Lance Lore
Last updated
Last updated
Samuel emerged from his rented island room sullen, his cheeks gaunt, dressed all in black. He walked past hammocks where the locals napped away the hot afternoon, couples snoring together in a tangle of limbs, mothers curled around little children like shells around peas. Away from the dwellings he found a handful of goats gnawing on shrubs; honeybees dove through tall bamboo to rummage inside of flowering beans, zucchini and asparagus. In the garden it was difficult to believe that the island was the shell of the giant and ancient titanback named Archelon, floating his annual way around the world.
He followed a path through the tide pools where barefoot children sprinted over the slick bone surface, squatting to inspect the bright slugs, limpets, anemones, sea slugs and stars. A small child held a sea urchin in one hand, drawing out meat from its belly with deft fingers and slurping it up as he watched Samuel step with care. Older children looked after nests of eggs larger than their heads.
At the highest point of the island, the smell of food cooking set his stomach to growling. Locals milled about, poking at a grill, laying out baskets, cleaning up children. A giant carp smoked to a golden brown crisp on smoldering coals laid in the center, its stuffed belly open; clams and oysters and heaps of pickled seaweed lay in steaming piles around it.
“Take cover, ladies. A raincloud approaches,” called a voice, followed by ladies laughing. “Join us, Samuel.”
Blossoms drifted down from a cherry tree under which sat a large man, two women and a basket of food. The three wore sarongs; the man’s was fuschia and wrapped round his waist. One of the women shaved his head with a straight razor. The other sat cross-legged, her hand outstretched, as the man manicured her nails.
Samuel paused in an awkward half-step before sitting at the edge of the shade. “I am afraid I do not know you.”
“You need not fear. I am Lance,” said the man. The woman pushed his ear forward to shave behind it. “Eat honey and cheese. It will sweeten you.”
“I will not eat today,” said Samuel.
“Are you sick?” asked the woman with the straight razor.
“No,” said Samuel. “Fasting preserves power and increases discipline.”
“You have all the rest of your lonely life to starve,” said the man. “How many days will you have for licking honey from the fingers of a beautiful lady?”
Samuel turned his blushing face away from the manicured woman, who dipped a finger in the honeypot with a sly smile. “Is she not one of your wives?”
“People are not possessions,” replied Lance.
“Are these not your children?” sputtered Samuel.
“The children belong to everyone, or rather, we belong to them.” The woman folded away her razor and a little boy slipped down from a branch onto Lance’s shoulders. “You will break your fast today, Sam. If you argue, we will take offense.”
“I prefer Samuel,” he said, but he could not refuse. He deposited a bit of fish into his basket and plucked meat from the fragile bones with his fingers like the others. Children crawled up on his legs and asked incessant questions. Lance made no move to save him from the onslaught, and before long Samuel could not help but chuckle.
After they had eaten, the crowd walked the long pathway down to the shell’s edge to watch the sea trolls hunt. They herded seals and held them under, drowning them before tossing them high in the air and catching them in their giant maws.
“I would not allow the children so close to those hunters,” said Samuel.
Lance kept an arm around Samuel’s stiff shoulder as though they were old friends. “The trolls come ashore once a year to lay eggs, and we care for them. In return, the trolls protect Archelon’s soft underbelly from predators, and we play together. Come, watch the jousts.”
At the shell’s edge, past the long line of docked barges, men tied woven saddles to the beasts’ great heads. Wearing bamboo armor and shields and wielding rattan lances, the men mounted the trolls and charged, their lances crashing into one another’s shields with startling cracks. Lance was the best of these knights; he took to the saddle as if born there, sending one opponent after another splashing into the water, his powerful arm locked around his weapon, a frightening grin spread across his face. His troll roared its pleasure and sprayed the onlookers with a wall of water from its slapping tail.
After the jousts, Samuel and Lance watched the moon rise together while the others wandered away. “How do you like our home?” asked Lance.
“It will not last,” said Samuel. “Archelon will not live forever.”
“The rings round the scutes tell us that Archelon has lived at least a thousand growth seasons, and he swims stronger than ever.”
“All things die.”
“Have faith, Sam.” Lance clapped the young man on his shoulder.
“That is no answer.”
“And yet, it is ever the correct one.”
On the last day of his months-long journey, Samuel dove to look into the eye of Archelon. Lance waited on shore, remembering the day that he had passed this same test: the eye gleaming at him, far wider than he was tall. When Samuel surfaced, gasping, Lance hunched down to help him out. “Did you gaze into his eye?”
“I saw it, and it saw me,” said Samuel, drawing on dry clothes.
“What did Archelon say to you?”
Samuel’s brow cocked. “I do not speak whatever burbling beast language he speaks.”
“You heard nothing in your heart?”
“I also do not speak whatever burbling beast language the heart speaks.”
“Well enough; you have presented yourself to Archelon and so you are one of us. Come.” Lance led him around the shell shore, pausing to rub the heads of sea trolls when they poked through the surface. “Archelon is too large to swim through Bladed Bay. At dawn, I shall escort you to the city by barge.” In the Gythian language he continued: “Your destiny is also mine.”
“I did not think to hear that language from an Archelion,” said Samuel also in Gythian, his words cutting sharp corners. On the docks where the barges hung, children took air in little sips before diving for pearl oysters, dripping nets dangling round their necks.
Lance led Samuel inside the cabin of one of the barges. “Long ago, when I was a young man, a Gythian like yourself bought passage on Archelon to see the world during his last year. He was a knight with a good heart.”
“Nothing like me then,” said Samuel.
“He taught me to wield the lance and shield and live by the knightly tenets of justice, courage, mercy, decorum, honesty, honor, loyalty and character.” A beatific light shone in Lance’s eyes. “And he told me about the city’s rich history of music and passion, enough beauty to inebriate the soul.”
“Did he forget about the wars, corruption and ruthless politics in his dotage?”
“It is true; there is much in the world to be set aright. How can I stay on Archelon when my duty is elsewhere? Look: When my teacher passed on, he gave me these.” Lance lit candles round the cabin and, as the light flickered a warm air of the sacred, opened a hidden compartment under the floorboards where armor, shield and a lance laid in repose. “Since then, I have made it my life’s work to collect Gythian artifacts.”
He hefted up the shield to display, but Samuel rifled through a neat pile of kitchen tools, a bronze candelabra, long-outdated maps and recipes, plumed carnival masks and a brass door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. He plucked up a rusted garlic press, snapped it open and closed. “Beautiful shield, and not a scratch on it,” he said. “Your fabled knight did not see enough battle to find those tenets difficult.”
“War is not the whole of a knight,” said Lance, unwavering. “I vowed to one day protect a Gythian, and in doing so earn knighthood for myself.”
“I do not need protecting.” Samuel threw the garlic press back to its spot. “I am not the Gythian of your dreams. I have not even seen the city since I was four years old.”
“You are he. I know it.”
“You do not know me, and you do not know Gythia, for all of your careful study of its garbage. Who bakes the best crusty rolls on Via Lucia?” Samuel grabbed up a book and paged through it fast. “The knighthood is just old families clinging to faltering fortunes. It has nothing to do with … what was that ludicrous list? Justice, honesty, decorum …”
Lance took the book from Samuel’s hand as if handling a sleeping baby. “That ludicrous list has everything to do with me.”
And so, at the first gray light, Samuel sat on Lance’s barge, folded in bad posture inside his dark cloak. Lance, wearing the full armor of a Gythian knight, steered the sea troll that pulled the barge through the treacherous black-toothed mouth of the city. The mist parted and a rose-gold light bathed the gleaming fountains and sculpture, the towers and spires, the churning water wheels. Lance’s breath caught in his throat; tears sprang unbidden to his eyes. His plain barge pulled up to the dock between luxury steamboats where a grand reception of dignitaries in elegant finery waited.
Samuel moved like an unwilling shadow behind Lance’s great steel bulk as they disembarked. Lance held up his hand in greeting, but all eyes locked on the hooded young man. The woman in the center stepped forward, one hand heavy with rings appearing beyond long silk sleeves to show her palm in proper greeting. “Welcome home, Samuel,” she said. “We feared the worst.”
“My thanks, Mother,” said Samuel.
Bright-plumed Titanbeaks pulled the mages’ litters through the Gythian streets: the Archmage in her own, Lyra and Magister Reim in the next. Lance insisted on riding in the third with Samuel; he craned his head out of the curtained window to gape at the complex of short military towers and training yards sprawled against the great obsidian wall, then the closed-up and somber Ministers’ Tower, the Cartographers’ Tower with its landings and patios housing all sizes of telescopes and finally the Mage Tower, taller by a hundred feet than any other and wide as a city block. It was adorned around each level with golden sculptures of past Archmages, each holding the ancient wand named Verdict.
Samuel entered the tower under the hard golden gaze of his sculpted mother and followed his escort into the grand center theater. The acrid taste of unfamiliar magic stung his tongue. Lyra and Reim stopped Lance from following; the three stood by the door.
A walkway edged with sculpted obsidian pillars led to two stone platforms, one higher than the other. Samuel stood on the shorter; atop the high platform stood the guild’s top-ranking mages, the Archmage at the fore, her robes removed to reveal the somber black lace vestments of judgment. “Samuel the Mage Born,” she said, her sugared tone echoing in the immense room, “your tenth trial begins now. If you pass, you shall receive your rank in our guild.” She stretched Verdict forth. “I hope you are prepared.”
Samuel pulled from his belt the wand named Malice. “So I am not to answer for disobeying you, Mother? For burning down Gythia’s hopes? Does it trouble you overmuch to acknowledge the failure of your bloodline?” He spun the wand between his fingers before clenching it in his fist.
A shadow fled from Verdict and landed in Samuel’s periphery a split moment before pain flooded his belly. He whirled to face his aggressor and stared into his own face, at Malice pointed at his own torso. There was no time to register this ultimate betrayal before his shadow double flanked and shot again.
~
Lance lunged forward only to slam full-force into a shimmering green wall.
“For every action, there is a consequence,” said Lyra.
Reim watched the fight, expressionless, white-knuckling his staff.
~
A rushing water sound filled Samuel’s ears. He circled to the right and his shadow self mirrored him; there was a flash, and a sting bloomed on Samuel’s leg, a pain that sank to his bones. He curled his tongue around the words of power and a burst of magic fled from his wand, missing the shadow by a breath. He dove and spat out another word: “Uruz!” Another shot just missed the shadow’s neck. The shadow returned the blasts and Samuel dodged. They traded dark magic fire until the platform was a blinding shower of light. He could not outwit himself.
But the shadow could not learn.
He feinted right and leaped away from his double, springing to the nearest pillar, cracking his ribs, two fingers curled around the canine teeth of a carved lion’s head. With the half-second he’d bought, he pulled himself up to crouch atop it.
“Kenaz,” he cried, and the air wavered, and around him were the souls of ancient mages, thousands of them with hollow eyes watching, and the darkness of the Netherworld enveloped him as he leaped. Light flashed from Malice and the shadow crouched, spun wrong and caught the full force of the spell in its back.
When the dark had dissipated, Samuel stood alone on the platform. The Netherworld, having been opened, lurked close, the phantasms murmuring hate and promising justice. Above, the Archmage extended Verdict again.
“So you present a test no one can survive to save yourself the embarrassment of convicting me.” Samuel’s bitter laugh seized as he held his broken ribs. “That is how Magister Reim’s son died, isn’t it? He asked too many questions.”
“If it is so,” said the Archmage, “then you should concentrate on succeeding.”
A second shadow fled from Verdict, forming beside Samuel. He slid back, Malice held in his fist like a blade, his eyes narrowed at his new opponent –
– and his arm dropped as he flinched away from the little boy who looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes: Samuel, as he’d been fourteen years past when he entered Trostan for the first time, Malice far too big for his little hands.
“Such poetry,” mocked Samuel. “I suppose I shall face my wise old future self next?”
“You shall have no such future if you fail,” called the Archmage.
Samuel sidestepped the shadow boy’s fumbling shots with ease. Tears welled in the boy’s eyes.
“I would rather fail,” said Samuel, and released the phantasm that twisted and curled into the skull-shape of nightmares, sailing around the shadow child and then the mages high above, lulling them all to sleep. The shadow disappeared and the Archmage fell.
~
The shimmering wall dropped. A spinning, churning hole appeared in the walkway by Lance’s feet.
“Go,” choked Lyra behind him. “Go!”
~
The Archmage landed in Samuel’s outstretched arms, slamming him to the floor. His shoulder dislocated from its socket, sending shocks of pain through his arm and spine. He snatched Verdict away from her, rolled away, yanked his shoulder back into place with an agonized gasp, then stumbled to his feet. “Where is she?” he screamed.
“Who?” gasped the Archmage, blinking, disoriented.
“Gythia’s little creature.” He bent over her, spitting the words into her face. “Trostan wasn’t the only iron you had in the fire. Where is the Storm Queen’s niece?”
The Archmage flinched away. “Gathering allies,” she whimpered. “The Halcyon -”
Samuel sneered and aimed both wands at the Archmage’s face. “Well done, Mother.”
Armor clattered as the knight rolled into position between them, weapon at the ready, shield high. Samuel stepped back, wands crossed in front of him.
“Reconsider, my friend,” growled Lance.
Samuel’s grim mouth cracked into a smile. “You are better than Gythia ever was,” he said, and fell back into the churning portal.
Reim stood at the portal’s source, palm out as Lyra’s face turned blue. Icicles hung from her ears and hair. Her book, encased in ice, laid useless on the floor. Samuel tumbled from the portal’s source at his feet, struggling for breath as he looked up at his teacher’s distressed eyes.
“Magister,” he whispered.
“Run, you fool.”
Grace woke in the dark, her greyhound nuzzling its wet nose into her foot. Rolling the morning stiffness from her shoulders, she made her way to the empty training yard in the first rose light of dawn, the greyhound following at her heel. She selected a heavy mace from the weapon rack and moved through a warmup flow, swinging it in slow, controlled circles in front of her body and then behind her back, changing grip and direction, then progressed through lunging battle forms. Her mind stilled as she put her body through the old disciplines. In this way, she had learned long ago to control visions, to bid them come when she wished. Her consciousness flowed with her breath, up and up, the training yard falling away, up and then out.
At first there was only a sound, that of a young man crying out words of power, and then there was a darkness that split apart the air. From that darkness came tortured beings, phantasms, dead things with white eyes yearning for freedom. The Nether, a place of nightmares, the absence of life and light, called forth by a mage.
Grace danced through the mace flow, blind to the world around her, her eyes rolled up, and forced the vision forward. Show me he who opened the Nether, she said without saying, and the vision changed – but instead of a mage, she saw a knight wandering the city’s twisting alleyways in the dark. He was a stranger in Gythian armor, bearing a shield and a lance, braving the sea-cold wind without tiring, asking locals for the whereabouts of a wayward boy. Grace watched as he paused to admire the ancient towers, to stare at torchlit fountains and, in the minutes before dawn, to breathe in the smell of the day’s first bread baking.
Grace ended the mace flow and shook off the vision. A silent cluster of acolytes in robes and cowls filed out to the yard and went to work trimming the rose bushes, brushing and raking the clay and sand yards, and skimming the surface of the battle pool with a net. The mace landed in Grace’s palms with finality and acolytes scurried to bring water and towel the sweat from her brow.
“There is a man at the gate,” said Grace, sitting for her breakfast. “Bring him to me.”
Grace’s visions were not questioned. A few moments later the stranger from her dream was led to her table. He stared at the training yard with open-mouthed awe, his eyes beatific as an icon, while his shield and lance were presented to Grace for study. “These were Gennaro’s,” she said. “Did you know him?”
The man met Grace’s eyes with a wide smile and an ease that few possessed in her presence. “Gennaro was my teacher. He journeyed to the next world on the back of Archelon and passed his possessions to me.”
Grace handed the shield to an acolyte. “Then we mourn together. Gennaro was a good knight, and a friend of my father’s. Do you, then, seek knighthood?”
“That was my reason for coming here,” said the man, and all at once he seemed tired down to his soul. “I found a mage and swore to protect him, to prove myself worthy. But his tenth trial was designed to kill him, and I could not do as I promised.”
“So he is dead.”
“No. I don’t know.” The man sighed. “He did something I could not understand.”
“He opened the Nether,” Grace whispered.
“He tried to kill the Archmage. His own mother.”
“His mother?” Grace’s heart fell.
“I stopped him, and he fled. So I must find him, and right this wrong, so that I can fulfill my destiny.”
Grace stood, and even without the splendor of her ceremonial dress she was an imposing figure, the sunlight enveloping her. “What is your name, warrior?” she said in a low tone.
“Lance,” he said, his voice withered with shame. “Lance of Archelon.”
“On your knees, Lance of Archelon.”
The man knelt, prepared for punishment. Instead, he felt the woman’s palm on his bare head. Warmth flooded down his spine, and with it, a peace he had not known since he was a babe in his mother’s arms.
“With valor and bravery you saved the life of the Archmage,” she said. “You kept watch in the night. Do you swear to live by the tenets of justice, courage, mercy, decorum, honesty, honor, loyalty and character?”
“I do.” His words cracked with emotion.
“Then you are welcome in my guild and in my country. Rise, Lance, Knight of Gythia, in the name of the Light.” Grace smiled and her hand dropped. “Go and rest. This is now a matter for the office of the paladin.”
He wept his thanks as the acolytes guided him away. Grace’s attendants hovered close.
“Shall we call upon the Archmage, Domina?”
“No.” Grace turned and strode toward her chambers, the greyhound at her heel. “Find my brother.”
For the canon origins of this tale, read ‘The Trial.’
A shadow fled from Verdict and landed in Samuel’s periphery a split moment before pain flooded his belly. He whirled to face his aggressor and stared into his own face, at Malice pointed at his own torso. There was no time to register this ultimate betrayal before his shadow double flanked and shot again.
Lance lunged forward only to slam full-force into a shimmering green wall.
“For every action, there is a consequence,” said Lyra.
Through the magic wall, Lance watched Samuel fight his shadow double, unable to move, his teeth grinding. With all his might he stepped away from the grip of the wall and turned to face her. “He is my ward,” he said, raising his long blade. “You raised him like a son.”
Lyra flinched back then spun, her robes swirling, to run, but the knight lunged and his weapon found easy purchase in her back. She crumpled to the ground, blood pooling around Lance’s greaves; the magic bulwark dissolved and faded along with its maker.
Lance stood over the body of his first kill for five gulping breaths, marveling at how fragile and small she appeared in death.
“Kenaz!” cried Samuel behind him, and the curtain between worlds parted, and the Netherdark clouded the hall. Lance watched in horror as the greedy dead poured over the soul that hovered still near Lyra’s body. She struggled against the hands that gripped her by the arms and legs and hair but could not resist them, for she belonged no more with the living.
Lance stood on the precipice of his choice, the boy he’d sworn to protect behind him, the woman he’d murdered before him; beyond, the ice mage looked on, his bushy brows knitted, his face ashen, his knuckles white around his staff.
“I’ll handle the kid,” said Reim.
Lance rolled into the center of the dark cloud, allowed it to swallow him into its dark belly, and chased after the soul of his victim as she was spirited away –
– and then there was nothing.
There was no hall, no Samuel or Reim or Lyra. There was no Gythia; indeed there was no sun or ground. It was not dark: it was a complete lack of light. In that deep nothing Lance spun and touched nothing. He called out and the nothing swallowed his voice, and he realized that never before in his life had he been alone. He had, also, never been afraid, but of the Netherworld he was terrified.
And then, from farther away than he should have been able to see, he spied a light. There was no hope in the light as it grew brighter, only dread. It seemed to take ages to come close enough to make out its shape: an enormous three-headed armored dire wolf made of molten flame.
An armory grew up around them, illuminated by the flames, full of suits of armor, weapons of all kinds, shields and helms. In the firelight Lance himself took shape. His Gythian armor was gone; he knelt in a subarmalis in bare feet, unarmed.
“Rise, Knight, and choose,” said the middle head of the wolf. “Your charge awaits.”
The three-headed dire wolf of the Netherworld sat, motionless but for the flames flickering from his body, as ghouls buckled Lance into Nether-forged armor. “You will take me to the woman I killed,” commanded the warrior.
“You never left her,” said the wolf. The armory faded away and light filtered in from the distance, illuminating the large room lined with carved obsidian, the platforms, and the walkway upon which Lance stood. It was the Mage Hall, but not so, for everything was gray and black, and wavered at the edges like a nightmare. All around, hollow-eyed mage ghosts crowded close.
The living were invisible, but their voices echoed between the two worlds: battle screams, and then a boy crying for his mother. Lance stepped to where Lyra’s soul stood, in shock, in the place where she had died.
Color dripped from her, washing into the Nether, the violet curls turning white strand by strand, the flush draining from her lips and cheeks, her crimson mage robes blending with the gray ghouls. Lance touched her cheek with his cold gauntlet as darkness hollowed out her eyes.
“This wrong must be undone,” he whispered. Her expression betrayed no understanding.
“What enters the Nether returns only by the will of the Guardian.” The dire wolf’s voice was kind, despite his fearsome appearance. “Your destiny is to protect her here, Lance.”
“I shall force the will of the Guardian.”
“I am the Guardian,” said the dire wolf, “and my will cannot be forced.”
“We shall see.” Lance drew his sword.
“So be it,” said the wolf, and lunged toward the knight, his teeth bared, flame and soot following in his wake.
Lance strafed, wavering to avoid falling off the edge of the walkway into the abyss. He clutched his shield and swept the sword in a long arc to the legs of the three-headed wolf. The second time the wolf lunged, his long claws found purchase in Lance’s belly, tearing away the Nether armor. Blood poured from the wound before the knight had time to feel it; he leaped away and fled down the walkway to the platforms, leaving a blood trail behind, the wolf in pursuit.
The soul of Lyra watched with empty eyes.
Lance turned and jabbed his blade into the shoulder of his enemy; the Netherwolf yipped in pain. For a tense moment they circled one another, bleeding, and again the wolf lunged, snapping his three sets of jaws, but he could not close the distance. With a snarl, he threw back his heads and howled. From all corners of the Mage Hall, the Netherwolf’s pack raced to his aid.
Echoing from the living world, Lance heard the boy’s voice again. “Mother, forgive me!”
The wolf pack advanced down the walkway, a long streak of fire. The warrior strafed, and with a heaving exhale swept the pack aside with his weapon, throwing them against the platform, buying himself a split second to leap away and deliver one final blow, impaling all of the Netherwolves in one strike.
The ghouls and the ghost of Lyra disappeared. The curtain between the living and the Nether tore apart, and the Mage Hall erupted into color. The trial had halted, and at the end of the walkway, Lyra sat up and gasped, coming to life in Samuel’s arms. Reim stood with his hand on Samuel’s shoulder, his mouth set in its characteristic grim line.
The wolves assembled beside Lance, covered now in fur rather than flames. Their leader had transformed into a normal, if overlarge, living dire wolf. “You have freed us,” he said to Lance. “May a worthy opponent grant you the same freedom one day, Guardian of the Nether.”
Lance opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came. Ghouls surrounded him, removing his weapon and armor, and he could not protest, could not fight the force that dragged him back into the Nether, back to the armory where the wings, crown, armor and trident of the Guardian awaited him.
The fighters stepped through separate doors into the arena. Catherine blinked against the glare reflected off of the metal masks worn by the crowd. Before she could clear her vision, Ardan was upon her, his caestus slamming all of his rage and pain into her raised shield. The blow knocked her off her feet. She spat sand and blood. With something like childish glee he struck again, expecting her ribcage to splinter and sever her heart, but instead the force of his punch echoed back through his body and he screamed, falling away from Catherine and her pulsing bubble.
“You don’t know the truth of that night.” She stood and squared her shoulders, shivering as a healing green glow enveloped Ardan. “Julia …”
“Don’t you dare say her name,” growled Ardan, but there was a commotion at the other end of the arena. Horns blew, the crowd roared, and a gate opened with painful creaking slowness. From the dark tunnel a third gladiator entered. Ardan and Catherine stepped back, their eyes twitching between one another and the new contender.
“It is the Champion,” whispered Catherine, her shield dropping.
To survive one’s first fight in the arena was rare. To win was a miracle. To continue winning was unheard of. Ardan had had some recent luck, had won by the skin of his teeth and been stitched up in time to be torn apart in a half-dozen subsequent fights, but Lance, the Archelion, had won every bout for a year. He was not Gythian by birth, but the people had adopted him. His spiked black armguard rose, displaying a heavy bladed pilum to the roaring crowd; from his black helmet burst the red horsehair brush of the warriors. Into his armor was sculpted the faces of monsters he had beaten in the sands. His crimson shield bore the face of Caius, the fabled first warrior of Gythia. The crowd erupted in songs for the champion in red and black; some threw their masks into the sand.
Ardan’s heart sank. He had abandoned Gythia long ago, in his youth, to join the Technologist rebels, and he had in turn abandoned them to protect his children, but he had been raised among the warriors. To bear the face of Caius would have made his father proud. As the Champion took his time striding across the sand toward them, Ardan forced himself to breathe through the throat-crushing weight of his failures. His fans called him a Son of Gythia, but this Archelion, Lance, was more Gythian than he.
Despite his heavy armor, The Champion somersaulted like a nimble dancer to the delight of the crowd. He lunged at the other gladiators with a battle cry, the eyes of Caius on his shield glowing, his pilum speeding toward Ardan’s masked face.
Before he could use his Vanguard, Ardan saw Catherine speed into the path of the pilum, following the blades of her shield, and slammed full force into the Champion. Energy crackled around the black armor, stunning the Champion long enough for Catherine to grasp Ardan by his one bare arm. In the noise, he only saw her lips moving, saying, “Join me now, or you will not survive long enough to kill me.”
The Champion shook off the effects of the stun. A blood-red energy came off of his shield as he bashed Catherine away. She tumbled backward, her shield sliding out of reach. Scrambling on her knees, grasping at nothing, the great tall shadow of the Champion stretched over her.
But Ardan’s caestus landed first, cracking into the Champion’s solar plexus. While he stumbled, Ardan kicked the arcshield to Catherine; she grabbed it and rolled, slicing the shield at the Champion’s knees. He jumped clear, but Ardan was on him again, punching at his exposed belly while Catherine found her feet and flanked around to the back. But the Champion rolled away again, lithe and quick, and sprinted to the barbed wire-encased edge of the arena. The crowd pushed forward, crushing, reaching, risking their lives for the chance to brush their fingertips against greatness. Catherine walked ahead, shield before her, no rush, and the closest row of fans tumbled into the arena as the Champion raised his pilum.
“No!” bellowed Ardan. “Her head is mine!”
And then the ground shifted.
There was a rumbling, and the floor split apart. The crowd went quiet, so that the great metal wheels cranking to pull away the arena floor could be heard. The gladiators had to jump to one side or another, their eyes darting left and right, crouched in defensive postures. Dark water appeared from under the floor; the sand fell in and sank. The fans who had fallen into the arena scrambled and grasped for handholds wherever they could. One fell in with a splash, and the floor continued to roll away, separating the fighters farther and farther while the man in the water screamed for help. And then he disappeared, fast as if pulled under, and screamed no more.
Three small boats were lowered down from the stands and pushed through the dark water toward the gladiators.
