“Win for us, Tyrion,” said Byovar, standing next to him. “The entire grove stands behind you.”
He glanced at the lore-warden. Us? “I am not fighting today.”
“They are,” said the Illeniel She’Har, pointing at the holding cells where the teens from Colne were being held. Almost all of them were inside a cell now, except for Piper and Blake, the only two whose abilities had yet to manifest.
Tyrion turned away in irritation, heading for David’s cell first, since he had just been named. “They will do what they must,” he replied. But only to survive, not for yours, or any other She’Har’s amusement.
Opening David’s door, he found the boy within shaking with fear and adrenaline. “Are you ready?” he asked.
David nodded, but almost stumbled as he stepped out.
“Deep breaths, boy. Too much adrenaline will get you killed. Clear your head,” he cautioned, leading his son to the edge.
David’s fight was against a Mordan slave, one who had already won several bouts in the past. His opponent began teleporting at random, making it difficult for the young man to attack him. After a few minutes of cat and mouse though, David drew a wide circle around himself some seven feet across before using it to create an especially potent shield. Then he straightened his arms at his side, closing his eyes as if in meditation.
Thillmarius clapped, “I remember you doing that once.”
“The shield is too big,” noted Byovar. “His opponent can just teleport inside it.”
“That’s the point,” said Thillmarius, glancing at Tyrion knowingly. “He doesn’t have your special tattoos, though.”
“He won’t need them,” Tyrion answered the lore-warden. “His opponent isn’t a She’Har, nor does he have the strength to protect himself from my son’s close assault.”
It was a good trick, although if the slaves had been permitted to watch the matches in the past, it would have soon become useless. Since they were kept in the dark, unable to watch the fights, none of them had ever caught on. It made it difficult for them to learn from other’s mistakes.
David’s opponent was cautious, and he continued to move about outside the shield, testing it now and then, but eventually he realized that it was far too strong for him to break, nor was it causing David any difficulty to maintain it.
He should attempt to disrupt the ground, or starve David for air, thought Tyrion, but the Mordan mage did neither.
Instead he began to teleport more quickly, attempting to disorient the young man standing inside the fortified shield. Tyrion smiled. David had already won.
Seconds later the outcome arrived, violent and bloody. The Mordan slave teleported within the circle, hoping to surprise the boy from Colne. David’s arm blade destroyed his opponent’s shield and continued on to nearly bisect the other man.
I need to put some lines on their arms, or go ahead and give them tattoos, thought Tyrion. He almost didn’t have enough to finish him in one shot after breaking the shield.
David roared, lifting his arms toward the sky as the shock and relief of winning washed over him. It was a feeling that Tyrion was well acquainted with, and for a split second he found himself jealous. He missed the thrill of it, seeing the blood and knowing it was not his own, knowing he would live another day.
Seeing the look on David’s face turned his stomach, though. The boy’s triumph had flooded him with joy, and yet as it faded he was faced with the realization that he had just butchered another human being. Tyrion could read his son’s feelings moment by moment as excitement slowly turned to disgust and remorse. He had lived it too many times himself.
The remorse fades though, and eventually the blood won’t disgust him anymore, thought Tyrion. The thrill of victory is a drug, and it will start to call to him in his dreams, until life outside the arena begins to seem dull and lifeless.
“Until he’s a dead husk inside, like me,” muttered Tyrion to himself.
“Pardon?” asked Byovar, standing next to him. “Did you say something?”
Tyrion shook his head, “No, nothing.” He met David at the edge of the field and escorted him back to his cell. “Good work.”
The boy looked up at him, guilt in his eyes. He was vulnerable then, at his lowest point, ready to grasp at anything that would lessen the self-loathing. “Really?”
Tyrion nodded, “It was you or him, and you gave your enemy the gift of a swift death. Keep your head up, there is no shame in that.”
Emma was next, and her match was decisive, clear-cut from the beginning. She was fighting a Centyr mage. Marching forward, she closed the gap quickly while her opponent summoned her first spellbeast. Drawing lines in the dirt, Emma hemmed her enemy in quickly, separating her from her magical ally and keeping the beast at bay until she was close enough to finish the mage. At twenty yards it was over. Two rapid-fire lances of power ended it, one to break the shield and the other to drive a hole straight through the other mage’s forehead.
Tyrion was impressed by her speed and precision. The girl walked back toward him with a face carved of stone. She had turned her back on the whole thing the second it was over, a sure sign, to his eyes, of what she was feeling, despite her taciturn expression. She didn’t quite make it to the sidelines before she stopped, doubling over and vomiting onto the dry earth.
He stopped Emma at the field’s edge, giving her an approving look and then wiping the corner of her mouth for her. She searched his face with desperate eyes, looking for answers for the pain she felt.
Tyrion had none, so instead he smoothed her hair, pushing aside a loose strand that had fallen across her forehead. “You did well,” he told her. “You did as you must. She felt nothing.”
She nodded and let him lead her back to her cell, but he could feel Kate’s eyes on them the entire time. He brought Abby out next.
Kate leaned close after the girl had entered the field, “That was nice.”
“What was?” he asked, looking at her in surprise.
“What you did for Emma.”
Tyrion shook his head, “No, I was just doing what was necessary. They’re vulnerable now. They’ve learned to kill, but it still makes them sick. They need validation, reassurance, someone to tell them it’s alright, someone to make them feel better about what they’ve done. I’m just telling them what they want to hear—to make them better killers.”
Kate reached up, tugging at his ear painfully, “Stop it, Daniel. You always see the worst in everything, most particularly yourself. Whatever reason you’re claiming, the kindness is still your own. Don’t forget that.”
He looked at her in surprise, unsure how to respond and once again found himself caught in her emerald eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Her expression turned curious, “For which thing exactly?”
“Take your pick,” he said.
Abby’s match began, and their attention turned again to the arena. Her opponent was a Prathion, and from the beginning things didn’t go well. The Prathion mage vanished, but never reappeared.
Unsure how to respond, Abby drew a tight circle around herself before creating a powerful shield.
“No!” growled Tyrion to himself.
“What’s wrong?” asked Kate.
“She should use the mist to equalize things, or use the ground to find her opponent, instead she’s locked herself into one position,” he explained. “It’s exactly the wrong thing to do now.”
“The Prathion can’t see her anyway,” said Layla from his other side. “He hasn’t lowered his invisibility once.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Tyrion. “Some of them have tricks you might not expect. I’ve fought Prathions before who could remove only a tiny part of their veil, allowing them to see while being very hard to detect themselves. Since he hasn’t come out once, I would assume this mage is one of them.”
Layla was a Prathion herself, and it was her turn to be surprised. “I did not know that was possible.”
Because none of y
our people learn from one another. The only reason I know is because I’ve fought hundreds and hundreds of fights and survived, thought Tyrion, but he didn’t say it. There was no point.
“I don’t see anything,” complained Kate. “She’s just standing there.”
Tyrion and Layla both felt the earth move then, directly beneath Abby’s location.
“He’s underneath her,” said Layla.
Tyrion had seen more, however, a tiny flash of aythar almost too small to detect. “No, he’s—shit!”
Abby had felt the earth shifting as well, directly beneath her shield. Releasing it, she stepped to the right, directly toward the tiny flash Tyrion had seen, and in her haste she neglected to replace the fixed shield with a more mobile personal one.
A grinning man appeared directly in front of her, his hand sweeping up and out, sheathed in razor sharp aythar, aythar he used to punch through Abby’s unprotected abdomen before ripping sideways, tearing through her liver and one lung. She fell back, her eyes wide with surprise. There was blood everywhere.
The Prathion leaned over her, his shield still protecting him. “Stupid bitch,” he said, right before his head exploded.
He hadn’t counted on Abby’s strength. Still conscious and at close range, she had destroyed his shield and obliterated his head and neck with a single retributive strike. His headless corpse collapsed on the ground beside her, arms and legs twitching reflexively. Abby looked at him once before her eyes closed as she lost consciousness.
Tyrion was barely aware of Kate screaming beside him as he watched Koralltis walk onto the field. Why was the She’Har so slow? There was no time. Abby was dying, and rapidly. He started to run forward, but Thillmarius grabbed his arm.
“No, Tyrion. No one may enter until Koralltis has called it.”
The master of the arena did call it, long seconds after, a victory for Illeniel. Then he knelt over the fallen girl while Tyrion ran from the sidelines. The She’Har was spellweaving, wrapping Abby’s body in wide swathes of vine-like magic.
“She’s not dead!” cried Tyrion, trying to get the She’Har’s attention. “You can save her.”
Koralltis looked at him in annoyance, “This is a stasis-weave. It will preserve her until we can get her to a better location. She will be returned to you later—unharmed.”
Tyrion stopped short of them, watching the spellweave enfold Abby. He had never seen a stasis-weave before, but he supposed it must have been used on him in the past since he had been mortally wounded more than once. Entranced, he sharpened his magesight, trying to resolve the individual She’Har symbols that empowered the spellweave.
Years past, while attempting to learn spellweaving, he had learned that his magesight was considerably better than most mages, or She’Har; not only was his range greater, but he was able to see far finer details. Very few She’Har could see the fine detail of their own spellweaving, which was something that was handled in an unconscious fashion by the seed-mind they carried within.
Unfortunately, even though he could see the minuscule hexagonal symbols that they used for spellweaving, he was unable to replicate them. That was why he had developed his own system, the larger triangular runes that he used for enchanting. Functionally, his enchantments were the same as spellweaving, it just took much longer for him to produce them.
The time factor involved in creating enchantments was a disadvantage in many ways, but it could also be an advantage. It simply meant he always had to plan carefully, keeping his thoughts on the future. The She’Har failure to recognize this was a blind spot of their own. They always assumed they would have time to produce whatever spellweave was needed.
If he could understand the principle behind the stasis-weave, he could undoubtedly produce an enchantment to replicate its effect.
Ru, Eolhi, Frem, Lyer, Thal, Sharra… deep in concentration, he tried to memorize the pattern. Like most spellweaves, it began to repeat at a certain point, if he could just reach the end of the pattern and remember the order and geometric placement before…
Abby’s body was lifted, and the spellweave began to move, blurring the symbols as he tried to read them. Dammit!
He knew better than to try to delay Koralltis, so he turned away, heading back to the sidelines, a look of disappointment and frustration on his features. Caught up in his thoughts, he walked back slowly, his eyes on the ground.
Kate was tearful when he got there. She couldn’t understand Erollith, of course, and the look on his face had been discouraging. She thought they were taking Abby’s lifeless body from the field. “She was the kindest, the most compassionate one of them all,” she said, her voice breaking as she spoke.
“She’s fine,” said Tyrion.
“What? They just carried her away,” said Kate.
Frustration ate at him as he tried to remember what he had seen. “Dammit, just be sil…,” he paused. He had lost it. There was no way to figure it out from the little he could recall. Not that it mattered, he would be dead before the day was over.
Something more important was happening in front of him. Kate was upset, and he had been about to order her to silence. He caught her eyes with his own, seeing the hurt there. She had only just learned that Abby was still alive, and she still had no idea how good the She’Har healers were. Softening his features, he reached out, pulling her into his arms.
“They can heal her, Cat. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. You don’t have to worry. Abby will be fine,” he squeezed her tightly.
Kate tensed in his arms. It was the first time he had held her since… almost ten years before, when they had last parted. She was still angry with him, she was still worried about Abby, she didn’t want… I can’t do this, not again, she thought, and then she relaxed despite herself and let herself sink deeper into his embrace.
“It’s time for the next match, Tyrion,” said Byovar from beside him.
He didn’t want to let go. This is probably the last time. Looking around, he could see Layla standing a few feet away with a nauseated expression of disapproval on her face.
Kate pushed him away, “Later.” Her eyes were soft, with a light in them he had thought he would never see again.
I don’t want to die, came the sudden thought, but he pushed it aside. Duty called. He went to fetch Ryan from his holding cell.
Chapter 29
Ryan’s fight went smoothly, as did Tad and Sarah’s, and after that came the blooding fights. This was the first week for Ashley, Ian, Violet, and Anthony. Tyrion had worried that Brigid’s fight might be called before that, but apparently the She’Har wanted to save the most dramatic matchup for last.
Of the four first time matches, none were particularly elegant or well executed, Ashley and Violet won their fights reluctantly but without incident. Anthony’s was short, his opponent was already wounded, probably from a fight in the pens before he had been brought to the arena. It wound up being almost a mercy killing, and the boy was clearly distraught afterward. Tyrion tried to console him with kind words, but there was obviously little honor to be had in such a one-sided slaughter.
Ian’s fight was disturbing. He had been matched up against a young girl, probably no more than fourteen years of age, if that. It was hard to tell for sure, children in the pens of Ellentrea were usually malnourished and underweight, so their ages were difficult to judge.
She had curly brown hair, and despite her small size, she was energetic and clever. A Prathion, she went invisible shortly after the lights changed and attempted to get closer to her opponent.
Ian, for his part, attempted to cover the ground in a sensing net that would show him her location, but his powers were too new, and he had had too little practice at it. His pattern was filled with large holes and gaps. Somehow, whether by skill or by chance, the Prathion girl managed to avoid stepping on any of the active areas, thus evading his detection.
One thing Ian had learned well, though, was how to shield himself. His embarrassing fight with Ryan had shown hi
m the importance of that skill. When the girl appeared close beside him and attempted to pierce his shield with a surprise attack, she failed. His return stroke shattered her defense and sent her reeling to the ground, nearly unconscious from the feedback.
Rather than kill her immediately, however, Ian knelt and then pulled her upright yanking painfully on her hair.
“What is he doing?” asked Kate, but Tyrion was looking down, his eyes closed and his jaw clenched.
Ian, like the girl he fought, was naked. He brought his head close, biting her neck as his hands fondled her small breasts.
“That’s against the rules, right? That can’t be allowed, can it?” demanded Kate, outraged.
Layla was laughing too hard to answer, so finally Tyrion spoke up, “It’s stupid, but the She’Har don’t care what happens, so long as one of them dies.”
Ian had the girl’s back on the ground now, spreading her legs as he brought his member forward to press against her tender regions. Seconds later his body convulsed in pain as the slave collar punished him for attempting to enter the girl.
Layla’s laughter grew louder, “Is the child addled? Didn’t you tell them, Tyrion? I know you told him.”
Kate stared at her in shock, “This isn’t funny! He’s trying to rape her.”
The female warden snorted, “If he lives through this, he’ll never forget which door to use again, the collar is unforgiving.”
Tyrion’s face was red with fury and embarrassment. Some of the spectators laughed at the sight of the boy convulsing as he fell away and to one side. While the pain had stunned Ian, it seemed to have roused his opponent. The girl rose to one knee, her eyes finding her assailant.
Her first attack was a fiery lance that burned a hole through Ian’s right thigh, close to his manhood. She had missed. He screamed in pain, but adrenaline and fear brought him back to his senses. Desperately he shielded himself before her next attack could land.
Seeing her advantage had vanished, the Prathion mage vanished, but Ian knew her location. Sending forth a broad blast of force, he sent her sprawling, and she reappeared rolling across the dirt a mere ten feet away. His next attack rendered her unconscious, but she was still breathing.