Arakasi glanced pointedly at Kevin, warning the barbarian not to show reaction to the possibility that the Lady might not care for blood sports. ‘I wish I could say yes, my Lady, but if you were to leave now, before your enemies move to depart . . .’
Mara returned a slight nod and faced dutifully forward. And the fact that she must endure strictly for the sake of appearances sparked a wild anger in Kevin. Under his breath, in reckless reaction, he hissed, ‘I will never understand your people and your game —’
The trumpets drowned out his protest. The grounds crew left the arena at a run, as yet another door boomed open. A dozen fighting men in outlandish battle harnesses strutted onto the sand. Each wore leather wristbands set with studs, and headdresses of varicoloured plumes. They advanced in total disregard of the audience for whom they were imported to amuse, and halted finally at the arena centre, their swords and shields held in relaxed confidence.
Kevin had heard of the proud mountain men who inhabited the far eastern highlands. Alone among the people to defeat the Empire, they had forced a truce between nations some years before the Tsurani invasion of Midkemia.
The trumpets blew again and the herald cried an introduction. ‘As these soldiers of the Thuril Confederation have violated the treaty between their own nations and the Empire, by making war upon the soldiers of the Emperor, they have been cast out by their own people, who have named them outlaws and bound them over for punishment. They will fight the captives from the world of Midkemia. All will strive until one is left standing.’
Trumpets called for the event to begin. As the large doors at the end of the arena swung ponderously open, Lujan volunteered an observation. ‘What is the games director thinking of? Thuril will not fight one another if they defeat the Midkemians. They’ll die cursing the Emperor first.’
‘My Lady, be ready to leave quickly,’ Arakasi broke in. if the fight is a disappointment, the mob will likely turn ugly . . .’
Since Tsurani custom seated commoners on the levels above the nobility, in the event of violence the higher classes of the Empire would need to fight their way up through a riot to reach the available exits. Kevin wondered at the much vaunted Tsurani discipline, but as if sensing his thought, Arakasi contradicted.
‘These games sometimes awaken a blood lust in the common folk. There have been riots before, and nobles have died in them.’
The seemingly endless contradictions of these people baffled Kevin only briefly, for that moment a dozen Midkemians marched from the opened archway opposite the Warlord’s dais. Their original metal armour was far too costly an extravagance to be used for arena entertainment; in place of good chain mail and armoured helms and shields, these captives wore garishly painted facsimiles fashioned of Tsurani materials. One shield bore the wolf’s head of LaMut, and another, in too bright, splashy colours, the horse blazon of Zun.
Kevin bit his lip to keep from voicing his anguish. He could not help his countrymen! He would only get himself uselessly killed and leave his beloved Lady an inheritance of shame. But the outrage and the pain he felt would never answer to logic. Smouldering with pent-up emotions, Kevin closed his eyes and lowered his head. These Imperial Games were a barbarity, and he was unwilling to watch good men wasted for the perverse sake of a spectacle.
But instead of the clash of combat, a murmuring arose from the crowd. Kevin risked a look. The warriors of Thuril and Midkemia were not fighting but speaking. Catcalls and whistles drifted down from the highest rim of the stadium as the two combatants faced one another with something less than a bellicose posture. Now one of the Thuril pointed at the crowd. While his words were too distant to hear, his expression reflected contempt.
One of the Midkemians stepped forward and a Thuril came on guard, but a shout from his companion caused him to retreat a step. The Midkemian removed his leather helm and glared about the arena. Then, unthinkably insolent, he cast both armour and sword upon the sand. His shield followed, the thump of its impact clearly audible in the absolute silence. He spoke something to his companions and folded his arms.
His example was shortly followed by the others in the arena. Swords, helms, and shields tumbled from loosened fingers, until in a moment both Midkemians and Thuril confronted one another, disarmed.
More catcalls came from the commoners, but as yet the higher classes seemed more amused than offended by this odd behaviour. Danger did not seem imminent.