Arena 13 Read online

  But Deinon quickly dashed my hopes into the dust.

  ‘Kwin’s sent me with a message,’ he said. Even at the sound of her name, my insides churned. I’d often thought of her, veering between anger and something else I wasn’t fully ready to admit. ‘She asked me to tell you that her father is slowly coming round to her way of thinking. She said don’t give up, she’ll get there.’

  How long could I carry on doing this job? I sighed. ‘Tell her thanks for trying,’ I replied.

  I was about to brush past Deinon. I didn’t like him to see me like this, splattered with muck from head to toe. But he went on, ‘I’m sorry this has happened, Leif.’

  I paused and looked at him. He seemed sincere. ‘You don’t deserve this. I told Palm he was wrong to have told on you,’ he continued.

  I knew it must have taken a lot for Deinon to stand up to the other boy like that and I appreciated it – even if it had done me no good.

  ‘You’re not the only one who fought Kwin. Palm and I both fought her, but nothing came of it. Not like this. In my case, Tyron didn’t even find out. He did find out about Palm, but he got his father to come and see Tyron and make it all right. He’s a rich man. No doubt he gave extra money for Palm’s tuition.’

  I was overcome with rage at the unfairness of this world, and then, suddenly, I felt completely exhausted. I wanted to sleep. ‘Thanks for telling me that, Deinon.’

  The boy nodded. ‘I hope I’ll see you again soon.’

  And with that he returned to the comfort of Tyron’s house while I searched for a quiet corner in which to sleep.

  The days became weeks, and despite her message, Kwin still didn’t come looking for me; I began to give up hope.

  I certainly didn’t want to go home. It would be good to see my friends again but I couldn’t work on a farm now I’d seen what the rest of my life might be like. One possibility I’d been considering was taking up stick-fighting here in the city. I felt confident that I was good enough, but I wasn’t sure how much money I could make. And it was a betrayal of my dream of succeeding in Arena 13. Once I started stick-fighting, I would have burned my bridges. Tyron would never take me on again after that.

  One evening I walked right around the Wheel, listening to the shouts and cheers from inside. I felt lower than I ever had before.

  I was heading back towards the slaughterhouse, my thoughts dark, when I saw ahead of me three members of the Protector’s Guard; they were coming straight towards me. One, on horseback, was clearly an officer; he wore a long sword at his hip. The other two were on foot, daggers at their belts, each carrying a long stick and a flickering torch.

  I remembered Tyron’s advice – that you should never look them in the eye, never give them an excuse. So I looked down at the muddy street and made to walk by.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ a voice demanded.

  I kept my head lowered but raised my eyes to his face.

  The officer sat high on his horse, his blue uniform immaculate, his blue eyes full of disdain. He made no attempt to disguise what he thought of me. I knew I was a mess; despite the apron I wore, every day I ended up streaked with blood and offal. Sleeping outdoors made it hard to wash myself and my clothes, and as time went by I’d been making less and less of an effort.

  ‘I’m going back to work,’ I told him, as politely as I could. ‘I’m on the night shift.’

  ‘No you’re not. There’s no work for your sort here. That’s where you’re going,’ he said with a sneer, pointing south. ‘Back home where you belong.’

  The other two men were on me in a second, striking me with their sticks. I didn’t have the energy to even try to fight them off. I ran.

  They chased me down the street for a while, the officer laughing somewhere behind them. I soon managed to lose them, but as I slowed down to a walking pace, I kept moving in the same direction. South.

  Physically, I wasn’t badly hurt. Most of the blows had fallen on my back. But I felt more humiliated and ashamed than I had ever done before.

  It was time to give in.

  I was going home.

  I walked south until I’d left the city behind, and then, at dawn, I rested. I looked back towards Gindeen, watching the sun rise above the city, committing to memory the way the bright rays lit Hob’s citadel. They gleamed on the thirteen twisted bronze spires. A new day had begun, but tonight, as the sun set, the rays would throw their deformed, threatening shadows eastwards across the city, shadowing the rooftops and reaching as far as the Wheel.

  I had often watched those pointed shadows; they were like dark blades seeking out the lives, the very souls of Gindeen’s inhabitants.

  Somehow Hob had to be stopped . . .

  Somebody had to do it. He had to be stopped. After all that had happened, after coming so far, I couldn’t give up so easily, I told myself. I just couldn’t.

  So I turned and retraced my steps to the slaughterhouse.

  I was too late to get work that day, but the following morning, just after dawn, I was standing in the queue when somebody came up to me.

  It was Kwin. And she was grinning.

  Was this it? Surely she wouldn’t be here for any other reason?

  Kwin grabbed my arm. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘My father’s changed his mind. He’s going to give you another chance.’

  In a daze, I let her drag me away from the slaughterhouse. I couldn’t believe I was actually going back to Tyron’s house. Kwin had done it; she’d actually talked her father round. All the anger and resentment I’d been feeling towards her was gone and we fell into an easy banter.

  ‘You stink,’ she said, wrinkling up her nose.

  ‘I thought you liked dirt.’ I smiled cheekily. ‘It’s taken you long enough to persuade your father,’ I told her. ‘I almost gave up and went home.’

  ‘I did my best, but I’ve never known him to be so stubborn. When I fought Palm, he didn’t make half as much fuss. Then, yesterday, he suddenly changed his mind. I searched everywhere but couldn’t find you. I thought I’d give it one more try today. To be honest, I wasn’t sure you’d have stuck it out for so long.’

  ‘Did you beat Palm when you fought him?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course I did,’ Kwin said with a smile. ‘Have you noticed that sound when he talks?’

  I recalled the clicking I’d picked up when I first met him.

  ‘He wears dentures. I knocked his front teeth out,’ she told me.

  ‘But his father came and sorted it out for him?’

  ‘Yes. Dad kicked Palm out too for a day or two, but then his father turned up. Money changed hands. Teena found out through Kern and she told me. My father’s rich, but he’s desperate for more money. He just can’t seem to get enough.’

  As we approached the house, I started to feel nervous. I had to make things right with Tyron. He had to know that he could trust me again.

  He was waiting in the yard when we arrived. He and Kwin exchanged a nod, and then she went straight inside, giving me a squeeze on the arm before she left.

  ‘I’m sorry for letting you down,’ I said immediately. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  I’d expected a lecture, or at least some sort of warning. But Tyron said nothing; simply flicked his eyes over me from head to foot. ‘Get yourself cleaned up – I’ll ask Teena to find you a change of clothes. Eat a good breakfast. It won’t matter this time if you’re late for the first session.’

  I did exactly as he instructed, washing my face and hands before heading up to the bedroom to change. Then I went into the dining room, where I breakfasted alone, relishing every mouthful and helping myself to seconds.

  Finally I entered the training room, as I had done on my first day, all those weeks ago.

  The two other trainees had clearly not been warned about my return and seemed stunned to see me back. Palm’s jaw almost hit the floor.

  ‘Tyron’s taken you back? I don’t believe it!’ he exclaimed.

  I stared at him witho
ut comment and started to pull off my shoes and socks, ready for training. I’d not had a chance to prepare what I would say when I saw Palm again. On hearing his superior voice, my anger began to build; suddenly I could contain it no longer. Words burst from my mouth.

  ‘No thanks to you!’ I said. ‘You couldn’t wait to tell him, could you? Funny, you didn’t mention you’d fought Kwin before as well. Does having false teeth make it hard to chew? I wonder.’

  Palm glared at me, the flush rising up his cheeks, betraying his feelings. But he didn’t reply, simply stomping off to the other side of the training floor.

  Deinon gave me a dry smile. ‘I’m glad you’re back, Leif. It wouldn’t have been fair if you’d not been given another chance.’

  ‘Thanks, Deinon. I can’t wait to get back to training.’

  Soon Kern was putting us through our paces, and apart from a quick ‘Welcome back,’ he treated me as though I’d never been away.

  I could have said other things that day, but as Palm said nothing more to me, I kept quiet too.

  Whenever he replied to Kern or muttered something to Deinon, though, it was hard not to smile.

  Now that my ears were tuned to it, I kept hearing the click of his dentures.

  13

  The Westmere Plaza

  In the beginning was the wurde,

  And the wurde was made flesh.

  It was the biggest mistake we ever made.

  Amabramsum: the Genthai Book of Wisdom

  As the week progressed, I quickly became accustomed to the routine of my days under Tyron’s roof.

  After breakfast we spent the morning on practical skills under the supervision of Kern. It was hard work, and the hours spent dancing across the boards behind a lac gave me aches and twinges of pain in leg muscles I didn’t know I had.

  What gave me the greatest satisfaction was that I’d managed to find the throat-socket of the training lac with my blade on two more occasions, while Palm had failed to do so even once. He was getting increasingly frustrated.

  I enjoyed practical work far more than the afternoon sessions, when I struggled to learn the basics of patterning in Nym. Tyron insisted that Palm, Deinon and I worked alone in one of the small studies adjacent to our bedroom. We were each summoned to an hour’s private tuition with Kern. It was even worse on Thursdays, when Tyron taught the theory. I felt embarrassed by my mistakes and began to fear that I wasn’t bright enough; I’d surely fail my month’s trial.

  The afternoons would always end with a run to help us develop both stamina and speed. Led by Kern, we would jog down towards the Wheel. After two steady circuits of that huge building, we sprinted the next two. Then, after five minutes to regain our breath, we would race each other – three fast circuits, finishing at the main entrance. It was a race that I won each afternoon. Kern pushed me hard, but I was faster. He always smiled and congratulated me. We’d developed a jokey relationship, and I had started to think of him almost as a big brother. Palm and I had not spoken to each other directly since I’d returned to training. And the fact that he was pushed into third place in our daily races did nothing to help us become friends. The only thing that spoiled my pleasure was that, with Palm coming third, Deinon was relegated to fourth.

  After that it was a stroll back up to Tyron’s house, looking forward to the biggest meal of the day.

  ‘I’m starving,’ said Deinon.

  I was walking beside him; Palm was in front chatting to Kern.

  ‘So am I, but the food’s worth waiting for. Far better than what I ate back in Mypocine. There was never enough of it. The farmer I worked for didn’t allow me to eat with his family. He brought a plate out to me in the barn where I slept. It was usually cold.’

  ‘Sounds like you had a hard time.’

  I nodded. ‘The work was hard, but I did have a few friends. I saw them at weekends when I went stick-fighting. How about you, Deinon?’

  ‘I worked on a farm too, but it was my father’s so at least I had a proper bed for the night. I’ve got two younger brothers. We all had to muck in together to help my father, working from dawn until dusk. This is better! But I have to succeed or I’ll end up farming again.’

  ‘What about your brothers?’ I asked. ‘Will they come to the city and train for the arena?’

  Deinon shook his head sadly. ‘My father can only afford to have one of us trained; he finds it really hard to keep up the payments. I’m the eldest, so it happens to be me. I’ve got to do well. I don’t want to let him down.’

  Every other evening, as part of our training programme, Tyron took us to the Wheel so that we could learn by watching the contests in Arena 13. One of the highlights was when I first saw Epson fight.

  We’d settled into our seats just in time for the first contest of the evening. The combatants and their lacs were already in position.

  Behind the single lac stood a man with white hair and a short beard; his bare arms were crisscrossed with old scars.

  I had never seen anyone so old fighting in Arena 13. Long before their hair started to grey, most combatants were forced to retire, often through injury. It was something for young men – you needed to be in your prime. As your mobility and speed declined, fighting became much more difficult.

  ‘That old codger won’t last five minutes,’ Palm sneered. ‘He’s more likely to die of old age before the contest even starts!’

  ‘That’s Epson.’ Tyron’s voice was filled with respect and he glared at Palm. ‘He’s been injured and hasn’t fought since last season. But everybody knows him. Underestimate him at your peril, Palm! He’s a veteran of Arena 13 and a legend amongst those who know what they’re talking about. Perhaps he’s not as strong and fast as he once was, but he’s a canny fighter from both the min and the mag positions, which is very rare. Most combatants specialize in one or the other. My money would be on him. Look at all the scars on his arms.’

  ‘Each scar marks a bout when he was beaten?’ I asked. I was appalled that there were so many.

  ‘Each scar represents an honourable defeat,’ Tyron corrected me. ‘But for every one of them there were at least fifty victories. They say he’s to retire at the end of the season. He gets cramps in his legs now – a chronic condition; many older fighters get it – and there’s a growing weakness in his back. But I wouldn’t put it past him to spread negative rumours about himself in order to improve the odds; that way he’ll get a better return when he backs himself to win. Now look at the young man he’s facing. His name is Skule and he’s ranked high on the Lists even though it’s only his third season. He fights from Kronkt’s stable – as you can tell by the eagle logo on the back of his jerkin. He’s very popular with the women.’

  I could see why. Skule had blond hair, a handsome face and a muscular body. I glanced around the gallery and noticed that there were more women than usual in attendance tonight. A few in the front row were leaning over the rail and calling his name in a bid to attract his attention. One young girl finally succeeded: he looked up, smiled and gave her a wave – at which she shrieked and buried her face in her hands.

  ‘Skule’s seriously good,’ Palm said. ‘We’ve watched him fight before. He won easily both times, didn’t he?’

  Tyron nodded. ‘Yes, Skule will go far, but tonight I think he’ll be in for a surprise.’

  But I was more interested in Epson. Here was a man who’d had a long successful career in Arena 13.

  ‘Whose stable does Epson belong to?’ I asked; I’d noticed that he had no logo on the back of his jacket.

  Palm was sitting on the other side of Tyron and I saw him smirk at my question. He obviously knew the answer, and was always delighted by any display of ignorance from me.

  ‘Many like to fight from a stable like mine that offers good support to a fighter, but not every combatant follows that route,’ Tyron explained. ‘Epson maintains, owns and trains with his own lacs. Some combatants do so because it takes a long time to build up sufficient funds to get yourself in
to my position. Some, like Epson, choose not to fight from a stable anyway. He could have afforded it but prefers to work on his own. He’d rather fight than worry about training and managing other people.’

  ‘I think I’d choose to do the same,’ Deinon observed from my left.

  Tyron smiled. ‘It’s something that everyone has to make up his own mind about. But for you boys, decisions like that are still in the future.’

  Despite what he had said, I already knew what I wanted to do; I thought it unlikely that I’d change my mind. I lacked the ability to pattern to the highest level, so I could never become another Tyron. But I was fast and my reactions were excellent. I wanted to fight in the arena – to fight and win until I was the best min combatant in Arena 13.

  After he’d blown the trumpet signalling that combat could begin, Pyncheon, the Chief Marshal, left the arena and the contest got underway. Skule crouched low behind his three lacs. His arms – like Epson’s – were bare; far fewer scars were evident.

  Suddenly Skule’s feet drummed on the wooden boards using the sound-code, Ulum, to tell his lacs what to do.

  Responding quickly, Skule’s lacs began to move warily, the six blades glinting menacingly. Skule followed, dancing very close to the back of his central lac.

  In response, Epson thumped the boards rhythmically himself, and then took one quick step backwards in unison with his own lac.

  I heard a low murmur that quickly became a rising growl of anticipation. It was clear that Skule had already made a mistake: the crowd had spotted the over-commitment of the younger man.

  Four pairs of blades flashed as Epson’s lone lac whirled forward, thrusting its own blades – right, left and right again – into the throats of the three lacs that opposed it. And suddenly the tri-glad of Skule was an inert tangled heap upon the boards – almost, it seemed, before I heard the metallic thunder of its fall.

  The speed of Epson’s lac had been incredible, yet the older man had barely moved. My mouth dropped open, and a glance to my side told me that Deinon and Palm had had the same reaction. Epson was still crouching in the same position, a smile upon his face.