Thanks again, my faithful reviewers (particularly Poison Blossom).
Disclaimer: Though I consider myself C.S. Lewis reincarnate, Narnia does not belong to me.
Chapter 7.
The city buzzed with excitement. Everywhere, vendors could be seen stocking their booths, expecting big sales this week, and beggars put on their most pitiful clothes and wore the most destitute look on their faces. Guards marched about in large groups, though no one was sure where they thought they were going. Tashbaan was three times as crowded as usual, as nearly everyone in the country who could afford to had come to watch the greatest spectacle of the year. This week was the Great Tournament, the last of the season, where winners of all the previous tournaments would fight to see who was the ultimate champion.
To say Galian was nervous would be an understatement. He had become the peoples' hero, and the pressure for him to win, not only from them, but from Suruv as well, was incredibly high. Even as he left Suruv's regular palace, his fellow slaves, who had never been known to say one kind word to him, cheered as he was led away, and all wished him well in the fights.
However, even he knew, as Suruv had, that he was pushing his luck. He had the protection of Aslan, he knew that, but it didn't quell that sick feeling he got in his stomach every time he looked out his window to see the arena looming in the distance. His fellow fighters looked equally as nervous, partly because of the upcoming tasks they would have to perform, but also because they were all hoping they wouldn't draw the great Galian as their opponent. He might have not been so sure of himself, but the others were perfectly positive he was capable of cutting their heads off, and were absolutely terrified of him.
It was a curious thing, really. You would expect the finalists of these tournaments to strong hearted, brave souls, but in all reality, they were the most cowardly of them all. They had survived mostly by keeping their enemy on the run, usually succeeding in making him trip himself up or tiring himself out, which allowed them the time and energy to kill him, rather a dirty trick, you might think, but this was a sport where if you didn't cheat you usually didn't win, and the price of not winning was more than these men were willing to pay. Whatever the reason was, they were sure that Galian was the ulitmate fighter already, and if they hadn't been so much more afraid of their masters, they would have given him the title then and there without any reservations.
The guard that brought them their food was a most annoying man, jeering and making fun of their fears, assuring them all that it wouldn't matter if the bread was too stale, or if the meat was healthy enough to eat, or that the water might not have some sort of disease hidden in it; they would all be dead soon anyway. He stayed away from Galian mostly, either out of intimidation or perhaps he wasn't too sure any jest he would come up with would faze Galian, for even though the young man was a nervous wreck inside, he kept his cool composure at all times. One day, however, as he brought the food, the guard darted for Galian's cell first, with mouldy bread, stale cheese, and dirty water for his meal. As Galian silently took it, the guard, who was slightly perturbed that Galian hadn't asked him why he was so cheerful, taunted, "I know something. About you. Something that will happen to you when you win,"he said "when you win" more for the benefit of the others, who overheard the entire conversation. When Galian didn't take the bait, the guard continued, "Something quite horrible. I think you'd be better off dying, though I doubt one of these filthy cowards would be able to do the job."
Still, Galian kept silent, slightly curious but upon hearing that he'd be better off dead, decided he didn't want to know.
"Maybe I shan't tell you. Maybe I'll let them surprise you with it as they had planned to do,"still not getting a rise out of Galian, he continued, a little sharply, "you must be too stupid to know what I'm saying, otherwise you'd be begging me to tell you by now. You're not a normal sort of man, are you? I suppose not, being Narnian. I must say, the highest ranking person in Narnia is not fit the wipe the boots of the lowest man in all of Calormen."
Galian still tried his best to make the guard think he wasn't listening, though he did tremble slightly and he was sure his face was flushed.
"You know, I think I shall tell you,"the guard began again, "just so you can be good and afraid when the time comes. You might have brought that Tarkaan of yours a lot of money, but not nearly as much as he's found he could make. You've got quite a price on your head, you see. The Tisroc (may he live forever) has noticed it too. He's offered Suruv quite a lot of money for you, so he can put you in his slaves' brigade. How do yo like that?"
Galian dropped the cheese that had been midway to his mouth. The slaves' brigade? No, it couldn't be! They were the brunt of the army, the ones required to do the most despicable jobs, the ones that were first sent into the most dangerous situations or against companies ten times larger than they. He'd be dead in three months.
The guard, seeing that he had successfully taunted Galian, moved on to the others. Galian could eat no more. It was a lose-lose situation for him. He would either die soon in the tournaments, or he would die later as a soldier. Neither appealed to him very much, given the choice, he'd rather have chosen to go down in a flame of glory, not belonging to anyone but himself.
He stared out the window, the ever present arena glaring at him as tauntingly as that guard had. He stared back, as if proving to the arena itself he wasn't afraid, all the while a little plan developing in his head.