Berun attracted attention from others, however. Men who knew his reputation conversed with him, posed for alchemical image-castings next to him. Surprisingly, as many Adrashi approached as Anadrashi. Only Ulomi avoided him altogether.
“Word has it you came here with the Black Suit, Vedas,” a fat Stoli merchant said. “He won’t make it through the day, I reckon. There are bigger and faster men than him.”
“You’ve seen him fight?” Berun asked.
The merchant pulled on his mustaches. “Well, no. But I’ve heard others talk about him.”
“Are you a betting man?”
The merchant looked like he had been asked if he breathed air. “Of course! Last year twenty percent of my income came from fight winnings. My wife has been asking for a badlander maid for years, and I was finally able to afford one.”
Berun clapped the man’s shoulder hard enough to make him wince. “When it comes to the final bout, if I were you I’d bet black. Your wife will thank you.”
Ten rounds occurred the first day. Vedas fought eight White Suits and two of his own brethren. He won each handily except for the day’s final, which occurred after nightfall in the immense covered arena. At eight feet tall, the huge Tomen from Bolas towered a foot and a half above Vedas, outweighed him by two hundred pounds. His strategy, taking punishment until an opportunity opened for an offensive, was simple but effective. Vedas worked every angle without apparent damage, and was caught twice by bone-crushing punches.
But finally, inevitably, the Tomen made a mistake. He caught Vedas with a powerful left hook and—instead of falling upon his opponent as wisdom dictated—attempted to stomp down on Vedas’s head. Vedas caught the foot and toppled the man forward. From a crouch Vedas jumped six feet into the air and landed knee-first on the man’s lower back, where the suit material was thinnest.
Spine pulverized, legs jerking uncontrollably, the Tomen did not beg for his life. Nor would it have been granted to him, for the rules were clear. Perhaps he appreciated falling to a brother rather than an enemy.
Vedas straddled the man’s shoulders and broke his neck.
Afterwards, Berun followed his friend discreetly from the arena to his tent. At its front entrance, Vedas turned to the raucous group of brothers and sisters that had followed him home.
“Get the fuck away from me,” he said.
A silver-haired woman stepped forward, hip cocked playfully. “I watch you all day, Vedas Tezul. You need a relax, brother. I can give.”
“Yes!” one of the men called. “Go for him!” another said.
Vedas’s features twisted. He scratched at the neckline of his suit, as though the material irritated him. Berun had never seen the gesture before.
“I’ve had a long day,” Vedas said. “Longer than yours by far. I want a meal and I want to sleep. If you interrupt either of these things I’ll kill you.”
Undoubtedly, this was an empty threat, but the woman did not know it. She and her friends sulked off, and Berun remained near the tent’s entrance for a time, quietly turning away anyone other than tired fighters—anyone who might keep Vedas from his rest. He then returned to the city and searched unsuccessfully for Churls. When morning came he walked back to the tournament grounds and lay in the sun before the bouts began at noon.
‡
He did not enjoy the second day of fighting. Without adequate time to recover from their recent beatings, even the strongest fighters became sloppy. Men lunged gracelessly for the quick kill, taking chances no competent fighter should. They went into bouts with broken shoulders, arms, and legs. On one occasion, a woman pulled herself into the ring with a shattered pelvis. After eight years of brawling, Berun had never seen anything like it. A tournament was not supposed to be a battlefield where men were broken, but a place where skill reigned.
Pathetic, how much joy the suited spectators took in watching their most proficient fighters gutter out like candle flames. How the orders roared when two men on quivering legs eventually fell into one another, clumsily reaching for the other’s throat. Few shined as brightly as Vedas, yet as exhaustion set in everyone resorted to dirty tactics.
Yes—even the best of them. Berun left the arenas when Vedas threw sand in his opponent’s eyes in the fourteenth round, and did not come back until the final. He knew Vedas would make it there.
Both of the final fighters accounted well for themselves. They proved calm and deliberate in their strategies, but Berun saw the underlying weakness in the set of their shoulders and the imprecision of their footwork. So far gone with fatigue and injury, neither would have stood a chance against a healthy opponent.
When the end came, it was mercifully quick.
Subsequently, Vedas lacked even the strength to push Grey’s body off him. Several brothers hoisted Vedas on their shoulders, and did not listen to him when he demanded to be put down in order to retrieve his speech. The crowd had become violent, and the Black Suits wanted to get their champion to Aresaa.
Berun wondered if they had anticipated the content of Abse’s speech. Probably they had—most likely they looked forward to a violent message, an excuse to turn their newfound power against their enemies.
As Berun ran to the Black Suit camp to retrieve the speech, he considered how vastly his opinion of Vedas had shifted over time. Once, the man had seemed self-centered and haughty, shockingly ignorant of the world beyond Golna. Only on rare occasions had he shown potential. Certainly, he had saved Churls’s life. As a result, Berun’s affection for the man grew.
Ultimately, however, Vedas had only won Berun’s respect by choosing to rewrite the speech. This decision changed everything. It proved Vedas cared more about people than faith. If he had not mentioned the speech, or worse yet believed its message wholeheartedly, Berun would have turned his back upon him with little regret upon reaching Danoor.
Aresaa affirmed Vedas’s commitment once and for all. He stood before one hundred and fifty thousand people and declared war against God. He spoke nothing of faith, manipulated no myth to support his argument. Had he congratulated the gathered Anadrashi on their good works, told them to continue praying and fighting for the destruction of their enemies, they would have showered him with wealth enough to sustain him for the rest of his life.
Instead, he marked himself for death. He spoke words to spark revolution.
The spheres of Berun’s body shivered with pride to hear Vedas’s voice echo off the walls of the coliseum, to see the effect it had upon the assembled people. They were already rising from their seats. Some spat angry words, red-faced with indignation. This was not the message they had come to hear.
A growing minority held their fists aloft, shouting words of encouragement. They had waited for this message, even if they had never admitted it aloud.
Nonetheless, these few would not stop the majority from tearing Vedas apart.
And then the broken tip of the Needle rose above the coliseum, sending a wave of dread through the restive crowd. Soon, thousands of Tomen would flow down the hillsides and flood the city, carving its citizens from crown to sacrum with their recurved swords. For a time, even men who had been inspired by the speech would blame Vedas. Looking to the sky, counting the dead, they would say, You have angered God!
Berun knew then with absolute certainty that he must carry Vedas to safety. When men regained their courage, he must be alive to inspire them again.
‡
Berun crossed the northwestern border of Danoor, entering the salt flats of Neuaa at a run. At his back large portions of the city burned. Its light sent his shadow into the darkness, toward the hills and their hidden sanctuary. Before him the broken spheres of the Needle spread over the horizon in disarray. In another two hours, the sun would rise and they would be safe.