Rise of Empire (The Riyria Revelations #3-4)

“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, and 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 in 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 beyond the glow of bonfires.

“When do we start?” Wyatt asked.

“Listen for the sound of the horn.”

This comment was overheard by the chief, causing him to smile. 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, then very slowly he drew both swords.





A horn sounded from the stands.

Wesley watched as Hadrian and the warrior slammed into each other, metal clanging. Wyatt, however, shuffled back like a dancer, his cutlass held up and ready. The chief stood still, sniffing the air.

Grady 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 are 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, and 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 his boot. His leg struggled to recoil, but his foot was pinned to the ground.

Wesley stared 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 had slipped around one of the shattered stone blocks, trying to find a position behind the witch doctor, 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. Something cut through his cloak. He thrust back his elbow and was rewarded with a solid, meaty thump. Then it was gone again.

Royce spun completely around, but he could see nothing.

In the center of the arena, Hadrian battled with the warrior while Wyatt taunted the chief, who was still reluctant to engage. The range fired arrow after arrow. Beside him, the oberdaza danced and sang.

Intuition told Royce to move again, only he was too late. Thick, heavy arms gripped him as the weight of a body drove him forward. His feet slipped and he fell, pulled down to the bloodstained earth. He turned his blade and stabbed, but it passed through thin air. He could feel clawed hands trying to pin him. Royce twisted like a snake, depriving his attacker of a firm grip. He repeatedly cut at the shadowy thing, but nothing connected. Then he felt the hot breath of the Ghazel finisher.





Hadrian’s stroke glanced off the Ghazel’s shield. He thrust with his other sword but found it blocked by an excellent parry. The warrior was good. Hadrian had not anticipated his skill. He was strong and fast, but more importantly, more frighteningly, the Ghazel anticipated Hadrian’s moves perfectly. The warrior stabbed and Hadrian dodged back and to the left. The Ghazel bashed his face with his shield, having started his swing even before Hadrian turned. It was as if his opponent were reading his mind. Hadrian staggered backward, putting distance between them to catch his breath.

Above, the crowd booed their displeasure with Galenti. Beside him, Wyatt was still playing with the chief. His ruse had bought the helmsman time. The chief was too afraid of Royce to engage, but it would not last long. Hadrian needed to finish his opponent quickly, only now he was not even certain he could win.

The warrior advanced and swung. Hadrian spun to the left. Once more the Ghazel anticipated his move and cut Hadrian across the arm. He staggered back and dodged behind a large fallen block, keeping it between him and his opponent.

The crowd booed and stomped their feet.

Something was very wrong. The warrior should not be this good. His form was bad, his strokes lacking expertise, yet he was beating him. The warrior attacked again. Hadrian took a step back and his foot caught on a rock and he stumbled. Once more the Ghazel appeared to foresee this and was ready with a kick that sent Hadrian into the dirt.

He lay flat on his back. The warrior screamed a cry of victory and raised his sword for a downward penetrating kill. Hadrian started to twist left to dodge the thrust, but at the last minute, while still concentrating his thoughts on turning left, he pulled back to center. The stroke of the warrior pierced the turf exactly where Hadrian would have been.





Grady was dead and the arrows were still coming.

Wesley was shaken. He had already failed in his duty. Not knowing what else to do, he picked up the trilon, fitted an arrow, and let it loose. Wesley was no archer. The arrow did not even fly straight, but spun wildly, falling flat on the ground not more than five yards ahead of him.