Arena 13 Read online

  I halted for a moment and stared up at the inside of the massive dome.

  It was a big mistake.

  When I looked down again, Tyron was almost out of sight, leaving me behind. A large, grim-faced man wearing a red diagonal sash was making straight for me. He carried a club at his belt and I was fairly sure he wasn’t planning on giving me a friendly welcome.

  Was it the way I was dressed? I wondered. The man scowled at me as the guards outside had done. I’d noticed a queue to enter the Wheel. Maybe, unlike Tyron, ordinary people had to pay an entrance fee.

  Just in time, Tyron stepped back and grabbed hold of me.

  The man bowed to him. ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t realize he was with you.’

  Tyron gave him a curt nod and the man moved away, satisfied.

  ‘The red sashes tell you that he’s a marshal representing the Wheel Directorate,’ Tyron explained. ‘Inside the Wheel, they’re the law. Outside, as you just saw, it’s the Protector’s Guard, the big men in the blue uniforms, that you need to be wary of.’

  The Protector ruled our country. He was rarely seen outside his palace. Those who had glimpsed him said that he looked like a middle-aged man, but there was speculation about his origins; some believed that he was a djinni. He had surely lived too long to be human.

  ‘I haven’t seen many guards before today,’ I told him.

  ‘You wouldn’t, I suppose, out in the provinces. It’s different here, very different. There are several thousand in barracks just north of the city. Keep a low profile and never look them in the eye, that’s the key. They’re bored, and sometimes that’s all the excuse they need to find a problem with you.’

  Tyron led me through a narrow door to a flight of steep stone steps. ‘Follow me, boy,’ he said as he began to descend. ‘Before we visit any of the arenas I want you to see something else.’

  At the foot of the staircase we entered a large cellar, a great gloomy vault lit only by a single flickering candle near the door.

  Snatching it up, Tyron headed towards a long bench that stood against the far wall. My mouth went dry with fear, for upon it lay what looked like several dead bodies.

  Was this a morgue? Why had Tyron brought me here? I wondered. I’d thought I was here to see the fighting.

  ‘These are some of the lacs that I own,’ Tyron said, gesturing towards the bench. ‘They’re used by Arena 13 combatants who work for me.’

  I felt foolish. Of course they were lacs. Even so, a strong sense of unease took hold of me. I saw that some were covered with sheets, but Tyron led me towards one that was dressed in full armour. It lay on its back, the chain mail, helmet, mask and armoured plates on shoulders, arms, chest and knees in place.

  I’d met people back in Mypocine who, like my father, had worked in Gindeen and encountered lacs. However, their descriptions hadn’t prepared me for the thing that disturbed me most: the stink of the creatures.

  There was a repulsive mixture of different odours: an animal smell that reminded me of a wet dog, along with rotting vegetation and foul straw. There was also a faint stench of excrement. I wondered what the lacs ate and if they were ever washed. There was so much that I didn’t know.

  ‘This is a simulacrum, but everybody uses the abbreviation “lac”. It’s a creature fashioned in the image of a man. Its flesh is similar to ours: it will bleed if cut and bruise if struck, but its mind is very different. It is not aware as we are aware. Its behaviour and actions are informed and executed by the patterning language called Nym – a language controlled by humans.’

  Most of what Tyron was telling me was stuff I already knew, but I listened attentively, eager for even the smallest piece of new knowledge.

  ‘A human combatant isn’t permitted to wear armour in the arena,’ Tyron continued, ‘but lacs are different. Here one important piece of armour is still missing. Look . . .’

  The lac had a thick muscular neck, and where Tyron now pointed I saw a vertical slit in the bare throat, the wound a dark purple that showed up against the white skin.

  ‘That’s the throat-slit – and this contains the socket that fits inside it . . .’ Tyron bent down and picked up a large collar. He spat onto the narrow metal socket and eased it gently into the creature’s throat-slit. As he did so, the lac groaned deep down in its belly.

  Once that was done, he snapped the collar into place about the broad neck. There was still a slit to receive a blade, but now it was protected by a metal sheath.

  ‘Now the slit is held slightly open to receive a blade,’ explained Tyron. ‘Because of that metal sheath the flesh cannot be cut. Usually there is only minimal bruising.

  ‘The metal protects the soft flesh and makes it easier to effect a clean insertion. Of course, the socket displaces and constricts the gullet somewhat, causing the lac discomfort. Most believe that this makes it more eager to seek an early victory. It’s always the last piece of armour to be fitted – and the first to be removed.

  ‘When a blade is inserted in the throat-socket, it brings about a complete shut-down of the defeated creature’s nervous system. We call this “endoff” – but it isn’t death for a lac as it would be for a human. Take out the blade and, with a wurde, a lac can be returned to consciousness, ready to fight again.’

  Despite my unease, I reflected that I would have to get used to working with beings such as this if I wanted to fight.

  Tyron now placed his open palm on the metal armour that covered the forehead of the lac. ‘Awake!’ he commanded softly.

  The lac sat up very suddenly, stretching its long arms like a man awaking from sleep. It drew in a deep breath, and behind the narrow horizontal slit of the face armour, the eyes flickered rapidly. The creature looked menacing and my heart gave a lurch – I found myself taking a step backward. Luckily, I don’t think Tyron noticed because he was still concentrating on the lac.

  ‘Selfcheck!’ he snapped. ‘Now I’ve instructed the lac to get busy checking its own mind and body; it’s going over the complex patterns that give it the skills to fight in the arena.’

  I nodded – though I didn’t really understand all of what Tyron was saying. For the first time since I’d left home, I felt overwhelmed by the challenge I had set myself. The expression on my face obviously gave me away because Tyron smiled. ‘In time trainees learn to pattern, but to begin with, they work with lacs that have already been patterned and trained.’

  ‘Can it see us?’ I asked nervously, studying the lac’s flickering eyes.

  ‘Oh, it can see us all right. And it can think. But it’s the patterns that do the thinking. It’s not conscious as we are. Some people think they’re called “lacs” because they lack sentience and aren’t aware, but that’s a load of nonsense. Five hundred years ago, master artificers patterned lacs that were sentient – just as alive and aware as you and me. We can’t do that any more. That knowledge has been lost over time, unfortunately. A lac is faster and stronger than a man, but always remember that it’s not sentient, so don’t go worrying about that. Anyway, boy, let’s go up and look at a couple of the arenas now.’

  We left the cellar and went back up the steps. When we emerged, we had to push our way through the crowd and I felt the buzz of excitement. Tyron gestured upwards. ‘Above that ceiling there’s a large circular hall. That’s where the Lists naming the combatants who are to fight are posted. On this level, the floor is divided like the spokes of a wheel into thirteen combat zones,’ he explained. ‘You access each from the corridor set within the outer walls.’

  It was difficult to hear what Tyron was saying. Not only were people jostling us and shouting to be heard as they passed, there was now also a distant roar of chants and cheers, and what sounded like the steady rhythmical beating of a drum.

  Tyron led me into the first zone, and I saw that each of these spokes was on two levels. Below us was a windowless wooden box, open at the top. The spectators stood above, looking down on the action.

  We joined the rabble jostling for pos
ition on the sloping viewing balcony. The ones right at the front were squashed hard against the metal safety rails; it seemed to me that they were at very real risk of broken ribs or worse. I was glad that Tyron seemed content to stay to the rear.

  Almost all the spectators were male. They were coarse and loud, shouting obscenities and spitting down into the arena below. Surges of anger or excitement rippled across the crowd as if it was one great beast with myriad backs but a minuscule mind.

  Tyron forced me to look down, beyond the spectators. ‘That’s where the action is, boy.’

  The small square arena below couldn’t have been much more than ten paces by ten paces. Within it I saw two huge lumbering figures clad in crude bronze armour. They clashed together with a wild locking and swinging of arms, butting heads and roaring loudly.

  ‘You can make a good living here in Arena 1,’ said Tyron, shouting into my ear. ‘Some of my trainees concentrate just on patterning creatures such as these. So if you’ve the brains for it, there’s no need to set foot in Arena 13. Why not let the lacs do it for you? In all the other arenas the lacs fight each other. Men aren’t involved at all. It’s only in Arena 13 that you risk your life.’

  The two battling figures below were creatures like the one we’d just examined in the cellar. With a hand on my arm, Tyron steered me away from the viewing balcony and back into the long curved corridor. We walked clockwise, passing the open doors that led to other arenas.

  ‘Move with the clock,’ Tyron told me. ‘As you go round, each arena represents a higher level of skill. People new to this game begin by entering lacs at the lowest level. Then they gradually work their way up. Some never make it – or want to make it – but the very best reach Arena 13, where the Trigladius method of combat takes place.’ His voice was now almost a whisper.

  ‘Trigladius is an ancient word meaning “three swords”. Except on formal occasions, everyone simply calls it the Trig.’

  My father had explained what fighting in Arena 13 involved. In fact, it had seemed to me that he barely stopped talking about it until the difficult, terrifying months before his death, more than three years ago.

  One human combatant stood behind three lacs – known as a tri-glad – in what was called the mag position, while his adversary was defended by a lone lac in what was called the min position. It didn’t seem fair, but that was the way it was done. It was obviously much harder for the one to defeat the three, and therefore the odds were always against the former. That was where the gambling came in. If you bet on the min combatant and he won, you won too – a lot of money.

  I knew that my father had been a min combatant. You needed great skill and speed to win from the min position, so that’s what I wanted to do too. I wanted to be the best.

  Finally Tyron opened a door and I took a deep breath as we stepped inside. ‘Here we are.’

  Arena 13 was far larger than I’d expected after seeing the first arena – fifty paces long by twenty-five wide – and the steep rake of the gallery seats made it easy to look down into it. Here there was no standing room, but it still held at least two thousand spectators.

  The tiers of seats were richly upholstered in red leather, and the outer pillars were adorned with intricate carvings; torches were embellished with gold and silver and the wood of the curved walls was a dark, rich mahogany. The smell of wood and leather was everywhere; it suggested tradition, polish and manners.

  The Arena 13 gallery already looked full, but Tyron led the way confidently down to the front. He was well-known, and people waved or nodded to him as we passed. When we reached the front and pushed our way along to our seats, people leaned across and patted Tyron on the back with evident warmth and enthusiasm, though they eyed me with interest.

  The nearer to the rail we got, the greater the finery worn by the spectators: I could not take my eyes off the women. They were dressed in rich silks unlike any I’d seen before, either inside or outside the city. They wore elaborate ribbons in their hair, rouge upon their cheeks, and in every case their lips were painted black. Their escorts wore diagonal sashes of different colours.

  ‘What are the sashes for?’ I asked Tyron as we took our seats.

  ‘A few indicate ranks, but most are just the formal sashes of the various trade guilds – armourers are green, butchers are brown, and so on,’ he explained.

  ‘Why don’t you wear a sash?’ I asked him.

  He pointed to his broad leather belt and to the clasp which bore a number fashioned out of bronze:

  13

  ‘That tells everybody exactly what I am, boy. This is my territory. This is where my stable of combatants fight. I’m the best there is in this city. I’m no braggart. That’s the plain truth.’

  The sweet scent of women’s perfume floated upon the still air, mixing with the smell of ancient wood and leather. And there was something else now. An underlying smell of sweat, yes, but something metallic and sour too.

  With a start, I realized that it was the stench of blood.

  4

  The Grudge Match

  Grudge matches usually end in the decapitation of the loser.

  Sometimes the throat is only cut.

  These are the preferred methods.

  An untidy death results from multiple cuts to the body.

  The Manual of Trigladius Combat

  Everywhere there was excitement. It tingled in the air, fluttering on the lips of the women and trembling on the restless hands of the men. But nobody could have been more excited than I was. At last I was looking down on Arena 13! My whole body quivered with anticipation. There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t trust myself to speak. I knew I would stammer or sound foolish; Tyron was testing me: I needed to look, and sound, confident.

  Money was changing hands; a lot of money. Wagers were being taken by the gambling agents who were busily working the aisles, accepting last frantic bets and issuing red tickets.

  Our seats were in the first row. Below, in the arena, a huge candelabrum that held thirteen torches was being slowly lowered from the high ceiling so that it cast flickering yellow light upon the combatants, who had already emerged from the two doors – the min and the mag doors – and were taking their positions. The first contest was about to begin.

  Somewhere out of sight a bass drum sounded; a slow, steady rhythm like the beating of a monstrous heart.

  A tall figure dressed in black and wearing a red sash moved amongst the combatants. The drum halted very suddenly and a hush fell over the gallery.

  ‘That’s Pyncheon, the Chief Marshal,’ Tyron whispered to me. ‘He has full control within the Wheel, but in Arena 13 his function is mainly ceremonial. He’ll get out of there before the action starts. If there’s a problem during the bout, he will make any necessary ruling.’

  The Chief Marshal moved between the two opposing groups. The lacs were dressed in metallic armour from head to toe, the horizontal slits in their helmets enabling them to see. They were identical to the armoured one Tyron had shown me below.

  The two humans, who were standing behind their lacs, wore no protective armour. They were dressed in leather shorts and jerkins, the former cut high above the knee, the latter close to the armpits.

  This was something else that my father had described to me. Their unprotected flesh was the target of the lacs’ blades.

  His hands held theatrically aloft, Pyncheon looked up towards us. Then, in a loud voice, he addressed the gallery: ‘This is Arena 13,’ he boomed. ‘This is a fight to the death. Let those who die die with honour. Let those who live remember them. Let it begin!’

  Had I heard correctly? What was happening? I couldn’t believe it. Why were they fighting to the death?

  I saw that the two combatants were just boys, barely older than me. I looked at Tyron, trying to catch his eye, but he was staring down into the arena.

  The Chief Marshal turned and headed for the mag door. Here he paused and lifted a long silver trumpet to his lips: a high sh
rill note emerged. Immediately the two doors rumbled shut.

  The crowd was utterly silent. Not one of the figures in the arena below had even moved.

  ‘What colour are the tickets being sold by the touts, boy?’ Tyron asked.

  I didn’t need to check; I’d noticed them as we came in.

  ‘They’re red,’ I answered.

  ‘Yes, they’re red, boy, and that’s because this is a grudge match. You heard what the Chief Marshal said. It’s one in which someone usually dies. That’s why I brought you here. I wanted you to see just how bad things can get.’

  ‘But why are they fighting to the death?’ I asked. ‘What possible reason could there be for it?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s a dispute over a woman. Here it’s plain stupidity. They got drunk one night and traded insults. It got out of hand, and too many bitter words were exchanged. So they’ve chosen to settle it here. Now blood will be spilled!’

  The combatants came together hard, with a deafening clash of metal upon metal; immediately the min combatant seemed to be in trouble. His feet began to thump desperately on the boards, signalling new movements to his lone lac, which was hard pressed to defend him from the blades trying to cut his flesh.

  My father had actually fought in this arena. He had told me that a combatant told his lac what to do by beating on the floor with his boots. It was a sound-code, a system called Ulum.

  ‘The human fighter in trouble is Kanus,’ Tyron said, shaking his head, ‘and he won’t last much longer, the way he’s shaping up. Sandor’s too good for him.’