Chapter Eighteen Ruhlin #2
As she spoke this final word the crowd erupted, Ruhlin feeling the tiles beneath his feet tremble with the volume.
The rattle of the door’s lock caused them to step back.
When it opened, Silvahk stood regarding them all with a fierce, unwavering focus, his gaze flicking continually from one stagna to another.
Ruhlin assumed this was the moment of greatest peril for the Ventra.
With death waiting above, he imagined many Kelven had made a last desperate bid for freedom in this moment.
“Tremyn, Hulyk,” Silvahk snapped, jerking his head at the stairwell behind. “You first.”
A harsh, grating sound came from the youngest brother then, Ruhlin turning to find him unsuccessfully caging a sob. “It’s all right,” Tremyn said, gently taking his brother’s hand and leading him through the door. “We’ve practised this for years. You know what to do, yes?”
Hulyk’s reply, if he gave one, was lost in the boom of the door’s closing.
Ruhlin returned his eye to the slat, watching the brothers ascend the stairs.
The door at the top had been raised, creating a white arch of daylight.
The pair were silhouetted against it for an instant, Tremyn still holding Hulyk’s hand, then the door descended with a rattle of hidden chains.
The crowd’s roar settled into an expectant babble intermingled with the grind and clatter of other doors being hauled open.
Ruhlin saw the way Ohtera stiffened, ears twitching in a very inhuman way as they detected something beneath the mob’s excited chatter.
“Leopards,” she said, nostrils flaring. She moved away from the door, flexing hands that now featured elongated fingers, her nails extending into claws. “We appear to have drawn the bad card,” she told Ruhlin. “They get to fight beasts, while we have to face people, by far the deadlier prey.”
Ruhlin was unable to discern much of what came next.
The mingled sounds from above became a confused, discordant symphony of yelling onlookers and the swift hungry growls of large cats speeding past the door.
The noise emitted by the spectators rose and fell in concert with unseen events.
He couldn’t tell what it augured for the brothers’ fortunes, something that appeared to arouse no interest in Ohtera.
“It might help if we knew what you can do,” she said, Ruhlin turning to find her staring intently at Delryk’s downcast features. He had his back to the wall and appeared greatly disinclined to return her scrutiny.
“What does it matter?” he muttered. “We’ll die today. Nothing will change that.”
“I’ve faced this five times and lived.” Ohtera placed both hands on either side of his head, nails extending until they dug into the wall. “Now tell me. What can you do?”
Defiance showed on Delryk’s face as he finally raised it, also a degree of sickly resignation. “You tore out your nursemaid’s throat because she took away your doll.”
Ohtera recoiled from him as if struck. She retreated to the opposite wall, claws receding as Delryk spoke on, striding towards her.
“You didn’t understand what death was so kept pushing her to wake up, because you were hungry.
” Ohtera cowered from him as he leaned close, spitting the words out.
“When the Ventra came to drag away her body, you cried because she was your only friend.”
“Leave her be,” Ruhlin told him, whereupon Delryk’s eyes fixed upon his. As they did so, Ruhlin felt a strange ache in his head, blinking as images flicked through his mind, too rapidly for him to make out any detail.
“And you,” Delryk began advancing towards him.
“You tore a dog apart as a child—” He choked off, coming to an abrupt halt.
Ruhlin felt the memory of the monster’s first appearance flare bright then fade from his mind.
Delryk continued to stand stock-still, frozen as if in ice, his face now a mask of terror.
“A thief of memories,” Ruhlin said, moving closer to the youth and peering into his unblinking eyes. “That’s what you can do. I suspect you just stole something you didn’t like.”
“Please…” Delryk whispered, trembling now. “Please don’t…”
“I won’t harm you,” Ruhlin assured him, forcing a grin. “We’re on the same side, after all.”
The crowd’s baying finally ended in a bloodthirsty crescendo after what felt like an age.
Just before it did so, Ruhlin watched Ohtera flinch several times.
He couldn’t tell if she was hearing the death whines of men or leopards.
A rapid thump of footsteps preceded the door opening once again.
Four men carried Hulyk on a stretcher, his chest and face marred by deep scars.
His right arm dangled, fingers chewed into stumps.
Silvahk and another Ventra followed with an exhausted Tremyn suspended between them.
His clothes were rendered into scorched rags and his flesh blackened with soot.
However, Ruhlin saw no injuries upon his skin save for a few scratches.
“Get them to the healer,” Silvahk said, shrugging Tremyn’s arm from his shoulder. As they were led from the chamber, the elder brother stumbled to Hulyk’s side, sobbing breathless pleas for him to live.
“Eyes on me, Amundyr!” Silvahk snapped. Turning to him, Ruhlin discerned a rising agitation in the Ventra’s bearing. He avoided Ohtera’s gaze as he spoke on, the thickness of his voice betraying a man forced to perform a deeply unwanted duty.
“You may think you enjoy the Vortigurn’s special favour,” he said to Ruhlin. “You do not. Whatever happens up there, know that he will not intervene to save you. Any of you.” He stepped aside, jerking his head at the open doorway. “Now go. It’s time.”
Ruhlin thought Delryk might have to be dragged up the steps, but he followed along with a tottering gait.
Witnessing Ruhlin’s memory appeared to have either transformed his fear into numbness or rendered his mind blank.
They halted at the closed door, the hefty guard poised to haul on the chain that raised it.
Even though the crowd had quieted, the combined thrum of voices felt oppressive, as if they stood at the threshold of an immense wasp nest.
“Ventras are positioned all around the arena,” Silvahk said. “Do anything other than fight, and you know what will happen.”
“And if I don’t fight?” Ruhlin asked.
Silvahk leaned closer, eyes flicking towards Ohtera and speaking in an intent hiss. “Then she’ll die. And Fernhyld will be left alone to face what comes next.”
Stepping back, the Ventra nodded to the guard.
Hidden gears squealed as the door ascended, Ruhlin blinking in the sudden light.
Ohtera stepped into the arena without pause, Ruhlin following with Delryk trotting in his wake, face still showing the same blankness.
Their appearance heralded an upsurge in noise from the crowd.
Cheers joined with insults as Ruhlin looked up to see every row of tiered seating filled from end to end with gesticulating people.
Never had he felt the weight of so many eyes.
Lowering his gaze to the sand, he found it freshly raked, though marred in places by red stains and scorch marks.
Silence descended with jarring suddenness, Ruhlin instinctively looking towards the platform where he knew he would find the Vortigurn.
The King of Nihlvar wore no crown, his garb fine but unadorned.
Yet his ability to command the notice of every soul in this wuhltra was unquestionable.
Also, when he spoke, his voice carried effortlessly to all ears, though it seemed he barely raised it.
“Today do I honour these, my most cherished children,” he said, extending a hand towards the three Kelven standing in the arena.
“For they have been given a sacred and righteous task. Ever since the days of the fabled Uhltvar, that lost race who shared blood with the gods, has it been the creed of our bloodline that there is no worse crime than that of cowardice. And so today, beloved of Nihlvar, do I ordain the just punishment of those who fled from battle.” He paused, flicking his arm and impressing Ruhlin with his ability to imbue mere gesture with a sense of disgust. “Bring forth the cravens!”
The crowd’s murmur surged into a growl as doors were drawn up and a company of whip-men harried another group of people into the arena.
They numbered about fifty, Ruhlin recognising them as the captives from the cages below, each clad in rags but bearing swords or axes.
They all wore chained manacles about their ankles and moved with a crouched wariness, as if fearing hurled missiles.
But the crowd seemed content to cast only insults at these unfortunates until once again falling silent when the Vortigurn raised a hand.
“These wretches I did once honour with the prospect of battle,” he said in tones made grave by bitter disappointment.
“Unto the land of our ancestors did I send them, there to win back the realm lost to the weakened, degraded race that has claimed it. But brave deeds and glorious victory were not for them. No, these unworthy bearers of our precious blood sought no renown save that of the worst coward. Scurry back across the sea and through the Fire Islands, they did, bleating nonsense about invincible queens and maidens armed with gods-forged weapons. Pathetic lies intended to mask their weakness.”
The Vortigurn paused, allowing the audience’s outrage to fill the wuhltra.
No longer content with mere insults, they began to assail the ragged captives with a hail of missiles, mostly consisting of half-eaten vegetables.
When the Vortigurn raised his hand again it took longer for them to quiet, a hiss of simmering rage lingering as the king resumed his speech.