The Night Before the Arena - Another early, deep extract from "Foundling" - Book 1 in the "Realms of Kyre" epic fantasy series

The night before you're the star victim in the arena, and there's a volunteer to make it memorable for you...

The Night Before

A fire blazed. the room was warm and so aromatic that Kyre’s hunger suddenly roused itself; an all-enveloping smell of hot bread filled the senses. ‘This place, I like.’

A couple of heads turned to see who had come in.

‘It’s you, in’t it? You’re the Backman! Jeemo vaimo.’ A man was coming forward. ‘It is you, innit? I saw you training in the courtyard, few days ago.’ He turned to the others, ‘He was shike.’

‘I worse now.’ Kyre tried to laugh it off. ‘Morrow, when you drag selves out tavern, you can watch me burn at the stake, koh? That be a nice picnic for you, won’t it? You can have smores.’

At least, that was what he thought he said, but the cackling hilarity hinted that maybe he hadn't got some of the words quite right. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ the girl whispered. ‘They just think you’re badly injured in your head and are being sacrificed.’

‘They got that right, then. Is that beer he got? I like beer.’

A moment later a beer jug miraculously appeared, plonked onto a low table that was dragged over as well. ‘Anybody with a purple prick that size and a cunny bigger than my Adri’s – on the side of his head! They get a drink from me any day!’ One of the older, uniformed servants was laughing as he waved his gift over to Kyre. ‘Good luck to ya, lad – you’ll need it.’ He raised his beaker; the others followed suit, and Kyre’s companion nudged him to do the same. They all drank a sip, ‘Good luck.’

Kyre was moved. ‘They really wish me well?’

His companion creased in half with laughter, ‘They don’t “have an inclination for your deep wet hole”. They hope you will win. Just keep it up, Backman Kyre; have one more beer and we’ll go – it’s not good to have a lot. No, it doesn’t matter if you’re dead tomorrow after noon. Too much of this would be bad for you in the morning.’

**

Back up to Godrun’s quarters, she followed him into his room, and stopped by the foot of the bed. Neither knew what to do.

‘Tell me your name.’

‘No.’

‘Koh, Scarface, I’ll just have to…’ She stiffened, taking a step back. ‘Oh, come on, they call me Kyre, but it’s not my name.’

‘Yes, Greatmother Snota told me you speak like the Doronian people – they begin with a word to express their emotion or purpose – like you say “Kyre” for question, they start with “quiz”. Or “shaka” for jest. Or “kaman” for command, so there is no mistaking what they mean. She also said that deep inside, you carry the name Th’ron? But here, you are Kyre. The Question.’

He wasn’t certain he was getting all this, but she had a lovely voice and her loose blouse quivered delightfully when she spoke so intensely. ‘Koh. Tell me any name you like.’

‘Graleen was my mother. Graleese and Karina are my daughters.’ She lowered her head as if shy about it.

‘Koh. You’re the mother now, so you are Graleen. Koh? Call me whatever you want – it’ll only be for a day.’

‘No!! You must not speak thus!! Rua have much hope for you. Let Captain Godrun despair. Not you. Not Rua.’

‘Ha,’ he laughed, ‘Hope will not help you.’ He sat on the bed, patting the pillow beside him. She came and started to lift her top, but he stopped her, ‘Just talk, eh? Your man?’

‘He died. After Karina was born. And I took this…’ she touched a finger down her scarline. ‘Stirior was a guardsman at the festival of Midsummer. Men came to kill the old lord. The fighting that day came to every one of us. The attackers were all killed, then, or later. You saw the bare patches in the arena centre? Around the posts where there’s still some ash? They always get burned there. They screamed a lot, and I liked that.’ She touched her cheek again. After another long silence, she said, ‘I had no man. So I had to leave. We were very hungry, my two little girls. The Rua came, gave me chance of more life. Now, my children will have laughter in their eyes, not bleak starvation.’ She tailed off; a tear trickled down her cheek, paralleling the scar. ‘But no father.’

Kyre tried to put an arm around her. She stiffened, then allowed herself to sink against his chest. His fingers slowly touched through her hair, ‘And so now, you do this.’ He was kicking himself as he said; so senseless, ‘My stupid mouth again.’ But he felt her smile, her face unseen, a tear dropping onto his chest and a hand coming to his leg, touching gently, stroking…

‘Mmm, the Rua sisters care for us, and about us. I came to you by choice; it has been too long since Stirior died. I was much in need when I came to you, and I am still.’ Her fingers were touching and pulling, slipping, undoing. He tried to relax and let it happen, lifting to slip out of his clothes, she was sinking lower, lips parting, and Kyre was gasping within seconds, her hands playing a slow tune across his chest and groin. His own hands seemed to have a life of their own as he re-explored within her blouse; the unbelievable smoothness of her back, the gorgeousness of her breasts, hidden for the moment, to touch with the lightest of fingertips, lost in their exquisite tactile beauty.

‘Do I get another flying eyeball for this?’ Showing her the three Rua marks on his hand.

She looked up and slapped his face resoundingly. After a moment she smiled, ‘I know why you said that. You try to make me not care about you.’

‘You must not care about me – they kill me on morrow.’ He touched at her body and relished the feel of it, becoming lost in her passion and grace and wonder. Eyes closed as she mounted him and swayed, rocked and writhed for an age before collapsing in satiation.

‘Ohhh, Jeemo, lady…’ Hands slowly stroked her warmth and softness. She slid the covers aside and over them both, to lie in perfect tranquillity, everything forgotten except each other, as they drifted into a comatic sleep.

Through the night, they kept their fear of the coming daylight at bay, each reaching to touch the other from time to time, fingertips caressing the warm skin, seeking and giving reassurance through the other’s presence.

Just as the dawn bells chimed, Kyre was silently musing, ‘Better I die in arena, not bed.’

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