C24 Chapter 24

He grunted as he hit the wall, then once more when he fell to the ground. He stood and stretched his neck. It popped, and he sighed in relief of being intact.

The roc folded its wings and craned its head upward. It cawed at the people above it, and with another thundering flap of its wings, it attempted to fly up to them. The people screamed as the sharp gaping beak of the roc soared up at them. But a chain had been attached to its feet, and the chain was short. The giant bird was jerked down, just shy of its prey. The spectators still screamed, and that section of seats was emptied as the people fled to sections at the sides.

Tarlos avoided the last thundershock by laying on his belly. He felt the wind and tiny rocks graze his back, but he was not thrown.

The roc hovered down, disappointed in its failure. It began to preen its black and brown feathers.

Tarlos regarded the talons that stretched from the roc's toes. It was difficult to tell from a distance, but he judged them to be at least a few feet long. They were silver, and they glinted in the sunlight. He had seen the way the talons had torn into the aurochs as if it were made of soggy papyrus, and he knew he must avoid them. But Tarlos would get nowhere near the bird if he did not take care of those wings first.

The roc hobbled around, pacing the circumference of the arena and testing the length of the chain. It considered the audience with passive interest, more concerned with the chain holding it to the ground. It pecked at the stone wall of the arena, and great chunks of red rock came loose and fell to the ground in puffs of red dirt. As it walked around the field, Tarlos moved as well. He kept himself on the opposite end of the bird at all times. He stayed low and quiet.

Maybe he could rip its wings off. That would stop the thunderclaps. But no, that would be too messy. Although it was a monster, Tarlos would prefer to leave his opponent some dignity. He circled the arena in time with the roc, thinking of what to do.

With another tooth-rattling screech, the roc lifted its head and stretched its neck, looking directly at Tarlos. The obsidian beak opened, and the pink tongue within clicked against the roof of its mouth. The enormous wings opened, and Tarlos fell to his belly.

The thunderclap hit him like a galloping horse, ramming into him and throwing him to the wall behind. Even lying flat, he stood no chance.

Tarlos stood, groaning, and he shook the stars from his head. The roc trotted over to him from across the arena. Its huge clawed feet sent ripples of sand outward with each step.

Tarlos jumped in the air and flew above the roc's head. The bird looked up at him with confusion, and it leaped to meet him in the air. The chain pulled it down, and the roc landed hard. It cried and screeched, and it watched Tarlos in the air with a swiveling head and eyes like black marbles.

Tarlos eyed the roc from his vantage point, and the roc squawked and paced. Tarlos noted the civilians, his soon-to-be subjects, as they looked up and down, from Tarlos to the roc, and back again. He had to smile.

Reaching out with his mind, Tarlos selected a medium-sized chunk of rock that the giant bird had pecked loose from the wall, and he brought it to his height. He had been lifting rocks this size since he was young, and it did not cause him any strain to lift this one. The people followed the boulder with their collective gaze, and so did the roc. Beside him now, the rock was about half his height, and many times heavier than himself.

Tarlos steadied the boulder over the roc and let it fall. It struck the bird in the back but did not injure it at all, which was precisely what Tarlos wanted.

The roc screamed in pain and in annoyance, and it flapped its vast wings. The arena rocked with thunder and wind. The people cried out and ducked between the seats to shield themselves from the debris. The roc carried itself as high as the chains would allow, and it screamed at Tarlos.

With a flick of his hand, Tarlos removed the restraints on the roc, and the bird soared at him as fast as the wind. The people screamed, and Tarlos's smile grew into a grin.

Up, up, up.

Tarlos led the roc into the sky, speeding toward the noon sun as fast as his mind would allow. Just below him, the roc flapped its mighty wings and sent thunder throughout the Fertile Valley. It bared its talons and opened its razor-sharp beak. The pink tongue wriggled in its mouth like a serpent, eager for the meal to come.

Tarlos stopped, and he hovered a few thousand feet above the ground. The arena was a tiny oval, no bigger than his little fingernail. A few inches to the east lay Kesh, surrounded by a great wall as thick as a hair. It was cold this high up, and the air was thin. Tarlos's next move had to be quick before he fainted and fell from the sky.

He allowed the roc to reach within a few feet of him before he pinned its wings to its sides. The roc squawked once more, and it struggled to spread its wings. It lingered in the air for a moment with its momentum, and then it fell.

Tarlos stayed beside the roc, watching it roll around in midair and thrash at nothing with its clawed feet as it screamed at the sky.

The tiny oval became bigger and more defined, and the bird swiveled its head to watch the ground rise to meet it.

Tarlos halted at the top-most level of the arena and rested on its roof. The roc plummeted into the red dirt. A spray of rock and sand and feathers lifted upward. When the dust settled enough to see onto the arena floor, the audience and Tarlos beheld a crumpled mass of feathers and twisted broken limbs. Tarlos floated down and landed on the great roc's head, then waved to the crowd as the people of Kesh cheered and shouted his name.

These were his people smiling at him. ”Tarlos! Tarlos!” they chanted. He drank it in, feeling their praise in his bones and in his blood. There was no more extraordinary life to be lived than his own.

Tarlos flew to the top of the stands, the highest of the seats, and the arena was small below him. He rested on the roof and dangled his feet off the edge, waiting for the soldiers to clear away the mess so that Krastos could come out.

Tarlos's heart was sprinting, and the adrenaline in his body made him nauseous. He had never had the rush he was feeling at that moment. He knew Krastos was waiting in the small room, nervous and probably praying. Any moment now, that massive stone door would open, and it would be his twin's turn to face whatever monster awaited him in the arena.

Tarlos sent up a small prayer to Moleg, on behalf of Krastos. God of strength, lend your strength to my brother.

Krastos must have been afraid and anxious. He was never one who enjoyed fighting unless it was a friendly wrestle. But Tarlos knew that whatever creature he would have to face, Krastos would wrestle it into submission. He had seen Krastos do it before with cave lions and wild bulls.

Only a Holder can best the son of Moleg. Tarlos had said that earlier that morning, and he only half meant it. He knew that Krastos let him win those wrestling matches, but he never said anything about it, and neither did Krastos.

There was the sound of metal against metal, chains rattling, and the stone door pulled open.

Krastos stepped into the bright sun and shielded his eyes with his massive arm. The crowds erupted in applause for him, and Tarlos sent down a shout of his own.

”Krastos! Give it hell!” He did not know if Krastos could hear him or not.

Then, on the opposite side of the arena to Krastos, more chains rattled. The click-click-click-click of gears brought Krastos's attention to a large metal gate in a section of the stadium that housed the large animals.

Krastos planted his feet firmly in the ground and took a low stance.

The metal gate opened completely, and only darkness faced him. Several silent seconds passed, and the crowd was anxious. Tarlos found himself chewing on a fingernail.

From above the gate, two guards threw a dead sheep into the arena. It landed in front of the dark hole like a limp doll. A huff and a sniff came from the darkness, and the monster walked on all fours to inspect the dead sheep.

Tarlos's heart stopped in his chest. It was a manticore—a huge, demonic animal with the body of a lion, the tail of a scorpion, and the face of a man. Its body, from mane to tail, was covered in sharp poisonous quills. Krastos would not be able to wrestle it. He would not even be able to touch it. Even a Holder would have trouble fighting a manticore.

Krastos crouched low, hiding behind a boulder as he gathered his thoughts. The manticore nibbled at the sheep. Although it had the body and teeth of a lion, it did not have a lion's snout. It slowly and methodically tried to fit its man-like mouth around the carcass.

Ninsun used to tell the brothers stories when they were young about the monsters and demons that roamed the desert. The manticore in the stories had enormous bat wings and three rows of sharp teeth on each jaw. It could shoot poisonous quills from its tail like arrows from a bow.

But this manticore didn't have wings, and although Tarlos could not see well from his vantage point, he didn't think it had three rows of teeth on each jaw. So could it shoot quills from its tail, or was that embellishment of the stories?

Krastos could not risk it. He would attack the tail first. He looked around from his hiding place. All there was around him were boulders and dirt and the stone door behind him that would not open from this side. Then his head stopped as he caught sight of the narrow scaffold and ladder against the arena wall.

Krastos nodded to himself, and Tarlos swallowed. If Krastos was about to do what Tarlos thought, he would only have one shot.

Krastos wrapped his massive arms against the boulder he was hiding behind. With a slight grunt, he hefted it from the ground and over his head. As the stone soared through the air, he sprinted for the ladder.

The boulder collided with the manticore's face. Krastos grabbed the first rung of the ladder. The monster's mannish nose broke beneath the rock. Blood sprayed in all directions. The manticore roared, displaying its sharp teeth, and blood ran from its nose and into its mouth.

It saw Krastos climbing the ladder, and it galloped toward him. Its claws extended from its furry toes, and it leaped through the air. Krastos neared the top of the ladder, almost able to see over the wall and into the stands when the monster jumped, and Krastos turned to it. The manticore's mouth opened so vastly that it was almost flat. Even from a distance, Tarlos could see that it did indeed have three rows of teeth on both the top and bottom.

Tarlos bit his thumbnail, and a tiny trickle of blood seeped out of the quick.

As the manticore flew through the air, Krastos reached the top of the wall and planted his feet on the last rung of the ladder while steadying himself on the wall with one hand. He bent his knees.

Krastos jumped, using all his strength to push from the ladder and wall, and he soared over the manticore. The beast seemed to catch sight of its foe too late, and Krastos drifted over its spiny back as the monster pummeled into the red stone wall. A massive rift in the wall stretched from ground to spectator seat, letting out a POP and a CRACK. Tarlos saw the audience recoil in a wave, spreading from the bottom row to the top. He felt a small rumble under himself as the shockwave reached the topmost level.

Krastos flew over the manticore, and it slipped beneath him. As the monster's head met with the stone wall, Krastos grabbed hold of the end of the scorpion tail. He was dangerously close to the stinger, but it was the only place not covered in quills.

Using his momentum, Krastos pulled the scorpion tail to the ground. The manticore, stunned from both the boulder and the wall to its face, lay motionless for a few short moments.

Krastos landed, pulling on the tail. With a tug, a jerk, and a twist, the stinger ripped off. The entire tail wriggled like a beheaded snake. Shudders rippled up the manticore's back.

Green ooze bled from the wound, and Krastos jumped away from it. Tarlos could not remember from the stories whether manticore blood was poisonous or corrosive. Krastos would always rather be safe than stupid.

The monster raised itself from the cracked wall, its tail still flicking around like a frog leg in a pan. The manticore shook its head, and its huge spiny mane ruffled with its head. It brought its tail around to its face, gave it a lick with a long black tongue, and whimpered.

Oh no, thought Tarlos. It feels pain. Now he knew Krastos would not kill it, but he prayed that he was wrong.

The manticore moved its attention from its defeated stinger to Krastos. Its lips peeled back from its three sets of triangular teeth, and it growled. Every hair on Tarlos's body stood on end.

The monster leaped. Krastos somersaulted out of the way, and he landed hard on a rock. He stood, holding a bleeding shoulder.

The manticore roared, and it swiped at Krastos with a giant clawed paw. Krastos jumped over it, landed beside the manticore, then jumped away again as the tail swooped in to knock him away.

He landed beside the discarded stinger. The base of it looked to be as round as some shields that soldiers carry into battle. The stinger itself stretched more than several feet, curling a bit at the end to a gruesome point still dripping with yellow venom.

In a single moment, the manticore puffed its bristly mane, and the mane inflated to three times the size of its head. Then it seemed to pop, and dozens of yard-long quills shot from the mane and headed in all directions.

Krastos held the stinger in front of him like a shield. The quills hit the arena walls with a few dozen hard thumps. Several quills hit Krastos's makeshift shield, and the force pushed him back. His feet made tiny channels of dirt as he slid.

If Krastos had known it felt pain, Tarlos was sure he would have killed it quickly if he was going to kill it at all. Now that the monster was agitated, Tarlos had no idea what his brother was going to do.

The manticore shot its quills, and Krastos blocked them with his stinger-shield.

More quills, this time accompanied by a roar, and the manticore leaped. Krastos blocked the needles, then rolled out of the way just in time to avoid a paw full of claws to the torso.

Krastos rolled, and he stood, and more quills came at him. He blocked them. The manticore leaped, swatted. He dodged, rolled, stood, blocked the onslaught of quills.

Around and around, they danced. The manticore had not yet harmed Krastos, and Krastos had not had time between blocking, rolling, and dodging to make any kind of move against the manticore.

”What is he doing?” Tarlos wondered aloud. ”Throw the needles like spears!” He wanted to yell it, but aiding Krastos would forfeit his trial and his becoming a man.

But Krastos was doing nothing to fight the manticore, and the manticore was doing everything it could to kill Krastos.

”It'll only take one,” Tarlos mumbled. Just one mistake, and he's done.

Tarlos hovered around, leaving his stoop on top of the stands, and circled the top of the arena above the civilians. He scratched his chin and chewed his thumbnail again as Krastos narrowly escaped death dozens of times.

And then, Krastos made a mistake.

The manticore shot its quills, and Krastos lifted his stinger-shield to block them. Out of near habit, Krastos rolled out of the way to avoid the inevitable pounce and swatting claws. But the manticore did not pounce this time. Instead, it shot more quills. One quill caught the edge of Krastos's shield as he rolled.

The shield flew from his grip and skidded to a halt several yards away. The manticore smiled a mannish grin, its broken nose wrinkled, its eyebrows knitted, its lips pulled back in a sneer, its hind legs bent.

Tarlos put his hands on his head and shouted the first thing that came to his mind: ”Behold the strength of a demigod!” Krastos looked up at him with absolute fear in his eyes, but with the fear was also understanding of what Tarlos was about to do.

The manticore pounced.

Please see your chance, Krastos.

Tarlos reached down with his mind, and with all his strength, he stopped the manticore mid-leap. He groaned under the mental strain, willing Krastos to act.

Krastos saw his opportunity in the two seconds in which it occurred. He sprinted, sending a wave of dirt spraying behind him, grabbed the broken stinger from where it lay, and jumped straight into the way of the manticore's mouth.

Its maw was open in a halted roar, and Krastos dropped the stinger into the gaping jaws before vaulting off the monster's broken nose.

Tarlos let go of the manticore and panted. He was a hundred feet closer to the ground, and he willed himself not to fall.

The manticore landed on one side of the arena as Krastos landed opposite it. The manticore closed its mouth. It paused. Then it turned.

Krastos met the monster's human eyes. They were blue. Not bright like the sky, but opaque like sapphires.

The manticore fell over on its side. Its hind leg twitched, and then it was dead.

To the audience, the pause in the manticore's leap was almost non-existent. It all happened so fast, from start to finish, all the people had had trouble following the fight. And then the monster was dead, and Krastos stood victorious with nothing but a scraped shoulder.

The crowd erupted with applause and cheers. Krastos's chest heaved as he struggled to steady his breath, and he wiped his sweaty hands in the dirt. He looked at the dead animal and shook his head. He did not smile.

Tarlos came down and landed in a small crater, beaming. Krastos smiled at his brother, and they embraced tightly. The civilians cheered them on, and they grasped each other's hands and thrust them into the air.

They were men.