Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [126]
They blocked and swung furiously for several moments, then retreated to circle again, each catching his breath while looking dangerous for the crowd.
Caelan was learning fast how to provide entertainment while staying alive. He also knew that the longer this conflict lasted, the more spent he would be. And there were still five more opponents ahead of him, providing he survived this one.
As though sensing Caelan’s momentary lapse of concentration, the opponent attacked. Some piece of Orlo’s instructions filtered through Caelan’s mind. Instead of dodging back, Caelan rushed forward, stepping inside the man’s lunge. With the club whistling over his shoulder, Caelan jabbed his own weapon like a dagger, thrusting it deep into the man’s solar plexus. The opponent’s face turned pale. He staggered back. Caelan could hear Orlo’s voice shouting in his mind to drive hard.
Swinging short, Caelan caught the man in the ribs. The opponent fell to one knee, still trying to bring up his own club. Caelan knocked it from his grip. Cheering rose in the air, and Caelan felt something inside him cry out even as he swung his club one last time.
It bounced off the man’s skull with a sickening thud. The opponent’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled to the ground.
Breathing hard, Caelan straightened up and turned around. Sand clung to his sweaty arms and legs. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, then remembered to raise his weapon in a victory salute to the cheering crowd. Most people weren’t even looking in his direction, but he did it anyway.
Then he saw the door had opened to his ring, and a guard was gesturing at him impatiently.
Obediently, he circled the fallen man and went inside, where the cloth was immediately thrown over his head and the club ripped from his hand.
He was hustled down the dark ramp and out into the circular passageway to a nearby stone tub of water.
“Climb in,” the guard told him.
Still panting, Caelan immersed himself in the cold water. It acted like a shock to his system, cooling him off rapidly. Blowing water from his face, he shook back his dripping hair and stood up just as his opponent’s body was carried by on a stretcher of leather webbing. He wanted to ask if the man was dead or merely stunned, but he knew better than to ask. It was considered bad luck in the ring to know until the fighting was finished.
Sobered, Caelan watched them until they were out of sight; then the guards put him in a holding cell, where he drank liberally from a water pail and waited until the other victors came in. They in turn looked drained, excited, or bored with the whole business.
Caelan did not think he would ever be bored. Right or wrong, killing was nothing to be indifferent about.
When there were six of them present, the door slammed open and they again drew lots. This time Caelan’s opponent was Bulot. His momentary confidence faded, and he counseled himself to take care. Bulot hated him and would be a far more dangerous opponent than the first man.
They filed out, paired off as before. Orlo stood in the passageway, and when he saw Caelan he blinked in approval but said nothing.
Caelan’s chin lifted a bit higher and he squared his shoulders. Inside, he tried to make himself quiet and ready.
Back around to a door, back into the darkness and the ramp that led upward. At the top, a short sword was pressed into his hand and the blindfold whipped off as he was pushed out into the sand of ring three.
This time, Caelan kept his eyes squinted to protect them while they adjusted to the sunlight. He jogged forward and spun around quickly, expecting Bulot to charge him straight out of the door, which the man did.
Wiry and strong, Bulot was far different from Caelan’s first opponent and twice as dangerous. He skipped over the sand, small but light-footed. His quickness was disconcerting, and he was utterly familiar with a sword, which Caelan was only