The sun rose on a cold world two mornings later. Colton woke from a stiff sleep, the brightness outside holding no cheer for him. In a few hours he would be standing on his own gallows, a cheerless place, certainly, but he felt little sorrow with regard to his impending death. It was only his immense failure that he could feel regret for now—his failure to overthrow Alastor, to prevent Tyran’s capture, to keep Fianna safe or give her any of the things he had promised her.
The guards came for Colton mid-morning, and his ropes were replaced with heavy chains to be escorted from the palace. Within the courtyard waited a carriage, its windows of bars and the horses ragged and wild-eyed beneath their black manes. The loud and disorderly guards from previously had disappeared, replaced with the silence of Alastor’s elite soldiers. Saravin stood motionless beside the carriage, his face colorless and cynical like a messenger of death. His eyes betrayed no emotion as they met Colton’s, and as before Colton wondered what lay behind that foreboding gaze.
The door of the carriage hung ajar, and Colton was directed into its dark interior. The clang of the door and rattle of the lock echoed in his ears for the entirety of the ride to the arena, brief though it was, but somehow emotions had been swept from him. It was odd, to step from the carriage and gaze up at his own gallows, and feel nothing. Around him the crowd was a distant roar, faces unfamiliar, excitement muffled beneath his thoughts, quiet though they were. An icy wind blew through the stadium, but the anticipation of the crowd blinded them to the harsh conditions of the weather.
Colton was standing still, the cold reality of his death sinking in and scarcely affecting him, but the guards pulled him forward to the steps of the gallows. From there each step was a step away from life and toward what lay beyond that. It held no dark terror in his mind, and neither any joyful promise of escape. He mounted the steps and stood upon the trapdoor, searching out Alastor’s throne at the edge of the crowd and fixing his gaze upon the king.
A man was standing now at the center of the arena, giving some mighty speech concerning his execution, but Colton had no ears to hear it. His gaze turned to Valdis, seated not far from the king, and for the first time since he set foot in the arena something close to hatred sparked in him. This was the man that had taken Fianna, had had her seized by guards, had thrown her in prison and made her life miserable. She had once been content with her life—though Colton had not been able to see it—but even the small pleasures of a servant had been taken from her. She was gone now—Colton would not see her again. He would die never knowing where she was, or whether she would ever see daybreak again.
Colton lifted his chin, the tears in his eyes overcome with his last piece of strength. He would not care anymore. Alastor would not conquer him, Valdis would not tear him down; the noose around his neck could take his life but not his courage.
Across the arena a cry was heard suddenly, sounding distantly from within the corridor that led out to the arena’s center. The crowd did not hear it, but Colton did and turned to watch the corridor’s shadowed opening. A moment later a tall figure appeared in the entrance, and Colton’s expression held no mask to hide his emotion now. It was Tyran.
He entered the arena as bold and formidable as ever, the fire in his eyes stronger than Colton had ever seen it. Alastor was the first in the crowd to recognize him, rising from his throne and standing frozen with fury in his eyes. Soldiers charged him, but he disarmed them and sent them cowering to the edges of the arena.
“How far has your madness taken you this time, Alastor?” he shouted throughout the arena. “An innocent man is being hanged? One of your own lords is lying in a dungeon? And you sit there in your guise of justness and sneer over the weak and innocent!”
Alastor was trembling with rage. “Seize this man!” he cried.
Tyran shook his head at him. “Come down from there, Alastor! Your games are over.”
Saravin motioned his men toward Tyran, and they attacked him savagely.
“Whatever fool you are, you will die soon for speaking such treachery,” Alastor said as he watched Tyran battle the guards.
The clash of swords was the only response Tyran was able to give, for the guards were too many for him to take on at once and he at last was shoved to his knees and his weapons taken.
“Come down!” Tyran shouted again to the king. “You are a coward, cowering beneath your robes and never daring to draw your sword!”
Alastor threw open the gate before his throne and descended the staircase to the sand below.
“You are full of lies,” he said, approaching Tyran and stopping several yards away from where he knelt.
“Then where is Aiza Ranmere? Or her father? What about the servant girl you are keeping in your prisons? How do you explain the murder of every Games’ victor, or your stabbing of an old woman in the back?”
“You are a great fool,” Alastor said, infuriated but left with no defense. “A rebel and a traitor, who will certainly die for his crimes.”
“You know well who I am, king! Why don’t you face this crowd and tell Vellatha who speaks to their king so? Can you explain why it is their victor? Why it is the man named the greatest warrior in the kingdom that kneels here?”
A murmur ran through the crowd, but Alastor had no words.
“I have come to the end of my rebellion,” Tyran said. “It is one last challenge that I have for you—to take up your sword and fight me as you should have done long ago. Let our duel end this once and for all.”
The king scoffed. “I would not deign to take up my sword against one so filthy and lowly as you,” he said.
“What has rank to do with this? Now it is only man to man, warrior against warrior. You claim might—your people would see you fight.”
“You speak foolishness,” the king said, his words trembling. “Put this man in chains. Let him be thrown in the dungeons.”
The guards prepared to do as they were commanded, but Saravin held out a hand to them and stopped them.
“Let him up,” he said.
The guards backed away from Tyran, and he rose to his feet. The king faltered.
“You would disobey the voice of your king for this man?”
They were silent. The king turned to Saravin.
“Your loyalty belongs to me!” he cried.
“And yet I wonder if this man has more nobility than you,” he said. “Prove me wrong—fight him, or it will be me that you fight.”
The king glanced from Saravin to Tyran in fury, but at last he seemed to calm himself. He called a servant from the edge of the arena.
“Bring a sword for this man,” he said.
Before the man had left, Alastor caught his arm and said something to him in a low tone, letting him go with a nod. The servant returned with a sword and handed it to Tyran, and then was gone to watch the duel from the borders of the arena in safety.
Alastor, still in a rage, was the first to make a move. It was a powerful blow, but clumsily executed. Tyran blocked it and struck back, but under such force the blade of his sword shattered. Tyran’s eyes flashed as he was left with only the hilt of his sword, and the king fell upon him with infuriated strength. Every blow was painful to witness. The king fought gracelessly, and time and again his blade rang against Tyran’s broken hilt. At last Tyran threw down the hilt and seized that of Alastor’s sword, wresting it from him and casting it across the sand. The king stumbled away, and Tyran threw a blow to his face that sent him crashing to the sand. He stood over him, watching Alastor grovel in the dirt.
“Some king you have made yourself out to be,” he said under his breath.
Alastor held out a hand trembling to Tyran, pulling himself away and groaning as he rolled onto all fours and then rose. He coughed and spat sand.
Saravin looked on in disgust.
“Let him go,” Tyran muttered, and Alastor ran stumbling in shame from the arena.
Silence fell over the audience like a cloud. For a moment all was still, and then a man stood in the crowd, entering the arena through the same gate as the king. It was Valdis.
“You have proved yourself a man of great skill,” he said. “Vellatha will forever be in your debt for showing our king for what he truly is.”
“As I remember, you stood by his side through all his deception,” Tyran said, Valdis’s compliments having little effect upon him.
“I stood by my king’s side, as did we all, in our ignorance. The spirits be praised for sending one to unveil his deception!”
“You would be wise, Valdis, to follow Alastor’s path from here. There will be no place for deceit in Vellatha from this day on.”
“You speak as if you had authority here,” Valdis said. “That is a very dangerous place for one such as you to be. You may have had victory in your little skirmish with the king, but do not think that allows you to take his place.” Valdis’s tone grew lower. “You have not won everything. Yes, you have proved your supposed loyalty to Vellatha, but your friend,” Valdis lifted his arm and pointed to Colton, “he still must die. In the eyes of Vellatha he will forever be a criminal. He has broken their laws, plotted against the throne, fled their soldiers and condemned himself as an outlaw.”
“Colton came here with me,” Tyran said fiercely, a deep seed of fear sparked. “He came to overthrow a wicked king, and you along with him!”
“Then he is all the more the criminal.” Valdis raised his voice for the audience to hear him. “You claim this man is innocent, and yet you have no proof. However, Vellatha will show grace to him. Let his execution be postponed till sundown tomorrow, and if by that time you have found any proof that he is not who he seems to be, his life may be spared. Until then, the lords beg that you remain close to the palace. We would not want any more men to… go missing. You will be shown a room.”
And with that Valdis ended the discussion. The crowd began to disperse slowly, returning home to speak eagerly of that days’ events and wait in anticipation for sundown the next day. Colton was removed to his prison cell once again, and Tyran prepared to leave. He turned to go still with anger in his eyes as he watched Colton being taken away.
“This does not end here,” he said to Valdis.
Valdis was not fazed. “I would be very careful,” he said, and paused. “Are you not missing that which is most dear to you?”
At Valdis’s words there appeared for the first time real fear in Tyran’s eyes, deep beneath the anger that flashed there.
“There is only one victor here,” he said, but Valdis only smiled.
“Your rebellion is over,” he said.
>>the cold reality of his death sinking in and scarcely affecting him,
This seems a bit contradictory :) The use of the word 'cold' is indicative of an effect of something, as is 'sinking in'.
"Colton’s expression held no mask to hide his emotion now."
This seemed unnecessarily difficult. I had to read it a couple of times to get the meaning. Why not, "Colton suddenly dropped his stoic mask" or "excited delight suddenly appeared on Colton's face", perhaps swiftly followed by horror as he realises that rather than rescuing him, Tyran is minutes away from a violent death.