The Emperor's Edge 3: Deadly Games

The Emperor's Edge 3: Chapter 8 Part 2

A mighty warrior.

“A moderately famous general, yes, but he was notorious for his bedroom exploits, not fighting. He had seven wives at the time of his death, all near different forts and outposts where he’d been stationed. None of them knew the others existed. I believe there were copious mistresses as well.”

Basilard shrugged. It’s Maldynado.

“Yes, he doubtlessly thought it’d be amusing. We’ll see if the emperor finds it so, should you win the event and get your chance to meet him.”

Could make an interesting conversation starter.

Books opened his mouth to say more, but a scream of pain interrupted him. One of the athletes had stumbled in the axe crossing and fallen off the moving platforms. He rolled in the sawdust, one hand grabbing the opposite triceps. Blood flowed through his fingers and stained the wood chips. A medic trotted out to help him off the field while the people in the seats roared. Whether they were supporting the noble attempt or cheering at the sight of blood, Basilard could not guess.

“Perhaps you should have entered a running event,” Books said, eyeing the bloodstained sawdust.

If he were tall and lanky and fast, that might have been an option. For Books’s sake, or perhaps to reassure himself, he simply signed, One less competitor now. Besides, I had no trouble with the axes on the practice runs.

“Yes, but is it not different when a thousand gazes are upon you, and there’s something at stake? Suddenly, sweat is dripping into your eyes, your hands are unsteady, your senses are over-heightened, and—”

Basilard gripped Book’s arm. You’re not helping.

“Oh, pardon me.”

“Temtelamak,” the call came again. “You’re up now, or you’ll forfeit if you’re not ready. You coming?”

Basilard chopped a quick wave at Books and jogged forward. On his way, he glanced at the chalkboard. The top seed had run the Clank Race in 1:55 with the fifth coming in at 2:03. The top five advanced to the finals, and there were four more runners after him. He had best target a sub two-minute time, which would put him in third. That ought to be enough.

Easier said than done, he thought, as he walked to the starting line. The giant axe heads swinging on their pendulum arms appeared far more dangerous by the light of day. Their steel blades gleamed in the sun, and Basilard no longer had to imagine their ability to draw blood, since crimson drops spattered more than one of the platforms.

After taking a deep breath, he stepped to the line and nodded his readiness to the starter.

Though nobody in the stands could know who he was, or care, cheers went up, regardless. Memories flooded his mind. He thought of his nights in the pits, fighting before an audience who craved blood. The pain and anguish he had experienced there. The comrades he had been forced to kill so he could go on living.

Nausea stirred in his stomach again, and those memories almost overwhelmed him. It’s merely a race, he told himself. He was not here to hurt anyone.

A hammer hit a gong, signaling the start of the run. Thanks to his wandering thoughts, he lost a split second, and he cursed himself even as he sprinted up the ramp to the spinning logs. He sprang across them, bare feet navigating wood hot beneath the sun. Most of the other athletes wore shoes of some kind, but he could grip and scramble up obstacles more easily with toes available. He skimmed across the moving platforms, ducking and weaving the swinging axes.

He launched himself at a rope hanging from a beam. Below, a bed of three-foot-long spikes glistened in the sun. Basilard caught the rope and zipped up it. Thanks to Sicarius’s training, that was an easy obstacle.