10 August 1062 P.E.
Gladiator Arena, Darnan
In the cool stone preparation room just outside the arena, Brand sat in front of a mirror. He picked up a flask of water from beside him and took a long drink. He looked up at himself in the mirror and ran his fingers through his greying hair. These days, he looked like an old tired soldier ready to welcome retirement. What had Mirane been so attracted to, he wondered?
He stood and moved over to a stone basin filled with water. He splashed his face and hands, then dried off.
The pill seemed to be working as expected today. He’d felt the fog for only a few moments after the prophylactic had kicked in. Now his mind was calm as the drug worked its magic in his system. Once a day, every day.
Brand moved over to the stand where his armor awaited him. He pulled on his greaves, great thick leather mats wrapped around his calves with pieces of steel plating nailed to the shins, and laced them together in the back. Then he pulled a pair of leather vambraces onto his arms.
The chest piece went on next, leather and steel plate emblazoned in the center with the crest of Darnan, a serpent eating its tail. It stank of stale sweat. He then shrugged on the pauldrons, steel shoulder guards with blade breakers jutting upwards to protect his neck. He cinched the strap, windmilled each arm, adjusted it again, and repeated the process until each pauldron fit snuggly and allowed his arms full range of motion.
As he secured each familiar piece of armor, his confidence fell into place as well. He felt more at home in armor in an arena than anywhere else. Well, besides Mrs. James’s kitchen, of course. He smiled at the thought of his faithful housekeeper waiting in the stands as she always did.
Brand then pulled on the gauntlets: first the regular one, knuckles reinforced by steel, and then his seemingly identical customized gauntlet. He smiled at the welcome pressure of the vials on his wrist. Careful to avoid flexing his left hand, he clipped both gauntlets into the vambraces.
And finally, Brand picked up his steel helmet from the stone bench. He was about to put it on when Kushchai walked in, flanked by several guards.
“Nearly ready? Excellent. These men are going to check your armor for hidden weapons and poisons.”
Brand’s heart leapt into his throat. Slag. With all that had happened last night, he’d completely forgotten Kushchai’s warning.
“Please stand and hold your hands out wide,” one of the guards said.
Brand had no choice but to do as commanded. The other guards moved forward and began to pat his armor and shove their fingers under the metal plates. One of the guards moved his hands toward Brand’s left gauntlet.
The guard pushed against the gladiator’s wrist, then peered down the slight gap between leather and skin. Brand held his breath. Seconds ticked by, and then the guard moved on.
The guards completed their search without incident. Brand breathed again.
“All clear, my lord,” the head guard said.
“Excellent,” Kushchai said. “That will be all.”
The guards saluted and left.
“I am sorry about that little show,” Kushchai said, turning to Brand, “but after last week…well, it sets us all at ease. I never doubted you, of course.”
Brand nodded curtly, then placed his helmet, a Corinth, on his head and examined the effect in the mirror.
The helmet was simple in design, little more than a piece of metal molded to his head. A single piece of metal came down between his eyes to protect his nose. Over the years, though, Brand had had his various victories emblazoned on the bare metal; now the polished steel shone with dozens of his fallen foes.
“It’s hard to believe that a silly human pastime could become so important to the kashmari,” Kushchai said. “And yet it has. I’m counting on you, Brand. All of our fates are tied to how well you entertain the lords today. If they like it, it could be an alternative way to work out rivalries, and gladiators could become valuable ambassadors between the cities.”
“If I win, you’ll also gain control of Navar.”
“Yes. And that would be a big win for Darnan, too. The riches of Navar would be ours for the taking.” Grinning, Kushchai looked Brand up and down. “Don’t let me down.”
The kashmari spun on his heel and marched out.
Brand exhaled. That was about as close to a “Good luck; you’ll do great” as he was likely to get from the city lord.
The gladiator took one last look at himself in the mirror, one final check. Gone was the scruffy, capable but battered, well-worn man. In his place stood an impressive knight, a living emblem of strength and tenacity.
“Well, don’t you look stunning.”
Brand saw Mirane approach in the mirror. He stiffened.
“How did you get in here?” he growled. “As the patron of my opponent—”
“I only came to wish you luck,” she purred. “Besides, no one will remember me here.”
He spun, accidentally knocking the water flask to the floor. It rolled away under the bench. “They’ll have to throw the fight out—”
To his surprise, she grabbed hold of the collar of his chest plate and pulled him down to her level, then kissed him. Warmth flooded through him, smothering his resistance. He relaxed and wrapped her in an answering embrace, savoring the taste of her, letting her floral scent fill his senses.
Then she let him go. She smiled, licked her lips slowly, and left the preparation room.
Brand sat down heavily on the bench with a clatter and tried to clear his head. He took his helmet off and ran a shaky hand through his gray hair.
Why had she come? he wondered. If he won, she would lose control of Navar. If he lost, she could be blamed. Brand didn’t want to find out what Fafnir might do to her if he found out she’d come to see Brand. No lover was worth that, not to a kashmari. Right?
Doubt mingled with remnants of the warmth in his chest. Under any other circumstances, that kiss would have had Brand grinning like an idiot. Instead, it only worried him.
The referee, a small man with a nose far too large for his face, ducked his head in. “Time to fight, Mr. Brand.”
Brand nodded his acknowledgment and replaced his helmet. He fished the flask out from under the bench and took a long swig of water. He then took a deep breath, willing his heart to slow and his mind to focus on the fight ahead.
Brand strode out of the room and into the harsh sunlight, blinking and trying to get his eyes to adjust a little faster. The heat pressed in on him through the suffocating layers of leather and steel.
On either side of the door to the preparation room, the two guards were shaking their heads, hands pressed to wincing eyes.
Brand frowned. How had Mirane gotten past the guards?
“Are you alright?” Brand asked.
“Fine, sir,” they chorused. Both men straightened, staring straight ahead as though nothing had happened.
Brand wavered for a moment, unnerved by their odd behavior. Did Mirane do something to the guards? Had she done something to his mind as well?
He quickly took stock of his mind but determined that other than being flustered by Mirane and a bit anxious about the fight, he felt no different than he had this morning. It didn’t seem like she’d done anything more than quicken his pulse.
Then again, would he even recognize if she’d tampered with him? She had so much to lose if he won, after all.
Then he remembered the softness of the kiss, the sweet smell of her, and he brushed those thoughts away. Surely Mirane could keep her personal and professional lives separate. The kiss was nothing more than a kiss.
The referee stuck his abnormally large nose around the corner of the preparation building, eyebrows raised. Brand didn’t have time to worry about Mirane.
He turned and strode out into the middle of the arena.
The referee’s booming voice heralded the giant gladiator’s arrival.
“I give you Brand the Bodacious! The Hero of Darnan, the undefeated champion of the Overcities!”
The crowd cheered. Pennants snapped above half the stone benches, bearing the crest of Darnan: the serpent eating its tail, sewn in a white field. Many of the Darnanian spectators had painted their faces in red and white or wore similarly colored tunics.
Brand raised his hand high above his head in a salute to them. His eyes scoured the arena. A smile lit up his face at the sight of Quincy the apothecary sitting beside Mrs. James.
The gladiator continued to scan the crowd. He found the high lord’s looming black figure settled in the middle of the Darnanian spectators, surrounded by a gaggle of sparkling blue kashmari nobles.
Brand turned his attention to his opponent as Percy strode out onto the gravel pitch, plumed helmet under one arm, other hand raised to the opposite stands where pennants sported a gold tree inscribed within a circle, the crest of Duat. Percy’s pale hair seemed to shimmer in the brilliant desert sun. Like Brand, Percy wore armor consisting of leather pads covered in steel plates. The Duati tree was embossed in gold on his chest. His armor bore metal ridges along its edges much like the armor plating of desert lizards.
“And Percy the Powerful! The Champion of Duat! What a magnificent pairing we have here today: the two most vicious fighters in all the realm!”
Brand’s boots crunched on the sandy gravel as he moved to where the referee stood waiting in front of the high lord’s pavilion. Fafnir leaned forward in his seat, elbows on knees, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. His dark face was as impassive as ever. Beside him, Kushchai chatted with another kashmari on one side while on the other, Mirane fanned herself. Her eyes locked on Brand’s. He dragged his gaze away from hers and fixed his attention on the referee.
“Before the fight begins, I will set forth the rules for this fight as tradition requires,” the referee began. “The contest shall take place in three rounds of two minutes each. During that time, the combatants will attempt to score points by striking each other. For the first blood drawn: one point. For a body strike: one point. For a head strike: two points. For a knockdown, which is grounding an opponent for more than five seconds and less than ten: three points. The gladiator that wins the most points wins the rounds. The fighter who wins the most rounds wins the match. In the unlikely event of a draw, where either one or three of the rounds end with both combatants receiving equal points, the gladiator with the most cumulative points will be declared the winner.
“There are four other basic rules that both fighters must abide by at all times,” the referee continued. “First, if I or any other referee signals for a break, both fighters must immediately disengage and step apart.
“Second, no fighter shall strike in any way another fighter who has been grounded, defined as having some combination of two limbs and their body touching the ground.
“Third, a fighter who is knocked out, defined as one who has been grounded for at least ten seconds, shall be declared the loser, regardless of previous points or round winnings.
“Lastly, concerning the use of weapons: There shall be no outside weaponry allowed at any time. The fighters may only use the weapons provided.” He gestured to a rack of weapons set against the arena wall. “At the start of every round, each fighter may select one weapon to use for the duration of that round. Weapons may not be exchanged at any point during the round. At the end of each round, the fighters will relinquish their weapons, which will then be removed from the arena. Understood?”
Brand and Percy both nodded. Standard rules, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing more or less than a straightforward, brutal fight.
“Each fighter may now choose their weapon for the first round.”
Both men moved to the weapon’s rack and picked up their shields. Brand strapped the metal disc to his left forearm. The shield would serve a double purpose: it would shield the vials within his gauntlet, and it would decrease the likelihood that Brand would accidentally trigger the tiny contraption.
As the visiting gladiator, Percy was allowed to select his weapon first. He picked up a long poleaxe without hesitation. Brand nodded his approval. The long reach of the poleaxe would help the smaller man compensate for Brand’s longer reach. But it could also be unwieldy. Brand would have to focus on getting past the spear tip of the poleaxe to where Percy wouldn’t be able to use the weapon effectively. With that in mind, Brand selected a simple broadsword, counting on his long reach to even out the discrepancy and improve his mobility. Percy grinned.
The gladiators stepped back to stand on either side of the referee.
“No other rules shall bind either fighter. Do both gladiators understand the rules?”
Brand and Percy yelled in unison, “Yes.”
The referee turned to Fafnir. “Then by the leave of High Lord Fafnir, I will begin this contest.”
Fafnir nodded. In a deep voice that carried throughout the arena, he said, “May the better warrior win.”
Brand and Percy strode to the center of the arena and settled into their stances facing each other, weapons poised.
A gong sounded, and the fight began.
The two men circled each other. Brand, ever the showman, spun his sword, strutting and grinning while keeping both eyes on his opponent. His heart still beat a little too fast from Mirane’s visit. She was up in the stands, watching him, he knew, and that only quickened his pulse further.
Percy stalked in a circle, efficient in his movements, coiled and waiting, his scarred face focused and still.
Percy struck first, lunging across the invisible circle. His poleaxe snapped forward at Brand like a viper.
Brand easily deflected the blow and jammed the point of the poleaxe into the sand. He leapt forward, aiming to slam his bulky shoulder into the Duati’s chest. Percy lifted his shield and took Brand’s full weight on it. The two gladiators crashed to the ground.
The men rolled apart and jumped to their feet. Percy’s poleaxe came up and jabbed at Brand. He dodged, dodged again.
The poleaxe slid along the leather armor at Brand’s waist.
I’m too slow, Brand noted, gritting his teeth. Need to move faster.
As Percy thrust again, Brand didn’t dodge but brought up his broadsword. The keen edge sheered straight through the wood, cleaving the poleaxe in half. A cheer exploded from the Darnanian half of the arena.
Brand seized the advantage and swung at Percy, who raised his shield to block the stroke. Brand pressed forward, slicing and jabbing at his opponent’s shield, trying to batter and wear down the man and separate him from the sharper end of the broken poleaxe.
His mind and his muscles felt slow, though, as though he hadn’t had a good night’s rest in a week. His muscles were tiring too soon. He hadn’t realized how much his late night with Mirane had taken out of him.
As Percy caught yet another blow with his shield, the smaller man shoved Brand’s blade back with the shield, throwing Brand’s arms back just enough to give Percy an opening. He ran forward, slapped aside Brand’s broadsword with a ridged vambrace, and lunged. Brand pulled up his shield, but the smaller man jumped up, planted a foot on the shield, and somersaulted over Brand’s head. The broken poleaxe collided with Brand’s steel helmet, splintering the already sundered haft. Brand staggered, ears ringing.
“Two points to Percy!”
Brand recovered and spun just in time to see the smaller man shove the spearhead of the broken poleaxe at his face. Brand managed to turn his head, but the blade managed to slide just under the edge of his helmet. Fire lanced through Brand’s scalp as he went down. Gravel bit into his face as a collective gasp rushed through the crowd.
“First Blood! Three more points to Percy!”
Vision fuzzy, Brand hauled himself up onto his haunches, then up to his feet. He wavered, light-headed. Between his spinning head and passion-quickened pulse, his stomach churned.
He should have seen those blows coming. As he lurched out of the way of another poleaxe strike, Brand realized that he wasn’t just tired; he couldn’t think or react fast enough. He felt like he was mired in tar, both in mind and in body.
Mirane must have done something to him after all. He had to get her out of his mind, and fast.
Behind his shield, Brand formed his gauntleted hand into the Theta sign. He felt the pinprick in his wrist and the warm flush of the Healing elixir flowing into his veins. The ringing in his ears subsided, his vision cleared—but best of all, the fog in his mind lifted and the lead in his limbs evaporated. His heart slowed.
He sighed in relief. Whatever Mirane had done, the elixir had cleared it, too.
Brand had designed this vial so that it would release only a third of its contents each time he formed the Theta sign with his hand. He only had two more uses.
Percy clearly wanted a quick knockout and a fast win. It was an uncommon tactic among career professionals, who often enjoyed the fight as much as victory, and one that Brand wasn’t accustomed to countering.
But with his mind his own again, Brand was back in the fight. He wiped the blood from his face with the back of his sword hand.
Percy gave Brand an odd look, surprised at how steady his opponent was. The older gladiator grinned.
The noise of the arena melted away so that the only two people in the universe were Brand and Percy. Mirane didn’t matter anymore; neither did Kushchai or Fafnir or their bet. All that mattered was the Duati in front of Brand, sweaty white-blond hair stuck to his flushed face, grey eyes squinting against the desert sun, and teeth bared at Brand. A new determination to wipe that expression off Percy’s face sent a flood of aggression rippling through Brand.
Blood roaring in his ears, the giant gladiator sprinted at the Duati. Metal clashed with metal and gravel flew into the air as the men pressed together, weapons seeking an opening. Brand found it first, his blade biting into Percy’s thickly armored side.
The smaller man danced aside.
“One point to Brand!”
Brand was already chasing after Percy, his long strides closing the distance in a split second. He brought his broadsword down again and again, hammering away at Percy’s shield and broken poleaxe. He finally managed to shove the poleaxe’s head away, twist his broadsword up under the edge of Percy’s shield, and cut into the other man’s armor. He felt the blade cut deeper this time.
The gong sounded.
“Round one is done! Place your weapons on the ground and back away!”
Brand dropped his bloodied blade.
“Final point to Brand for body strike. Brand: two; Percy: five. Percy the Powerful has won the first round!”
“You’re the best Darnan has to offer?” Percy laughed. A trickle of blood ran down his side unheeded.
“After what they told me, I was expecting a titan, not a tired old man.”
Brand snorted. “Let’s see you take two blows to the head and still come back for the next round; then we’ll talk.”
Percy’s grin flickered.
Brand turned and strode away, dumping as much confidence into his stride as he could muster. He looked up at Kushchai, who had his arms crossed and his lips pursed. Beside him, Mirane was looking at Brand, a look of stunned admiration on her face. Brand couldn’t quite contain the smug smile that tugged at one corner of his mouth, resentment burning in his heart. She’d used his attraction to her to weaken him. If he survived this, he’d have to make good on his earlier decision to avoid the kashmari temptress.
On Kushchai’s other side, Fafnir too was staring at Brand. The gladiator met the high lord’s eyes and a shock seemed to run through him. His blood ran cold. The high lord’s eyes brightened and an unsettling smirk appeared on his face. He leaned forward.
Brand looked away, disconcerted, and hurried to the preparation chamber.
* * *
Percy watched as the veteran gladiator stalked away and disappeared into the low building that housed the other preparation chamber. Droplets of blood fell from the big man’s head to mix with the dust of the arena. Percy shook his head in awe.
The Duati clutched his side and strode to his own chamber. His squire was waiting for him with towels, bandages, and water.
“What a mess,” Percy grumbled. “I almost knocked him out, George.”
George helped the gladiator strip off his armor. “You still won the round, sir.”
Percy winced as George cleaned the wound in his side. “I was ready for him to throw the first round; I’ve seen him do that in other fights. He uses the first round to get a measure of his opponents and to lull them into complacency. Then he comes down on them like a hammer in round two.”
“That’s why you were trying for a fast finish?”
Percy nodded and winced again as George pricked the skin with a tiny needle and thread. The squire carefully stitched the wound closed. “Or at least knock him down a peg. But the man just got up and walked away like nothing happened. How in the unholy fires did he do that?”
“Hold this,” George said, pressing a wad of cloth to Percy’s wound. He then began to wind a bandage around the gladiator’s torso. “Maybe he’s already been bashed in the head so many times there’s nothing left in his skull to damage.”
Percy doubted it. Men who suffered too much brain damage in the arena retired to be spoon-fed for the rest of their short lives. They didn’t continue fighting.
“Or maybe he’s not human,” Percy muttered.
George paused and looked his master in the eye. “Do not say such things, sir. Not even in jest. The dvergen are gone, and may they never return.”
George spat on the stone floor.
Percy grunted as George pulled the bandage tight and tied it off. “The stories the kashmari tell us of the dvergen may not be true, George. They may not have been the monsters Jinn says they were.”
Percy saw George’s eyes dart to the gladiator’s grey eyes and white hair, then over to the door.
“Don’t be saying that sort of nonsense up here! Begging your pardon, sir, but you should listen less to crazy old women wearing horns and robes. Even down in the caverns, people might get wind of it and take it the wrong way.”
Percy reluctantly shrugged and walked over to the wash basin.
“Enough of that sort of talk,” his squire said. “What’s the plan for round two?”
Percy splashed water on his face and dried it off with a soft red towel. “He’ll be ready for head strikes this time. And I obviously can’t meet him head-on. That was like dueling a falling boulder. He’s just too strong.”
“Further proof he’s no dverger,” George said wryly. Percy rolled his eyes. “So what’re you gonna do?” the squire asked.
Percy tightened a strap and stood.
“I’ll have to go after him like I would a rocksaber; break him down piece by piece.”
* * *
The interlude between rounds saw the kashmari nobles scatter and recoalesce into new groups. Alliances formed, backs were stabbed, and the balance between enemy and ally was reshuffled anew. All within the spare moments as servants filled wine glasses and offered treats on platters that glinted in the brilliant sunshine.
Fafnir reclined in his seat, long legs stretched out in front of him, watching his blue subjects with some distaste. He fixed his gaze on Kushchai, who was laughing and luxuriating in the simpering adulation of several minor kashmari sycophants. The Darnanian city lord must have felt Fafnir’s eyes on him because he turned and met the high lord’s gaze.
Fafnir beckoned for Kushchai to join him. The city lord bowed to Fafnir, made his apologies to his followers, and then walked up the two short steps to where the high lord sat. “My lord?”
Fafnir sat forward, his fingers steepled. He gestured at the empty seat beside him. “Not many men could take two blows to the head like that and stand up again.”
Kushchai sat delicately on the edge of the proffered seat. “Brand has taken more than that. The man’s built like a mountain.”
Fafnir pursed his lips. “He is quite tall for a human. Where is he from?”
“Here, Darnan.”
“How did you find him?”
Puzzled, Kushchai responded, “The usual way, I suppose. I saw him fight, was impressed, learned that he’d been fighting for thirty years for some duke and rarely lost, and hired him on. He hasn’t disappointed me yet.”
“He’d been fighting in the gladiatorial rings for thirty years before you found him?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Interesting.” He mulled this over for a moment. “If this fight is any indication, surviving the arena for thirty years is an incredible feat.”
“He is the best.” Kushchai beamed.
Fafnir wasn’t finished. He watched the blue kashmari’s face as he spoke, looking for any flicker behind those silver eyes. “It reminds me of the pharmakons and the strange technology that gave them their unnatural abilities. One might wonder if you—and that gladiator’s master before you—have given this fighter some similar advantage.”
Kushchai looked aghast. “My lord!”
Fafnir held up one massive hand. “Alchemical herbs were found near his preparation room after his fight last week. Poisons that no human has business possessing.”
Kushchai turned a pale shade of grey.
“My lord, those herbs were left there by his opponent, who was trying to frame him. The other gladiator tried to sneak into Brand’s room but was unable to complete his goal. He abandoned the herbs nearby.”
The Darnanian lord spread his hands placatingly. “I assure you he cannot cheat. His armor was checked before this very match to ensure that he is not bringing any illegal weapons or poisons into the arena. He only has access to the weapons that are provided to him at the start of each round. Perhaps he just has an unusually thick skull and good genetics.”
Jinn sidled up beside them and sat on Fafnir’s other side. He popped a berry into his mouth. “He would have to be a natural thaum user to have that good of genetics,” the Duati lord mused.
Fafnir growled, scorn spilling into his voice. “There is no thaum.”
“Therefore, he cannot cheat,” Kushchai said smugly.
Fafnir met Kushchai’s eyes. “Just a word of warning, Kushchai. Those creatures are dead because I killed them all and razed their homes to the ground. If I discover that you have been harboring a survivor, or used any of their tools to give your gladiator an unfair advantage, there won’t be a hole deep enough on this planet for you to hide in.”
Fafnir waved a hand, dismissing Kushchai.
Jinn popped another berry into his mouth. “You don’t really think he’s cheating, do you? We killed the last pharmakon three decades ago.”
Fafnir shook his head. “Oh no. Not a pharmakon. The most dangerous thing about them was their ideology. If he’s been content to live under Kushchai’s thumb all these years, he’s no pharmakon. But he does remind me of someone else who isn’t very good at dying, either.”
Jinn raised an eyebrow over a blazing red eye. “Sanders?”
Fafnir nodded.
“Hm. Yes, he does look a bit like that old thorn, doesn’t he? Brand certainly has the height, too. Don’t see that much these days among humans.”
Fafnir accepted a cool glass of some blue alcoholic liquid from a servant and settled back in his seat. “For all his self-righteous talk, I’d wondered if even Sanders could stay celibate for so long. It appears he may not have.”
Jinn ate another berry and licked the purple juice off his fingers. “That’s just what we need, a young Sanders. The elder has been difficult enough to deal with as it is. This could be terrible news for us.”
“I’m not so sure,” Fafnir rumbled. “It could be the boon we’ve been looking for.”
“You have an idea?”
“Perhaps. Then again, I may be wrong about this gladiator and Sanders.” The high lord took a sip of his liquor. “Suddenly I find myself quite a bit more interested in this fight, though.”
* * *
Brand sat, pulled off his gauntlets, pulled off his Corinth helmet, and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. His hand came away sticky with blood. He moved over to the mirror and saw the blood staining his gray hair a deep crimson on the side of his head. He thought back to the nausea, his scattered thoughts, and the blurred vision.
That was a worse blow than I thought, Brand realized, his stomach churning at the thought. That should have killed me. No wonder everyone was shocked.
A knot of fear formed in his gut as he realized he’d healed from a massive, lethal wound in front of most of the kashmari in the city, including High Lord Fafnir.
Brand glanced worriedly at the door, expecting guards to burst in at any moment.
He waited, but nothing happened. The cool stone room remained dark and silent.
Brand walked over to a pitcher and poured himself a glass of water, then downed it in several gulps, not caring that it slopped all over his face. He wiped his face with the back of a gauntleted hand.
Well, it had been either heal or die. Still, the memory of Fafnir’s piercing gaze troubled Brand. Had the high lord recognized what Brand had done? If nothing else, he must be suspicious. Brand would have to be extremely judicious with his remaining vials. He cursed. He’d been saving them for later on in the fight.
That also meant using the Time elixir to allow him to move out of time was out of the question. Even at a minuscule dose, it would still darken his veins and he couldn’t risk Fafnir noticing that his veins were black. The giant kashmari seemed more perceptive than the others. Brand wondered if he had some powers they did not.
Brand grabbed a towel, splashed water over his scalp, and scrubbed at his head, trying to get the worst of the blood out of his hair. There would no doubt be several times when the Time elixir would have come in handy against the smaller, faster Percy. Without it, he’d have to find some other way to keep up with the Duati.
Brand cursed again.
He poured himself another glass, but instead of drinking it, he held it up to his flushed face to cool it. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. His muscles were starting to ache despite the Healing elixir. Percy’s goal had obviously been to take him out fast, fearing the long game. That hadn’t worked. So what would he pivot to now?
Brand sighed and sipped his water. I’ll just have to pray my other elixirs are enough to help me slip past and endure whatever that kid can come up with.
He formed Sigma with his alchemy gauntlet, letting Stamina pour into his veins. The slight achiness abated. He then downed the glass of water and strode out of the preparation room, donning his helmet as he went.
* * *
The gladiators strode out into the arena. All bravado gone, they eyed each other like rival sand tigers, waiting, muscles coiled and ready. Brand was allowed to choose his weapon first this round. He moved over to the rack.
The weapons that the gladiators had used in the previous round had been removed. A morning star, a dense wooden stave, a battle-axe, and several short swords remained. After a moment’s thought, Brand chose the battle-axe. It had a short handle and a spike on its tip. He also picked up a fresh shield devoid of dents or dings.
Percy smirked and picked up the morning star. Brand grinned back, defying the sense of dread he felt as the Duati swung the spiked weapon in a circle around his lithe body. When he’d last seen the man wield a similar weapon, Percy had smashed it through another gladiator’s skull. Brand had been violently sick at the sight and had sworn to retire if he was ever slated to fight Percy. Only Kushchai’s cajoling had kept Brand from turning in his armor. Now, he wished he’d followed through.
They took their places at the center of the pitch and when the gong rang out, Percy jumped forward, swinging the prickly mace with gusto at Brand’s knees.
Brand rolled to the side, clenching his left hand into Alpha and then twisting his fingers into Rho. His pulse rocketed up as the Adrenaline elixir surged into his heart and limbs. The excitement buried the faint queasiness caused by the Rooted elixir. He let his momentum carry him up to his feet, then pivoted and curled under another swing that brushed his grey hair. He brought his axe around and slammed the spike into Percy’s exposed thigh.
The Duati howled in pain and instinctively brought the mace down hard—right where Brand’s head should have been. But the big gladiator had twisted away again, his eyes bright with Adrenaline, his balance rock solid from the Rooted elixir. He sprinted away to put some distance between himself and that infernal club. But Percy was hot on Brand’s heels, sprinting through the pain in his thigh.
“Two points to Brand! Body strike and First Blood!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Brand barely caught sight of Percy swinging his morningstar. With no time to dodge, Brand quickly formed his left hand into Delta, lifting his pointer finger straight up and curling the other fingers into an O shape with his thumb. Instantly, he felt his skin, muscles, and bones harden. The morning star crashed into his upper back with enough force to shove the big gladiator forward and knock him to his knees. But the Armor elixir had done its job; Brand’s spine was still intact, and he was able to stand. He staggered backwards as he did so, though, and winced at the bruise blossoming in the middle of his back. The Rooted elixir must have worn off.
“One point to Percy!”
Brand could barely hear the referee calling out the score over the screaming of the crowd. Brand shook his arms out and grinned as evilly as he could at Percy, who looked horrified.
Half the battle is in your head, William had told him long ago, and the other half is in the head of your opponent.
Brand let loose a battle cry that thundered throughout the arena as he stormed forward, shield and left shoulder leading the charge. Percy leapt out of the way, but Brand had already anticipated that. His axe was there to meet Percy’s head. He hit the man’s helmet at just the wrong angle, though, and it merely glanced off the steel. Good for points, but hardly a finishing move.
“Two points to Brand!”
Percy rolled under Brand’s arm, twisted, and with a great swing of his morning star, crushed Brand’s gauntleted hand holding the shield.
With an audible crunch, the morning star shattered the bones in Brand’s wrist and the vials hidden within the gauntlet. A thousand crystal shards dug into his skin while half a dozen deadly poisons seared his skin.
Brand staggered back in shock, dismay, and pain.
“One point to Percy!”
The gong rang.
“Round two is over! Brand wins the round, with four points to Percy’s two!”
* * *
Mrs. James was in the preparation room with towels and bandages before Brand had even gotten there. As soon as he entered, she commanded him to sit and brought over the water basin.
“It’s not as bad as it looked,” Brand said, though he winced as she took his hand in hers.
“You went white as a sheet,” she admonished. “I’m no fool. That was your gauntlet, wasn’t it?”
She yanked on the gauntlet to pry it off his hand. Brand yelped and jerked back his hand from her grip.
“I have to get it off. Come back here,” Mrs. James scolded the big gladiator. He offered his hand reluctantly.
This time, Brand gritted his teeth as she pulled off the gauntlet. The old woman groaned as a small wisp of smoke rose from his exposed skin. Brand sucked in a lungful of hot air through clenched teeth.
“I didn’t dare bring any of your kit with me,” Mrs. James said, “not after what happened last time. Without your elixirs, you’ll just have to forfeit the match. I can clean and bandage it, but you won’t have any use of it.”
“I will not forfeit,” Brand said quietly.
Mrs. James stopped what she was doing and stared at him. “He’s nearly killed you already, and that was with your elixirs. You’ve already shown him you can’t be disabled like normal men. He’ll aim to kill, and he’ll succeed if you go back out there without any elixirs.”
Brand covered her hands with his good, gauntleted hand and looked into her eyes. He smiled. “There’s too much riding on this fight. I can’t back down. I have to go back out there and at least try to finish it as well as I can.”
The only way I am going to win, he mused, is if I can injure Percy so we’re on the same level. And then pray. That didn’t sound promising.
“I still have a little bit of Adrenaline and plenty of Stamina still in my veins.”
Mrs. James looked doubtful, but she finished her work and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Good luck, then. Please don’t die on me, my boy.”
Brand’s returning smile was shaky. “I’ll do my best.”
* * *
The two freshly-bandaged gladiators stood in front of the weapons rack one final time. Percy chose a short sword, as was common in the last round once most of the more interesting weapons had been used. Brand brushed aside the remaining short swords and picked up the staff. It was a two-handed weapon made of rare ash wood from across the sea.
Percy stared at Brand’s broken wrist held protectively against the larger gladiator’s body, then at the staff. He opened his mouth as though to object, but then thought better of it.
Brand glanced up at Fafnir. The high lord’s head was tilted to the side slightly, watching Brand curiously. Kushchai next to him had turned a ghastly shade of pale gray.
Brand nearly replaced the staff, but the desire not to look unsure of himself won out. He stepped as confidently as he could manage to the center of the arena where Percy stood waiting.
Brand looked up at the stand, this time seeking out the image of an elderly woman. Though he couldn’t find her, he whispered a promise to her in his heart nonetheless.
The gong rang out.
* * *
Fafnir’s full attention was on the two fighters below as they chose their weapons. The man from Darnan chose a quarterstaff, much to Kushchai’s dismay.
“What is he thinking? He can’t use that with one hand!”
Fafnir raised a hand to silence the city lord.
“It’s not unheard of,” the high lord said. “I’ve done it before; quite effectively, in fact.”
“Yes,” Kushchai wrung his hands, “but my lord, a mere human cannot possibly hope to match you.”
“He doesn’t have to match me. He has to match the other human.” Fafnir sat back in his chair, eyes fixed on the combatants. Out of the corner of his eye, the Dragon saw Jinn watching him with a sly smile. Fafnir allowed a small smile of his own onto his face.
“What proof is it that you are looking for?” Jinn asked in a low voice.
Fafnir leaned close to the Duati lord and lowered his voice so that only Jinn could hear him.
“I’m waiting for your gladiator to try to kill him. I’m fairly certain Percy will try. He’s terrified of Brand. And Brand couldn’t heal after that last injury. He’s vulnerable. But if he is what I think he is, he’ll win anyway. He’ll be able to win even if Death has him by the throat.”
Jinn frowned. That wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for. If this gladiator was what Fafnir said he might be, didn’t the kashmari lords need him alive?
The gong rang out.
* * *
This time, Brand was the one who lunged forward first, right hand swinging the staff in a feint at Percy’s feet.
Percy brought his short sword over to block Brand’s ash staff. Brand pivoted at the last moment and swung the other end of his staff to ram into Percy’s helmet.
“Two points to Brand!”
Percy had to step back to avoid Brand’s next swing. Tentative confidence crept into Brand, buoying his spirits. If he could leverage the length of the staff, he might be able to hold Percy off long enough for the round to end in a tie. In that case, the win would go to the gladiator with the most cumulative points. As
Brand currently had eight points to Percy’s seven, Brand could win.
Just then, though, Brand felt the last of the Adrenaline fade away. Even with Stamina still in his veins, the loss was palpable. His muscles slowed and the pain in his wrist from the burn and the broken bones roared like a fire coming back to life. The carefully practiced control of his weapon collapsed into shaky exhaustion and pain. A sour sickness from the toxins in the various elixirs rose in his gut, no longer masked by the Adrenaline.
On the next swing, Brand put a little more power into a swing than he could compensate for. His momentum propelled him too far, and Percy twisted and sprung at Brand, swinging. Brand dodged out of the way.
Brand stumbled and Percy was on him like a sand tiger on a dying runnerbeast.
As Brand had expected, Percy jabbed first at Brand’s injured arm. Brand managed to bring the staff around in time to block, but the next blow struck his chest and left side in rapid succession. The sword blade bit deep into the leather between the steel plates, drawing copious amounts of blood.
“Three points to Percy! First Blood and two body strikes!”
Brand tried to move away, to put some distance between them again so he could maneuver the longer staff, but Percy was merciless in pressing his advantage. His short sword bit into Brand’s thigh and then up, sliding almost perfectly up between Brand’s face and his helmet. He felt the sting of the cut just before the coolness of fresh air hit his sweaty head. His helmet clattered to the gravel.
With one final downward swing, Percy brought the heavy pommel of his sword crashing into the left side of Brand’s head.
This time, Brand dropped to the arena floor like a sack of rocks.
For a moment, he knew nothing. Then, he heard,
“…four, five, six…”
The referee was counting. He had ten seconds to get up or he would lose.
Brand forced his eyes open and shoved himself up to a sitting position. The arena swam. He stood anyway and swayed. Ahead of him, Brand could make out a blurry vision of Percy standing, waiting.
Then he crashed down to the ground again.
* * *
The arena was silent as the spectators watched the great gladiator try to get up and fail. The spectators were all at the edge of their seats, spellbound.
Brand had lost.
Percy had too many points now for Brand to catch up. But the crowd waited for a different victory now, that of life over death.
Kushchai held his breath. Mirane’s delicate face was furrowed with worry.
Fafnir leaned forward, steepled fingers held up to his lips and eyes fixed on the still figure splayed out on the gravel before him.
“What a loss,” Kushchai moaned softly.
Fafnir held up a finger to silence the city lord. “Wait.”
Kushchai frowned but fixed his attention on the prone gladiator.
Fafnir, knowing what it could mean, found himself waiting, even hoping, for the gladiator to rise.
* * *
Brand came to as the referee started counting over again. “One…two…”
He lay there, the darkness pressing in, and closed his eyes. He was so tired. He knew he was dying. His head throbbed; his body screamed. Yet it all faded as his heart began to slow. As he instinctively looked inward, time seemed to slow as well. He found the little speck of light in his heart. If this is how it would end, so be it. He reached out for the light.
Faint warmth seeped from that tiny speck into the rest of his body, the same warmth as when he used his Healing elixir. It was so faint…but Brand’s head cleared. His heart began to pound. He opened his eyes and his vision was clear.
“…seven…eight…”
To the astonishment of almost everyone in the arena, Brand stood, blood still flowing freely down his head and face and several other deep cuts all over his body. The referee stopped counting, his mouth hanging open.
Brand raised his eyebrows at the referee, who looked at his pocketwatch and nodded. The two minutes weren’t up yet.
His muscles shook and his stomach churned, but Brand leaned down, picked up the staff, and, with enormous effort and pain, gripped it with both hands.
There was only one way to win this fight now.
He summoned every ounce of strength he had left in his fading body and rushed at Percy with a roar summoned from the primal depths of his soul.
Percy brought his short sword up to block Brand’s staff, but Brand brought the staff down with the force of an avalanche. He easily shoved the sword aside, then twisted the staff to give Percy a solid blow to the head. There was a crack as the staff splintered from the force. The smaller gladiator’s head spun around with a deafening snap.
Percy fell to the ground, glassy-eyed. The referee started to count, but Brand knew the Duati would never rise again.
Brand fell to his knees. Nausea from his wounds and the disgust at what he’d just done gripped him. He wretched on the gravel. His whole body shook uncontrollably.
The referee reached ten.
“Brand wins the match by knockout! Brand the Bodacious wins!”
* * *
The Darnanian stands erupted into cheers. Kushchai leapt up, punching the air.
“He did it! He did it!”
The city lord noticed his champion collapse onto the gravel. Kushchai swore and sprinted down the steps.
No one was paying any attention to the high lord at that moment, but if they had, the wicked grin that marred Fafnir’s face just then would have haunted them for the rest of their days.
