Bazil Broketail (55 page)

The women, many of them stolen from the land of Kenor or from the Teetol tribes, gave up a savage shout for blood and revenge and surged forward with Lessis at their head.

Puxdool and Nesessitas circled each other. The troll was a new type—its head was snakelike, unarguably reptilian. And it moved about more quickly than any troll Nesessitas had fought before.

Their blades rang on each other occasionally as they tried a feint, a sudden thrust.

Watching, Bazil of Quosh felt a terrible fear descend on him. Nessi was a good fighter, but not a quick one. She had great technique, and used the shield as intelligently as the sword, but she lacked speed. This troll was deadly, true dragonbane, for it was as fast as any dragon, and Bazil could tell it was quicker than Nessi.

Nesessitas knew the danger. She moved constantly to her right; the troll was righthanded, like herself, and it was almost as large as the green dragon, at least as tall.

They traded blows, clashed shields and shoved at each other. Nesessitas was the stronger, despite the poor diet in recent days; she pushed the troll away and almost took its head with a slashing cut of the sword.

They circled again, Puxdool feinting, moving to the right always. Again they came together, their swords met and bright sparks flew, and they broke apart and circled.

Once again Puxdool came in with his sword swinging high to meet hers, and then he spun and shoved Nessi hard and cut low with a backhand—it was clearly a much practiced move.

Nessi danced backwards, but Puxdool’s sword tip caught her across one knee and drew blood.

Disaster!

Bazil groaned in sick disbelief. A lucky blow, catching her unawares. The knee was ruined. Nesessitas ground her teeth at the pain. She could barely move now.

The troll was dancing to her right; she turned, the knee was a terrible torment.

Steel whined on steel as their blades met. Again and again, shields clashing hard enough to spend fat sparks shooting out onto the sand.

The crowd was on its feet chanting, “Puxdool! Puxdool!”

The knee gave, she slid down.

The troll’s sword lanced in; Nessi felt it slide home between her ribs. Then it was gone and rising again to chop down.

All the strength was suddenly gone from her, her blade slipped, the shield fell. She was felling. The troll’s sword swung in again and half severed her neck.

She was down.

It was over. Puxdool hacked down viciously to sever Nesessitas’s neck and stood with one foot planted on her prone body, then held the bloody head up to the crowd which continued chanting “Puxdool!” over and over while stamping its feet in unison.

Bazil of Quosh looked away, sickened, barely able to believe what he had seen.

A single lucky blow had destroyed the most graceful of the dragons of the righting 109th. The last shreds of Bazil’s temper snapped. Incoherent rage took over.

“Just let me at him!” he roared, shaking furiously in the pen and lifting the heavy steel up and down on the stone blocks it was tethered to.

Men and imps jumped back in alarm, trolls hammered on the bars, an imp in a black leather costume lashed a whip over Bazil’s back.

But Puxdool was walking away. Horns were blowing, drums booming, and the cursed troll was walking away! Bazil could not believe he would not get to fight Puxdool next.

There would be no chance for revenge? It was impossible to believe, too sickening to believe. Beyond anything he had ever felt before, the Quoshite leatherback now wished for the chance to confront Puxdool. Puxdool had fought a dragon with good technique but no speed; Puxdool had triumphed through his lucky blow, now let the damned troll take on a dragon who had speed as well as technique!

But Puxdool was gone; the huge double doors were closing behind the troll champion.

And rolling across the arena was a large metal box on heavy wheels. Pulling it was an army of slaves struggling forward with puny limbs and scrawny bodies under the lash from six heavyset imps.

The Valkyrie rode by, the golden youth tossing out double handfuls of dead leaves as they passed Nesessitas’s body, which was being winched slowly into the side entrance of the arena. The golden youth picked up the voice trumpet and began announcing the next event.

The slaves hauling the box came to a halt, then they ran for their lives as one of the imps pulled the bolts on the box. As the last bolt came loose, he too took to his heels.

The pen gate was opened and Baz was goaded from behind with a sharp hook. In truth, he needed little encouragement.

He stepped out smartly, feeling exposed suddenly, the focus of the multitudes in the stadium. He was alone on the sand but for the Valkyrie in her chariot. Calmly he estimated his chances of running down the chariot.

She drove her team by with a sizzle of wheels on sand. The white horses were immaculate; he knew he hadn’t a hope in hell of catching up with her in this vast space.

The Valkyrie rode back closer this time, taunting him, while the youth repeated his announcements to the crowd.

Bazil could not hear the words clearly, but even as the people sitting above him began to roar in appreciation, the door to the metal box crashed down.

To Bazil’s amazement another dragon emerged, a wild drake of enormous girth and angry eyes. It vented a scream of rage and leaped forward and began to paw the ground with heavy claws.

Lessis knew that time was precious now; she had but a few minutes in which to seize the advantage of surprise. Fortunately she knew the way between the breeding pens and her destination. There was a chance—a slight chance, but enough of a chance to give her hope of salvaging a victory from the ruins of her pursuit of Thrembode the magician.

Quickly she led her small force of enraged women through the secret ways of Tummuz Orgmeen, meeting no one in the dank tunnels of the deep. Finally she halted them at the bottom of a narrow stair that spiraled upwards to unknown heights.

She checked it carefully; there were a set of marks cut into the stones at the base.

“This is it, the overseer’s stair.” She took Relkin aside while the women watched with mystified eyes, their hands clutching whatever weapons they had managed to liberate.

“Climb the stair for me, Relkin. At the top you will find a gallery that looks over the arena. I want a report on what is happening there.”

“Where will I find you, lady?”

She pointed ahead where the passage they had been following turned right.

“When you return here go down the passage and keep to the right—I expect you will hear us at work.”

“At work?”

“Yes, young man. We have a lot of hard work ahead of us.”

Relkin didn’t ask any more questions; he knew there was no time. He blew Lagdalen a kiss and then scampered up the stairs.

Lessis watched him go for a few seconds, then signaled to her followers and went on, almost at a run.

Relkin was already several turns around the stair by then and still climbing the steps two at a time. The stair wound into a roof and became enclosed, just stone steps ascending into the dark, around and around the central core.

After a while his legs began to tire, and then to ache, but he continued the climb. He lost track of everything except the sound of his breathing and the scuff of his boots on the stone.

And then suddenly he heard a tremendous surge of noise, the roar of a vast crowd and a rhythmic stamping of feet. The sounds and the vibrations were all around him, and he realized that the stair was now close beneath or beside the seats of the amphitheater.

On he went, and the sounds came again at regular intervals as he climbed, until suddenly he noticed a light coming in from above, and then after another turn or two he saw a glint of sunlight falling through a straight crack in the vault of stone. He reached the top and explored the ceiling above with his fingers. There was a heavy steel ring set within a pin in the center and to one side a bolt that was slid into a recessed hole in the stone. He pulled the bolt free and then pushed upwards on the ring and found that the trapdoor moved quite easily, sliding up as a hidden counterbalance moved down.

He looked out over a smooth stone floor in an open gallery space. The bright sunlight hurt his eyes, but there was no one in sight so he climbed out and set his feet on the floor.

The gallery was of stone, open on one side in a series of heart-shaped windows. At either end there was a stoutly made door.

Carefully he let the trap slide shut. He observed that it was hidden by its resemblance to all the other flat stones of the floor. To mark it he drew an X in the dust on its top.

The roar of the great crowd came again, welling up from below, and he approached the nearest window and looked out. It was an amazing sight.

To his left, at the end of the gallery, stood the great bulk of the keep. Elsewhere he looked down on a series of great tiers of seats, packed with brightly garbed people. The tiers swept around in a vast curve, surrounding the central arena. The sand below glittered brightly, and upon it there moved small figures caught up in a struggle for survival.

Above and beyond this scene was a clear blue sky with an occasional fluffy cloud, the rest of the great city was hidden from view.

Relkin stiffened—the figures below were dragons! And one of them had a bent and misshapen tail. He sucked in a breath, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest.

His dragon was down there, but even now he fought for his life on the sand of the arena!

A sound caught his attention, a scraping of metal to his left. Someone was unlocking the door.

Quickly he got to his feet and flattened himself against the wall beside the door. The door swung back and almost smashed him against the stone.

He heard heavy footsteps tramp across the length of the gallery, and then a key worked the lock of the other door and opened it.

Relkin peered around the door.

A guard had opened the other door and was going through it. Relkin slipped from his place of concealment and looked through the still open door at his end of the gallery.

He glimpsed a curving stone wall, a pair of heavy double doors that were shut, and to his left an open door. Someone was coming around the curve in the wall. There was no time to go back so he jumped through the open door.

It was a long room, paneled in dark wood and hung with trophies from the many campaigns of the armies of the Doom. Swords, banners, armor and helmets, all captured from the legions of Argonath, were nailed to the walls.

In the center of the room was a long table, and along the walls were a series of heavy chests. But it was the great sword lying on the table that immediately riveted Relkin’s gaze. He would have known it anywhere; Piocar, the dragon blade forged in the village of Quosh. It shimmered there, all nine feet of it.

There were footsteps close behind. Hurriedly he dropped to his knees and crawled behind one of the heavy chests by the wall; there was just room enough for him to squeeze in. He crouched there and tried not to breathe.

Two men had entered the room; they shut the door behind them. One of them growled something in a harsh-sounding tongue unknown to Relkin, and the other replied in a smoother voice using the common tongue.

There was something vaguely familiar about that second voice.

“I think we can dispense with formalities between ourselves, magician,” said the first, heavier voice.

“I agree absolutely, General.”

“The fact is you have found nothing. You say you felt the witch’s presence and we have had trolls cutting rock in pursuit of her for hours, but nothing further has been found. Basically, you face the displeasure of the Doom.”

“General, you have known me for a long time, you know I would not stoop to lie about such a thing. I believe the witch is still alive and is loose somewhere in the city.”

“Of course you do, and you want me to proclaim an emergency and put my troops all over the city and carry on your wild goose chase.”

“Not a wild goose, much more dangerous.”

“Hah, of course. And by this maneuver you hope to save your neck, eh? You think the Doom will overlook the fact that you have failed to find the witch yourself although you were expressly ordered to.”

“It matters little what I hope for. What matters is that the hag is out there and you aren’t helping us to apprehend her.”

“Ah, Thrembode, always you are the same, a slippery customer, ready to get around the plainest instructions. I can’t remember your ever having completed an assignment as ordered.”

“General, there is no point to this. Proclaim the emergency, we mustn’t waste time.”

“Hah, every second we waste takes you closer to the edge of disaster, magician. For years you have been a thorn in the side of my administration. Now you will be given up to be destroyed—it is a great moment for me.”

There was a silence, then the smooth voice began again but now with more edge to it.

“General, please listen to me, do not do this. For the sake of petty spite you risk the entire city!”

“On your knees, eh, Thrembode? Grovel, you dog.”

“Perhaps if you lick my boots with sufficient eagerness I will consider helping you.”

The heavier voice was thick with gloating pleasure.

“Thrembode, unless you lick my boots now I will have you flayed slowly, whipped by my imps to the edge of death.”

“No, General, please.”

“Thrembode, do you remember Kadein?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you remember a woman named Aixe?”

“She had the blue villa. I stayed there once.”

“Your bungling led to her being seized by the enemy. We lost an entire ring of spies because she was made to talk.”

The voice had filled with rage now.

“I loved that woman, Thrembode, and you killed her as surely as I will kill you!”

“No, no. You must listen.”

“Hah, what do I care for your tales? You shall go to the Doom.”

There was a sudden clink, and then a gasp and a choked cry of rage.