KELEIR AND THE small band of Adridian men he led crept through the ziggurat, following the directions that Aleira had given him before parting ways to go to her husband. They wound their way up the staircase from the bottom level of the prison entrance to the middle level that connected the ziggurat to the arena. The prisoners he’d freed had spread out and gone ahead of them to cause chaos in the halls and to draw the attention of the few guards left on duty. The result was an empty and painless trek to the balcony that the Alar occupied with Xalen’s master, a few slaves, guards, and Luke Canin.
The knight sat in a chair just behind the Alar, a guard’s hand planted on his shoulder to keep him in check. Keleir peeked through the red curtains into the arena. The thundering roar of the crowd filled his ears and fed fire into his blood.
The rattling groan of the arena door opening told Keleir that Xalen’s opponent had arrived. He spotted the hulking Tomorron, with his white-painted skin and slicked-back black hair. He wore painted red marks across his cheeks and a leather cloth about his waist. Other than that, he was unarmored.
Tomorrons, like Droven warriors, refused the aid and restrictions of metal armor. It gave them an advantage in mobility, but a disadvantage in group combat.
While Xalen stood a tall man, the Tomorron stood a foot taller and twice as broad. Legend said that they interbred with giants that lived high in the mountains of Tomorro.
The Tomorron lifted a heavy wooden club tipped in long rusted nails. He slapped the smooth wooden side against the rough palm of his hand, a sneer curling his lip. Xalen’s chest rose with pride before his gaze turned to the space that the Alar occupied with his master and their private guards. He sought Aleira.
Xalen’s role in their escape was to deliver the greatest spectacle ever to befall Mavahan … at least until Keleir got his hands on the Alar.
The Droven Masodite choked up on his axe handle and held his arms out at his sides as a warrior greeting a warrior. The Tomorron did the same before rising to stand, if possible, even taller. The Tomorron warrior’s laugh carried across the arena before being silenced by a long, bloody blade protruding from his chest. The painted warrior stumbled forward and dropped his heavy club to the sandy earth. He reached behind him, struggling to pull the hilt of the blade free. Before he could draw it away, his knees buckled and he collapsed face-first into the dirt.
Behind the fallen Tomorron stood the lithe figure of Xalen Okara’s wife, a stern gaze creasing her beautiful brow. The crowd erupted in fury and delight, half hating and half loving the show. Aleira crossed the arena to meet Xalen, drawing the blade from the dead Tomorron’s back.
Keleir made a sound in the back of his throat, almost losing himself to irritation. That wasn’t part of the plan.
Xalen and Aleira greeted each other, pressing their foreheads together. They were too far for Keleir to hear what they said to each other.
Xalen and Aleira’s master leaped to his feet, raging at the guards to grab them. None of the guards in the stand or the arena bothered to move at his protests. Perhaps they all thought it part of the game?
A deep growl rumbled up from the Droven Masodite, and he turned from his wife, clutching his axe. He took three long, heavy strides forward, curling the axe behind him, and, on the third step, he heaved his body and the axe forward.
His master only had a second of realization to widen his eyes before the axe buried in his sternum, and he fell backward between his chair and the Alar’s throne.
The crowd erupted around him, the peasants rising to their feet with gleeful cheers. The guards, however, finally understood the point of the lord’s angry crowing. They jumped to their feet and pushed past the crowd to reach the sandy arena floor.
The guards posted in the arena box with the Alar rushed out into the hall, where Keleir and his men ambushed them before they could utter a sound of protest. Then they rushed the small group left on the balcony while the army below attempted to regain control over Xalen and Aleira.
The Challengers were surrounded by hundreds of spectators now fully aware of their betrayal. They moved through them, dancing as deadly razorlike tumbleweeds across the desert earth. The soldiers clustered around, hacking and slashing with little expertise. They fell in droves about the husband-and-wife Challengers until a shrill Mavish cry echoed over the clang of metal and cries of the wounded.
“Inak!”
Time in the arena shuttered to a standstill, and all eyes turned to the royal arena box where the Alar stood with his back pressed against the chest of the blood-covered Ipaba, a dagger held to his throat. “Inak,” the Alar repeated.
“Put down your weapons,” Luke Canin instructed in well-versed Mavish, standing at the Alar’s side.