by Beth Alvarez
Rune's eyes narrowed. “And what do you stand to gain from helping me?”
The clank of armor at the forefront of the prison signaled the return of a guard. Redoram chuckled and held up a finger. “All in time, boy, all in time.”
Some grumbling rose from the opposite cell, accompanied by the low shuffle of its occupant trying to make himself comfortable. Redoram sat back against the wall, a wry smile twisting the corners of his mouth as the guard moved past. For the first time since his imprisonment, he thought he might live to see the sun again.
5
Inconvenience
Rune's bruises were not healed by the time he set foot in the arena again. His body protested the battle but he didn't let it slow him, muddy his strategies or dampen his reflexes. With the mage still holding the flows just beyond his reach, strategy and reflex were two of the precious few things he had to swing combat in his favor.
The second trip into the arena ended the same as the first, with him striking down his opponent and being beaten for it when they returned him to his cell. Lessons with Redoram filled most nights, covering everything from political alliances in the Royal City to improving his grasp of the local tongue. The weeks fell into a rhythm of monotony. Only the weather seemed to change. Sometimes he was one of a dozen prisoners carted off to the arena, sometimes he was one of two. Sometimes his opponent was skilled, sometimes it was obvious they'd never experienced a real battle. Sometimes he was beaten with clubs after his victory, sometimes with chains.
And then a day arrived where many things changed.
Arena mornings rarely differed from one to the next, the prisoners fed their cold slop and left to sit while the guards awaited orders on which to send into battle. But this morning, his food was hot. Rune eyed it with a measure of suspicion before he cast a glance across the walkway to see if Redoram fared the same. He'd come to like the man, if only because he was a beneficial mentor. The old mage shrugged and gestured to the tray in his hands. His food steamed, as well.
The near-tasteless porridge was almost enjoyable while warm, and Rune savored the heat that seeped into his fingers when he held the bowl. Having spent his life in the tropics, he thought it odd how the comfortable summer days faded into cool mornings and downright chilly nights. It made sense that cooler weather might result in warmer meals, though if that were the case, why did Redoram seem as puzzled as he?
After he ate, the prison stayed quiet for longer than normal. And when the guards arrived with the guide chain to take inmates to the arena, they carried only one set of manacles. That wasn't unfathomable either, given how few prisoners remained. Crime came and went with the change of seasons, Redoram had told him. Harvests this time of year would keep men busy. When winter was deepest, the prison would fill again.
“Best of luck,” the old mage whispered as the guards led Rune out of his cell and fastened him to the chain they held between them. Rune stared straight ahead and did not respond.
Commoners filled the city streets nearest the palace, as usual, but they whispered amongst themselves in excited tones as the guards led him toward the arena. He tried to pay it no mind, tried not to look at them. It was a relief when they reached the now-familiar tunnel that led to the pit that had come to rule his life. They locked him in the cage and removed his manacles. He turned to face the arena. Then he saw it.
A sword. Driven into the ground, only a step away from the gate at the front of his cage.
Rune threw a startled glance over his shoulder. The guards shook their heads and backed away. His heart beat quickened. What was different today? What were they doing? What had he done?
He wasn't afforded any chance to think. The gates on either side of the pit began to rattle and lift, the cage behind him shrinking to force him into the arena. Swallowing hard, Rune shifted forward. The portcullis lifted enough for him to pass and he ducked beneath it, tore the sword free of the earth, and moved to meet his opponent.
Steel rang as they met, blades first. The sound drew vibrant cheers from the stands overhead. With swords locked, Rune sized up his opponent. Short, fast, nimble on his feet and wearing armor over leather instead of chainmail. A subtle difference from the usual, but important. It betrayed him as a fighter who relied on agility, not strength.
Rune let his blade skirt off his enemy's as he slid to the side. He stepped right, planning to circle the knight and look for weak points in his gleaming gold-trimmed armor. He didn't get the chance.
Surging forward, the knight put him on the defensive, striking at him with precise and eager blows. Sparks flickered from their connecting blades and Rune was forced to check his footing more than once. A clever fighter, one who'd clearly studied his opponent beforehand. He seemed to know the patterns Rune used in battle, ready to counter every one of them.
An ill-timed thrust offered an opening. Rune darted in and aimed a strike for the knight's throat. But the man was fast and ducked just beneath the blade's edge, bringing the pommel of his sword up into Rune's stomach.
The blow knocked the air from his lungs and almost sent him to his knees. But a fall meant death, and Rune staggered back, gasping for breath as he readied his blade again. The people above them screamed, the noise a dull roar in the back of his mind.
Again the knight came at him, but he was ready this time. He parried and lashed out with a foot. He caught the man just above the waist, knocked him backwards and earned a cry from the knight that made the hair on the back of Rune's neck stand. He moved while his opponent was off balance, striking the knight's wrist, knocking the sword from his hand.
The knight stumbled and Rune rushed in with sword upraised. He fell upon his adversary, and as he bowled the smaller figure to the ground and tore the helmet from his head, the crowd above them went silent.
A boy. Wide-eyed with fright and barely old enough to have a sword of his own, no matter how skilled he seemed. The knight was a boy.
Rune held him fast, catching his breath, taking in the terrified look that filled the youth's blue eyes. His grip on the hilt of his raised sword tightened and his jaw clenched. Spitting a curse, he shoved the boy into the dust and cast his weapon to the ground.
Not a breath stirred above them, the arena silent for only the second time Rune could recall. He shook his head and backed away. A boy. They'd given him a sword to kill a boy.
Disgust wrenched his expression into a scowl as he turned to walk to the portcullis. He ducked beneath it as soon as it had lifted enough for him to retreat to the cage beyond. He'd killed knights. He'd killed soldiers. He'd killed his father.
But he wouldn't kill a child.
“We have a problem, Captain.” The woman at the rail never looked away from the pit of the arena.
Garam pursed his lips and considered his response carefully. He'd known what this meeting was about before he'd answered the summons. Now was difficult to keep his tongue in check. He was in no position to speak to members of the council the way he wanted—especially not Lady Bryndis, considering how high she stood in the king’s favor. He didn't doubt the councilors already knew how he felt about the situation, but he couldn't just bow his head and let it go. “You had a problem from the moment you decided it was a good idea to let him face an undefeated opponent. Would you prefer if a prisoner killed him?”
“No,” Bryndis said slowly, tapping her fingers together as she watched the scene below. The balcony the councilors reserved to watch arena matches was far from optimal seating. The distance made it hard to see the nuances of what happened in the pit, but most councilors refused to mingle with anyone beneath them. “Our problem began when your prisoner didn't die in his first match.”
It was hard to refute that. The Royal City had been abuzz ever since that day. It was rage, at first, the nobles scandalized to think a common criminal could best one of their own. But as the weeks carried on and the unusual prisoner won match after match, the tides turned. Garam almost dared say the crowd had developed a liking for the man, if only
because the balance of power among the noble houses shifted with each death.
“And what do you expect me to do?” Garam asked. “To have him executed after he spared his opponent in a fair-won fight would incite outrage. People like him, whether you do or not.”
“People are charmed by seeing a beaten dog rise, yes.” She stroked her chin. “But he is not to rise within the arena again. This match was too close. You're in charge of peace in the city, are you not?”
The captain restrained the urge to grit his teeth. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then keep the peace.” Bryndis rose from her chair and patted Garam's armored shoulder as she slid past. “How you do that, of course, is up to you.”
Garam refused to watch the councilor leave. Instead, he stared down into the pit. He hated the way they tried to pull his strings and tie his hands with them at the same time, hated that he was in no position to contest it. The king was too busy to personally oversee things in the Royal City. Garam understood that. He just wished the council didn't oversee it in the king's place.
Stifling a sigh, he left the balcony and hurried down the steps. With the milling crowds so dense, it was difficult to locate one of his men. Even when he found one, he had to raise his voice to make himself heard over the din. “Where is he? The prisoner?”
“Still in the cage under the arena, sir,” the man replied.
Garam nodded. “Good. Don't return him to his cell when you get him back to the prison. I want to question him first.” What he meant to question him about, though, Garam wasn't sure. What was there to discuss? It wasn't as if the man could offer a solution to the problem he'd created. Or the problem created when the council decided to allow a mere child into the arena as a combatant.
“Yes, sir.” The guard gave a quick bow before he disappeared among the crowds.
The moment the man was gone, Garam rubbed his forehead with a gloved hand and allowed himself an exasperated sigh. No matter how eager he was to get things over with, it was best if he took his time in heading for the prison. The guards would need a few moments to get the prisoner settled in the audience room set in the forefront of the prison, and he needed more than a few moments to decide what he was supposed to do.
He knew he was right, regardless of the disdain that had colored Bryndis's voice. Execution was out of the question. After the prisoner had defeated so many nobles, the noble houses would see it as an affront for him to be put down, the deaths of their men wasted on politics that went nowhere. Just thinking of their political games made his head hurt and Garam put them out of his mind.
He made his way into the prison and paused when he reached the bottom of the stairs. His eyes drifted over the shelves of armor and supplies. All of a sudden, he knew exactly what to do.
“He's ready for questioning, sir.” One of the prison guards appeared at his side with a tray of hot food. The smell of it made his mouth water.
“Good.” Garam took the tray and gestured for the guard to bring a bottle from one of the shelves. “Let's get to it.”
The audience room was small and held nothing other than a table and chairs. Their peculiar guest sat with his elbows propped against the table's edge. Garam crossed the room without hesitation, deposited the food on the table, and took the bottle of mead from the guard's hand. “Send someone for Lord Survas. Tell him his translation services are required.”
“I do not need your Lord Survas,” the prisoner said, turning eerily snakelike violet eyes toward the captain. “I do not like him.”
Garam raised a brow. A wave of his hand sent the guard out of the room. The door clicked closed behind him. “You speak our language,” he remarked as he pulled out a chair to sit across from the creature.
“I listen. I learn.” His accent was as strange as his appearance, but the words were easy to understand. It was a step in the right direction, at least.
“Not a lot to listen to in the prison.” Garam leaned against the table. “What was it you said your name was?”
“Rune,” the prisoner replied, never moving, never blinking.
The captain stared at him for a long time. There were a lot of questions he wanted to ask, now that Survas wasn't in the mix. Things he wouldn't trust the nobleman to translate properly. But those questions weren't why they were there. Garam pushed the tray of food farther across the table and nodded toward it. “Good steak, decent mead. I'm sure you're hungry.”
Rune shrugged. “I am not interested in... how is it said? Bribe?”
“Bribery,” Garam corrected with a chuckle. “Your grasp of the language is impressive, considering you didn't seem to understand anything when you were arrested. How long have you been studying?” He reached for the bottle of mead, uncorked it, and took a sniff. Perhaps he'd lied. It didn't smell decent at all.
“I leave the ship, I listen. A man will understand after time.” A vague answer, but the blank look on Rune's face made it clear he'd get no other.
Garam sighed and put down the bottle. “Do you know why you're here?”
“In prison?” Rune lifted a brow. “Because to eat, a man does what he must. In this room? Because I do not kill children.” He spat the last word with contempt and venom, a hint of disgust creeping into his expression.
“And it's good for you that you don't. You've made quite a spectacle of yourself in the arena. There are more than a few nobles who would like to be rid of you now that you've been undefeated for months. They were trying to trap you. The boy you fought in the arena was Vicamros II, Crown Prince of the Royal City.” Garam leaned back in his chair. “If you'd killed him, you would have been executed on the spot.”
The words hung heavy in the air. The man across the table weighed them carefully. “And I am not to be executed?”
Garam shook his head. “Quite the opposite. Because you spared the prince's life, people are likely convinced you knew who he was. Now they're afraid of what ties you might have in the city. No one wants to face you in the arena again, but no one wants you killed without justification, either.” He paused. “That makes you my responsibility.”
Rune snorted a laugh and shook his head as he reached for the fork on the tray. He speared the steak with it and gestured toward the table. “A man is to eat without a knife?”
Now it was the captain's turn to raise an eyebrow. “What makes you think I'd trust you with one?”
The prisoner lifted a hand and wriggled scaly, clawed fingers before his face. “Because I do not need weapons to fight.” He released the fork and lounged in his chair, folding his hands together against his stomach and looking amused. “You look at me strangely because I am part green and you are the color of earth. But we are both men. I know why I am here. Now, you tell me why you are here.”
Garam stared back for a moment before he snorted a laugh. The last time they'd conversed, through translation, Lord Survas said something about the strange man speaking in an uncommon way. He was beginning to see why. “I'd like you to consider joining the Royal City guard.”
Rune blinked and tilted his head. “Why?”
“Because you can fight.” Garam shrugged. “It's fairly obvious you have military experience. If you can swing a sword and listen to orders, I have a place for you in the barracks. It gets you out of the prison and out of the way of the nobles. Everybody's happy.”
“And if I say no?”
The question caught the captain off guard. “Then you sit in prison until you die, or you fight in the arena until you die. At least as one of my men, you'd have freedom.”
That brought a scoff. “Not freedom. Taking orders is not freedom.” Rune paused, then nodded. “But I consider your offer.”
“That's it?” Garam's brow furrowed. “You don't have a lot of room for consideration, my friend.”
“And you do not have room to assume I am your friend.” Rune stood and offered a surprisingly respectful bow. “Return me to my cell.”
The captain stared at him in disbelief. But the prisoner did nothi
ng, just stood, waiting for him to act. Garam swallowed and rose from his chair. Survas was definitely right; the man was no common thief. The way he spoke and carried himself, even knowing his position as a prisoner, made it clear he thought himself Garam's equal.
Garam squared his shoulders and adjusted the gleaming gilded armor that marked him Captain of the Guard. He led the way to the door. The handful of guards waiting on the other side fell in to surround their prisoner as he was escorted back to his cell. “I expect an answer in the morning.”
“And I expect a knife with my meal.” Rune smirked and slipped into the cell. He settled cross-legged on the floor.
Garam's eyes narrowed but he said nothing more. He left the prison with only his fists clenched at his sides to betray his frustration.
He tried to put the whole situation out of his mind and think of something else as he made his way across the city to seek refuge in his quarters. He had enough to worry about without the nobles and their politics. With all the unrest in the city, it was easy to ignore the games they played. Nobles thought themselves more important than they were. They didn't see the way the Royal City bubbled with uneasiness, the way more and more commoners came in from the countryside as winter approached.
The peasantry feared it would be too difficult to reach the Royal City after the first snows. They hadn't said as much, not precisely, but the stories they carried were much the same. Before it's too late, they all said. Why they wanted to reach the shelter of the city walls was never said.
