Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [106]
The interior was cool and slightly dank, all dim and shadowy, with ramps leading up to the stone seats that circled the entire structure. To his surprise, Caelan found the arena was shaped like a bowl, with the fighting area at the bottom and the spectators ranged above. He had never seen such a place before, but he had no chance to study it, for the guards were shoving them along as quickly as possible.
The veterans branched off through an open door, leaving only the trainees to follow the priests along a dim passageway and finally down a broad flight of stone steps. In the near darkness the steps were treacherous, and the air smelled strange and unhealthy.
As the air gusted up into their faces, Caelan’s nostrils wrinkled with revulsion. It was more than dank. It carried smells of oiled leather, mildew, blood, and death.
He shook his head, angry at his own vivid imagination. Nothing had died in here for at least three months. Corpses were cleared away immediately to hold down the chance of disease.
Still, there was something odd and unusual to the mingled scents in the air . . something he could not identify, yet it sent involuntary shivers through him.
Caelan stopped, all his instincts warning him against descending farther.
A hand shoved him forward so hard he nearly fell. “Get on!” Orlo said angrily. “None of your Traulander nonsense about the dark here.”
Given no chance to protest, Caelan was crowded down the steps along with the others.
At the bottom they found themselves pushed into alarge, vaulted chamber lit by flaring torches. Stone columns carved in twists supported the ceiling at its highest point. Carved into the far wall was an enormous, tormented face of a demon. At first glance Caelan thought it was the fire spirit himself.
Caelan’s blood congealed in his veins. He glanced around swiftly, trying to back out, but Orlo shoved him forward with the others. The door was slammed shut and bolted, sealing them in with the chanting priests.
Already the stench of incense was chokingly thick. Caelan smelled blood again, fresh and warm. But now he realized it wasn’t his imagination. Across the room stood a stone altar flanked on either side by two vats of copper. Both held a thick, shimmering liquid that darkly reflected the torchlight.
The face of the fire spirit on the wall had a fire kindled inside the open hearth of its mouth. The flames burning there made the empty eyes of the horrifying visage glow, and every darting shift of the fire made the face appear to move and gaze back at the men.
Overhead, Caelan could see the snarling faces of wooden beasts carved into the support beams, shadowy and all the more menacing. The fire hissed and licked the stone lips of the fire spirit, and if Caelan closed his eyes he could hear unworldly sounds in the steady chanting from the priests, a whispering of vile blasphemies from the ways of antiquity.
From infancy Caelan had been taught the lessons of ancient times, when the world had been ruled by the shadow gods and their spirits of chaos, also called shyrieas. Then they had been sealed away and the world had been placed under the rule of mankind. Such unholy carvings as Caelan saw around him now were said to be small breaks in the seal, creating tiny gateways for evil to return.
Caelan’s forehead was beaded with sweat. His uneasiness grew, and he backed up until he stood behind all the others al the very rear of the room. The door was stout wood, bound with iron straps and bolted from the outside. He had no way to escape from this place, and he felt as though he had entered hell itself.
The stone floor was black with ageless grime. The burning torches sent dark streaks of soot up the walls. The torches themselves smoked fearsomely, emitting fitful pops as though they’d been soaked in bad pitch.
The chanting stopped. In silence the priests arranged themselves behind the