The ape gave a final bellow, either of triumph or rage, and sagged onto the arena floor, sand flying high as it breathed its last. Reva moved closer as the Empress struggled, still somehow alive, blood flowing in torrents from her mouth as she laboured to heave herself off the ape’s claw, finally succeeding with a shriek of agony. She lay panting, breath coming in hard, convulsive tics as she stared up at Reva with the same wide, unreasoning eyes, smiling with a genuine affection that made Reva’s hand itch for a sword.
She became aware of the sound of battle once more, looking up to see that the conflict had spread across the tiers, the Volarian citizenry huddled together as the fighting raged around them. It appeared the Cumbraelins had been reinforced by Realm Guard, Lord Nortah’s free fighters judging by the number of women in their ranks. Also she glimpsed the trailing blond hair of the Shield on the lower terraces, fighting alongside several dozen freed Garisai. She sent a prayer to the Father to ensure Allern was amongst them. The knots of red and black were shrinking under the combined assault, though, as ever the Arisai showed no dismay at their own imminent passing, fighting to the last and laughing as they died.
Reva started as the Empress issued a loud, hacking snarl, arms flailing as she sought to rise, gaze fixed on something at the north end of the arena, a single word discernible among her blood-choked babble. “Bitch!”
Queen Lyrna Al Nieren strode across the sand, accompanied by her hulking Lord Protector and a tall, aged brother of the Sixth Order Reva didn’t recognise. A dozen or so Realm Guard fanned out on either side as she came towards Reva, waving away her bow and drawing her into a warm embrace. “My lady. Please accept my sincere apologies for not reaching you sooner.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Vaelin
They were obliged to force their way through a horde of fleeing Volarians, all too panicked and livid with terror to even recognise a group of foreign invaders. Many pelted through the redflower on either side of the road, shorn of any baggage as they fled, recent horrors etched into bleached features. In contrast the families moved in dense, wary knots, clutching meagre bundles with their children held close, small faces bunched in tears or frozen in fear.
Astorek leaned down to pull a man from the throng, a balding grey-clad of middling years with a little boy clinging to his side. He answered the shaman’s questions in clipped tones, habitual servility overcoming his dread.
“The Empress has set her Arisai on the city,” Astorek reported, releasing the grey-clad, who stumbled on without pause. “They’re killing everyone. He seemed to think it was punishment for not attending the arena, even though the place could never hold all of them.”
Vaelin turned to the Ally, regarding the passing refugees with only vague interest. “Is this your doing?” he demanded.
The Ally shrugged and shook his head. “She was mad even before I took her. And these people have always stirred her hatred.”
They moved on, breaking free of the fleeing mob after another mile and proceeding into the city. The eastern district seemed to be the merchants’ quarter, rich in warehouses and canals, their dark waters thick with floating corpses. Here and there dazed people wandered into their path, wounded or shocked into passivity. Horrors greeted them at every turn, women wept over murdered children and mystified infants prodded fallen parents. Vaelin closed his heart against it all and kicked Scar to a faster trot, his gaze fixed on the arciform mass of the arena rising from the centre of the city. He shot continual inquisitive looks at Kiral, who could only confirm the urgent note of her song.
After a tortuous hour-long ride they broke into the parkland surrounding the arena where he forced Scar to full gallop, hearing a rising cacophony as they neared the great red-gold edifice. Something flickered in the corner of his eye and he turned to see a line of people running towards the arena’s south-facing wall, perhaps five hundred, all armed. His gaze went to the figure in the lead, picking out the dark blue cloak and the familiar, precise gait of his run. He angled Scar to the left, leaping corpses and thundering over marble and grass to charge into the path of the onrushing fighters, dragging him to a halt and raising his hand.
The charging line came to a slow stop as Frentis waved his sword. They were an odd bunch, men and women in motley armour bearing the marks of recent battle, some with Volarian colouring, others plainly Alpiran or of Realm origin. He breathed a sigh of relief at finding Weaver among them, standing amidst the only group in this company to present a truly soldierly appearance.
“Brother!” Frentis greeted him, running to his side. Vaelin was struck by his appearance, besmirched with blood and soot from head to toe, his sword blade stained red from end to end. However, he took comfort from his gaze, aged since he had last seen him, but steady and free of the madness that seemed to have gripped this city.
Vaelin nodded at Weaver and the well-ordered Volarians surrounding him. “Are those Varitai?”