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fear.
He had faced lurkers and wind spirits before and survived. He would succeed in
this.
    Were his opponent
a veteran fighter like himself, Caelan would have continued to pose and posture
for the crowd. They liked that sort of nonsense. He had once found it
embarrassing, but now he did it without thinking. However, he remembered Orlo’s
words of warning and decided to take no chances. He had never seen a Madrun
before, not face to face. But their fighting prowess was legendary, and they
reputedly had no fear for their own lives at all. A man who did not fear death
had the upper hand in any combat, but Caelan intended that to be the Madrun’s
only advantage. He vowed he would not be killed at the hands of a dirty savage.
Moreover, he was determined to make good his promise to fight as they had never
seen him fight before.
    Another bellow
came from the holding pen. Handlers scurried around, swearing at each other and
sliding long, barbed poles between the wide slats to drive the occupant back
from the gate.
    It was rumored
that in some of the more backward provinces, wild animals and lurkers were
sometimes loosed in the arenas as opponents. Perhaps it was no Madrun he faced,
but instead some beast.
    Caelan ran his
fingertips lightly along the flat of his blade, gently flexing it. He faced the
holding pen, concentrating on it.
    The crowd was
slowly settling down, although they continued to shriek his name. Normally he
would have continued to salute them or flourish his sword about. They loved
seeing him execute drills to warm up.
    Today, however,
was no occasion for playacting, exactly as Orlo had warned him.
    Another bellow
came from the holding pen, and one of the handlers fell back with a scream. The
crowd jeered a bit in impatience, then grew reluctantly quieter. Anticipation
rolled down from the top of the stands.
    Shivers crawled
along Caelan’s spine in response to it.
    Normally he waited
until his opponent appeared before reaching out with sevaisin, but now
Caelan dared to join early.
    A wall of rage hit
him, red-hot, and so forceful he felt momentarily stunned.
    There was no
joining with that. It was murderous rage, a blind hatred as impenetrable
as a shield.
    Caelan’s mouth
went dry. During his stint as a gladiator, he had relied on his special, secret
gifts to give him the winning advantage. He depended on them, and now he
realized sevaisin would be useless.
    How would he
anticipate the man’s next moves? How could he make sure he outguessed and
outmaneuvered him?
    Ruthlessly he
shoved his rising doubts away. This was no time for alarm. He must rely on what
Orlo had taught him. If nothing else, he could sever the man’s life.
    And if he could
not cut through that rage with the reverse side of his gift?
    Before Caelan
could even dare think about that alarming possibility, the solid wood gate to
the holding pen burst open. One of the handlers flung a sword onto the ground
for the Madrun, and they all fled.
    The crowd screamed
with glee.
    “Giant! Victory!
Giant! Victory!” they chanted.
    Caelan well
remembered his first day in the public arena in what now seemed a lifetime ago.
The sight of the stone bleachers rising above him in a towering circle had been
overwhelming. The magnitude of the crowd, the noise, the blinding sunlight
after such a long time down in the darkness below ... arena shock was an
involuntary reaction in anyone new to the games.
    The Madrun who
emerged came scuttling outside in a half-crouch, dropped to scoop up the sword,
glanced left and right to get his bearings, spied Caelan, and came at him with
a shrill war cry that raised the hair on the back of Caelan’s neck.
    It was as though
the Madrun didn’t notice the crowd or the noise. It was as though he didn’t
care.
    Surprised in spite
of all his preparation and Orlo’s warnings, Caelan set himself and waited for
the man’s rush.
    It was his first
mistake.
    The Madrun was
big, nearly as tall as Caelan, and built like a bull. His