Guardians Of The Coral Throne

Chapter 11

The next morning the trainer locked Blade and the slave attendants into the covered cart and drove them down to the Arena. As they drove past the public gates, Blade saw through the barred windows that the crowds were already gathering. The lines at the betting booths seemed to stretch halfway around the whole Arena. The trainer shouted a question down from his seat, and several voices answered with words Blade couldn't make out.

When the cart drew up in the smelly darkness of the Arena's underground slave section, Blade asked, «What's causing all the uproar with the betting?»

The trainer shook his head. «There's plenty of money going down on you against Iscaros' three. I'm hardly sure why myself, although you'll surely make a better showing against them than anyone else has. Perhaps it's the odds.»

«What are they?»

«Fifty to one against you.»

Blade whistled. Somebody was hoisting up those odds, somehow. He had never heard of odds in any Arena fight going so high. Somebody stood to gain a good deal from today's fight if Blade won. He doubted if it was the average bettor with his two or three silver pieces. He also suspected that most of the money being bet on him was not coming from the bettors' own pockets. He had no sort of record to attract any real betting money when he was facing the Three.

Blade looked at the trainer, but the man refused to meet his eye. Doubtless the trainer knew more than he was telling, but would rather die under torture than tell any of it-since he certainly would die under torture if he did tell.

Blade relaxed on one of the couches while the attendants massaged and oiled him and prepared his weapons and armor. He was going to use two swords against the Three, a broadsword and a short sword, with only light armor. He was going to rely on his speed and the advantage of one man facing three even when the three fought as a team.

As he lay there, considering possible moves and countermoves, he heard the trainer's voice say, «Good morning, Noble Lord.»

«Good morning, my man.» It was the voice of Pardes' scarred henchman. «I would speak to Blade.» Blade turned as he heard footsteps approaching his couch and managed to look appropriately humble and respectful.

«You look less than your best,» the man said, pulling at his small curled beard. «I would be sad to think that you will meet your end today merely through a passing illness.» The dark eyes never left Blade's face.

Blade bowed his head. «It is the custom of my people to fast the day before a mighty battle. Surely this will be such, Lord?»

«It certainly will be,» said the man. «If you win today you will be the most famous gladiator in all of Karan, and your fame will live after you.» The man's lips formed a smile, but his eyes did not join in. They held a «Do-you-expect-me-to-believe-your-story?» expression.

Blade itched to stare this man down. But noblemen of Karan were apt to regard a slave's meeting their eyes as insubordination or rebellion. He would be taking an unnecessary risk.

After a moment the man turned away and strode out. «Who was that?» Blade asked the trainer. It was time to be able to put a name to that man.

«That is the noble Baron Descares,» the trainer said. «He is an officer in the Guardians of the Coral Throne and related by marriage to the Second Master of War, Duke Pardes.»

The Guardians of the Coral Throne were the elite troops of Karan, the deadly cavalry the Scadori called the Riders of Death. Descares was even more of a Somebody than Blade had imagined. But no doubt Pardes would see to it that those who served him well would rise as high as their birth and talents permitted, or even higher.

Blade was the only fighter from Figurades' household in the Arena today. But he was not the first on the lists. The Council that ruled the High Arena had obviously decided to give the crowd a chance to fill every seat and work up a nice appetite for blood before bringing on the day's main event. The howls and roars of the crowd above told Blade that the appetite was growing on schedule. In the rare moments of near-silence, the continuous mutter of voices and shuffle of feet told him that people were still arriving.

«This will be the biggest crowd in the three hundred years men have fought in the Arena,» said the trainer. «You will go forth to meet the Three and your fate before the eyes of His Sacred Majesty and far more than two hundred thousand of his subjects.»

«You seem quite sure that I am going to my death, old man,» said Blade, slapping the trainer on the shoulder with the familiarity permitted a gladiator on a day of fighting.

The trainer shrugged. «You have seen the Three fight, and their opponents die.»

«Yes,» said Blade. «I have seen the Three fight. That is why today the people and His Majesty will see me fight, and see the Three die.»

The trainer shrugged again, with a «Believe-it-if-it-makes-you- comfortable» expression on his face. Before he could say anything, the trumpets sounded, the massed trumpets that signalled the day's main event. Blade knew that was his call. He hooked on his belt with the two swords, tightened the straps of his broad-rimmed helmet and jointed armor, and accepted a brief blessing from the trainer. Then he turned and strode up the ramp that led to the sands of the Arena.

The sky had clouded over since morning. Blade knew this would be an advantage for him if it lasted. One trick the Three used was to maneuver so that their opponents had to keep facing the sun. That trick would be useless now.

A deafening roar went up from the crowd as Blade strode out on the sand, moving steadily toward the center of the Arena. It was not cheering for him in particular. It was the cheering he had heard so many times before, the howl of the mob delighted at the chance for a grand bloody spectacle. And this one would have an even more exciting climax than usual, as the victor or victors had a girl there, on the sand, right in front of everybody!

When Blade waved to the crowd, he had to force himself not to shake his fists in rage.

He stopped in the middle of the white circle that marked his assigned place. Twenty yards away was the stake to which the girl would be bound, and beyond it the red circle where the Three would stand.

Another cheer rose as the Three emerged from the Arena's underground chambers and marched toward their circle, keeping perfect step as they always did. The trident man was adding an extra flourish today, tossing his trident up in the air and catching it as it came down. That gesture smelled of the kind of overconfidence Blade was always happy to see in an opponent.

The Three reached their circle and swung into a line facing Blade. The cheering died away as the people in the stands made themselves as comfortable as possible, with rented cushions and candied nuts and wine.

Blade crossed his arms on his chest and scanned the stands. The notables of Karan had turned out as enthusiastically for today's fight as the mob. The sections reserved for them blazed with the colors of their canopies and banners. Blade recognized both the orange and gold of Pardes and the blue and red of Iscaros. Blade was grimly satisfied to know that both players were here to watch their pieces in action.

In the center of the notables was a mass of purple and silver that Blade had not seen before. Even in the pale light he saw the sheen of the armor of infantry surrounding that section, and of dismounted Guardians drawn up on the sand in front of it. His Most Sacred Majesty, Jores VII, Emperor of Karan, the fifty-seventh to sit upon the Coral Throne, was indeed in attendance today.

The distance was too great for Blade to even make out the Emperor, let alone get a good look at him. All the tales Blade had heard suggested that Jores VII was a well-intentioned youth, barely nineteen. He was not stupid, but he was inexperienced, and unreasonably determined to make a mighty name for himself in a short time. He was not at all the man to clamp down with an iron hand on the intrigues of his nobles or compel awe and obedience from the mob. If Princess Amadora did aim at sitting upon the Coral Throne herself, Jores VII would not be the strongest opponent she faced.

Blade's political calculations were cut off by more trumpet calls. This time they seemed to be trying to play a light, lilting tune. They did not succeed very well. In any case another burst of cheering promptly drowned them out. A gate in the wall of the Arena opened, and a light two-wheeled cart rumbled out, drawn by two white horses. Two soldiers in polished silver armor stood in it, one driving and one holding a girl dressed in a nearly transparent white shift. The cart rumbled up to the stake and stopped. The soldier holding the girl grabbed her around the waist and lifted her to the sand. Blade felt his breath stop in his throat and his insides go first cold, then blazing hot.

The girl was Tera.

Even from twenty yards away Blade could see that she had been beaten, starved, and abused. She stood as though those beautiful legs could barely support her, head drooping and hair flowing down over the breasts clearly visible through the silk. She made no resistance as the soldiers tied her to the post.

By the time the soldiers had finished, Blade's first blazing rage was under control. In its place was an icy, chill determination that the Three Iscaros had sent out to kill him and rape Tera in the Arena were not going to live much longer.

No doubt Iscaros had tired of the girl, or found it unwise to keep her around. He knew that sooner or later Pardes' gladiator Blade would come up against the Three. So why not make that fight a Game of Rescue, and kill Blade, dispose of Tera, and score a move against Pardes all at once? Why not indeed, particularly when the sight of Tera would doubtless drive Blade into a mad rage and make him fatally careless?

It was not Blade who would be fatally careless today. It was Iscaros who had just been so. Blade would fight with all the skill and all the power at his command. What Iscaros had hoped would be Blade's death sentence was going to be a death sentence for the Three.