The Warrior Race Trilogy BoxSet

by T. C. Edge

  "Are you OK?" she asked softly. "I was worried. Your back was so..." She stopped short. "You'll be OK, won't you?"

  He nodded weakly.

  "I'll be fine, just fine. A few scars, who cares. Silia said the medic did a real good job. They're healing well already."

  Kira glanced at his back, covered in its bandaging.

  "Go ahead, take a look if you want," Dom murmured. "Nice to get a second opinion. I don't always trust my household to give me the blunt truth. I imagine you'll be better at that."

  On most topics he'd be right, but beneath his bluster Kira could sense some vulnerability. He was weakened, emotionally, and yet trying to stay stable. Rufus' death, and the constant threat to his own life, was plenty to destabilise him. Kira needed a light touch, something she wasn't particularly well practiced in.

  She unpeeled the tape at the top of the bandaging, and drew it up to take a quick look at his injuries. Having seen them fresh and open, and then right after having been neatly sutured, she'd already viewed the worst of it. What greeted her eyes was quite something, a marvel really. The flesh was no longer enflamed, the deep gashes tightly closed and swift in their revival. Yes, he'd end with a lattice of lines upon his back, but no more by the looks of things. It would be the mental scars, Kira assumed, that would cause the greater stress.

  She didn't have to sugar coat her answer when Dom sought her opinion on the matter.

  "I'm amazed," she said, quite genuinely. "You'll be fine, Dom." She smiled brightly and re-taped the bandage. "Do you know when you'll be back on your feet?"

  "Oh, no time at all. Tomorrow."

  "Really?"

  "Oh, I can't rightly lie about here when things need doing. I'm expected at the arena tomorrow afternoon. Lee and Malvo are both in action."

  "Right...yeah I guess they are. And you're just going to sit there by your mother's side, after what she's done?"

  Dom drew a long breath.

  "Much as I hate her, on this matter she was acting within her rights. Could have been worse, Kira. If she knew the truth, I might be dead already. I'm lucky Ares vouched for me."

  "So you're going then? Tomorrow?"

  "I've got to keep up appearances. If I stay hidden away here, it'll look worse. Best I grin and bear this one."

  "I think it'll be understandable for you to stay here and recover a bit more after what you've been through. Jeez, Dom, those sorts of lacerations could have killed you from shock or blood loss or I don't know what."

  "That was probably what dear mother was hoping for," signed Dom. "People do die under the lash occasionally, especially when it's Dominus Dolores wielding it." Kira frowned at the name. Dom brushed it off with a casual, "Doesn't matter. Long story."

  "I would say we've got plenty of time, but I guess that would be a lie. If you're intent of going to the arena tomorrow, you probably need your rest. Have you spoken with Claud yet?"

  "No, not yet. Why?"

  "Oh, I should probably let him tell you."

  "Tell me what? I'm the master here. Go ahead and tell me."

  Kira didn't take long to acquiesce.

  "It's about Cicero. Claud found a last known address of his down in Southside. He doesn't think it's a good idea, but we need to go talk to this guy."

  Dom grunted through a smile, a wince of pain rippling across his pallid face.

  "There's no 'we', Kira. You can't go leaving this ludus, it's way too dangerous for you."

  "Thought you'd say that."

  "Then we're getting to know each other pretty well," he laughed. "But I can go down there, see what old Cicero has to say for himself."

  "Hmmmm. Is that sensible?"

  Kira surprised herself at the question. Her quest for knowledge was now being tempered by her concern for Dom. It was an unexpected turn, no doubting that.

  "You sound like old Claud," mused Dom. "I'll be fine. I've got my soldiers..."

  "But it's not just about your protection. It's about being seen snooping about and talking to this guy. People might put two and two together and realise what you're up to."

  "I very much doubt that, Kira. But I take your point. I can be discreet, as can my men. I'm not entirely sure we'll get much from him, even if he's there, but it's worth a go, and this is a box that needs ticking. I'll see if I can head down there tomorrow, after the games."

  "That soon?"

  Dom nodded.

  "This isn't something we can sit on. We need to move fast now. Time isn't exactly our ally."

  No, it certainly wasn't. The clock was acting out, throwing a tantrum. The hours and days would swiftly whirl away into a vortex that would, if they didn't take action now, envelop the entire city in its suffocating clutches.

  To that end, Kira didn't stay with Dom much longer. He needed his rest, and to allow his body to fully recuperate. They shared a few more words, tense topics under swift review, before some tender ones took their place. Kira's green eyes were as beautiful, shining ponds under the low light within the room, and Dom's a soft and inviting brown. They drew to each other, their bond so unlikely and yet, now, so important.

  She sat beside him, and their words turned to whispers before abandoning them entirely. They were needed no longer, just a complication to confuse things. Instead, longing gazes took their place, and Kira found her hand softly clutching Dom's, the touch of skin saying more than a thousand words could tell. They were bound, now, with common purpose, and from that purpose, something more was flourishing.

  Those quiet moments lasted until Claudius interrupted them. His drum-beat of a knock sounded across the room, and Kira was swift to depart to allow Dom's aid to update him on all important matters. As she left, she draped her eyes upon him a final time, before turning away and retreating back to the library, where the large sofas were more than sufficient to offer her a place to sleep.

  She settled in and retired to her thoughts, wandering through the maze of anxieties and agitations that drew up in her mind. Then, as her head grew lazy, and her eyes heavy, a state of relaxation possessed her, and she drifted away with warmer thoughts of a future that she hoped would come.

  90

  The safe house was a safe place, yes, but not a particularly homely one.

  It wasn't the fixtures and fittings, nor the accumulated grime and dust and near-dilapidation that did it, but the two young guests who were locked within its walls.

  It annoyed Merk, somewhat, that both Gwyn and Finn had fallen into the gloom of bad mood and inactivity. After all, he was the old man and had the right to be cantankerous and crotchety if he wished. They were young pups by comparison, particularly the boy who was the surliest of all. They should be delighted by this turn of affairs, safe here on the outskirts of the city and just waiting to be transported home.

  It was, however, the waiting that did it. That was the crux of the issue. The waiting and the not knowing, and the worrying about those left behind. For Merk, those concerns centred primarily on Dom, though he spared thoughts for Kira too. For the others, it was the red-head that commanded their sole attention, with Finn in particular still unable to see just why she hadn't come too.

  He had even threatened, not once but several times, to head back through the passage and into the villa.

  "I'll go and grab her right out of her bed," he announced. "I'll drag her here if I need to."

  Gwyn yawned and sipped her wine - yes, Merk had succumbed to the lure and opened up a bottle, though it was largely Gwyn's pestering that did it.

  "Good luck with that," Gwyn said. "If Kira wanted to be here, she'd be here. You can't change that."

  She, Merk found, was more understanding of the predicament, perhaps owing to her age, being nearly a decade the boy's senior. Still, she was similarly low on energy as Finn was, her concern for Kira partially the cause, and her lack of distraction another. Try as he might, Merk's attempts to get the two of them reading fell on deaf ears. Only when he discovered that neither were particularly literate did he begin to unders
tand.

  Growing up where they did, it made sense. Merk knew of the world, and the many pockets of simple life that filled it. Finn, a boy of the ocean, a sailor's son, had no true need to learn to read or write. Gwyn was the same, though to less of an extent. She had a passable grasp of such things, though not enough to begin flicking through the many great tomes that sat, untouched, within the library.

  For them, books were nothing but 'kindling for the fire', or so Gwyn said. It was sacrilege to Merk. Though hardly an educated man, he'd taken to literature and books on history during his twilight years, when he had so much time on his hands away from the sea. He'd sit in his little dwelling in Southside, or take a book to one of his favourite squares, reading for hours on end to send the day off into the next, letting the weeks pass by in such fashion. Solitude was a regular state of existence for Merk, but these books were his allies and friends, keeping his mind from melancholic thoughts of the past.

  His time here in the safe house, therefore, had been spent in much the same fashion. It had been two days now since their arrival, and no word had come from the villa. That didn't surprise him at all. Master Domitian had far more important business to attend to, and as far as Merk saw it, helping those safely hidden away on the edge of the city wasn't a top priority.

  It could be weeks yet until he turned his mind back to them, and arranged safe passage across the sea. And Merk had no intention of letting that time pass by aimlessly. He would occupy his mind as much as he could, and try his darnedest to occupy those of Gwyn and Finn too. The last thing he needed was Finn carrying out his threats and going back to the villa, or Gwyn sneaking out to find some public screen on which to watch the games.

  He needed both to stay on the premises, as Dom had requested, and not to show their faces anywhere they might be spotted. Hence the opening up of the wine bottle, surrendering to Gwyn's demands. He was quite sure that many more would follow at the rate she was going, and that presented another challenge in keeping her sober and in her right mind.

  Harsh words didn't seem to work either. When he told them how lucky they were to be there, safe and sound, they merely glared at him and came up with a swift rebuttal.

  "Lucky to be here!" said Finn. "We shouldn't be on this side of the ocean in the first place!"

  "Yeah, Merk!" added Gwyn. "And anyway, we're not moping about for ourselves, but Kira. We only want to help her if we can."

  "Yeah. If we can't go and get her, there's got to be something we can do. She's put herself on the line for us, and we're just sitting around doing nothing..."

  The two went on like that for a time, passing the baton back and forward. Merk stayed silent mostly, understanding their frustration. Only when they'd run out of breath did he calmly reiterate that they were impotent here, though he put it in more delicate terms.

  He poured Gwyn a little more wine and even Finn decided to partake. By the end of that second evening, several more bottles had been consumed and double the number of ideas pondered. They got more dramatic the longer the evening went on, Finn and Gwyn plotting to sneak right to the heart of the city and assassinate the Empress themselves. Merk chuckled at their vim and knew it was the wine talking. He received a heavy dose of glaring for his trouble, though he was quite sure that both of them were aware of the ridiculousness of their plan.

  It didn't get far beyond the fledgling stage, a simple conceit if ever there was one. But it was an exercise in catharsis more than anything else, an opportunity for them to vent and brainstorm absurd notions that would never mature into anything resembling a proper plan.

  Sometimes, talking things over in such fashion brought the truth and reality to light. In this case, as Finn and Gwyn worked through their options, it became clear that none were, in fact, options at all. Merk viewed from his perch with a little, victorious smile on his face. They were defeating their own optimism with reason, and though they still held out some hope that they might seek a traversable path, Merk knew full well the harsh glow of morning would put an end to things once and for all.

  Eventually, the night filled them with weariness, precipitated by the wine. Young Finn was first to fall, unused to its effects, with Gwyn holding out for a final glass before succumbing too. Merk's mind, however, kept itself in good working order, his limits fully understood and temperament held in good account.

  He sat in his armchair as the others fell asleep on the sofas, watching until they were fully settled and drawing blankets over them to keep out the cold. Both of their eyes flickered as they rested, suggesting their minds were being accosted by dreams, probably bad ones. Then Finn began mumbling, wine-stained lips quivering. Merk shut his eyes and listened, and imagined himself back on the ship, down in its dungeons, keeping an eye on the gladiators as they sailed for the city.

  It was a thought that brought with it a throb of regret. He was a servant only, but like his master was beginning to dislike his place in the world.

  The word 'Dana' then issued from the boy's lips, though Merk knew it to be a name. His baby daughter, across the sea, not yet old enough to wonder just where her daddy might have gone. A set of withered brows pinched across Merk's forehead. Finn was barely beyond a child himself.

  The old man sighed wistfully, though settled on a positive thought. He was doing something good now, something right. He was caring for these two, and helping them home. He just wished he could do more.

  He drew his cup to his lips and sipped, and his mind returned to the many bright ideas sprung from the heads of his two young charges. Some were so bright to be dangerous, like the sun. Others were shallow in their illumination, viewable without having to squint too hard. Before the wine took possession of their logic, several reasonable ideas had been posed, though none that Merk would give much mind to on any normal day.

  He stood and meandered away through the house, leaving Finn to his slumberous whisperings and Gwyn to her more peaceful snoring. It was so quiet here, the sort of empty silence Merk had never experienced. As soon as he ventured far enough for the snoring and sleep-talking to fade, not a single sound reached his years as he stopped and stood in the kitchen.

  He placed down his wine glass, and considered going for another bottle. The tap of the cup upon the wooden surface came and went, drowning into the quiet. Merk's life at sea was a never-ending flow of noise, and his existence in Southside the same. From the endless whining of creaking boards on the boat, to the constant footfall outside his apartment near the swamps, there was never a second in which Merk truly heard nothing at all.

  Yet here, in these wide and open suburbs, with the nearest house a hundred yards away, the dead of night brought with it a deafening calm. It was an unnerving test for Merk, his ears so conditioned to the background din. To an argument in an apartment nearby. To the sound of cawing gulls at sea. To the sloshing of waves against the hull, or the squeaking of rats in the drains and gutters. Merk's mind was never without a sound to unravel and translate. But here, there was nothing. Only the beating of his own heart. Only the sound of his own breathing.

  He had to move, his footsteps something at least. Without putting much thought into it, he stepped into the wine cellar and gathered up another bottle. The stocks were vast, and Merk's reluctance to indulge had somewhat waned. He'd managed to find a section that was most likely to be of the more affordable variety, and with Gwyn breathing down his neck, the floodgates had opened.

  He returned to the kitchen and pulled the cork. It was a glorious pop, the sound of a cannon, echoing right through the house. The slosh of the red liquid, cozying up against the side of the cup before settling, was equally lovely to his ears. Even the smacking of his own lips, and the internal sound of gulping as the wine trickled down his throat and bubbled into his stomach, was a pleasant distraction to the infernal quiet.

  He picked up his glass and the bottle too, and made his way through the house once more, intending to return to the sitting room where the whisperings and snoring could help send him to sleep.
On his path his eyes turned to what had become his favourite room, ahead of even the cellar and its many wondrous treasures.

  He moved through the door and into the library, where several books had already been removed from their shelves and inspected. Mostly, they were books Merk had already read before, yet those he knew could give him comfort. Stories of the sea were rare to find in Dom's possession, but there were enough to light a smile on his face, and set a nostalgia to his heart.

  He placed down his cup and bottle, and stepped towards the shelves once more. It was no surprise that his master's primary focus was on history, both of the city and the games, the gladiators and their powers. They were topics loved and favoured by Merk too, depending on his mood. In particular, the early stages when the telepaths had fought were of special interest to him, and his great hero, Polus, especially dear to his heart.

  He worked his eyes along the list of books, and came upon one that drew a frown. It wasn't a frown of confusion, but a pinching of the brows that told of a stirring memory. Of seeing an old friend, whose face you hardly recognise, but who rings a bell somewhere deep that echoes right through you.

  His wrinkled fingers were reaching forward, taking hold of the delicate leather. It wasn't a long book, nor one that was well known. Even here, with so many large volumes available, it was tucked away to one side, dustier than the rest and looking as though it had never been touched.

  The title, when Merk sent his eyes down upon the front, was so faded as to be unreadable. At least, to those who didn't already know its name. The letters, badly decayed, only held little remnants of their form. There was a partial 'S' at the start, a fading 'e' somewhere nearby, an 'o' and 'h' that had seen far better days, and another portion of a capitalised 'S' to frame the final word.

  It was a puzzle that would be tricky to solve for most, yet the words appeared clear as day to the old man, sparking an old memory to life.