MIDNIGHT FALCON by David Gemmell

Bane raised his bloody sword in the air, and drank in the roars from the mainly Gath crowd. They were delirious with joy. Bane stood for some moments, elation surging through him. Then he cleaned his sword on the sand. The wound on his shoulder was shallow, and Bane had no desire to return to the gloom of the Sword Room. He strode across the arena, the sound of applause in his ears, and climbed to the stands. Men surrounded him, clapping him on the back. Then he turned to see Rage walking across the sand.

All elation drained away from him. He had known the man only a short while, but had come to regard him highly. Now he felt a sense of sick dread. He had not thanked him, nor said good-bye. Nor even wished him good luck.

Rage moved across the arena, his sword sheathed, his helm tucked under his arm, his red scarf bright as blood in the sunlight. From the other side of the arena came Vorkas. Bane stood, hands gripping the front rail, and watched as the two men came together before Persis and his guests. They saluted and drew back.

Rage donned his helm and took up his position. Vorkas faced him. The trumpets sounded.

A heartbeat later Vorkas lay dead upon the sand.

Rage sheathed his sword and walked back to the Sword Room.

The crowd was silent. They stared at the fallen Vorkas, saw the blood pumping from his throat. Bane stood in shock. Even he had not seen the death blow. He replayed the move in his mind. Vorkas had lunged high, Rage had parried. Then the shock of realization struck Bane. Rage had killed Vorkas before the parry. As Vorkas’s sword lanced forward Rage had stepped in and slashed through his opponent’s throat, the blade continuing its sweep to block the lunge. It was a desperately dangerous manoeuvre.

Some of the Stone citizens in the crowd began to shout their displeasure at the lack of spectacle. Others merely sat, trying to make sense of what they had seen. Bane vaulted down to the arena and ran across the sand. Inside the Sword Room, Rage was removing his wrist guards.

‘You were magnificent,’ said Bane.

Rage said nothing. Unbuckling his sword belt he dropped it alongside his wrist guards and greaves. Then he loosened his leather kilt and threw it to a nearby seat. ‘Are you all right?’ asked Bane.

Rage turned to him, his face tight with suppressed emotion. ‘Five of my friends are dead, boy.’

‘But you are not,’ said Bane softly.

‘No, I am not.’

‘You had that move planned from the beginning, didn’t you? You said to yourself that Vorkas would want to extend the fight. He would not open with a lethal attack. So you risked everything on that one strategy.’

‘Risk is what we are paid for, Bane. Did you use the switch from right to left?’

‘Aye, I did. He saw it too late.’

‘Get that cut on your shoulder seen to. Don’t let Landis clean it. The blood flow will have done that.’

Telors came into the room, his wounds stitched. The black-bearded warrior gave a weary smile. ‘Good to see you alive, my friend,’ he told Rage, and the two men gripped hands once more. ‘Did you wager on yourself?’ asked Rage.

‘No,’ Telors told him. ‘I thought my man looked too good.’ He sighed. ‘And he was – but he didn’t have the heart. If I’d had his talent I would have been Gladiator One.’ Telors slumped down to a nearby bench seat, and glanced through the doorway at the dead Polon. ‘He knew he was going to die. I could see it in his eyes last night,’ he said. The surgeon, Landis, entered, saw the shallow wound on Bane’s shoulder, and called him through to the back room. He did not speak, but sat Bane down, and took up a crescent-shaped needle and thread. Swiftly and expertly he stitched the cut. Then, as he snipped the last thread, he looked into Bane’s eyes. ‘Well, lad, this is what you have chosen. Are you pleased with yourself?’ ‘I am alive,’ said Bane.

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