I've had the end scene of this chapter in my head for years...I finally got to write it...


~52~ A Fiend Indeed

Will counted. Twelve. Twelve men left of over thirty to form a protective shield wall against the onslaught. He didn't know who was originally under whose charge, but it didn't matter. After his decision, after what he'd done, they would all die before the Game was over.

Had he remembered Jafar's bombs, he might have thought up a different plan. The tortoise was, after all, a Toscan invention and speciality. He hadn't expected the Aetius to expose a weakness like that. Had the eagle anticipated this? Or did one of the Champions rat them out when he wasn't looking?

Will swallowed, eyes snapping to his fellows. Muriel, slashing like a wildcat at the latest wave of foes. Rodrigo, standing alone several metres away from the tortoise. Razeen...

Where was Razeen?

He saw one man standing in the middle of the Arena, and it wasn't the Bedullin. It was the Toscan dressed as the heathen god of war, Mares. That left the glinting heap of armour lying prone in the sand, accented by ochre scarves. An arrow stabbed the sky from where it was embedded in the heap.

Oh no...

Will dared not break ranks to check the body for life. He understood now why there had been a crescendo in noise from the spectators – Razeen died just moments ago. And Will had missed it. Had been unable to stop it.

Mares continued to bellow his triumph to the skies, revelling the cheers and attention. But he was not solely to blame for Razeen's death...

The Ranger saw Rodrigo lower his bow as though he had nothing else to fear. It was him. He'd shot Razeen while the Bedullin had been engaged, perhaps hoping that no one would notice in the chaos.

Will grew taut, rage mounting like a beast in his chest. Then his attention was caught by more men being ushered into the Arena, who immediately lost confidence at the carnage already bleeding into the sands. The ogling crowd sounded restless. The Game wasn't supposed to be going on this long, and they were uncomfortable in the heat.

Where will it end? Will wondered. When all became nothing more than raven fodder? When the spectators got bored and went inside to refresh themselves?

He felt his quiver. Maybe a dozen arrows left. He still had his saxe and throwing knives. Hardly enough to hold off an army.

"What now, bright eyes?"

Will looked over at Muriel, a cut on her brow and spatters of blood all over her front. If it was hers, he couldn't tell. He must have looked just as ragged, with a gash on his thigh – tightly bound by a scrap of cloth – and a bloodied nose from a stray elbow. His eyes were red from rubbing out grit.

He tore his gaze from her, scanning the line of foes that had yet to advance. They would not, could not, cower forever. Even now, Mares was rallying them to him, inspiring them. Will shook his head.

"I'm a Ranger, not a miracle worker."

Muriel stared at Will, assessing his pose, his aura. He looked taut, but with his face concealed by the hood, she could discern neither confidence nor fear.

Her focus returned to the mass forming ranks across the Arena. A quick feel to the belts crossed over her chest revealed she had six daggers left. There was also the horn of Hypnus hanging at her waist, not to be used yet.

A glint on the ground caught her eye, and she looked down at a fallen soldier, still clutching his shield and gladius. She snatched up both and joined the tortoise, overlapping her shield with that of the last man in the row, just as the enemy charged.

She thought an ocean wave had washed over her. It was as though they, even if others failed, could smash their way through the Toscan tortoise. Her legs nearly buckled, but she let her elbow bend and a blow slide off the shield, jabbing out with the gladius and cutting open the neck of the offender. She ducked back behind the shield rather than seek another opening, just like her charges. Although she couldn't help but think the strategy lazy and cowardly, she couldn't deny its effectiveness.

On the other end of the line, Will thought the same, as he had many times in the past, having used it to save many lives in the distant land of Nihon-Ja. He, too, had acquired a shield, using his saxe knife as his offence.

Even as he slew an attacker, he saw Rodrigo scavenging for arrows behind enemy lines, yanking them out of corpses, including that of Razeen. Having cut himself off from the defenders, he became a prime target. But the Genovesan exile used his knives to slay those who turned from the tortoise to challenge him, moving like a panther from man to man, leaving carnage in his wake. The crowd screamed with appreciation as the body count swelled.

When the enemy retreated again, Will's saxe slipped back into its sheath, and he was grasping his bow before he realized his own actions. It made him pause. Could he do it? Shoot down the man who had saved his life?

His hand remained on his bow. Yes. He could. Because the Arena had changed him. Twisted him. Mutated his thoughts and driven him to do what it took to survive.

The shield fell. He plucked an arrow from his quiver and set it to draw. His left index held the shaft steady, letting it slide back as his right fingers pulled the string. The bow tip came to point at the sky, and the broadhead panned to focus on the black-clad figure in the middle of the ring.

One shot. That's all it took. And Will would have one less headache to endure...

But somehow, Rodrigo knew. He turned towards the Ranger, face shadowed by his hood and the crimson scarf that draped below his eyes. He did not run, or else make any effort to avoid Will's aim. Instead, he grabbed the horn he had been given and lifted it to his lips.

As a clear bugle rang through the chaos, Will felt the arrow leave his fingers. But less than a heartbeat after, he was sent sprawling by a broad force from the side, his left arm – and projection – flying skyward.

Screams of pain and surprise washed over him, but his attention was caught by the culprit. One of the soldiers, the men they'd been charged to protect.

He had turned to face the Ranger, was staring down at him. Will saw a set of winged scales etched into his cuirass, a detail he suddenly noticed on the remaining soldiers.

He knew what the horns were for, now. Razeen's had summoned an ally, the "goddess" of retreat, Axis. Now Rodrigo had called upon the services of another person masquerading as an abandoned deity. Which one, Will knew not. Only that he was to be slain by him.

"La potenza d'opportunità," were the god's only words before he swung his gladius down.

Will rolled out of the way, up onto his feet in one smooth movement. The man took a step in pursuit, but retreated when he saw another arrow nocked to Will's bow. It gave the Ranger time to realize he had been betrayed not by one, but by all remaining soldiers.

There were only eight of them now – they'd killed four of their own. The four without a set of scales engraved into their armour.

How only Rodrigo's charges alone had survived could be easily pieced together. But by rights, the game should be over. The Genovesan exile had won.

Muriel swore to the heavens, crimson pain blooming in her side.

"You worthless, cowardly, squirming little maggots! I'll kill you! I will make your entrails your ex-trails! I will—!"

Her continued threats were smothered by the mixed responses of the spectators. She turned to see Rodrigo, still near the middle of the ring, holding the horn that had initiated the betrayal.

Try as she might, she could not shed the suspicion that Rodrigo had known this outcome. He'd known about how she was supposed to have been killed last time. With that knowledge, he had saved her through Will, but now? Now she had only herself. Her charges were dead. She could not, would not, trust the Ranger.

What the Aetius had told her, not long ago, resurfaced in her mind. This time, the guilt was not so thick that she could not contemplate carrying out his orders, accepting his deal.

Immunity. Immunity and certain freedom. All she had to do was obey...

Will did not like how Muriel was looking at him. Predatory. Accusing.

"Did you know of this?" he demanded, edging further away from the tortoise, which stood between them.

She shook her head, eyes steeled. Of course she hadn't known. She wouldn't have agreed to Will's plan earlier if she had. Her men would still be alive. And she wouldn't be looking at him as though she was going to rip his throat out.

Will looked between the two fronts. The treacherous tortoise and the army of Mares.

"I'm sorry," he said.

The marauding glare wavered, confusion bleeding into the hard lines of her face. Will lifted the horn given to him, one etched with a man holding a lyre and haloed by the sun, and pressed it to his lips. Muriel startled, but did nothing as a brief low, then long high bugle sang from the horn.

A moment later, the blare was echoed, and a second chariot rumbled into the Arena, this one drawn by ivory horses with golden manes. The god driving them wore a toga, a laurel wreath resting on his head. In one hand he held the reins, in the other, a lyre.

With a roar from the crowds, Opollo steered the horses through Mares' reforming ranks, scattering them like chickens. The lyre was switched with a gilt bow, and the god of the sun began to shoot down Will's enemies.

Muriel used the distraction to make it over to the Ranger safely.

"Why did you do that?" she hissed.

Will swallowed. He wasn't sure why he'd summoned Opollo. So more men could lose their lives and he retain his own? Were they all damned anyway?

He heard a thwack, then a gargled cry to his left. Glancing over, he saw one of Rodrigo's men collapse with an arrow in his eye. It left a gaping hole in the shield wall, a hole Opollo now steered his chariot into. For a final time, the Toscan tortoise was shattered, for even as the sun god turned his chariot for another pass, Mares' soldiers fell upon them.

Will had to look away. His eyes turned to his horse, the one he had lost when first beset by the bombs. It was skittering around several metres away, snorting and tossing its head. Astoundingly, it let him approach and take the reins. It kicked once, twice, when he climbed into the saddle, but it accepted him in the end, if barely.

When he turned it around, he saw Mares, standing over a head taller than his soldiers. He grabbed a shield being held by one of Rodrigo's men and pulled the hapless man away from his fellows, thrusting his spatha into his gut and lifting him into the air. The grotesque display only enthralled the spectators, and Mares held him up there, letting him thrash, letting him scream in agony.

Enemy or not, Will could not bear this savagery to continue. An arrow was set and drawn in a heartbeat, then aimed and released in another. With sick satisfaction he saw it strike his target, and Mares howled as the arrow punched through the armour of his back. But he did not fall. He turned to face Will, to face the next arrow shooting straight for him. With lightning speed, the god lifted his sword, the soldier still impaled, and the quarrel struck him instead.

The Toscan then lowered the weapon, letting his plaything slide off to die in the dirt, and took up a spear. Before Will could draw a third time, Mares threw it with a roar, and for a moment, the Ranger was frozen in fear.

His evasion was so late he heard the spear streak past him, felt it slice open the sleeve of his upper arm. He nearly fell out of the saddle as his horse reared, spooked, but he clung to the pommel and pulled himself upright – only to have to jump free as Mares' spatha chopped down where he'd been sitting.

Will hit the ground shoulder first, startled by the Toscan's speed. He heard the horse squeal as its legs buckled from the blow to its back. The saddle must have saved it, for it bolted, kicking back sand, leaving nothing between the Ranger and the god of war.

Heart pounding, Will half-rolled, half-spun onto his feet, cloak whirling, abandoning his bow in favour of his saxe knife. Mares snorted in derision.

"Gli avvoltoi divorerà i tuoi occhi," he growled, and lunged.

Will dodged out of the way of his strike, drawing his throwing knife and jabbing it at Mares' hand as he went. He leaped back again, knowing that to fully engage would be to mark his own gravestone. A bellow and flash of red let him know he had dealt damage, and ducked under Mares' next attack to stab at his leg. He had not expected the Toscan to kick.

"Awgh!" Will doubled over, holding his crotch. He heard cries of sympathy, hisses of dissent, but scornful laughter as well. The pain was so intense he could not move as Mares' foot came at him again, catching him in the side and knocking him sprawling. Before he could roll away, the god stepped on his chest, pinning him.

Will gasped, writhing uselessly as Mares' pressed down, crushing his ribs. He leered down at the Ranger, taunting, humiliating him. Will's hands swam through the sand.

Knives, knives, where are my knives?!

The tip of Mares' spatha came to point at his throat, nicking his Adam's Apple. Will froze, trying not to swallow. The noise from the spectators crescendoed.

"Beg," Mares hissed, accent thick. The blade pressed deeper. "Beg."

"Death first!" Will snapped.

Mares roared. It wasn't of blood-lust or triumph, but of agony. Will saw him reaching for something embedded in the back of his other leg, and seized his chance.

He grabbed either side of Mares' knee and wrenched it to the side, rolling at the same time to get out from under his foot. Free, he scrambled up just in time to see Muriel attack Mares again. She ducked beneath his spatha and slashed at his arms, but then he lunged at her, smashing the hilt of his sword into her face. She dropped like a stone.

Will saw his saxe knife at Mares' feet, just inches from his heels. Without thinking, he dashed for it, only for the god to whirl around and grab him by the throat.

His eyes widened, a mere whisper of breath reaching his lungs, and then he was lifted into the air, thrashing, choking, clawed at his neck, trying to pry Mares' fingers away. The god yelled back at the crowd, brandishing him like a trophy.

His vision faded. A soft choking sound made it past his lips and his squirming weakened even as his despair swelled. They were right; without his weapons, he was useless, as a man, as a Ranger.

Use your head, boy, use your head!

Halt? Will opened his eyes blearily before realizing he was hearing his mentor mentally.

Prove to me it's got more in there than sawdust! Halt snapped, making Will reach over his shoulder and pull an arrow from his quiver.

Mares saw. But before he could react, Will tightened his abdominals, bringing one leg up to hook over the arm holding him in the air. The foot of his other leg pressed against the god's throat, and he was able to get a moment of breath before the fingers tightened again. But he was already driving the broadhead arrow into Mares' wrist, making him howl, forcing him to let go.

He landed hard, and was helpless in the sand for another moment, sucking in air and blinking away darkness. Then he dove for his throwing knife just as a dark shape landed on Mares' back. The distraction was all he needed to lunge up and drive the blade into his heart.

A startled silence befell the Arena. Mares toppled like a tree, Muriel scrambling to get off his back. Then he was down, driving Will's knife further into his chest, shuddering only once before falling still.

The silence was shattered with a roar from the crowd, tokens showering the ring. Will ignored them, and instead he turned his focus to the Hibernian who'd saved him. "Thank—"

"Keep to your bows and arrows," she barked. "You're worthless with a blade."

The horn of Opollo sounded again, and both Champions turned to see the god of the sun drive his chariot back through the gate from whence he had come, vanishing into the tunnel.

"And you are again without an ally."

Will glared, then took the chance to assess the damages. A few of Rodrigo's charges still stood, braced against the remains of Mares' army. There were too many dead to count.

"It's never going to end, Ranger," said Muriel darkly, watching him pick up his bow. With Mares dead, and only Rodrigo's men still alive, she'd hoped the Game would finally come to a close.

Hoped, but not thought.

She knew what would end it. One final betrayal.

Muriel lifted the horn of Hypnus to her lips, and, not knowing what to expect, pursed her lips and blew.

Will turned towards her, astonishment noticeable even with his hood, but it was too late to stop her. She looked to the gates expectantly, wondering if Hypnus would emerge on a chariot like Opollo or on foot like Axis. But worms began to eat at her gut when none of the gates opened.

Perhaps she hadn't been loud enough? Perhaps the Game was over, and they were just waiting for the last few soldiers to slaughter each other. Yet something told her this was not the case. And she was proved right, when the attention of the spectators was drawn to something not in the ring, but on the wall surrounding it.

Muriel spotted him quickly, his winged helmet glinting in the sun. He held a horn in one hand and a tree branch in the other, wearing a black toga. He simply stood there, unmoving.

For a moment, anger surged within Muriel, and she wondered what use the god of sleep was, especially up on the wall rather than down in the ring. But then Hypnus raised the arm holding the horn, and made a motion as though to throw it. The horn remained in his hand, but something flew out of its mouth, something small, round and smoking. It landed in the midsts of Rodrigo's and Mares' remaining soldiers, but they didn't notice.

In the corner of her vision, she saw Will turn towards her. As she mirrored him, another of Hypnus' projectiles landed at the Ranger's feet. They both looked down at it, its fumes wafting up in the still air. Then it was to her shock when Will suddenly wavered.

"You..." He coughed, hand going to his chest, wheezing. He kicked the smoking poultice away, but the damage had been done.

Looking over at the skirmish, she saw many of the soldiers succumbing to the same fate, collapsing as the fumes reached their lungs and shut down their brains.

She pulled her neckerchief over her mouth and nose before approaching Will, who shook his head and tried to take deep breaths, tried to clear his chest of the toxin. But still he crumpled, landing on his hands and knees, trembling, gasping.

Muriel's hand tightened around the hilt of her last knife, caked with Mares' blood. She drew closer to Will, trying to decide the fastest way to kill him. To minimize his suffering.

His heart, she thought, steeling herself. One clean thrust.

Muriel saw the kill in her mind, saw her strike down the renowned Ranger of Araluen. She saw herself slay the stranger who had showed compassion even when she'd turned him away. She saw herself murder the man who had risked everything to save her from the fate set before her by a monster playing God.

...And then saw the faces of her boys, her husband. The people who truly mattered.

She set one hand on Will's shoulder, pulling him upright as she knelt. She kept him propped up, his head lolling with impending sleep.

"Mm...Muriel," he slurred.

She blinked blurriness away, reaching up with the hand holding the dagger to push back his hood, and she saw his face at last.

Modestly handsome, but lined with stress and weariness. A cut sewn shut on his cheek. A split lip, a bloodied nose. His eyes had just enough energy left to look at her, if barely. And with the sight of those hazel pools, bottomless and brimming with lost stories, Muriel realized whom he reminded her of – her son.

Young, small, curious little Timothy, always off on adventures by the lakeside with his brother, practising slaying dragons with sticks. How he'd screamed when his mother was taken away in the night, all that practise for nought. And his brother, holding him back when he tried to run after her...

My boys, she thought. I will see you again.

It was as though Will knew. He lowered his gaze, surrendering to his fate. She rested his brow against his, sharing his breath, and pressed the tip of the dagger to his chest.

She expected a clean, smooth entry, a little blood, and then a lifeless corpse in her arms. But when she tried, she realized she had no strength in her arm. The blade fell, glinting in the sun before landing in the sand. She looked at her hand, and then pressed it to her chest, feeling something pricking her palm. A rose blossomed on her shirt, its crimson petals coming away on her fingers.

Will collapsed, landing on his side, but she had no eyes for him. She half turned, looking back at Rodrigo, who released the dagger now embedded in her back. She could glean no emotions from him.

"I told you," he said softly. "I told you not to do it."

Pain not from steel clenched her chest, and a sob kicked free as she faced forward again, cheeks damp. She fell on top of the man she'd tried to kill, lying as though to protect him. She clenched a hand, but the sand leaked through her fingers.

Only when breath ceased to stir her did the ceremonial trumpets herald the end of the game. The last man standing did not share the spectators' ecstasy, and simply strode from the ring, blind to the tokens raining down upon him.