Shadow War - Deborah Chester [9]
“He’s coming! Giant is coming! Make way for the champion!”
A flurry broke out ahead of him as men scurried up the ramp to find seats for themselves. Sunlight slanted down the ramp to meet him as he emerged from the darkness.
And the roar of sound, tremendous, overwhelming, deafening. It never stopped, never diminished. It was a force in and of itself, like a living thing, this mighty cheering. He could feel a wave of sheer anticipation hit him like a wall.
He started to sweat lightly. His heart was thumping like mad in his chest. Orlo patted his shoulder and said something Caelan could not hear.
He lost awareness of his trainer. Something in the cheering, stamping crowd mesmerized him and called him forth. Without hesitation he squared his shoulders and strode ahead of Orlo into sunlight and sound, becoming one with both.
The crowd screamed his name, and if possible the cheering grew louder.
Caelan strode across the freshly raked sand to the center of the arena, then turned to face the stands. Halfway up in the prime seating was the emperor’s box with its red-striped awning. Imperial flags streamed in the breeze, and the emperor, his son, and their guests sat watching. Caelan lifted his hand high in salute, and saw Prince Tirhin raise his wine cup in return. The emperor was chatting with someone else and paid no attention, but Tirhin’s gaze never wavered from Caelan.
His words passed through Caelan’s mind, and Caelan felt a shiver inside himself. He wanted this win and what it would bring him. The desire was so strong he could taste it.
Caelan spun around and yanked off his cloak. The winter sunlight fell warm on his shoulders. When he lifted his bared sword to the crowd, they went into fresh frenzy. Many threw coins and flowers onto the sand, while a young boy raced to gather up Caelan’s cloak.
A scream of bestial rage came from the holding pen on the south side of the arena. Caelan let his gaze flicker in that direction even as he saluted the crowd again.
A Madrun was only a man, he reminded himself quickly. There was no demon blood, nothing to fear. He had faced lurkers and wind spirits before and survived. He would succeed in this.
Were his opponent a veteran fighter like himself, Caelan would have continued to pose and posture for the crowd. They liked that sort of nonsense. He had once found it embarrassing, but now he did it without thinking. However, he remembered Orlo’s words of warning and decided to take no chances. He had never seen a Madrun before, not face to face. But their fighting prowess was legendary, and they reputedly had no fear for their own lives at all. A man who did not fear death had the upper hand in any combat, but Caelan intended that to be the Madrun’s only advantage. He vowed he would not be killed at the hands of a dirty savage. Moreover, he was determined to make good his promise to fight as they had never seen him fight before.
Another bellow came from the holding pen. Handlers scurried around, swearing at each other and sliding long, barbed poles between the wide slats to drive the occupant back from the gate.
It was rumored that in some of the more backward provinces, wild animals and lurkers were sometimes loosed in the arenas as opponents. Perhaps it was no Madrun he faced, but instead some beast.
Caelan ran his fingertips lightly along the flat of his blade, gently flexing it. He faced the holding pen, concentrating on it.
The crowd was slowly settling down, although they continued to shriek his name. Normally he would have continued to salute them or flourish his sword about. They loved seeing him execute drills to warm up.
Today, however, was no occasion for playacting, exactly as Orlo had warned him.
Another bellow came from the holding pen, and one of the handlers fell back with a scream. The crowd jeered a bit in impatience, then grew reluctantly quieter. Anticipation rolled down from