Michael Sullivan - The emerald storm

"Wesley, you protect Grady. Wyatt, you and I will form the front and engage the warrior and chief. Just remember your line and stay away from him. Questions?"

If there were any, no one spoke up, so they all bedded down for a nap. After the workout, even Wesley managed to fall asleep.

The arena was a large oval open-air pit surrounded by a stone wall behind which tiers of spectators rose. Two gates at opposite ends provided entrance to opposing teams. Giant braziers mounted on poles illuminated the area. The dirt killing field, like everything else at the Palace of the Four Winds, had suffered from neglect. Large blocks of stone had fallen and small trees grew around them. Near the center, a shallow muddy pool formed. A partially hidden ribcage glimmered eerily in the firelight and a skull hung from a pike that protruded from the earth.

Walking out, Hadrian's mind reeled with memories. The scent of blood and cheering crowd opened a door he had thought locked forever. He was only seventeen the first time he entered an arena, yet his training made victory a certainty. He was the more knowledgeable, the more skilled, and the crowds loved him. He defeated opponent after opponent with ease. Larger, stronger men challenged him and died. When he fought teams of two and three, the results were always the same. The crowds began to chant his new name, Galenti-killer.

He traveled throughout Calis meeting with royalty, eating at banquets held in his honor, and sleeping with women given in tribute. He entertained his hosts with displays of skill and prowess. Eventually the battles became macabre. Multiple strong men were not enough. They tested him on Ghazel and wild animals. He fought boars, a pair of leopards, and finally the tiger.

He had killed scores of men in the arena without a thought, but the tiger in Mandalin was the last. Perhaps the blood he spilled finally soaked in, or he had grown older and matured beyond his desire for fame. Even now, he was unw name, Ga what was the truth and what he merely wanted to believe. Regardless, everything changed when the tiger died.

Each man he fought had a choice, but not the cat. As he watched the regal beast die, for the first time he felt like a murderer. In the stands above, the crowd shouted Galenti! The meaning never sunk in until that moment. His father's words reached him at last, but Danbury would die before Hadrian could apologize. Like the tiger, his father deserved better.

Now, as he entered the arena, the crowd once again shouted the name-Galenti! They cheered and stomped their feet like thunder. "Remember, Mister Wesley, stay back and guard Grady," Hadrian said, as they gathered not far from where the skull hung.

The far gate opened, and into the arena came the Ba Ran Ghazel. Hadrian could tell from his friends shocked expressions that even after his description they never expected what now came toward them. Everyone had heard tall tales of hideous goblins but no one really expected to see one, much less five, scurrying in full battle regalia illuminated by the flickering red glow of giant torch fires.

They were not human, not animal, nor anything at all familiar. They did not appear to be of the same world. Movements defied eyesight, muscles flexed unnaturally. They drifted across the ground on all fours. Rather than walk, they skittered, their claws clicking on the stones in the dirt. Their eyes flashed in the darkness, lit from within, a sickly yellow glow rising behind an oval pupil. Muscles rippled along hunched backs and arms as thick as a man's thigh. Their mouths were filled with row upon row of needle-sharp teeth that spilled out each side as if there was not enough room to contain them.

The warrior and the chief advanced to the center. They were large, and even hunched over still towered above Hadrian and Wyatt. Behind them, the smaller oberdaza, decorated in dozens of multicolored feathers, danced and hummed.

"I thought they were supposed to be smaller," Wyatt whispered to Hadrian.

"Ignore it, they're puffing themselves up like frogs-trying to intimidate you-make you think you can't win."

"They're doing a good job."

"The warrior is on the left, the chief is on the right," Hadrian told him. "Let me take the warrior, you have the chief. Try to stay on his left side, swing low, and don't get too close. He'll likely kill you if you do, and watch for arrows from the range."

From the walls, a flaming arrow struck the center of the field and the moment it did, drums began to beat.

"That's our cue," Hadrian said, and walked forward along with Royce and Wyatt.

The Ghazel chief and warrior waited for them at the center. Each held a short curved blade and a small round shield. They hissed at Hadrian and Wyatt as they approached. Wyatt had his cutlass drawn, but Hadrian purposely walked to meet them with his weapons sheathed. This brought a look from Wyatt.

"It's my way of puffing up."

Before they reached the center of the arena, Hadrian had lost track of Royce, who veered away into a shadow between the glow of bonfires.

"When do we start?" Wyatt asked.

"Listen for the sound of the horn."

This comment, overheard by the chief caused him to smile and he chattered to the warrior who chattered back.

"They can't understand us right?" Wyatt recited his line.

"Of course not," Hadrian lied. "They're just dumb animals. Remember we want to draw them forward so Royce can slip up behind the chief and kill him. He's the one we need to kill first. He's their leader. Without him, they will all fall apart. Just step back as you fight and he will follow you right into the trap."

More chattering.

Two more flaming arrows whistled and struck the ground.

"Get ready," Hadrian whispered, and very slowly drew both swords.

A horn sounded from the stands.

Wesley watched as Hadrian and the warrior slammed into one another, metal hissing. Wyatt however shuffled back like a dancer, his cutlass held up and ready. The chief stood still. Wary, the chief chose not to follow. Instead, he turned and sniffed the air.

Grady promptly let loose the first of his arrows. He aimed at the distant pile of dancing feathers, but greatly overshot. "Damn," he cursed, working to fit another in the string.

"Lower your aim," Wesley snapped.

"I never said I was a marksman, did I?"

Something hissed unseen by Wesley's ear. Grady fired a second shot. It landed too short, coming close to where Wyatt feinted trying to persuade the chief to follow him.

Hissing whistled by again.

"I think they're shooting their arrows at us," Wesley said, turning just in time to see Grady collapse with a black shaft buried in his chest. He hit the ground coughing and kicking, his hands struggled to reach the arrow. His fingers went limp, his hands flapped on the ends of his wrists. He flailed on the dirt, spitting blood, struggling to breathe. A third arrow hissed and struck Grady in the boot. His leg struggled to recoil, but his foot was pinned to the ground.

Wesley stared at him in horror as Grady shuddered then fell still.

Royce was already close to the oberdaza when the horn sounded. The clash of steel let him know the fight was on. He slipped around one of the shattered stone blocks, trying to find a position behind the witchdoctor, when the air felt wrong. It was no longer blowing, but bouncing-hitting something unseen. A quick glance at the field revealed only four Ghazel, the chief, the warrior, the oberdaza and the range. Royce ducked just in time to avoid a slit throat. He spun, cutting air with Alverstone. Turning, he found himself alone. On instinct, he dodged right and something cut through his cloak. He thrust back his elbow, and was rewarded with a solid meaty thump. Then it was gone again.