Resistance (Ilyon Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

Giants “Dorlanders”
—A very large race that stands between seven to nine feet tall. Known for their quiet nature and aversion to conflict.

Humans
—The primary inhabitants of Arcacia and Samara.

Ryriks
(RYE - ricks)—A fierce and savage race with black hair and almost luminescent blue eyes. Known for their quick rage and violence against other races.

Talcrins
—A tall race with dark skin and metallic looking eyes. Known for their love of knowledge.

Further information found in the Race Profiles at the back of the book.

For the
LORD
is a great God

And a great King above all gods.

- Ps. 95:3

For the LORD will judge His people

And will have compassion on His servants.

The idols of the nations are but silver and gold,

The work of man’s hands.

They have mouths, but they do not speak;

They have eyes, but they do not see
;

They have ears, but they do not hear,

Nor is there any breath at all in their mouths.

Those who make them will be like them,

Yes, everyone who trusts in them
.

- Ps. 135:14-18

F
leeing
. Rayad crunched his brows down. At this age, he should have been retired and living comfortably, but no. He was a wanted man.

His gaze darted from one person to another in the milling crowd while his heart knocked his ribs in a strong, elevated rhythm that hadn’t slowed in more than a day. What he wouldn’t give to be sitting in the cool shade of his front porch right now, admiring the farmland he had worked for so many years. But it was all gone now, along with that familiar life.

He skirted the outer edge of Troas’s arena and kept to the shadows of the stone and weathered wood walls, which were in sore need of repair. It would be just his luck to have them collapse on him. Faded red banners fluttered overhead, far too festive even in their tattered state. No one should celebrate what took place here, but the roaring cheers inside disagreed with him.

A glimpse of gold fabric sent a kick to his innards. His hand jumped to his sword hilt, but the blade remained sheathed. He wouldn’t use it unless he had no choice. Once in twenty-four hours was enough. He still hadn’t found time to scrub all the dried blood from around his fingernails yet.

He spun around in search of a different route and grimaced at the only alternative. The arena. He ducked behind a group of wealthy merchants and joined the flow of spectators who would cover his retreat to the other side. Shadows engulfed him, and he blinked as his eyes adjusted. If the walls were going to topple, now would be a very bad time. Hot, humid air descended and burned his nostrils with the musty odor of hundreds of bodies crammed into the enclosed space. He wrinkled his nose and tried not to breathe too deeply. The roar of the crowd deafened him and added to the unpleasantness. Masses of screaming people packed the stands above him. Their thumping feet rained dust down into his eyes. He hated to imagine what caused such a commotion. Time to find the nearest exit.

He set out on a determined course, but people congested the path. They pushed and shoved with little show of courtesy. Rayad bit back a grumble when they forced him to stop and wait for the way to clear. He peered through the crowd for any sign of the distinctive gold and black uniforms of the emperor’s soldiers, but everyone
blended together in this mass—grimy peasants and silk-clad nobles alike. Though it worked in his favor, it didn’t help his mood. After a sleepless night on the road, he wanted to finish here and be on his way to safer country. He balled his fists. If these people had no concern for civility, then fine. He shoved through them, squeezing past the horde of sweat-dampened bodies until he hit a group of bulky men who refused to budge—blacksmiths and woodsmen, by the look of their worn leather jerkins and rough linen shirts. He scowled and glanced through a small open window to his left, down into the arena some ten feet below. Though he had no desire to witness the grisly sport, his eyes stuck there.

Two sparsely armored men circled each other and passed close to his vantage point. One, a tall blond brute he wouldn’t have relished messing with, carried a short sword and a large, round shield riddled with dents and notches. The other had his broad back to Rayad with a long sword outstretched in front of him. Spots of crimson stained the men’s clothing. Their gusty breaths reached Rayad even up here—proof they’d been fighting for a while.

In a blink, they crashed together and drew an uproar of cheers from the crowd. The screech of metal set Rayad’s teeth on edge, and his fingers tingled as if the swords rested in his hands. He set his eyes on the man with the long sword. His mouth dropped open. The fighter was just a boy—no more than sixteen or seventeen years of age! Still, he was tall—at least as tall as Rayad, if not taller. Fierce determination and concentration drew his face taut. Though a path had opened for Rayad to move on, a strange investment in the outcome of this fight willed him to stay.

The two fighters clashed again. Rayad followed every move the young man made. Such skill in spite of his youth; such explosiveness and strength behind his attacks. He’d be more than a match for most men. Each move appeared as natural as breathing, his blade placement precise and murderously quick. Impressive. This boy was no brawling fighter, which was so common in the arenas.

Back and forth, blows landed with the shriek and clang of metal. Rayad leaned over the edge of the window, careful not to trust it with his full weight. His eyes remained fixed on the young fighter. While he couldn’t, in good conscience, wish for the other man to die, he found himself pulling for a victory for the younger man. The gladiator’s bare arms and shoulders bulged with thick muscle and glistened with sweat as he swung his sword blade in a blurred arc. Beads of moisture dripped from his chin and the ragged ends of his black hair. Exhaustion dogged both men, weighing on their movements and slowing their pace. The excitement in the stands heightened with anticipation for the imminent conclusion. Rayad’s breath grew shallow.

From somewhere, the young man summoned a hidden reserve of energy. Sword raised, he drove into his opponent. The blond fighter staggered and struggled for an advantage against the ear-ringing
downstrokes of his rival’s blade. The rain of blows continued in its ferocity until he lost his balance and crashed to the ground. A thundering of cheers erupted when the young man positioned himself over his fallen foe, poised to deliver the killing blow.

The young man’s eyes turned to the stands. His chest heaved. One by one, the people jabbed their thumbs toward their throats and chanted in unison for the fallen man’s death. The rhythmic outcry pounded into Rayad’s ears. Of
course they wouldn’t call for mercy. A crowd this invested would want bloodshed. Rayad shook his head. He shouldn’t watch this, but something held him there—some pull to see the fight to the end—though he would probably regret it later.

The young gladiator’s gaze shifted to the officiator of the games. The overweight lord slid from his seat and shambled to the edge of his viewing box where he held out his fist. With increased vigor, the crowd called for death, all eyes on the lord’s outstretched thumb. In an almost contemptuous motion, he jerked it toward his throat. The crowd broke into cheers.

Rayad let go a long sigh, a dull ache in his chest. No one, especially someone so young, should be forced into murder. But what did he expect? The world seemed to thrive on this sort of cruelty.

At first, the young man did nothing. His sword point still hovered over his kneeling opponent’s chest. Rayad’s own heartbeat slowed as the young man’s eyes dropped from the stands. He raised his sword higher. The crowd, now hushed, leaned forward.

In a blur of motion, the young man spun his sword around and smashed the hilt into his opponent’s head. A solid blow, but not a lethal one. The man went limp and fell senseless to the dirt. Rayad’s lungs released their held breath. All fell silent for a moment, but then boos and jeers poured from the spectators. Turning in a slow circle, the young man glared at them. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed his sword aside and marched toward one of the gates. Half-eaten food and garbage pelted him along the way, and the angry, hate-filled shouts continued well after he was out of sight. Rayad glanced once at the officiator. A scowl put deep lines in the man’s pudgy forehead. He ought to be down in that arena fighting for his life. Maybe then he wouldn’t be so quick to condemn a man to death.

Rayad tore himself from the opening and shook the images away as he emerged outside the arena on the far side. A den of madness and evil. That’s what his father had always said about the games. And he’d known it firsthand as a slave and caretaker of the horses often used in gladiatorial fights. Though he’d earned his freedom and turned that knowledge of horses into a lucrative business of breeding and training the animals, he was a rarity. Most enslaved men involved in the games never escaped the bloodshed of the arenas.

Rayad thanked his Creator he never had to have a part in it. Men were not supposed to kill each other for sport. It wasn’t the way of Elôm. But the knowledge of Elôm had died to mere myths in the minds of many in Ilyon these days, with Arcacia leading the way. If that weren’t true, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

Setting his mind
again on what he must do, he came upon the local market. Stalls and carts lined each side of a narrow street between the rough stone buildings and clogged traffic nearly as much as in the arena. He grumbled under his breath, good and tired of so many people. He couldn’t reach the forest again fast enough. Red and gold overhangs shadowed the path from the sinking sun, but it also trapped the hot, stifling air beneath. Not even an overburdened spice cart could cut the stench of sweat. How he hated cramped and dirty markets—and he’d seen enough of them in his days of trading and selling horses. Yet, once again, the unpleasant crowd provided necessary cover.

Near one stall at the end of the lane, his eyes caught on a shadowed figure, and he murmured a silent prayer of thanks. He slipped through the remaining people, sidestepping a pair of grubby children who raced by, and joined the other man in the shadows.

“Ah, Warin, you’re here.” Rayad clasped the man’s thick, bracer-protected forearm. Splitting up to disguise their trail had been wise after all. At least they both still drew breath.

“Thank the King you made it.” Warin kept his deep voice low. “I was beginning to worry.”

“I took it slow and made sure to cover my trail. The emperor’s men are everywhere.” Rayad glanced around. No sign of gold and black uniforms her
e
…
yet. “We’re probably ahead of any messengers from Falspar, but we can’t be too careful.”

Warin agreed.

Rayad returned his eyes to his friend as his heart sank. Would they really part here for the last time? This grimy, undesirable place in the middle of nowhere? They were like brothers—they’d grown up together, worked together. He’d never expected their lifelong friendship to end like this.

“Have you made up your mind on where you’ll go?”