As one, the clan shouted its acceptance. Karsas raised his fist again in another victory gesture. Azarion only gave a shallow bow in acknowledgment of the crowd’s response.
The ata-agacin bowed her head and clasped her hands, her pose one of prayer. The other agacins followed suit, and Gilene mimicked their gestures, if not their praying.
She edged closer to Tamura to whisper. “He’s very calm. Such peace must have served him well when he fought in the arena.”
“He was the same as a child,” Tamura replied in a whisper of her own. “Quiet, but also single-minded.”
“And stubborn, I suspect.” He would have to be to remain unbroken on the Empire’s wheel.
Tamura chuffed and rolled her eyes. “Very. But he was never unkind in his pursuit of those things he wanted. The years as a slave have changed him in some ways.”
Gilene sighed. “The Empire is a stain on the world. A wretched kingdom.”
The Savatar paid her and Tamura no attention, their focus on the ata-agacin and the two men waiting to spill blood on the Sky Below.
Tamura’s top lip twitched with a sneer. “Karsas is responsible for my brother’s enslavement. I hope Azarion kills him and takes his head.”
Gilene shuddered at the image her words conjured. “Kraelag trains its gladiators hard and often to fight well in the Pit. Azarion was the Gladius Prime. The best fighter with the most kills. The one the crowds made their bets on most, the one they all came to see. The favorite.”
Her words dredged up the dark recollections of the Rites of Spring with its carcass-strewn Pit and blood-soaked sand. And here she was, a witness to another fight in another arena, resulting in another death. The consolation of knowing this fight was for a purpose beyond the entertainment of a bloodthirsty and bored audience didn’t quell her horror.
Tamura suffered no such qualms. “Then let’s hope those skills see him through today and he comes out of this combat the winner. Our people need him. My mother needs him.”
Gilene nodded. I need him. The sentiment was unspoken, admitted only to herself and reluctantly at that. When had the man who was once only a means to an end become something more?
The ata-agacin finished her prayer and opened her eyes. She placed a hand on the neck of either horse. “To the victor, the clan,” she proclaimed and stepped back into the circle’s edge.
Though she tried her best to stay calm, Gilene’s breathing quickened. The two men parted ways, each going to an opposite side of the circle only to wheel their horses around in preparation for a charge. They’d each unsheathed their swords. The slender, curved blades favored by the Savatar were perfectly designed for slashing attacks from horseback.
She shouldn’t be afraid. Azarion was a renowned fighter, skilled in combat, and not just combat against men. The Empire pitted its fighters against animals as well—bulls, bears, lions, and wolves. Sometimes the men won, sometimes the animals did. Facing Karsas wouldn’t even make Azarion break a sweat. Gilene, on the other hand, felt it trickle down her back and sides as fear gripped her.
She jumped when, with a bellow, Karsas charged first, sword flashing in the sunlight. Azarion drummed his heels into his mare’s sides, and she raced toward the other horse. The ring of steel as the two blades met rose above the crowd’s clamor.
Like his kinsmen, Karsas was an excellent horseman. Nimble and fast, he avoided Azarion’s slashes by sliding half off his horse’s back only to swing back up and wheel his mount around on a tight pivot to face his opponent again. His mare, used to such acrobatics, didn’t so much as flick an ear when he sometimes dropped to the ground beside her, feet barely touching earth while he used her as a shield and vaulted atop her back once more after a charge.
Azarion was an adept rider, better than most Kraelian horsemen Gilene had seen, but he didn’t possess his cousin’s equine prowess. What he lacked there, he made up for in fast reaction, able to counter Karsas’s attacks with lightning accuracy.
The two sparred with each other over several charges, neither managing to strike the other despite numerous attempts, equally matched in their abilities to dodge attacks. The crowd called out encouragement to its particular favorite, some throwing in suggestions for what to do next, others to spur them on to greater risks.
Another charge brought the two men close together in a pass. At the last second, Karsas switched sword hands, bringing the blade down in a short arc that sliced a line across Azarion’s chest and split the quilting of his tunic.
To avoid a deeper cut, Azarion lunged back, overcompensating in the movement, and tumbled off his mount. He sprang instantly to his feet but not before the mare galloped out of range for him to catch her.
Gilene clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle her gasp. Beside her, Tamura cursed, and near them Karsas pivoted his horse in a triumphant prance while he trilled a victory cry.
“He fell on purpose.”
Startled by the comment, Gilene gaped at Tamura. “What do you mean?”
Tamura didn’t answer, her gaze locked on the scene. Karsas trotted the perimeter, raising the crowd’s avidity for the combat. Azarion jogged in tandem with his movements, always keeping his opponent opposite him until he stood with his back to Gilene, and Karsas faced them across the trampled expanse of grass.
Gloating at his obvious advantage, Karsas showed off his prowess with both blade and horse by leaping to a standing position atop his mount’s back and spinning his sword in a fast circular motion that created its own shield wall as a defense against attack. It was a showy maneuver, effective in its intimidation against an enemy unfamiliar with Savatar fighting tactics.
Azarion didn’t react, only held his ground and calmly observed Karsas’s actions. To anyone watching, he was at a clear disadvantage—an armed man on foot facing an armed one on horseback—but Tamura’s comment made Gilene wonder whether that was truly the case.
She didn’t have the time to puzzle out the why of his action. Karsas dropped down neatly onto the riding pad and, with another victorious ululation, kicked his horse into a hard gallop straight for Azarion.
Azarion trotted closer to the center as if to meet the charge, then stopped, knees slightly bent, his sword held in a relaxed grip as Karsas raced toward him. The Savatar screamed and shouted.
Get out of the way. Get out of the way! Gilene shrieked the command inside her head. Beside her, Tamura was silent, taut as a bowstring.
Clods of dirt flew up from under the mare’s pounding hooves, and Karsas lowered his body to her neck, streamlining both horse and rider until they resembled an arrow shooting straight for Azarion.
She did scream, as did Tamura, when Karsas’s mare drew nearly abreast to Azarion. Karsas angled his body to the right and swung the sword in an upward arc, the move guaranteed to split his opponent open from groin to throat.