the three northmen closest to him, one of the blonds, the redhead, and baldy. Brynjar had warned him not to let his gaze drift from his enemy; the purpose of his eyes in battle was to see what his opponent planned to do before he did it. “What if one of us falls?” he asked the older warrior.

“Then we die as men, in service of the gods,” Brynjar replied, “They can ask no more of a man than that.”

Now Hector did let his eyes drift to look at Brynjar. There was an edge in the man’s voice, something Hector had heard before, but had never identified. He was beginning to think that Brynjar wished for death, that he pursued it like a hunter pursues a wild boar. Hector had never thought that Brynjar might take the coward’s escape, but when Aneirin had sent him east, the man had been robbed of his opportunity for vengeance against Derek. Without that purpose driving him, Hector worried that Brynjar had no reason to live any longer.

“Begin!”

The announcer’s shout echoed across the sands, knocking Hector back into the present. He snapped his gaze up and, abreast with his friend, charged toward the center of the arena and the pile of weapons. Ahead of him, he saw the blond and redheaded northmen doing the same; baldy, on his right, dismissed the weapons and passed around behind them, ready to attack as soon as their backs were turned.

BOOK: The Chimaera Regiment
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