Caenis nodded slowly, face immobile, and got to his feet. When he spoke his voice was barely audible. “Brothers…” he began, then stopped, choked. “I…” He stammered for a moment before Vaelin reached out grasp his forearm.
“We know, Caenis. I’ll see you shortly. We all will.”
They stood, the five of them, grasping hands. Dentos, Barkus, Nortah, Vaelin and Caenis. Vaelin remembered how they had been as boys. Barkus beefy and clumsy. Caenis thin and fearful. Dentos loud and full of stories. Nortah sullen and resentful. Now he saw only shadows of those boys in the lean, stern faced young men before him. They were strong. They were killers. They were what the Order had made them. This is the end of something, he realised. Live or die, this is where things change, forever.
“It’s been a long road,” Barkus said. “Never thought I’d get this far. Wouldn’t have but for you lot.”
“Wouldn’t change any of it,” Dentos said. “Every day I thank the Faith for my place in the Order.”
Nortah’s face was tense, his brows furrowed as he fought to master his fear. Vaelin thought he wasn’t going to speak but after a moment he said, “I… hope you all make it through.”
“We will.” Vaelin clasped hands with all of them. “We always do. Fight well, brothers.”
“Nysa,” Master Sollis said from the door. He sounded impatient and Vaelin was surprised he had allowed them this interlude. “Let’s go.”
Waiting to find out if your friends were dead, Vaelin discovered, was a singular form of agony that made the effects of Joffril root feel like a taste of lemon tea. One by one his brothers were called out by Master Sollis, there would be a short wait before the crowd erupted in cheers, the volume of which rose and fell with the fortunes of the fight. After a while he found he could gauge the course of a fight, if not the victor, by the crowd’s reaction. Some were over quickly, a matter of seconds, Caenis’s fight in particular had been very short. Vaelin found he couldn’t decide if this was good or bad. Other fights were longer, Barkus and Nortah both enduring prolonged contests of several minutes.
Dentos was the last to be called before Vaelin. He forced a smile, took a firm grip on his sword hilt and followed Master Sollis from the chamber without a backward glance. Judging from the noise of the crowd his fight was eventful, raucous cheers followed by hushed silence then an explosion of applause, repeated several times over. When the final wave of noise washed through the chamber Vaelin found he was unable to judge if Dentos had survived.
Luck to you brother, he thought, alone in the chamber now. Mayhap I’ll join you soon. His hand ached from gripping his sword hilt, the knuckles white on the leather. Is this fear now? he wondered. Or just stage fright?
“Sorna.” Master Sollis was in the doorway, his level gaze meeting Vaelin’s eye with an intensity he hadn't seen before. “It’s time.”
The tunnel leading to the arena seemed long, much longer than he could have imagined. Time played tricks as he walked the length of the tunnel, the journey perhaps taking a minute or an hour. All the time the crowd’s clamour rose in volume until he felt himself bathed in sound as he emerged onto the sandy floor of the arena.
The crowd bayed down at him from ascending tiers of seats on all sides, at least ten thousand in all. He was unable to distinguish a face amongst the multitude, they were simply a seething, gesticulating mass. None of them seemed to mind the rain which was still falling in hard, wind driven sheets. There was blood on the sand, raked to stop it pooling and dulled by the rain but still a stark red against the greenish yellow of the arena floor. Three men waited for him there, each holding a sword of the Asraelin pattern.
“Two murderers and a rapist,” Master Sollis said. Vaelin assumed it was the noise of the crowd that seemed to add a tremor to his voice. “They deserve their end. Show them no mercy. Mark the tall one, he seems to know how to hold a blade.”
Vaelin’s eyes found the tallest of the three, a well built man in his mid-thirties with close cropped hair and a natural balance in his stance; feet in line with his shoulders, sword held low. Trained¸ he realised. “A soldier.”
“Soldier or healer, he’s still a murderer.” The briefest pause. “Luck to you brother.”
“Thank you, master.”
He drew his sword, handed the scabbard to Master Sollis and strode forward into the arena. The crowd’s shouts redoubled as he entered, here and there he caught a word or two: “Sorna!… Hawk-killer!… Kill them boy!….”
He stopped ten feet or so from the three men, looking at each of them in turn as the crowd’s noise dwindled to a hush of anticipation. Two murderers and a rapist. They did not look like criminals. The one on the left was simply a scared, unshaven man holding his sword in a shaking hand as rain pelted him and ten thousand souls awaited his death. Rapist, Vaelin decided. The man on the right was stockier and less afraid, shifting his weight constantly from one foot to the other, he eyes locked onto Vaelin’s beneath deeply glowering brows as he twirled his sword in his right hand, rain water spraying from the blade. He said something, water spouting from his lips, a curse or a challenge, the words lost amidst the rain and the wind. Murderer. The third man, the soldier, showed no fear and felt no need to twirl his sword or voice his aggression. He simply waited, his gaze unwavering, his stance the same sword fighter’s stance Vaelin knew so well. A killer certainly. But a murderer?
The man on the right attacked first as Vaelin expected he would, charging into an easily turned thrust. Vaelin used the momentum of the parry to bring the blade round in a slash at the man’s neck. The stocky man was fast though, dodging away with only his cheek laid open. The man on the left sought to take advantage of the distraction, screaming as he ran in, pulling his sword back over his head and hacking down at Vaelin’s shoulder. He turned, the blade missing by less than an inch to thud into the sand. Vaelin’s sword point took the unshaven man under the chin, forcing its way up through tongue and bone to find the brain. He withdrew the blade quickly and stepped away knowing the soldier would attack now.
His thrust was fast and well placed, a killing stab at the chest. Vaelin’s blade caught the tip and forced the sword point up, leaving an opening to the soldier’s chest. Vaelin’s counter was fast, fast enough to have caught any of his brothers, but the tall man parried it without apparent difficulty. He moved back in a slight crouch, sword close to the ground. His eyes never leaving Vaelin.
The stocky man was attempting to hold his slashed cheek together with one hand, his sword waving wildly as he staggered, spitting inaudible curses at Vaelin with bloodied lips.
Vaelin feinted towards the tall man, slashing at his legs to force him back, then attacking the stocky man in a move so fast there could be no defence, rolling under a wild defensive slash to deliver a killing thrust through the back. His sword point pierced the stocky man’s heart and emerged from his chest. Vaelin put his foot to the dying man’s back and heaved him off the blade in time to duck under another slash from the tall man. He fancied he saw a rain drop sliced in half by the blade’s passage.
They drew back from each other, circling, swords levelled, eyes locked together. The stocky man took a few moments to die, struggling on the rain sodden sand between them, spitting curses until his breath gave out and he sagged, lifeless in the rain.
Vaelin was suddenly struck by the same sense of wrongness that had assailed him before; in the forest, in the Fifth Order House when Sister Henna came to kill him, when he waited for Frentis to return from the Test of the Wild. There was something about his remaining opponent, something in the strength of his gaze and the set of his body, something in his being telling of a terrible, certain truth: This man is no criminal. This man is no murderer! How he knew he could not tell. But it was the strongest such feeling he had yet experienced and he had no doubt of its certainty.
He stopped, his sword point lowering as he straightened, the tensed, hard lines of his face softening. He could feel the rain for the first time, beating a chill into his skin. The tall man’s brows knitted in puzzlement as Vaelin lost his fighting stance to stand, his sword held at his side, rain washing the blood from the blade. He raised his left hand, fingers open in a sign of peace.
“Who are-”
The tall man attacked in a blur, his sword as straight as an arrow, aimed directly at Vaelin’s heart. It was a faster move than anything he had seen from Master Sollis and it should have killed him. But somehow he managed to turn in time for the sword point to pierce only his shirt, the edge of the blade marking his chest.
The tall man’s head was resting on Vaelin’s shoulder, the hard determination gone from his eyes, his lips parted in a small gasp, his skin rapidly draining of colour.
“Who are you?” Vaelin asked him in a whisper.
The tall man staggered back, Vaelin’s sword made a sickening, ripping sound as it was dragged from his chest. He sank to his knees slowly, propping himself up with his own sword, resting his chin on the pommel. Vaelin saw that his lips were moving and knelt beside him to hear the words.
“My… wife…” the tall man said. It sounded like an explanation. His eyes met Vaelin’s again and for moment there was something there, an apology? A regret?