The objective of a grudge match is to kill one’s opponent. All Primary Rules apply, but for the following changes:
The objective of this tournament is to advance the training of first-year trainees by pitting them against their peers in Arena 13. For the protection of the trainees and to mitigate the full rigour of Arena 13 contests, there are two changes to the Primary Rules:
IN THE ARENA
People flock to see fights where blood is shed. Boys work their way up through the ranks to become combatants on the biggest of these stages: Arena 13.
MANY FIGHT TO BE THE BEST
Leif knows the risks. In spite of this, he has followed his dead father’s footsteps into the arena, determined to avenge him.
OUTSIDE THE ARENA
Leif is not the only one to have suffered – others are also planning their revenge.
THE FIGHT IS ONLY THE BEGINNING
Will victory in the arena be enough? Or is Leif destined to stand with those who will pitch men against gods in a battle for the whole world?
Joseph Delaney is a retired English teacher. He has three children and nine grandchildren and is a wonderful public speaker available for conference, library and bookshop events. His home is in the middle of Boggart territory and his village has a boggart called the Hall Knocker, which was laid to rest under the step of a house near the church.
Most of the places in the Spook’s books are based on real places in Lancashire. And the inspiration behind the stories often comes from local ghost stories and legends.
The combatants gather in the green room. Nobody speaks. Their faces are grim. In turn, each of them is offered the glass lottery orb. As Vitus draws a straw, he feels a sudden premonition of doom. His hands are trembling and he already knows that he will be chosen.
He is.
His straw is the shortest.
His straw means death.
He has been chosen to fight Hob in Arena 13.
Before he leaves for the arena, his mother always says the same thing:
‘Come back to me. Be safe!’
‘I will,’ he promises.
Then they hug and part.
This time he will not be able to keep his promise.
His worst fear has finally come true.
There is not even time to say goodbye to his family. His mother never visits Arena 13 – she finds it barbaric. His father encouraged him and paid for his training, but he is dead now. His two older brothers work their large farm, which is close to the city. Time after time his mother has begged him to stop fighting in Arena 13 and help his brothers, but he enjoys the challenge and needs to make his own way in the world.
He likes being a combatant, and during the two years that he’s been fighting the money has been good. It pays the bills, with some left over; that is important. You can’t fight for much more than fifteen years in Arena 13. You get older. You slow down. Your legs start to betray you. Vitus is only nineteen, but it is vital that he saves now. He needs to accumulate enough capital to start his own business. Just ten more successful years, and he could do it.
But every year Hob visits Arena 13.
Vitus always fights from the min position and is defended by a lone lac whilst his opponents, fighting from the mag position, have three lacs. It is harder to fight from the min but it offers the greater challenge and is more lucrative.
But here lies the ultimate danger faced by every min combatant. Hob fights behind a tri-glad and his challenge is always to the min combatants.
Every year there is a chance that Vitus will be chosen by the lottery to fight him.
Finally it has happened.
Now he enters the arena, his knees trembling, his mouth dry with fear, his heart pounding within his chest.
The moment he sees Hob and his three lacs his fear intensifies. Hob wears a bronze helmet, his eyes just visible through the horizontal slit, and the tri-glad is clad in ebony-black armour. Hob and his lacs are human in shape but their arms are longer. They radiate malice and move with a grace surpassing that of others who fight in this arena. They stalk like predators. Vitus knows that he is their prey.
His mind whirling, Vitus hears the big doors rumble shut. There is no blast from the trumpet that usually signals the start of a contest. They are to fight under the special rules that govern confrontations with Hob.
It is worse than just a fight to the death. If you are wounded but still alive, Hob takes you to the darkness within his lair, a thirteen-spired citadel on a hill high above the city. Nobody knows what happens there, but the human combatant is never seen again . . .
The fight begins. Hob and his tri-glad begin their advance. Their blades gleam in the light from the candelabrum above the arena. Vitus shelters behind his own lac, hoping that the code he has patterned into it will enable it to defend him against the coming onslaught. He crouches, ready to meet the imminent attack.
This year his lac has performed well. Vitus is ninth in the rankings, but most of his contests have been won in the first five minutes. It is important to achieve such early victories because after that time there is a pause in the fighting; a repositioning. Then you have to fight in front of your lac. That makes you much more vulnerable to the blades that seek your flesh.
To fight that way is terrifying. Combatants wear only leather shorts and a jerkin, their flesh open to blades. And now, if he manages to survive for five minutes, he will have to face Hob and fight him toe to toe, blade against blade.
He need not have worried about that. He tortured himself unnecessarily with such thoughts. He lasts barely two minutes.
There is the clash of blades; the clang of metal upon metal; the rapid dance close to the back of his lac; the steady retreat, sweat running down into his eyes. He can hardly see.
A sudden groan erupts from the gallery above, and he wonders what is wrong. To his astonishment, Vitus sees that his own lac is already down. A blade has been thrust into its throat-socket, shutting down the patterns that control it. The lac has collapsed onto the boards of the arena. Its part in the contest is over. He is alone.
Hob’s lacs rush at him with their knives.
Vitus flinches, then holds up his own blades in a futile attempt to defend himself. He feels a sharp pain in his side and a stabbing in his chest. His legs turn to jelly. The world spins. He falls into darkness. For a while he knows nothing . . .
Then consciousness slowly returns. The pain seems to have faded almost to nothing. All is silent but for his own hoarse, laboured breathing.
Hob has not slit his throat.
His head remains attached to his body.
He lives.
For a moment Vitus dares to hope.
But when he opens his eyes and looks up, hope fades. Hooded figures gather around him. These are the tassels, the dreaded servants of Hob. They crouch over him and sniff at his body; they snarl and drool, their spit dribbling onto his hair and face. They are cannibals and they are hungry for his flesh.
They drag him to his feet and he is taken from the arena. As Vitus tries to walk, pain tears at his body and he hears his boots squelching. Why are they making that sound?
Outside, a wagon is waiting in the darkness. He is forced into the back and sits there, with a tassel on either side gripping his arms firmly, their saliva dripping onto his trousers. The wooden slats are closed, the interior lit by a single candle.
His eyes slowly adjust to the gloom. He looks down and sees that blood is running from his jerkin down onto his knees and dripping onto his boots. Now he understands the reason for the squelching. His boots are full of blood; his own blood.
The wagon jerks forward. He knows where they are taking him. Fear clutches at his heart. There is no hope for him now.
Come back to me. Be safe! His mother’s words haunt him.
What horrors await him inside Hob’s citadel? he wonders.
After a while their progress slows. The oxen pulling the wagon are labouring up a steep slope. He hears the cracking of a whip and the bellowing of the animals. They must be climbing the hill towards the dreaded citadel. When they come to a halt, the tassels pull him out roughly. He looks up and sees the high curved stone wall of Hob’s lair. He is dragged to the left and moves widdershins, against the clock.
Vitus glimpses dark openings – steep muddy slopes leading down below the wall, too small for a man. There are other hooded tassels with them now. Some are small and crawl on all fours, sniffing at the ground. Others are tall, but their grey cloaks trail upon the ground. He glimpses gaunt faces and open mouths full of sharp teeth.
Vitus is pulled inside a large curved archway. He staggers and falls to his knees; they haul him roughly to his feet. They cross a flagged courtyard and descend into a dark tunnel. The tassels drag him faster, although he can now see nothing except their eyes, which glow a baleful red. Can they see in the dark?
They emerge into what appears to be a large cellar. There are torches on the far wall, but their flickering light barely reaches the place where they bring Vitus to a halt. At waist height he can see grey, globular things swaying in the darkness like flowers in a breeze. But there is no breeze. The air is still and warm. No – they are more like mushrooms. The cellar is full of them – row after row. There is a rank smell of rotting that brings bile to his throat.
Vitus is forced to his knees beside what looks like a huge anvil. Then he sees the groove in it and gasps in terror.
This is an executioner’s block.
His head is forced down until his neck fits into the groove. But he sees that the tall tassel striding towards him is not carrying an axe. Across his shoulder he bears something that resembles a huge pair of scissors. They are bolt-cutters, with sharp blades – and long arms so that great force can be applied.
As Vitus looks his last upon the world, his gaze is drawn by the nearest of the flowers. Now he realizes that it is not a flower. Nor is it a fungus growth.
Now he knows his fate . . .
It is a severed human head swaying on a stem.
Why would Hob do this? It cannot be to terrorize people because nobody can see this. Nobody knows that it exists. Then what can its purpose be?
Why display dead humans in this way?
To his horror, Vitus realizes that he is wrong.
The swaying head opens its eyes and stares at him.
Somehow it lives!
He feels the cold metal of the bolt-cutters touch his lower neck, close to his body.
The horror will not end with death.
Children fight with sticks; men fight with blades.
We await the child that wields both.
Amabramdata: the Genthai Book of Prophecy
I was standing at a distance from the action, my boots slowly sinking into the mud of the recreation ground. A big circle of chanting spectators hid the stick-fighters from my view. Within it, one combatant would be fighting against three. That was always the way, here in this small provincial town. The odds were against the lone combatant, so if you bet on him and he won, there’d be a good return on your money.
The crowd were cheering and whooping now, some of them leaping up and down in obvious excitement; others perhaps only to keep warm.
I was certainly shivering. It was cold, and the sun was low on the horizon, sinking towards the roofs of the squat single-storey dwellings even though it was only a couple of hours after midday.
The contest was building to a climax – though I wasn’t really here to watch the stick-fighting. I never gambled any more; I didn’t care who won. I was just passing through Mypocine, heading south; this had once been my home and held lots of memories – some of them good, but others bad. Most of the former had been here in this small town, meeting my friends and taking part in the stick-fighting. The bad I preferred not to think about too much. After the death of my mother at Hob’s hands, and the suicide of my father, I’d worked for a farmer who’d treated me little better than a slave.
But some habits die hard. I couldn’t stop the wave of excitement that stirred within me as I pushed my way through the crowd, using my shoulders and elbows. I got a few curses and angry glares, but I kept moving forward. A few nods and smiles also came my way. It wasn’t that long since I’d fought here and I was clearly remembered.
On my way through Mypocine I had hoped to find my old friend Peter. I’d just spent five months in the north of the country, being trained to fight in Arena 13, so I hadn’t seen him for some time.
Peter was a stick-fighter, like me, and I had no doubt he’d be here somewhere, watching and waiting for his turn. This green just north of the city was where challengers desperate to prove themselves and move up through the rankings came each Saturday morning.
At last I glimpsed the current combatants. There were only two still on their feet and they were trading furious blows: ones to the body caused bruises and sometimes cuts, but victory resulted from a blow to an opponent’s head. There were two lads on the ground holding their heads; one of them was bleeding badly.
Suddenly there was more blood – a red spurt from the nose of the combatant facing me. It splattered the front of his white shirt and dribbled down onto his dark trousers.
The contest was over.
The winner had his back to me and I watched him bow. I’d started that convention. It was something that my father had taught me. Once Peter and I started doing it, the habit had caught on; every winner did it now.
And then I realized that I knew the winner. He was a little broader and taller now, but the lad with his back to me was Peter!
There was a loud cheer, and some groans and boos, to mark the end of the contest, and then the crowd moved away, some clutching tickets and surging towards the red-sashed tout waiting on the corner of the street. These had bet on the winner, and were now seeking the money owed them by the waiting gambling agent.
‘Peter!’ I shouted to catch the winner’s attention.
He turned at the sound of my voice, smiled in surprise and walked towards me through the crowd. His dark hair was still shaved into a crew cut, his eyebrows were bushy, meeting in the middle, but his face seemed a little different. At first I couldn’t work out what it was.
‘Hi, Leif!’ he called as he pushed his way towards me. ‘You’re back!’
Now I saw that four of his front teeth were missing – two at the top and two at the bottom.
He saw me staring. ‘You’re looking at this?’ He grinned as he pointed into his open mouth. ‘It happens to us all eventually!’
I smiled at him but I couldn’t hide my shock: I had never lost my teeth in a fight, and I hadn’t expected Peter to do so either. He’d been one of the best stick-fighters in Mypocine, second only to me. And today he had looked as good as ever in combat.
‘Didn’t it work out in the city?’ he asked.
‘It worked out fine. I’m being trained in the stable of the best artificer in Gindeen. But with the season over, I’ve come back south for a few months.’
What I’d said was true, but I didn’t mention the dark side of what I’d experienced: the terrible deaths. I made sure I didn’t look too cheerful. It wouldn’t do to appear boastful. Although Peter had wished me luck, I know he too would have loved the chance to go to Gindeen to be trained. But it was I who had got the winning ticket that guaranteed me a free place in a stable of combatants.
‘I’ve kept your sticks safe for you, Leif. How about I set up a bout between you and me to see who’s best these days? While you’ve been away, I’ve taken your crown as the official champion of Mypocine. Want to see if you can win it back?’
Peter had given me many a tough fight, but had never actually beaten me. I shook my head. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Peter, but I’m not allowed to fight with sticks any more. It’s one of the rules laid down by Tyron, the man I work for.’
Peter’s smile slipped from his face. ‘You’ve got to be joking!’ he exclaimed. ‘He’d never find out. We’re too far away from Gindeen. Don’t be soft, Leif. I deserve a chance to beat you. Come on, what do you say?’
‘Look, I’m really sorry, but I just can’t risk it. Tyron has sacked me once already for stick-fighting; he wouldn’t give me a second chance. And you’d be surprised how much information finds its way back to Gindeen.’
‘You’re just making excuses!’ Peter snapped. He seemed angry.
I started to feel angry myself. ‘It’s not an excuse. I’m finished with stick-fighting. I won’t fight you, Peter.’
‘Why did you come back then?’
‘I want to visit the Genthai lands and see how my father’s people live. I’m just passing through. I stopped here because I wanted to see you. We’re still friends, aren’t we?’
He stared hard at me for a few moments, then his face broke into a wide smile. ‘Of course we’re still friends. Shall we go and get a drink and something to eat?’
I nodded, and he led the way across the muddy field, then through the narrow streets of wooden buildings.
Much of Gindeen, my new home, had been a disappointment to me – its boardwalks and buildings were just as rotten as they were here in the south – but there was one district called Westmere, where the rich, successful people lived; this was more impressive than anywhere I’d ever been in my life. There was a big plaza with cafés and shops where you could sit outside when the weather permitted.
Here, our destination was a café that looked ramshackle but was full to bursting: we had to wait before a table became free. We both had the same – eggs and beans on toast followed by a glass of fruit juice.
At first the conversation flowed easily. I asked questions about the lads I remembered. For many of them, things hadn’t changed, but a few had drifted away; one had even got married and his new wife wouldn’t let him fight any more.
It was five months since I’d left and there had been changes, but that was only to be expected. Stick-fighting was usually something teenagers did. Then they moved on, got married or found jobs on farms. And when Peter started talking about people I’d never heard of, I realized that if I came back to Mypocine regularly, we’d have less in common each year. I would become more and more of a stranger. I tried telling Peter about my new life in Gindeen, but I saw that he wasn’t really interested; he changed the subject whenever he could.
I began to wonder if he was jealous of me: after all, I’d got away and become an Arena 13 trainee; I belonged in Gindeen now. I liked being trained by Tyron and living with Deinon, another of his trainees, and the rest of his family. Kwin, Tyron’s youngest daughter, came suddenly into my mind – her hair deliberately cut shorter on one side to display the scar on her cheek; the scar she’d got after activating one of her father’s lacs and fighting it, blade against blade. I missed Kwin, but I still wasn’t sure how she really felt about me.
I came out of my daydream to see Peter staring at me, a strange expression on his face. ‘I’d best be off,’ I said. ‘I’d like to be well clear of the town before nightfall.’
‘Do you know any of the Genthai?’ he asked with a frown.
‘I met one of them briefly a while back. So I thought I would visit.’
‘Well, you should be all right,’ Peter said, ‘being half Genthai yourself. But most of the ones left in this town beg or steal and drink themselves unconscious each night. And those living in the tribal grounds think they’re better than us. They’ve never been that friendly—’
‘It’s their right to keep themselves to themselves,’ I interrupted. I was trying to stay calm, but it annoyed me when people criticized the Genthai and complained about them.
‘No offence, Leif. I’m just trying to tell you that things have got worse in recent months. Town folk who’ve ventured into the forest have been forced back. One group of hunters resisted and made a real fight of it. They were beaten bloody, then bound and dumped on the outskirts of town. The tribal Genthai were always territorial, you know that, but now they think the forest belongs to them. I’m just trying to warn you – that’s all.’
I smiled and nodded, but what he’d said disturbed me. Maybe it wouldn’t be so easy to visit my father’s people after all. I’d assumed that I’d be welcome, but now I was dubious about my reception.
‘Thanks for the warning, Peter,’ I said, ‘but I’ll be fine. I’ll tell you all about it when I pass through here on my way back.’
Soon I was leaving the city behind, but Peter’s warning had worried me. Konnit, the Genthai leader I’d met, had told me that they were on a war footing. They might have no time for me now. Perhaps, even though I’d come all this way, I would be turned back too . . .
The moon shall dim as the sun grows bright.
Amabramsum: the Genthai Book of Wisdom
That night, as I lay amongst the tall conifers at the edge of the forest, looking up at the stars, I thought again about Peter’s warning. I decided that if I was stopped, I would explain why I was making this visit and ask permission to proceed. But if they still barred my way, I would turn back. After all, the forest was part of the Genthai domain.
From time to time I was disturbed by the forest creatures – though nothing large enough to make me feel nervous. I lay there, thinking. I remembered what Konnit had said to me on the slope below Hob’s citadel after his warriors had rescued me from some tassels:
First we must take back this land from the traitor who calls himself the Protector, and cleanse it of abominations such as Hob. That done, we will ride forward beyond the Barrier to defeat those who confined us here.
I wasn’t sure I agreed about the last bit. It seemed extremely reckless. We didn’t know how powerful the opposition beyond the Barrier would be. However, I certainly wanted to destroy Hob.
In a great war, centuries earlier, mankind had been defeated by powerful djinn who had turned against their human creators. This world was all any of us had ever known. How could the Genthai expect to change things? Although I had no love for the Protector and his men, I feared that overthrowing someone who’d been placed here to rule us and keep us in submission would bring down immediate and terrible retribution. After all the Protector was the ruler of Midgard and he enforced order using his guards. And, even if they defeated and removed him, how could the Genthai hope to pass through the Barrier that enclosed our land – that wall of mist and terror that drove men mad.
I’d never ventured anywhere near it. It was foolish to do so, as some had found out to their cost: they returned jabbering with terror, their minds fragmented.
Perhaps the Genthai had become more territorial because they didn’t want outsiders to discover their preparations for war.
My musings were interrupted by the hoot of an owl and the shriek of a bird I couldn’t identify. There were little rustlings, but I knew that the forest was home to large black bears and wolves. Now I heard howls in the distance – along with a cry that I couldn’t identify; something that wasn’t a wolf.
I finally drifted into a broken sleep. A couple of hours before dawn I heard something moving through the nearby trees. I came up onto my knees and gripped the dagger I had brought with me. I listened hard, thinking that it sounded as if it was walking on two legs rather than four. Black bears could be dangerous, but they didn’t attack unless provoked or threatened. The unseen creature soon moved away, and I slept again.
By late the following afternoon I knew that I was being followed. There were at least three of them. They made no noise, but out of the corner of my eye I caught occasional glimpses of shadows slipping between the trees. They had to be Genthai.
It seemed that they were getting closer. How long would it be before they confronted me?
There was a clearing directly ahead, but before I was halfway across the open space a figure stepped out to block my path. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that my pursuers were in the open now, directly behind me; there were five of them.
The mounted Genthai warriors who’d rescued me from the tassels had had facial tattoos. Although these armed men had none, they were clearly Genthai. Dressed in leather and furs, they had swords in shoulder scabbards and daggers at their hips; all carried axes. I was fifteen and big for my age, but as I came to a halt and they closed in, I realized that all were at least a head taller; the one who confronted me was nearly seven feet tall.
The giant balanced his axe across his broad shoulder, gripping it with his right hand. ‘You’re not welcome here,’ he told me, his words rumbling up from deep inside him.
I looked straight back into his eyes and paused before replying to give him a chance to take in the colour of my skin, which was almost as dark as his. I wanted these people to see that I had Genthai blood.
‘I’ve come to visit the land of my father’s people,’ I told him. ‘My name is Leif. My father fought in Arena 13 under the name Mathias, though most folk shortened it to Math. His Genthai name was Lasar.’
The big warrior raised his eyebrows in surprise and then looked me up and down. ‘Your father might have been Genthai, but your mother was not of our people,’ he said, his voice full of disdain. ‘You’re a half-blood.’
Back in the city of Gindeen, I’d occasionally encountered prejudice because of my darker skin and Genthai appearance, but I’d never thought for a moment that I would find it here. A truth suddenly struck me – something that I’d never even considered before. I belonged neither to the Genthai nor to the city dwellers. I would always be somewhere in between; always an outsider.
‘I was invited here by Konnit,’ I said, suppressing my emotions.
‘Konnit? Which Konnit do you speak of? There are several families who go by that name.’
I glanced quickly at the men surrounding me. All were clean-shaven – unlike Konnit.
‘That was the only name he gave me. He had facial tattoos and a moustache that obscured most of his mouth. He rode a big horse and wielded two swords,’ I said. ‘He said that he would one day become the leader of the Genthai.’
The warrior glared at me and clenched his left fist, and for a moment I thought that he was about to strike me. It took all my willpower not to flinch. ‘If you prove to be a liar, half-blood, we will beat you to within an inch of your life. You speak of Hemi Konnit, who is indeed our leader now. Tie his hands!’ he snapped at the men behind me.
They snatched my bag from me, then bound my hands behind my back roughly, tying the rope so tightly that it cut into my wrists. For the first time I began to feel afraid. If Konnit didn’t remember our meeting I would be in for a terrible beating. The big warrior probably didn’t care whether I lived or died.
Then I was blindfolded and pushed hard in the back. I staggered and almost fell, but I was dragged forward by my arms, and we set off at a furious pace.
We continued in this way for about an hour, changing direction three times. Twice we stopped and I was spun round on the spot with some force – round and round, until I became dizzy and almost fell. I guessed that the idea was to make it impossible for me to remember the way to the Genthai camp. My captors laughed, but not once did they speak to me. I was completely in their power.
At last I heard other voices, and suddenly I sensed a change in the air and smelled the stink of urine and sawdust. I realized that we were indoors. The blindfold was ripped from my eyes and somebody at my back began to untie my hands.
I found myself in a small windowless room with an earthen floor, furnished with only a chair, a bed and a small table with a jug on it. In one corner there was a post in the ground, with manacles attached. It was a cell for holding prisoners.
‘You’ll spend the night here while we find out if you’re a liar as well as a half-blood,’ the big man said. ‘Don’t try to escape. The door will be locked and there are guards outside. There’s water on the table and a pot for your piss in the corner.’
With that, my Genthai captors went outside and I heard a key being turned in the lock.
Grateful that I hadn’t been chained, I sipped the water to slake my thirst. Since leaving Gindeen at the end of the season I’d been living off the land, snaring rabbits and hares. I remembered that there were some strips of dried meat, cheese and oatcakes in the bag I’d bought in Mypocine, but the Genthai hadn’t returned it, so I was going to go hungry.
It seemed a long night. I pushed away images of the terrible deaths I’d seen in the arena, along with my visit to Hob’s citadel, and concentrated on Kwin.
She was wild, fierce and unpredictable. She wanted to fight in Arena 13 – although that was impossible; a dream that could never come true. Only men and boys could fight there.
I liked the rebel in her, and remembered her challenging me to a stick-fight. She’d been very fast and skilful, and I’d probably only won because she’d slipped on a bone in the circle we’d cleared in the slaughterhouse. Right from the start I’d been drawn to her and was desolate when I found out that she had a boyfriend called Jon. But then they had broken up and my hopes had started to revive.
A vivid memory of that stick-fight came into my mind: I’d just won the second of three bouts, catching her on the forehead; blood was trickling down into her eye, but she wasn’t angry. She smiled. Her face was illuminated by a shaft of moonlight, transfigured into something otherworldly and beautiful. It was the face of an angel.
I could see it now. It was something I’d never forget.
Holding onto that image, I drifted off to sleep.
Finally the door was opened again, allowing in the morning light. One of my captors poked his head through the doorway and beckoned me outside. He set off towards an open fire; some kind of animal was roasting over it on a spit. The other warriors sat around it sipping from metal mugs.
I followed, glancing back at my prison – a single small oblong hut with a sloping roof. I could see other larger buildings set amongst the trees. I wondered if the Genthai kept other prisoners here. If so, what sort of crimes would they have committed? My father had told me a little about Genthai rules and values, but I’d still much to learn.
The warrior pointed to the ground so I sat down. Nobody spoke, but a mug was thrust towards me and I took it in both hands and sipped. The liquid was very hot and spicy, with a hint of peppermint. Soon the meat was being carved. I was the last to be served but I was grateful. It was venison and it was delicious.
‘We decided to feed you rather than beat you, half-blood,’ the big man growled, staring at me hard. ‘We sent word to Konnit and his reply has just come back. Lucky for you he remembers your meeting. So you’ll be seeing him again later.’
We set off within the hour. This time they didn’t blindfold me or bind my hands. My bag was also returned to me – though the men were no friendlier.
I saw more and more wooden buildings set amongst the trees and realized that this was a kind of town, spread over a large area – two hours later we were still crossing it – but much less densely populated than Gindeen. There were trees and areas of green space between the clusters of wooden dwellings.
When we finally reached the far side, we came to a huge wooden building, oblong in shape like the others. It wasn’t anywhere near the size of the Wheel or the slaughterhouse in Gindeen, but it was still truly massive. I’d have expected to find something like this at the centre of the Genthai dwellings, but not here at the edge, with just the forest beyond.
There were steps leading up to a veranda and a pair of large double doors, which stood wide open. Three prominent carvings of muscular men decorated that entrance. One was high above the door; the other two on either side. All three had two features in common: the first was the Genthai facial tattoos I’d seen on Konnit; the second were their open mouths, from which protruded very long tongues, reaching well below the jaws. Each figure held a weapon – the ones on either side of the doors wielded huge clubs, the one above, a curved sword. They were clearly warriors making some kind of threatening challenge.
There was a queue of Genthai sitting outside on the grass, waiting in silence. They were all barefoot.
‘You’ll have to wait your turn,’ the big man told me. ‘It could take an hour or more. Konnit likes to give everyone a fair and thorough hearing.’
A line of white stones marked the edge of the grass, and when we reached it, the big man came to a halt and glared at me.
‘Take off your boots before you cross the line!’ he commanded. ‘This area is called the marae – it’s a sacred assembly ground.’
We both took off our boots.
‘Leave your bag there as well. Nobody will touch it,’ he instructed. I obeyed, and we moved forward to join the queue.
Before sitting down, I glanced over the heads of those waiting in front of me. In the gloom inside the building, I could make out two figures sitting face to face on the floor, engaged in conversation.
The big Genthai waited beside me, not uttering another word until it was my turn. Then he gestured towards the open door, gave a grunt and walked beside me towards the seated man, who was facing us, arms folded.
I noted that although the building was constructed of wood, there were three large stone fireplaces set into one wall. I looked up and saw hundreds of faces carved into all four walls. They seemed to watch me as I passed by.
As I got nearer, I recognized Konnit. He still had the moustache drooping over his upper lip and the whorls of fierce-looking tattoos on his face.
‘This is the youth, lord. His name is Leif,’ said the warrior.
‘I remember him well, Garrett. He fought a tassel on the hill below Hob’s citadel. He fought and won, but did not have the courage to deliver the killing blow.’
I felt dismay at Konnit’s words. He made my victory seem like nothing. Was he calling me a coward? I wondered. Perhaps I’d been a fool to come here.
Konnit gestured at the wooden floor, and we sat facing each other. Garrett stood nearby, silently staring into the fireplaces. They were filled with grey ashes and the air was chilly – even colder than outside.
I noticed another huge door at Konnit’s back. It could surely open only onto the closely packed trees of the forest.
‘Welcome to the meeting hall of the Genthai, Leif, son of Mathias,’ Konnit said with a smile. ‘This is the centre of our culture and our laws. Now, tell me, have you come to join us?’
I knew that his invitation had been for me to take part in the coming battles, not to visit merely out of curiosity. But I screwed up my courage and told him the truth.
‘My training in the city is not yet completed,’ I explained. ‘I wish to fight in Arena 13 and must return before the next combat season starts. But I’m here to learn what I can of my father’s people – if you will allow me to stay for a while.’
Konnit frowned. He looked far from pleased. ‘First you will address me as “lord” and give me the respect due as leader of the tribe!’ he said, raising his voice slightly.
‘Yes, lord,’ I replied, ‘but what of the Obutayer? Does she no longer rule here?’
My father had told me that the tribe had always been matriarchal. The Obutayer had been the leader and mother of all.
Konnit stared at me hard. ‘There are lines from the Amabramdata, our Book of Prophecy, which address this. Listen well.’
He closed his eyes and began to recite from memory:
‘This is the time of waiting. This is the time when women rule. But soon it will be over. The moon shall dim as the sun grows bright. Then Thangandar shall return to lead us to victory over the cursed djinn . . . Are you familiar with these lines?’
‘No, lord.’
‘Then I will alleviate your ignorance. The sun, of course, is symbolic and refers to the ascent of male leadership. The moon is the matriarch who has yielded power to me. The time of waiting and subjection to the will of the djinn is now over. We are preparing for war. When victory has been achieved, I will yield to the Obutayer and she will rule our people once more. We will speak again of this, and I will answer any questions you have, but now I have business with others. You may stay, Leif, but you must work hard for your meat and bread. Garrett!’ he called, and the big man stepped closer. ‘I place Leif in your charge. Train him as a forester and report back to me regarding his progress.’
‘Yes, lord,’ Garrett said, bowing.
With those words I was dismissed, and after giving a bow towards Konnit I followed Garrett out of the hall, full of misgivings. I tried to shrug them off. It was only fair that I work for my keep, but I didn’t like the idea of being supervised by a man such as Garrett. He had been hard on me, but even worse was the way he referred to me as ‘half-blood’, which I found insulting.
After crossing the sacred ground, we tugged on our boots and I picked up my bag. Garrett grunted and pointed. Instead of heading back the way we’d come, he led me in a different direction – I wondered if he was taking me straight to work. But as we passed the end of the long meeting house and walked in among the trees, I saw the other end of the huge structure. Here there was no veranda, the ground sloping down to meet the bottom of the closed doors.
And there was something else that caught my eye: four parallel paths sloped down through the trees towards those doors. Who would come out of the forest and use those when they could come through the front door, as we’d done? Perhaps they weren’t allowed to cross the sacred ground? Perhaps the paths were used by hunters or others who brought food to the meeting hall? It seemed strange to use four narrow paths when one broader one would have served better.
Suddenly, in the distance, far off amongst the trees, I heard a strange howl. Garrett didn’t react, but it sent a shiver down my spine. It reminded me of the cry of a wolf, but it sounded eerily human.
There are Wheels within Wheels.
Amabramsum: the Genthai Book of Wisdom
After Tyron had dismissed me for fighting with sticks, I’d spent several miserable weeks working in the Gindeen slaughterhouse. My memory of it was still vivid. It had been stinky, back-breaking work, but in many ways forestry among the Genthai was worse. My misery wasn’t caused by the work, hard though it was, but by the person who was supervising my training.
No, it wasn’t just my aching muscles, blistered hands and lack of skill in swinging an axe; it was Garrett. I could do nothing right, and after a week he moved on from cursing and swearing to violence. Several times he cuffed me hard across the back of the head, then progressed to the odd kick to the backside or boot in the shins. Tyron always treated his trainees with respect, and Garrett’s bullying was more than I could stomach.
Part of me wanted to return to Gindeen early, or perhaps spend some time in Mypocine, but my pride wouldn’t let me. Garrett was a bully, and I would not allow him to drive me away.
One day I snapped and whirled round to face him, my fists raised. He was twice my size, but I didn’t care. I knew I was fast enough to land a few blows. It would be worth it.
I balanced myself on my toes and waited for him to attack. It would be better if he made the first move. He was big – I was sure that if he rushed me, I could step aside and get at least one blow into the side of his head.
I took a step nearer and balanced myself again. ‘Come on!’ I challenged him. ‘You like dealing out blows from behind. Why don’t you try it face to face?’
Garrett just stared at me, and then smiled. ‘So you do have a bit of spirit, half-blood. I’d almost given up on you!’
My blood was up and I took another step towards him. Then I came up onto my toes again, my heart thumping, ready to launch an attack.
His grin widened. ‘You still have all your teeth. That’s unusual in a stick-fighter – even for the champion stick-fighter of Mypocine. But I’ll tell you one thing, Leif: come at me with those fists and you’ll lose your front teeth for sure. Now get back to work!’
His comment took me completely by surprise, but before I could respond, he turned his back on me and walked away. Slowly my anger dissipated; I didn’t go after him. Instead I picked up my axe and went back to my inexpert chopping at the tree I was supposed to fell. But after this he never cuffed or kicked me again, and maybe he even swore at me a little less than before.
Later, my mind kept returning to his remark about me being the best stick-fighter in Mypocine. How did he know that? I’d never told any of the Genthai about that part of my life. Had they been checking up on me? I wondered.
The weeks dragged by. I slowly got better at felling trees, but I was unhappy and ready to go back to Gindeen earlier than I’d planned.
I was aware of intense activity all around me; things that didn’t include me. The older men were hunting and trapping far and wide, gathering food that seemed to be considerably in excess of the tribe’s current needs. Slowly I began to realize that the majority of the meat was being salted and stored against some future eventuality.
Was this part of their preparations for war?
Every morning the young men left early, before dawn, and set off into the forest in groups and didn’t return until dusk. I suspected that they were training for war, but when they left the communal shelters they didn’t carry weapons. Eventually I realized that there must be training camps deep within the forest.
Then, late one morning when I was working alone as usual, I saw part of the Genthai army. I was near the top of a hill and there was a track at its foot that wound through the trees. The only warning of their approach was the thunder of hooves. A column of horsemen came into view. They rode three abreast at a canter.
Dressed in chain mail, two great swords were attached to the saddle of each warrior. They rode fine thoroughbreds, made for speed. Some carried spears and others had bows strung across their shoulders. They must have been aware of me but all looked ahead; not one even glanced in my direction.
The column passed me by for almost an hour. That meant a lot of warriors. But I kept thinking of the weapons they wielded. They might pose a real threat to the Protector’s guards. But could swords, spears and bows be effective against the might of the djinn that dwelt beyond the Barrier?
There was a great sense of comradeship amongst the Genthai, but I was excluded. Hardly anybody spoke to me. Nobody befriended me at work. Nobody shared a joke with me. I was the joke. They whispered and laughed at me behind my back.
At night, when we ate in one of the communal shelters, the women avoided my eyes and the children kept their distance. I was a half-blood – not even a person, in their eyes. But they seemed happy together – affectionate and warm; only I was excluded.
About a month after I’d arrived, I was chopping down a tree chosen by Garrett. Later I was to measure it carefully and cut it into lengths. It would form part of the foundations of a new dwelling.
Chips of wood were flying and I was almost a third of the way through the trunk. I’d finally developed the right muscles for the work, and I was getting into the rhythm and controlling the weight and swing of the axe. It had started to snow, and the ground was covered in a thin white blanket. I became aware of someone standing behind me and lowered my axe. I thought it was Garrett, but to my surprise Konnit was standing there, a slight smile on his face.
‘Leave that for now, Leif. Let’s walk for a while.’
I put down my axe and followed him, feeling somewhat nervous. Had Garrett complained about me? I wondered.
Immediately I was put at ease.
‘Garrett speaks well of you,’ he told me. ‘He thinks you’ve made real progress.’
I was surprised, and was struggling to find the words to reply when Konnit asked me a question.
‘Are you happy here?’
I decided to tell the partial truth. I didn’t want to reveal how miserable I was. ‘I am content, lord, but not happy. I’m not of full Genthai blood – I feel that I’ll never be accepted here.’
‘Sometimes acceptance can come suddenly. Were you to train as a warrior and fight with us, it would quickly come. But you prefer to follow in your father’s footsteps.’
He was staring at me as we walked. I couldn’t meet his eyes, so I just nodded.
‘Your father defeated Hob in the arena fifteen times, but it all came to nothing. Hob murdered your mother, and then your father drove you away before taking his own life.’
‘How do you know about that?’ I asked in astonishment.
‘Remember my title, Leif! A Genthai warrior would not forget!’
‘Sorry, lord,’ I said.
‘I made it my business to find out what I could about you. You showed promise fighting that tassel. Your speed was truly something to behold. It will be wasted in the arena; your talent could be put to better use as a warrior, fighting with others who will liberate this land from the yoke of the djinn. But let’s speak of other things.’
He came to a halt and turned to face me. Then he picked up a stick and drew a rough circle in the snow. Quickly he divided the circle into thirteen segments, one significantly larger than the others. Then he numbered each segment.
‘Do you know what that represents, Leif?’ he asked.
It seemed obvious to me. ‘It’s the Wheel in Gindeen, seen from above, lord, with the dome cut away,’ I answered. ‘It’s a bird’s-eye view showing the arenas.’