Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [125]
“Move along,” a guard shouted, and Caelan had to jog along a curving passageway with his opponent at his shoulder.
Halfway around, the man started puffing, and he ran as though his knees hurt him. Caelan filed the information away. He was determined not to go down in the first round.
The inside wall of the passageway was built of thick boards with bolted doors set into it periodically. At the sixth door, the arena guards stopped Caelan and his opponent. The door was opened, and they stepped through into total darkness. A piece of cloth was flung over Caelan’s head. Instinctively he started to fight it, then held himself still as a weapon was pressed into his hand.
It fell heavy and thick. The haft of it was wood. When he ran his other hand along its length, he discovered it was only a club. Disappointment crashed through him. Was this to be his fate, bludgeoned to a pulp like a dumb animal?
“Go,” said the guard and pushed him up a ramp.
At the top he stumbled through a doorway, guided by another guard who yanked off the cloth as he passed. Caelan found himself stumbling outside in dazzling sunlight. Squinting, his eyes watering, he staggered around in deep sand. His opponent came jogging out after him and lifted his arms to the crowd, which was already roaring in excitement.
It was impossible not to gawk at the stone bleachers of spectators rising up on every side, impossible not to be stunned by the enormity of the sound, impossible not to be distracted by the burning sand under his bare feet and the heat itself that radiated up furnace-hot in the bottom of the arena.
His opponent might be old and out of shape, but he was arena-seasoned, and in those first few critical seconds he reached Caelan and swung his own club into Caelan’s kidney.
The blow drove Caelan to his knees with a yell of pain that was drowned out by the crowd, already surging to their feet and cheering with bloodlust.
From somewhere through the haze of agony, Caelan could hear Orlo’s exasperated voice: “There are no rules in the arena! Remember that, you blockheaded fool, or you’ll be dead in the first five seconds.”
The opponent swung again, and Caelan somehow wrenched himself around in time. The club thudded deep into the sand beside him. Caelan rolled and kicked, knocking his opponent’s feet out from under him. The man should have fallen but he didn’t. Miraculously, he kept his balance and went staggering over to one side.
Wincing, Caelan climbed to his feet, grateful for the momentary respite that gave him time to reset himself. He didn’t deserve this second chance. He knew that. Already he was berating himself sharply for his initial mistake. If they had been equipped with swords instead of clubs, he’d be dead by now.
He couldn’t afford to make another mistake. Most certainly he would not underestimate his opponent again.
Warily, they circled each other in the heat. The walls that confined them thudded occasionally from the impact of combat in the adjacent ring. The crowd went on screaming in waves and surges of sound, now on their feet, now sitting down again, calling out encouragement and curses alike.
The opponent moved like a crab, low to the ground, well centered, his eyes steady on Caelan. He dragged the tip of his club on the sand as he moved, conserving every bit of his strength.
But while Caelan noted his tactics, the younger man was also aware that not keeping a weapon high and poised meant wasting precious seconds of time to get it into position.
He attacked, yelling Trau cheers at the top of his lungs, and caught the opponent fractionally off guard. As he expected, it took the man a small amount of time to dodge and lift his club. Still he managed it, blocking Caelan’s swing so that the two clubs struck each other with a sharp crack of sound.
The impact jolted into