21 - BLOOD GAMES

They chose me to enter the amphitheater, sit somewhere where I could keep an eye on Akios, and then follow him out of the arena once he departed.

And when I say they chose me, I really mean that they chose Justinia, but knew that the only way to get her to do it was first to make it seem as though they really wanted me. Where I went, they had already cleverly figured out, Justinia, my shadow, also went.

There was another reason they chose me, based on information I volunteered as they described the plan to me. Stumbles would remain with Camillan and the rest of the strike team, ready for Akios to emerge. Since Stumbles was my reanimation, there was an energetic connection between us, threads of soul-essence that I could easily pull.

When Akios made for the exit, I would command Stumbles to lie down and roll over. That was the signal, the message to be ready and waiting.

The sheer size of the Golden amphitheater left me breathless.

It rose into the air, an oval that seemed to touch the sky, thousands of gilded pillars supporting a titanic structure of black stone and metal. It was based on an old design, an echo of a building that had existed thousands of years ago, constructed by the ancient civilization that had come before us. Marak had recreated it a century ago, and had then made it even larger.

Camillan had said that it could seat two hundred thousand people.

Two hundred thousand. The number reverberated through my head, impossible to comprehend.

Sitting four rows from the very top, though, I could believe it.

A sea of faces sat before me, so many of them that they simply blurred together and became indistinguishable. I altered my vision, searching for their souls instead, and there they were, an ocean of tiny, separate flames, so bright in totality that I found myself nearly blinded.

Getting into the amphitheater had been difficult, even despite how many seats there were. When large games such as the one planned for today were held, the amphitheater sold out every time without fail. Camillan had been forced to buy entry passes second-hand, for exorbitant amounts of money.

Money, however, was currently not high on our list of concerns.

“I simply can’t get over how many people there are,” I said quietly.

Justinia, sitting to my left, just grunted.

Felice, to my right, smiled grimly. “Sad, isn’t it? So many are desperate to forget how miserable their own lives are, so they come here to watch people hurt each other. You just wait, Aurion. You’re about to see human beings turn into animals.”

“Have you been before? To a game?”

“Yes,” Felice said stiffly, “many times when I was much younger. My father…” she hesitated, shook her head, “he loved to come and watch. And sometimes participate.”

My infatuation meant that I found everything she said automatically interesting, but even that aside, this last comment deserved further exploration. I opened my mouth to ask a question but, down below, something was happening

There were eight gates down on the arena floor, and all of them were now opening.

The floor—or field, rather—had been carefully cultivated, shaped into a nature scene. There was grass, and rocks, and trees, even a small, fake river dividing the field, forded by a single wooden bridge. It was large enough that, down there at its centre, I imagined that it would’ve almost felt as though one was in nature.

For the hundredth time since I’d arrived in Tymora, I found myself astounded—and disgusted—by the things human beings could accomplish.

My eyes darted across to where our target sat.

Akios Erati, former Deputy to the Autarch, was in the Honor Box, situated roughly at the vertical midpoint of the amphitheater, supposedly providing those inside with the best angle, and view, of the carnage below. The exterior of the box was gilded so that it shone brightly in the afternoon sun. I was too far away to see his face, could only out the tiny, blurry shape of the man who’d lived for three centuries.

Earlier that morning, Justinia had explained to me what a typical security detail for a high-ranking Autarchy official involved.

“There’ll be at least one Sun Knight,” she’d said, eyes distant. “But probably two. And since I can tell you’re failing to appreciate just what exactly that means, let me give you a brief rundown. The Sun Knights are the Autarchy’s elite warriors. Marak founded them three centuries past, and, for three centuries, they’ve been the toughest, meanest bastards on the continent. They’re picked out as young children, trained from the age of six. Their bodies are chemically, surgically, and magically altered to be stronger, faster, and more durable. All of them are trained in Mind Shielding. All of them wield the finest armor on the continent, as well as the best and newest weapons devised by the Autarchy’s engineers. They’re all veterans, have fought in battles and taken lives. They’re not afraid to die and they won’t stop until whatever job they’ve been assigned is finished.”

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“But,” I said, “fundamentally, they’re just people with swords.”

To which Justinia rubbed her eyes and said, “Few people underestimate Sun Knights and live.”

“What else?”

“There will be at least two operatives of the Seeking Hand. You won’t know who they are. They’ll look like servants, or assistants, or randoms in the crowd. But they’ll be there, and they’ll be watching Akios the entire time. Everything I said about the Sun Knights more or less applies to them. Except, they’re even worse. The Autarch embeds a fragment of his power inside all of them, so, they all have a unique, arcane talent. Some can see four seconds ahead into the future. Others have an otherworldly sense for danger. Some can move so fast you can’t even see them. And they, unlike a lot of Sun Knights, are clever, cruel, and calculating.”

“Ever met one before?” I asked.

“Unfortunately,” Justinia spat.

“And is that it?”

“As if that isn’t enough,” she’d shaken her head. “There’ll also be your typical guards around. At least a dozen of them. Justiciars, more than likely. They’re not Sun Knights but they’re also not your average Terarch grunts. For someone as important as Akios, they’re all going to be savvy veterans who won’t go down without a fight.”

“All in all,” I said, “this sounds terrible, and suddenly like a bad idea.”

“Yeah,” Justinia had said, “I did try to warn you.”

Now, leaning back in my seat—which was terribly uncomfortable, digging into my lower back—it was difficult not to mentally run through that conversation on an endless loop. How, exactly, Camillan expected to get through that security detail and get his hands on Akios, had not been explained to me. Supposedly, sharing such information was an operational risk.

And so I had to simply hope that the man knew what he was doing.

Down below, figures emerged from the eight open gates.

Eight of them. All men, all unarmored. They wore loincloths and sandals but nothing else and carried an assortment of weapons: short swords, spears, axes, clubs. They sauntered forward and raised their weapons, holding them up as though in a salute; the crowd roared their approval, a deafening chorus of voices, so loud that it hurt.

“Which one do you think will win?” Justinia raised her eyebrows at me.

The eight killers stalked toward the centre of the arena, keeping their eyes on one another the whole time. The crowd had quietened, their anticipation like a physical tangible thing. Even I found myself leaning forward a little, heart beating faster. I wanted to see what would happen, wanted to see these men crash together, steel blurring, blood flying.

No, I chided myself. You’re not an animal.

And yet.

“None of them really ever win,” Felice said quietly. “If one of the eight survives and goes on to live another day, it’ll only be a matter of time before someone else does them in. There’s no winning in the end. Their lives are short and brutal.”

“But all of that aside,” Justinia said easily, “who’s going to win?”

“That one,” I said, pointing to the largest man, who was wielding a six-foot long sword, the flat of the blade resting easily against his shoulder.

“Novice mistake,” said Justinia. “People who don’t know what they’re talking about always pick whoever’s biggest.”

“Well,” I snapped, “who do you think is going to win?”

Justinia gestured to the closest gladiator, a tall, dark-skinned man with a curved sword in each hand. “That one. He’s from Valakor, and judging by the two blades, he’s a Kyanai Dervish. I served with one once, back in my sellsword days, and…” she paused, shaking her head. “Never seen someone move so easily. So gracefully. If this one is even half as good, you’ll see.”

“Who do you think?” I asked Felice.

She just smiled sadly. “I refuse to pick. These games are monstrous.”

And that made me feel abruptly bad for being excited, and for picking a combatant, but since it was too late to take it back, all I could do was sit back and wait to see how things unfolded.

I had no idea how long these games would go on for. I doubted these eight would be fighting for long, and I doubted the entire day’s entertainment would be limited to just this fight, so it was safe to assume there’d be much more blood to come. Akios Erati would remain in his box until the event was finished, though Camillan had informed us that he would most likely leave just as the last fight was wrapping up—his security detail would want to get him out of the amphitheater before the crowds moved and potentially trapped him.

My stomach growled. Worse, my throat was dry with dehydration.

“A shame they don’t sell food at these places,” I murmured.

Felice sighed. Justinia said, “Well, actually, they do,” and tapped my shoulder, pointing to several dozen individuals who were making their way along the rows pushing tiny carts. They appeared to be selling skewers and sweet treats.

My mouth watered. These games are awful, I reminded myself. Really, truly awful. But snacks are nice. And these seats aren’t too bad, once you settle in. And the view is impressive…

The clash of steel against steel diverted my attention back down into the arena. Two gladiators had lunged at each other, marking the deliverance of the day’s first blow, and the true start of the games.

Four, maybe five seconds later, one of them was on the ground, trying very hard to hold in their own intestines while the grass around them turned red. He started to scream.

Credit to the engineers of the Golden Amphitheater: the building’s acoustics were impeccable, so much so that, despite the fact that a crowd of two hundred thousand people were jeering at the dying man, I could still distinctly hear the terror and pain in that scream.

Moments later and the faint, blue glow of his aura was extinguished.

The temptation to close my eyes and call the dead man’s soul was almost too much to resist. There it was, the flames of his soul-essence, just waiting to be collected, to be devoured and put to use…

But not here. It was too much of a risk.

If an operative of the Seeking Hand was watching closely, they might notice that something was amiss.

I needed to be patient. Patience, I told myself, was the key.