There was a break while the arena slaves worked to clear the dead bodies from the Palladium and spread more sand to cover the spilled blood. Not that Leto knew the reason. He was only glad for the chance to sit and recover. To his surprise, his hands started shaking so hard that he had to clench them into fists and shove them under his legs to stop it from being obvious. He kept his teeth from chattering by clenching them so tightly his jaws ached. Fortunately, the shaking only lasted a short while. Meanwhile, he leaned his head back against the cell wall and pretended he was sleeping.
He was more tired than he realized because his feigned sleep turned into a real one. He startled awake when the slave master walked past, rattling his whip along the iron bars. "Up and at 'em, slugs. Next round you'll all be facing beasts, one at a time. Kill the beast and move on. Otherwise..." He chuckled darkly, and no one needed to have it spelled out to them.
Leto forced himself to sit quietly and conserve energy, unlike a few of the others who paced anxiously in their cells. Whenever anyone looked at him, he either stared back indifferently or sneered with the intention to intimidate. Otherwise, he ignored them.
He was the fourth to be called. He didn't know if anyone had survived or not; no one had been brought back to their cells.
Killing a beast would be hard, but he didn't think it would be as hard as killing another person had been. This time, before being sent onto the arena floor, he was given his choice of weapons. He scanned the weapon rack and settled on a thin longsword that he thought he could swing easily.
A brusque command from the slave master sent him to the center of the arena where he bowed carefully to the magisters in the royal box. He could see that they were busy partaking of a sumptuous display of food in the royal box and barely paid any attention to him. His own stomach rumbled, but he ignored it from long force of habit. Scanning the arena floor, he could get no clues about what had happened to the previous contestants; there were no bodies of either slaves or beasts.
The sun was high and hot overhead, and he was already sweating as he cleared the sand under his feet and waited for whatever beast would show itself. A door opened to the side, and a great black mabari galloped out. A shiver of fear shuddered down his spine - a relic of slave stories he'd heard about Ferelden dog lords and their vicious war hounds. Then he wrapped his hands tighter around the sword's grip. It's just a beast, like any other, he told himself.
The hound paused and pointed its muzzle to the sky and bayed out the most horrendous sound he had ever heard. It made him want to drop his sword and cover his ears, but he did neither. The hound stared at him with eyes that were piercingly intelligent, as if it could sense that he had held out against its first attack. It bayed again, louder this time, and Leto's feet were rooted in place as it raced toward him. His attention was fixated on the dark muzzle snarling with hate and dripping with spittle as it growled. At the last second, Leto forced his feet to move and swerved to the side, using his sword to block the swipe of the mabari's giant paw. He hadn't moved fast enough, however, and he now sported three deep gouges along his ribs that burned as his sweat dripped into them.
The hound spun fantastically fast, and Leto barely got his sword up to block the mabari's snapping jaws. "You will not beat me, beast!" he growled back. He had no idea he looked just as deadly and feral as the hound he was facing down, or that the magisters in the royal box were looking on with appreciation.
Again the hound pounced, and again Leto danced to the side, his bare feet easily finding purchase in the thick, coarse sand. He swung the blade at the beast again, finding it much easier to handle than the two handed monstrosity he had been given the first time. He felt confident enough to hold the sword in one hand with the other out for balance as he and the hound circled around each other. The hound made a diving snap with his jaws and retreated with a gash through its lips for its pain. Now blood mixed with the saliva that drooled onto the sands.
Leto wasn't so overconfident that he would go chasing the hound. Rather, he waited for the beast to grow impatient and lunge forward, but the hound was cannier than he expected. It howled again to the skies, causing the freedmen in the lower benches to cover their ears and complain loudly. Leto refused to flinch, however, and stared the hound down when it finished its mournful cry. "I am not impressed, dog," he sneered. "You need more than a puppy's cry to defeat me."
The hound snarled and charged. Leto slid one foot backward to brace himself, and as the hound leaped, he lunged forward with the sword to impale the beast through the chest. He knew that he needed to do more to please the crowd and gain the attention of the magisters. As the hound fell heavily to the ground, he made a point of twisting the blade in its chest. The crowd, predictable as always, cheered the show of the lean youth showing his utter domination over the dumb beast. He glanced at the royal box and saw that Magister Danarius had already turned away. He needed more. Pulling the blade out, he whirled it overhead and spun it in a glittering arc as he brought it down and decapitated the hound.
The crowd went wild. He pulled his sword out and held it up to the sky in a salute to the royal box, standing stiffly at attention as the hound's blood dripped down the blade and over his raised arm. He stood like that until the slave master came to take him away. Although his expression never changed, inwardly, he was exulting as Magister Danarius turned back to watch him, eyes never leaving him until Leto was taken away.
The approval of the crowd buoyed him up until he reached the cool and dim recesses leading into the underbelly of the Palladium. It was a different set of holding cells from where he had been earlier. He saw that of the four that preceded him, only two were here, and one of them was nursing a bad bite wound on his shoulder.
"Eat. Drink. Rest," the slave master told him roughly.
Leto saw that bread, ale, and even some meat had been placed out for the contestants who made it this far. Even though he was exhausted as the adrenaline drained from his system, he forced himself to walk slowly and steadily to the table and heap food on a plate before he allowed himself to sit at a table as far from the others as he could find. He ate slowly, knowing better than to fill his stomach in haste. From this cell, he could hear the roar of the crowd, but it didn't tell him if man or beast won the round until the door opened and another contestant walked in. It was the girl with the two daggers. She must have liked them, because she had chosen them again for her fight. She hadn't escaped unscathed, though. Deep furrows ran down the side of her face, nearly taking out an eye. Without healing, her scars would be hideous. He turned away. Not his problem.
In the end, only two more contestants entered the cell. Only the burly human appeared to have escaped without injury. The entire time, not one word was said.
"Come." The slave master gestured curtly for them to line up at the entrance. "Your next test awaits. Choose your weapons." The girl grabbed her two daggers again. The burly human chose a heavy hammer. Leto reached out for the long sword, then hesitated. His side still burned from the gashes left by the mabari. He had no idea what the next challenge would entail, but he doubted it would be like the previous two. This was an entertainment for the masses as much as it was for Magister Danarius to select his bodyguard. Not knowing exactly why, but going on instinct, Leto took a short sword that allowed him to use a shield as well.
When they were all lined up in a row facing the door, the slave master gestured for it to drop open. Leto and the others stared out into the transformed arena. Archers and mages stood atop barricades near the edges of the arena, and the floor itself was littered with pits and wooden obstacles.
"This one's simple, slaves," the arena master shouted out. "Make it to the other side alive," he said with a chortle and stepped back into the darkened stone entryway where the door slammed shut.
Leto took a deep breath to work himself up for a sprint, but as soon as he tensed, a black fletched arrow buried itself in the sand just in front of him. He took an involuntary step backwards, but ran into an invisible wall of force. Forward was the only way out. He glanced down the line and caught the eye of the burly human, and without a word or any other sign, they both sprinted across the line and out into the arena.
Leto broke left and kept to the outside of the wooden crates and barricades as much as possible to keep cover between himself and the archers. He had been afraid they would shoot him down as soon as he raced out, but aside from that one arrow, they hadn't made any moves. Of course, he thought as he ducked behind a crate. They had to let at least one of them cross the finish line for the Magister to have his glorious challenge.
He heard a whoosh and an agonized scream from behind him. Sparing a fast glance backward, he saw that the last man to leave the start had been immolated in flame - apparently the punishment for being cowardly. Another young elf was chasing along behind him, and Leto turned his attention to getting across the arena. There was a pit filled with spikes ahead, and to get around it, he would have to swing into the center of the arena where he could see some sort of magic glyph swirling in the sand. He put his head down and ran faster and launched himself into space, wind milling both legs and arms to try and cross the chasm.
He landed awkwardly and fell flat on his face. Pushing himself up from the dirt and sand, he saw the elf behind him try the same thing, but he landed short and was hanging on to the edge of the pit, scrabbling in futility at the sand floor. The young man called out desperately for help, and for a half second, Leto actually considered turning around to pull him out. Before he could put such a stupid and reckless plan into action, though, a mage pointed his staff at the boy and froze him into immobility. Leto could only watch in morbid fascination as the boy fell backward to land on the stakes.
Ripping his gaze away, he got to his feet and sprinted as hard as he could across an open area of sand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the girl with two daggers making the same sprint. A glint in the bright summer sun was the only warning he had, and he threw his shield arm up in the air in a frantic hope of catching the arrow speeding toward him. He made it! The arrow slammed into the small round shield and sank into the hard wood, but he barely noticed. The end was in sight!
He was straining toward the safety of the finish line when he was unexpectedly slammed hard in the side by another boy he hadn't seen come up behind him. He tucked as he fell and somehow managed to roll back onto his feet. Distantly, he heard the crowd roar in disapproval, but he couldn't fathom the reason why until he felt the bite of a knife across his bare back.
Whirling, he saw the boy lunging forward to stick his knife in Leto's chest. Again, Leto blocked with his shield even as he swung his sword around at the boy's head. His opponent ducked and lunged again, forcing Leto to retreat. He knew the finish line was just behind him, but instinctively, he knew that he had to deal with this threat before he could seek its safety.
The two of them traded attacks, neither one connecting. Leto heard the tenor of the crowd turn ugly, and he knew that he had to do something to win their approval, because they were only a noisy reflection of the true masters of this game. He stood up straight and lowered his sword and shield, daring the other boy to come at him. As expected, the other took him up on the challenge immediately. Leto waited until the last possible instant, then turned on the ball of his foot to duck out of the knife thrust and simultaneously bring his own sword around. Even though he meant it to happen, he still found himself shocked by how easily the sharpened edge slid into the other boy's abdomen. Leto glanced up and found himself held motionless by a pair of pale blue eyes wide with shock and disbelief. He watched as the other boy crumpled to the ground, his life's blood pooling out onto the sand. A gesture by a mage wielding her staff shook him out of his complacency, and he turned to run to the finish line.
He was the last one to cross, but there were only two others who had made it across the deadly gauntlet. He wasn't surprised to see the big human, although he had lost his hammer somewhere along the way, or the elf girl with the two daggers. Both wore the marks of their crossing. The girl's eye was swollen completely shut, and the man had a deep puncture wound in his thigh from an arrow that had been torn out.
All three stood tall and proud with the hot Tevinter sun shining white hot on them as the crowd whooped and cheered, then fell silent as Magister Danarius moved to the front of the royal box. "What a marvelous showing!" he proclaimed and smiled as the crowd cheered again. "And yet, for our final match in honor of our Archon, there can be only two. So I leave it to you, the people of Minrathous, to decide the final combatants."
Leto's heart clenched in fear as the crowd went wild. Beside him, he could see the girl's feet twitch almost imperceptibly in the sand. All three were nervous. They had lost even the modicum of control over their own fate that had been theirs since they entered the tournament, and now one of them would die at the whim of the mob.
Danarius continued. "Will you have Herrad the mighty?" The big human thumped his meaty fists against his chest and roared back at the crowd.
"Or will it be Elamshira the quick?" The girl spun her daggers in each hand, a move which excited the crowd until she fumbled one and it fell into the sand. Not daring to pick it up and draw more attention to it, she thrust her single dagger up at the sky, but there were snickers mixed in with the yelling. The magister was too far away to be sure, but Leto thought he saw a look of displeasure cross his aquiline features.
"Or will you have Leto the bold?" he asked the crowd. Instinctively, Leto knew that his response depended as much on showmanship as skill, and he clanged his sword against his shield, then spun in a slow circle with arms outstretched and chin jutted out, as if daring them to come for him. The crowd loved it and went wild.
When he turned to face the magisters again, he saw Danarius say something to one of his apprentices who disappeared from sight. A hissing sound was the only warning they had, and Leto barely stopped from jumping in fear and surprise as a black arrow suddenly sprouted from the girl's chest. She staggered backward, looking surprised as she fell to her knees and then to her side. The crowd screamed in approving bloodlust at Magister Danarius's decision. At a gesture from Magister Danarius, Leto and Harrad turned to face each other, ignoring the body between them. Leto braced himself, ready to spring to the attack the instant the order was given, but instead, the slave master appeared to lead them back inside.
In the cool dimness of the holding cells, they were separated. "You'll be waitin' til the Archon himself shows up," the slave master told him. "Yer the Magister's special attraction today. I can't be givin' ya any healin' potions, but I can give ya this. Drink up."
Leto took the cup and downed it without question. Immediately, he felt the tiredness drain out of his limbs, replaced with a sense of vigor and vitality he had rarely felt. The slave master saw it on his face and chortled. "Yeah, that's good stuff, ain't it? It'll make for a better fight between the two o' ya."
The potion made him twitchy and restless and made it difficult for him to sit quietly and conserve his strength. It also distorted his sense of time. It might have been an hour, but it felt like half a day before the slave master came to retrieve him again. As he followed the overweight human through the dim tunnels, a cold dread began to form in the pit of his stomach. He had already killed twice today. Now he was not only expected to kill another, but to put on a show while doing it. On a visceral level, he was disgusted by the magisters', and by reflection the mob's, thirst for blood, but he couldn't allow that to affect him now. He would win or he would die. He grabbed the slim longsword and held it up in front of him. He would win. It wasn't just his life on the line. It was for his mother and his sister, as well. For them, he would do anything.
The slave master opened the door and told him to march to the center of the ring and bow to the royal box. Even from here, Leto could see the Archon lounging negligently in his high-backed throne with Magister Danarius at his side. Across the ring, he saw his opponent armed with a heavy hammer. It would be a fight of speed versus strength.
The two of them walked across the sands to stand in front of the royal box. The worst of the day's heat was over, but the sun was low enough to blind him if he faced the wrong way. They bowed, and Leto could see the boredom in the Archon's face, but Magister Danarius' was a mask of pleasant interest. Leto faced his opponent and the mob held its breath as the Archon raised his hand and let it fall.
The mob erupted in a roar to cheer them on in a fight to the death, hopefully one that would be good and bloody according to their low standards. Leto tightened his grip on his sword and prayed that his hands would not get sweaty in the afternoon sun. His opponent lifted his hammer overhead and roared out in challenge, and the mob loved it, roaring back enthusiastically. Then he charged, hammer held high and intent on smashing Leto into a bloody pulp on the sand.
Leto held his ground until the last moment before diving to the side. He tried to swipe his sword across the man's chest, but he was too far away, having given ground earlier than he needed to in order to avoid being hit. He steeled his nerves. He would have to allow the other man to get closer. In fact, if he wanted to strike the killing blow, he would have to find a way inside his reach.
They surged back and forth, by turns advancing on the other, then falling back and giving ground. Leto grew bolder, daring Harrad to swing his hammer. As the huge man pulled back, Leto darted in to stab with his sword, forcing him to swing earlier than he meant with subsequently less power and speed. Leto would dart to the side, slashing at his opponent's flank or thighs. He especially tried to target the arrow wound seeping blood, but the other man protected that side. Once he misjudged the direction of Harrad's swing, and only just managed to sidestep in time.
Each breath was like a red hot knife stabbing through his lungs as he panted heavily in the hot, still air of the arena. His opponent was looking even more tired, and how he found the strength to keep swinging that heavy hammer as quickly and hard as he did was actually a little frightening for Leto. His own sword felt like it had doubled in weight since the fight began. He shook his sweat-heavy black hair out of his eyes, not daring to touch it and make his hands wet. Some of the calluses on his feet had been torn away, making every step on the hot sands burning agony that he struggled to ignore. The energy imparted by the potion he had taken earlier was long gone, and now he was down to innate stubbornness. Rage fueled by the unfairness of the magisters, the mob, all of Tevinter was mixed in there, too, but buried so far down that he didn't even understand what he was raging at. The only things left in the world were the sword in his hand and the man facing him who had to die.
His enemy pulled the hammer back to swing again, but Leto waited. His strength and energy both were flagging, and he had to finish this while he still had enough of both to move quickly. The ground shook as the man slammed the hammer where he had been just a fraction of a second earlier, and before his enemy could reset and pick it up again, Leto spun on the ball of his foot, ignoring the pain from ripping away from skin, and drove the point of his sword deep into the man's side.
Harrad bellowed in pain, and adrenaline gave him the extra fuel to pick his hammer up and swing it at Leto. He twisted the sword even as he ducked, but he misjudged the swing. Or perhaps Harrad didn't have the strength to lift his hammer any longer, but whatever the case, the handle smacked Leto in the shoulder, sending a red hot spike of pain into his shoulder and making his left arm instantly numb.
Still doggedly holding onto his sword, he forced himself to step forward, driving it in deeper. Blood, dark red and thick, ran down Harrad's side. The big man staggered, and Leto staggered with him. Leto looked up and was caught in the other man's gaze. There was no anger there, no recrimination, only a sorrowful acknowledgement that in a battle where only one can be the victor, he was not it. Harrad slumped to the ground, and Leto pulled his sword free, unwilling to let go and unable to accept that it was over and that he had won.
He stumbled backward and looked up at the royal box, seeing the Archon clapping in a desultory manner. Magister Danarius was standing next to him, looking pleased. As he looked around the arena, his stunned mind worked hard to interpret the roar of the crowd, only slowly realizing that it was for him, that he stood victorious above all the others.
The potent mix of adrenaline, relief, pain, and rage kicked into gear one last time, and he raised his sword high to salute the mob and magisters both, baring his teeth in a feral grin and roaring back to the mob.
He was the victor! He alone remained standing on the scorching, bloodied sand, basking in the glory that the mob and the magisters bestowed on him. With grit, determination, deceit, with blood and sweat, with weapons and body, he had defeated every challenge thrown at him and emerged victorious.
For a single, shining, glorious moment, he wasn't just a nameless elven slave of a minor noble. He was the champion! He would be raised up to a position few of his status could dream of, and with it would come the most precious prize of all - a boon from a powerful magister. He pumped his fist in the air in time with the crowd's chant, loving every second of it.
No matter what the future held, this one moment, this prize he had earned, made it all worthwhile.