Ironhold, Trial One (Ironhold #1)

PROLOGUE

“Are you sure you both want to do this?” Darius Bloodhawk, the master of the games and trainer of gladiators, tried to convey his displeasure at this challenge, so close to the next round of games. Two men stood on the sands of the training pit. He looked first to the larger gladiator, then to his more slender, younger opponent.

The younger man shrugged, as if none of this mattered. “I’ll give Grak one more chance to apologize.”

The words carried softly over the training grounds of Ironhold as the two gladiators faced one another across the sand. The younger man’s features were lean and hungry, his dark hair tied back. His blue eyes seemed to pierce the soul of the man who had insulted him and his family. Not that mind magic was his particular talent.

“To take it all back?” the bigger man across from him said with a laugh. He was a huge bear of a man, stripped to the waist in a way that showed corded muscle and scars. “Why would I, when I mean every word? You're a dilettante, not a real warrior. You're safe only because of your family, your weasel father and your whore mother. You don't deserve to be here. I'll make you an offer. Get down on your knees and beg to serve me. You can scrape the oil off my back in the baths.”

“Then it seems I will have to make you pay in blood,” the younger man said. He moved to a rack of weapons, lifting a leaf shaped sword made from razor-sharp iron. The bigger man took a hammer.

Darius sighed. “A fight like this should be in the colosseum, not here.”

It should. There should be the roar of the crowd and the betting of the nobles. The fight should honor the gods of Aetheria and be seen by the emperor. But he wasn't going to stop it. He could see the other gladiators gathered around the training pit, waiting for the start. Not just the gladiators, either. There were the slaves who served the food and warmed their beds, the guards who kept them in check. There were even a few noble patrons, able to buy access to Ironhold for amusement with their favored gladiators.

These were all dangerous people, most of whom were slaves, considered unworthy of being full citizens. Many were former criminals; a few just liked to fight so much that they'd indentured themselves for the five seasons of violence it took to win freedom. Even the free gladiators were likely to demand violence. And, of course, in Aetheria, most had magic.

Sometimes, blood needed to be spilled to keep everyone in check. Sometimes they needed to be reminded of what this place was, that Aetheria was a place of strength and magic, and even its gods demanded blood.

“Very well,” he said. “The bout is allowed. Begin.”

The two moved around one another, each waiting for an opportunity. In the colosseum they would have had armor to make sure the bout lasted longer. The crowds liked blood, but they wanted to feel they were getting their money's worth. Here, like this, the combatants had no such protections. They had only their skills to protect themselves.

In some ways, Darius reflected, it was a classic matchup. Strength against speed, trained skill against brute force. Not that he allowed anyone to be untrained in Ironhold. All who came here to the great prison fortress that held the gladiators were made to learn the skills they would need. And, of course, there was the question of their magical gifts to consider.

The whole Aetherian Empire was built on such gifts. It was the reason one small city, Aetheria, had been able to reach out and conquer so much. Magic flowed in waves from the stone the gods had given them, housed in its great temple. Far more of the city’s people had minor magical talents than not. Even some in the wider empire had such talents. It was one of the first things Aetheria’s soldiers looked for in the lands they conquered.

The guards around Ironhold certainly did, because it was necessary to contain so many powerful gladiators.

Of course, it played a part in the games.

The small man struck first, whirling around his opponent, cutting low so the big man had to jump back. He sliced a wound on the big man's arm, and the larger gladiator bellowed like a bull. He swung the hammer, but the smaller man danced back from it, a grin on his face. It was no secret that he delighted in this, that it was the only reason he was here.

He kept moving around the bigger man, with an almost predatory grace, like a leopard stalking his prey. He struck again with the sword, making another, almost surgical incision across the bigger man's thigh. The watching gladiators and slaves let out a roar of appreciation even as the bigger man let out another sound of pain. This was the way they were trained to fight: deadly, but also working for the entertainment of the crowd with every movement.

Another swing of the hammer came, another miss, but it would only take one such blow to end the fight. Any hit with it would break bones, incapacitate the slender man. Then the large gladiator would be free to finish him. Probably slowly, given the animosity of the fight. For now, however, the younger gladiator was avoiding every attack, making small cut after small cut.

He was talking, too. “Each of these cuts is for some small hurt you've done to someone. Do you think everyone here doesn't know what you're like, Grak? You bully anyone you think you can get away with. You hurt them because you can.”

Darius was fully aware of Grak’s behavior. He hadn’t stopped it. Ironhold was meant to be a brutal place. He was frankly surprised that the smaller man cared. He was noble born, after all, and a free gladiator. His arrogance was nearly legendary here. He had no reason to stand up for anyone else.

“And you talk too much,” Grak shot back.

He reached out a hand and the dust of the arena floor rose up in response. Grak was only a relatively minor kineticist, but he could still do this much. His opponent fell back, choking and coughing, almost lost in the cloud of dust. In that moment, Grak managed a second piece of kinetic control, squeezing one hand closed, so that his younger opponent stood there, feet pinned in place, unable to pull free. It would only last seconds, but seconds would be enough.

“All of you small bastards think you're so great when you can dance around people, slicing at them.” Grak ran a finger over one of his wounds by way of emphasis. “But when it comes down to it, none of that wins fights. Strength does. And there’s no one stronger than Grak.”

Darius wondered if he should intervene. He’d been hoping that one or the other man would yield, bringing this to an end. Instead, it looked as though there might be death here. He leaned over the railing of the training pit, ready to call out for them to stop, but he hesitated. He could see the faces of the watching crowd of gladiators, lusting for blood. He wasn’t sure that he could stop this now. Yes, they were hemmed in by guards. Yes, the strongest were sometimes controlled with magical dampeners, but it was also important for Darius to recognize the limits of what he could achieve here.

Grak charged forward, swinging his hammer in a mighty arc aimed at his opponent's knee. It was obvious that he planned to kill him slowly, and Darius would have to allow it. Once things had gone this far, there was no stopping them. It didn't matter who the younger man was, who his family was, when it came to Ironhold. He'd accepted the possibility, even the likelihood, of his death the moment he'd set foot inside the gates.

Even so, Darius winced as the hammer whistled through the air. He was going to have a lot of explaining to do after this. Noble families did not like their sons dying, even in the middle of their own stupid quests to become famous.

And even Ironhold’s healers wouldn’t be able to deal with this.

Then the hammer passed straight through the figure of the younger gladiator. Grak’s swing continued, carrying him off his feet even as he must have realized that the figure he was attacking was an illusion. He tried to recover, slamming the hammer down into the sand and pushing himself back up.

That just meant he was wide open when the younger man reappeared next to him. Darius realized that he must have used the cover of the brief dust cloud to disguise himself with illusion and replace himself with a copy. It was sneaky and flashy all at once. Exactly the sort of thing that was guaranteed to get a roar of delight from the watching crowd.

Although that roar wasn't as great as when the younger man's blade flashed out, opening Grak’s throat in a spray of crimson across the sand. Darius watched the hammer tumble from his nerveless fingers. It seemed to take Grak a moment to realize that he was dead. Then he toppled like a fallen tree, the impact enough to send more sand up into the air.

The younger man stood there in triumph, cleaning his blade on the sand. Normally, after such a fight over nothing, Darius would have waited for things to die down a little, then punish the survivor as a reminder that this was Ironhold, his domain.

But given who this young man was, there were limits to what even Darius could do. Instead, he gestured, the way the announcer would have in the colosseum itself.

“I give you your winner, Alaric Blackthorn!”