I’d begun with a degree of confidence – I remembered all my victories back home – but maybe I’d misjudged the situation. After all, the city was far more populous than the rural area I came from. It stood to reason that, with more stick-fighters, the standards would be higher.
Rob was smiling, his stick raised as he approached. I wondered if he would go for my mouth – if so, I’d probably lose my teeth.
The crowd began to chant again, louder and louder: ‘Run, rabbit, run! Run, rabbit, run! Run! Run! Run!’
They were laughing as they chanted. They wanted me to give up and run away.
Running would have been the sensible thing to do. Why wait here to have my teeth smashed in?
I never found out whether Rob was aiming for my forehead or my mouth. I dived in under the blow and rolled close to his boots, snatching up my stick with my left hand. I was already on my feet before he’d turned to face me.
Then I kicked off my useless shoes – first the right one and then the left. Time seemed to slow, and I heard each one slap down onto the grass. I spread my toes and gripped the grassy surface. That felt better. Next I took a firm grip on the stick. My right arm was still numb, but that didn’t matter. I favour my right hand but I’m almost as good with my left. I can fight with either.
I attacked.
Rob was fast, but I am fast too – very fast. Maybe I wasn’t as quick in my bare feet as I’d have been wearing a good pair of boots, but I was quick enough. I caught him on the right wrist, then high on his left shoulder – not hard enough to numb his arm and make him drop his stick, but I succeeded in enraging him, and that was exactly what I’d wanted.
I had good reason to be angry myself. I’d been hurt, and there were very few people watching who wanted me to win. Only about four people had bet on me. But a stick-fighter whose vision clouds with anger has taken a big step towards defeat. When I fought, I always tried to keep calm, but I could see that my opponent was furious. No doubt he was rarely hit. Maybe he felt shamed in front of his supporters and wanted revenge. Whatever the reason, now I’d got under his skin and he became reckless. He came at me, swinging his stick as if he wanted to strike my head from my shoulders.
He missed three times because I was dancing away, retreating across the grass. But after his third attempt I suddenly stepped inside his guard.
For a second he was wide open – so I took my chance.
I could have struck him in the mouth – repeating what he’d done to the previous combatant. Some fighters were brutal and liked to inflict the maximum damage on their opponent. But I really liked stick-fighting, preferring to exercise the skill and speed that led to victory rather than deal the blow that ended the bout.
So I hit Rob with minimum force; just a quick strike to the forehead which didn’t even draw blood.
It was enough.
Rob looked stunned. The crowd fell silent.
I’d won. That was all that mattered.
The tout was smiling when he paid me out. ‘You are good. Very fast!’ he said. ‘Come back tomorrow at the same time and I’ll find you someone even better to fight.’
‘Maybe,’ I said with a smile, just to be polite. I’d no intention of doing so. Stick-fighting didn’t figure in my plans.
I was now able to buy food and had a little money left over – enough to get my shoes stitched back together.
That night I slept in a barn on the edge of the city. I was up at dawn and washed at a street pump, trying to make myself as presentable as possible for the meeting I had in mind – with Tyron, one of the most important men in the city of Gindeen.
I had a winning blue ticket. It gave me the right to be trained by the best – and that was Tyron.
I wanted him to train me to fight in Arena 13.
2
Tyron the Artificer
Whom the gods wish to destroy they curse with madness.
Whom the gods wish to flourish they bless with luck.
Amabramsum: the Genthai Book of Wisdom
‘Sit down, sit down!’ commanded Tyron, nodding impatiently towards the chair opposite his desk.
No sooner had I done so than he shook his head fiercely and pointed back at the open door behind me. ‘We don’t want everybody knowing our business, boy.’
He had a point. This was a public building, the Wheel’s administration offices, and the corridor outside was busy.
Having closed the door and sat down once more, I waited for Tyron to speak. I was doing my very best to be patient. I’d given him my blue ticket early in the morning, explaining what I wanted. Now it was less than half an hour before sunset; he’d had plenty of time to make up his mind.
What would he decide to do? Why had it taken him so long?
The room had no windows: suspended from the ceiling was a three-branched wooden candelabrum, the stubby yellow candles burning steadily in the still air. There was an odour of tallow and sweat.
Tyron shuffled papers about as he searched his large leather-topped desk. My chair was much lower than his so that, even if I’d been as tall as him, he’d still have been able to look down at me. I felt sure this wasn’t an accident.
I could have taken my winning ticket to any of the trainers in Gindeen, but I’d chosen to present it to Tyron. Everybody in the whole country seemed to think he was the best. Even back home people knew his name. He looked different to the man I’d imagined: he was thick-set, with a ruddy complexion, and greying hair cut very short to disguise the fact that it was thinning at the front. Character was etched into his face: here was someone who had lived a lot and knew things.
‘Look, you’ve won the right, boy,’ he said now, holding my ticket aloft. ‘I can’t take that away from you. But how much is it worth?’
I didn’t know what he meant. You couldn’t sell a winning ticket. It couldn’t be exchanged for money. And it was only valid once it had been checked and signed by the overseer of the gambling houses. I’d seen to that, so now it could only be used by me.
‘Supposing I find you a trade apprenticeship instead?’ he suggested, and my heart sank. ‘Something nice and steady. The city’s becoming more prosperous. You could be a builder or a joiner. When you come out of your time five years from now, you could earn a good living. Be set up for life. All you have to do is put this ticket back in your pocket and forget all about it. I’ll even pay for your apprenticeship, your accommodation and food – and you won’t owe me a penny.’
Why would he do that? I wondered. Why did he want to get rid of me so badly that he would pay my keep elsewhere? After all, giving me what I wanted wouldn’t cost him anything. The gambling houses supported five trainees each season. This was partly funded by the thousands of tickets sold to young hopefuls. Or, more usually, to fathers who bought them on their behalf. Blue tickets were expensive.
Arena 13 in Gindeen attracted those who sought excitement and a chance of fame; the opportunity to earn real money, rather than being bound to some trade or, even worse, stuck in the drudgery of unskilled labouring. This was why I wanted to fight there too – though I had another, more personal reason that I wasn’t prepared to divulge to anyone yet – not even Tyron.
‘Well, what do you say?’ he asked. ‘What trade would you like to follow?’
‘I want to work for you, sir,’ I repeated. ‘I want to learn how to fight in the arena.’
‘What’s your name again?’ Tyron demanded.
I took a deep breath and gave him the information for the third time. ‘My name is Leif,’ I reminded him.
He got to his feet. ‘Look, I don’t want you, Leif.’ His voice was louder now, and edged with real anger. ‘Why should I give you a place when I’ve dozens with proven ability already clamouring at my door? The system says that your winning ticket gives you the right to be trained, but that doesn’t necessarily mean trained by me. You’re just trying to live out a dream like lots of other young lads from the provinces. The reality of this life is not what you’ve been led to believe. None of it is. I b
et you’ve never even been inside the Wheel or seen any of the arenas.’
I bowed my head. He was right. This was my first visit to Gindeen.
‘I only arrived yesterday. I haven’t had a chance to see anything yet.’
‘Who brought you here?’ Tyron demanded. ‘Whose wagon was it?’
‘Nobody brought me.’
‘Nobody? You’ll be telling me next that you walked!’
‘Yes, I did. I walked.’
‘What! All the way from Mypocine?’
I nodded.
Tyron raised his eyebrows in astonishment. I thought he was going to make some comment, but instead he asked, ‘Tell me about that ticket, boy! Who paid for it – your father?’
‘My father’s dead and so is my mother.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that. But I asked you a question. When I ask a question, I expect to be answered.’
‘Two weeks ago a merchant came to Mypocine,’ I explained. ‘He had a big convoy of five wagons, and everyone came for miles around to barter or buy. Late in the afternoon the men started drinking and he joined them. After a while he suggested that the local lads should put on a bit of a show for him and he’d give a prize to the winner. So we started stick-fighting, three against one.
‘As usual, I won, but I was really disappointed when my prize was only a blue lottery ticket—’
‘Hold it there a minute,’ Tyron interrupted. ‘What did you say?’
I thought I’d spoken clearly but I repeated, ‘I said I was disappointed because I’d only won a blue—’
‘No, not that – it was your first two words that caught my attention. You said you’d won as usual. Did I hear you right?’
I nodded. I wasn’t showing off; just telling the truth. ‘I was the best stick-fighter in Mypocine – the champion. Since turning fourteen I’ve only ever lost once. That was because it was wet and I slipped in the mud – though that’s no excuse. If you want to win, you don’t slip.’
‘And how old are you now?’
‘I was fifteen last week.’
‘So you usually fought alone against a team of three boys?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, mostly it was one against three, just like the lacs in Arena 13. But occasionally it was one against one.’
‘Go on with your tale. You said you were disappointed with your prize. Why would that be?’
‘Because I’m just not lucky,’ I told him. ‘I never have been. Only five of all those thousands bought each year are winning tickets. But the Chief Marshal pulled mine from a lottery orb. I’d won! So I set off for the city straight away. As I told you, I walked all the way and it’s taken me since then to get here.’
‘This merchant – describe him!’ commanded Tyron.
‘He was a big man, probably about your age. He had red hair and a red beard.’
Tyron sighed long and deeply, and the expression on his face made me think that he knew the man I’d described.
There was an uncomfortable silence and I ended it, talking fast.
‘I’ve walked all the way from Mypocine. Doesn’t that show how much I want to be here and fight in the arena? I want to be trained by the best – that’s why I chose you! I want to be one of the greatest and most successful combatants ever. That’s been my dream since I was a child. Please give me a chance. I’ll work as your servant without pay until you see what I can do.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Until you see me fight.’
‘You can’t fight until you’ve been trained, and I’ve already told you that I’m not prepared to train you. So I’m not going to waste any more of my breath. Now, off you go, boy! Go and bother somebody else!’ Tyron snapped, pointing at the door.
I got to my feet and pushed back my chair to leave, filled with a mixture of emotions. I stared at him for a moment before turning and heading for the door.
‘Here!’ Tyron shouted. ‘Catch!’
As I turned back towards him, he snatched something from his leather belt and hurled it at me.
It was a dagger.
It spun towards me, its blade gleaming in the candlelight. End over end it came. Concentrating, I noted that it was aimed a full hand-span to the right of my head. Tyron didn’t want to hurt me; just to shock me. This was a test.
I reached up and plucked the dagger out of the air, walked back to the desk and set it down on the black leather, the hilt towards him. Then, slowly and quite deliberately, I bowed.
When I lifted my head again, Tyron was staring straight into my eyes; it was a long time before he spoke.
‘Well, Leif, that earns you a visit to the Wheel,’ he said at last. ‘But that’s all. I’ve a two-year-old grandson who can catch as well as that!’
3
The Stench of Blood
Victory is marked by a ritual cut to the arm of the defeated combatant.
Although, in combat, the intention is not to kill, accidents do happen.
The Manual of Trigladius Combat
As I followed Tyron through Gindeen’s deserted narrow streets, it was getting dark, though the rain that had been pouring down when I arrived in the city had finally stopped. My heart felt as heavy as lead. Yes, it would be good to visit the Wheel. But I wanted more; much more . . .
It was still early in the spring, and all day long, hauled by teams of heavy dray-horses, wagons had been churning fresh furrows into the city. Running along outside the houses were wooden walkways, but many were in a bad state of repair, with missing planks and rotten boards; piles of rubbish obstructed some of the alleys between them. What I could see was a far cry from the big city of my imagination. I’d expected impressive buildings, order and tidiness.
While waiting for Tyron to make his decision, I’d spent part of my day watching the flow of traffic. Some wagons were loaded high with coal or wood, while others were huge canvas caravans, each home to some hopeful combatant from the provinces.
The Trig season started today and would last until early in the autumn. My father, who had fought in Gindeen, had told me that during this time the population almost doubled.
The sun still hadn’t gone down, but from our vantage point on the hillside, the streets looked dark, with just the occasional lantern suspended from a hook. I had a feeling that we were being watched from the shadows. Maybe Tyron felt it too, because he was striding at a fast pace across the city.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. To my left a monstrous shadow twitched across the whole width of an alley.
I came to a sudden halt. Could it be Hob? I wondered.
I remained frozen to the spot, and Tyron turned, frowning with annoyance.
‘What is it, boy?’
I pointed to the shadow and the frown left his face. He took a cautious step into the alley, paused for a moment, and then beckoned me to his side, indicating a window which I could now see was the source.
It was the only one on the gloomy street that was illuminated, and through a gap in the curtains I saw someone staring out into the alley. The broad face was coarse and brutal, the nose flattened, the mouth open and devoid of teeth. A candle flame projected the man’s shadow, distorting him far beyond human into some dark grotesque ogre. He was big and, although toothless, not far past his prime.
The candle stood behind him, and now he turned and reached for it, lifting it out of its holder. He pulled the flame close to his mouth as if he intended to eat it, but then a sudden paroxysm shook his whole body and he pursed his lips, expanded his cheeks and blew out the flame, plunging the room within into utter blackness.
‘I saw a big shadow and thought it was Hob,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’
‘There’s no need to be sorry. For all we know, that could be Hob,’ Tyron whispered, picking up his pace again. ‘Hob could certainly be abroad on a night like this,’ he went on. ‘There are lots of tales about him. Mostly it’s just superstition, but they’re often based on truth.’
Hob was the djinni who terrorized
the whole country of Midgard, though this city was the focus of that terror. He lived in a citadel on a hill high above Gindeen. It was fear of Hob that forced people off the streets during the hours of darkness. I didn’t comment on what Tyron had said. I knew all about Hob. Who didn’t?
We walked on in silence.
The city was built on the slopes of a great hill, the buildings constructed of wood, like almost everything else in Midgard. In fact, Gindeen was the only city in my country; Mypocine, far to the south, where I was born, had the second largest population, but compared to this it was tiny. I’d never seen so many houses, such a maze of streets. Even so, I could have found my own way to the Wheel. Rivalled only by the huge dark block of the slaughterhouse to the east, it was the most impressive structure on view, rising high above the city.
The Wheel was where the thirteen arenas were located. It was also where the gambling houses had their headquarters; the centre of activity in a city that largely depended on arena combat and gambling for its prosperity. All the other wealth came from the surrounding farms and the cattle that were sold in the markets and driven to the slaughterhouse to feed the city’s inhabitants.
The Wheel was a vast circular wooden edifice. The curved walls reared up into the sky like a cliff, topped by a high copper dome which was now bathed in a red glow from the last rays of the setting sun. It was far bigger than I had imagined; it took my breath away. The city had been a disappointment, but this was beyond my wildest dreams.
Above it, at least a score of black vultures circled ominously, soaring in slow widdershins spirals against the sun. It was said that the vultures spent the day haunting the slaughterhouse and the meat-wagons, but as the sun sank into the Western Ocean, they descended like harpies to the dome, flocking there when someone was about to die in Arena 13.
As I approached the entrance to the Wheel, I noticed a couple of large men in blue uniforms standing on either side of it. They glanced at me with a scowl, although Tyron just went in confidently as if they weren’t there.
It was a shock to leave the cool, quiet, deserted streets and find myself in the hot, noisy, packed interior of the Wheel. I could almost taste the sweat. It was full of spectators jostling and pushing each other, with the loud buzz of conversation echoing back from the high ceiling above us. My head whirled with the excitement. Never had I seen so many people crammed together in one space, all struggling desperately to worm their way through the queues, but continually held back by the throng. The only time anyone halted was to exchange coins for tickets – which I knew meant that they were placing bets on likely victors in the various arenas.