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Marcellus had no recollection of where he was taken. All he remembered was being hauled away, thrown into a prison wagon, and driven through the night to a new destination. As the wagon lurched along the battered road, his consciousness flitted in the stratum between dreams and nightmares as voices of the dead called his name.
It was only the single thought, the feeling he had buried when he rode into the heat of battle, that dug into his mind's detritus and pulled him from his depressed stupor.
Evelina...
He drifted, floating in the current of memories past...
~*~
"MARCELLUS ADMORRAN!" Evelina trotted up on a white mare. She rode straddled, not with her legs on one side like the ladies of the court. One would think she was a common woman, with her unadorned blouse and divided skirts. Her reddish-gold hair bounced lightly, and a warm smile dimpled her cheek.
He drank in the sight.
She pulled rein beside him. "My lady mother told me you were leading a patrol this way."
"Yes, milady." He gestured to the lines of men lined up in the meadow some distance away. Jaslin's helmet glinted in the sun as he rode past the units, instructing on sword etiquette. "Just breaking in some greenblades dreaming of knighthood."
To his surprise, she burst out laughing.
"You should hear yourself," she said between giggles. "Talking like you are so much older than they are. You were a greenblade yourself not too long ago, Marcellus."
He smiled ruefully. Just a year ago, he wasn't even a greenblade; he was the Coward's Son. Now he was a Knight of the Sword. The lowest rank, to be sure, but among the youngest to attain it, and knighted by Lucretius himself.
"Too true, milady."
Shadowdancer thrust his muzzle out to her in a familiar way. She laughed delightedly and stroked his narrow muzzle.
"He still remembers me!"
"Milady, you are not easy to forget." He placed his hand on hers. She looked startled for an instant. Then color flooded her cheeks as she smiled shyly at him. She withdrew her hand slowly, delicately clearing her throat.
"I ... the reason I came, that is, was because I wanted to bring this to you." She thrust a basket at him. He caught the scent of seasoned roast, potatoes, and sweetbread. "Mother thought you ... you and Jaslin, that is ... might be hungry, so I made a meal, just in case you wanted to..." She paused.
"Eat?" he asked helpfully.
"Yes, that's it." She blushed even harder. "I apologize, milord. I am not usually so clumsy in my speech."
He smiled. "I do not wish for you to call me 'milord.' We shall make a pact now that you shall call me Marcellus."
"And that you should call me Evelina, not 'milady.'"
"Very well, Evelina. Thank you for the kind thought. I will enjoy this, especially since your hands prepared it."
Her smile practically made his heart ache. "It's nothing. I do hope you enjoy it."
An awkward silence stretched for a moment. Marcellus found that his words tumbled over one another in haste to leave his mouth.
"Well, I suppose I should be heading back," she said.
He caught her hand gently. "Wait. If you are not in a hurry, perhaps you'll honor me with your company. Surely you did not expect me to dine alone."
"But what about Jaslin and your men?"
He laughed as he dismounted. "I'm their commanding officer. I don't have to stand sweating in the hot sun. I have had my share. Let them have theirs. Come." He extended his hand.
After a momentary pause, she smiled and took it.
~*~
HE SAW THE SKY-BLUE of her eyes, heard her voice murmur in his ear, felt the softness of her skin. Outside his window, the wind carried the squealing laughter of his daughter. Cursing his weakness, he pushed his fatigue away as he sat up. The chamber was different than the one where they previously imprisoned him. The darkened stone cell was furnished with only the overflowing privy pot in the corner and dirty, matted straw on the floor.
All dungeons were the same, no matter what land you ended up in.
The voices of other prisoners rose in wordless fury. Marcellus heard cursing and iron-shod footsteps before keys jingled outside his door. Two burly guards entered with drawn swords and lanterns in their hands. Their faces were indecipherable beneath the visors of their heavy burgonet helmets. More crowded the hall outside. He rose before they could reach him. They stepped back warily with their swords upraised.
Marcellus kept his voice calm and showed his shackled hands. "I will come peacefully."
The guards met his steady gaze uneasily. He knew the stories about him played in their minds as they cautiously approached to test his bonds. Satisfied, they snapped a lead chain to his manacles before escorting him out of the cell.
He winced and shielded his eyes when the prison doors opened, allowing the glare of sunlight inside. A deafening roar greeted him—the thunder of hate-filled voices in a chorus of rage.
"Where are we?"
The nearest guard thumped him across the head with a spear butt. "You are in Radoth, worm. No more talk. A worm does not speak."
Radoth. Marcellus shook his head as they shoved him out the doors. He couldn't figure out why Valdemar would transfer him out of the capital city of Dragos.
I suppose I will find out soon enough.
Hundreds of guards lined the road outside, where an uncovered wagon and horses awaited. The numbers were not because they feared him. They were to hold the riotous crowd back.
Throngs lined beyond the soldiers; a sea of men and women who screamed their rage at the personification of what oppressed them—the Champion of the cursed and hated Leodia.
Missiles immediately struck. He winced as the guards cursed and held up their shields. The people were not marksmen, and the projectiles did not favor guards over him. The soldiers snatched up whips and cudgels to drive the crowd back as Marcellus was hefted up onto the wagon and placed on his knees. The guard chained him to an iron pole in the center of the wagon.
"The prisoner is secured!"
The driver cracked his whip, and the wagon lurched into motion.
The crowd roared as the wagon wheeled slowly through crowded, dusty streets lined by buildings of clay bricks and tiles. Shops had their shutters and doors closed. The merchants and sellers had not brought out their wares, for every nook and cranny of the town was crammed to bursting. Muddy fishermen stood shoulder-to-shoulder with silk-clad merchants, and even bejeweled nobles dotted the crowds, forced to abandon their palanquins. One and all, they crowded together to see history made.
Flags and banners bearing the Red Dragon emblem rippled in the throngs. Those who did not curse Marcellus raised their voices in song. Women waved their arms and shook tambourines while some of the men beat leather-capped drums as they walked behind the heavily guarded wagon. The crowds surged and pushed against the line of guards, only to be beaten back by cudgels and cracking whips.
All the while, they mercilessly rained down anything handy to throw. Marcellus' forehead and right cheek stung with cuts, and his half-healed wounds throbbed.
He stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the furious crowd. Time no longer existed, pain was a memory, and the roaring crowd faded into whispers. In time they became mere blurs of movement as he concentrated inwardly, shutting out everything around him.
It was only when the wagon stopped that he realized they had reached their destination: the high-raised walls of the Alaku Ehus—the Dying House. He finally understood why they transferred him from the capital to the crude city of Radoth.
So he could die in the arena.
Savage gladiatorial fighting had been outlawed in the provinces of Leodia, replaced by more civilized tourneys and the Great Games. King Lucretius declared gladiator battles a useless exercise in bloodlust that turned men into animals. Though it continued in secret where men could get away with it, the deadliest fighters and their masters had chosen exile beyond the Dragonspine, where in Radoth they could still perform their opera of death and glory.
No stadium was more notorious than the Alaku Ehus on the fringes of Bruallia, where Valdemar Basilis took great delight in orchestrating one bloodbath after another. The bravest warriors trembled at those gates, where nothing was assured but a gruesome death at the hands of fighters so skilled at killing and maiming that it became an art form.
Squads of soldiers cleared a path to a stone-lined opening outside the wall where large iron-barred doors opened from the ground. Marcellus was unchained and ushered to the steps that led into the belly of the Alaku Ehus. Flickering torches barely illuminated the roughly-hewn stone of the walls. Two more armed guards wearing bestial helmets flanked wide, heavy double doors at the end of the tunnel. With them was a very familiar smirking figure.
"The prisoner is to be unshackled before entering." Gile Noman looked as coarse and disheveled as when he betrayed Marcellus in battle. As the guards cautiously approached, the traitor directed his good eye to Marcellus. "Good to see you again, m'lord. I trust you've been enjoying the hospitality of our gracious host?" He tilted his head mockingly. "Aw, what's the matter, no greeting for your old friend Gile? No?"
His raspy laugh was the only sound as the guards removed Marcellus' bonds. What they saw on his face caused them to reach for their weapons.
Gile's laughter cut off short. He sneered at Marcellus' murderous expression. "Come now, m'lord, don't do anything rash. You're to die out there, and I won't risk Valdemar's wrath to teach you manners. I'm here to present you with the arms you'll take to the field of battle." He picked up two objects leaning against the wall and thrust them at Marcellus.
"Much work went into the craftsmanship." A twisted grin spread across his face. "Have a care how you use them."
It was a sword and shield, at least in theory. The blade was a practice weapon—wooden slats tied together with twine and fitted with a handle, as used by novices training in swordsmanship. The round shield was a flimsy jest, sheetwood encircled by a rim of flattened metal and nailed loosely together. A child's plaything, something he could punch through with his fist.
Valdemar had been telling the truth. It was to be an execution, not a real fight at all.
Marcellus held his calm as he looked at Gile. "I'll use them well."
He swung the practice sword with all his strength. The slats slapped against Gile's shocked face and held for a second before they burst apart, scoring splinters in the man's cheek and forehead and narrowly missing his good eye. The guards pulled Marcellus away before he could shove the jagged remains into Gile's throat.
Gile clutched his face and howled as droplets of blood dripped from between his fingers. "You bleeding sard! I'd strangle you with your own guts if you didn't have worse coming. You're maggot food, you hear me? The buzzards will have their fill of you!" He continued to curse and threaten as he was led away by a pair of guards.
Marcellus ignored Gile as he hefted the shield. Completely useless.
"Don't force us to kill you," one of the guards said. Marcellus hadn't noticed the dozen blades glinting dully in the half-lit chamber. A step forward, and all his worries and pain would be over.
Death and glory.
The guard gestured to the doors. "You die in here. Or you die out there."
Marcellus nodded. "I'll die out there."
The guard signaled, and the two at the door grasped the great stone handles and pulled. Muscles knotted in their arms as the massive doors slowly opened. Bright daylight and a cloud of grainy dust rushed in along with a savage, guttural roar; the cries of a thousand hate-filled tongues caught in the ecstasy of bloodlust.
It was Marcellus' blood that they called for.
The sound of their animal howling made the crowds he had passed through earlier seem tame by comparison. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward. The doors quickly slammed behind him, and he was left to face the furious mob in the most fearsome arena made by human hands.
Alaku Ehus was a massive circular monstrosity hacked out of the earth, carved of granite and sandstone with rows of benched seats leading downward to the arena floor where the unfortunate victims were separated from the crowd by a thick stone wall. Towering poles were erected haphazardly, engraved with every sort of vulgarity, and fixed with blades and spikes of various lengths. The only exits were the doors that shut behind him and the opposite side where the other contestants would enter.
As Marcellus became visible, the crowd's roars grew even louder, if that were possible. He felt the waves of pure murderous hatred that bore down upon him, invisible hands that crushed his shoulders and gripped his throat, forcing him to breathe nothing but the choking dust that swirled about the arena.
He raised his mock shield in salute to the mob that hated him.
Trumpets sounded from the balconies, and rose petals rained around the far doors. The crowd's noise changed from hatred to adoration without pause as dragon banners waved to and fro across the stadium. When the far doors slowly opened with a heavy creaking sound, the crowds cheered as though they were the gates to the heavens.
Marcellus' heart tried to beat its way out of his chest.
Now!
Ducking low, he sprinted forward as all eyes turned to the Lord of Bruallia.
Valdemar Basilis emerged from the gloom of the tunnel, a dark god riding on a magnificent fiery-colored steed that stepped as if it were the king of horses. A dragon-emblazoned scarlet surcoat covered the warlord's gleaming black mail. His dragon-engraved helmet was equipped with heavy leather lames that fell to his shoulders. A scarlet-lined silk cape fluttered behind him to complete his look of the triumphant conqueror. As the flower petals drifted upon his head and shoulders, he raised gloved hands to the crowds who worshiped him.
Marcellus ducked low from one graven pole to the next, trying to stay out of the line of sight of Valdemar. By then, the crowds had noticed his approach and roared in outrage, but Valdemar could not possibly know what they shouted. Sweat slicked Marcellus' face; the frantic beating of his heart drowned out the sound of the enraged mob.
Seconds had passed. Seconds were all he had left.
His injured leg throbbed, threatening to buckle under the pressure. A deranged snarl ripped from his throat as he cleared the last pole and bolted forward, gripping the shield as if it were a large discus. He had been a fair throw when competing in the Great Games, but he would have to be perfect with his cast.
Valdemar emerged completely from the doors. They would close any moment.
The warlord turned. There was no shock on his face, no hesitation as he unsheathed his sword with the speed of a striking cobra.
At that moment, Marcellus hurled the shield.
It hummed as it left his hand. For a second, he feared he had aimed too low, but as if guided by an unseen force, the shield suddenly tilted upwards, catching Valdemar directly under the chin. It exploded in a burst of splintered wood.
The sword sailed upwards, glinting in the morning light. Marcellus never stopped running, and as Valdemar tilted backward, he leaped onto the saddle and shoved Valdemar off. The warlord unceremoniously toppled to the ground in a burst of powdery dust.
Marcellus caught the sword's hilt as it fell, striking the doorman who rushed out to aid his master. The great stallion whinnied and reared while Valdemar rolled on the ground, snarling as he tried to avoid being trampled by his horse. Blood trickled unheeded from his face.
How many seconds have passed? How many do I have left?
Marcellus fought the stallion down. It was a Barbar, one of the desert breeds raised in the Sea of Sand by nomad tribes that made their fortune in breeding the finest steeds. Shadowdancer had been such a horse, and Marcellus knew how to handle their kind.
He jerked the reigns so that the stallion's flanks crushed the second doorman against the wall. As the man's bones cracked, Marcellus looked into the tunnel. Incensed guards ran toward him. Behind him, furious Bruallians—soldiers and peasants, priests and commoners leaped and clambered down the walls. Heedless of the drop that caused many to injure themselves, they fell on top of one another. Those least injured raced to protect their lord and tear his attacker to pieces.
Valdemar's face was pure murder as he rose to his feet.
Now.
Marcellus roared and dug his heels in the horse's flanks. The stallion shot into the tunnel with a wall-vibrating neigh. The approaching guards had the option of leaping out the way or being trampled. Most chose the former, though one not swift enough met his end under the flashing hooves. Marcellus swung, and the only guard who thought to bring a bow fell with a gurgled scream.
The only thing louder than the stallion and the yells of the guards was the scream of feral rage that tore from Valdemar's throat, a savage roar of pure hate that swelled and chased them up the tunnel.
Sunlight tried its best to creep through the cracks of the exit door to show Marcellus how close freedom was. Only two guards barred the way. They drew swords, but fear shimmered in their eyes when they saw him race up the tunnel with a bloody sword in his fist. They leaped out of the way as the stallion rammed the barred doors with his shoulder. The heavy-hinged gate exploded outward as if made of rotted wood.
They sailed out of the stadium tunnel in an eruption of splinters, straight into the crowd outside. Spectators fell over one another in their haste to leap out of the way.
The stallion once again attempted to throw Marcellus. The people leaped back as he tried to fight the horse down. A few applauded as they watched him determinedly hang on somehow, unaware that he had just struck down their beloved lord.
His arms and legs trembled. It had already taken much to endure the abuse of the crowd, coupled with the half-healed wounds that still hounded him. But freedom perfumed his nostrils; the wind stroked his face and stirred his hair as though welcoming him home.
Guards broke through the cheering crowd, brandishing their weapons and yelling for him to dismount. Pandemonium resulted as they wrestled with the masses to reach him while the people ran the opposite way to stay clear of the fighting.
Marcellus used the moment of panic to spur the stallion forward and shoot through the crowds. A wildfire flared in his chest as his heart pounded with the need, the animal urge to escape. Freedom or death were his only options.
Freedom or death.