Get deep into "Foundling" - Book 1 in the "Realms of Kyre" epic fantasy series - The Arena

The Arena Awaits

‘See!’ Someone pointed. The count had begun – three-dozen beats to go.

With the others in the enclosed entrance tunnel, Kyre peered. And still I have no fast movement. No chance to survive in the arenae. Heart thumping, watching his brief life being counted away, still clueless about what to do. ‘What have they got out there? Swords? Broadaxes? I’m not putting armour on – I get killed quick and easy without the armour.' Where the frugg did my fast-speed go? I could happily wet myself if I wasn’t shaking so much. All I really want to do is scratch somewhere between my legs and not be noticed. ‘Perhaps tonight in another life, there’ll be another woman…’

He watched the white-clad figure with raised arms, changing his gestures as he counted down.

‘Tock aye oh! Tock aye oh!’ The arena rocked with the sound.

Twelve… Eleven…

‘Hey you frugging shiker!’ Kyre was prodded hard on his bare backside. A sword point, digging deep, twisting. It was Godrun, face in evil triumph as he stuck the sword into his thigh. ‘We watched you, you shiker. With that Rua bitch last night.’

Nine… Eight…

‘You scrugg like a turd. Shiko! Did we laugh, eh, lads?’ The guards were smirking and nodding.

Six… Five…

‘Got the wrong hole twice, eh? Cunny like her, can’t tell which way round she is, eh?’

Four… Three…

‘You couldn’t screw a whore in Marchtown, much less—’

Two…

Kyre burst. His fury exploded, rage filling him, turning to lash out at the manic face of Godrun. The fast-speed! I have the speed!

One…

 ‘GO!’  Wild-eyed, Godrun was pointing, ‘There!’

**

Kyre was gone. A swirl of wind behind him. Hurling himself into the bright glare of the scrubby arena.

Round the base of the hillock.

Into the rougher grass.

Past the astonished timekeeper, still lowering his arm.

The wind had sprung up around him; it whipped up the dust. On the banks a blurred multitude streaked past. Ahead – there! The patch of white rocks. Where’s the one I saw on the visit with Wisty? So fast – still there. As big as I can grab in one hand. It’s sticking up a bit… easy to grasp if I twist my wrist… thus…

Somersaulting and rolling through the rocks, his fingers took it with scarcely a break in his speed. And ran, his back bleeding an instant later.

Six beats and two groze paces from the starting tunnel, he flew up the high mound of the opposing force, expecting them to be at the crest, one on lookout, others dressing, choosing weapons as fast as they could.

Their weapons and armour still here. No troopers. None to guard the stone rampart. Must be… as he leapt over it and was across the earthen floor. In half an instant, he was hurtling headlong down their steps.

Muscular figures coming up towards him. All naked. A face with a peculiar tattoo from ear to ear across his chin. It’s Sandor! His face exploded in a mass of splintered bone and blood as the tight-grasped rock smashed through it. As Sandor reeled aside, two more identical faces were close behind. Shocked faces. Suddenly realising the attack was upon them. One head cracked back with the rock under its chin. Rigid fingers drove into eyes of the next one. Ripped out again.

Pushed aside, they tumbled and Kyre was on the following man – the same face. ‘Scruggit! Which one’s Sandor?’ Blood fountained, splattering over everyone and everything. A wild, ranting flail at the next one saw the figure dropping backwards. The face split away from the skull as the rock crushed and smashed, and added to the crimson mist.

The last two were still on the bottom step, mouths opening to cry out when the howling Backman was on them, roaring through them. His left hand thrust stiff-fingered into the open mouth. His fingers kept going, through the throat and airways, the force pulling Kyre off-direction. His rock hand caught the last man on the chin, sideways, jerking the head back with a loud crack. He completed it with a downward pounding blow that sent blood and head-gunge splattering wide.

Locked in his fiery rage, the naked slaughterer crashed to a skidding halt. His bare feet desperately dug into the greasy grassy earth as he spun back to the steps. ‘Any still living?’ Around him, bodies were still tumbling. A snarl, and he was back on one man. The rock pounded down to crush the skull completely. Sickeningly, the head splintered apart. Sandor the Headless.

The one without a throat was gurgling in a panic. Another without eyes was twitching. The first one’s hand was clawing at the grass. Gasping with the intensity of his bloodlust, Kyre killed them all: bare-foot stamps on the neck. The foundling rock took the back of a head off. One’s neck twisted viciously. The shrieking red spray dripped and trickled down the steps around him.

He paused, sobbing with tension – drained by his burst of desperate violence and speed. His movements slowed.

Crouching, clutching the dripping red rock, ‘Any more? Kyre hreiski?’  He stared around. They were scattered, all bare-arse and balls. All six. ‘One’s got to be Sandor himself.’

In the enemy’s tunnel – shocked faces stared out, eyes aghast. The grey-coated officials, plus the scarlet and blacks of Sandor the Newly Faceless. Kyre sank to his knees on the stone steps, breath rasping, heart apound, his forehead sagging to the bloody steps. ‘Fruggit, it’s done. I’m done.’

A furious blow to his shoulder hurled him sideways. Roaring and shouting everywhere. Clashing weapons. Steel on steel and leather and stone and flesh. Toppling over, he caught a glimpse of red and black figures all around him. Faces incensed. Sprawling, he struggled to ward off the blows and thrusts. He lashed out with the rock. Need to get to my feet. The ferocious red and black tangle hammering him down with axe and sword.

‘This’s wrong. It should all be finished.’ Mind enraged. In renewed fury, his flash of speed flickered again. Barely able to get to his feet, he was wildly lashing out; so many in the red and black of Sandor. Ripping faces, eyes pulping as straight fingers jammed through them; another throat torn out with clawed fingers. Taking a sword thrust to his thigh. Another to his shoulder. A blade slash to his hip. He sagged helplessly to his knees again, hardly aware of the vortex of thrashing, yelling figures all around him – grey-uniformed, as well as scarlet and black. A body tumbled, flattening him onto the stone and earth steps. None of it was making any difference by then: Backman Kyre lay prostrate beneath twitching bodies. Distantly, he tried to push the crushing corpses off him, but was scarcely able to move his hands, much less heave the bodies aside.

**

The voices calmed. The area quietened. Kyre was distantly aware of bodies being checked. He could hear officials’ voices…

‘Yes, that body is the Backman. Yes, it was within the rules. Lord Rogor, you can be confirmed as victor and Full Lord. Hear the cheering already?’

Unable to twitch or call out, Kyre saw Rogor, dazed and disbelieving. The officials were calling loudly to the crowd, ‘The burning of the bodies in the centre of the oval will take place as soon as the remains of Sandor the Gaunt are identified for certain. His foully traitorous men will be burned at the stakes at the same time.’

‘After all,’ another official was complaining, ‘We have to entertain them until the market and fair are ready to commence. This contest should have gone on much longer.’

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