Borrowed Levels

Chapter 21: The Arena Gate

The Grand Arena of Calloway sat at the edge of the city, carved into the cliff like a great stone bowl. Its tiers rose sixty rows high and held forty thousand people. On the morning of the first fight, every seat was full.

Ren waited in the dark passage beneath the stands, listening to the crowd above him. The noise came down through the stone like thunder in the next valley.

He had been given a number, a leather vest two sizes too small, and a plain iron sword that smelled of oil. Around him stood sixty-three other entrants. Dockhands. Mercenaries. A few cold, silent men whose eyes passed over everyone as though counting. Not one of them looked at the others.

Dara had managed one last word with him at the gate. "Don't die," she had said. "Don't be a hero. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"What wouldn't you do?"

"I'll tell you after you win."

The iron gate ahead of him swung open, and the light hit his face.

The arena floor was white sand raked into perfect lines. A single raised balcony of polished stone stood above the center of the north wall, hung with blue banners. A man sat there in a plain chair with a cup of tea in his hand, beaming down at the crowd like a favorite uncle.

"That's him," whispered the entrant beside Ren. "The Treasurer."

Lord Corvane Mael did not look like a tyrant. He was round-faced and pink-cheeked, in his fifties, dressed in a soft gray coat and a small silver pin shaped like a scale. His hair was thin, his smile gentle. When the crowd cheered, he raised his cup to them as if they were guests at his dinner table.

A herald stepped forward and unrolled a scroll.

"Citizens of Calloway! Welcome to the three hundred and twelfth Grand Tournament, held under the Honest Weights, in the sight of all."

The crowd roared.

"Sixty-four fighters enter. One champion remains. By ancient right, the champion may ask a boon of the Treasurer, which he is bound to grant!"

Another roar. Ren searched the crowd for faces he knew. He found Dara first, high up in the cheap seats, with a hood pulled low. Beside her sat Granna Oss, who had insisted on coming.

Then he saw the pit.

It was a deep stone trench at the far end of the arena, barred with iron. Rows of men and women stood inside, some in chains. Tributes. Among them, taller than anyone, stood a broad woman with short brown hair and a face like a locked door.

Hesk looked up and saw him.

She did not wave. She did not smile. She only nodded, once, very slowly, and Ren's throat went tight.

"Entrant two hundred fourteen," called the herald. "Round one. Against Gorm of the Docks!"

He stepped onto the sand.

Gorm was twice his size, with a shaved head and arms like barrels. He carried a spiked club and grinned at the crowd. The Ledger flickered in Ren's mind.

[ COLLATERAL AVAILABLE: GORM (ALIVE). LEVEL 17. ] [ BORROWING FROM THE LIVING IS UNSTABLE. ]

He ignored it. He had promised himself, in the dark of the tunnel, that he would not borrow in this arena. Not until he had to.

The bell rang.

Gorm charged, swinging, and Ren stepped sideways. The club tore a trench in the sand. Ren drove the flat of his blade against the man's elbow and heard something crack. Gorm howled. Ren swept his legs. The big man went down like a felled tree.

"Yield," Ren said.

Gorm spat blood. "Never."

"Then I'm sorry."

He knocked him out with the pommel. It took two seconds.

The crowd was silent for a full breath. Then it began to cheer, uncertainly at first and then louder, and Ren felt a hollow, nervous warmth settle in his chest.

[ MONSTER DEFEATED: NONE. ] [ SURPLUS: +0.0 YEARS. ]

Of course. A man was not a monster.

He walked off the sand, past the pit. As he passed the bars, a rough, quiet voice murmured from the dark.

"Good footwork."

He did not turn his head. His eyes stung, and for the first time in three days, he smiled.