Chapter 4
That night was the last night Aoife would be forced to stay at that particular palace for a while. Immediately afterwards, Suruv moved the majority of the household to their summer palace in the south. There they were much more isolated and Suruv was allowed to train his new prospect with little worry about spies or word leaking out.
Included in those relocated to the summer palace was Aoife, who had hoped that her last insult to Shameth would cause Suruv to want to distance himself from her as much as possible, but in truth, though she was an eternal thorn in his side, Suruv did rely on Aoife's business and political sense. She was a true diplomat, as anyone could see, and it was for this reason and this reason only he didn't kill her outright for being the outspoken nuisance she was.
He did have his ways of making her life miserable, however, much to his pleasure. His main act of revenge was forcing Pericles to remain behind to guard the main palace, so that it would be months on end before Aoife would see him. He also made sure that her room was placed in some close relation to Bederf's, and while Suruv wouldn't have permitted the things he knew Bederf wanted to do, he knew that Aoife would keep him at bay, and would have an exhausting time doing so.
Meanwhile, Galian's training began. Suruv was known for his grueling training tactics, and he redoubled his efforts to toughen Galian. The Narnian was forced to complete horrible tasks in the beginning; walk miles and miles with loads of rocks and bricks on his back; was hung by his wrists from trees, his toes barely touching the ground, was submerged under ice cold water time and time again, beaten, starved, whipped, sleep deprived, and all the while given fighting lessons. While there were times when he faltered a bit, Galian was a fierce competitor, fighting with an audaciousness and temerity never before seen. He did not have what an expert swordsman would call "good form," instead he fought wildly and with the manner of a man fighting on instinct, one merely trying to stay alive. While most expert swordsmen would frown on such a fighting style, Suruv treasured it; nothing kept a man alive better than the instinct to stay alive.
The spent the remainder of the winter and spring there, with less than the usual excitement, and at the coming of high summer, Suruv moved the family back to the main palace for rest before the Season of the Fights began.
The Season ran in such a way; tournaments occurred every other week, usually in places like Azim Balda, Mezreel, Ilkeen, Tehishbaan, and finally, Tashbaan. Each tournament lasted five days, the first day holding preliminary trials, the second day hosted the quarterfinal winners of the first day, winners of these tournaments fought the third day in the semifinals, the fourth day was usually a day of rest and preparation for the fifth and final day, the day when the two winners of the week would combat each other to determine the winner of the weekly tournament. You can imagine how stressful the week would be to the fighters, not only physically (combatants rarely ever came out of a fight without cuts or bruises of some sort), but also mentally.
The games this year began in Azim Balda. Suruv and the rest arrived in Azim Balda a week before the games were scheduled to begin, and already they found it crowded. Excitement vibrated through the city like the strings of a guitar. Despite his efforts to secrecy, everyone knew something of the interesting new prospect Suruv had been training all winter, and was anxious to see him in action. Even Aoife, who vehemently opposed the games, was curious to see how he would fair.
With the stakes so high this go around, Suruv increased his security, which meant good news for Aoife, for that meant that Pericles was called to duty with the noble family once again. Though not really able to talk, just having the other near made them both more peaceful than they had been in months, and things were much more relaxed for the moment. Until the start of the week.
The morning of the first day of the games in Azim Balda was blazing already, the coolness of early morning dissolved quickly. Galian was awoken early, and, for once, given a halfway decent breakfast before being clapped in irons and escorted to the arena by a guard of six. Once there, he was taken to a cell-like place, where other fighters already sat, waiting. He was taken to his own small cell, no more than ten by ten, with straw on the floor, a bucket in the corner, and not much else, save the smell of feculence and vomit. He was the seventh cell down, with meant he would be the seventh pair to fight that day. An hour or so later, his opponent was brought and placed directly across from him. Galian had heard of him; he was Hapeth, a big, burly dark skinned man, winner of several past fights. He was enormous; at least three times as tall as Galian and probably five times as big in sheer body mass. He laughed outright when he saw Galian was his opponent, a deep, booming laugh that resounded throughout the corridor. A laugh that did not ease Galian's nerves any.
As they sat, they heard bits and pieces of what was going on outside. They heard a speaker's voice rise and fall, the boom of the crowd join in now and again, and once and only once, respectful silence, and Galian figured they were praying to whichever god was supposed to rule this week. Then, cells were unlocked, the crowd roared again, and the fights presumably began. Again, Galian could hear very little, and see next to nothing, so he had no way of knowing who had lived nor who had died, and not much knowledge as to where he was in relation to being scheduled to fight. Hapeth didn't seem to be to worried about the oncoming ordeal; he sang a bit, played a silly childish game in which he tried to throw a rock into a hole, even took a nap.
It was all too much for Galian. While in the past he had never showed fear, and was bent on never letting Suruv, the foreman, nor any of the other slaves know he was capable of feeling fear, he felt that fear now, fear that this may be the last hour of his life, fear of what might happen and regret for all he had done. His hands shook terribly, and as much as he hated the sight, he could not stop them. Sweat poured from his brow, and his breath came in ragged gasps. He nearly cried, though he knew Hapeth should not see this, he should not let Hapeth know he was afraid. He began to do something he had not done in eleven years, since he was captured on the borders of Archenland and brought to this life of slavery and destitute; he prayed.
He prayed to Aslan, prayed for strength, for deliverance, forgiveness; he prayed that he would make it out of this alive. He poured his heart out to Aslan, did all but cry aloud for help.
The sound of metal against metal awoke him from his thoughts. The door to his cell had been opened. It was time.
Surprisingly, the fear had more or less deserted him. All that remained was determination. He would make it out of this alive. He would fight with all his might, and he would prevail.
He and Hapeth were led down another corridor, where they were given weaponry and leather jerkins as armor. They pressed on, down the corridor, the light at the end growing more and more, and, at the words of the announcer, he and Hapeth were escorted into the arena.
The sound was deafening, the amount of people filed into the arena amazing. There were thousands upon thousands there, all cheering, or in Galian's case, booing and laughing. He was sure he was a sight standing next to Hapeth, like grasshopper next to an eagle. He looked to where the nobility sat, and saw Suruv, looking slightly humiliated, yet assured he would be vindicated, and then Aoife, though Galian did not know her by name at the time, looking frightened and excited.
He and Hapeth were placed in the center, ten feet from each other. They drew swords and bowed, not taking their eyes off each other. The last thing Galian thought was for Aslan to give him strength before the horn was blown.
They rushed toward each other, the clash of the sword almost drowning out the roar of the crowd. Each swung and stabbed with fury unseen, and both went relatively unhurt for the first few minutes. Hapeth scored the first hit, a blow to the head that was meant to cut Galian's head off but luckily grazed the cheek. Hapeth's sheer size and strength were feats Galian knew he could not match, and would die trying. He dodged this way and that, making Hapeth reach for him, trying to tire the big man out. While Hapeth was exhausted, they both were in fact, the game of cat-and-mouse only infuriated him more, and it wasn't long after the tactics were employed that he scored another hit on Galian, this one through the shoulder of his sword arm, the blow slightly absorbed by the leather but not much. Galian dropped his sword and fell to the ground in agony. Everything suddenly seemed to slow down; the noise of the crowd replaced by the wind in Galian's ears, the pain in his shoulder suddenly replaced by the feel of the sand underneath him and the wind on his face, possibly the last time he would ever feel as much. Hapeth was slowly starting towards him, sword before him, ready to deal the blow that would kill Galian. Galian's own sword lay three feet away, and Galian wasn't sure he could get there in time, much less wield it if the moment came.
The blow came quickly and with such force that when it missed, it drove deep into the ground, nearly to the hilt, giving Galian the time he would need to roll to his sword. He caught it up, ignoring his pain as best he could, and rushed towards Hapeth, ready to end the match. Hapeth, unable to disengage his weapon, resorted to dodging and dealing such a blow to the head with his fist that Galian was knocked flat and spent several minutes recovering from the spinning world that now surrounded him. Having successfully retrieved his sword, Hapeth started to him once again, more determined to kill him this time. Galian was once again weaponless, and too dizzy to even try to locate it's whereabouts, and fought with the only weapon he had. As Hapeth came closer, Galian's foot shot out, and a sickening crunch was heard as Hapeth's kneecap dislocated. The big man dropped to the ground, calling out in anger and pain. Before he knew quite what he was doing, Galian rose as fast as he could, found his sword, and, stepping deliberately but quickly to his opponent, dealt the hardest blow he could to the monster's head. The blade passed through the temple, and dark blood spouted from the wound as the giant fell to the ground.
Galian barely heard the astonished cheer from the crowd as he was led away to his cell. He shoulder burned, his cheek stung, and he was exhausted beyond belief. Someone came to clean his wounds, the only reward a fighter would ever receive, as well as Hapeth's possessions, which weren't many. Galian desired none of them. He slept a bit as the games continued, and, when the sun was setting and the games were finished, he was led back to his former occupancy, and there he was given bread and water, quite a good meal for a slave, and slept deeply, preparing himself for the ordeal tomorrow.