Brave Men Die: Part 1 Read online

  Pollux smiled as the door closed behind him and he heard a hushed whisper.

  ‘Only because you let me.’

  ‘I heard you got hit in the first fight?’ Octans prodded, coming back in after his next round.

  Pollux was leaning against the tunnel wall, waiting for the fight in between their rounds to end so he could go out. Four others lined the walls of the tunnel, each keeping their own company. There was another fighter from the Fists, two from the Sentinels, and one from the Fangs.

  Octans stopped when he didn’t get a reply and poked Pollux’s chest. ‘Don’t get all sulky over it, it was just one shot.’

  ‘I’m not sulking, I’m trying to focus for my next round.’

  ‘Sure, if that’s the story you are sticking with. I’m still untouched, Pollux, always that one step ahead. Try not to fall too far behind,’ he said, grinning from ear to ear.

  Pollux stared at his back as he walked off. Octans could be a right prick when he was being competitive and this was really the most competitive they had ever been. Only one spot to go to Sarkridge, and there were two of them.

  The bell tolled signalling the end of the round and the doors opened to reveal two men standing over the top of unconscious opponents. The fifth man slowly rose to his feet, staggered for a couple of steps, then dropped face first onto the ground. Medics raced to the centre of the arena, lifting those who couldn’t walk back to the fighter’s tunnels on their own onto stretchers.

  When the next five combatants were called the men went into the sunlight to the cheers of the crowds. Three others had gone out before Pollux but had not received the applause he got when he emerged and raised his arm into the air. They were still clapping for him when the fifth man came out.

  The five formed a circle equal distance apart and stood with weapons by their sides, waiting. The man he recognised from the Fists nodded his head in Pollux’s direction. He returned the gesture, wondering if it was some code or a challenge. He would find out soon enough. The crowd grew quiet, the nervous anticipation set in. Pollux stood there, his mind racing.

  The bell tolled.

  The man on the left, a Sentinel, took off across the circle; closing the gap between himself and the entrant from the Fists, his sword held high. The other Sentinel on Pollux’ right charged toward him. Pollux stood his ground, the fighter was on him in seconds. Wild aggressive blows hammered down, and Pollux stepped into each attack, blocking and countering. After two unsuccessful counters, he realised that the man was coming too fast and defended for his life.

  Keeping the weight on the balls of his feet, Pollux lightly stepped away from harm’s reach, the Sentinel’s blade sliced the air where he had just been standing. The crowd held its breath as the next strike missed as well. What would happen if this man didn’t tire himself out quickly?

  Luckily, the brief look of exhaustion that flittered across his face was all Pollux needed. He struck out, hitting the side of the man’s left arm, and ducked under a wild counter that came too late. Moving quickly on his feet, Pollux stepped around his opponent and he cracked him on the back twice in quick succession. The man stumbled forward, lost his balance and flailed his arms. Pollux chased after him, cutting down across the top of his shoulders, which knocked him resoundingly to the floor.

  Pollux turned and narrowly avoided being struck across the face by the man from the Fangs. He dive-rolled out of the way of a second blow. He came up, whipping his sword behind him to deter the fighter from getting too close. The man had obviously been waiting. Pollux turned and launched an attack, swinging from left to right. He pulled away, feigned left and attacked again. Pollux stepped back and went on the defensive as the counters came from all directions. He deftly blocked each blow and took a moment to glance over the rest of the battlefield. There was only one fighter left and he was moving quickly toward them. Pollux ducked a blow, then came back up thrusting his blade into the man’s chest plate. The roar of the crowd erupted as Pollux twisted and blocked an attack from the second opponent, who thought he had been distracted by the cheering crowd.

  The three men stood circling each other, blades held protectively in front of their torsos, waiting. The Fang stared at Pollux, then at the Sentinel, appraising them both. They all ran the risk of selecting a stronger competitor or getting stabbed in the back.

  Pollux weighed his own options. He could defend against both men, possibly get a shot or two in, but eventually he would be struck into submission. The Fang was good but beatable if it was one on one. The Sentinel was an unknown. Before he could move the Fang ran at the Sentinel. The two blades crashed together, steel sliding along steel as each tried to bind the weapons. The Fang got a shot in on the Sentinel’s forearm that snapped the bone. The crowd screamed at the sight, encouraging the Fang on. The Sentinel’s blade fell to the ground as a second strike cracked him across the face.

  It was over. Only Pollux and the Fang remained. The Fang stood over his opponent’s broken body clutching his ribs. Pollux had gotten off lightly with a bloodied lip and a shallow cut high up on his arm that he hadn’t even noticed he’d taken. The crowd had barely stirred. Pollux waved to the crowd as he was leaving, exciting some response from some of the younger kids around the fighter’s entrance, but that was it. They damn well changed their minds quickly.

  Pollux sat down at his station and put his face in his hands. He was a little sore and the scratch on his arm needed some attention. He pulled off his gloves and vambraces and put them on the bench beside him and grabbed at the wound. He winced as he pinched the flesh around it, investigating just how deep it was. He grabbed some cloth and wrapped it around the wound, finally pulling at it with his teeth to draw it tight.

  Pollux tilted his head back and rested it against the wall, closed his eyes, and listened. There was the quiet chatter of the fighters in the tunnels and stations, the groans of the wounded, and every so often the cheer of the crowd when something exciting happened. Opening one eye at a noise, he found Kryst sitting down on the bench opposite him.

  ‘How’s the arm?’ He indicated the quick self bandage job with the flick of his chin.

  ‘Shallow. It has a few hours to heal before the finals start though, so I’m not worried.’

  ‘Concerned that they are all coming after you?’

  ‘Guess they see me as a threat. You know, with all my talent. It has to scare them a little.’

  ‘They didn’t go after Octans like they went after you.’

  ‘That’s because he’s loud and big.’

  ‘What would have happened if all four had come at you at once?’

  ‘I’d probably try hitting them with my sword.’

  ‘Realistically?’

  ‘This isn’t a storybook, Kryst. One guy can’t take on four. It ends with me unconscious or worse.’

  ‘You have a demon’s luck boy, managing to avoid that blow like you did.’

  ‘Which blow in particular? There were a lot of them aimed at me.’

  ‘The one you didn’t see coming.’

  The two men stared at each other in silence, waiting for a response that was not willingly going to be given. With a sigh, Kryst gave up and walked off, leaving Pollux to close his eyes to block out the rest of the world.

  Hours had passed before Pollux entered the arena for the beginning of the finals. Other events had come and gone, awards given to the winners, nothing to the losers. The circle of three was formed and the bell rang. The two other fighters turned and charged toward him. The thought crossed his mind that Kryst had told them to.

  The left was a little faster. He judged the distance perfectly, kicking the sand up into his face to blind him. Pollux stepped around a wild swing that had been designed purely to engage his blade, and leapt under a high tondo from the right fighter. Twisting around fast, he braced for impact. It didn’t come. The second fighter ran on and smashed his sword down over the first’s head. With a loud crack that echoed across the arena, the man went down, possibly foreve
r.

  Pollux stepped up. The fighter closed the gap swinging from the shoulder. Pollux stepped back from each blow, rotating his body so the blade passed harmlessly in front of his chest. They began circling, constantly moving.

  Raising his blade high above his head Pollux seized the first chance and with a flick of his wrist but the man’s blade deflected the attack at the last moment. Pollux countered, spinning off to the right and bringing his blade up. The fighter stepped into close distance and the blades locked across their torsos, the opponent foaming at the mouth. Pollux grunted and used his body weight to push the man back.

  Regaining his balance the fighter charged back. Pollux dropped to one knee and thrust his blade into the man’s stomach, striking it before bounding up and battering away the fighter’s blade, collecting his collarbone on the way through. Reversing his swing, he connected with the fighter’s jaw. The man fell in agony, blood spurting out between missing teeth.

  Pollux lifted his head and looked around, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand. The crowd was cheering. Not entirely for his achievements but rather the bloodstains he’d left in the middle of the arena. The cheering washed over him as he looked over the sea of faces. Lost in the moment he raised his sword to acknowledge the fervour applause and sent the crowd into renewed frenzy.

  People moved about the field, collecting the two fallen men. Pollux walked back toward the tunnel as the medics leant over the unconscious forms of his opponents, and heard mumbled whispers that one of them was dead. He didn’t turn around to check which one, but he hoped he hadn’t killed him.

  Drawing close to the tunnel entrance the crowd cheered again. Pollux nodded in recognition. He guessed they liked him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Light flooded the halls of Redisberg Keep, angled north–east across the smooth stone where it passed through yellow-tinted windows. The two sentries stationed at the end of the hall were bathed in sunlight, giving their armour a golden shine. They remained motionless as Lord Chase DeVile passed between them into his personal chambers. Once past them, and only then, did the lines of worry appear on his face as he pushed the door closed behind him.

  Alina stood at the far side of the room, frozen in the moment, her brush halfway through her golden hair. They locked eyes in the mirror, her gaze betraying her panic at the sight of Chase’s distress.

  ‘Chase, what’s wrong? What’s happened?’ Alina asked, putting the brush down and turning to face him.

  His fingers passed through his greying hair as he looked around the room. ‘Derrick was murdered.’

  ‘What? No!’ Alina grabbed hold of the dresser as her knees gave way.

  Covering the distance with three giant strides, Chase caught his wife in his arms before she could sink fully to the floor. He cradled her, her head pressed tightly against his shoulder as she wept. He'd feared this. They had lost their own son three years before Derrick’s birth, he had died in the cot, and she had doted on her nephew when he was born. Derrick had replaced their own son, Ty, and until Rachel came along was one of the few things that had kept Alina going.

  Now she was crying like she had lost Ty all over again. He knew this was going to be harder on her. Maybe only matched by the pain his daughter would feel, who had grown up beside him and considered him a brother. Who could say whose pain was worse, to lose a son or a brother, or a Prince for that matter? Chase stroked Alina’s hair and gently wiped the tears that were streaming down her cheeks. He didn’t say a word, only held her tightly, and kissed her lightly on her forehead.

  Hours later the sobbing finally stopped and she was still and silent in his arms, so he thought she had cried herself to sleep. He lifted her in his arms and carried his wife to their bed.

  Alina spoke, but it was mumbled and hoarse, and Chase couldn’t catch it.

  ‘Pardon, sweetheart?’

  ‘What’s being done about Derrick’s death? Who did this to our nephew?’ The tears had stopped and were replaced with a hollow, emotionless gaze. Her fingers tightened around his wrist.

  Chase didn’t hesitate. Alina was strong, and she could handle hearing anything that he had to say. In the decades she had been at his side, she had heard much worse. ‘Pyxis declared war and marched from Tarkinholm. The Empire is rallying and pushing south toward the Callisto Mountains as we speak.’

  ‘So it was the Murukans? Those butchering bastards did this to Derrick?’ Her grip tightened on his arm and her eyes begged him for answers.

  Chase grabbed her firmly behind the neck and pulled her face to his, their eyes locking in deadly seriousness. ‘According to the report I just read, it was a small strike force, including both mage and warrior. They hit in the middle of the night and went straight for the tunnels. Derrick died trying to intercept them before they could move further in. He led his men down there and died fighting.’

  Alina’s eyes were dry, and there was an essence of pride in there for the young man that had given his life for his duty. She held his gaze, waiting for what inevitably would come next.

  ‘A state funeral will be held in Dagenham for Derrick. We’ve been instructed to attend. The twins will be there but Pyxis, as I’ve already said, has marched south. Most of the lords have been summoned for the service.’

  ‘As if we would miss it.’ Anger stirred within Alina. ‘He’s family, Chase, we wouldn’t avoid going.’

  ‘There is more to it than just his funeral. The Emperor will convene a council with the Church to seek justification for the war his daughter started.’

  ‘She didn’t start it, it was the Murukans who butchered Derrick!’

  ‘Pyxis declared war on Murukia. You know the law. When a member of that family summons the Empire to war, the people will answer. Diplomatic solutions cannot be entered into. Now the Emperor must find approval from the Church so the act is justified in the eyes of the One God.’

  ‘Derrick is dead. That’s all the evidence he needs.’

  ‘Yes, but he will need to hear it from the Archbishop — which I have no doubt that he will …’ Chase paused, weighing up just how much to reveal to Alina in her present state of distress. ‘And because it will certainly be legitimised, the news came with direct orders to march down into the Gorgon Pass and assail the bastion. It is to be a coordinated attack so the three passes are breached simultaneously. I will need to delegate command to one of the generals.’

  He broke away from Alina then, his hand slipping from her face as he walked away from the bed and began pacing. The lines of worry quickly returned. Who could he trust to lead his forces south? His daughter would need to remain in Redisberg to ensure control of the city. He would prefer nothing more than to lead the troops himself: it was better to be part of it than to be the man reading the reports and without being able to affect the outcome.

  And Duncan Avil was a formidable enemy. After the last skirmish ten years ago they had been sociable, friendly even, out of respect. But marching troops down there, even under orders, would destroy their cordial relationship and their truce. Chase would need to send his best if they had any chance of wiping the old man and his forces out at the onset or else it would be an incredibly long siege.

  Chase wanted to be there for that, not for the glory, but out of respect. If the old man had to die then it was only right that someone of equal standing should be there to do it. Not only that, but the old man was smart, a wily tactician and a stoic commander, and was more than capable at holding out any Kyzantine force.

  He ran through a list of possible commanders in his head. He listed the advantages and disadvantages of each, all to no avail. Duncan had more experience than most of them combined. Dale was quick and flexible, able to change tactics on the run. Riles was a tactician and had the patience to sit out a siege without losing his head. And Peake, he was a man of action and always managed to get the job done no matter the cost. It would need further thought in the little time he had left. He cursed the funeral and thought of defying orders and
leading the force down there himself.

  There was only one problem with that decision.

  Alina.

  He looked back over at her sitting on the bed. Her body seemed to have shrunk, her golden hair wilted and no longer glowing. Alina was his world, had been since the first day they met.

  He was torn. Alina needed him. And duty called him to Dagenham anyway, but inside he felt that he should be the one leading the troops south. Something inside him urged him to be there to turn the sway of events in the favour of the Empire. He looked back over at his wife, inhaled her scent, as she sat perched at the edge of the bed staring at the floor.

  ‘I know what you are thinking …’ Alina muttered, lifting her head to face him.

  ‘And?’ Chase cursed himself for sounding more defensive than he meant to and instinctively tensing his body in preparation for an attack. He immediately softened his pose, uncrossing his arms and dropping them by his sides as he faced her front on, making sure he was looking directly at her.

  ‘Your commanders are all capable men. If you can’t settle on one, pick two of them. You have a responsibility in Dagenham to your nephew and to the Emperor.’

  Chase loved her honesty and earnest nature. Alina knew him, inside and out, and looking into her steely gaze he knew she was determined about this. Her face had hardened after the news of Derrick's death and now she returned so quickly to matters of state.

  He let the silence settle in, giving the illusion that he was contemplating it when in fact as soon as she suggested it he knew it was the best option. Dale and Peake would be a destructive combination.

  ‘You can join them when you get back Chase. Derrick deserves to have family bury him.’

  Chase smiled. She had already anticipated exactly what he was going to do. He went over to her, raised her up by a gentle hand under her chin and stared into her hazel eyes. ‘I have a duty, and honour, and I know my place. And for now it is by your side.’

  All the roads to Dagenham were busy, columns of men and women marching south, weighed down by packs and weapons. Wagons trundled along behind each company, laden with supplies and armour.