Arena 13 Read online

  Tyron ignored my question. I suspected that he was annoyed by my interruptions.

  ‘Math was bent over, recovering from the blow to his head, but to our surprise he suddenly straightened up, thrusting his blade into the throat-socket of Hob’s lac. The lac fell sideways and backwards, almost tugging the blade out of Math’s hand. But he held onto it.

  ‘It was astonishing. I could barely hear myself think, the noise from the crowd was so loud. A human combatant had felled a lac. This had never been done before. It was a first! It changed the way we think about fighting in the arena. Math showed what was possible and, although it’s difficult to accomplish, it now happens once or twice each season.

  ‘Of course, it wasn’t over yet. Math withdrew behind his lac and kept very close to its back; patterned by the brilliant Gunter, it was able to deal with Hob’s remaining two lacs. The fight was certainly over before the gong that would have called Hob and Math to fight in front of their defenders. Math had won, and everyone in the gallery went wild.

  ‘Now we’d reached a very significant moment. Against Hob it was always a fight to the death, but until then it had always been the human combatant who had died. Sometimes they were badly wounded – claimed by Hob and taken up to his citadel, never to be seen again. But now the tables had been turned. A silence fell upon the arena.

  ‘What would Math do? Would he dare to slay the djinni? Hob still had his own blades. Would he resist, or would he accept the defeat implied by the endoff of his lacs?

  ‘We soon found out. Math went forward and Hob did not resist. So Math slit his throat cleanly, leaving the head attached. Hob fell to his knees, his long hairless arms flopping at his side, slumping forward onto his face. But all our eyes were drawn to the blood that gushed from his throat. It was crimson – far brighter than any blood shed by a man or animal. People talked about it for days.’

  ‘So Math had won,’ I gasped.

  But Tyron shook his head grimly. ‘Do you call that winning, Leif? One victory! Not by a long way. That was only one of his djinni bodies; one of his many selves. That was just the first bout.’

  ‘So did Hob return to the arena the following night?’ I asked. It seemed to me that Hob would have been eager for revenge.

  ‘No, Hob came much later – the following season. This time the Chief Marshal didn’t even bother with the lottery orb. His eyes locked upon Math’s and, with a curt nod, Math put himself forward for combat. And it seemed to those who braved the gallery to watch that Hob was even more formidable this time.

  ‘When attacking Math, no single lac risked its throat. Instead, they concentrated on his lac, pressing it hard so that it was a struggle to hold the centre of the arena. But Math fought with great discipline.

  ‘This time the struggle lasted almost twenty minutes, Leif, with both combatants fighting in front, vulnerable to blades. But once again Math won. Once more, the bright red blood of Hob stained the boards of the arena.’

  ‘How long did the contests go on?’ I asked. ‘Palm told me that Math beat Hob fifteen times.’

  ‘Yes, it was exactly fifteen. It went on like that for weeks. But how long can something like that continue, boy? Something has to give.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Think about it. How many selves was the djinni prepared to lose in the arena? And remember: Math only had one body and one life. It couldn’t go on for ever, could it? It was midsummer’s eve that proved decisive. All day long a storm had been brewing, and early in the evening the heavens were suddenly split asunder by a great fork of white lightning. The following crash of thunder seemed to threaten the end of the world. Soon the storm was raging overhead; it was as if the gods were throwing down thunderbolts.

  ‘But that didn’t worry the crowds who surged into the Wheel, heading for Arena 13. There were too many to fit into the gallery; they gathered excitedly about the Omphalos, on the floor above the arenas, desperate for news of Hob’s arrival. And the gambling agents were having a rare old time, weren’t they?

  ‘There were bets placed on whether or not Hob would appear; bets on exactly when the winning blow would be delivered; on the likelihood of Math repeating his feat of downing a lac with his own blade – or, indeed, the moment when Math himself might fall to Hob’s tri-glad. There were even wagers on how Math would behave if defeated by Hob and taken live from the arena.

  ‘This time the bout was very much in the balance. For a while it seemed as if Math must crumble before Hob’s fierce onslaught, but then the gong sounded and both combatants stepped in front of their lacs.

  ‘As you know, the combatants are usually more cautious at this point, but Math threw caution to the wind. With steps too quick for the inexperienced eye, blades flashing, he was right amongst the tri-glad of his foe.

  ‘Some say that Math felled all three members of that tri-glad with his own blades; others that it was only one, and that his own long-armed lac reached over his shoulders and head to account for the other two. I was there, but it was too quick for the eye to see, and even to this day I’m not sure.

  ‘Anyway, this victory brought about a change. From that day, Hob visited the arena less frequently; though each time he was defeated more easily. But as the odds offered by the gambling agents began to lengthen in Math’s favour, people grew afraid. The fear grew into a dark unreasoning terror, and they began to leave the city.’

  ‘How many selves does Hob have?’ I asked. ‘Do we know? How many would Math have had to defeat to win a final victory?’

  ‘Hob is a djinni – the creation of the greatest artificers that ever lived; his technology is beyond the limits of our knowledge. We don’t know how many selves are written into the wurdes that govern him so we can’t know how many times we have to kill him to destroy him completely,’ Tyron explained. ‘As I said, people were fleeing the city. At first it was just the farmers and tradesmen returning early to their distant homes, but then Gindeen’s own inhabitants began to leave.’

  ‘But it doesn’t make sense!’ I blurted out, despite Tyron’s warning. ‘Math was winning, so why were they afraid?’

  I expected him to be angry at the interruption, but he simply sighed and answered my question.

  ‘They feared a defeated Hob more than a victorious one because he’s a djinni, with all the dark powers of such a creature. It’s dangerous to back him into a corner. What horrors might he unleash upon the city if he became desperate?

  ‘It was Hob who finally broke the deadlock. He proposed that there should be one final contest to decide things. If defeated, he’d never visit Arena 13 again. In return, he demanded that Math spend the whole contest in front of his lac, while Hob himself would fight behind his tri-glad. It was an outrageous and unfair offer, but to everyone’s relief, Math accepted. Now people were afraid; even his friends wanted the situation resolved.

  ‘Nobody imagined that Math could win that fifteenth contest. Walking into Arena 13 that night, he must have felt totally alone.

  ‘You see, two days before the fight, Gunter suddenly collapsed while eating a late supper. Some say he was poisoned.’

  ‘Could Hob have done that?’ I asked.

  Tyron shrugged. ‘He could certainly have arranged it, though it was never proved. But despite the odds against him, Math won that final contest – though it cost him dear. He was severely wounded and lost a lot of blood; his left leg was damaged beyond repair and he was left with a bad limp, so he was never able to fight in Arena 13 again. Imagine that! It had been his life, and now he’d lost it for ever.

  ‘However, Hob failed to keep his word: he still visits the Wheel to issue a challenge, and it’s still the end for some unfortunate min combatant. The Wheel Directorate suffers a considerable financial loss. That hits everybody in the pocket because combatants and artificers have to meet the tax that’s levied to cover the deficit. So each pays according to his earnings; my bill is so large that it affects what I can afford to spend on lacs that year.

 
‘Hob was the winner in the end. Math lost what he loved most – fighting in the arena. Some say that it was all for nothing, but I don’t agree. Math and Gunter have inspired a whole generation of artificers and combatants. They showed us what is possible.

  ‘So Math went back to live out the remainder of his days with the Genthai tribe. They say he died there, at peace, amongst his own people.’

  Tyron raised the glass to his lips and drained the last of the wine. When he looked at me, his eyes were hard and unsmiling.

  ‘But you and I know better, boy, don’t we? We both know where the legend ends and the life of the man goes on. So tell me, Leif, son of Math: what makes a son disclaim his own father?’

  16

  The Cowardice of Math

  Those who take the first steps rarely take the last.

  Amabramsum: the Genthai Book of Wisdom

  ‘How did you find out?’ I asked.

  ‘I suspected it the second time we met,’ said Tyron, crossing the room to refill his glass from the decanter. ‘It wasn’t just the way you caught the blade I threw at you. It was the way you bowed afterwards – the set of your body; the moment’s hesitation before the bow; then the dipping of your left shoulder slightly before the right. Do that in the arena, and anyone who saw your father fight will recognize you as his son.’

  He returned to his seat and, after sipping wine from his glass, continued. ‘It was exactly the same when you slid your blade into the throat-socket of the practice lac. You bowed afterwards. You have the same arrogance; the same self-belief. Both are vital qualities if you wish to achieve success in Arena 13.

  ‘And, of course, if I look closely, I can see his face in yours. Once you know, it’s clear enough. I wanted to be sure, so I sent someone to Mypocine to find out the truth. He talked to the farmer you worked for. He came back five days ago and confirmed what I’d suspected.’

  My mind worked backwards. ‘That’s why you gave me another chance . . .’

  ‘Yes. But that chance depends on you telling me the truth now.’

  To tell the truth wasn’t easy. I’d never told anybody the whole story before – I’d never even given a hint to anyone in this city. It was hard to force the words out, but it had to be done. My future with Tyron, my hope of fighting in Arena 13, depended upon it.

  ‘Hob murdered my mother,’ I told him. ‘And my father just stood back and let it happen. Then he killed himself.’

  ‘That’s just the bones of the story. Either cover them with flesh or find yourself another artificer!’ Tyron snapped, eyes hard as flint.

  ‘My father didn’t go back to his people – or if he did, he didn’t stay long. He bought a small farm south of Mypocine. Soon afterwards he met my mother, Shola. She wasn’t Genthai. I was born two years later. I was their only child.’

  In spite of the bitterness I now felt, I couldn’t help but smile at the memory of my childhood. My father had enjoyed farming, and I knew how much he loved me and my mother. We were happy; really happy. I often thought I’d never be as happy again.

  Tyron pulled me back from my musings. ‘And it was from him that you learned some steps from the Trig? He didn’t keep his past a secret from you?’

  ‘Yes and no. He showed me his blades with the wolf’s-head handles, but he never talked much about his time fighting there. He never told me what you just have. I never dreamed he was so good until I saw the painting over Palm’s bed and he told me it was of Math. Those fifteen victories over Hob came as a complete shock. My mother and I called him by his Genthai name, Lasar. He never told me that he had fought Hob.

  ‘Then, when I was just eleven, it started. There’d been people dying even further south, but I never thought he’d visit our farm. It was horrible . . . It went on right through the summer and into the early autumn. He came every week, and always after dark. My mother would walk down the hill and wade across the stream to meet him in the wood. She couldn’t help it, I know . . . He controlled her mind. At first they kept it from me and tried to pretend that nothing was wrong, but I soon figured it out when I saw my mother leaving the house alone late at night . . . Then I heard some of the things my parents said to each other: the name Hob came up over and over again. My mother cried. My father shouted. It became unbearable.

  ‘I had no idea why Hob had chosen us, no idea who my father really was. I begged him to do something – anything. But he wouldn’t even try. Instead, in his frustration, he used to smash his fists against the walls until they bled. He said he could do nothing or Hob would kill us all. So whatever he was in the arena, by then he’d changed. You talk of my father as if he was a hero, but I saw the other side of him. He was a coward who let my mother die.

  ‘Each time she came back she was a little paler and weaker: Hob was taking more and more of her blood. Then, one night, she didn’t come back at all. Just after dawn I followed my father down the hill. Her shoes were still on the near bank of the stream. Her body lay amongst the trees.’

  My throat tightened and I sobbed, my whole body shaking.

  ‘Take your time, Leif,’ said Tyron. ‘Take as much time as you need.’

  It was a while before I could continue.

  ‘My father cried for a long time, but then he became angrier than I’d ever seen him before. Until that moment he’d never so much as laid a finger on me; now he began to beat me, driving me away from the farm.

  ‘I came back later; I hid and watched from a distance as he burned my mother’s body. It was only when he set fire to the farmhouse that I realized what he intended. I ran down the hill but he was already dead. Through the doorway I saw his body lying there, covered in blood. Then the flames drove me back. There was nothing I could do.’

  I saw it all again, and tears coursed down my cheeks. When I turned away in embarrassment, Tyron rested his hand briefly on my shoulder. Finally I managed to go on.

  ‘A neighbour, Barrow, took me in – he’d a farm further down the valley. I stayed with him for three years – until I got that blue ticket. He worked me hard. Food and a roof over my head were my only wages. Apart from the sticks I used for fighting, all I owned were the clothes I stood up in.

  ‘But Barrow did tell me that my father had fought in Arena 13 under the name Math – though he never told me how good he was.’

  ‘You’ve faced more than most boys your age and come through it, and for that you’re to be congratulated, Leif,’ said Tyron, his expression softer now. ‘And now you’re here, hoping to become a combatant in Arena 13 like your father was. Or is there more to it than that? Come on, boy, be honest with me. I want to hear you say it!’

  ‘I have been honest. I’ve told no lies!’ I shouted, emotion getting the better of me. ‘No lies at all!’

  ‘You can lie by omission,’ Tyron told me, his voice very calm. ‘Lie by leaving things unsaid. You’ve been less than open with me. So tell me: why are you here in this city? What do you really want to achieve?’

  Despite his persistence, his expression was kind. My anger faded. I took a deep breath, and then the words I’d been holding within me for so long came out in a rush.

  ‘One day I want to fight Hob in the arena. I want to kill him. That’s why I’m here.’

  Tyron sighed and drained his glass. ‘I thought that might be your intention. Haven’t you listened to a single thing I’ve said tonight? That’s why I described exactly what happened to your father. Even if you won, Hob would only come back. He can fight over and over again – but you can only lose once and then you’re finished; finished for ever!’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know that? Even after my father had retired from the arena, Hob pursued him and targeted my mother. He’s vindictive and relentless – I’ve no illusions about what would happen to me afterwards if I lost. But it would be worth the risk,’ I said. ‘I’d like to kill him again and again. My father beat him fifteen times. I’ll do the same – for as many times as it takes, until he has no selves left! I will make no deals with him. I’d never
fight before my lac for a whole contest like my father did and let Hob be safe behind his. I’ll destroy every last bit of him!’

  Tyron shook his head wearily. ‘Look, boy, I want you to promise me one thing. If you’re ever chosen by the lottery orb to fight Hob, then so be it. It was meant to happen. But what your father did with the orb, deliberately selecting himself for combat . . . I’ll have none of that. Do you understand?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Do you promise, then?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Good. And there’s one more thing. You kept the identity of your father from me, so for the time being at least, keep it from everyone else. I trust the man I sent back to Mypocine to keep quiet, but it’ll get out eventually, and that’ll make things much more difficult. You’ll be under a lot of pressure. It’s not just the expectation that you’ll prove to be another Math . . . Your father had enemies as well as friends. Anyone that successful always makes enemies. So you might attract unwelcome attention.

  ‘And your identity could affect the odds set by the gambling houses. You see, if you prove to be as good as I think you’ll be, we might make quite a bit of money – but only if we have the advantage of surprise. Understand what I’m saying?’

  I’d told Tyron things I had never revealed to anyone before, and I was tired and overwrought after our long talk. But I was only too happy to go along with his wishes. My heart was pounding with excitement. He had faith in me. I remembered what he had said – as good as I think you’ll be – and was filled with elation.

  When I nodded again, Tyron let out a long sigh. Then he leaned forward and rested his hand on my shoulder once more.

  ‘I’ve a parting thought for you to mull over. The Math that I knew was the bravest man I’ve ever met. We trained together in Gunter’s stable when we were boys. You’re forgetting where you, his only child, come into all this. What if your mother insisted that Math did nothing because she was afraid for you – afraid that Hob would kill you? Then, after she was dead, he drove you away . . . and you’re still alive. Hob gets to know everything eventually. Through you he would have found a way to punish Math even more. But your father killed himself and burned the farmhouse down so that all ties to him were gone. He set you free; gave you a chance of life. That’s what I think, anyway.’