Umbra

By K. T. Lazarus

Dun's new employer wants him dead. The feeling is mutual.

 

His Name and his Voice lost to the last war, all that remains for Dun is the job. When the job goes sideways, his team of criminal misfits must keep their wits about them to survive the deadliest con of their lives.

 

Sir Janus wants nothing more from his visit to Strata than the thrill of arena combat. But the political obligations he disdains pose a greater risk than any sword or spell, as forces beyond his power stir in the tiered city.

 

Whispers of war underpin polite laughter in sunlit salons. Tides of revolution swell through Foundation among the city's downtrodden. Yet the elite forge onward with their machinations, ignorant of a long-forgotten truth: 

 

For a man who has lost everything, all that's left is revenge.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. T. Lazarus
• Release date: Dec 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223374374

K. T. Lazarus

A California Bay Area native, K.T. Lazarus is an avid reader and writer of fantasy and speculative fiction, as well as a practitioner and instructor of 15th century medieval combat (both in and out of armor) from the Liechtenauer tradition.

Book preview

TEN

Within the Grand Arena two boxers circled each other, trading feints and jabs. Each impact of knuckles on flesh was spurred on by the cheers of spectators watching from the terraces. A single bronze mark bought admission to the lowest terrace: standing room only, a broad, open disk at eye level with the boxers. The middle terrace consisted of fifty rows of bleachers, rising steeply out of the roof of the level below. It cost five bronze notes to get into the middle terrace, but the view—as well as the company—was unquestionably better.

The smaller of the boxers slipped under a devastating haymaker thrown by his opponent, and delivered a precise uppercut to his jaw. The larger man’s head snapped backward with a spray of sweat and blood, and the arena erupted into raucous cries of elation and disappointment as he hit the ground. Copper and tin shavers changed hands in the bottom terrace, while in the middle, the spectators exchanged notes of bronze, with an occasional glint of silver.

High above, in the shaded lounges and personal boxes of the upper terrace, the notebooks remained closed. Their aristocratic owners maintained a healthy disinterest in the base display of pugilism enjoyed by the commoners while they waited for the main event of the day. Many of them passed their time with sophisticated conversation underscored by subtle political maneuverings against one another; others just talked business.

Two ring attendants dragged the beaten man away as the referee raised the champion’s arm for a final round of cheers, and then they too were rushed out of sight. Runners circled the oval arena, dragging rakes and brooms behind them to smooth out the loose-packed dirt and cover the patches of spilled blood. Once the field was groomed, from the gates at the head of the arena emerged a venerable old wizard by the name of Crispin, the Grand Master of Ceremonies. Older than the dirt on which he stood, yet surprisingly spry for his age, Crispin had been running the main events of the arena for so long that there were only a handful of nobles left alive who could claim to have witnessed a tourney without his presence. A respectful hush fell over the audience, and even those in the upper terrace halted their conversations and turned their attention below. Crispin gestured to the top of the gate and dropped into an elegant bow as three noble ladies came forward and took their seats under shaded pavilions, while their servants filed in behind them with fans, parasols, and drinking goblets. Striding to the center of the field, the old man gave a theatrical flourish with his half-cape and then snapped his fingers with a crack that reverberated through the stadium.

With the groaning of restless steel and a great wash of steam from its every crevice, the arena began to shift. The field inched skyward, and the spectators in the middle terrace stood as their bleachers flattened out, every other row sinking to meet with the one before it until the level had become a shallow dish of twenty-five broad, short steps. The arena floor rose steadily until it was flush with the bottom of the middle terrace, eclipsing the rabble in the lowest terrace entirely from view—there were standards to maintain for the main event after all, and if one couldn’t afford a five mark ticket, they certainly wouldn’t fit those standards.

Hastily finishing whatever back-handed deals, bribery or backstabbing they had been discussing, the nobility settled into their cushions and lounges as their personal boxes sunk down into the space the middle terrace had vacated to acquire the best views of the field. Nodding in satisfaction, Crispin then pointed to either end of the oval field, and four broad marble columns emerged from the arena floor in turn, rising up a dozen feet into the air. Each was scarred and blackened by the fires of battle, yet solid as the foundations of the arena itself. The old referee gave another flourish with his cape, and the duelists for the day’s main event paraded onto the field.

Leaning against a pillar in the back of the newly flattened middle terrace, a man known only as Dun shielded his eyes from the harsh sunlight beating down on the arena grounds. He glossed over the ceremonial pomp on the field indifferently, while his attention flitted through the crowd of faces around him in search of recognition. Though unremarkable in height and build, there remained a respectful barrier of space around him despite the press of the crowd. His face, masked by a few days’ worth of beard and scarred across the left temple, was the kind that inspired a sense of wariness even in those who were unaware of his reputation.

On the field, sixteen duelists had emerged and were busily paying their respects to the three Ladies of Honor who would be passing judgment on their honor and prowess during the tournament to come. Their introductions finished, two of the lords were called forth and moved to either side of the field to prepare for battle while the rest filed back off the field to watch from the gate beneath the ladies.

His client still had not arrived. Dealing with new clients who lacked an understanding and aptitude for crime frustrated Dun to no end. His client had provided the Grand Arena as the meeting grounds, a reasonable request, as the vast majority of black market affairs between the nobility of Strata and the downtrodden of the undercity were conducted within its stands. But he had failed to specify a time during the tournament at which contact would take place. Dun had been forced to wait for the past hour, keeping a look out for his man. He didn’t mind overly much—a few of the boxers had shown excellent technique, and he’d collected a few silver notes off the upset in the final match. Still, he appreciated alacrity in a client. Waiting for one job to end meant he wasn’t out looking for another one—and he was more than ready for this lousy job to be over with.

Out in the arena, the less experienced of the two duelists facing off had been graciously offered the first pass by his opponent, which he accepted with the ladies’ permission. He flung his cape over one shoulder and drew his saber, raising