To Fell the Mountain

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# Chapter One

On the arena sands below, one combatant’s heavy club struck his opponent's lead leg. Glancing though it was, the lack of armour shook the limb and left the teen stumbling. He barely managed to back out of range before the follow up strike finished him.

Devara, youngest of the five Kaerunyan councillors serving under their chief, leaned forward as she watched the match from the largest balcony in the arena. She'd taken the time to study her surroundings when she first arrived and found it a pleasing space. The stone floor was, surprisingly, level, but the view stole her breath. Tens of thousands of spectators packed into the city's largest arena, so large it was set outside the city walls. The crowd, the sheer volume of humanity in one place, had stunned her for a moment. The rumble of their cheering was enough to set her lungs trembling in her chest.

The combat, however held her full attention. She'd barely touched the cup of wine resting on the wide arm of her chair since the trumpets had first sounded an hour ago.

She'd witnessed many simple arena matches and, to be honest, been unimpressed. The spectacle of the Trials was something new and fascinating. The excitement she’d felt as she silently cheered for two old men, armed with only daggers, who’d faced five half-starved wolves had been completely unexpected. The sheer brutality with which two naked women had torn at each other with their bare hands recalled her earliest lessons with Tiqe.

Though she could have had a place on the nobles’ balcony, currently crowded with representatives of all eight cities, at both of the last two cycles, her work had been too pressing to take the time. With Kaerunya and the surrounding lands simply packed with twenty or more times the number of foreign nobles, powerful citizens, and merchants it usually housed, she felt some guilt at not being amongst them—meeting, whispering, threatening, always advancing her interests. It was a faint sensation, more of a niggling than a feeling, and one she’d spent two years learning to ignore.

“Are you well, Councillor?” Ermilol asked. He sat to her right, his eyes narrowing as he studied her face. “You appear … flushed.”

Ermilol had chosen his ceremonial robes for this rare appearance among the populace. Devara was loathe to admit it, but the crimson did look good on the man. With the contrast between his dark hair and fair complexion, they provided the right canvas upon which to display his barely pleasing looks.

“The sun, Chief.” Devara barely glanced away from the combat. “Though the Trials are more exciting than I’d expected.”

“Ah, yes.” Ermilol barely raised his hand to beckon and a slave with a parasol hurried over to provide some shade. “I forget you haven’t witnessed the magnificence before.”

You forget nothing. It’s one of the things that make you an interesting adversary.

“Councillor Yalinna always had too much going on in the weeks surrounding the Trials,” Devara replied, savouring both the name and the bittersweet memories it evoked.

Far to her left, empty wine bottles scattered around the pair to mark their conquests, Baron Yoondaal of Durragoa lounged with Councillor Tarado. The baron's gaze wander away from his bench companion and toward Devara's chair. Several times now he’d let his attention linger on Devara’s … robe for far longer than any would consider proper, particularly given his age—over twice hers. She ignored his most recent glance as she had the rest, but Councillor Yalinna’s voice whispered in her memory, sharing secrets and far too much detail about the time she’d spent with Yoondaal. Devara still wasn’t sure if his infatuation was for her or for the memory of Yalinna. Either way, he was always polite with her, and they’d shared many chuckles over Tarado’s escapades.

“Indeed.” She detected a trace of suspicion in Ermilol’s voice. “While I truly enjoy your company, Yalinna’s absence stings as sorely today as it did the day she died.”

“I miss her deeply as well …” Devara’s voice trailed off, and she edged forward on her chair.

Down on the sands, the fight between the two young men drew to a close. They wore only threadbare tunics and pants, meaning the impact was deeply felt every time the heavy club of one struck the other. The start of the match had been full of energy and excitement as they hopped and dodged, but they quickly grew fatigued by the hefty weapons, and blows began to land.

The first had shattered a forearm raised in defense. The second buckled a leg and left the teen limping. Perhaps six more landed before the taller of the two fell and couldn’t regain his feet. He tried valiantly to ward off his attacker but was unable to keep hold of his weapon. His unbroken arm was pinned to the ground under his foe’s foot and his broken limb provided little protection. The standing combatant pounded down only a few blows before smashing through.

The crowd of citizens stamped and cheered as the victor left the body behind and dragged his mangled leg toward one of the many wooden gates leading to the tunnels and chambers below the arena or built into its thick walls.

Devara’s gaze turned to the largest of those gates, and her pulse quickened. Behind those thick doors was the chamber in which eight city champions waited.

She’d visited the room after the last Trials on a whim. It was her first trip to the Grand Arena and, with the Trials complete, few were present. As she stepped into the back hallways, a trio of her personal guard hard on her heels, a fat and sweaty sergeant appeared before her, wringing his hands. His whining voice grated on her as she’d strolled along the narrow hallway, peering into squalid slave rooms smelling of stale, sour sweat and guardrooms reeking of ancient beer.

“Not there, Councillor!” he blurted when she reached for a door handle. “That’s—”

“Sergeant Parrah,” she said, closing her hand around the hilt of the sword on her hip and drawing a half foot of steel, “I’m here to enjoy a personal tour. Your presence is disrupting my enjoyment.” She leaned forward. “Go away.”

Beyond the door, after the sergeant had scurried off like a fat little rat, Devara found herself in a hallway barely wide enough for two of her guards to walk shoulder to shoulder. After twenty paces the passage ended at a sturdy wooden ladder. Her guards, well-schooled in not getting in her way, exchanged grimaces but remained in place when she began to ascend.

She had to brace her shoulder against the trapdoor and heave with her legs to get it open. Climbing into the gloom of the deeply shadowed room, the first thing to hit her was the smell: heady and brooding, full of fear and hate and rage and man.

Thick wooden benches lined either of the long walls, the path between barely wide enough for the knees of those sitting. As her eyes grew accustomed to the low light, she eased down on one and pulled her gloves off. The top of the seat was smooth though dented, but she found the underside splintered, chipped as if by nervous fingernails.

The walls were made of the cheap, dark rock imported from Mine, rough blocks coming from deep shafts where worn-out slaves were sent to work their last days, if they were lucky, or their last months, if not. It was said the stones smothered all but the brightest of lights as the souls of those slaves were trapped inside, yearning for one last glimpse of the sun.

Thoughts of the hard faces of city champions, their features dulled and darkened by shadow as they stared to cow their soon to be opponents, crowded her imagination and squeezed her chest.

She still didn’t know how long she’d spent in the room, simply sitting and marveling in silence until a loudly cleared throat from below had drawn her attention. She’d begun down the ladder, pausing when only her head remained above the floor and peering along the benches, trying to imagine the thoughts of the men as they climbed into the midst of a growing number of warriors, each hoping to be the last alive.

Her guards, sweating as they jogged in their heavy armour, had been hard pressed to keep up on the return to the city gates and her waiting carriage. The aroma of that dim, dark, heavy room had stayed with her through the long ride back to her home. It had taken three bed slaves the entire afternoon and most of the evening to lull her to sleep.

Now she pictured the eight gladiators squeezed into the cramped room, every one of them knowing only half would see tomorrow. Memories of the potent scent fluttered at the edge of her awareness: teasing, tempting, tantalizing.

“The shade provides little comfort, Councillor.” Ermilol’s voice cut through the memories. “Might you be more comfortable indoors?”

Devara saw the body had been removed while she daydreamed. Eight gladiator swords, sharpened only along the two inches of their wedged tips, protruded from the sand. They ran in two rows of four facing the balcony on which she sat.

“Before the first round, Chief Councillor?” She dragged her gaze slowly past the largest gate below to look into Ermilol’s eyes. “Nothing could force me to leave before its finish.”

“Well then,” Ermilol looked over to the chief herald, resplendent in robes of eight-coloured silk with his steel-capped staff held high. “Let it begin.”

At Ermilol’s faint nod, the chief herald crashed the butt of his staff against the stone floor. Below, a pair of slaves jumped to open the doors.

As the booming roar of the mob packed into the Grand Arena hammered at Devara’s ears, eight city champions strode forward to take their places, one beside each sword.

“One hundred and seventy-seven years!” the chief herald shouted, beginning the Tale of the Trials. The noise from the crowd hushed instantly. “One hundred and seventy-seven years of peace! One hundred and seventy-seven years of prosperity!” his voice rang out, echoed by dozens of junior heralds standing on smaller platforms evenly spaced around the arena.

“War!” It burst from the mouths of thousands.

“Yes. War!” the herald answered. He shook his gleaming staff over his head, the long sleeves of his multi-coloured robes waved back and forth. “For hundreds of years. For generations! War! Neighbour against neighbour, brother against brother. Alliances made and broken in the same day. How many died, we’ll never know. We know how it ended.”

“The Trials!” the cry from the crowd was accompanied by the stamping of feet and the clapping of hands.

“Yes!” the heralds repeated, each raising their right arm, one finger pointing skyward. “The Trials! Leaders of the eight cities found a way to peace. Each sent their bravest and deadliest warrior to fight to the death. The last alive would become grand champion, and his city would rule.”

“Raaaammmmm!” the word boomed out, echoing around the arena. The man named did not move, his gaze stayed fixed straight ahead.

His gesture copied by his juniors, the chief herald patted the air with both hands and waited for the crowd to quiet.

“And,” he added, “if any grand champion wins five trials, he also wins … his freedom!” Feet stamped louder in the stands, hands grew red as they pounded together.

“Now!” he called, a smile coming to his lips and a glint to his eyes. “To introduce the warriors for these Trials! From Kaerunya …” At least half the massed voices joined in halfway through the word, a long ululating “uuu” rising and falling.

“Yes! City champion for thirteen years, four-time grand champion …” all the heralds raised their voices, screaming to be heard over the growing cheers, failing with all but the closest spectators. “Victor in forty-seven single combat matches. Fighting for his freedom! Ram!”

Down on the arena floor, the first gladiator took one step forward and raised his fist. He kept his gaze up as he turned, Devara noted, scanning the crowd as if meeting every pair of eyes and ignoring the other gladiators. Only when he’d completed a full circle and offered a gentle bow to the nobles’ balcony did he step back and lower his arm.

Twelve years representing Kaerunya in the Trials.

Seventy-two men slain, most with little effort from the reports she’d read. The tale of his first round in the Trials, after he'd torn the previous City Champion apart as if he were a freshly made gladiator, said three opponents attacked him simultaneously. Her councillor said he’d calmly but efficiently put them all down in under a minute and Yalinna wasn’t one to embellish.

Now Ram had a chance to win his freedom, a happening so rare none alive had witnessed the last. Devara tried to imagine his thinking, knowing the prize he’d been chasing for fifteen years was but three bouts and seven deaths away. The anticipation had to be nearly overwhelming, but Ram’s face was as relaxed as Devara kept her own.

She knew much about the city champions and their victories. The Hemburi gladiator, beside Ram, was named Trunk. How people so skilled and creative in woodworking could be so obtuse in the naming of their champions was beyond her. The last five had been Trunk, Root, Trunk, Hambar (for the tree thick enough to live in), and now … Trunk.

The Faurian was next. Sidero, 'Iron' in the old tongue. A fitting name, as the man looked to be forged from it. Even from a distance, his arms were sharply defined. What Devara could see of his legs below his leather kilt were magnificent, smooth yet bulging in all the right places. A younger version of Ram. Tanned a deeper hue as he hailed from Fauria, but were the pair side by side, they could easily be confused for brothers or a father with his son.

Her study of the Faurian champion was deep enough for her to miss several introductions, until …

“From Matacenta!” the herald called out, and immediately the crowd burst into laughter.

Nearly two centuries, and still every other city mocked Matacenta. A city once the smallest and weakest among the eight had found great success when her army was led by a brilliant general. As her borders expanded, the city’s ruler had declared her an empire and himself emperor.

When peace came to the United Cities but a few years later, he refused to relinquish the title. The hubris of the man and those who'd followed had become a source of amusement to the citizens of the other cities.

“From Matacenta,” the laughter reverberated. “Selected by the emperor,” Again, the crowd raised its collective voice, mocking the title, but a low rumble began to grow from a group far to Devara’s right. A small forest of white flags rose and waved in near perfect unison. "and victor in six single-combat matches, Doom!”

“Doom! Doom! Doom!” though no more than a few hundred, they chanted the name as if from a single throat, their voices battling the noise from the jeering thousands for supremacy.

More air patting from the herald eventually brought the volume down to a level at which he and his echoes could be heard.

“Warriors,” he said, addressing the eight on the sand, “when told to begin, you will draw the sword beside you and fight. With each death, the trumpets will sound. Combat will cease with the fourth blast. Anyone striking a blow after the fourth sounding will be shot down,” a score of archers stepped to the edge of the podium and fitted arrows to their bows, "and replaced. Fight well, and bring honour to your cities!”

The noise from the crowd ceased, every spectator leaned forward in anticipation, all eyes fixed on the gladiators.

 

***

 

On the far side of the arena, across from the nobles’ balcony, two old and grey men leaned against each other and passed a clay jug back and forth. Clad in dirty and worn clothing, one wore a wide-brimmed, floppy hat. A tied-off cloth draped over the neck of the other. Both had long, scraggly beards, one spotted with flecks of clay, the other shedding curls of reed when the wind picked up.

The section in which they sat was called the Stammas, named after the tallest peak in the known world to indicate just how bad the seats were. Farthest from the action, highest from the ground, brightest sunlight in their eyes for what seemed the entire day, they were occupied by the poorest of spectators, if at all.

The pair had started early in the day and spent as much time resting as climbing to reach their bench, tucking an empty jug or two under vacant seats along the way. They could have afforded a better view, but tradition led them to the same seats whenever the Trials were held in Kaerunya.

“Ohhh, he’s a big one, he is,” Lem said, gesturing with the jug hooked on a single finger. “Just look at the size of him.”

“Now how can ya say such a thing? With your eyes? Glazed like your pots.” Sloh snatched the swaying jug with both hands. “Lucky ya can see the jug.”

“Nonononono. See him plain as the nose on yer face.” Lem’s bleary gaze followed the jug as his companion tipped it far back. “Cain’t see the man on t’other side, mind. He’s too big!”

“Ya … ye thi …” Sloh coughed his way through a thought, thumping a fist to his chest. “Ye think Ram got ‘nother one in him?”

Lem, far too busy concentrating on catching the jug, which remained just out of reach, remained silent.

“I mean, he’s old. Damn old,” Sloh continued. “Four Trials he won, and we seen alla ‘em.”

Lem, half standing and half climbing over his friend, finally managed to snag the mouth of the jug and draw it back. He paused to take a healthy swallow before replying.

“Older’n the rest, fer sure. But he’s the best ever.”

Sloh made a lazy grab for the jug, mostly out of principle, then slumped back against the bench behind him, the last one before the walls rose to keep people from falling to their deaths.

“Better’n Rala,” he mumbled, heavy lids drooping. “‘Member we seen him win?”

The junior herald closest to them faced the wrong way, as usual, and the crowd farther down in their section was blathering on, as usual, drowning him out. Rather than straining to follow along, the two men wove their own commentary through the games. It was the part of the experience Lem liked best. Seeing the dim, blurry, and, of course, tiny forms jumping around way down there was a bonus.

“Yeah, but no other time,” he said, bumping his snoring bench mate with the almost-empty jug. “Trials move to Radesso. Neither of us getting there, poor as we was.”

Lem turned to study Sloh, blinking hard as he fought to bring the sour, wrinkled face before him into focus.

“Dozing like a drunk Radessi,” he mumbled, raising the jug on his arm and drinking deep until the trumpets blared and thin purple wine sprayed from his lips.

“Sloh! Wake up. It’s starting!”

 

***

 

“Fight!” the herald yelled as he cracked his staff against the floor. Before he’d finished the word, the eight men on the sand jumped to action, and nearly every member of the audience surged to their feet.

Sidero snatched up his sword and spun to his left to lunge at Susash, the Sulsani. The suddenness of his attack surprised Susash and he barely got his shield into position for a decent block. Sidero continued onward as his blade hammered against the man’s shield and put the rest of the warriors at his opponent’s back.

The words of the second sovereign, spoken before Sidero was taken to the arena, cycled through his mind without stop. Don’t face Ram until you must. Take him to the finals, kill him there. Defend, defend, defend through the first round.

Behind his opponent, Sidero saw the Wall, the Minean monster, engaged with two gladiators. One of his foes already lay on the ground and cowered behind a shield gripped in both hands, his sword nowhere to be seen. The other tried to keep the beast from killing his sudden ally and barely held the huge man’s attention.

Beyond the pair, Ram faced two men and struggled to hold them off, his movements erratic. He ducked and evaded at strange, frantic angles. His sword darted about quickly to block or shove blows aside. His shield performed as expected to but was slow to do so. This was not the gladiator Sidero had been trained to kill.

Sidero caught a sweeping slash on his shield and returned a thrust at his opponent’s face, easily blocked. They exchanged several blows, the Sulsani putting everything he had into each attack while Sidero easily held his ground. He parried a strike low on his sword, then twisted his wrist and pushed forward, thrusting at Susash’s neck to push the man back a pace.

The Sulsani lunged forward at the same moment, shield low.

Sidero watched the point of his sword sink into the Sulsani’s throat, almost as if the fool had meant to kill himself.

Defend, defend, defend.

This was the order, but the unexpected lunge from the Sulsani had caught him off guard and he’d killed the poor bastard.

The Sulsani let both shield and sword fall as he clutched at his neck with both hands, blood welling immediately to dribble over his fingers. Sidero could almost feel the eyes of Second Sovereign Farlaga burning into his back. As the trumpets sounded, he looked away from the falling Sulsani and toward the two groups of three still fighting.

The Wall, twice the size of either of his opponents, was swinging both sword and shield wildly. Neither of the gladiators facing him, both now on their feet, were eager to close the distance and get within reach. Each appeared to narrowly evade his sword each time it came near. Sidero avoiding strikes from the slow-moving Minean was a given.

Can you land hard enough to hurt the monster while doing so?

To his left, Ram continued to duck and block but didn’t look to have been touched by either foe. The Grand Champion defended desperately, avoiding strikes from one side at the last moment then jumping out of the way of one from the other. Three gladiators could surround him and wear him down without much danger to themselves. Put another sword in that mix, and the grand champion was sure to fall.

The Sovereign may forgive me if I put Ram down in the first round. The rest of them, I can take.

He took the first step toward Ram’s battle, and the man who had been fighting as an amateur turned into a warrior in an instant. He stopped his frenetic ducking and met Sidero’s eyes. While actively defending against two men, the Kaerunyan gave his head a tiny shake before looking back to his opponents.

Sidero’s right foot came down and set his course. Ram and his opponents were six heartbeats away, seven at the outside. As Sidero’s left foot pushed the sand to build speed, Ram’s combat style changed completely. All the jumpy, unsure movements vanished. He moved like a sea snake taking a fish.

In the time it took Sidero to close, Ram brushed a thrust aside, swayed from the waist and tore half the throat from the Hemburi. After spinning to duck under a wild swing from his left, he chopped into Doom’s neck with enough force to crush the leather collar and the bones beneath. Then he was past the two and looking at Sidero closely.

“I did warn you,” Ram said, two bodies still falling behind him as the trumpets blared a ragged chorus.

Sidero had spent two years training specifically to kill Ram. He’d faced the fastest, strongest, and most talented foes his owners could find. He’d watched them train, learned about them, then killed them in the training arena.

But …

Where the Sulsani had moved as if half asleep, Ram attacked with a ferocity to back Sidero up from the moment they met. Where half of those he’d faced had barely connected with his shield, it was all Sidero could do to block the storm of strikes Ram unleashed. Sidero was pushed back, step after step, ducking behind his shield at the last moment or just catching the first blunted foot of Ram’s blade on his own before he was impaled.

Trying to get even the slightest bit of offence going, Sidero parried a low sweep perhaps a half-second prematurely, bending a touch to prepare for an upwards lunge. Ram responded instantly, stopping his swing and coming in hard, his full weight and strength behind his shield as he slammed into Sidero, sending the younger man sprawling. As the Faurian struggled to rise, Ram kicked the shield from his left arm then stomped a foot down on his right wrist, keeping the sword on the ground. Before Sidero could even ball his fist, Ram’s knee dropped onto his chest. Sidero looked up to find the grand champion's grip on his sword reversed, the tip pointing earthward.

“Too bad,” Ram said. He extended his arm upwards and raised his blade high.

He began his thrust.

The trumpet blared a fourth time.

Sidero knew, even as he heard the sound of the fourth death, he was going to die. Ram’s sword was already plunging toward his face; he saw the point growing larger. He closed his eyes, waiting for the brief flash of pain … then heard a swish as the blade drove into the sand beside his ear.

He felt the weight leave his chest and opened his eyes. Ram stood above him, offering a hand.

“Up,” Ram said. “The sand is no place for a warrior of your skill.”

As Ram hauled Sidero up, he looked to the side and saw the Radessi gladiator on the ground, the joint at neck and shoulder crushed, shattered bones protruding in all directions. The Wall stood over him, speckled with blood and gore, glaring across the corpse at the Durragoan, both their chests heaving.

“Tonight,” Ram continued, guiding Sidero to face the nobles’ balcony, “we dine together.”

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