"THE DEATH GAMES, SIRE," Overseer Tyrese replied.
Arlon noticed he could detect a manic glint in the man's eyes. He wondered if the man was excited to witness cold-blooded murder. The Seers were respectable but their brilliance sometimes warped their minds.
The Death Games were a bloody combative sport. All the explanation was in the name.
Death...
Games...
Mercenaries and Sell-swords from all over the realm came for the event. It was a barbaric sport fought gladiator-style on the sands. The Temple Graces constantly preached against it but there was no taming bloodlust in the eyes of the people. The games were held every year in the principal Colosseum of Syveria; at the very centre of Calipsos.
Every year as the games aprroached, mighty ships sailed in, docking into the ports of Calipsos. The vessels brought in hundreds of foreigners who came to witness the games; the brown-skinned race from the Isles of Mithos. The desert clans from Irkalla, and even a few tribesmen of the Iron Clans. All came for the sheer attraction of Blood and Sand.
Whorehouses of the golden capital swelled as the day aprroached. Pubs overflowed and barbaric dialects filled the night air.
Arlon knew very well the Blood Games. He knew it more than anyone else. He had seen eighteen of such games in his time as Ruler and was awarded the very unpleasant authority of being the one to sound the clap to begin the games. He knew what happened on those cursed sands. The blood and gore spilled on the earth. Men frothing from deep gashes as their remains were dragged away. He also knew the gladiators rarely survived.
The ones that did either lost an arm, a leg, or some other body part. No reward of land nor bag of gold could bring back the deceased. Yet men still fought and the people still flocked in scores to see them get murdered; and here was his own brother, asking him to give his son to fight in such horror.
The men would rip Marsil to pieces. Arlon knew he was given a choice...
Loose his son to the Wytcher or loose him to battle. He looked on Marsil's pale form on the tabletop. His skin sizzled with that strange light and the eerie scales appeared for a moment. They stayed for all of three heartbeats before they disappeared. Arlon took this as a sign and made his choice.
He lifted his eyes to the Overseer.
"Yes," he said. "Yes. Marsil would enter the Death Games."
"Alright, Sire. I shall arrange it," Tyrese offered.
"No, you won't." Arlon turned to his brother. "The Commander will." Latchlon nodded.
"Yes, your Majesty."
"What is the set date?"
"A fortnight from today, Sire," Latchlon replied.
Arlon walked close to his brother. He gripped him by the arm and pulled him close.
"I entrust my son into your care. Protect him as you would a nephew, and please, don't let him die."
Latchlon nodded.
"Now, leave us," Arlon said into the room. "I want to be left alone with him for a moment."
Everyone left the room and Latchlon silently shut the door on his way out. Arlon sighed and moved to the table.
He sat at the table's edge and stared down at Marsil. His eyes were closed and his white-blond lashes tickled his upper cheeks.
As King Arlon watched his sleeping son, he found himself praying to the Golden Knight.
'Please, Nihila. Keep my son safe.'