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Chapter 4:
The Second Death of Hanuvar


I


The clack of dulled swords receded as the overseer led Jerissa from the practice arena. Outside, in the larger compound, likewise walled in gray stone, all was quiet apart from the endless, dispirited patter of rain against the sated earth and the decrepit roof tiles. The muted light of the gray skies did no favors to the sagging mess hall and the rest of the buildings. Three barracks stood empty, their doorways open only to darkness. Jerissa guessed the old gladiator school must once have housed three to four times as many fighters. Now it was home only to Jerissa’s women and their minders.

“Up the stairs, Eltyr,” the overseer said gruffly.

She knew his name was Kerthik, although she’d never called him that, just as he’d never used her real name. At first the generic “woman” was the least offensive appellation he’d employed, but after the initial week the insults had halted altogether, and he had referred to her simply by the name of her sacred corps. Whenever he addressed Jerissa now, it was as “Eltyr.”

She’d never taken the stairs, which led to the wall’s height. Earlier today she’d looked up from the practice yard to see the school’s owner watching from a jutting balcony with a uniformed centurion and a well-dressed brown man. Presumably Lurcan wanted a word with her, although she couldn’t imagine why. She was training her charges the best she was able, and their improvement had been remarkable. No one logical could complain. But then it was foolish to look for logic from Dervans, or perhaps, from the world in general.

The stairs creaked under her tread and she noted the red paint on the finely carven balustrade was chipped and fading. As a native of Volanus, she had little experience with Dervan gladiator schools, but she assumed they were usually maintained more scrupulously than this.

Inside the walls of the training arena she heard her sergeant shouting at someone to block with the flat, not the edge, and shook her head.

“They’re shaping up,” Kerthik said behind her. That had sounded almost complimentary. Surprised, she glanced back, but found little to read, for the brute’s dark eyes were flat, expressionless. So, too, was his face, except that an old scar pulled down the left side of his mouth. Though his belly had gone to fat, his entire demeanor suggested power coiled for instant release. She had seen how quick his corded hands were to grasp the whip at his belt. In middle age or near it, he took pride in his appearance. His dusty blond hair was always well groomed, and his simple tunics clean and well mended.

They reached the walkway atop the wall. No one now reclined upon the balcony’s couch under the old canvas awning, nor did anyone sit on the bench that crowded close to the sturdy rail.

Again she checked with Kerthik, who pointed her forward. The walkway branched off into the second floor of the stone villa attached to the school. This, she knew, was where the guards lived, and she suspected Lurcan made his home somewhere within.

She looked down at her charges as she walked, wondering if gladiators here had ever dared rebel, and if guards had fended them off from this very wall.

Her women, each dressed like her in a scratchy, sleeveless gray tunic that hung to their knees, had laid down their swords, and were now flat on the wet soil, stretching in unison. Sergeant Ceera stalked through the drizzle among them, correcting even this activity. A Dervan physician had carefully tended the sergeant’s battlefield injury, but she limped still, and likely would to her dying day.

Within the practice field’s perimeter, a half dozen guards leaned on spears, loafing or leering at women they were forbidden to touch. The arena battle lay less than a week away, and Lurcan wanted all his women in peak condition.

Jerissa arrived at last at a cedar door banded with dark iron, tucked beneath a slanted wooden overhang.

She stopped, thinking Kerthik expected her to open the door, but knowing better than to assume when in the presence of a superior officer. And for her own peace of mind she’d reluctantly granted him that designation, for she refused still to think of herself as anything other than a soldier.

The overseer ignored her unvoiced query and motioned her to one of the two sturdy timbers supporting the door’s awning. Here, she swiftly calculated, they were out of sight of the guards. She eyed Kerthik warily.

He glanced over his shoulder, then spoke with quiet, pressured speed. “The master’s visitors want to speak with you. They were sent by a senator. They want to know if you’re really from the Eltyr Corps.”

Why such secrecy discussing something so obvious? “You know I am.”

“Yes. But they don’t have to know it.”

She didn’t understand what he was driving at.

He seized her arm and she immediately pulled back, discovered his grip unyielding as iron forceps. She held off her natural instinct to kick the side of his knee.

“Listen. If you fight well, they’ll spare you.” He loosed his hold, quickly peered again over his shoulder, then stepped to the side. In a flash of insight she realized that would block sight of her should anyone come up the stairs.

He continued in little more than a whisper, his voice hoarse. “You’ve got the skill. You could be a money earner for Lurcan. Serve him well for a few years, then you can buy your freedom.” His finger rose in admonishment. “But if you tell that soldier who you really are, you won’t be going any place with hope. You need to tell him you and your sergeant are just slaves, like the rest. That you’re pretending to be Eltyr. For the games.”

After her capture she’d divorced herself from most of her emotions, lest she be driven mad, and it took a moment to understand that Kerthik’s words were offered as a sort of kindness. She could not have been more surprised if he’d sprouted feathers and laid an egg. Only a few weeks ago he’d taken a whip to her.

He looked awkwardly down past his big belly to his sandals, as if troubled by what he found in her eyes.

She shook her head, slowly. He had a dream for her, but it was a small and stunted thing. “Don’t you see, Kerthik?”

He started a little at her use of his name.

She tapped her chest. “They might as well have thrown me on the pyre with my sisters when Volanus fell. I’m already dead. I’m just a walking ghost.”

His brow furrowed, but he had no reply. She turned from him and opened the door.

A cool, wide room lay before her, thick with cushioned couches and chairs that must have looked expensive ten or fifteen years prior. Lurcan, the corpulent owner, sprawled in one corner across from the brown-skinned man she’d seen earlier. Nearby, a table had been set with jugs of wine, goblets, and various delicacies. A pale slave boy stood beside it, ready to serve and equally ready to consume, judging by the way his eyes roved over the sesame seed rolls.

Lurcan looked up through lidded eyes, his ample cheeks flushed with good humor. “Ah! There you are, Eltyr.” He gestured to the guest across from him. “You see, Antires, she’s fit and trim.”

“I see!” The visitor smiled and raised a goblet full of red wine. He was handsome, with short curling hair and beard, almost certainly a native of the Herrenic peninsula, judging not just from his name, but from his russet-brown skin and the swirling decorative flourishes on the edge of his fine red tunic. There was no sign of the soldier who’d accompanied him.

Kerthik bade her stop before the master, but she was already doing so.

“She’s taken over the instruction,” Lurcan continued to Antires, which was mostly true, though Kerthik still demonstrated tactics favored by gladiators. “She trained many of the Eltyr soldiers, so she knows all of their strange and fabulous techniques.”

“She sounds marvelous.” Antires sipped his wine.

Lurcan beamed, then nodded to Kerthik. “Take her to see the centurion. He’s in the old office.”

“Yes, Master,” Kerthik answered. “Move on, you.”

As they walked past the refreshments she suddenly craved them even more than freedom. Gods, what it would be like to taste fine wine again! But Lurcan would no more have offered a drink to her than he would a horse.

Kerthik motioned her ahead so that he’d never show his back to her. He might accord her respect, but trust was foolish.

She turned the latch and pushed open the door into a small room with a dusty desk and a pair of stools. Apart from the furniture, there was only a stack of chipped urns in the far corner, and a man in uniform.

He stood with his back to the door, facing a small window. He was, unmistakably, a soldier, one of those who would be obvious as such even if he weren’t clothed in regulation gear, from the scarlet cloak over his broad shoulders to the segmented cuirass, and the strapped hobnailed sandals. A short sword and knife were belted to either side of his waist. While in good repair, every inch of equipment had seen use. This was no barracks-room veteran. He was obviously a line officer, and one grown gray in service.

“Centurion, I have the woman,” Kerthik said.

The officer replied curtly, without turning. “Leave us.”

Kerthik hesitated, and the man at the window put his hand to the pommel of his gladius, perhaps out of habit.

Shooting her a final warning look, the overseer backed from the room and closed the door behind him.

Jerissa studied the soldier’s stiff back and the nearby urns. It would be the work of a moment to heft one and crack his skull. The empire would be out a seasoned officer.

But then she’d be dead, and her charges would be that much closer to their doom.

She listened to Kerthik’s retreating footsteps, thinking about how her future, and that of all the women with her, was already damned. If she killed this man there might at least be a few moments of justice. She could take up his sword and slay Lurcan and his minions. If they escaped, there would be pursuit and bloodshed and failure in the end, but wouldn’t it have been worth it, to die free?

The next thing she knew she was starting forward.

And then the soldier turned and she saw his cool gray eyes and proud hooked nose, and the strong, square jaw. There was an instant of startled recognition, confusion that the man looked so much like someone he couldn’t be, then the incredulous realization that this was not mere resemblance. Yes, he had neither beard nor mustache. His hair was silvered. He wore the uniform of the enemy.

“Hanuvar,” she whispered, and backed away, her blood speeding in fear. She had seen him die.

His voice was soft, his eyes showing a brief flash of regret, or even pain. “I am no spirit.”

His presence here was so unexpected, so startling, that she had trouble processing it, and continued to stare. It was him. Hanuvar, who had conjured victories against such impossible odds the Dervans had named him sorcerer. Hanuvar, who for more than a decade had held the implacable Dervan legions at bay in their own lands. Hanuvar, who had vanished for years, only to return to die with the city he had shielded for so long. She herself had witnessed his plummet into the cobalt waves as the walls began to crumble. She had thought it fitting he die with Volanus. For so long as he had lived, there had been hope in the city of silver towers.

His voice was low, commanding. “Jerissa. Speak to me.” He stepped around the desk and stopped before her. “I mean to buy your freedom. Lurcan claims you’re all Eltyr. But I don’t recognize most of you. How many are truly women of the corps?”

This was actually happening. She sucked in a breath, met his eyes, and decided to address him as though this impossible vision really were a superior officer and not some ghost, or delusion. “Two, counting me,” she said, and then at his nod, her mind awoke at last.

If this was real, he meant only to free the women who’d served in the famed elite female corps that had guarded the sea gate of Volanus since time immemorial. “But most of these others are women from Volanus.”

At this news he frowned.

“They’re not soldiers. They’re bakers, shoemakers, even a bookseller and a midwife. I’ve been working night and day to train them to defend themselves . . .” she faltered, lest she break down. His appearance had opened the door to a host of emotions she’d thought buried.

She cleared her throat and pulled herself together. “We’re all going to be costumed as Eltyrs and sent to battle against gladiators dressed as Dervan legionaries. If Ceera and I aren’t there, they’ll still send the other women. They’ll be slaughtered.”

He answered without hesitation. “We’ll take them with us.”

“But where can we go?” Their homeland lay in ruins. The Volani colonies were Dervan outposts now. What destination could there be?

He offered a brief smile. “I dare not say, until you’re free, and on your way.”

“But how can you even . . . how can you afford—”

“I’ve raided the tombs of our dead. They can purchase freedom for the living.”

She sensed there was much more to it than this. That he could walk the streets of a Dervan port town unrecognized was not so strange, given that few Dervans were likely to recognize the great general, and that most from the Inner Sea shared a similar complexion. And it was not so strange that he spoke Dervan with no accent, for many in the Inner Sea were fluent in more than a single tongue. What she really wanted to know was how he had survived, and how he came to be here, when he should be rotting on the ocean floor.

“How are you here?” she asked.

“That’s a long story.” He did not say they lacked time for it, or that it had scarred him. That was manifest in his eyes.

She had thought herself abandoned by the gods. But right before her was proof that they had heard her entreaties. “Each night since our arrival here I broke the bread and prayed to the blessed five, though I had no wine, nor candles,” she told him. “I asked for help for the women under my command. And here you are.”

She did not understand why her words made him uncomfortable. He changed the subject. “I’ll make arrangements with Lurcan. Tell no one of my true identity. One wrong word will jeopardize it all.”

“Yes, of course, General.”

“How many Eltyr truly survived?”

She shook her head. “There couldn’t have been more than two dozen of us. Maybe less. And most were wounded. I’m not sure where they ended up. The Dervans made careful note of it all, though.” Her mouth twisted in scorn. “I’m sure they have records.” The methodical Dervans always had records.

His voice was tentative. “Was my daughter among them?”

“She was charged with Praelyff Meruvar’s safety, General. I didn’t see her after the assault began.”

“And did you hear of her after?”

Jerissa shook her head no. But then as she had been marched in chains from the smoldering ruins of the city by the sea, she had passed so many broken bodies. She’d given up looking at their faces.

Hanuvar nodded once, as if to mark the end of a subject. He began another. “Stand ready, Eltyr. I must arrange larger transport, so relief may take another day.”

She nodded. And then, without thinking, she blurted: “Thank you, General.”

“Thank me when we’ve cleared the obstacles. I may yet need your sword arm.”



II


Garbed in a blue robe, his feet in the finest leather sandals, Theris sat in contemplation of his goddess, round, smooth-skinned face bathed in the perfumed incense he himself had blessed. He was content.

Fate had decreed he be reigning high priest in the year of Ariteen’s ascendancy. After millennia, her most propitious hour was almost at hand. In but two days all would know her not as some obscure incarnation of the upstart Serima, but as supreme deity, and the empire would transform from one enslaved to greed and bloodshed to one alive with love.

Gradually he grew conscious of a steady knocking. “Enter,” he said, opened his eyes, and smiled at the sturdy young man lingering in the threshold. “Yes, Ortix?”

“There is a visitor, Blessed One.” Ortix pressed open palms to his heart and bowed. “He comes from the School of Lurcan. Where the female gladiators are housed.”

“Curious.” Theris put hands to the black-cushioned arms of his chair, and pushed himself upright. “What does he want?”

“He does not say, Blessed One. But he appears troubled.”

“Let us see if we can ease his pain.”

Theris ducked his head to pass beneath a stone lintel and into a wide, cool chamber beyond, its low ceiling stained from ancient smoke. Ariteen’s sacred breath perfumed the vast underground room and roiled like fog through the dim recesses.

The revelry for the most devout and select of his flock had ended for the day. Some on the worn gray flagstones lay entwined and some lay apart, but a rapturous smile stood out upon every upturned face.

Theris and Ortix threaded their way through the recumbent men and women and the mist and the rough-hewn pillars. As they neared the exit, they passed three bodies shackled to the floor, and Theris’ expression fell. A necessary sacrifice. But these had been loved while they died, and their paramours lay insensate across them, uncaring that their skin and clothes were soaked with blood. The deaths would not be in vain, for soon now all would know the love of Ariteen.

Ortix preceded him up the stairs, the smoky glass dulling the red orb of the lantern he carried. Being a goddess of both love and protection, Ariteen preferred the shielding cloak of night, and her worshippers honored her temples with minimal illumination.

They arrived at the ground floor, and the central hall with its soaring arches and great open spaces. He preferred the under chambers, carved from old silver mines in centuries past, but many expected their temples to appear more traditional.

The visitor waited inside the antechamber, eying a colorful mosaic of Ariteen in her aspect as lover. Many young men had found the image of great interest, for her assets were rendered with loving detail as she leaned down to bestow a rapturous youth with a kiss.

The visitor turned, and Theris saw his face was misshapen by a scar that pulled down one side of his mouth. His clean, well-tended tunic was tight over a muscular upper chest and large belly.

“Blessed One.” The man gave a brief head bob. His voice was low, gruff, but there was no missing a hint of nervousness.

“This is Kertha,” Ortix informed him.

“Kertha, welcome.” Theris glided forward.

“It’s Kerthik, Blessed One,” the man corrected.

Theris spread his hands. “Whatever name, all are welcome in this chamber, which celebrates our goddess and her many aspects. What has brought you here?” He felt his fine mood ebbing while the man stared and stared, apparently struggling with whatever it was he’d come to say.

“You have a message?” Theris prompted.

“The women,” Kerthik managed at last. And once he began he spoke hurriedly. “It’s to be a true contest, isn’t it? So that those who fight well are spared? It’s not to be one of those set pieces where everyone on one side dies, is it?”

Theris spread slim arms in his wide blue sleeves. “What curious questions. Your master is being well compensated so that it shouldn’t matter what happens.” He eyed the man. “But you haven’t come upon your master’s behalf, have you, Kerthik?”

He saw the light of fear in the man’s eyes and put a hand to his shoulder, guiding him to the mosaic of Ariteen as the loving mother. Here she was fully clothed and her eyes were not so lascivious, though under her curling gray-blue locks she was just as lovely. “Our goddess is a protector, and so are we, her speakers. What is it that troubles you, Kerthik?”

“I worry for them. The servant of a senator has come, and he means to buy them.”

“What?” Theris heard the snap in his voice and quickly strove to right his anger.

“Senator Marcius means to buy them and carry them away. For questioning, I think.”

Theris’ calm vanished utterly, and his heart thrummed with nervous energy. While Caiax had delivered Volanus’ death blow, it was Senator Catius Marcius who had pushed the Dervans on to the final war. It was common knowledge he had been wroth that even a few Volani survived to be enslaved. Probably he meant the Eltyr for some other, less useful fate, which would jeopardize all that Theris and his followers had worked for. Ariteen needed the blood of both men and women for the ritual. “Is the senator in the city?”

Kerthik shook his ugly head. “Only his man. A centurion.”

“I see.” Theris cleared his throat and tried not to show his obvious relief. “Your master has been well paid for his portion of the festival, and our expenditure to the amphitheater has been astronomical.”

“This centurion is willing to pay more. Vastly more.”

“We had an agreement,” Ortix cut in.

Theris shot his young assistant a warning glance, both for speaking out of turn and for showing inappropriate emotion.

“I will have to speak to this man,” Theris said, his voice calming. “The combat is intended to honor our goddess in her protective aspect. Were the ceremony to be altered in any way, it would be of great insult.”

“So they’re to be spared then? The brave ones?”

Theris favored him with his most melting smile. “But of course, good Kerthik. Don’t fear. We’ll find this centurion and straighten things out.”

After that assurance, and a few awkward pleasantries, the man excused himself. Theris stood staring after him long after the temple door swung shut.

“You lied to that man,” Ortix said. He crossed his arms over his lighter blue acolyte’s tunic.

“My son, the signs foretold that there would be a final obstacle in our path, and that great fortitude would be required to overcome it. Our goddess would advise us to be wily.”

“What do you plan to do?”

Theris stroked his beardless chin with a beringed finger. “First, I will have you deliver a message to the governor. He’ll be displeased to hear anyone’s interfering. Then I’m going to have you find out where this centurion is staying.”

“What do you want me to do after that?”

“The governor will follow my lead,” Theris said. The old man was wrapped about his finger tightly now. He might not be party to the changes that would soon overtake the world, beginning in the provincial capital he ruled, but the governor recognized the wisdom of Ariteen’s practices. “A squad of legionaries ought to be enough to silence one lone centurion, don’t you think?”

“What about the senator?”

Theris laughed. “By the time the senator hears anything, Ariteen will be walking again among us. What will one missing centurion matter then? To the senator, or anyone?”



III


Hanuvar had selected lodgings on the second floor above the chandler’s shop because of its small windows, single entrance, and solid door. Antires, the actor he’d hired as his go-between, had initially complained that it was dark and reeked of perfumed wax. But the young man didn’t find the place so onerous when he was offered free food.

That evening Antires joined Hanuvar in the room for a meal of baked fish rubbed with lemon and pepper and garum, a fresh-baked loaf of dark bread, some fried chartish greens, and even some fruit pastries for dessert. Being a Herrene he’d selected a wine seasoned with citrus. Probably he expected Hanuvar to complain about that, so he didn’t.

They ate in companionable silence at the little table, the stools creaking as they reached for various portions. Most of Hanuvar’s disguise sat neatly upon another table, though he still wore his scarlet uniform tunic and soldier’s sandals.

“Centurion,” the Herrene said, finally, addressing Hanuvar by his assumed Dervan officer title, “the ship you’ve picked is nice, but I don’t understand your crew. Why are you selecting sailors like them?”

He pretended ignorance. “Like what?”

“Old men. Slaves.” The Herrene paused only for a breath. “Is it because they’re Volani? Why so much interest in them?”

The young man was closer to the mark than Hanuvar liked. “I’m not paying you to ask questions,” he replied. “I’m paying you because I need someone smart and courteous.”

Antires gave a little bow. “I suppose that if I asked questions every time Dervans did something mad, I should never fall silent.”

“And I have acted mad?”

“First you wish me to play your servant and entertain fat Lurcan. Then you decide to buy a ship. Then you go out of your way to crew it with reprobates and slaves.”

“I make do, Antires. You must use the tools at hand.”

“Your navigator’s hands seem to have palsy,” Antires pointed out.

“His mind is sharp.”

More importantly, the old navigator was Volani, a slave from the first war, only recently freed as he’d grown feeble. Many of the other sailors were political prisoners and most were slaves, seven from the galleys, and five of those were in such sad shape Antires had thought Hanuvar stripped of his senses when he bought them. But those five had been sold into slavery from the sack of Volanus.

The actor took a swig from a tin mug he’d brought with the food. “Why didn’t the senator send you with more men?”

“The senator is frugal,” Hanuvar replied.

Antires smirked. “That’s a nice way to say that. What I can’t figure is what the senator wants with these Eltyr. I mean, if there were any questions that needed asking, wouldn’t Consul Caiax have done that when he captured them?” He snapped his fingers. “But Senator Marcius hates the Volani, doesn’t he? Is it true he ended every speech for the last eight years the same way, no matter the subject? That Volanus must be destroyed?”

“I didn’t hear all of his speeches,” Hanuvar said curtly. “It’s not my job to ask Senator Marcius what he wants. Or yours.” He wanted to end the questioning without completely alienating the actor, who might still prove useful.

“It just doesn’t make sense. I mean, Volanus’ fields have been sown with salt. You can’t get much more vanquished than that. It’s not like the Eltyr can tell the senator secrets useful to defeat Volanus anymore.”

“Different people know different sorts of secrets,” Hanuvar remarked.

“Like those galley slaves? Or have you confused lice with secrets?”

Hanuvar paused in rubbing the bread heel through the sauce left beneath the fish and shrewdly eyed his companion. “What is it you Herrenes say about curiosity?”

“What is it you Dervans say about practicality? I don’t know what your scheme is, but it’s not practical.”

Antires was right. Hanuvar fervently hoped no one else was paying as close attention. “Assuming I even knew what the senator wanted, and I told you, what would you do with the truth?”

Antires blinked in surprise. “Why, nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Well, not until you’d paid me. But if there’s some kind of behind-the-scenes investigation going on, surely you need someone to write up the story once it’s time to spread the word. I’m your man for that.”

“Yes. I saw the sign in your window. Writer for hire. Right next to the lettering that proclaimed you an actor, translator, and negotiator.”

“I am many things,” the actor declared with a flourish of his hand.

“So must all successful men be.”

The younger man gave up trying to tease the truth from his elder, then proved so restless after dinner Hanuvar suggested he act a few scenes from his favorite plays. He’d rather Antires not wander out drinking to spread gossip about their activities.

The Herrene brightened at the invitation. “Most Dervans don’t seem to like anything but broad comedy.”

“I’ve traveled.”

Antires spent an hour populating the little room with doomed lovers, brave generals, dying kings, and sword-wielding heroes. Hanuvar appreciated the distraction, for in quiet moments he thought too readily of the city he’d last seen burning, and his daughter’s sea-gray eyes. The actor banished these recollections to the shadows. The words were alternately eloquent and overly formal, often laboring a little too hard to tweak the heart strings, but some of those speeches, like the aging tyrant begging forgiveness of his dying son, awoke his sympathy, and Hanuvar was moved to melancholy even after laughing aloud at comically brave Dorik readying for battle.

In the end he clapped roundly and praised Antires, who bowed, and gratefully accepted the full goblet Hanuvar passed him. They were on their second bottle, and it was far from the actor’s first drink, although apart from a flushed face his imbibing had left his performances unmarred.

“I see I touched the heart of a stony soldier with the words of Herrenic playwrights.”

“Answer me this, Antires. Why do playwrights always tell of kings and generals? Why not ordinary people?”

“They write about those with the power to do things.”

“The world would be better off if we exalted kings and generals less.”

“Few living kings and generals seem worth the trouble to write about,” Antires agreed. “Except maybe one,” he added with a sidelong look. “You Dervans all claimed Hanuvar fled Volanus because he was a coward. But he returned in the end, to die with his city. Even when all hope was lost. How many other kings would do that?”

He was young, flushed with pride in the heritage of his own people, and a little drunk. Old resentments of a people dominated by the Dervans for less than a generation were easy to rekindle. He probably thought himself daring to praise Derva’s greatest enemy before an officer of the legion.

“Volanus had no king. Hanuvar was a general.”

“I know that,” Antires said truculently. “I’m just saying, he at least was worthy of a play, though he’ll probably never get one.”

Hanuvar hid his wry amusement with a disinterested answer. “Maybe you should write one.”

“And where, in all the world, would it be staged?”

Hanuvar was saved from having to find a reply when a loud knock sounded upon the door. His hand immediately went to the sheathed sword on the table beside him, a movement noted by Antires.

“What are you on the alert for?” the Herrene asked.

“Centurion?” A young boy’s voice was dulled by the heavy door. “Are you in there?”

He rose, sword still sheathed, but supported in his left hand while his right wrapped the hilt. “I am. Who sent you?”

“Master Lurcan, Centurion. He needs to speak with you privately, this evening.”

“Very well. Give me a moment.”

Hanuvar sorted his thoughts as he reattached the Dervan sheath to his weapons belt. Almost surely Lurcan sought to raise prices.

Antires gauged him with rising curiosity. If this meeting proved to be about haggling, Hanuvar didn’t need the Herrene. And if it was something more dire, he needed Antires free.

Hanuvar addressed him, his voice pitched low. “How drunk are you?”

“Only a little.”

“Then listen well. If something goes amiss, make sure the ship is readied. Do you understand?”

“Aye—”

Hanuvar cut off whatever question was dawning on the actor’s lips. “It’s paramount those gladiators get on that ship.” He placed three thumb-sized rubies in the hands of his companion, rendered silent by stunned regard. “This is to smooth any difficulties. There will be more like that for you, if you follow through. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Antires stammered.

“Be on guard until my return.” He left his helm and cuirass, but threw his cloak over his shoulders and cast open the door.

The boy on the wooden landing was no more than ten, barefoot and scrawny, with a shock of dark hair. He was different from the one Hanuvar had seen at Lurcan’s school that morning. He bobbed his head. “This way, sir.”

Hanuvar followed him down the stairs and into the street, past a tavern alive with light and the laughter of late evening revelers. The sun was down, and the stormy skies were closed over the stars like a tomb door. The rain dribbled down in a fine mist, coating his skin in a sheen of moisture.

In many Dervan cities, walking without escort was dangerous at night, because the unlit avenues were the haunt of footpads and criminals. Hidrestus was better lit than average, reminding Hanuvar in a pale, shadowy way of Volanus itself, though the flames in the lanterns hung every block were distorted by their glass so that they shone like rheumy gold eyes. They did not compare favorably to the bright lights of his vanished home. Rock oil was reportedly obtained from caverns only a few miles to the north of Hidrestus, and to save expense, some magistrate had switched the lanterns over from olive oil during a regional blight years before; it didn’t smell as good but at least the lights were maintained. The streets too were cleaner than other Dervan cities, but whether this was due to better sanitation standards or the frequent rain he did not know.

After three blocks the boy diverted into a dark lane and Hanuvar grabbed his shoulder. The boy started.

“Where are you leading me?”

“The backside of Tretak’s tavern,” the boy answered.

“Why there?”

“I don’t know,” the boy admitted. “But it’s supposed to be a secret meeting.”

Hanuvar released him and bade him on, his hand staying on his sword hilt. He watched for pursuit.

The boy headed into the lane, helpfully pointing out a pile of wooden boxes half hidden in the shadows. After twenty feet the lane opened into a wide clearing, a courtyard surrounded by the dark shapes of two-story buildings. Suddenly the boy dashed ahead, and a light flared on the left.

In a single heartbeat Hanuvar understood the lay of the situation. Four legionaries were ranged before him, and a fifth scuffed the soil behind. A deliberate warning, he thought, to alert him to the man’s presence so he wouldn’t attempt to flee the others.

The one on the right held a lantern, and stood beside a gaping rectangular pit. Beside it lay a wide, heavy wooden panel large enough to cover it, along with thick metal crossbars.

To his left stood another legionary, a pock-marked, scowling man. A younger soldier with an optio’s5 white pteruges, clear brown eyes, and a strong cleft chin stood only a few paces ahead, and behind him was the youngest of the lot, a man with a little Herrenic blood, judging from his darker complexion and coiled hair.

The boy hesitated beside the foremost legionary, who barked at him to go. The soldier eyed Hanuvar as the youth jogged into the darkness then smote his fist to his breastplate in salute. “Hail, Centurion.”

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Optio?” Hanuvar asked.

The cleft-chinned leader shook his head. “It’s no pleasure on my part. But I’m a soldier with orders. And my orders mean that you’re going to end up in that old mine shaft.”

“It seems a dishonorable end.”

The officer nodded with some sympathy. “Especially for a veteran. This end is beneath you, and beneath me.”

“Soon he’ll be beneath us all,” the legionary holding the lantern said. The soldier a few paces behind Hanuvar laughed.

“Shut up, Surin.” The leader’s lips curled in disgust as his eyes flicked to the lantern holder. They went back to Hanuvar. “I can offer you only one thing.”

“Which is?”

He showed his open palm in a conciliatory gesture. “The means to your end. I’ve a jug of wine here with a quick-acting poison. It’ll be a little unpleasant, but much better than the alternative.”

“A stab in the gut?” Hanuvar suggested.

“If you wish. I was thinking a crack over the head. We might be able to finish you in one blow, which could be easier than poison. But if the attack doesn’t end well, it could take several blows. You probably know how these things go.”

Hanuvar heard the creak of sandals from the man to his rear, knowing he was poised to rush. He calculated the steps between them all, their likely reach, their states of readiness, their probable skill. Only the man behind was an unknown, but the optio was no fool; he would have placed someone both fast and strong there.

“Was the poison your employer’s order?” Hanuvar asked.

“My orders were to make you disappear. Completely. There are still a few openings to the old mines. A veteran deserves an honored burial.”

Hanuvar nodded once. “So there are men of honor in the legion, still. I’ll take your offer, then, with three questions.”

The optio motioned to the younger man behind him, who raised a small clay flask and took a step up beside his leader.

“Ask,” the optio said.

“Why does your master need these women so much that he would kill to keep them? I would have expected a bribe first.”

“The governor’s cousin is Consul Caiax, and he’s been promised women gladiators when the consul shows up to watch the games. The governor can’t have the consul disappointed.”

Hanuvar had learned Caiax himself would be in attendance, but he’d pushed thoughts of vengeance from his mind. He meant to draw as little attention as possible. “What’s your name?”

“I am Septim Masir, First Optio. Why do you ask, Centurion?”

“I would remember the name of an honorable man.”

The optio seemed to like the compliment, but his brow furrowed in puzzlement. “That’s a curious thing to say.”

Hanuvar shrugged. “I’ll take the poison now.”

“I thought you had three questions.”

“You’ve told me all I needed.”

“Very well.” The optio nodded to the man with the flask. “Kibrin?”

Hanuvar extended his hand as Kibrin advanced, presenting the wine container. Then the general exploded forward, snared Kibrin’s wrist, and dragged him over his extended foot. Kibrin plunged screaming headfirst into the pit.

Having wrested the flask, Hanuvar sent it hurtling at the lantern holder.

The flask shattered against the lantern, spraying its bearer with glass, oil, and flame. In a heartbeat the frightened legionary’s arm was completely engulfed in fire that blazed greedily into his red cloak. He cried out piteously for help.

Before the flask had even shattered Hanuvar spun to face the foe charging from behind. The grizzled veteran was almost on him, his sword tucked close by his waist for swift thrusting.

Hanuvar threw himself at the man’s ankles and the soldier fell over him. Rolling to his feet, Hanuvar pivoted with sword in one hand and knife in the other. While the angry optio shouted at his remaining soldier, Hanuvar rushed the legionary he’d tripped, who was climbing to his knees. He kicked the man in the shoulder and sent him sliding into the pit, where he vanished with a shout. A moment later the man who’d carried the lantern, frantically beating his fire engulfed cloak, was sent stumbling after him, shrieking the entire way down.

They were a noisy bunch, he thought, for the scarred soldier cursed as he raced at Hanuvar. A wiser man might have waited to flank with the optio, but this soldier was enraged.

He also was clearly accustomed, like many a legionary, to fighting with a shield on his left arm. His sword form was perfect, but his left arm hung useless. Hanuvar beat a savage thrust aside and drove his knife into the man’s neck. He leapt back to defeat a mad series of slashes launched before the soldier’s body registered it was dying.

The soldier staggered to the side and dropped to one knee, feeling for the wound as he set his sword down. Hanuvar turned to sidestep the optio’s cloak, thrown in an attempt to blind, then the officer twisted to follow him.

“Who are you?” the optio demanded.

Unless it could be used to some advantage, only fools wasted energy talking in a fight. Hanuvar stayed silent.

They exchanged thrust and counterthrust, with only the dim flare of a flaming dead man in the pit below to light their way. The optio strove to stay turned to offer a smaller target.

Hanuvar knew the younger man could outlast him, and so he pressed for advantage, slashing and driving the officer toward the pit.

And then something seized Hanuvar’s ankle. The dying man had grabbed him. The optio attacked with a savage cry of satisfaction.

Hanuvar twisted, parried a blow that would have caved in his skull, and lost his balance. He freed his left foot as the optio closed in. Hanuvar saw the pit yawning, and the flame more than twenty feet below. A weathered wooden ladder hung along the crumbling side. He sprang off his right foot, hoping to clear the pit. He just missed the far edge, losing both blades as he snatched at the ladder. The knife smacked into his cloaked shoulder as it dropped away. The wood was worn smooth by countless hands, slowing his descent, but his grip was uncertain and his feet never found a rung.

When he dropped at last it was from somewhere between ten and twelve feet. He winced as he landed, for his left knee reminded him of its old injury with the subtlety of a dagger thrust. He staggered and fell beside the body of Kibrin, lying with his head and leg twisted unnaturally. He saw the dead man’s mouth parted in a scream of terror by the horrible light of the flaming Surin and the body of the other legionary, across whom he lay.

The smell of burning flesh polluted the air.

Something shone close by on his right, and he turned his head to discover his sword lying nearly upright against a mound of dirt only a hair’s breadth from his chin. A little further over and it would have been driven through his head.

“I’d meant to honor you,” the optio shouted from above. “To ease your way!”

Hanuvar saw the outline of the legionary looming in a lighter square of darkness above. The optio continued petulantly: “Now you can starve to death!” And so saying, he disappeared. Hanuvar smiled ruefully that he had thought well of Septim Masir, First Optio. Far easier to be gracious in victory than defeat, though admittedly some didn’t manage even that. The Dervans were so certain of their superiority they thought any victor must surely have cheated them. Clearly the optio believed it unfair of Hanuvar to fight so hard to survive.

As he climbed warily to his feet, he kept his eyes fastened above, so that he saw the moment when the thick board was dragged across the opening. He heard the crossbars dropped into place a moment later. No doubt they would shortly be locked tight.

He turned to contemplate his options, alone now but for the dead.



IV


Hanuvar didn’t return the next morning, or afternoon. At dawn the day after, Jerissa and her soldiers were led into the main building, where they were treated to hot and cool baths in a lower level. Masseuses worked over each of them.

This afternoon, their gladiatorial games would commence. Might these be preparations for that, or might Lurcan be pampering them before he released them to the man he thought their new owner?

She thought the latter unlikely. Something had gone wrong.

After she’d exited the masseuse’s talented ministrations and donned clean clothing, Kerthik bade her follow with a crooked finger. This time he led her to a dark corner away from the others. With his broad back blocking the view, none of the other guards, or women, might see his expression, or hers. And in the hall echoing with the low chatter of the women, he might be expected to be unheard by others as well.

The overseer looked as though he meant to speak, for his mien was grimmer than ever. Yet he met her eyes and looked away.

“Out with it, man,” she said, an officer’s snap in her delivery.

He didn’t take offense; her urging seemed to be the impetus he needed. “I want you to know the truth,” he said haltingly. “I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

“Lead me on?” Could he possibly think that she had room in her heart to consider romance with one of her captors? Even Dervan servants were mad, and sick.

“To give you hope.” She saw his sorrow, and knew it was honest. He continued. “I truly believed those who fought well stood a chance. But they’re going to kill you. All of you. That’s how the governor wants it, to symbolize the fall of Volanus. Lurcan’s even sorry about it, the old bastard, but the governor doesn’t want Consul Caiax to be disappointed, so he’s pushing hard—”

“Caiax? Caiax is going to be here?”

He nodded slowly, and must have seen the fire that flared within her. He had guessed the course of her thoughts, for he shook his head. “You won’t be able to get anywhere near him.”

She thought of the tall, hunched man she’d seen striding through the ruins, directing columns of soldiers. Caiax had plundered the harbor’s island temples and crucified the priests and priestesses before the whole of the city. He’d faithlessly promised peace only if the people marched away weaponless to abandon Volanus forever, but peace was never an option, only subjugation. The Volani generally had chosen to perish with their city, though that had been denied to those carted away in chains.

Caiax was calculating, methodical, and merciless, the Dervan ideal. That he was also a liar, butcher, and exterminator of a people seemed to be cause for celebration among the Dervans, who looked upon the aging soldier with the reverence some bestowed upon the gods. For destroying Derva’s ancient rival, Volanus, he had reportedly been accorded more honors and accolades even than Ciprion, who’d fought Hanuvar’s army to stalemate years before, even though Caiax had bested a city with merely a shadow of its former power.

Her intent must have been easy to read. “Don’t think you’re the first who believed they could throw a spear into the stands,” Kerthik said. “Before you can even aim, the guards will have you pin-cushioned with arrows.”

She licked her lips, realized she still held his arm, and released it. “Has there been any word from the centurion who visited?”

“He hasn’t been back.”

Small wonder. If Caiax was in the city, there was a fair chance Hanuvar might have been recognized by him or his soldiers. For his own safety, the general might have had to abandon his plans.

“I’m sorry,” Kerthik repeated. “I know you would have triumphed in the ring in a fair fight. These rich bastards don’t honor skill anymore. They just want blood.”

He was so full of woe he seemed almost sadder than she did. No, he was sadder, she realized. She looked down at her hands, clenching and unclenching them. She would show the blood-mad Dervans that these final Eltyr would stand and fall with honor.

“Lurcan had been planning to host a big feast for you, but since none of you are going to survive, he doesn’t want to spend the money.” His mouth twisted bitterly. It seemed the smaller injustices rankled him most.

She clapped his shoulder, squeezed it. “It’s all right, Kerthik. I was a soldier. I expected to die with my weapon in my hand. Among friends. I’ll still get that chance.”

His answering nod was tight. “I know you will fight bravely,” he said. “I should have liked to have known you as a friend.”

He meant more than that, of course, but it still touched her. He, alone among all of these, recognized her not as a commodity, but a human being not unlike himself. She offered her arm, and after a moment, he clasped it.

“Why did you tell that centurion who you really were?” he asked as he loosened his grip. “Is it because you didn’t think it would matter?”

“He promised he would take us away from here.”

“To live?”

She nodded.

“You believe him?”

“I do. But something went wrong.”

“I’ll find him,” Kerthik pledged.

“It’s too late.” She shook her head.

“No, I’ll find him. If there’s a way, I’ll do it.” He nodded once to her, and strode quickly off. “Drebal, you’re in charge! I’ve got an errand to run.” He headed for the exit.

Ceera, toweling herself off, limped over to her. “I had my eye on him the whole time. I thought you were going to take him down. What was that all about?”

“You can make friends at odd times.”

“Him?”

“He’s just a man with a dream,” Jerissa said. “You’d think he’d know better, in a place like this.”



V


His first step was to secure supplies. After he fashioned an improvised torch from articles of legionary clothing and the haft of a spear, he beat out the fire on the roasting corpses, liberated wine flasks, a little food, and even some oil from the dead. Some business above had used this area as a store room once, but all that remained were dilapidated shelving and some broken clay shards.

He discarded the notion of attempting an exit through the entrance the optio had blocked off. The Dervans would surely be watching it even if he could somehow lift the bars. If there was a way out, it lay in the mine shafts. According to the locals, they were supposed to honeycomb much of the land beneath the city. The mine had apparently played out centuries ago, and the deepest portions had been sealed.

He then turned to consider the walled-off entry to the mine shafts. It might once have been secure, but the mortar was old, and a few judicious blows loosened the top rows of bricks on the right. With only a little more effort, he opened the way. He gathered his supplies, broken portions of the ladder and other dried wood, and moved away from the terrible stench.

He well knew the tale of Peliar and his descent into the underworld, but there were no spirits to converse with here. There was only the long corridor, wide enough for a man pushing a cart, perhaps, but either the men from bygone days had been shorter, or they’d always walked with a hunch, for the ceiling was so low he had to keep his head bent. Joists were fashioned of wood, reinforced sometimes with stone, and most looked solid still, though a few had begun to bow, and he would not have cared to push very hard against the fragile-looking wood.

The place was alive with cobwebs and millipedes and rats, but none were of gargantuan size, and none looked likely to gather in great masses and pursue him, as they had Peliar. The webs he swept away with a spear, and the black-eyed rodents fled at sight of him.

Eventually he arrived at an intersection. It proved easy enough to mark upon the walls with bits of rock, harder to etch into them, should he have to retrace steps once his light faded. But etch he did, ever choosing the corridors that sloped upward, or at least stayed level. Those that stretched steeply down he avoided.

Hanuvar was well used to gauging time, feeling its relentless pulse almost like the regimental drummers who kept men marching at a constant pace. He reckoned that for the first while, at least, his time estimates would be reasonably accurate, but with no light to judge but that from his torch, his estimates of the length of his stay would eventually grow flawed.

Halfway through his second hour he found his first cave-in, and doubled back. Late into the fourth hour, he discovered a sealed door at the top of a ramp, and a trio of men that had, some dark day decades past, laid down to die. They hadn’t given up without a struggle, for he saw that they’d assaulted the rusted metal door and its hinges with rocks, seriously denting the surface. They’d even managed to pry one of the pins out of a hinge. Little good it had done them. Probably a great mass of dirt or debris lay on the other side of the wall blocking their egress, for Hanuvar sensed he was not yet at ground level.

Who they were or how they had gotten here would remain a tragedy he had no time to mourn; of more immediate concern was avoiding a similar fate.

His own fatigue had mounted. He would need his strength to continue this journey, and his full wits, and decided that he would sleep, though he resolved not to do so among the dead. He retraced his steps to a closed-off passage he’d earlier cleared of cobwebs. The joists there seemed especially sturdy. He set tools aside and performed a solemn and lengthy series of stretches before pillowing one cloak he’d recovered from the dead Dervan legionaries, deploying his own for a blanket. He set flint and steel to hand, unsheathed his sword, and blew out the light. As he drifted off, his mind turned briefly to tales of the Vanished Ones, which had haunted him when he was a child. Their empty cities still lay intact in remote corners of the world. Some said that they had retreated to the depths of the earth, others that the subterranean entrances found near their dwellings were not mines, but the places where demons had emerged to drag all of them away.

But he had seen enough of men’s evils that he worried less about those that were likely imagined.

His dreams were shoddy things, beginning with promise but dying in nonsense. He imagined his brothers back to life, but they wanted nothing more than to complain about how many miles they’d had to run. His wife wasn’t glad to see him because she worried her dress was the wrong shade of blue. Eledeva darted through the water beneath the ship, her gold scales shining, but refused to resurface, no matter how desperately he shouted. And then his soldiers called to him, asking where he’d gone. Their voices rose through the air, his name a mighty three-syllable chant. He emerged from the tunnels to stand before the victorious throngs. But then he realized what he’d taken for his army was nothing but a forest of stunted trees that disintegrated into dust as the wind blew up.

He woke to darkness, lit the stub of his torch, and readied another while he wolfed down some blueberries and stale bread. As bad as the dreams had been, he felt a little refreshed. A few moments of stretches cleared the kinks from his muscles, and then he resumed his search.

He knew he wasn’t yet in danger of running out of light. His food supplies were low, but that didn’t worry him, either, not yet. His driving concern was the fate of the Eltyr. He hadn’t been looking for them, but then he’d hardly have expected them here, on the empire’s edge. He’d thought only to pass through the port city, but there’d been no missing the announcements lettered in the forum, advertising the great games and the presence of genuine Eltyr.

Now, as he searched through the endless tunnels, his frustration grew. All might come to naught—their lives, his life, the lives of so many others he meant to help.

Hour after hour he explored the tunnels. His neck and shoulders ached from being hunched for so long. He was on his third torch for the day, and running low on oil. Time sped on, and after he stopped for another meal he began to think that a second night might already have fallen.

Giving up on the higher tunnels, he ventured deeper, pushing through fatigue and finally reaching one that stretched on and on. It sagged under ancient beams, the titanic weight of the earth pressing relentlessly down. Long had the supports lasted, and it might be they could hold for decades more, or mere minutes. He slid past a place where the cave wall was half sunken and took a left fork, finally glimpsing the end of a shaft in a pale strand of sunbeam shining down from on high.

Hanuvar advanced to the tunnel’s end and a tiny squared-off chamber. A pile of dirt and rocks rested against the wall. He swiped his spear to clear a mass of cobwebs.

The shaft stretched fifty or more feet straight up, to where a beam of light slipped down through a narrow gap in wood. Hanuvar thrust the torch haft into the dirt pile and paused to straighten his weary back, to shake out his arms, to shift his neck. Until his confinement here, he’d taken the pleasure of standing upright for granted.

He scanned the walls. While this shaft, too, might have housed a ladder long ago, it held none now. At its narrowest point, it stretched five feet side to side. Once, he might have prayed to the gods of his people before attempting such a venture. Now he sneered at the thought, readied his flint and steel for easy access in his belt pouch, and snuffed the torch in the dirt.

Coughing in the darkness and the smoke, he wrapped the torch’s warm end in fresh rags he soaked with the tiny remnant of his oil. Then he shoved it in his belt, braced hands on one side of the wall and feet on the other, and started the long, painstaking four-limbed walk up the side. Hand, foot, hand, foot, progressing by inches.

Twenty feet up, the space widened by a half foot, which at least allowed him to stretch out the cramp in his right leg. Ten more feet, and he felt his arms trembling. In twenty more feet, his other leg cramped.

But he pressed on, and as he drew closer to the light he tried not to think about the deadly fall that lay below, twisting instead to look above, confirming that the shaft was sealed with wood.

He bore on, stopping just a few inches below the barrier. Though his muscles burned, he caught his breath while suspended against the cool earth of the walls. After a brief moment, he began the next phase. He jammed his right elbow against the wall, supporting himself by that point and his quivering legs. He set the torch haft in his teeth, and then, with steel in the hand of the arm he’d braced and flint in the other, he struck again and again until sparks flew and took hold of the stinking, oil-soaked fabric.

The resulting light blinded, and the heat against his face alarmed him. He only just kept his teeth gripped about the haft as he struggled to maneuver so he could safely grasp the torch with his hand.

He despised acting with haste, but he knew his strength could not long hold. Releasing flint and steel to drop into darkness, he thrust his left hand to the wall to steady himself, then stretched the torch against the wood, and held it.

This flame was his friend. In less than a heartbeat, it took hold, and the wooden barrier blazed up.

Too quickly, he thought. He released the torch, saw it tumbling down even as the fire ate greedily in a rectangle overhead, growing brighter and brighter still. The torch lay a vast distance below, a flickering warning of just how far there was to fall.

And he knew the threat above. He started the long way down as the fire crackled and roared. Flaming timber had nowhere to go but down, upon him.

He hurried, foot, hand, foot, hand, as each of his limbs shook with fatigue and the inferno roared above. He slammed knuckles into a patch of rock, drawing blood. He gritted teeth as he teetered there, cursing his gods. “Kill me then,” he said. They must want all his people dead, he thought, feeling small even as the thoughts crossed his mind. For it was petty to hate the gods, who were disinterested at best.

Finally, only a few feet from the bottom, he could hold himself no more, and dropped. He hit first with his feet but lost balance and caught himself in the rough soil with his palms.

And then from above he heard a terrific crack of timber, and a rumble.

He pushed himself up, took a step, and dived into the tunnel.

A boulder slammed into the shaft only a heartbeat later, spraying out a plume of dirt and sparks. It must have been secured against the entryway, to seal it from trespassers.

Hanuvar knelt, breathing heavily. It looked to him as though the light in the chamber had diminished. But he didn’t act yet. He let his body calm, stretched arms and legs once more, flexed fingers, and returned.

At the shaft’s bottom there was just room to crawl over the boulder and remnants of the wooden barrier that lay beneath it, still smoking. Corners of it were alive with flame. He worried that Dervans would have seen the fire, but he’d had no other choice.

Far above lay the gray sky, partly hidden by some other obstacle. Another boulder was wedged across two thirds of the opening.

He shook out his limbs, stretched his calves. It would be better to wait, catch his breath. But who could say exactly where this exit was? He guessed it was east of the city, but he could well have been turned around. Dervan soldiers might even now be rushing to investigate.

And so, for the second time, he started up the shaft. It was easier in one respect because he better knew what lay before him, but a greater challenge with wearied limbs. Still, he had conquered it once, and he knew he could not fail. Too many would have no chance if he failed.

His arms were frankly shaking with fatigue as he neared the muted sunlight and the remaining boulder, precariously balanced. As he eyed it warily, a stream of dirt trickled down his forehead. He saw the rock shift, pulled his hand away and held himself as far to the right as he could.

The boulder plunged an arm’s length into the shaft, spraying fragments as it gouged into the softer stone. He studied the dark rock, only finger spans away, as he would an enemy combatant. He pressed himself into the corner to avoid it but his arm brushed the rock as he climbed higher, and the thing shifted again, falling another hand span.

That was the last time it moved, and moments later he pulled himself past, over the verge and into the overcast sunlight. He gauged the time as early afternoon.

He crawled over a mound of debris and bramble, then considered the broken walls of an old cemetery and stunted windblown trees. He was east, as he’d guessed, on a scrubby height a quarter mile from the city’s landside walls. He could look down across the whole of Hidrestus to the bay. There lay the little temple district on the highest hill near the water, and to the right of it the rectangular forum. The long straight lanes of the newer suburbs west of the city were interrupted only by the oval colossus of the amphitheater, stretching a couple of stories higher than everything else.

Two things troubled him on the instant. While he was gratified to see the large ship he’d purchased still rode anchor on the shifting gray water, he was none too pleased to observe a Dervan galley pulled up to a long stone quay. It flew no flag, but it was easy to guess that an imperial presence of importance had arrived. Caiax.

More troubling was the awning stretched above the arena. The practical Dervans wouldn’t have bothered with a rain guard for the seats unless they expected spectators that day. So far as he knew, there were no other events scheduled until that featuring the Eltyr, and thus no other reason for the awning.

As he forced his way downslope through some bushes, he knew his first true stab of panic, for he heard the distant roar of thousands of voices raised as one. He had been trapped within the tunnels even longer than he realized. The games were under way.

The skies opened up into a spiritless drizzle and Hanuvar pushed his weary legs into motion. Though they protested, he headed for the city at a flat-out run.



VI


Theris settled into the black marble seat, well-padded with yellow cushions. Though he might have taken affront to being seated upon the governor’s left in the dignitary box, he was glad not to have to listen to the old man’s anile commentary, now being showered upon the lanky, hunch-shouldered visitor in a senator’s toga seated on the governor’s right. In a row of seats behind them was the young, bored, and beautiful wife of Caiax, looking as serene as a statue, and their two daughters, whose hushed chatter evinced eagerness for the struggle to begin. Judging by the intricate pile of dark hair crowning each, they’d been tended by an army of slaves for hours.

While the governor doted upon Caiax, Theris was less impressed. To his mind, the famed consul’s eyes were beady and acquisitive, as if he measured the worth of everyone and everything he saw on some secret scale, and found all of it wanting. There was sharp intellect there, but it was reserved only for counting.

The goddess might find some souls more challenging to awaken with love, but her guidance would see true. Theris considered the walls, where blessed Ariteen’s sacred symbols were painted. The arena itself had been sanctified. Owing to the weeks of rituals, the ground and air were saturated with moisture, and the skies were dark. The stars were right; the way was cleared for her arrival. Now only a little blood was needed.

His gaze swept overhead, to where the vast canvas awning had been drawn over the arena. This left the illumination further muted, which was ideal, though in some places it was brightened by torches, or, in the box where he sat now with honored guests, by elegant lanterns. That light glared on the well-shined shoulder plates of the governor’s honor guard, and two grim legionaries from Caiax’s army, whose resplendent red capes were trimmed in gold.

Once, when he’d been quite young, Theris had journeyed to Derva itself and attended a celebration in its amphitheater. The city of Hidrestus’ stadium wasn’t on quite as grand a scale, but as the provincial capital was yet an imposing structure, a large oval seating thousands upon tiered stone benches. Its architect had designed it so audiences might quickly and easily be funneled to and from their seats. At least they could be, normally. Soon, of course, his followers would see to the closing and locking of the exit doors.

Theris had toured the underground sections of the arena, where a complex system of pulleys and gears could raise and lower key portions of its floor to permit reinforcements and sudden surprises.

Today a circular stone wall rose about the arena’s center, a miniature fortress complete with battlements and metal gates. Directly across from the dignitary box the sea-green flag of Volanus hung limply from the fortress’s largest tower, and at that tower’s base a pool of water sparkled.

“That’s nothing like the real wall of Volanus,” Caiax told the governor. “It was ten spear lengths high in many places, and its battlement wide enough for two chariots to drive side by side.”

His cousin nodded patiently. “Well, it is theatre. We are expected to imagine.”

As Caiax grunted his disapproval there was a fanfare from the musicians in the stands below. An expectant hush fell over the crowd as the trumpeters were joined by a drum roll. Upon a raised platform across from the dignitary box, a mellifluous spokesman addressed the crowd through a speaking trumpet, providing a brief but salutary introduction of the governor, Caiax, and Theris himself. Each stood in turn, and then Theris introduced the games in honor of sacred Ariteen.

As the crowd clapped and whistled and stomped feet, Theris resumed his chair. Almost immediately came a new fanfare, another drumroll, and then an armored figure appeared upon the stage battlement in the arena’s center. He was a big, bearded man with a green-plumed helm and gleaming armor. A shield hung on his arm, and he clutched a spear in one fist. The shirt beneath his breastplate was sea-green.

“Is that supposed to be Hanuvar?” Caiax asked skeptically.

He may have doubted, but judging from their catcalls the crowd knew who the figure represented. The actor milked the moment, marching back and forth in what Theris suspected was supposed to be martial confidence, though it seemed almost a skipping prance. The armor-clad figure stopped and shouted, gesturing dramatically with a sweep of his spear as his deep voice carried out over the crowd.

“Do the Dervans think they can take my city? I was only ever beaten once, and I tricked the coward Ciprion into letting me go!”

Theris saw the governor grin and glance at his cousin, knowing that the line had been inserted to please the consul. But Caiax showed no reaction to having his old rival insulted.

The false Hanuvar cried out once more: “These walls will hold against all comers! The Dervans will fall! They are no match for me and my beautiful but deadly Eltyr!”

This speech was met with more boos. Some even lobbed fruit rinds and other trash, though little cleared the stands. The actor shouted some more, then a new fanfare sounded and gladiators dressed as legionaries charged into the arena. The fortress gates disgorged additional men dressed in sea-green, and as the crowd cheered, the groups broke into tight knots to battle before the fortress wall.

The Hanuvar actor raced back and forth on the miniature fortification above them, shouting encouragement and insults as weapons clanged into shields and helms. Limbs were hacked and men fell to bloody ruin. Sometimes the actor hopped up and down with rage, waving his spear. The crowd shouted with rising excitement as the blood spilled, Caiax’s daughters among them.

Determined to be master of the obvious, Consul Caiax leaned toward his cousin, saying huffily: “That’s not how it happened at all.”

“No?” the governor asked politely.

Caiax’s bony finger pointed toward the arena floor. “That man’s playing Hanuvar like a fool. He was the most dangerous man the empire ever faced.”

“Oh, the crowd loves it,” the governor said with a laugh.

“They wouldn’t have loved facing his armies,” Caiax groused.

Theris leaned just a bit, forcing cheer into his voice. “Well, his armies are dead, and so is his city, thanks to your bravery.”

“Yes, quite,” the governor agreed. “Your ballistae drove him into the sea, and your commands shattered the walls of his backstabbing, mongrel race.”

Caiax scowled like a man with constipation. Theris looked away, studying the arena. Ariteen would shy from even the wan sunlight pouring through the center of the awning, for she was a goddess of darkness. But there, in the gloomy pockets on the arena edge, he saw what he was after, and smiled. The mist had begun to gather. All she would need was a little more sacrifice.

“Pardon me, Blessed One,” a voice at his elbow said, and Theris looked up to find young Ortix beside him. “You wished to speak to the Eltyr before they left for the arena floor. They’re nearly ready.”



VII


Jerissa and her warriors waited beneath the amphitheater beside one of the elevator platforms. A group of muscular slaves huddled to one side. Around them were the ever-present guards, hard-eyed men in armor, warily watching the thirty well-armed women. Voices carried from outside. Occasionally it was a cry of pain, such as Jerissa had heard in the midst of battle. More often, though, it was the shout of the crowd. Their stamps and claps rang off stone walls and set them vibrating.

She couldn’t help wishing she’d never heard from Hanuvar to start with, for that brief hope had made this final disappointment that much more painful. Lurcan was walking up and down in front of them, telling them to be good girls, and that those who fought well would be spared.

Jerissa ground her teeth until she had heard enough. “Don’t lie to them,” she said.

Lurcan scowled. “Watch your tongue, woman.”

She shrugged. What could he do now?

He raised his hand as though to hit her, but stopped as his guards made way for a tall man in a fine blue robe with flowery edge embroidery. He bestowed a regal nod upon frowning Lurcan, then halted before her, opened his arms, and smiled. Strange, that the Dervans would send a priest to bless them. But then he looked an odd priest, for his eyes were glazed like those of a lotus eater.

“Noble ladies,” he said, his voice that of a practiced orator, “you do not know it, but you go forth with great purpose this day. You battle not just for your honor, but for the honor of Blessed Ariteen, a protector who surely smiled down upon your own doings, for she, too, is a guardian.” His gaze met Jerissa’s and she saw that behind that peculiar glint he actually meant what he was saying, though the sorrow in his eyes was of shallow depth. “I am sorry that you have come here, to this place. But your brave actions here, this day, will have repercussions you could never imagine. And because you go forth to risk your lives on behalf of a goddess I cannot expect you to know, I will share with you a secret none but the most devout have heard. Ariteen arrives, this day. It may even be that some of you will see her as your deity, and it might be that some of you will be chosen for her sacred embrace.”

He brought his hands together with a fluttering motion, then mumbled strange words over them. Jerissa stared uncomfortably, wondering what she was expected to do. She had heard the prattle of priests before, but this one disquieted her. As he continued speaking she felt strangely exposed, as though some unseen audience observed her.

Finally the priest finished waving his hands over them, nodded a final time as if in approval, and departed. A puzzled-looking Lurcan left with him. The guards, though, remained.

Jerissa turned to her Eltyr.

Each carried a sword and shield and spear. Their armor was of fair make and approximated the traditional Eltyr breastplates, and their tunics of sea-green with gold banding were a close match to the real thing. Her eyes roved over their faces. Some looked numb, others fearful, but more looked angry.

She raised her voice to them. “We go today to face men ordered to slay us. So it was at the sea gate only a few months ago. And while it fell, we took a toll so high that the whole of the wharf and the waters beyond were stained with Dervan blood!” She saw their eyes light at that, and remembered the bodies strewn along the dockside, the foaming seawater turned crimson.

“You didn’t ask to join our band, but you have worked hard, and studied well. You came to me as bakers and millers, waitresses and wet nurses. But when we go forth this day, it will be as Eltyr!” She raised her fist and let forth the ululating call of her order.

Ceera lifted her own fist and repeated it, then the women under her command raised their own voices in a cry that set Jerissa’s ears ringing.

They hadn’t much longer to wait. The arena manager received a signal from a runner, and then informed them it was time to file onto the lift. Jerissa led the way. Slaves stood ready at each corner, four of them to a rope, readying for the command to lift the platform while others worked the pulleys that winched an opening aside through which the lift would rise.

As the arena manager motioned the slaves to the elevator platform, Jerissa turned to her charges, snarling at them. “Make me proud. Show these bloodthirsty cowards the strength of Volani women!”

As they let out the cry of the Eltyr, they rose toward the open square through which light poured. The thin clack of metal on metal, the screams of the dying, and the roar of the crowd echoed in her ears.

Her hand tightened around her spear haft. This, she would hold back, until she had shepherded her warriors through to nearly the end. Then the Dervans would see if their archers could stop her. Caiax had a date with her spear point. The gods owed her that.



VIII


When the centurion presented himself at the ship, he left little time for inquiry. He was bruised and dirty and streaked with soot and even more closemouthed than before. Several days of beard growth stubbled his chin and upper lip. As soon as he confirmed that the slaves were not aboard the ship, he commandeered a supply wagon. Curious, Antires rode with him as the officer recklessly urged the wagon on through the city streets. During the centurion’s long absence, Antires had tried his best, but no amount of bribery had opened Lurcan’s doors to him again. There’d been better luck with Kerthik, who’d told Antires only an hour before to present himself at the amphitheater’s service gate if he found the centurion.

Once they reached that gate, it took Kerthik a considerable time to arrive at the door when Antires pounded upon it.

The scar-faced overseer opened the door at last and eyed them, crestfallen.

“They’ve already gone up,” he said. Then, accusatorily, he eyed the centurion. “Where have you been?”

“Take me there,” the centurion ordered.

“It will do you no good. They just went up—”

“Take me there,” the centurion repeated harshly.

And so they jogged through the underground tunnels, passing barred rooms that reeked of animals and dung and fear, sloping down and further down and past guttering torches in a vast labyrinth of walls and pillars. The crowd roared, a great, hungry beast.

A group of guards eyed them curiously, and Antires heard them hoping that they’d still manage some good seats as they headed up and out to the arena. He and Kerthik and the centurion stopped at last near a backstage manager. The agitated younger man was in close conversation with a single guard, who held a manacled bearded fellow dressed in a Volani helm and armor. Standing beside him, done up in identical sea-green garb, was a stagey Dervan actor known less for his acumen than his loud voice. The actor was trying to pass over his shield to the slave, but the manacled man was refusing to take it.

The centurion glanced at them, and the group of slaves ready at the pulleys that would winch up a small elevator platform. The square through which the elevator would rise cast an almost blinding light into the dark space.

“You’ve gotten him too drunk,” the manager was shouting at the guard.

“He’s not too drunk to drown, is he?” the guard replied.

“How long have the Eltyr been up?” the centurion asked.

“A few minutes,” the manager answered distractedly. He jabbed a finger at the guard. “Get him up there and push him into the water. Now.”

The centurion drew his sword and pointed it at the manager. “You and the guard. Into the cell.”

The manager blinked, not in bravery, but in stunned wonder. Antires understood his confusion.

“Now,” the centurion said. “Or I’ll kill you.”

“Wait a moment,” the guard said, but the centurion had gone entirely mad, for he slammed the man in the temple with the flat of his blade and the guard’s knees went loose. He sagged.

Suddenly Kerthik was on the manager, knife to him. He, too, must have lost his mind.

The centurion was instantly in charge. “Throw these three in that cell.”

“Hey,” the Hanuvar actor objected.

Kerthik’s grin had no humor in it. “Get in there. You heard him.” Bewildered, the manager, Hanuvar actor, and dazed guard stepped into the indicated cell.

“I’ll take that shield,” the centurion said, then snatched the spear the guard had leaned against the nearby wall. “Your helm,” he said after a brief hesitation. The drunken slave removed it with surprising speed, despite his manacles.

The centurion had always possessed the manner of a soldier, but something in his appearance altered the moment he donned the helmet with winged-serpent emblem beneath its green horsehair plume. It was only then Antires paid any attention to the centurion’s beard and mustache growth, and the sharp gray eyes. He might not even have noticed them if the man hadn’t suddenly hefted the shield with the winged-serpent crest of Volanus upon it.

“Hold this place until I get them out,” the centurion said, even as Antires stared, his mind struggling to keep up with what his eyes had discovered. The soldier pointed with the spear to where a ladder stretched along a pillar nearby, up toward a sealed exit. “Get that door open.”

It was only when the centurion stepped to the elevator platform, illumined by a shaft of sunlight, that Antires fully admitted to himself who he faced. It was less like meeting a ghost than suddenly beholding Acon, god of war.

Antires paled. He had so many questions, and so much defied his understanding. He was chilled, as though he’d walked through a graveyard at twilight. Most pressing, though, was what this man expected to do if he rode the elevator into the arena. “You can’t expect—how are you—why—” He couldn’t even mouth a full sentence.

“Because no one gets left behind,” Hanuvar said. “Hold the way, Herrene, and emulate the brave men you so admire! Let none keep you back! I’m bringing all of them out, or dying at their side.” He gestured to the slaves, who looked uncertain.

“You heard him!” Antires shouted. “Raise it! Hurry!”

And at his command, the slaves bent to his wishes, and the scourge of the Dervan legions rose to meet his fate in the arena.



IX


The Eltyr line held their formation as the legionaries crashed against them. Shields dented and splintered and blades fell and rose again, dripping red with blood. The male gladiators shouted their war cries, but rising above it all was the chilling, ululating call of the Eltyr.

Caiax murmured appreciatively that the women were giving it a good show. Two dropped back, bleeding, but the shield line closed, and withstood all attempts at flanking.

The crowd was riveted.

As the actor playing Hanuvar disappeared, Theris noted that the mist stirring in the dark recesses of the amphitheater had thickened. He searched the nearby faces, but to a one they were centered upon the clash of arms as the gladiators dressed in legionary armor pushed into the solid line of Eltyr.

Suddenly the arena announcer shouted through his speaking trumpet. “And now Hanuvar himself returns!”

A man dressed in sea-green armor had been raised on an elevator through a hole in the top of the stage battlement. He was clearly different from the previous actor. But there was no “retainer” behind him that would have pushed him into the artificial “sea,” the pit of water that sloshed at the foot of the fortress wall, placed so Hanuvar’s death by drowning would be reenacted before the cheering throngs. This new Hanuvar brandished his spear and tossed it over the merlon. It flew with unerring accuracy into the side of the foremost legionary. The line of gladiators in Dervan garb stumbled and the Eltyr moved quickly to seize the moment. Caiax’s daughters cried out that it hadn’t been fair.

The governor leaned toward Theris. “That doesn’t seem sporting, does it? Isn’t this the part where he’s supposed to drown?”

Theris only nodded distractedly and watched the mist.

“That’s a different fellow,” Caiax remarked. Then added: “He’s a much better likeness.”

Then the Hanuvar actor lifted his voice, shouting words Theris didn’t understand, though he recognized the ringing, bell-like sounds of Volani. Distracted as he was, these commands somehow sounded far more martial, and he clearly heard the word “Eltyr.”

Caiax straightened in his seat, then stood, blood rising in his face. “That’s him. That’s Hanuvar!”

His wife spoke at last. “Don’t be absurd, dear.”

“It’s him!” The consul pointed a stiffened arm, as though it were somehow unclear who he meant. “He’s ordering them to fall back!”

And they were. The Eltyr performed an awkward retreat with their shield wall toward the sealed doors of their imitation fortress even as Hanuvar disappeared from view down an inner stair.

Curious as that development was, Theris’ attention was pulled away by sudden screams on the darker, south side of the arena, furthest from the booth of the dignitaries. The mist itself had risen, towering six or seven times the height of a man. Fog streamed away from what resembled a figure draped in a flowing garment.

“Ariteen.” Theris reverently pronounced the name of his goddess. Why the people screamed he couldn’t imagine, unless it was with surprise. Already the great mother extended strangely fluid limbs and mist to bless those nearest in the stands. They appeared stricken with joy as she embraced them. Some even stood and shook with strange, spontaneous spasms of delight. The arena’s archers, perhaps confused, loosed arrows at her. But what good were weapons against a deity? She forgave them with caresses of coiling mist and they shuddered in ardor and collapsed. She glided on, blessing all she neared, and the screams spread.

The governor seemed to have noted the confusion on the other side of the arena. “What’s going on there?” His voice, normally imperious, quailed a little. “What is that?”

Theris rose and spread his arms, beaming beatifically. “That, Governor, is my goddess, come at last to bring love to all the world.”



X


At the bottom of the stairs to the stage fortress, Hanuvar found another manager, screaming at his guard to force “Hanuvar” into submission. They assumed he was the prisoner intended for drowning. He caught the guard’s blow on his shield then smashed his skull with an overhand sword strike, splattering the manager with blood and brains. He finished the gaping manager with a quick thrust then stepped over the bodies and threw off the bar closing the heavy wooden doors. It creaked as he forced it open, and immediately a bloody woman dressed in Eltyr garments staggered into his arms. He steadied her, ignored her gaping astonishment, and pointed behind him. Antires had emerged from a small square panel in the floor ten paces back and waved her toward him.

“Hurry!” Hanuvar urged.

After she staggered off, Hanuvar watched through the fortress doorway as the mass of some forty gladiators strove to break through a shield wall formed by nearly three dozen women warriors.

The door was too narrow for more than four of the Eltyr to retreat at once—instead, per his orders, the front rank had formed a solid screen, shields up and spears bristling, while women slipped back. He stepped through, snagged a spear from a gasping young woman with a broken nose and bruised face, then sent it sailing over the heads of the Eltyr and into the mouth of a shouting gladiator.

The crowd caught sight of him once more and booed, thinking he played a role.

The line faltered as the warriors pressed on. Jerissa, in the lead, was bowled over by a sudden assault from a tall, powerful opponent.

Hanuvar elbowed past a swearing woman, all the time shouting for them to fall back. He arrived in time to plant his shield against a strike that would have driven a sword through Jerissa’s neck.

He’d faced countless Dervan legionaries, but few so muscular as the gladiator before him. The blow he caught set his shield ringing.

He bashed his shield rim into the fellow’s hand. This sent the gladiator off balance and Hanuvar plunged his sword deep through the man’s cuirass. He spun to the left, dropping with raised shield, and blocked a blow from another gladiator.

Jerissa scrambled to her feet and joined him, her eyes wide in wonder. “You came,” she said.

“Yes.” The two fell back as the gladiator legionaries pressed in.

“But you’ll be killed,” she said.

There were more vital matters to attend to than conversation. For some reason, the assault had lessened in intensity. Those to the rear of their foes seemed distracted, and the screams of the crowd had risen in pitch. Did they finally understand he was no actor? Were the gladiators holding back because Dervan guards were readying a flight of arrows?

A spear splintered on his shield, and he lopped a thrusting arm off at the wrist. As the gladiator dropped screaming, all opposition ebbed.

Panting for breath, dripping sword still at the ready, Hanuvar looked past a wary gladiator and into the stands, where mist rolled across the gloomy benches and aisles. Something moved within, a form Hanuvar took at first for a gigantic woman in a gauzy dress shaped from vapor.

But as the thing swung wide to avoid a burning lantern, he saw the monstrous image wasn’t any kind of woman. It had no true visage, merely a gray faceless orb with black blotches, like the top of a rotting mushroom. Hairlike translucent tentacles swayed from the orb, whipping now and then to touch those nearest. It left its victims dead or senseless in its wake.

It must have been wandering among the stands for a good while, for vast numbers lay motionless, or gravely wounded, judging from their twitching forms. Dozens ran within the stands, screaming in fear, among them the arena bowmen.

The male gladiator nearest Hanuvar cursed in horror. He glanced at the Eltyr, then shouted at his men to retreat. What began as an orderly withdrawal erupted into chaos as they reached the exit gate. They shouted in panic and banged on the door to be opened.

Hanuvar’s senses rebelled at the sight of that thing gliding through the stands; he bared his teeth in silent struggle with the atavistic urge to run from the presence of the supernatural. Old training kept him still, verifying the terrain, his placement, the exits, the position of his allies and enemies. A glance over his shoulder showed him all but Jerissa had vanished through the doorway of the false fortress and, hopefully, to the open hatch beyond. Antires, though, stood staring raptly in the doorway and shouted for Hanuvar to look out even as Jerissa cried the same warning.

A sharp blow snapped into Hanuvar and drove him back. An arrow stood out from his armored shoulder. He felt the sting of its edge in his flesh. Instantly his shield went up, and he winced at the pain as the muscle obeyed his will. He saw now what Jerissa had observed, a man with a bow advanced to the edge of the dignitary box, even now ripping a toga from his shoulders. He was flanked by two soldiers casting anxious glances at the monstrous mist thing approaching on their left.

Caiax. His followers might be concerned with the monster, but he had eyes only for the arena floor. He was a tall man, and with his lean, hunched shoulders and prominent nose he resembled a vulture, though one dressed in borrowed plumage, for his tunic was resplendent with gold thread. He’d probably grabbed his weapon from one of the arena guards. Normally archers would have been posted along the walls at numerous points, but they were in flight.

To the right of the box, the monstrous, impossible being swept slowly back and forth through the stands, chasing down all who lived. Some of its quarry thrust themselves into the hallways that should have emptied from the amphitheater, but found no exit, and their massed bodies provided easy fare. Others scrambled up and around the dignitary box, where they huddled with the remaining crowd, for a time beyond the creature’s reach. A few hardy souls had retreated high into the stands where the canvas awning stretched taut over all but the dead center of the arena, and some desperate men climbed into the rigging deployed to raise the awning.

Hanuvar tore the arrow from his shoulder with a curse and cast it aside, studying the situation. Above him, black eyes glinting, Caiax put a second arrow to bow and let fly.



XI


Theris had stepped to the edge of the dignitary box, and gradually his beaming smile had worn away to slack-jawed horror. He watched his goddess roll on like some contemplated the steady progress of the tide. Mist from Ariteen’s greater mass coiled snakelike around the men and women she passed, growing opaque and solidifying as it thrust into mouth, nose, and ears of the fleeing mob. She left her victims dead and still, though they moved in a fashion, for those in her wake erupted with mold and mushrooms.

She drew ever closer, now gliding higher into the stands, now lower. His heart thrummed in his chest and his pulse all but burst with the desire to leave. Yet he could not find the will to act. It was as though he watched it all from some far remove, the terrified cries of the crowd, running this way and that, the twitching corpses, the drifting menace, the sickly sweet smell of corrupting fungus. It was no easy thing to acknowledge error, much less understand that your entire life, and those of thousands of your predecessors, had been founded upon such profound misunderstandings of a god’s true nature.

Ariteen had come at last, as long foretold. She made all equal in death. She shared her love with all as she met them, leaving life to erupt in their jerking corpses.

Caiax remained, down at the very edge of the box, oblivious to the menace and firing into the arena itself. His wife and daughters had already fled.

The goddess’s attention was diverted when the general’s guards gave up at last and sprinted frantically for the top rows. As she climbed after them, stretching with her transparent limbs, Theris finally found his resolve, and turned to flee toward the other side of the box, thinking to leap the barrier.

But his sudden movement drew her regard. She lashed out with one long tentacle. It reached his waist and solidified and Theris let out a horrified gasp.

Her touch was tender, and as he was lifted into the air, he realized he had been wrong to doubt her. Surely he was meant for greater things.

Then a dozen other appendages drove into him, lashed up through each of his orifices. He screamed in fear and pain, and then a tentacle pushed into his mouth. His failing body erupted with new life, hungry and eager for him, and he was laid down with infinite care upon a bench beside a purple and white blotchy thing his dying eyes recognized for the governor, blooming with all manner of mushrooms.



XII


Hanuvar caught the arrow on his shield. “Fool!” he shouted. “That beast’s killing your people!”

The mist thing drew ever closer, but Caiax, teeth gritted, fitted another arrow to his bow. Before he nocked it, Jerissa let fly. At the last moment the consul saw the spear from the side of his eye. It drove into his belly and he sagged, both hands around the haft. He dropped below the stone balcony.

Jerissa’s lips parted in a savage smile, and she looked to Hanuvar, who seemed a little stunned.

Jerissa backed toward the gate. “Hurry,” she cried.

But Hanuvar advanced toward the arena wall. A hesitant Jerissa came after.

“Grab that torch!” he cried. “Set it to the rope!”

He pointed at the railing ten feet above, and she understood his meaning. He signed her to climb to his shoulders and he grunted as she set a foot on his injured side. From there she leapt for the railing, caught it, held with one hand near one of the sturdy ratlines that hooked the canvas awning in place.

On her right, the monstrous mist thing drifted past the dignitary box. To her left, only a few hand spans off, the lantern projected from a pillar demarcating the end of a row. Arms leaden with fatigue, she pulled herself to the rim. She felt the eyes of the crowd upon her, hundreds of them, withdrawn to the last untouched corner of the arena.

When she turned to the terrifying thing she saw it lay only a bowshot away.

With a bloody hand she grabbed at the torch, found it hammered in place. Desperate strength tore it free, breaking it along half its length, and she put the flame to the rope. Tough fibers resisted the flame long moments as the terrible entity rolled ever nearer and a forest of tentacles quested toward her . . . but then the rope caught with red and she sent the torch sailing into the monster. The fire swept up along the ratline and climbed toward the awning.

The mist monster retreated from the sudden flare, and Jerissa retreated to the area railing. It seemed a longer drop than would be comfortable, but she let go and hit the sand with a stumble.

Hanuvar had made a speaking trumpet of his hands and shouted to the crowd. “Get to the arena floor! Hurry! It fears the light!”

That done, Jerissa and Hanuvar ran at last for the exit, sidestepping the corpses of gladiators and fallen women alike. She stared at her dead warriors as she passed, committing them to memory. Above, the fire reached the point where the ratline met the canvas. It hesitated almost like a cautious living thing upon the edge, then suddenly spread out and up and the awning blazed a vibrant red.

Jerissa risked a last glance through the gate of the false fortress before running for a ladder visible through the opening in the arena floor. She saw the terrible monster writhing in upon itself, withdrawing and shrinking toward whatever shadows it could find. Frantic survivors had taken Hanuvar’s advice and now dropped toward the arena floor, away from the flames. The gladiators milled forward with them. Apparently no one on the other side of their exit door had ever heard their pleas.

The Herrene who’d come with Hanuvar to Lurcan’s school waited beside an opening, torch in one hand. He’d gathered cast-off cloaks and spears and wooden scraps and encircled their exit with it. “Start on down,” he said. “I’ll set fire and follow.”

It hadn’t occurred to Jerissa that the mist thing might pursue them into the darkness, and she appreciated his foresight.

In a few moments she and Hanuvar were below, and the Herrene scrambled after.

Kerthik was waiting, his scarred face lit in a grim smile. “I sent your sergeant and the others out, though she didn’t want to go,” he told Jerissa, then turned to Hanuvar. “I hope you’ve room for one more, wherever you’re going.”

The Dervans would certainly have no place for him, now, Jerissa thought, but looked to Hanuvar.

“We can always accommodate a friend.” Hanuvar nodded to the wobbly, drunken slave still dressed in the Volani colors. “Take him too.”

Kerthik looked confused at the order, but threw an arm over the fellow’s shoulder, and together the five of them hurried through the labyrinth and out through the back gate.

Ceera had somehow acquired a couple of wagons that the women warriors had piled into.

The slave laborers who’d operated the lifts had come out with them and now watched nervously beside the carts.

“Come with us,” Hanuvar said. “Be free!”

And with that invitation, they clambered into the overflowing vehicles. Hanuvar himself jumped aboard, and in moments, under the cracking whips of Ceera and the Herrene, the vehicles were rattling over the paved streets. Behind them the canvas ceiling of the amphitheater sent flame and smoke licking toward the clouds.

They passed small knots of men and women staring in horror at the crown of flame visible above the buildings.

“I saw that . . . mist thing,” Antires said to Hanuvar, who held tight to the seat as the cart careened on the uneven track. “Do you think you killed it?”

“It doesn’t like anything bright, and it’s surrounded by the light.” Hanuvar’s eyes sought the fire and smoke pluming into the sky. “It would be hard to survive that.”



XIII


Only a few people were on hand to stare at them as they piled out of the wagons near the dock. Most were either at the amphitheater or standing in the street watching the smoke.

Their ship crew stood ready, no matter the lashing wind and foam-capped waves, and they received their passengers with mounting surprise. Hanuvar had carefully picked the crew. Many were not Volani, but were, like them, homeless, and friendless. In a way, they were all his people, for they were downtrodden victims of the Dervans. He had already spoken to the sailors obliquely of freedom, but he hadn’t revealed his identity. He wished that he’d thought to procure a healer, too, but he hadn’t had the time. Likely some of the women warriors helped aboard by their companions wouldn’t survive their injuries.

Would that so many things had gone differently, all along.

Jerissa, finished with her initial assessment of the wounded, joined them. He felt the heat of her eyes, though her voice was soft. “Why didn’t you come sooner?”

What she really wondered was why so many had perished that should have lived. It was the question he would have asked, in her place. “The Dervans had me, Jerissa. I came as quickly as I could. I wish I could have gotten all of you out alive.”

She shook her head. “You’ve done more than I would have dreamed days ago.”

“What’s their condition?”

“We lost four. Three more may not make it. But if they die, they will die free. And none of us would be alive if not for you. Thank you.”

He nodded soberly. Pointless to dwell on might-have-beens. There were so many of them.

He called for his people, these few, and Kerthik and Antires and the old white-haired navigator stood with them near the gangway.

“You’re free now,” he said. “Derva no longer holds your bonds. You journey to a land without kings, or slaves. It is but a small settlement, but the air is clean and fresh, the fruits are sweet, and the crops grow well. Work in defense of the land, and you’ll be welcome.”

“All of us?” Kerthik asked.

“My word carries weight,” Hanuvar said. “If you don’t intend to go, you’d best clear out, because the Dervans will come hunting soon. Though my guess is they’ll be too busy trying to figure out what happened to launch any organized effort for a little while.”

“I’m done with them,” Kerthik said. “I’m for this new land.”

Hanuvar turned to Jerissa. “You’re in command. I’ve confided the secret of our course to this man, and he will guide you home.” He nodded at the navigator.

Though momentarily confused, her expression cleared. “You’re going to free some of the others, aren’t you?”

He spoke with an intensity that startled even himself. “I’m going to free them all.”

“You should take me.”

He’d expected that, and shook his head. “No.” Her accent, her very carriage, were too obvious. Besides, the ship needed a captain, and New Volanus needed Eltyr. “Shepherd them home. We will need you to guide our armies. We must be ready, should the Dervans ever learn our secret.”

While she wrestled with accepting that order, he shifted his gaze to Antires. “New Volanus could stand some actors and playwrights,” he said.

“Maybe they could. But I’m coming with you.”

Hanuvar laughed. “I appreciate your quick thinking at the arena, but I travel alone.” The last thing he needed was a civilian trailing him from place to place. Even one brave enough to have entered a Dervan gladiatorial arena of his own accord.

“Traveling alone almost got you killed,” Antires countered. “I can help you. I can show you tricks of the trade. Makeup, accents, behaviors, all kinds of things. You can’t always pretend to be a soldier.”

While Hanuvar was certain his own deceptive skills were far superior to what the young man assumed, he understood that there was something to what the Herrene said. It wasn’t just his assistance at the arena. Without Antires’ efforts during Hanuvar’s absence, freeing Jerissa and all the others would have been impossible. He had proven an able ally, and Hanuvar knew he was unlikely to find another like him. He also knew that Antires had little concept of the challenges ahead. Hanuvar would never be able to share his goals with the Herrene, for fear that if the younger man were captured the Dervans might learn too much. And his end, not just as an enemy of Derva but as an ally of Hanuvar, would not be pretty. “It could be a harder road than any you’ve known,” he warned. “We may fall in battle, and if we’re captured alive we face a grisly death.”

“That doesn’t frighten me,” Antires said.

“It should.”

“Well, perhaps it does, a little. But I must know what happens next. And someone has to write all of this down. Some day I’ll make it a play that will grant me immortality to match your own.”

Hanuvar chuckled and shook his head. He raised his hand to Jerissa and the others and wished them safe journeys, then clapped Antires on the shoulder and the two walked away as good wishes rang after.

Hanuvar looked back only once as the ship cast off and rolled out onto the heaving waves. Soon he was bandaged and divested of uniform, a nondescript cloaked figure riding into the rain with a companion upon one of the great roads, an artery that wound on toward the heart of the empire.

In mere days, new rumors were added to those already spreading, that Hanuvar had risen from his own tomb, accompanied by a legion of undead warriors. That he had hunted down the man who’d destroyed his city, Caiax, and mortally wounded him with a flaming spear. He was said to command ghastly sorceries that had conjured a soul-eating demon formed of mist, and to have magically sealed the gates of an amphitheater before setting its roof aflame.

None knew where he would next appear, but the emperor reportedly doubled his personal guard, summoned his priests and sorcerers, and dispatched the feared magic hunters known as revenants to track him down. But how could they find a ghost? And even if they could, how might they slay a spirit of vengeance?

...He had declared in my presence that he meant to free all of his people, but when I pressed him on the matter he shared almost nothing of his plans. When I pointed out that they had likely been sold to many owners scattered through many places, he but said he was conscious of the difficulties. He meant to sail to Derva from the nearest large port, and so we travelled the major northwest road for Tonsta, which lay only a week away.

I asked many questions of him while we rode and discovered that while history fascinated him, Hanuvar had little interest in discussing his own. In the ensuing years I spoke with many of the famous who practiced modestly, and most of them secretly longed to be better known for their triumphs, or to air long-held grievances. Hanuvar was not one of those, and weeks were to pass before he shared much of anything personal, and that only grudgingly.

He took to instruction about acting far more readily, however. Hanuvar possessed a gift for languages and with it an excellent ear, so that he could easily adopt an accent. These natural-born talents, in tandem with his astonishing memory and a fascination with human nature, meant he had a great affinity for the playing of parts. And that would prove useful to him.

I am not without a measure of pride, and I fully believe he found my instruction useful. Certainly he said that it was, and through the time we spent on theatre craft each evening I saw him begin to hone his instincts into a crucial survival skill.

—Sosilos, Book Two




5 An optio is the lowest-ranking officer in a legion, although seniority is as important among optios as it is among centurions, meaning that seasoned ones are accorded greater respect both from their peers and superiors.

Silenus


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