“Astocans?”
“The officers that escaped into the Sang Reaches to be exact,” Nerian said.
“Against Banai?” Stefan guessed, from the baldheads and wiry frames of the Astocans’ opponents. “A Senjin match to the death?” The Banai and Astocans were mortal enemies. The game could end no other way.
“Oh, that is only a part of it. Wait until you see the stoppers.”
As the players took positions facing each other on the field, the gates opened once more. On lengths of chain, slaves led two dartans, one mottled green, and the other a dusty brown, toward the scoring areas marked by the white sand.
“Oooo,” the crowd cooed, their excitement near palpable.
The stoppers were slaves? Even as the question crossed Stefan’s mind, the slaves fastened the chains to steel rivets on the wall a few steps behind the sand. They turned, bowed to the crowd and left. As he understood, Stefan’s eyes widened. The dartans were the stoppers.
Nerian laughed. “You should see the look on your face. This makes the game so much more interesting. You have to risk your life to score.”
“What if they choose not to?”
“That is the beauty of it. They are condemned to death anyway. If they do not score, they die. We start with the shielders if the teams hesitate to give a full effort.”
Stefan was speechless. He hadn’t played Senjin in years, but the positions and rules returned to him as if his last game was yesterday. Shielders played in the section closest to the stoppers. They were not allowed to cross into other areas like the supporters and assaulters, but they defended all the way to their scoring zone. Removing them placed a team at a severe disadvantage. It didn’t matter that the supporters were limited to the middle and forward areas, because assaulters traversed the playing field at will except for their own defensive zone. If Nerian had a team’s shielders removed, that team’s lone stopper would face two opposing assaulters. In such a case, preventing a score was near impossible.
A normal game of Senjin was simply a sport-winners get the bragging rights, the ladies’ affections, the people’s admiration, and of course the pride, fame, and riches if the games were within tournaments. In the arena, losing a game meant extra shifts at the mines, less food, and for some, a beating. Death, though, added a new element.
King Nerian stood amid growing cheers. The shouts dwindled. He held the ball up in one hand, high over his head.
With a flick of his hand, Nerian sent the ball flying down into the arena. The spectators’ roars shook the stadium.
As if caught by some invisible hand, the ball stopped in midair between the central flags. A collective ‘Oh’ sighed through the arena. The ball drifted down toward the exact center of the playing field like thistledown caught in the wind.
Then it fell.
In the same instant, the assaulters charged each other. A flurry of blows ensued, too fast for any but an experienced eye to follow. The men attacked with kicks, punches, throws and an array of fighting moves. Blood flew. The crowd’s frenzy grew whenever a blow landed.
The teams countered each other-the Banai relying on their speed while the Astocans used their greater strength. Soon the supporters joined the fray, the ball forgotten as each team tried to secure the upper hand by disabling at least one man. These men were all once soldiers, so they relied on sheer brutality rather than tactics.
Experienced Senjin players knew to maneuver themselves to acquire the ball as soon as possible. After all, those who scored first often won since it required only three scores to earn a victory. A veteran team, when they got the ball, dropped back into the zone with their supporters. From there, they kept the ball between them, passing it from one to the other with a series of throws or handoffs. They advanced while defending the ones carrying the ball until they reached the end of the opposition’s midfield. Once there, the assaulters crossed into the defensive area, faced off against the shielders and stopper. If they managed to defeat them, they scored. At that point, the supporters needed to drop back to the safety or their own area before the opposing teams members overwhelmed them and prepared for the next sally.
However, either due to them being soldiers or more the fact the Banai and Astocans hated each other, there were no such tactics deployed. This was an outright fight to the death from the start. The Banai appeared to be losing, until one of their assaulters dashed for the ball, snatched it up, and ran. The Astocans disengaged from the fight to give chase.
Stefan found himself on his feet. If the Banai assaulter gained the Astocan defensive area, he and his partner would face the shielders, if in turn, his fellow assaulter made it past the four Astocans.
Blood flowing from a gash to his head, his counterpart obviously knew this because he was already sprinting down the far side of the field. So intent were the four Astocans on the Banai with the ball, they ignored the other. Their shielders were waving wildly to show them their error, but the men paid no heed. The crowds’ yells pitched even higher as they too realized what was unfolding.
As the Banai grew closer to their defensive zone, the Astocans understood their mistake too late. The other assaulter crossed.
Maybe thinking he had no other option, the closest shielder charged the Banai with the ball. The Banai made no attempt to fight him, and already travelling incredibly fast, he spun to one side and raised his arm to throw. The opposing shielder must have expected the move because he leapt into the air ready to block the throw and catch the ball.
But it was a feint.
The Banai flung the ball on the ground instead, spun, and crashed into the Astocan shielder nearest him.
His partner snatched the ball after it skidded and rolled to him. Caught by surprise, the second shielder could only bellow his frustration as the Banai headed toward the scoring zone.
If the crowd noise before was thunderous, now it seemed as if the noise would bring the amphitheater crashing down.
Then, a strange thing happened. At edge of the scoring zone and several feet from the dartan’s reach, the Banai stopped. The crowd shouted at the man, goading him on as the Astocan bore down behind him. Aroused by the smell of blood streaming down the man’s face, the dartan went berserk, thrashing against its chains, mewling as it strained to attack the assaulter.
Undaunted, the Banai took several steps forward until he stood within a foot of the frenzied beast and began to sway. Stefan couldn’t believe his eyes. The man was dancing. The dartan’s neck swung from side to side, and slowly, its movement matched the Banai’s.
In that moment, the Astocan shielder, now within range, leaped at the Banai assaulter. As if he had eyes in the back of his head, the Banai sidestepped. The Astocan flew by him.
The dartan’s sway stopped. In a strike too fast for Stefan’s eyes to follow, the beast snatched the Astocan from the air. Tossing him like a toy, the dartan tore into the man. He managed to wail once before the animal’s maw closed on his head, cutting off the cry.
While the beast was busy devouring the Astocan, the assaulter sauntered into the scoring zone and raised his hand into the air. The spectators greeted him with triumphant cheers.
“Fools,” Nerian said from beside Stefan. “So predictable.”
The anger in the King’s voice made Stefan glance up.
Gaze locked on something across the arena, Nerian waved his hand. A blur of motion streaking across the distance resolved into arrows. Several platters flew up from the table to intercept them. Food and sauce spattered Stefan’s clothing.
A burning sensation scoured Stefan’s chest. He snapped a hand up to his jacket and came away with his fingers wet and red. The cloying odor of blood filled his nostrils. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of silver. A sword swung down and slashed an arrow intended for the King out of the air.