The full-noon sun filtered through the slits in the Colosseum’s roof and across the field was a blinding beacon. The air reeked of horse. It was the first game of the day but already Rook’s armor weighed heavily against his shoulders; his blued pauldrons warmed beneath the hot Koilad sky and baked him alive, but he pulled his horse’s reins and cantered to his side of the arena’s divider. He balanced his lance in the air.
Normally, in practice, the loudest part of a joust was the clattering of armor, the trotting of hooves, the grunting of man and animal entombed in steel. But here Rook heard nothing except the crowds. His heart raced whenever he tilted up his head and saw: thousands and thousands and thousands of spectators. Hundreds of thousands. Maybe millions, for there, in the arena, if he had been told the whole of the world was gathered in the stands and seats around him, that every soul on Earth was accounted for in the tiers of the rings, he would have believed it.
The nervousness sent his lance shaking. All his life had been in preparation for this moment. Yesterday’s melee was a warm-up, a test to stay in formation. This was where knights were eliminated early-on: if Rook was dismounted now, he would be disqualified, and all his life would be moot.
Sent home on the second day. Like a scoundrel. Like a plebian mercenary. Death was preferable.
A grounding shouted something at him from his place standing nearby. Rook had strayed too close to the rings; in the clamor he couldn’t make out the words, but his horse bucked, and he nearly lost his lance as he tugged the mount back into place, nervousness and fright still possessing him.
He needed to focus. He tuned out the stands. He looked straight ahead, across the divider, at his opponent whose armor shined like solid silver beneath sunlight, in gleaming style of impossible splendor, all of ancient style. Concentration let him still his lance.
The joust was an ancient tradition. A last legacy of the Old Kingdom. An extremely difficult skill to master. But Rook was an expert horseman. A warrior for the ages. He would not be dismounted.
The voice of the Archon’s steward, the Oikonomos of the city, boomed over the Colosseum’s speakers. There were dozens of competitors; once his announcements began, the fight would have to be on, for there were many more to go before the day was over.
“Korax, son of Korax, representing the doukas of the Korakoi; in black, to the south.”
Rook raised his lance at his announcement and cantered his mount in a quick circle, eliciting a cheer long enough to give pause to the steward’s announcements.
“Alexandros, son of Alexandros, representing the archontate of the Katharoi; in the north.”
There was no time to dwell on the dread that name elicited, nor the noise from the groundlings that sounded like the eruption of a thousand volcanoes in cheers and claps and stomping, because not a second later the command followed:
“Charge.”
Rook spurred his destrier forward. The Prince across from him to the left burst ahead, and they both lowered their lances, slowly moving into position, bracing for the hit. Under the weight of so much armor Rook felt the momentum build, the wind rushing past his beaked helmet; he allowed the length of the lance to pull itself down slowly, like he had been trained, and he couched it against his bicep.
The Prince came closer. Larger by the second. They both moved at full speed now. The blunted spearpoint coming his direction, fully level, and the hit was inevitable, but Rook would not let his father down; he would get the better of this exchange, he would not let himself be unseated—
He caught a flash of the Prince’s eyes as they passed. Rook aimed right for the shield atop his opposite’s cuirass, right over his heart, but he had been too slow, by just a quarter of a second; his lance’s tip brushed against the top arches of the breastplate and deflected upward harmlessly, while the Prince’s found its target dead-on.
Rook had been prepared to make contact. He leaned into the hit, and when he missed, that was just the wrong thing to do. His balance was thrown off; the impact that followed was stronger than any he’d known in training with Aetos. The lance’s shaft exploded in a rain of splinters and all his vision snapped into a field of white, and for a moment he felt nothing at all—until he was pulled directly from the saddle, sent spinning over himself in the air, and he landed face-first in the grass.
His horse continued all the way on to the opposite side’s portcullis entrance into the arena.
“Korax of the Korakoi is eliminated,” the announcer proclaimed. “Alexandros of the Katharoi proceeds.”
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Rook’s breath came hot against his helmet. There were twenty knights to his left and twenty more to his right, and this was from only one entrance: three others let more in from the stadium’s hypogeum, the Colosseum’s dark underground ‘wings’ where competitors prepared for battle. There they had all gathered in reverence for this ultimate test. Each steeled himself for his introduction, each readied his mount, and each donned his armor before riding up to the surface.
He remembered the excitement that first and only time he competed in this Tournament six years ago. The thrill to gaze upon the bleachers and the rings and see so many seeing him. The camaraderie and competitiveness with those pouring into the arena at his sides. Yet while he had been eager to compete this year in Khelidon’s place, he felt nothing now.
Nothing but a killer’s resolve for each of the men alongside him; he regarded them as little more than prey on a hunt. Nothing but an old man’s disinterest when he looked upward; his heart remained steady without regard for jeering or cheering. Nothing but a fanatic’s focus as he brought his horse to a stop; he knew what he wanted, he saw it in his mind, and he knew how he would get it.
His last display in the Tournament had been one of an amateur, a sixteen-year-old boy desperate to prove himself. Now he returned as a cool-headed professional.
But when he heard the Prince’s voice all his calm boiled into apoplexy.
The words meant nothing. Rook’s vision came over red and his ears rang and nothing but thought reigned within his mind. This was the man behind Hierax. A removed murderer of his parents. And perhaps worst of all, in that moment, standing in that place, the knight who had eliminated him from the Tournament on his second day six years ago.
The Prince rambled. Rook still didn’t listen. His head was craned upward. He stared at the distant Archon’s box, and the monarch himself there looking like an open-eyed and upright corpse, and all the guards around them; and panning his vision to the right he saw the one man he hated more than Alexandros. For there, gazing down upon him and all the other competitors, was Hierax.
In a sober state Rook would have been the kind of man to see the good that came out of his years on the road. He would have thought, in that moment, of Eris and Aletheia, the two women he adored more than he knew possible. He would have thought of friends like Jason and Robur whom he had fought beside and thought of almost like brothers, for however brief a time. He would have remembered all he had learned and been thankful that hard times made hard men, for they most assuredly did, no matter how much poetry he read or romance he regurgitated.
But he was not sober to see Hierax, however distantly. His blood came fevered over with a lusted haze. He saw only the life he had lost. He felt only the need for vengeance.
“Achilles Mouros,” came the boom of the Prince’s voice as he read from a scroll, “representing the estate of Lord Seros Mouros.” One of the knights stepped forward and waved a sword in the air, before returning to the line they had assembled. The Prince read another name, down and down the line, coming Rook’s way.
Rook wasn’t paying attention. He was trying his best to stay calm, but he shook with rage. The clarity of his purpose at this arena waned from his mind when the proximity of the man he so desperately wanted to kill was close as it was. He breathed heavily to prevent himself from doing anything to give himself away. He knew there was some reason for going through these motions, for playing along, even if now he couldn’t see it.
“I’d never thought I’d see a man shake as bad as I did my first Tournament,” a muffled voice said to Rook’s side. He glanced that way, and next to him he saw a knight with horns atop his helmet. The horned helmet was tilted toward Rook. “I wish I could say the nerves wear off—but really, you just get better at dealing with them.”
“My nervousness will wane presently once the Prince stops his speech,” Rook replied. He did little to hide his contempt.
“The introductions are always the most nerve-racking,” the knight agreed. He offered a hand. “I’m Apeiron.”
Rook regarded the hand. He didn’t have any desire to show good will in that moment, but his nature got the best of him. He shook Apeiron’s hand. “Arakos,” he said. “Who do you represent?”
At that very moment the Prince made it to their point in the line. The announcement came: “Apeiron Kerkopes, representing himself.”
Apeiron rode forward and made a show of himself, earning much fanfare—but then it seemed everyone did. The moment he had returned, the dreaded moment came.
“Arakos Outis, representing,” and here the Prince’s diction slowed, “the honor of the invalid Sir Khelidon Korakos.”
Rook rode forward. He wasn’t interested in attention, not yet, that would come when he won, but his opinion shifted when he broke from the line of knights and received only silence.
He stared up at the bleachers. This was not right. The son of a duke should have—
One woman cheered. A single voice, a thousand miles above him, but he turned in his armor and saw through the slits of his visor, at the upper ring of the stadium, Aletheia cheering.
Somehow that lightened everything. That reminded Rook of his friends, that he wasn’t just fighting for himself. And he didn’t need the crowd’s roar to win. He only needed Aletheia.
He retreated back to his place.
“So you’re the one Khelidon roped in this year?” Apeiron said. “What’s he paying you?”
“What pay does a man need to fight in the Kathar Tournament?” Rook asked. Their voices were hard to make out, through helmets and the clamor of the field, but shouts were audible.
“The Prince has it out for your sire, Arakos. You’ll never make it past the second round. Or didn’t he tell you what happened last year to Ionos of Antipalos?”
Rook tried to find Apeiron’s eyes through so much metal. “What happened?”
“A lance clean through his lungs and no one came to his aid for five minutes. They wanted to make sure he was dead.”
“Then I’ll make sure not get hit,” Rook said.
“I hope you’re a good horseman, then, for Ionos didn’t have the skill against his foe. Few would.”
“Why? Who drove the lance?”
A pale smile behind the visor. “I did, sirrah!”
Rook turned away. All Katharos felt like a den of wolves, and without his friends and brother it would’ve seemed more like a pit of vipers. This arena was no exception. The hetairoi fought with honor; his throat wouldn’t be slit here. But they would fight to the death to win.
It was no surprise to learn the Prince would rig the fight to stop Khelidon’s fighter from earning the title of Strategos. They’d match him against the best competition and put him on the worst teams. He would handle that. But for now, he needed to focus on the games. Obsessing over what happened beyond his vision brought no good when battle was at hand.
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At last each hetairos was introduced. One-hundred-and-eighty-four of them in total this year. Then it was time for the opening game: a demonstration of the power of shock cavalry. The knights were split into four teams of forty-six and brought one at a time into the arena, where, with a quarter the number of horses, the premises were significantly less crowded. The stadium was truly enormous and large enough for a battle of all the hetairoi at once, but so many ungulates on the field kicked up too much dirt for the spectators to see.
Even forty-six was enough to choke out most riders. Rook did his best to pace his breath and ignore it.
The first event was the melee. No points were earned, but a grand show was made of the power of shock cavalry, of the devastating power the Archon’s soldiers could inflict if challenged on the field of battle. In the ancient days the knights charged at each other. They tried to break the other teams’ ranks. They maneuvered in formation. These days, as the aristocracy fragmented, the Magisters sponsored the opening games instead—with formations of infantry for them to shatter.
Goblins. Dominated by powerful magicians, disgusting, gnarled, foul creatures were brought onto the field: a hundred of them to bear the force of a heavy cavalry charge.
The Kathars didn’t practice bloodsports like the Daromese. They were more civilized than that. But goblins weren’t really alive, were they?
Rook’s team went last, team four, Yellow Team. Through a slit in the hypogeum’s ceiling he watched the first, second, and third melee: each time, a century of goblins outfitted in military equipment was brought out through a stadium portcullis, marching like mindless automatons, their eyes aglow with blue mana, and each time they stood still and unblinking while forty-six knights charged headlong into their formation.
The moment the charge landed, the goblins were granted their autonomy—some if it. They were let to scream and flee and try to reform their ranks while swords were drawn and hetairoi went to the slaughter.
There wasn’t much sport in it. The melee lasted until half of the goblins were slain, then the portcullis behind them re-opened, and they fled back inside. The rings erupted into cheers; the knights retreated; another team came out; the process repeated.
So Rook found himself opposite a hundred goblins, within a rank of nearly fifty knights, preparing for the charge. He would lance one then follow through, drawing his sword, and with luck his team could stand out for cleaning up the field before any of the creatures fled.
He doubted it. Rook was dressed in plain armor; so too were all those to his sides. They were young, poor aristocrats, mostly the sons of minor lords or province nobles or gentlemen entitled to compete but without much hope of winning.
He had been placed on the worst team on purpose.
“Let the last melee begin,” announced the Prince.
Their designated leader, an older knight with a horsehair mohawk on his helmet, announced the charge—and so they charged.
There was nothing like the force of fifty knights in formation. The power. The mass. The armor bearing down on a target. When the impact connected, the devastation would be unimaginable. One might think that after the same show three times over the audience would grow bored, but in fact it was impossible to find a cavalry’s charge dull. That much weight moving across a field—it was like fire. Always entrancing.
Rook lowered his lance at a goblin staring blanky his way. It wielded a shield and a spear but raised neither. The front of his mount impacted the creature—
And it went flying. The goblin disappeared from his vision, sent a dozen feet through the air, and his lance instead found the one behind, ripping through its flimsy mail armor and killing it instantly—it didn’t seem to notice—while his horse followed through. He had been near the front, but the others followed after, and more goblins went toppling into the air, bowling over, the whole line devastated.
Rook dropped his lance and drew his sword. He kept up his momentum and tore through the ranks, and he turned back around, preparing to strike out with his blade at the fleeing goblins, but he only realized then that the goblins were not fleeing.
They were fighting back.
A goblin had a small knife—Rook had thought it was just for show, but it was sharp—and it hacked away at his horse’s legs. The horse, one he hardly knew but rode well, kicked the goblin and smashed in its head. But another had a spear, and Rook was caught off-guard; it ran the into his mount’s torso, getting lodged there before they pulled away.
He didn’t have barding for his steed. He couldn’t afford horse armor, like some of the other knights had—none of the hetairoi in this formation had barding, for why would they need it?
His horse faltered, not dead but wounded, as they pulled back away from the goblins. Rook leaned down and pulled the spear free from the horse’s flank. He looked back toward the melee—
A charge like that would annihilate a human formation. Morale would shatter. But the goblins had no morale; they did as they were ordered, Rook knew that from Eris, and now they had been told to fight, and they would fight to the death.
The other competitors were caught as off-guard as he was. Half a dozen were too slow in pulling out from the fighting and swarmed by the survivors of the charge, their horses clawed and stabbed to death, themselves pulled to the ground.
More still came around like Rook, exiting the melee to cycle for another charge.
Rook waved his sword in the air. “With me!” he shouted, and he led the way back in.
The impact sent another goblin flying through the air. He skewered a goblin through the torso with his sword, then hacked another’s skull in half with his blade, but his horse was slowing—and the goblins fought through even fatal pain. A creature with all its limbs broken still tried to stand and fight, no matter how devastating its injuries.
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Rook stole a moment to look up at the Prince. He held the speaker in his hand and he whispered into it, a smile on his lips.
“It seems Yellow Team has failed to break the kallikantzaroi’s morale with their charge. We’ll see how long it takes for them to turn the tide.”
A spear was thrown at Rook. It deflected harmlessly off his cuirass, but he hesitated for a moment, not pulling the reins in time, and a goblin jumped onto his mount—the same as earlier, with a dagger in its hand. It stabbed the animal’s torso again and again and again, blood pouring onto the ground, holding onto the saddle for support.
Rook rammed his sword through its head. It fell to the ground, finally dead, but his horse slowed. He felt terrible for him, but winning was so much more important; he tried to spur the horse forward, but it was too slow now to outrun another goblin, and he was forced to dismount. He met the goblin’s spear and cut its arm off, but it wasn’t deterred. It thrust its spear into him but the point broke, so he cut off the other arm, but still it came for him with its jaws, and only with a thrust to the heart did it die.
At least sixty goblins were dead by then, with only six or seven knights dead or subdued, and the vast body of remaining knights came around for another charge. They barreled into the goblins still standing and cut twenty more down. Rook engaged two more at once, fighting them off easily enough—there was nothing so incredible as plate armor, for it made him invulnerable—and he was just about to kill another creature, with a misshapen head and missing eye and mouth lined with fangs, when sudden life came into its look.
It saw Rook for the first time—and it started to scream.
And all the goblins screamed.
They fled back through the portcullis, running like children from horror unimaginable, like a switch had been flipped. From undyingly tenacious warriors to pure cowards.
“So it finally ends,” the Prince said. “Yellow Team has broken the kallikantzaroi. At last.”
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Three of the younger hetairoi had been killed, two by goblins and one by trampling from fellow cavalrymen. Five more were injured. A dozen horses, including Rook’s, were lost, but new warmounts could be acquired by tomorrow. The rest were well enough off to continue fighting.
Darkness fell. The day ended. Tomorrow would be the joust. The remaining sub-hundred would earn points in horse races, foot fighting, athletic contests, and a final duel between the top two scorers.
Rook kept away from the other knights in the hypogeum. He was afraid of being recognized and preferred to keep his helmet on as much as possible. And it was easier, too, not seeing the humanity of the men he had to fight, even in mock battles. There was a stand left for him where he could maintain his own armor and stable his horse—a better off knight would have a squire or four with him, but he was on his own—and there he spent most his time.
Apeiron paid him a visit.
“I watched your melee,” he said. “You’re a good swordsman. Don’t deserve to be on Yellow Team.”
Rook kept himself concealed behind his helmet. He regarded Apeiron. He was middle-aged, balding, with a strong brow and large nose—features that suggested intensity.
“You weren’t lying,” Rook said. “The Prince is cheating already to see me and my friends eliminated.”
Apeiron didn’t respond, but paused, until saying, “Why is it you keep that helmet on backstage?”
“It’s private inside, I like it.”
“Is that so?” Apeiron smiled. “Well, Arakos. I came to wish you good luck tomorrow. I’d like to face you in the foot melee. By the aether, you’ll need good luck if you want to make it that far.”
So he departed and Rook was left alone. The knights slept in the hypogeum, it was tradition for them to stay there all week, and when he awoke he saw Cult Custodians everywhere. They screened each knight before he was permitted to mount his horse and enter the joust. For a few moments he was forced to take his helmet off, too, but he wasn’t recognized, and before long he found himself back on the field.
He was on a new horse, provided by Khelidon. A barrier was to his left. A lance in his hand. And far-off, in the distance, was a man in fine armor.
The Prince announced them both. This time the name ‘Arakos Outis’ brought with it some cheers—he had fans already. But it was as nothing compared to the roar that his opponent received:
“Doukas Akestes, son of Achates, of the Mousikes; representing himself in the north.”
That was a name Rook recognized. One of the finalists in the Tournament every year. A friend to Alexandros and a major aristocrat. And, of course, he was the one Rook was against. He had never realized it as a child, that the brackets were all rigged—that the strongest competitors were matched deliberately against the weakest, with experienced knights against mere children. How else would he, at age sixteen, have been matched against the fifty-year-old Prince?
But that didn’t matter. He had to get the better of Akestes or be eliminated. Rook had been at continual practice with the lance since deciding he would compete in the Tournament last month, but he had hardly practiced in the last four years. He was much better with a sword, or even his fists. But he would make do.
“Charge,” the Prince announced.
Dismounting the opponent was an instant win. Breaking the lance granted two points. Landing a hit without a break granted one. The first to three was the victor; or, in a tie, the first to break the tie. He proceeded to the next day’s games while the other was eliminated.
Rook spurred his mount forward. The memory of his last joust played through his mind as he recalled what it felt like to be caught off-guard, to lower his lance too early, to be dismounted and humiliated before one hundred thousand spectators. That memory was worth a decade of training, because it gave him the resolution to never fail as such again.
He lowered his lance slowly…
Akestes did the same.
Both sliding into position.
Preparing for the hit—
Each landed the tip of his lance on the other’s cuirass, but neither broke. They swapped positions and prepared for another hit.
“One point to each,” the Prince announced.
Again. They repeated the process, and both landed hits: this time Rook couched his lance just right, and the tip shattered, splintering into a thousand pieces and raining down upon him while he stayed upright in place. That guaranteed his victory—
But Akestes’ lance shattered the same, and he remained seated.
“Two points to each,” the Prince announced. “Deliver new lances.”
Men came out to deliver new lances. Rook took his, his arm growing tired. He was hot in the sun. Sweating. Desperate to take off his helmet, but he couldn’t, not in the open. Instead he focused on Akestes. He was a better horseman than Rook, but he was smaller, much older, and far less determined to win.
They spurred forward again. The lances lowered…
Again both shattered at the impact. The force was enough to liquify Rook’s intestines this time, like being hit by a horse even through his cuirass, but his was just as powerful: the blow twisted the couch from his hand, shattered the lance, and pushed Akestes hard backward—
His hands went into the air and he toppled out of his saddle. His feet became caught in the stirrups and he was dragged halfway down the field before a squire came to his rescue.
Rook was nearly thrown from his saddle as well, but he was a very large man, and he managed to stay in place by grabbing his horse’s mane and steadying himself.
Deafening cheers overcame him. Apparently it was a good show.
“Arakos, representing Khelidon Korakos, will proceed to day three,” the Prince said. He sounded immensely displeased. “Akestes of the Mousikes, son of Achates, has been eliminated.”
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A bruise like a pit of tar spread throughout his torso. Rook feared he might die from internal hemorrhaging, but there was nothing to be done but wait. He tended to his horse and waited for the jousts to end, all the rest of the day. It took twelve hours for the whole of the competition, until soon only eighty-eight knights remained.
Much more manageable. The end was practically in sight already.
He recognized most of the names the Prince read. It was strange to hear them—they were like figures from a dream, like someone else’s life. He knew they would know his name. Would they recognize his face? Would they fight alongside him? Did they hate him? It was like a reunion with old friends. He wanted to introduce himself, but he never could.
Well. Not quite ‘never.’ Soon he would. Just not yet.
One name in particular caught his attention. He didn’t watch the joust, but he heard the announcement from the Prince:
“Kirkos of the Korakoi, son of Hierax, has been eliminated.”
A tough break. Rook would have wished him better luck next year; but while Rook intended to pardon the Duke’s poor son, there was no chance he would ever compete anywhere, in anything, ever again.
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Khelidon visited him at the start of the third day. Rook had been in an improving mood, but he hadn’t forgotten what Apeiron told him.
“You knew the Prince would stack the odds against me,” Rook said. “He let your last competitor die on the field.”
“That was never proven,” Khelidon said. “The man had been lanced through the chest—what was a nurse going to do?”
“Everyone knows, Khel. They know I’m on borrowed time. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think to, Arakos. Why should I have? Did you have some other plan? And would it have stopped you if I had? It’s no secret Hierax and the Prince detest me. Of course the battle is uphill. Let’s just hope they don’t do anything worse than the unbreakable goblins.”
Khel still knew him, even after all these years. He wouldn’t have backed out—no matter what. Rook sighed. “You should’ve told me.”
“Look, you’re here to build a rapport with the people, aren’t you? They loved the melee. They expected the same boring slaughter they’d had three times already; you gave them a real show. If the Prince had half a brain he would’ve known his plan would backfire. You killed a dozen of those goblins—that makes you a favorite. So keep it up, and everything will still work out.”
“Unless I’m the next one to get a lance through my lungs.” But he trusted his brother, and he was right. “Have you heard from Er—Cleopatra, and Atalanta?”
Khel nodded. “They’ve had no troubles. I had to talk your mistress out of killing the Prince and Hierax both after the stunt they pulled in the melee—you’ve always had a fine taste for madwomen.”
“At this point, I think she could kill me and I still wouldn’t mind,” Rook said.
“Praying Mantis, hm? Well—she’s fine. I trust her to take care of herself, I think. And…good luck. I wish I could be fighting with you.”
“I do too,” Rook said. “Someday, maybe.”
Khel left him. Then he was left alone to prepare.
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Day three was all horse racing. Ten knights at a time competed, with three points awarded for first place, two for second, and one for third. Rook came in fourth in his first race and third in his second. He’d always been skilled with horses, but he was out of practice. One point wasn’t good enough for an entire day.
Day four was doubles melee, where knights fought with their squires. Rook had no squire. He earned no points on day four.
Day five was foot racing. In armor, a test of endurance and athletics. He was often the tallest person he encountered on any given day, and so he was here, bigger and stronger and in better shape than the other competitors: this was where he was determined to make up his lost lead.
Moving in plate wasn’t so hard as many thought. The metal was thin and light, distributed over the whole of the body. Mobility was only slightly restricted. He preferred it to carrying a heavy backpack laden with gold, which threw off his whole sense of balance. But the armor acted like a sauna under the sun. It was miserable and hot after just an hour in the morning, waiting for his first race to begin.
He risked lifting his visor to let himself breathe. The races were all done in full armor, as was only right, but most lightened their helmet, taking off their face protection—that was allowed. Rook couldn’t afford the danger of being recognized, but he did take a few breaths of fresh air, and he kept open while he stared at the ground.
They made three laps around the whole of the arena. It was a marathon. Rook took race slow and steady. Maybe he was simply more athletic than the others, or maybe his experience as an adventurer had trained him well: he was used to walking long distances overloaded with gear, and although he was behind for the first half of both races he ran, he also won both handily.
That was six points to his name. That moved him from fortieth to sixth.
Day six was one-on-one melee on foot. Each knight fought four duels worth two points. The goal was to subdue his opponent. The brackets were created using lots, which meant cheating should have been impossible for the Prince and Hierax, but Rook’s four fighters were announced: he was against the top first, second, third, and fourth scorers, one after the next.
As he sat in the hypogeum, listening to the announcements, he sighed. But there was nothing to do but fight.
Rook had something hardly anyone else in the Tournament did. Not only had he fought fights to the death on more than one occasion, he had fought men in armor to the death—Lukon most importantly. He possessed experience. The other knights in this competition had only fought for sport, and those few who had been in battle had not fought other warriors of their caliber. Rook knew that if he couldn’t use a sword to slip through his opponent’s visor, for killing was not permitted, he would better spend his time wrestling than flailing around with pollarms and maces.
The first fight was against #2, named Konstantinos. He was a fast man in thin, polished armor with a long skirt of mail, but he wore a helmet that left his face mostly exposed. That let him breathe more easily, and Rook recalled he had won his own foot races, but it left him vulnerable. He struck Rook over the head with a warhammer—
And the blow sent Rook’s vision spinning, but he dropped his own weapon and tackled the smaller man to the ground. He was fast enough to scramble away, but he brought up his gauntleted fist and punched him as hard as he could over the bridge of his nose. Blood poured down his nostrils. He went limp.
Rook turned him around, bound his wrists and pinned him down on the ground.
“Two points to Arakos, representing Khelidon Korakos,” the Prince announced.
The second fight was against #3, named Orion. The two men spent five minutes beating each other with maces before their fight devolved into a wrestling match; but ultimately Rook was bigger and stronger, and he got the better of Orion.
“Two points to Arakos, representing Khelidon Korakos.”
The third fight was against #4, named Lykourgos. By now it was late in the day and both were exhausted. Even when out of the fight they wore their armor and sweated in the sun and humidity. That match was declared a draw, when neither man could get the better of the other.
And finally, the fourth fight was against #1. Rook had only one hour to rest before he marched back onto the arena, and there he met…
Apeiron.
“You put on a good show, Arakos,” he said as they neared each other. “How come I’ve never heard of you?”
“I’m new in town,” Rook called back.
“Ah, right. A mercenary?”
“Something of that sort.”
“I almost hope you win, so I can see you with that helmet off.”
“Then we’re agreed!”
“Why don’t we start with swords, Arakos? Like civilized men?”
Rook drew his blunted sword. It was his best weapon, however ineffective. “Very well, Apeiron. It’s your mistake.”
They engaged each other like fencers more focused on the blade than making hits. The blades flashed through the setting sun’s light and the crowd cheered for seeing something different, which was just what Rook had hoped for—and no doubt Apeiron had, too. Both landed cuts to the other’s pauldrons and forearms, but they did nothing in armor (and the blades had no edges anyway).
Eventually Rook closed the distance. He hit Apeiron in the head with his pommel, dazing him, and tried to bring him to the ground—but he knew how to fight with his fists, for he dropped his sword and took hold of Rook’s forearm, twisting it painfully. Rook had no choice but to bring his weight against the other knight, to bring them both toppling to the ground, where they brawled like statues for an eternity.
Each punch came slower than the last as exhaustion set in. They bound each other, and both grabbed hold of the other’s helmets. Rook felt certain he could win if he only pulled off Apeiron’s protection and punched him once—
But Rook’s visor was already up, and his helmet was being twisted around, and there wasn’t enough time. Even if he subdued Apeiron, his helmet would be removed before the fight was over. So he was forced to pull away, and he was so exhausted that he toppled to the ground. It was better to lose this fight than have his identity revealed inopportunely—
And he was too tired. He couldn’t stand for a second under the weight of his armor, which once seemed like nothing but now felt like a dozen elephants, and that was enough time for Apeiron to raise and jump atop his back.
Apeiron pinned him down—and he was too tired to get back up.
“Two points to Apeiron, representing himself,” the Prince announced.
So ended day six.
----------------------------------------
Rook finished second. Apeiron finished first. All other competitors were eliminated. Rook was exhausted and covered in bruises and he ached in every muscle and joint. He knew winning would be hard, but he had never imagined it would be so painful. Whatever could be said of the Prince’s moral character, it was impressive he won so many times, even as an old man.
Then again—when the game was rigged, even the infirm Archon might win a fight.
Day seven was the closing ceremony. Before the final duel the eliminated knights all returned to slaughter more battalions of goblins, all while the top two competitors rested and prepared.
Apeiron paid Rook a visit.
“Arakos,” he said. “You had me in our fight. Why did you pull away?
“The difference between finishing first and second is a slim one,” Rook said. “I decided I wanted to rest.”
Apeiron smiled. “You didn’t want your helmet removed.”
“Well, to see the crowds—wreaks havoc on the nerves. Like you said.”
“Right. Well, Arakos. I’m here to say what I hoped I wouldn’t have to. The Prince will not let you win.”
“I won’t let him stop me,” Rook said.
“You don’t understand. He has magicians in the stands. He didn’t want to use them for fear of raising suspicion, but he will to keep you from the title of Strategos. He’ll rig the game in my favor.”
Rook stood and approached Apeiron, sizing him up, looking down at his bald head. “You sound sure of yourself. How do you know?”
Apeiron grinned. “Because I beat him last year, and he used the bastards on me. Bound my arms while he put a sword to my neck. How else do you think he won every year?”
“If he were willing to cheat so openly, he’d let his grandson win in his place,” Rook said.
“No, his grandson isn’t good enough. It’d raise suspicion. He can’t cheat for a loser—only for a winner. Like Apeiron.”
Rook put a head to his helmet. But of course he had magicians in the stands of his own. If Alexandros wanted to play dirty, Rook could play dirty, too. “It’s all good for you, isn’t it? Why are you telling me this?”
Apeiron looked appalled. “I’m a man of honor, sirrah. There’s nothing more to it than that. I just wanted you to know—maybe in hopes for a fairer fight.”
“Then there’s chivalry left in this city after all.” He laughed. “There’d better be, for I’m counting on it.” He took Apeiron’s hand. “Good luck, then, Sir Apeiron. I’ll see you on the field.”
Apeiron nodded. He departed then, off to prepare, while Rook wrote a note for Khel—but he decided it would be better to ask for him directly. He went to a Cult Custodian keeping guard at one of the hypogeum’s entrances.
“Send for Khelidon Korakos. I need to speak with him.”
The Cult Custodian said nothing.
“Are you deaf?” Rook asked. “Sent for Khelidon.” Still having no response, he looked for a slave, and commanded, “Seek Khelidon in the stands above. I want to speak with him before the fight begins.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the slave said meekly, “no one is to leave or enter the hypogeum today.”
“What? Why not?”
The slave slinked away. He found another and received the same response. Something was plainly wrong, but he didn’t know what to do. The arenamaster, an old retainer of the Archon who managed the hypogeum and all the fights, found Rook.
“The Archon has announced a new fight,” he said.
“New fight?”
“Change of plans. Don’t you remember he mentioned special events?”
“What special events?”
“You and Apeiron already fought. He says it’s not fair to have you fight again, on account you already lost, and Apeiron has more points. Ergo, Apeiron’s the winner. Don’t you see?”
“No. There’s always a duel on the final day.”
“So there will be,” the arenamaster said. “You and the next seven placers will fight a special melee. Bring your horse, follow me.”
“Special melee? I already beat half of them—”
“The winner will face Apeiron. Do you want a place or not?”
Rook was furious. No matter how anticipated the tricks became, he still was surprised. He breathed heavily. But he smiled.
“Of course.”
That was how he found himself back out on the field of the arena, on his horse, with seven other men at his sides. They had been sent to the southern portcullis, where they waited for the Prince to announce the rules of the competition. A free-for-all melee? A desperate hope that Rook would be eliminated?
The Prince’s voice came over the speakers.
“Friends and countrymen of Katharos. Welcome to the penultimate game of this summer’s Tournament. The seven hundredth tournament. For more than twenty generations my family has held these games, and for another hundred more we’ll continue to hold them, every year, until there’s no Katharos left. You all will know that, in previous years, the final fight is a foot melee. That is an ancient tradition. But this year I was left to wonder—haven’t we tested those skills already? And is it fair to eliminate so many competitors, who may be mere points behind first and second place? And what if first and second had fought already, as Arakos and Apeiron had this year?
“Indeed, while we test our skills against other hetairoi, we know well that the true enemies of the Archon are the chimeras and abominations which stalk Esenia. That is what us knights who work day in and out fight, keeping the streets of the city safe, clearing the outer fields of its devils. Thus I devised a new round.”
Rook felt his heart plummet. He heard echoes of Sam’al in the Prince’s words, as he realized that Tournament was about to take a turn toward the sacrificial. But now the portcullis gates were sealed. There was no way to escape. He would have to fight, and hope Eris had his back.
The Prince continued:
“…last month, my personal guards captured three ogres with the assistance of a magician. Not one, not two, but three, dwelling in the ruins not far beyond this Colosseum.” All the crowd was silent, desperate to hear more. “To slay these ogres is the ultimate test of any warrior. He who does deserves his place in the final round, and is surely worthy to fight our first place competitor.”
The crowd came to the realization long after Rook had, as gasps, followed by cheers, and laughter, and finally applause erupted from the rings.
“This is my gift to the people of Katharos, on this seven hundredth anniversary of our Tournament. The finest knights of our realm, against three ogres. Here are the rules: he who delivers the killing blow to such a beast receives ten points to his current total.”
Silence. Then the Prince shrugged.
“There are no other rules. Do as you will, my knights.”
Three ogres. Not one, not two, but three ogres. Enormous, brutal, bloodthirsty creatures—they were the cousins of goblins, easily dominated by magicians, but infinitely more effective in combat. Their skin was impenetrable to most weapons. They stood twelve feet tall. They…
Would kill Rook, and likely all the other knights, and that was just the idea. Yes, it would be embarrassing, but it would mean there was no risk of Arakos, and therefore Khelidon, becoming Strategos. Yet why kill him when he could cheat on the fight that was supposed to be fought? Why risk his reputation with this last-minute slaughter, so certain to make him look a fool when it went afoul?
Because he didn’t want Arakos defeated. He wanted Arakos dead, and he didn’t want to do it himself. He was willing to do anything to have ‘Arakos’ killed in the fighting, without the need for executioners, now that he had made it so far in the Tournament. He was willing to pay nearly any price to get Arakos off his plate.
And why? For a mercenary fighting in the place of a lesser aristocrat, the son of a disgraced duke?
Because the Prince knew Arakos wasn’t Arakos. The Prince knew Arakos was Rook Korakos, and he did not want Rook revealing who he truly was before the crowds of the Colosseum.