When they emerged from the slit where the cliff had forced them to leave the stairway, he nodded sourly. “I didn’t think there was a cliff there.”
She frowned at it. “That was an illusion, too?”
“He had to have some way to get us into that cistern.” Abramm started up the stairs. A moment later he heard her follow.
“Isn’t this the way we came?”
“Yes.”
“But-shouldn’t we be going the other way, then?”
“Cooper wouldn’t have been able to see past the cliff,” Abramm said. “He’d have gone back for help, and it’s too late to beat the rains anyway.”
She didn’t argue with him anymore. It was work to climb the long, doglegged flight of stairs, and neither of them had breath to waste on conversation. Likely they wouldn’t have spoken anyway.
They had reached the top and were crossing over the rocky shoulder that separated one canyon from the next when a rushing roar rolled across the canyon-scored tablelands. The mists, so close earlier, seemed to have receded here, preparatory to the advent of the rains. Congealing into dark clouds that boiled low overhead, they flickered and rumbled with threat, and for a moment Abramm was sure that the threat was about to be realized.
But the horizon showed no sign of a downpour, and the blast of wind he was expecting never came. Instead the roar faded away to silence.
“What was that?” Carissa asked, coming up beside him.
He stared into the distance, and the urgency that had been gnawing at him increased twofold.
“I think it was a crowd,” he said and set off in long, hurried strides. A high, thin squeal, faint in the distance, confirmed his suspicions. That would be the opening fanfare signaling the arrival of the contest’s participants. There would be the usual ritual, Beltha’adi strutting around the ring, offering his obeisance to Khrell, boasting of his imminent success. He would be followed by the arrival of the Pretender, and shortly after that the fight would begin. In all probability, it would not last long.
He wanted to run full speed down the stairs angling before him, but Carissa would not be able to keep up with him, and he couldn’t abandon her out here.
Eidon, you know I am willing. Surely you won’t allow me to get there too late.
“Abramm, slow down? What is the matter with you?” Carissa’s annoyance whined in her voice, grating at him further.
He started to answer when again he heard that odd squealing sound. Maybe it wasn’t horns after all. That had sounded more like the bay of a hound and was coming from somewhere down in the canyon below. What would a hound be doing here? Had Beltha’adi conjured some new monstrous spawn to set loose in the canyons?
“I think that was Newbold,” Carissa said behind him.
“Newbold?”
“Captain Meridon’s hound. If Cooper did somehow reach Jarnek, it would make sense to send searchers out with the dog.”
And then he saw them, scrambling around the sheer wall of a dam down below: the dog, brown against red, the youth following behind on the leash, Cooper behind him, and three Dorsaddi.
With a rush of wonder, Abramm hurried down to meet them.
As he closed the gap he saw that the boy was in a rage, his freckled face dark and clouded and, incongruously, streaked with tears. He did not notice Abramm and Carissa until he was almost upon them. Then, seeing them coming down, he let go Newbold’s leash and stood where he was, panting up at them. And suddenly Abramm understood. Cooper must have come back with his story, and Trap, fearing he would die at Beltha’adi’s hand, had ordered the boy to go out with the dog to find them. Philip would hate it, but it was the kind of thing Abramm could imagine Trap doing. It was the kind of thing he could imagine himself doing.
Carissa rushed around both him and Philip to fling herself sobbing into old Cooper’s arms. About that time Philip saw the mark on Abramm’s chest. He frowned, uncertain, as he climbed the last few steps between them, but once he saw it clearly, saw it was indeed what he thought it was, his eyes widened, and like Carissa he stood and stared.
“I have to get back to Jarnek,” Abramm said quietly. `And she can’t keep up.
Philip nodded.
“I want you to take her round to the rear lines.”
“But he’s my brother-“
“He could have sent someone else after us, Philip. He sent you because he doesn’t want you there.” He paused, then nodded at Carissa, who was still sobbing in Cooper’s arms. `Any more than I want her there.”
Philip was frowning darkly. “You can’t ask me to do this. Not when he’s-“
“Fighting my fight. And if I get there in time, perhaps I can save him.”
Philip blinked up at him, startled out of his protests. In the distance the roar started up again, and this time he heard another squeal that really was a blast of horns.
“Will you do it, then?”
1…” The boy shut his mouth. After a moment he nodded.
Abramm hesitated. “I thank you for the gift you gave her. I pray she will find some comfort in it in the days to come.”
He then spoke softly to the Dorsaddi, directing them to escort his sister and her party to the rear lines. Carissa had ceased weeping by then, and Philip had drawn her aside, ostensibly to learn from her what had happened. She stood with her back to Abramm, as if she could not bear to look at him. He wondered if she had any idea what he was going to do. If not, she was the only one who didn’t. Cooper, who’d taken note of Abramm’s new shield with only a start of surprise, had moved downhill away from the group once Carissa had released him. Now he waited there, eyeing Abramm speculatively. As the latter approached, the old retainer bowed. “Good luck, Your Highness.”
“Thank you, Coop.”
But then the man just stared at him, until finally Abramm was forced to push past him. There was something in the man’s face or gaze that left Abramm discomfited. An intensity of regard that might be worship or something else entirely, neither of which he particularly welcomed.
Well, he had no time for that now, especially since he didn’t think it likely he would ever see his old guardian again.
A lifetime seemed to pass before he reached the sentries at the rear flanks of the Dorsaddi force-now congregated along the cliffs and wadis south of the amphitheater to watch the match unfolding there. This close it was obvious the roar was of a crowd and not of rain and wind, though the clouds still boiled angrily overhead. Recognizing him from afar, the sentries immediately sent a runner to alert the king so that, by the time Abramm reached the crowd jamming the floor of the Wadi Juba, he was expected. The men, who could see nothing of the match itself and were only waiting to pour out of the wadi at the contest’s end, greeted him fiercely, as if they had known all along he would return. Those nearest saw his shield right off, the word of his change sweeping the crowd like the first winds of storm, igniting a rumble of excitement.
They parted easily before him, many offering personal greetings and words of approval. Ahead, the amphitheater audience roared in waves, following the ebb and flow of the battle unfolding there. The sounds egged Abramm on, though he was deliberately controlling his pace so as to regain his breath before he entered the fray.
Rounding a bend, he finally saw the end of the wadi, where the two sheer red walls stood against the bright glow of unseen torches. He could see the ranks of gray-tunicked men seated on the curving benches of the amphitheater. Others clogged the cliff top above it and clung precariously to imperfections in the sheer rock between cliff top and the last row of real seats.
Closer to hand were the pale figures of the Dorsaddi, lining the near cliffs and also clinging to their sheer faces, some riding on others’ shoulders to see past the crowd. From where Abramm stood, though, the ring itself remained blocked from view.
Thunder rumbled as the amphitheater audience burst into another savage cheer. Abramm gripped the hilt of his sword and quickened his pace despite his intentions otherwise.
Suddenly the crowd parted, and King Shemm himself stood in Abramm’s path, forcing him to stop. The dark, shrewd eyes flicked at once to the shieldmark and back up to Abramm’s face. A smile twitched at the hard lips; then that unreadable stone face descended.
“You truly mean to face him, then,” the king said, as usual, getting right to the point.
“I do.”
“Newly changed, you cannot prevail against him.”
“Not in my own strength. But in that of Sheleft’Ai?” He smiled grimly. Anything is possible.”
“You have no costume.”
“I’ll fight like this. As I am. That should be proof enough.” Shettai, he thought, would be pleased.
Shemm’s expression never changed. “He will kill you, Pretender.”
“No doubt he will.”
For a long moment the Dorsaddi chieftain looked at him, staring deep into his eyes. Then he gave a single sharp nod and stepped back, gesturing to the lieutenant waiting at his elbow. “You’ll need these.”
The lieutenant stepped forward, three gold rings gleaming in the palm of his hand. Abramm stood very still as the tokens of his fighting rank were fastened back into his ear and his hair was retied into a proper warrior’s knot.
“I need a dagger,” he said when it was done, recalling that Rhiad had taken his.
Shemm slid his own free from its scabbard. Abramm took it with a nod, slid it into the empty sheath at his hip, then checked to see that his belt harness was securely fastened, that the blade released cleanly. By then every man in the canyon had become aware of his presence. The deep silence in the near periphery made the savage screams of the audience out in the Wadi Mudra seem all the more ominous.
Sudden movement rippled through the men around him, and the moment changed in an instant. Voices muttered urgently, their fear sharp and piercing. Finally the word reached Abramm and the king. “The Deliverer is down?”
He saw the alarm flare in Shemm’s face and, for a moment, shared it himself. If Trap couldn’t handle Beltha’adi, what chance did he himself have?
He pushed the fear away and reminded himself that victory would not lie in his own strength, but in Eidon’s. He was here because Eidon had brought him here. He would go into that ring because it was where Eidon wanted him to go.
Lifting his chin, he said firmly, “He and I have fought together for nearly two years. We will fight together now.”
He strode past Shemm and through the sea of Dorsaddi. Soon he had reached the mouth of the canyon and saw the great amphitheater beyond, ringed with torches as before. An archway of them stood on this side of the arena, the apparent entryway of the Pretender. Dorsaddi stood in that archway now, silent and tense as they watched the drama unfolding on the sand. Across from them, the gray-clad crowd on the stone benches had gone wild, screaming, leaping, and waving their swords in the air.
Abramm marched grimly forward, having to lay hands on the men in front of him to gain their attention and then their startled recognition as they moved aside. The Taleteller’s eerily amplified voice boomed over the din, but the words were coming so rapidly and so excitedly it was impossible to pick out anything coherent.
Suddenly it choked off, even as the cavorting crowd across the arena stilled. A whisper of astonishment swept over it, drowned out by another growl of thunder. Then the Taleteller’s voice echoed off the rock, each word clear in the silence. “This man is not the Pretender?”
The crowd erupted in a torrent of boos and hisses.
Abramm parted the last line of Dorsaddi standing directly under the archway. They gave way dazedly, their attention focused on the arena, where Trap was on his knees, bareheaded and reeling, his face pale and pinched as if he were sick. Burn marks reddened the side of his neck, and his white clothing was splotched with gray, as if it had mildewed. It was not dirt, for the sand on the arena floor was red. The front of his doublet was scorched and rent, and both his weapons glittered in the sand some distance away. The sword’s blade appeared to be broken off a handspan from the grip, and the dagger’s was a barely recognizable melt of metal. Beltha’adi loomed over him, elbana in hand, the Pretender’s white curly wig dangling from its tip.
Now he flicked the wig aside and snapped the blade back, slashing through the charred lace to lay open the front of the doublet. Dead center of the already bleeding slash, the Terstan’s golden shield glittered in the gray daylight for all to see. Snorting derision, Beltha’adi kicked him square in the chin with one booted foot, laying him out flat on his back against the red sand, where he rolled onto his side and made no effort to get up.
The crowd burst into excited shouting, and the Taleteller echoed them.
“It’s the Infidel? The Infidel in the Pretender’s costume? They have deceived us?”
The voice paused as the crowd went wild, a surge of sound thundering over the wadi. As it waned, the Taleteller continued. “Why would they do that, I ask you? But then, we all know, do we not?” It paused for dramatic effect, then shouted, “Because the Pretender knew he could not stand against the mighty power of the great Khrell’s Chosen? And so he sent his Infidel, while he himself has no doubt fled back to his homeland, back to the land of the yelaki?”
“Yelaki?” the crowd took up the chant, screaming, waving their weapons now. “Yelaki? Yelaki?”
Abramm drew a deep breath, pulled both his weapons from their scabbards, and strode into the arena.
C H A P T E R
42
He stopped ten strides from the gateway, and by then the crowd had gone silent again. All eyes were fixed upon him, dark faces over gray uniforms, over colorful tunics, over pale robes-but all of them male, all of them old enough to fight. They packed the tiered benches, clung to the cliff faces, peered in ranks from the rim, and filled the wadi itself, a sea of enemies whose combined gazes weighed on him with a pressure he had not experienced for a long time now. They were so quiet he could hear the hiss and sputter of the torches, the faint crackling of the flames in the belly of the great statue of Khrell brought over from the temple. A cadre of red-robed priests and darktunicked Broho stood guard at its base, holding off the common soldiers who thronged to either side.
The statue dwarfed them all. Its obsidian eyes, backlit by the belly flames, seemed eerily alive, and the open, smiling mouth, also lit by the internal fires, appeared to move and flex as if already laughing at his death. Though he had seen this idol-or ones like it-countless times, today it throbbed with a malevolent presence he had never before noticed. Today he realized it was not just stone and flame but something more. Something alive and calculating and knowing….
An icy-footed worm of fear crawled up his spine.
He turned his gaze to the man who stood between him and the statue, the short, muscular figure of the Supreme Commander of the Black Moon, facing him now with a look of amusement on his dark features. He wore the black tunic of the Broho, the silver amulet shining brightly against his chest. His shaven head gleamed, and the gold champion rings lining the margins of both ears flashed in silent affirmation of his skill. Over two hundred years of battle experience, they said. Enabled by the power of his god to be inhumanly fast, inhumanly accurate, inhumanly strong. Invincible, they said he was. Immortal.
The doubts Abramm had brushed off so easily back in the Wadi Juba returned in full force. Trap, bleeding and dusty, had managed to sit up and now gaped at him dully, barely holding himself conscious. Trap was experienced in the use of Eidon’s Light. He was as strong and as fine a swordsman as Abramm had ever known. He was brave, confident, not easily rattled. Yet he was finished, overwhelmed by the same adversary Abramm now proposed to fight.
Who am Ito think I can do any better?
He had reproved Carissa just this morning for trying to take on things she had no business taking on. Was he now doing the same? He had believed Eidon wanted him to come here. But what if he was wrong? Surely if Eidon were with him, he would not feel all these doubts.
With a sick, si
nking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he grew convinced he’d made a horrible mistake. That it had never been Eidon’s will at all but was only his own pride again.
And yet he was here. There would be no going back now. If there was a sea of Esurhites watching, so there was a sea of Dorsaddi watching at his back. He closed his eyes, blotting out the dark and supremely confident gaze of his adversary, and prayed. If I have overstepped, my Lord, I beg forgiveness. You know my heart. I know I am not able to face him on my own, but I know that you are. I ask only that my death will be to your glory, not to your shame.
He drew a deep breath, letting the doubts slide away, and opened his eyes.
“I have come,” he said, and though he had spoken quietly, his voice blared over the crowd.
The dark eyes flicked down to Abramm’s booted feet and up again, apparently ignoring the shield, though the look of amusement broadened almost into a smile. And you are the real Pretender, then?”
Abramm straightened his spine a hair. “I am Abramm Kalladorne, son of Meren, prince of Kiriath, and I am no Pretender.”
`Ahh.” Beltha’adi glanced over his shoulder at the satin-cloaked box of VIPs on the first landing. “Is it really him this time, my cousin?” he asked.
Abramm saw Katahn then, sitting in the first row, flanked by his son Regar, who was almost unrecognizable with his shaven head and priestly garb. The Gamer looked up from the mark on Abramm’s chest, favoring him with that typically ironic expression, one brow arched, a slight smile on his lips. “It is him, my lord.”
His voice, too, was amplified, and there was in it a current of excitement that spoke to Abramm’s soul, awakening in it a sudden flush of energy at the recollection that it wasn’t just his own idea that brought him here. It was the notion that this moment had been prophesied; it was the realization that every event had been orchestrated to bring him here, even down to that Star of Life appearing in Carissa’s hand when he had thought all was lost.