Shadow War - Deborah Chester [14]
The Madrun released a thin, high-pitched scream that sounded piercing loud in the sudden silence. Arching his back, he toppled slowly backward, sliding off Caelan’s sword. As he fell, his sword pulled from Caelan’s side. The agony of that withdrawal was a thousand times more brutal than the entry.
With all his strength and will, Caelan braced his legs apart and managed to stay upright.
The Madrun seemed to fall forever; then his solid body crashed to the sand. Dust puffed up. He lay still, his open, sightless eyes staring into eternity.
The roaring in Caelan’s ears remained the only sound. He seemed to stand in a place that did not exist at all.
Once before he had had a vision in the arena, one in which his dead father approached him. Now, feeling death reaching into his body, Caelan was certain Beva would appear before him again. But there was nothing except him and the pain that beat harder and harder. He looked down and saw a crimson river flowing at his feet. If he tried to look in the direction the river was running, he saw only a terrifying blackness as though endless night waited on the other side.
He must dam the river.
Bending down, he reached out until he could plunge his hand into that crimson flood. Spreading his fingers wide, he grimaced against the agony and expended his last ounce of strength on the command to stop flowing.
The rapid rush slowed to a trickle, then ceased altogether. Where there had been a river seconds before, there was now only drying sand, marked here and there by steaming puddles.
Caelan straightened, pulling all the life force back into himself and holding it inside by sheer willpower. He felt as though he might break apart from the effort, and yet he held.
His vision cleared and he was back in the arena, standing there with a dead opponent at his feet. Cheering roared from the stands. Streamers, flowers, and other gifts rained down, glittering in the sunlight. Caelan swallowed hard and dragged in a thin, unsteady breath, then a deeper one.
He heard the attendants coming at a run from behind him and forced himself to turn around slowly.
Although it was almost beyond his strength, he lifted his bloody sword to his master, who was actually standing as though in alarm.
Caelan’s salute, however, apparently reassured the prince, who waved and resumed his seat.
By then the attendants had reached Caelan. A boy, wide-eyed and pale, carried Caelan’s blue victory cloak. He stood there, staring up at Caelan, while the men knelt around the dead Madrun.
The boy’s lips were trembling. “You ... you let him—” His voice broke off, and he could not finish his sentence.
In silence Caelan took his cloak from the boy’s arms and shook out the folds one-handed. He swirled the garment around his shoulders, hiding the wound in his side and most of the blood. Someone shoved the boy aside and took the sword carefully from Caelan’s hand.
His fingers ached from having gripped it so hard. Grimly he flexed them, but doing so only reminded him of the cut in his arm. Tucking his arm tight against his side beneath the concealment of the cloak, he hesitated only to gather himself, then strode across the arena, waving as he went.
He remained the champion, beyond all doubt, beyond all expectations.
He circled the arena with his head high and his shoulders erect, hiding everything that might mar this moment. The spectators waved back, called out to him, leaned over the walls as though to touch him, threw coins and flowers.
He felt light-headed and strange, as though he might faint, and yet he knew he would not.
By the time he completed his victory walk, the stricken faces had cleared. Everyone was laughing and congratulating each other. He saw some counting their wager tokens, making faces or openly gloating, depending on how much they had risked that day.
The steps leading up to the imperial box looked endless and slightly crooked. But the