Arc 6: Chapter 1: Coloss

    Before the soaring spires of the Fulgurkeep were lifted up from lashing, storm-wracked waters of Garihelm’s bay, the Coloss was the crown of the coastal realms. And like the golden circlets of many famed monarchs, it had been baptized in blood.

    It stands upon a long point of near solid rock, a stony cleft jutting out from the winding islands of the capital’s lagoon like a belligerent spear. Dominating most of that island, the central field of the arena is mostly hard packed gray coastal sand and gravel scattered over smooth slate. It holds an almost imperceptible incline, rising even as it narrows and stabs over the water.

    To either side of this shelf are two arcs of elevated stone, and these were not made from the violence of now dead volcanoes. They were lifted by the ancient builders who once ruled the coastlands, perhaps by the very ones who’d fashioned the deep catacombs beneath the lagoon. Tall, carved from stone such a pale gray it is nearly like marble, these soaring curtain walls curve toward one another like reaching lovers, and within their inner curves are tiered rows and sheltered nooks where thousands can gather to watch the struggles inside their shadow.

    The walls rise directly from the sea along the narrowest reach of the island, connecting to the arena field by narrow bridges and supported by pillars strong as the roots of mountains. Near every inch of these spires are carved with intricate designs, forming windows and shelves upon its face where the visages of weeping saints and robed lords pass silent judgement on those who fight beneath them.

    Only later, after the eastward exodus and the rise of the Reynish kings, did gargoyles come to nest in place of those more ancient figures, making the stadium pillars seem more like bee hives of snarling devils.

    The Coloss has seen more death than even some of the oldest elves. I could feel the violent history of the place through my fingertips where they brushed stone, or like a hum in my ears. The lamentations of defeat and the roars of triumph hummed through me, not unlike the half-real voices of a remembered dream.

    And I had to wonder whether those were the kinds of ghosts we might wake from their dreams, should our struggling grow too loud.

    Waves lapped against the structure beneath me. The recessed walkway in which I stood was intended for competitors, a sheltered alcove beneath the stands where the tourney knights could get a close view of the battles across the arena’s moat. There were stables for war chimera below, and many other rooms. The way I’d heard it, the pagan kings who once ruled these islands had kept beasts down there to murder their slaves for sport.

    I would like to have felt sickened by that, but were our ways any less barbaric? We prettied our sacrifices up more and lavished them with names and honors, but this was no gentle play. There would be blood spilled over the next three days.

    There had been already. Three of those who had fought either on behalf of the Priory or the formerly accused Laessa Greengood had died of their wounds that morning. A fourth had been killed outright by the Cymrinorean, Siriks Sontae, before he had sat the rest of the melee out and allowed the Ironleaf to claim the final glory.

    Or so I’d heard. I witnessed none of it, having had other business to attend.

    I passed through scattered groups of competitors as I navigated the alcoves. Not even during the subcontinent’s great civil war had I seen so many different realms represented in a such a compact space. There were Reynish knight-marines, Bannerlands cavaliers, a mismatched assortment of warriors from the Bairn Cities who looked at one another with more suspicion than they did any foreigner. Festooned in silvered steel bright enough to reflect my image back at me stood Idhiran lancers fresh arrived from their rich valleys. They intermingled with graceful swordmasters from Mirrebel and proud lordlings from Venturmoor.

    And more still, from a score of disparate realms and far flung corners of Urn. Richly adorned knight-rangers from Lindenroad, who are said to have elven blood in their veins. There were axe-wielding woodsmen in long hauberks from the outskirts of Hast Eryn and hunching, sullen warriors from the Wyldedales, whose eyes held a distinctly animal glint.

    Hardly any two matched, and each fighter wore their legend on their person in medals, trophies, curious favors, and distinctive or even outlandish styles both in steel and cloth. Our trade with the continent had elevated a standing tradition of artistry in war, and I saw many helms resembling strange fish or fruits, or even more abstract images.

    Compared to them, I must have been a dingy and uninspiring sight. Clad in shadowy black chain mail torn and disfigured from countless battles so it hung around my shoulders and thighs in a shroud of broken links, and wrapped in a cloak red as blood with a pointed cowl, I did not look much like a tourney knight.

    I did not intend to. I walked then as the Headsman, and did not care who saw.

    The eyes of those I passed followed me as I drifted through the viewing halls, conversation halting in my wake like a passing wave of silence. Some wore all their finery, while others sat on stools or the bases of pillars while they prepped their gear. Many had squires and pages attending to their needs, while others were of a more modest sort.

    They knew who I was, or they had heard the stories. Some gave me nods of what might have been respect, while others turned up their noses or glared in anger or challenge. I ignored every eye.

    Through the stone above my head, the muted thunder of the crowd near shook the hallway. The urge to look out over the water and see what had caused the fuss tugged at me, but I remained focused on my task.

    Finding a stairwell leading down into the bowels of the wall, I padded down until the omnipresent din of the spectators and chatting knights faded. The musk of beasts and stale air replaced the scents of sword oil and rain.

    Compared to the open design of the higher levels, the sections below were darkly lit and claustrophobic. There were more knights down here, but they were well outnumbered by laborers, pages, animal handlers, and other assorted staff. I went from a narrow hall into a huge tunnel, one of three spread across the wall’s long arc. Cages of wood and iron held the steeds that would carry prospective champions onto the field when the tall doors at the end of the tunnel lifted.

    Those pens were lit by an array of alchemical lanterns, where in the past I suspected more traditional oil lamps and braziers would have dominated. I appreciated the change, as it kept air already gravid with chimera stink from being doubly filled with damp heat and clinging smoke.

    I had to pause as a harried looking page carrying buckets full of boiled pig’s blood passed, no doubt hauling his burden to the pen of an impatient war beast. One lesson I learned early in my life — no matter how hard one thinks themself, never get in a page’s way when they’re on an urgent task.

    I took that moment to scan the crowded room, and found my target. Forging through the chaos, I soon drew near a man wearing the uniform of a tournament organizer, with a long scroll pinned to a wooden block in one hand and a length of charcoal in the other. He noticed me before I reached him. His face went pale, his posture stiffening. He tried to find an exit. The pen of a particularly irate and spiny cockatrice stood at his back, and most everywhere else was blocked off by people.

    That moment’s indecision gave me the time to reach out and grasp his shoulder before he could bolt. The lanky man froze and forced a shaky smile onto his face. “Ah! Alken, it’s so good to—”

    “Save it.” Narrowing my eyes I added, “What are you doing down here?”

    Cairbre, royal herald of the imperial court, hesitated. His gaunt features beaded with sweat, most of it from the humid, crowded tunnel. His shoulders slumped in a sighed. “I was let go from my position with the court.”

    Cairbre had been a terrible herald. His memory was sharp, and he could hold a ridiculous number of names and titles in his head, but he got terrible fits of nervousness when any sort of attention was directed his way. I hadn’t expected to see him in the livery of a tournament organizer, though I would take the stroke of luck.

    Despite my pressed time, I was still curious enough to ask. “Why?”

    Cairbre let out another defeated sigh. “I announced the Lady Janice Martyr as Zelda of Hacklewood, who is significantly, um, older and more robust of frame. She did not take it well.”

    I inwardly winced in sympathy for the man. “Ah.”

    “It wasn’t my first mishap, as you well know.” Cairbre turned his glum eyes on me, which suddenly hardened with irritation. “So if you’re here for court gossip, I must disappoint you. As you can see, I am quite busy with other matters.”

    He waved at the stables with his tablet.

    I nodded. “I’m not here for gossip.” I pointed at his scroll. “I want to see the tourney lists.”

    Cairbre let out a titter. When I just stared at him levelly, he frowned. “You can’t be serious. Only the tourney council is allowed to know what’s on the lists, and its members are hand picked by the Emperor! I can’t just let you look at them.”

    He lowered his voice to a hiss. “It would be cheating.”

    I folded my arms, glowering down at him. “I answer directly to His Grace.”

    Cairbre nodded indulgently. “Then you must have a writ from him explaining that you are allowed to see the lists?”

    When I just stared, he let a queasy smile curve his lips. “No? Well then.”

    He started to turn. I shifted to block his path. He swallowed, but a stubborn glint lit in his eyes.

    “I am lucky not to be a beggar on the streets right now!” The former herald growled. “The Royal Steward gave me this post, a chance to redeem myself and show my quality. I’m not going to mess it up on your account, Hewer. You can find out who’s fighting who as they are announced, just like everyone else.”

    I admit to being impressed. I’d taken Cairbre as a wet blanket, and hadn’t expected this sort of defiance from him. He’d caved to my earlier methods of intimidation after I’d caught him wracking up gambling debts in brothels and seedy taverns.

    But I didn’t have time to respect his resolve. Instead, leaning forward and lowering my voice much as I could and still be heard over the stable’s din, I made him an offer.

    “I know you have a taste for less conventional entertainment, Cairbre.”

    The man sniffed. “What of it?”

    I leaned closer, almost speaking into his ear. “I can get you into the Backroad.”

    The change in his thin features was immediate and dramatic. His jaw flexed. His eyes lit with excitement, then doubt, then a restless hunger.

    “You’re lying,” he accused.

    “I’m not,” I told him calmly. “I have an open invitation, and I know people there. I’ve even spoken with the Keeper a number of times. I’m certain I could get you through the door.”

    “What are you, some kind of devil? I’ve heard the rumors about that place... about what it costs to use it.”

    “You don’t have to give your soul,” I told him bluntly. Not the first time, anyway.

    I didn’t comment on his devil accusation. It wasn’t too far off the mark, as far as the realms were concerned. The memory of all those suspicious, angry eyes among the knights in the halls above flashed through my thoughts.

    He was torn, I could tell. The Backroad is a place one finds by invitation only, or it finds you. Those who knew its name of it often hungered for the unearthly delights it offered. Secrets, paths to hidden domains, the pleasure of inhuman company. All of it was on offer in that ill-rumored establishment.

    Did I feel good about tossing this man into that fly trap? Cairbre wasn’t an evil fellow. A bit of a wastrel, perhaps, but he’d never hurt anyone to my knowledge.

    I did not have the time to be scrupulous about my methods. If Cairbre gave more of himself than was wise to the Keeper’s dangerous garden, then that was his folly. There was more at stake.

    So, making the choice to push through his shaking resolve, I plucked an ancient bronze coin from my belt. Holding it out, I showed him the odd designs on its face. “This will get you through the front door. I’ll tell you the trick to finding it... after I see the lists.”

    Caibre swallowed, hesitated another moment, then snatched the coin out of my hand. “Fine. Fine, just... follow me, then.”

    He led me through the stables, navigating the crowded space with the ease of familiarity. For partly the same reason I wanted to see the lists, I noted all the different and exotic beasts who would soon be snarling and snapping at each other down on the island.

    In ancient days, the fabled steeds known by names such as Destrier and Courser were the loyal companions of chivalrous knights. That had been before mage-alchemists and their ilk had made the chimera and all its many strange variations, spreading them across the world to proliferate and dominate wild ecosystems.

    And yet, something of the horse still resided in those creatures around me. Perhaps it’s nostalgia that made it so, but it is considered a mark of prestige to ride a war beast more closely resembling the traditional knightly mount. Some were bulky and powerful, others sleek and swift, and just as many sported razor sharp scales as fur, or snapping beaks rather than teeth. Some were omnivorous, or even fully predators rather than herbivores.

    But each of them had something of the shape of the horse. All had been bred for battle, to carry an armored warrior and act as both weapon and companion.

    It had been a long time since I’d ridden one.

    Cairbre noted where my gaze lingered. “Gorgeous beasts, aren’t they?”

    I glanced at him in surprise. “I didn’t take you as a man to appreciate animals, Cairbre.”

    He sniffed. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Hewer.”

    That was fair enough, and I let the matter drop. The man led me down a side passage, and we passed a number of small rooms. Some of them held the muted sound of conversation, or even argument.

    Another uproar from the stands hushed our conversation as Ser Orion, desperate to turn the tables, delivered a furious upward slash that caught his brother under the helm. His twin jerked back, stumbled, and fell in a clattering heap. His helmet had split, and even from a distance I could see blood dripping down to the gray sand.

    Aura worked into the blade, I thought. Gives it a bite that can cleave even steel. I wondered how many such fell tools would be used in this.

    There probably wouldn’t be many who didn’t. There would be no blunted swords down on that rock, much less blunted souls.

    Ser Alphus still lived, though it had to be an ugly wound beneath his helmet. Orion started to pace around him. Though I should not have been able to hear what he said from so far, the strange magic of the Coloss took up his voice and turned it into a rolling, growling echo that circled around the stands like a swirling wave.

    “Get up.” The older man made a lunging motion at his brother, then started pacing again. “Get up, damn you!”

    Movement at the end of the alcove drew my eye away from the battle. Ser Jocelyn, still clad in his tournament armor, approached me with his usual serene expression. Dust and a bit of blood still clung to him. In the tradition of tourney, no one would wash their gear until the day’s struggles were done.

    On the glorysworn’s arm strode Lady Laessa Greengood, along with a pair of lesser ranking handmaidens and her friend, Esmeralda.

    I bowed to the group. “My lady. You have my congratulations on the outcome of this morning’s contest.”

    Esmerelda, who bore the family name Grimheart and who looked like a particularly cheerful orange flower, replied on her friend’s behalf in a bubbling gush. “Oh, it’s Jocelyn you should be congratulating. Did you see that move at the end? He was like a harlequin. A particularly lethal, handsome one.”

    Jocelyn coughed, while Laessa’s dusky skin turned even darker with a blush. I did not want to admit that after everything, I hadn’t even watched her trial by combat.

    “The last we spoke,” I noted cautiously, “you told me it would be best if we did not associate, my lady.”

    Laessa nodded cooly. “I am simply taking a stroll along the walls on my way to see some of my family’s benefactors, and enjoying the company of the champion who proved my innocence. If I run across another servant of the Emperor during my rounds, then it is of little consequence.”

    The two handmaidens looked very nervous at the sight of me, while Esmerelda only giggled prettily. I caught Jocelyn’s calm eyes, and understood.

    The click of boots echoing down the alcove interrupted our conversation. The moment I saw who approached my guard went up. Laessa went still, Esmerelda lost her smile, and Ser Jocelyn took a slight step closer to his charge.

    The man who walked to us stood just above average height, had a scarecrow’s build, and wore a black uniform and black cape colored only by the red trident stitched at his shoulder. He met my eyes evenly, without seeming bothered by the golden glint int hem. His own were a faded blue, and devoid of passion.

    “You should not be here, Presider.” Esmerelda’s voice almost shook with anger. “This is most uncouth.”

    Oraise, Presider of the Aureate Inquisition, gave our group a correct bow. His voice held a dryness to it that went beyond any lack of emotion. “I simply wished to offer my congratulations to the good knight on his victory, and assure House Greengood that it should fear no reprisal from the Priory.”

    Laessa’s voice snapped out like a wintry gust. “You could have said as much with a letter, ser.”

    The inquisitor’s neutral expression did not so much as twitch. “Perhaps.” He glanced at me, and I understood then this had very little to do with Laessa Greengood. It never had, really.

    “How’s your shoulder?” I asked him. Petty, perhaps, but I can be that at times.

    Oraise did smile then. A stiff, cool little twitch of his lips. “I am well on the road to recovery. I understand you are owed congratulations as well, Ser Alken. You lacked that title last we spoke. Now you have the Emperor’s ear.”

    “Like you did?” I lifted an eyebrow at him. “I haven’t seen you at council all these weeks.”

    “The Priory is undergoing a certain degree of... reorganization. We have you to thank for that, of course.”

    “Are you here to threaten us?” Laessa glared at the man who would have been her confessor, and torturer.

    Oraise blinked. “No. I am here to deliver a message.”

    He turned directly to me then, making no effort to hide who the message was for. “All involved in our dispute believed they were doing their duty on behalf of this Accord. We struck our blows, and took our wounds, but we are all still the Emperor’s servants, and Hers. It is my order’s sincerest hope that we might move forward more amicably, perhaps even cooperate in the distribution of justice.”

    “Justice!?” Esmerelda let out a high, shrill laugh. “Is that what you want to call what your priorguard were doing?”

    The Presider ignored the Grimheart, keeping his ice-chip eyes on me. I studied him, and felt a small chill.

    “Should I assume this message comes from the Priory as a whole?” I asked him. “The way I hear it, your Grand Prior isn’t too happy about my elevation, or Ser Jocelyn’s victory.”

    Oraise’s expression turned remote again. “Grand Prior Diana is still grieving over the death of her predecessor. I am certain she will be made to see a more constructive path forward, with time and council.”

    Which meant this message wasn’t from the current leader of the Priory. At least, not the perceived leader.

    “Tell your order...” I paused a moment, considering my words. “Tell your leader that I will be happy to have a discussion about everything that’s happened any time. Face to face.”

    Oraise considered my words a moment, and I think he understood them. “I shall pass along the message. My ladies. Ser Ironleaf. Headsman.”

    He bowed to the others, then turned and departed in a swirl of black cloth and clicking boots. I watched him go until he’d vanished up a stair at the alcove’s far end, trying to hide my reeling emotions beneath a calm exterior.

    Lias. Just what are you up to?

    “I do not like that man,” Lady Esmerelda said conversationally. “He has the eyes of a corpse. Do you think he’s a dyghoul?”

    “No,” I told her with assurance. “He is very much alive, in body at least.”

    Laessa shivered as though from a sudden chill, then disentangled from the Ironleaf’s arm. “I need some fresh air. If you ladies would accompany me up to the stands?”

    The young women departed, save for Emma. She skulked in the shadows, wary of the young aristos despite them being of age. She had never seemed comfortable around what should have been her peers.

    Jocelyn drew up close so he could speak in a hushed voice. “Were you successful?”

    I folded my arms, forcing the encounter with Oraise out of my mind. “Yes. You’re probably not going to get a chance at Calerus today. The Emperor is trying to attrition him through mass melees. I’m probably going to be fighting Siriks at some point, but I can’t tell how soon.”

    “The time each bout takes can be hard to predict,” Jocelyn agreed. “And this other ally of yours?”

    I had told him a bit about Karog. “He’ll probably get a shot at our foe before either of us. As a foreigner of no renown, he’s also been consigned to group skirmishes.” I snorted. “We should pity the chaff that get tossed in with him.”

    Jocelyn’s eyes drifted down to the field. The younger Hakker was still struggling to rise, with his brother heckling and berating him. I could see steam rising from the gray rock around Alphus, more signs of his nascent power. Shouts and jeers ran across the stands above us, half muted by the thick stone roof.

    “Ugly business,” I noted idly. “Brother against brother.”

    “There are many ugly feelings wrapped up in all of this,” Jocelyn said. “I feel as though the Emperor underestimated just how much.”

    I studied him in silence. I did not know much about Ser Jocelyn, other than the fact there was much I did not know.

    “There’s something else,” the Ironleaf said. “You look troubled, and did before that inquisitor interrupted us.”

    I shrugged. “Just some small hitch in the plan. I’ll deal with it.” He did not need to worry over my matchups.

    Jocelyn didn’t seem convinced, but I had no interest in confiding in a near stranger. We might have been allies, but he did not need to know about my secret plans.

    Or about Catrin.

    He let the matter drop, turning in a rustle of his autumn-orange cape. “I need to prepare for my next bout. I’ve heard Lord Aining is a keen blade, and I wish to be ready.”

    I nodded. Jocelyn paused before ascending one of the nearby stairs to rejoin his entourage.

    “We may not get many more chances to speak privately through all of this, but I wish you luck. And should we meet down on that field, I will fight you honorably.”

    I regarded him with a soft smile. “I’m afraid I can’t promise the same, Ironleaf. There’s too much at stake for me to hold back.”

    He considered that a moment, then nodded. “I understand. In any case, I will probably not even know you, so the matter is moot.”

    After he’d gone, Emma sidled up to my side. “You didn’t tell him how to recognize you?”

    “The fewer who know, the less chance the secret will get out. Better if I catch our enemies by surprise.”

    I turned to leave myself, then glanced at my squire. “Is the lance ready?”

    She gave me a Carreon smile. “Oh, we are prepared. Though, Hendry is held up with his father currently. I’m concerned he may be too preoccupied for this.”

    “Hm. Well, we’ll make do without him if we have to. Let’s get going. I’m set to fight not long after Jocelyn, and I need to be ready.”

    “Time to see our illustrious leaders then?” Emma took up position at my side.

    A sudden silence fell over the Coloss, allowing us to a hear a hoarse shout from down below. The arena’s magic did not enhance it, making the cry of anguish seem oddly muted. We looked down to the field.

    The second brother had not gotten back up.