He looked nervous. “I’ll do the best I can.”
“That’s fine. Just don’t aim anywhere near the rest of us. Ignore the battle in the center of the arena and concentrate your arrows on the oberdaza and the range. Keep them off balance as much as possible. You don’t have to hit them, just keep them ducking.
“Wesley, you protect Grady. Wyatt, you and I will form the front and engage the warrior and chief. Just remember to say what I told you and stay away from him. Questions?”
“What about Royce?” Wyatt asked.
“He knows what to do,” Hadrian said, and Royce nodded. “Anything else?”
If there was anything, no one spoke up, so they all bedded down for a nap. After the workout even Wesley managed to fall asleep.
The arena was a large oval open-air pit surrounded by a stone wall, behind which tiers of spectators rose. Two gates at opposite ends provided entrance to opposing teams. Giant braziers mounted on poles illuminated the area. The dirt killing field, like everything else at the Palace of the Four Winds, had suffered from neglect. Large blocks of stone had fallen and small trees grew around them. Near the center a shallow muddy pool formed. A partially hidden rib cage glimmered eerily in the firelight, and a skull hung from a pike that protruded from the earth.
As Hadrian walked out, his mind reeled with memories. The scent of blood and the cheering crowd opened a door he had thought locked forever. He had been only seventeen the first time he had entered an arena, yet his training had made victory a certainty. He had been the more knowledgeable, the more skilled, and the crowds loved him. He had defeated opponent after opponent with ease. Larger, stronger men had challenged him and died. When he had fought teams of two and three, the results were always the same. The crowds had begun to chant his new name, Galenti—killer.
He had traveled throughout Calis, meeting with royalty, eating at banquets held in his honor, and sleeping with women who had been given in tribute. He had entertained his hosts with displays of skill and prowess. Eventually the battles had become macabre. Multiple strong men had not been enough to defeat him. They had tested him against Ghazel and wild animals. He had fought boars, a pair of leopards, and finally the tiger.
He had killed scores of men in the arena without a thought, but the tiger in Mandalin had been his last arena fight. Perhaps the blood he had spilled had finally soaked in, or he had grown older and had matured beyond his desire for fame. Even now he was unsure what was the truth and what he merely wanted to believe. Regardless, everything changed when the tiger died.
Each man he had battled had chosen to fight, but not the cat. As he had watched the regal beast die, for the first time he had felt like a murderer. In the stands above, the crowd had shouted, Galenti! The meaning had never sunk in until that moment. His father’s words had reached him at last, but Danbury would die before Hadrian could apologize. Like the tiger, his father had deserved better.
Now, as he entered the arena, the crowd once again shouted the name—Galenti! They cheered and stomped their feet like thunder. “Remember, Mr. Wesley, stay back and guard Grady,” Hadrian said as they gathered not far from where the skull hung.
The far gate opened and into the arena came the Ba Ran Ghazel. Hadrian could tell from his friends’ shocked expressions that even after his description, they had never expected what now came toward them. Everyone had heard tall tales of hideous goblins, but no one really expected to see one—much less five, scurrying in full battle regalia illuminated by the flickering red glow of giant torch fires.
They were not human, not animal, nor anything at all familiar. They did not appear to be of the same world. Movements defied eyesight, and muscles flexed unnaturally. They drifted across the ground on all fours. Rather than walk, they skittered, their claws clicking on the stones in the dirt. Their eyes flashed in the darkness, lit from within, a sickly yellow glow rising behind an oval pupil. Muscles rippled along hunched backs and arms as thick as a man’s thigh. Their mouths were filled with row upon row of needle-sharp teeth that spilled out each side as if there was not enough room to contain them.
The warrior and the chief advanced to the center. They were large, and even hunched over, they still towered above Hadrian and Wyatt. Behind them the smaller oberdaza, decorated in dozens of multicolored feathers, danced and hummed.
“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.”