Tyran was the first to break from this awe that had seized the men upon sight of the king’s palace, and urged his horse forward with the might of a king, approaching the palace as if it were his very own dominion. In his lead followed Colton, and then Bordstern and his men continued forward. At the gates of the palace waited a line of guards for them, from which one stepped forward and addressed Tyran.
“Are you the trainer of these men?” he inquired.
“Not I,” Tyran stepped aside. “This man, Bordstern, is the one you seek.”
If the guard was surprised, he hid any sign of it.
“King Alastor will see you inside,” he said. “Your men will be shown to their quarters.”
Bordstern turned and smiled arrogantly upon his men. “Move along then,” he ordered, but the boastful command wasn’t necessary. The men had already begun to take their leave of him, and the order was ignored. Bordstern snorted in contempt and turned to make his entrance, leaving his men with a large escort of soldiers.
Tyran allowed himself and the others to be conducted through the outer wall of the arena. Before them spread a wide corridor, encircling the entire arena and lying beneath the vast stands for the spectators during the Games. Here there was a sharp contrast to the finery of Alastor’s palace, for the walls were old and stained, and the stones that laid the floor were near crumbling. But still the arena held something of strength. Even as the building grew ancient it was unshakeable, the realm of Vellatha’s most gifted warriors for ages.
As the two walked along the passageway, Tyran motioned to Colton, “It’s said that beneath these two buildings dwells Odamir, the greatest spirit of battle. According to the ancient tales of Vellatha, a city was built in secret, or perhaps a labyrinth, beneath the palace of the king. It is the dwelling place of Odamir, as well as the spirits of the dead who were chosen victor of the Games. There the king may converse with these spirits, that he may glean from their wisdom and remain the greatest warrior upon Vellatha.”
“Do the kings and his sons, then, perform some special kind of training? Or how is it guaranteed that he shall be the best warrior?”
“The king has no heir. His sons are sent away at the age of thirteen, like every other boy in the kingdom, to make their own lives for themselves. Upon the king’s death any man above the rank of a slave may take his place, if only he can prove himself the greatest, but it is generally expected that one of the seven lords shall be made the next king.”
Colton was silent, his mind turning once again to his surroundings, but this time a stroke of uneasiness hit him. They were led down a narrow stairway underground, where the corridors and doors began to less resemble the mighty arena above them and more a dungeon. The guards halted in a large room, strewn with straw, and a door of iron.
“Inside,” a guard directed.
“A dungeon cell?” Colton asked.
“It is for your own safety and that of the king and his court,” the guard replied.
Colton glanced to Tyran.
“It’s alright,” he nodded, but nevertheless he was the last to enter the cell.
The room was, in one word, dank. It had certainly been a dungeon once, but a few minor changes had been completed to make it seem less so. Cots against the walls, blankets in a pile upon the floor, and a small table completed their attempts, but it made little difference. The cell smelled foul and the purpose of the straw was defeated, having molded long ago. Colton was restless, but Tyran assured him the use of the dungeon was entirely usual.
“So many men rivaling for the same fate,” he said, “we would all be dead if not kept beyond each other’s reach.
“Will not many die anyway?”
“No man is forced to compete. They know, as well as you do, the chance they take by participating. But no sane man would turn down the opportunity, even if he were sure it would be his death.”
“What do they have to fight for, though? Is it not a disgraceful life, to serve only and ever yourself?”
“If they do not fight for themselves, it is for a woman,” Tyran said, smiling, “as is the case for you.”
“I fight for Fianna, yes. But more than that I fight against the deception this world lies in. Vellatha has become blind. She sees only her own advantage, worshiping her spirits, and sinking into the lies of her laws and legends. Those within her may not have eyes to see it, but to any outsider she is an enslaving world. I am sorry, Tyran, to say such about your kingdom, but I cannot see it any other way.”
Tyran was silent for a moment. “You speak what is right to you,” he said. “I understand that. But Vellatha is a great kingdom, and so shall she always be to me. All that I have achieved has been done through her laws, and all I have known has come through her legends. Here I have become the man you see before you, and apart from this world I have nothing. That is the truth I see.”
“There are no multiple truths. Good and evil cannot be mixed; there is no in-between to truth. And when this world ends, when you die, what then? For I assure you, no man spends the afterlife eating and drinking, praising himself for the good he accomplished in the life before.”
“I do not believe the world is so wicked as you imagine it to be, my friend.”
“If the world is not wicked, why must every man face death? What accounts for injustice, and pain, and slavery, if the world is only full of goodness and happiness?”
Outside, clouds had rolled across the sky and thunder shook the ground. Tyran was silent, gazing across the room in deep, unreadable thought, his eyes as dark as the growing storm outside. The night passed slowly, tormented by the storm, but as morning rose it passed, leaving the men in restless hope for their future. They were brought large trays of food upon waking, but though the other men stuffed themselves Colton did not share their hunger. In only a week, the Games would be over and his fate would be decided. And though he ached to think he should return to the training center for another long year, he wondered what chance he really held. Had not Ealric already put in a word what his accomplishments were? Talented, but not masterful. And nothing but mastery would win the Games.
If Colton entered the arena that morning doubting, Tyran could not have been more the reverse. He bore himself with more dignity and might than Alastor himself, the flash of his gaze striking sudden fear into the minds of those on whom it fell.
Seventy men entered the arena alongside Colton, before them waiting an audience unlike any other. Its size alone was enough to marvel at, but beyond that there was a certain vitality possessed within it, a love of life and the skills it offered. And certainly, it was not any passing, lowly talent they had eyes to admire; but one talent alone: the wielding of the sword with all the artistry and might man could present—the art of battle in its finest and highest form. This was the one thing the people of Vellatha could respect and give their lives for—the idol of an entire world. It was the center of every man’s life and the only thing for which a woman could be expected to offer her love.
Foremost among all the people gathered there sat the king upon a great throne high in the stands, surrounded by his lords. It was to him that every eye turned and every head bowed, and he that gave the word to begin the Games. More than all this, the king would give the final word to end the Games, and it would be left to his choice to select the winner in the end.
The first day held little variety. It passed slowly in duel after duel, and though Colton was at first taken off guard by the differing methods practiced by each group of men, he warmed up to their styles of fighting and did as well as he could expect against them. What would come in the next days, he knew, would require all the energy and expertise within him, so he took the first day slowly and did not strain himself. By evening he and his companions had retired to their cell, ready to devour their dinner and collapse in bed.
That morning the sun shone bright upon the arena, its rays flooding through the stone pillars. Squinting in the glare, Colton emerged from the arena’s dim corridors to gaze upon seventy magnificent horses, their appearances as wild as the ocean. A fire lay behind their eyes, displayed in tangled manes and the tossing of their heads. They were unarguably creatures of great majesty, but a brutality lay beneath that impressiveness, a savage ferocity that wanted only to kill.
Perhaps it was only the instinct of survival within that fierce pounding of their hooves, but the mentality of these horses ran deeper than that. They knew their power, and they should never be satisfied to achieve anything less than what they were capable of—and should they die in attempts to make themselves the greatest, that was the fate they would receive. If they were driven to death, it was by their own deed, but they would fight death with all the relentlessness and fury in their wild minds till they or it was conquered.
It was these steeds on which the lives of Colton and his opponents suddenly rested. That day there was only one competition in which they would partake—and these creatures would be turned to racehorses for it. Tyran was the first to mount one of the horses, and beneath his grip its ferocity turned to serve him rather than fight him.
The race that followed turned quickly to one savage, crashing wave of dust and the beat of horses’ hooves. Any man who fell from his horse fell from any chance of glory, his very presence forgotten as soon as the eye turned from him. The race had little to do with who won. The victor of that competition was the man who exhibited the most control, a certain cool fearlessness astride these steeds that seemed to belong to the very lake of fire. And Tyran had just that. His jaw was clenched like iron, and his eyes as fierce as the power in the horse beneath him, but he took all its freedom and might into his hands with extraordinary calmness.
How Colton ever stayed astride his horse, he did not know. He had ridden horses since his youth, but this—this could hardly be called horseback riding. It was much more than that, like trying to turn the very thunder and lightning of the heavens to your own use.
They were in the arena for scarcely more than an hour that day, but the group that left it was far different than that which had made its entrance that morning. At best, the men made their exit sore and exhausted, their lungs aching from the dust and hearts still pounding from the furious race. But that was the height of their condition. Colton turned his head from the many carried away upon stretchers, half-horrified and half-angry at the condition the Games had brought them to.
“Every man knows the chances he takes,” Tyran said to Colton as they left.
“It is not right,” Colton said quietly. “This world claims to give so much, but all I can see is everything it is taking in the process.”
“I don’t understand,” Tyran said as they entered the cell. “No other man here is grieved to see those men be taken away. If anything, the sight gladdens them, for it heightens their own chances of victory. But you hide your eyes and pity them, when it was their own choice and desire that led them to the state they are now in.”
“Have these men no heart? Are their wounds and misfortunes to be rejoiced at? They gave their lives to a meaningless goal that they were taught to strive after, deceived into thinking there was no better fate.”
“Death is a part of every world. We shall all meet it someday; is it not better to give it in glory than live to be a weak old man?”
“Old age is not so shameful as you make it out to be. As for glory, have these men achieved it? Will they be remembered by any after this day?”
“If their weakness is what caused their failure, that is their own fault. The world is not tender, Colton, neither shall we be.”
Tyran turned and left for his bed, leaving Colton in confused thought. Tyran was right—these men, including himself, had made their choice, and that was to risk death for greatness. But was that not a senseless choice, he wondered? Were they not all fools, throwing away their lives in the slim chance they might enjoy some small idea of greatness, which soon would pass away as they faced death in the end anyway?
Great job!
I like the questions brought up between Colton and Tyran, about wickedness in the world, death, and whether glory will have been achieved or not. And I think it’s neat that you wove a little argument about subjective versus objective truth into their conversation, as well!