Sovereign's Gladiator by Jez Morrow Page A

keenly as a bleeding wound, the look in those fine eyes when the time for truth came.

Chapter Four

    The narrow mountain pass opened into the wild lands. It was a different world on this side of the barrier ridge. Devon felt the enormity of the sky here, the desert’s bleak beauty. It was hard, stark, vibrant in its fashion.
    And it was dry. Fragrant herbs that thrived in harshness grew here. They grew thick and leathery, and exhaled piquant scents when men stepped on them. The herbs perfumed the army’s advance.
    Trees were contorted into artistic windblown shapes, their branches armed with thorns. Bright flowers clung to the rocks.
    Settlements were small and widely spaced. Their people of the desert did not come out to greet their Sovereign. They doused their fires and hid. Nomads on shaggy steeds ran for the hills.
    Whole villages cleared out at the column’s approach. Devon could see the dust clouds of their retreat.
    “They’re afraid of me,” said Devon.
    “You are surprised,” said Xan, with an edge of mockery.
    “I am,” said Devon. He kicked his stallion and rode to the empty houses. Smoke still curled from their chimneys.
    Devon found all the houses abandoned, their inhabitants gone in haste, dinner still in the hearth.
    In a barn he found spilled milk, a knocked-over stool and an uncomfortable, mooing cow.
    When he came out, he saw some of his soldiers leading away livestock that had been left behind—a scrawny steer on a tether, a gaggle of sheep.
    “Leave everything,” Devon commanded and motioned his soldiers to turn around and take the animals back to where they found them.
    It was like that the entire journey. Native tents folded up and settlements vanished at Devon’s approach. The desert winds carried off the dust of their retreat and erased their tracks.
    Devon spoke, not to anyone, maybe to the wind. “Why do they run?”
    “From an army ?” Xan asked back skeptically. The answer ought to be obvious to a fool.
    “On the other side of the pass, my people did not run from me and my army,” Devon said.
    They had not. Xan remembered that. The Raenthe villagers had loaded their Sovereign down with gifts, and it had not been out of fear. The girls kissed him. Men came out just to touch the hem of his cloak.
    “You say you have come to see,” said Xan. “You shall see.”
    * * * * *
    Devon reined in. The train halted.
    In the distance, a magnificent fortress palace appeared carved on a low spur that jutted out of a mountain like a dog’s knuckle. The stronghold’s colossal pillars looked to be carved out of solid rock. They were polished to a red sheen. The approach from the front was sheer. The fortress was impregnable. Around its base stood a stockade of pointed timber. An approach up any path up the rear was exposed to archers’ towers. Behind the citadel, terraced into the mountain slope, spread high pastures of sheep, short-legged cattle, horses and orchards.
    The citadel was entirely self-contained. It was the kind of structure built by men who were afraid.
    And men who were far too proud.
    Devon called for his guide. “Is that it?”
    “Yes, ma dahn .” The scout showed Devon the camel-hide map. Xan had never learned to read a map. The marks on the camelskin meant nothing to him. He stared at the fortress.
    The citadel was built in a mix of Raenthe architecture and barbaric styles. Devon had been told that Governor Kani had a strong outpost. Devon had no idea.
    Devon said, “Is that—is that ours ?”
    “Yes, ma dahn . That is the citadel. It looks very secure, ma dahn .”
    “One ought to be able to get something more done from a base like that,” Devon said.
    “Harpy’s Rook.”
    Devon’s head turned. “Xan?”
    “That building was not here when I was taken away. Later prisoners would come into the arena from the wild lands and talk of a place called Harpy’s Rook. This must be what they spoke of.”
    “‘Harpy’ is a word from the Old High speech,” Devon