The smoke settled on a stadium that had suddenly gone silent. The clamoring and cheering of the crowd melted to anxious, expectant whispers, every eye turning to the king. The sun slipped over the walls of the arena, and a few pale rays of light sought to shine across the scene. Every man was on edge, waiting, his own mind made up, but everything rested on the decision of the king.
Alastor, with sharp contrast to the eager audience, was very calm. He leaned over to his lords, jeweled hand stroking his beard, discussing quietly with them the fate he should deal the warriors. With frequent glances he looked down upon the six men, till the suspense in the arena had reached its height. Whispers turned to loud murmurs, practically begging the king to stand and make his decision. Finally, the gentlemen around him leaned back in their seats and the king, with a pause meant only to prolong the suspense a little longer, rose from his throne. A hush fell over the crowd.
“Lords, ladies, and warriors,” he shouted across the arena, displaying all his regality in his powerful voice and magnificent garments, made all the more glorious as he stretched wide his arms: “Once again have the Games reached their climax and finale, and in this year I have witnessed mastery that Vellatha has never before produced in a warrior. You have done exceedingly well, all of you, but only one has reached a point beyond the common talents of men. I speak of the warrior Tyran, under the training of Bordstern, who now shall rise to the wealth his skill has brought him to deserve.”
The king’s final words were scarcely heard, for as he spoke Tyran’s name the crowds erupted in cries and praises so loud and jubilant that even Tyran, to whom all the applause was given, thought his ears would burst. Alastor allowed their cheers to continue a little longer, but then raised his hands and calmed them. With the majesty of a great lion, he stepped down from his throne and descended the staircase below to the arena, followed by his lords and guards.
And in that moment, Tyran became the only one of them that mattered anymore. With dignity he knelt before the king, and with great splendor his torn and ragged green cloak was removed from his shoulders and its place was fastened a cape of gold. Then the king took a magnificent sword, studded with gems and sparkling in the light, and placed it in his hands.
“Rise, Tyran,” he said, “and take your place among the great men of the world.”
Colton stood forgotten behind Tyran, his expression conveying little emotion. He was little surprised by the outcome, but still something inside him shattered. Tyran was, of course, his friend—his only friend at that—but Colton doubted that they would be much in one another’s lives from then on. Tyran would be swept away from him with all the glory and honor of high rank, and Colton—had he anything to return to? A tedious, dull life awaited him.
Why had he ever allowed his hopes to climb, to dare imagine he might be victorious? Had he, a stranger in that world, any right to take his place among the mightiest men of Vellatha? No, indeed, he had cruelly deceived himself. He had been a fool, disillusioned by a fantasy of a carefree life and the thought that he could sweep Fianna away from the laws of that world and be her loving rescuer, as if he lived in some happy romance.
Now, Colton wanted only to be far away from that place, gone with it any memory of that world. He did not want to face Fianna and tell her he had none of the glory or power he had promised, or return defeated to suffer another year of training beneath some new instructor. If only he had never come to that place. In anger he wished Vellatha gone and destroyed with all his childish hopes, and him only to be happy and home on earth, where at least he might find peace. He had once longed for adventure—how wrong he had been! For if this were adventure, he wanted no part of it. He had discovered a new world, and hated it. He had sought the means to greatness, but it was unreachable. He had found love, and that too was lost to him.
Colton felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned from his thoughts to see a guard before him.
“You are to take your leave now,” he said, and Colton glanced around to find the others being escorted away.
Tyran stood with his back to Colton, surrounded by guards and lords. The soldier urged him away, and Colton turned slowly and let himself be conducted out of the arena. Outside waited the few horses for the men who would return home. Bordstern being promoted from his place as trainer, Colton would be escorted home by three soldiers, the only man to return to his city. The day had grown bright already, and preparations had begun for the feast that would last till night in celebration. Colton stood beside his horse, the guards waiting for him to mount, but something gave him pause.
Part of him wanted to mount the horse and gallop away and let Tyran be sorry they never said goodbye. Tyran had his life now; he had no need to remember Colton anyway. But Colton could not be so harsh—perhaps in his thoughts but not in his actions. Tyran was the only one who had given him second thought when he arrived upon Vellatha, and the only one who had trusted him. Finally, Colton smiled to himself. He had made up his mind, and now there would be a real contest.
“On your horse,” one of the guards ordered, and the smile disappeared, though there was still a bright look in Colton’s eye.
He mounted, the familiar pain in his ankle as he put his weight in the stirrups, but he ignored it. He pulled his horse ahead and let the guards follow, two flanking him and one behind. Behind him died away the exuberance of the crowds with the flags and majesty of the palace, but Colton did not so much as turn to glance at it a last time. He rode straight and steady, and quickly enough so that the guards had to spur on their horses to stay at the same pace. All the same, they let him take the lead, all too willing to be done with the journey and, if they were lucky, return to the celebrations before nightfall.
But Colton had other intentions. For little less than an hour he led them through the streets, always toward the training center, but at the mark of an hour he quickened his speed to a canter. Behind him one of the guards shouted, attempting to slow his apparent enthusiasm to return home. Colton’s smile reappeared, and in an instant he wheeled the horse down an alley and was off at a gallop. His pursuers brought their horses up and turned to follow, but Colton had bought himself the advantage. Through backstreets and past the houses of the lesser wealth he rode at a fearless gallop, losing the guards far behind. The streets were mostly deserted, servants having been left inside as their masters hurried away for the Games.
When Colton finally arrived back at the palace, the sun was already past its height. He left the horse, soaked with sweat, far from its guarded walls and slipped unnoticed around it till he reached its northernmost wall. Before him spread a wide field, usually thick with wild weeds and orange and blue flowers, but today no flower was visible and the tall weeds were heavily trampled.
In place of the land’s wild beauty were substituted tables piled with food and drink and bright flags of gold and red. And swarming through all of it were the people—people that Colton could not but stare at in cold disappointment. These were the finest men of Vellatha—greedy, self-absorbed, flashing their fine garments and gold jewelry as they boasted to one another and grabbed food from the tables. In their midst stood Tyran, his stern expression a stark contrast to the laughing, oblivious faces around him. Not far from him stood Aiza, her eyes resting proudly on her lover.
Colton wished to remain there longer, gazing, an outsider, on the feast, but he was poorly hidden and there was far more at stake than his paltry wishes. He laughed at himself now as he cast a final glance at the field. To think that this was what he had wanted so badly just a month ago! Perhaps it would have secured Fianna’s freedom, after all, but what then? His life would have been empty—as unbearable as that which he had then led. But now there were already guards searching for him. Word would spread quickly… If he was caught it would certainly be slavery or execution for him.
That was no matter now, he assured himself. He had come only to say goodbye to Tyran, and then he would be free. Free! But the word stung as it echoed through his mind. As always, Fianna’s face entered his mind, her eyes bright, but beneath them was something very sorrowful, almost pleading. He had promised her he would free her, and could he now leave her behind as if none of his words meant anything? Was that what it all had come to? But now it was too late, surely. He had not won, and he vehemently rejected the thought of returning to her in defeat. He had nothing to offer her now, already a criminal and with not a penny or fine title to his name.
Colton shook his head, as if that could make him forget his bitter thoughts. He was a fool to stay there any longer, he knew, but having come all this way he ought at least to bid Tyran farewell before he left. Where he would go, he hardly had an idea, but a faint hope told him that perhaps he could return home. Some kind of ship had taken him to Vellatha; it surely could take him back to earth. He had only to find it, and learn how to operate it. Under the excitement of the Games, and that of his restless mind, Colton forgot easily how many men it had taken to operate the vessel when he had first seen it.
The renewed cheering of the crowd finally wrenched him back to the world. They were making a toast now, and Colton turned his back and slipped away as the sun sunk lower. He finally settled himself at the edge of a grove of trees, just beyond the palace’s entrance, where he could at least remain out of sight as he watched men come and go from the feast. For two hours that might as well have been two days he stayed there, lost in thought that wavered between cruel determination and anguished hopelessness.
On the one hand, he had finally forsaken the laws of Vellatha and would make his own life for himself or die. But on the other, he had also given up his friends and gone back on his word. His mind cried out bitterly against him as the thought entered his mind. It was not really a lie, to move on in life and forget the foolish promises he had made long ago. But with sudden surprise he realized that what felt to be years ago was really no more than a week. It was that one week that changed his life, taking all his hopes and dreams and twisting them around to prove them nothing but foolishness. No matter what choice he made, Colton would hate himself for it. Had he no option but regret on either hand, he wondered?
Colton shoved his angry thoughts away as the rest of the lords moved in a long line from the field, sorry to leave the feast, but tired and longing for bed. Tyran was the last of them, only recognizable by the great number of torches those around him carried. Before him was the king, leading his retinue through the gates of the palace. Colton leapt from the shelter of the trees and slipped beneath the gates just as they were closed again.
He was a fool to have come within the palace, he knew. But having come this far, his determination was only reinforced. In the darkness, he passed easily as a guard and remained close behind the lords following Tyran. But reaching a narrow door across the courtyard, the king dismissed the guards with a wave of the hand, leaving only himself, Tyran, and three lords. Colton fell a few paces back as the other guards dispersed, but a stroke of distrust beat its way into his mind. The king was murmuring something to Tyran now, and the remaining lords took torches from the walls and followed them through the doorway. Colton hesitated for a moment, and then, casting a swift glance about him, slid through the doorway before the door swung shut. Before him lay a simple stone corridor, torches mounted upon the walls, and the men were disappearing around the corner at its end.
Pausing at the corner, Colton watched in silence as they stopped halfway down the passageway. Alastor spoke in a voice raised barely above a whisper to Tyran, but he was too quiet for Colton to make out anything he said. Finally the king raised his hand to the wall in a fist and inserted his ring into a small, nearly imperceptible indention in the stone. For a moment all was silent, and then a portion of the stone swung slowly aside, revealing a dark corridor lost in the shadows beyond it. Tyran hesitated, but at another word from the king stepped forward and disappeared in flickering shadows the torches cast.
The door was already sliding closed, seemingly much more swiftly now that Colton was trapped apart from Tyran, but even as it seemed far too late he leapt from his position and slid through the gap with not an inch to spare. He paused, breathless though it had cost him little energy, and then his gaze turned down the passageway. All was dark now, for there were no torches and the king with Tyran and his lords were out of sight. Colton paused, turning back now being impossible, but he was losing his determination to continue further. He had been foolish—indeed, thoughtless—to come this far, and now he had left himself no choice but to continue in his folly. He stood there, without the faintest idea where he was, completely alone in the dark, weaponless, someplace underground. And he could walk hardly better than a cripple, he added to himself wryly. Whatever. He would die, sooner or later, if he remained there.
Colton continued down the corridor, and the next, and so on deeper into blackness and the underground maze. The only thing that kept him on was a kind of unfeeling persistence, with no motivation other than that he would be found and killed if he gave up. Admittedly, he had no less a chance of being found if he continued on, but at least he would be making progress—foolhardy though it was.
He had thoroughly lost his way within a very short while, though along with his bearings he had lost any sense of the time. Stumbling down the corridors, he found himself undeniably trapped, defeat and death waiting for him no matter what course he took. He was now at a fork in the tunnel, not the first he had crossed, but this one seemed somehow more forbidding, each not merely a possibility of straying farther from daylight, but a lurking, waiting mouth. Who could tell what lay within their caverns—perhaps some terrible beast, or a dozen men waiting silently in the dark with knives gleaming?
Colton shoved away the hallucinations, ready to plunge unheeding into the darkness of a tunnel, when faint voices reached him. They spoke in murmurs, sometimes laughing, sometimes growing deep and angry. He was going insane, he told himself, but somehow the notion did not seem so distasteful. Better insanity, he thought sardonically, than a clear mind to face the reality of whatever lay before him.
Pushing aside his weariness, he focused on the voices and found, to his sudden gladness, that they were real. No matter that they were, without doubt, the voices of enemies—there were indeed other men in these tunnels, and with them a chance to see daylight once more. Colton slipped down the passageway from which their voices echoed and discovered, with a renewed sense of hope, that they carried a torch with them.
Colton’s first impulse was to make his presence known, to run and seek from them the passage out of this deathly maze, but at the last moment something halted him—a certain wariness, perhaps an engrained fear of throwing his life away. He paused, just far enough away that their torches did not make his presence known, when suddenly something struck Colton as very familiar about one of the voices. It was a deep, certain voice, laughing at every man around him and, indeed, the whole world—a voice belonging to a man who thought himself much greater than his subjects and even his equals.
The name finally came to Colton’s mind. Valdis. Of course, it was Valdis, the lord having followed Alastor through the passages. But where either the king or Tyran were, Colton was given no clue. With Valdis were two more men, one short in stature, the other tall but with a weak, nasally tone of voice that Colton did not recognize. He silenced his thoughts to listen to their words, able to catch only pieces of the conversation as their voices rose and fell through the stone corridor.
“It is indeed a pity,” one rambled, the tall one, “that the knife should be taken to one so great.”
“Great?” scoffed the short man. “The spirits have willed him to die. Besides, he was a man of filth and lowliness, come from the streets, and deserving a death no better.”
The other spoke again, his voice like a bird as he complained something about his personal opinion on the matter, but his words were unintelligible.
“I don’t know why you have any reason to complain,” his companion interrupted him. “Wasn’t it you that was demoted from general in the army only a few years ago?”
“It was not a demotion—it was a reassignment.”
“I heard you were demoted.”
“I’m a lord now, am I not? And a mighty powerful one, seeing as how—”
“Cease your bickering.” Now it was Valdis who spoke, his voice mocking them. “You are fools to think you can take lightly the position you hold. You are only lords because someone was killed before you, and the same awaits you if you are not wise.”
“That’s a story they tell everyone,” retorted the short man.
“Killing?” questioned the other. “I never heard about any killing—”
“Silence, both of you! Or I’ll have Mazhura take her knife to you instead.”
“Mazhura?” He shuddered. “That woman came from the land of the dead, I have no doubt.”
“Hush!” Valdis hissed. “The messenger is coming now.”
To Colton’s relief, the man arrived from the opposite end of the corridor, giving a brief message and disappearing the way he had come.
“Very well then,” Valdis said. “We may leave here now.”
They were leaving! The thought leapt to Colton’s mind with strange hopefulness, for it meant he would be led out of the maze. And yet, hanging in his mind also were dozens of unanswered questions brought about by their conversation, brief though it was. But Valdis’s last words, tossed carelessly into the still air of the tunnel, was enough answer to make Colton lose all hope.
“Let the victor die,” he laughed, “and so continue our king’s reign.”
And then he was gone, leaving Colton with a sinking heart. There had been only one victor that night, and after the lords’ talk of death, an unstilled fear rose in his mind that it was Tyran who would die that night.
Oh my goodness! This took a turn! I really hope Tyran survives.
I find the POV interesting here. What POV are you shooting for?