Salty Dog

by Shayne Silvers

  “Cages?” I asked. But it seemed my captor was done talking, leaving me to wonder what it would be like to be put in a cage like an animal.

  The experience turned out to be even worse than I thought; pressed up against iron bars by the weight of emaciated bodies—slaves who looked somehow even more feeble than I did—I had just enough room to avoid touching the hive-inducing metal, though it meant standing with my shoulders slumped, arms folded down the length of my body. Unable to do much else, I distracted myself from my sorry state by people watching; now that I had time to stop and think, I couldn’t help but wonder where all these men and women had come from. Were they all exiles, like Rhys? Or had some grown up here, a whole population surviving the Blighted Lands long enough to reach adulthood? The infrastructure—not to mention the fortitude—necessary to make that possible made me sick to my stomach. Imagine being a child in a place like this, where terrifying creatures roamed freely and fights to the death were the chief form of entertainment. I shuddered, unable to comprehend the sort of person who could thrive here.

  “What’s wrong, Ceara?” Rhys asked, sidling up to the bars of my cage and running his secondhand dagger across them. The hands of fellow captives darted away lest they get sliced, even as the sound of metal on metal pealed away. “Don’t you like your new accommodations?”

  I ignored the bastard. Now that I was caged, I had that luxury; if he came after me through the bars, I’d snap his arm in half, even if my heart gave out in the process.

  “I want to show you something,” he continued.

  “Go away, ye miserable shit.”

  “Now, is that any way to talk to the man who saved you?” Rhys asked, face souring. “If it weren’t for me, you and the hound would have died out there.” He gestured in the general direction of the desert, and I realized we’d inadvertently ended up much closer to the mountain—not that it mattered, now.

  “Saved me so ye could have me fight for me life in the pits,” I replied, snorting. “Aye, t’anks for the hospitality, ye dick.”

  “Oh, but it wasn’t just you I saved.” Rhys retrieved a key from his belt and thrust it into the lock, eyeing the other slaves until they shied away from the door to the cage. “Don’t you want to see your pup’s first fight?”

  I felt my skin prickle with dread. Cathal, fighting? Already? But he’d been dying only a couple hours ago. Like on death’s damned doorstep—a fucking welcome mat with “Here Lies Cathal: He Really Was an Asshole” splashed across his chest. What kind of fight could the poor guy even put up? “Let me out,” I growled, resisting the urge to snatch at the bars—no need for Rhys to see the effect of raw iron on my skin.

  Rhys smirked, but held up a finger. “If you try anything, I’ll kill you.”

  “If ye do that, ye won’t get much of a return on your investment,” I challenged, leaning close enough so that only he could hear me. “If ye expect to get your money’s worth, I mean.”

  “That would be a shame,” Rhys said, though the gleam in his eye told me something had changed. That, on some level, Rhys wanted me to try something. That he was itching to kill me.

  And yet…Cathal.

  “Fine, let’s go.”

  35

  The crowd around the fighting pit Rhys led me to consisted of jeering men and women in ragged clothes, most of whom looked only a hair better than the slaves they intended to watch die for their amusement. Blood frenzy rode the air as spittle flew from their mouths, fists pumping as if they were worshipping some primordial rock ‘n roll god. But they weren’t.

  They were cheering the beast below.

  Cathal, collared and chained to the side of the pit, roared in defiance, frothing at the mouth, his druidic markings ashen, bright eyes glazed over. The wound on his side seemed to have healed, patched by the elderly man who whispered soothingly in the hound’s ear—the Handler, if I had to guess. The man reached out and ran a hand along Cathal’s neck, petting him, as he applied a salve to that wounded side.

  The sight made me sick to my stomach.

  For a proud, standoffish creature like Cathal, I could only imagine that one gentle stroke was as much a violation as groping me would have been. And the fact that he hadn’t reacted at all meant the Handler either had the hound firmly under his control using some sort of spell, or Cathal was drugged. Neither boded well.

  “What d’ye do to him?” I yelled at Rhys, gripping the man’s forearm. He’d bound me but left my hands in front this time—as if daring me to try something.

  But Rhys wasn’t listening. Instead, he stared down at the other side of the pit, where a lone challenger had been literally thrown into the ring. The woman rose to her feet clutching a long spear, her hair pulled back tight in a side braid, sporting the very same leathers I’d seen her in last. She looked haggard and defeated, her shoulders slumped, but a dim fire raged behind her eyes. A passion I’d seen ignited more than once and knew better than to underestimate.

  Blair.

  “She came for you,” Rhys said, refusing to look away.

  I turned to him in horror while a voice inside my head screamed. I clamped down on it, refusing to let Ceara’s hysteria overwhelm me. Rational. I had to be rational. So, Blair—the godsdamned fool—had followed me, somehow, to the Blighted Lands. I felt a sudden burst of pride from Ceara at the thought. My Other self was proud that she’d defied us, that she’d chosen to fight for us, no matter the odds.

  In essence? Pure, romantic drivel.

  “Ye have to get her out of there,” I hissed.

  “She got here days before you did,” he went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. “By the time I saw her, she didn’t even look human. The things she’d done to survive…” he trailed off, then grunted. “I nursed her back to health. Gave her water, and food. Returned her clothes and even got her a spear. But all she ever talked about was you. About how you betrayed her. How you’d come to the Blighted Lands and how she’d find you, one day.”

  I grimaced. “Now’s not the time,” I insisted, pointing down at the pit. “Cathal will kill her, especially considerin’ the state he’s in.”

  Rhys nodded absentmindedly. “Yes, I know. I’m the one who suggested she fight the beast. She seems to blame the hound for you regaining your memories. Or maybe she thinks she can interrogate him, figure out what happened to you.” He flicked his eyes to me. “She doesn’t know you’re here, after all.”

  I gaped at the man, struggling to understand why he was telling me all this. Was it all some elaborate plot? Vengeance, pure and simple? But if so, why not just kill me when he had the chance? And why nurse Blair back to health? None of it made any sense. “I don’t understand,” I admitted. “D’ye want her to die? Is that it?”

  His lips tightened to a thin line. “I thought things might be different, here. That Blair would rely on me, let me take care of her. And she did, until she saw that damned hound. Until she was reminded of you, of her purpose.” Rhys spat to one side, and his ensuing smile was crooked, wrong somehow—more like a dog baring its teeth than a reflection of joy. “But that’s alright. I guess I’ll simply have to settle for watching you suffer as your lover and your pet try to kill each other.”

  I swung my gaze back to the pit, where already several slaves were stepping nervously forward to remove Cathal’s collar, shying away from the beast’s snapping jaws. Blair, meanwhile, was twirling her spear in slow circles, warming up the muscles in her back and shoulders. The sands upon which both stood were stained from what I could only assume was spilled blood, the splatter patterns sporadic and yet oddly easy to track, like some twisted version of a Rorschach test.

  No, I decided. Not like this.

  It couldn’t happen like this.

  I…no, not merely I. A familiar brush of feathers against my skin, the sound of birds cawing loud in my ears. But this time I relished in them, embraced the sensations. We weren’t about to let this happen. We couldn’t let it happen. And yet…and yet I resisted. I fought against the unrele
nting pressure of my wild side, unwilling to lose myself a second time. I ground my teeth so hard I felt my jaw threaten to lock. What if I lost control again? What if I couldn’t come back this time? Dear God, who would I become in a place like this?

  That thought alone chilled me to my core.

  Together.

  Ceara’s voice filled my mind like smoke rising in an empty room, her emotions enveloping me like a warm blanket. Her panic, yes, but also her resolve. Her willingness to sacrifice herself—to sacrifice anything—if it meant saving Blair. I swore I could hear my wild side purr in response as my Other self coaxed out all those animalistic, primitive urges and gave them a focus, a direction—something I’d never been able to do.

  Together.

  That word again, only this time I realized it meant something else. Ceara wasn’t proposing we work in tandem. No. She was offering a melding—a blending of our three disparate personalities. A partnership. Part of me balked at the idea, frightened of the notion that—by saying yes—I’d become someone else altogether. Someone who treated people better, maybe, or someone who made friends easily, sure…but then I wouldn’t be me.

  And the problem was, I realized, I liked me.

  So do we.

  The thought made me frown, then laugh. A laugh that started as a slight chuckle, but quickly gave way to something much more obnoxious—a knee-slapping, tear-jerking chortle that had me bent over double. I laughed so hard, in fact, that Rhys must have felt compelled to snatch me by the throat; he stared into my eyes from inches away, his fetid breath stinging my nostrils.

  “What’s so funny?” he snarled.

  “Me,” I replied, shaking my head, forcing the word out from beneath the pressure of his hand. I realized I sounded crazy, but that was okay; it wasn’t like Rhys needed to know what was happening inside my head. Besides, I was crazy…or maybe slow was a better word.

  Because, at some point, I’d forgotten the oh-so-simple truth I’d learned when I’d gone to Fae so long ago: my wild side and I were one and the same. Granted, I think I’d always known that, intellectually, but I hadn’t given any consideration as to what it actually meant.

  What it meant was that I didn’t have multiple personalities ringing about in my head. Not really. I simply had multiple Me’s in my head. A version of myself who intended to survive at all costs, for example—the thrill-seeking maniac who refused to back down from a challenge. Or the version who preferred harmony—the good-natured people-pleaser who made friends easily, who believed she actually deserved love.

  “What does that even mean?” Rhys growled.

  I closed my fingers around the man’s forearm and squeezed—squeezed so hard I felt the bones pop and shatter beneath the sudden surge of strength. Rhys screamed in agony, but the sound of his voice was lost among the crowd’s roar. “It means I am the Morrigan’s daughter,” I replied, silkily. “And the Morrigan,” I added, wrenching the man forward to ram his face into my knee, “is a triple-headed goddess.”

  I laughed again as Rhys crumpled to the ground, and in that laughter, I heard my wild side’s raucous joy intermingle with Ceara’s indefatigable hope and my own relief. The sounds merged, harmonized, became one. Around me, spectators shrank away, flinching as if my laughter were descending upon them like whips and chains.

  “What’s she doing?” a woman asked.

  The man beside her shook his head, his face pained. I let the laughter die, realizing these poor people probably hadn’t heard joy in so long it stung, like bright sunlight on the pale skin of a hermit. A few of those gathered around swiftly spotted Rhys at my feet and began pointing, jabbering away amongst themselves, the space around me growing larger with each passing moment, as if I were carrying some sort of plague. Though, to be honest, that suited me just fine.

  Because this bitch was going to need some room.

  36

  I hustled forward, shoving people aside as I went, casually ignoring their shouts and half-hearted threats. The slaves below were still in the process of releasing Cathal, but I knew I had to find a way down into the pit before that happened if I hoped to stand any chance of stopping the two from tearing into each other. Which is why, when I finally reached the edge only to find the perimeter guarded by one of the bandits in black, I didn’t even hesitate.

  I simply Spartan kicked the bastard over the brink.

  His shrieks died the moment he hit the floor of the pit. Coincidentally, so did everyone else’s; as one, the crowd turned to look at me, my chest still heaving from having thrust my way to the pit’s edge. Even the slaves below paused to look up, their fingers coiled around Cathal’s collar. I noticed Blair, too, her jaw practically brushing the blood-soaked floor as she stared up at me in utter disbelief.

  “What’s this?” a man cried, stepping forward, the crowd parting before him with far less effort than I’d have thought possible. “A new challenger?”

  A few whoops and catcalls rode the air.

  “Aye,” I yelled, mind racing, realizing this could work to my advantage if I played my cards right. How better to get down into the pit than to be invited, after all? “I’ve come to fight.”

  The man—robed and looking far wealthier than those around him, his cheeks bulging with fat, hair slicked back and oiled—clapped his hands joyously as though I hadn’t just killed one of the pit’s guards. “Another volunteer! That makes two in the same day. How marvelous.”

  “Is that wise, Aeron?” another man cried as he emerged from the crowd some dozen feet away, similarly robed, though his was a shade of blue, not scarlet. I wondered if these men were the Masters I’d heard mentioned—the slavers who employed the bandits and hosted these battles to the death. Given the way the crowd responded to them, it seemed likely.

  Aeron waved a hand magnanimously. “You’ve seen the beast for yourself.” He raised both arms, his flabby skin wobbling back and forth. “How about it, citizens? Would you all like to see the hound take on two at once?”

  The crowd erupted.

  Aeron made a gesture as if to say, “I told you so,” and the other man shrugged. I felt a tension ease out of my shoulders; it seemed they were going to let me fight. Of course, that solved my immediate problem of getting below, but not the other, perhaps larger, concern…how not to get eaten once I made it down there.

  Two bandits emerged, grabbing me roughly by the arms as if to drag me away, clearly pissed that I’d knocked off one of their own—pun intended. “Wait!” I cried, earning me the full attention of both Masters. “Don’t I get a weapon?” I asked, jerking my chin towards the pile of discarded junk I’d seen on our way in.

  Aeron studied me, undoubtedly noting my ragged appearance, not to mention my many visible wounds, and sniffed. “Yes,” he said, then raised a stubby finger to point at the men holding me, “and get her changed into something more appropriate while you’re at it. I’m sure we can wait a few extra minutes.” He surveyed the crowd as if anticipating an argument, but no one dared speak up.

  I nodded, feeling relieved. A weapon would be…wait, had he said something about getting changed? I glared at the guards holding me, both of whom seemed suddenly more than happy to help a girl in need. I shook them off with a curse and made for the pile in the distance, the crowd parting just enough so that people could run their hands along my body, the way fans try to do at ball games—a form of hero worship I’d never entirely understood, but had ironically engaged in a few times, myself, Boston being the sports town that it was; Tom Brady was practically an acknowledged demigod, and we’d gone so far as to give the Red Sox player the nickname “bearded Jesus” for Christ’s sake.

  Behind me, I could hear Aeron barking out new orders, which I took to mean Blair and Cathal were at least reasonably safe, for now. But they wouldn’t stay that way unless I came up with a plan. Luckily, I had a place to start.

  I broke through the crowd and approached the mound of weaponry, rummaging through the stack, under the watchful gaze of my two would-be styl
ists, cursing as I went. I yanked the shaft of a spear free only to have it rot away in my hands. Next, I raised a sword missing its tip. A trident with only one prong. A bow with no string. I hung my head, wondering if any of these would even hold up long enough to look threatening.

  “Hurry up!” one of the bandits called.

  I cursed once more, turning away, but that’s when something caught my eye. I frowned, then began climbing the pile, eyes locked onto an odd protrusion which poked out from between two warped shields. Locked onto something that really, truly didn’t belong.

  And, as I got closer, I found myself smiling very, very wide.

  “I’m comin’” I called back, voice breathy with exhilaration. “Oh, I’m comin’.”

  37

  I strolled out onto the sands of the squalid arena in a pair of black leather pants, boots, and a black tank top, my hair pulled into a high ponytail, with a duffel bag riding the base of my spine, strap wound casually over one shoulder. I’d cleaned off most of the dried blood that had stained my face and chest using the grungy dishwater the bandits had given me before I threatened to gouge out their eyes if they watched me change—a threat I really should be more judicious with, I realized, afterwards. I’d also thrown gauze and bandages over the various scrapes and cuts I could reach, taking extra care with the festering wound at the base of my spine. Of course, the end result—somewhere between badass biker chick and rotting mummy—wasn’t exactly fashionable, but it sure beat the shit out of the rags I’d been wearing.

  And, bonus, Blair seemed to like it just fine.

  She launched herself at me mere seconds after I stepped into the pit, her arms wrapped around me so tight it bruised what were likely already broken ribs. I wheezed a hello, awkwardly patting her back.