Chapter 8

Kristophan, the Imperial League

Hult awoke to the rattling of keys outside his cell door. He didn't try to rise, but lay still, pretending to be asleep. His mind was on escape; it had been since the minotaurs captured him. He had tried several times, to no good. He wasn't going to let that stop him from trying again, though.

He had been in this strange place for somewhere between two and three weeks. Without windows in his cell, it was hard to know for sure. He already knew the fate that awaited him and Forlo. They had brought the two of them back, to the Arena shortly after their trial. They had shown him the sands beneath the massive, looming stands, the racks of weapons, the gladiators and caged monsters who fought there. It was a pit fight—most of the tribes of the Tamire had such contests, where criminals fought and rivals settled disputes. This pit just happened to be many times larger than the largest Uigan village. It could have held all of Chovuk's horde, several times over.

He understood, now, the folly of the Boyla's ambition. Chovuk had doomed his people the day he decided to cross the Run. Even if they had won at the Lost Road, what then? They would have pushed deeper into the League, and eventually met their deaths on the long spears of fifty thousand minotaurs. No rider, in his bloodlust, could ever have imagined there were this many bull-men in the world. It seemed a cruel joke, as if Jijin were a trickster-god instead of a warrior.

The door swung open, and two minotaurs entered. They held man-catchers, and they used them without hesitation, slamming the weapons against Hult's stomach and legs as he sprang from where he lay. Both poles hit him hard, then the pincers on the end closed around him. The bull-men yanked him off his feet, and he hit the ground hard, with a rattle of chains. One of the bull-men said something in their harsh language, and both laughed. They were mocking him, and why not? He was a fool. All the Uigan were fools—even their prince.

A third came into the cell while he struggled against the man-catchers. This one had a massive, iron-studded cudgel in one hand, and a ring of keys in another. He stood over Hult and growled something, raising the club to make his meaning clear. Stop it, or I will crush your skull.

Hult lay still. There were times to fight, but this wasn't one of them. Wait for the opportunity, Chovuk had taught him. Be like the skrit, who hides in his shell until the time is right. Until prey is close. Then sting, and sting, and sting until it is dead.

He only hoped he would have the chance to sting before this was over.

The jailer used his keys to unlock Hult's chains, then clamped manacles around his wrists and ankles. Hult ground his teeth: weeks had passed since he'd spent more than a few moments without chains on him. He hated it. He hated them. Most of all, though, he despised himself.

He could have prevented this. He could have jumped with the elves. He and Forlo were here because he had hesitated, out of fear. Because he was a coward. He'd doomed them both because he couldn't face the sea.

They jerked him to his feet, pushed him out the door. He stumbled as the man-catchers released him. They laughed. Red mist began to gather in front of his eyes; he fought it back. This was no time for rage, not yet. They brought him down a tight, stone tunnel, then up a flight of stairs. As he climbed, he heard roaring from above: tens of thousands of voices shouting. He thought of the horde, now drowned by the waters of the Run: it was the same noise the riders of the Tamire had made as they swept down into Malton, to burn and pillage. The voices were shouting for blood.

His blood. The skin on his arm rose into bumps.

A curving hallway waited at the top of the stairs, all gleaming white marble, lined with bull-headed statues. There was sunlight beyond, and from that way the cheering got louder, and he heard the stamping of feet. More guards met him, bearing pole-axes, their armor gleaming. They surrounded him, brought him forward, leaving the jailer and his men behind. That made him angry: he wouldn't get the chance to snap their necks, as he had dreamed at night in his cell. He knew that, whatever happened to him, he wouldn't be going down into the prison again.

Forlo stood at the end of the corridor, surrounded by another group of crossbowmen. He was clad in his armor, but had no helm or weapon. All part of the game. Hult himself was naked, but for a cloth covering his loins. They had taken his garments, just as they'd cut his braid. Dishonor after dishonor. And they called him a barbarian.

Forlo couldn't look him in the eye as he approached. Hult wanted to tell the man that it wasn't his fault. It's mine, he thought again. If only I'd jumped… .

Through an archway lay the sands, the pit. The light was bright, a cloudless autumn morning. The air was warm and still. Dust hung in the air like ghosts. The guards said something, then shoved him forward, prodding and jabbing with the butts of their weapons. He went, Forlo walking beside him. The other man tripped, nearly fell. The bull-men laughed some more.

Out on the sands, the sun stabbed his eyes. He squinted through the glare, baring his teeth, walking blind for a while. Gradually, everything went from white back to normal. He and Forlo were halfway across the arena floor, a perfect circle a hundred paces across, shimmering in the heat. It burned the soles of his feet. Around its edges stood minotaur guards in plumed helmets, armed with crossbows. High above, bull-men filled the stands all around him. There were so many that Hult didn't even try to guess at the number: some dressed in finery, others in the garb of common workers. Some waved banners. Some blew war horns or pounded drums. All were shouting, the noise like the din of a thunderstorm. It was like a vision of the Abyss, from the elders' tales: horned demons presiding over brutal torments. Hult shuddered, his stomach clenching.

The guards did not stop at the center of the circle, as he thought they would; instead, they brought Forlo and Hult all the way to the far side, beneath a gallery covered with a canopy of gold and crimson silk. Wealthy minotaurs sat on chairs along its length, and in its midst, robed and crowned, was the one they called emperor. Rekhaz was his name. Forlo sneered at the sight of him and said a vile word.

"Khot."

The emperor smiled, rising from his seat. A hush fell over the arena as he stepped forward. The guards shoved Forlo and Hult down on their knees, hitting them hard with the butts of their axes. The red mist began to gather again. Hult forced himself to be calm, to concentrate, listening to the emperor's words. He didn't understand them now, but he forced himself to remember. Later, he would know their meaning.

"Barreth Forlo, lord of Coldhope, once marshal of the Imperial Armies," Rekhaz declared, his deep voice filling the arena, "you are guilty of high treason against the League and of deserting your command without leave. You have chosen to answer for these crimes upon these sands. Here the justice of Sargas will be done, and your blood will answer for your sins.

"As for your barbarian friend, he is an enemy of the empire. His life was forfeit the moment he was caught. He will fight beside you, at the whim of the throne. His fate is already chosen: whether you prevail or not, he will be slain. You fight for yourself alone."

"What?" Forlo asked, glaring up at the emperor. "That isn't the law… any prisoner who survives the arena must be freed!"

Rekhaz smiled, cruel and condescending. "Any citizen of the League," he said. "Barbarians from far lands have no rights here. This savage sealed his fate the day he rode howling across the Run with his misbegotten brothers. This is my ruling, Lord Forlo. It is final. If you speak again, I will make the guards cut out your tongue."

Forlo fell silent. His eyes were daggers, glinting in the sun. The emperor raised his hands.

"The empire watches your doom," he said. "The mercy of Sargas will judge you. Go now, and die if he wills it."

The throngs in the stands cheered, the noise so loud that it left Hult's ears ringing like funeral bells. The guards prodded them to their feet, marched them back toward the center of the ring. As they walked, a young minotaur sprinted from the arena's edge, planted two blades pointfirst in the sands, and bolted away again. Hult saw them and nodded: Forlo's blade and his own shuk. They would fight with their own weapons, at least.

Forlo's face was red, his nostrils wide. Hult knew the rage was threatening to claim him too. He wanted to tell the man about Chovuk's lessons, about the patient, deadly skrit… but he couldn't, so he just kept walking.

The cheers grew even louder as they reached the sands' midst. The guards withdrew, leaving them alone. Forlo lifted his blade, and Hult took up his saber as well. Its worn grip felt right in his hand, its weight familiar and comforting. He gave it a few practice spins, working out the stiffness in his joints. Forlo did the same, then turned and said something. Hult didn't know the words, but he understood the look in the man's eyes.

"No," he said. "I am the one who should be sorry."

Forlo didn't understand. There was no way to explain. Then, after a moment, the opportunity passed. At the highest reaches of the arena, trumpeters raised silver horns and blew a fanfare that stilled the crowd. The echoes of the blare gave way to silence. The minotaurs leaned forward, craning their necks as they looked toward abroad, bronze door on the south side of the ring.

Hult and Forlo watched the door open, revealing iron bars. Beyond, in the shadows, something stirred. Whatever it was, it wasn't human. Hult licked his lips, his shuk weaving in slow loops before him. A dim clank sounded from the portcullis; with a squealing groan, it started to rise.

The things that waited behind the gates scuttled out so quickly, it set Hult back a pace. They were massive, wormlike creatures, each ten feet long and as wide across as a man's trunk, covered in shells like banded mail, one deep blue and the other oily black. They had more legs than he could count—it seemed like hundreds, each ending in a wickedly curved hook that dug into the sand as they darted forward, throwing up plumes behind. Pincers like scytheblades gnashed around their chittering mouths; their eyes were like faceted jewels, as black as an ogre's heart.

"Horax!" Forlo yelled, moving back a step as the beasts scurried toward them.

Hult glanced at him in surprise, recognizing the name: his own people called these creatures hurajai, which in the Uigan tongue meant "cutters of bone." They dwelt in caves in the hills and mountains, coming out at night to prey on the herds. Their armor was too thick for arrows to pierce; a man had to hew at them with steel to kill them. But the hurajai he had seen hadn't been this big: none was much longer than a man was tall. These were almost twice that size. Either they were mightier in the southern lands, or the bull-men bred them especially, like dogs, to use in their pit-fights.

They moved like flowing water, weaving this way and that, making awful wet hissing sounds as they came. The crowd leaped to its feet, roaring, banging on cymbals, and waving banners. The commotion was spellbinding, and Hult had to force himself not to look up at them as a huraj—the black one, rainbows writhing in the reflections of its shell—shot straight at him.

It reared, rising almost to the level of his throat, mandibles clacking in the air. He leaped aside, rolled, and came up with his shuk in front of him. The huraj settled back to the ground, then whipped around and started forward again. Hult had long enough to see Forlo swiping his own blade at the other one, keeping it at bay while he tried to circle to its flank. Then the black huraj came on again, clawed legs churning. He brought back his saber, spun it, then snapped it around as hard as he could, striking with the tip of the blade at the creature's neck. It was a powerful stroke, swift and well aimed, strong enough to take off the huraj's head. But it didn't.

Instead, his sword shattered.

Hult had had the shuk since he was ten summers old. His father had given it to him, shortly before he died. He'd learned to fight with it, had carried it when he ventured into Panak on the hunt that would make him a man, had laid it at Chovuk's feet—and thrown it aside when Chovuk died, only to have Forlo return it in a gesture of goodwill. It was the one thing he had left of his homeland. It had never failed him. But the moment it struck the huraj, the blade made a horrible sound and broke into glittering shards, which rained down upon the sands. He was left holding a jagged stump, shorter than his forearm.

He stared at the broken weapon in disbelief, and the moment nearly cost him his life. The blow had knocked the huraj aside, but the creature quickly swung around again, pincers snapping. Hult twisted aside, barking a curse, and felt a hot line of pain in the side of his neck as one of the mandibles sliced through his flesh. Blood sprayed, and for a panicked moment he thought he had been slain, but then he realized it wasn't enough blood. He batted the huraj with the edge of his hand, painfully. It was like striking solid steel. The creature flopped away, and Hult danced back, what remained of his shuk at the ready.

He heard the laughter: the crowd, hooting and jeering, mocking him. He glanced around, understanding; the minotaurs had broken his blade, not him. They'd scored it, leaving it intact but so weak that it would snap the moment he hit anything. He cursed again. He wanted to jam the broken end of his shuk, his birthright, in the foul emperor's eye. He wanted to bathe in bull-man blood.

Another metallic snap rang out to his right. "Khot!" Forlo swore again.

Hult didn't have to look to know: now both of them were unarmed, and the hurajai were still unhurt. He lashed out with his foot, kicking his opponent and flipping the creature halfway over. As it writhed and flopped, trying to right itself, he lashed out with his broken blade. It struck the creature's armor, but didn't penetrate; instead it ground along the plates with a spine-jarring squeal, snipping off three legs, which lay twitching on the ground, oozing something that looked sickeningly like butter.

The huraj tried for him again. Hult leaped over the creature, stumbled, and dropped the hilt of his sword. The crowd laughed louder still.

He was casting about, searching for what was left of his saber, when Forlo let out a shrill cry. Hult glanced over and grimaced: the blue huraj had latched its pincers around the man's right wrist and was sawing with them, back and forth. If he hadn't been wearing armor, it would have cut off his hand in an instant; instead, it was grinding links of chainmail into his flesh. Blood darkened Forlo's glove, and he shook his swordarm wildly, trying to throw off the creature. He started beating on its chitinous head with his left fist. He might as well have been punching solid iron.

A hiss brought Hult's eye back to his own huraj, just as it was scuttling toward him once more. He flexed his hands. Either he won the fight now, in this pass, or he was dead. He crouched low, watching, waiting. The huraj rose up to strike.

He was quicker. With desperate speed, he reached out with both hands and grabbed it just below its head. Pincers snapped in midair, close enough to his face that he smelled the bitter tang of acid from its mouth and felt burning drops of the acid hit his skin. He hissed and spat right back. Then, probing, he got his fingers around the plate that covered its head and began to pry.

The huraj screamed, its tail thrashing, throwing up great fans of sand. Clawed legs dug into his arms, ripping bloody furrows in his skin. Hult ignored the pain, concentrating on ripping the creature's head off. It wasn't easy: the edges of the shell were sharp and cut into his fingers. The carapace clung fiercely to the pink flesh beneath, but bit by bit, it began to work free. The monster bucked and thrashed, wrenching him left and right; he moved with the pressure, bracing himself and yanking again whenever it stopped. The muscles of his arms, his neck, and his back stood taut and trembling. The red mist settled over him, and this time he didn't will it away. He bellowed a booming, wordless shout—and then, with a hideous ripping sound, the shell came free.

White slime was everywhere, covering him. The huraj slipped out of his grasp, the shell-plate dangling from the side of its head. It fell to the ground and thrashed some more, trying to escape. His teeth bared in a feral grin, Hult ran after the creature, raised his foot, and stomped on its naked, oozing head.

The huraj's screams stopped at once. Its back continued to twitch and squirm, but it was only reflex. The beast was dead. Hult hurt all over. But there was still another creature left. He turned and saw it was still latched around Forlo's wrist. It had driven the man to his knees, with blood darkening the sand all around him. But he fought it still, hitting it again and again, trying vainly to break free.

Hult ran to him. The remains of Forlo's sword lay half-buried in the sand; he grabbed it up, the hilt unfamiliar in his hand, and tried to stab the huraj between the plates on its side. He missed, hitting only shell.

Forlo was extremely pale. His chainmail was torn, hanging. The huraj's mandibles were grinding against bone now. Hult met Forlo's gaze, then nodded toward the creature's jaws. The other man nodded back, understanding.

Together, they grabbed the pincers—Forlo seizing one half with his free hand, Hult the other with both of his own. For good measure, Hult planted his foot against the creature's neck. Pulling hard, they eased the pressure off Forlo's arm, then pulled the pincers wider and wider apart. Forlo wriggled free, and the mandibles came together again with a snap.

Hult felt something like a tug, but didn't think anything was wrong until he glanced down and saw two fingers lying in the dust. He looked at his left hand in shock: it was covered in blood, his first and middle fingers gone at the first knuckle. He gaped, amazed—and the huraj's mandibles closed around his ankle.

The crowd was jumping up and down, excited for the kill. Hult howled as the monster began to slice through his leg. In fury, he slammed the stub of Forlo's sword into the creature's eye, turning the orb into a jellied ruin. The huraj squealed but held on, intent on ripping off his foot.

Forlo yelled, grabbing the pincers again. But he didn't have much strength anymore. Neither did Hult. They grunted and strained, and black ghosts danced in front of Hult's eyes as his consciousness began to fray. He struggled against the pain, but it was too much. He had only moments left. The huraj was going to cripple him… and then he would die, for the bull-men's twisted pleasure.

Jijin, he prayed. Not now. I have much still to do.

A wind passed his ear. There was a solid sound, a chunk. The huraj tensed… then let go with a gurgle, an arrow thrumming at the top of its neck, between two plates. An arrow with black fletching, and a nock carved like a dragon's head.

Hult looked up, into the stands. He saw Eldako there. He thought: how?

Then he saw the rest.