by RW Krpoun
“Any chance the Tulg will return?” I whispered as I dug a slab of bacon and some flatbread out of the nearest food chest.
Torl shook his head, never looking up from the haunch of rabbit. “The woman died in the night,” he said as I started slicing bacon and Burk rubbed lard into in the bottom of an iron skillet. “After you eat, bury them. I’ve already dragged off the three dead the Tulg left behind.”
“Have you gotten any sleep?” Burk asked.
Torl shrugged. “Provine Sael won’t be up before noon, so there’s time. One of you needs to stay on watch once you’ve finished with the burying.”
After a hearty breakfast of bacon, butter, and flatbread we got a pick and shovel from the cart. After a cursory inspection of the two blanket-wrapped bodies to get an idea of the size of the job, we moved back down the trail a hundred feet, took off our armor, and started digging.
“Tulg don’t seem like much,” Burk observed. “So long as you’re not alone.”
“They need numbers to stand a chance,” I agreed, slamming the pick’s point into the soil and levering clods apart. “Of course, we weren’t surprised and had plenty of light.”
“A mix of skills are needed,” Burk started shoveling the dirt of out the hole while I took a break. “But I’m not going to be any sort of scout, even if Torl would teach me.”
“I’m not going into forests unless I have to,” I agreed.
“That Man we’re going to bury was a tough one,” Burk observed as we got the hole to waist deep. “Carrying the woman and Rose with four javelins in him.”
“I guess he was Rose’s father,” I shrugged. “I suppose that makes a difference.”
“I never really thought about babies before,” Burk mopped away sweat. “I mean, you see women carrying them, but we can’t sire any, and no one is going to bring a baby to the pits, so it…just never really seemed real.”
“I never saw one close up until Hatcher handed Rose to me. It’s completely helpless, no teeth, can’t move itself, nothing.”
“It does not seem like a very good way to operate,” Burk leaned on the shovel. “I think it takes years before they’re any use. How old were we when we started training?”
“I don’t know, those days are pretty hazy, I just remember little things. I’m not sure when they gave us names; we had numbers painted on our heads for quite a while, I think. I was Five, I remember that. I thought it was my name.”
“Was it Master Horne who gave us names?” Burk scowled into the past.
“I don’t remember.” I thought as I swung the pick. “You know, whenever I think about the early days it’s always Master Horne I think of, but I think the first staff that tended us were women, some brutes, the rest female Men. Then the line instructors when we started training.”
Burk resumed shoveling. “I think you’re right.”
“I think I always remember Master Horne because the instructors changed, but he was always there.”
“That’s because as we grew in skill we needed different instructors. Looking back, half our instructors were older slaves, but we never had to train others much.”
“Our age block was special. Hand-picked. After all, most made it to Middle Rate, and an Ebon Blades Middle Rate is the equal of a lot of other barracks’ High Rates.”
“Most don’t last long enough to see Low Rate,” Burk agreed. “Terrible turnover. I’m afraid we’re going to see a reduction in quality when slavery completely ends. Who will be able to afford to feed, train, and pay new pit fighters?”
“Especially when you figure half will die before they even get rated,” I nodded. “They’ll have to train ‘em up quick and cheap.”
“I don’t think the crowd will like that,” Burk held the shovel against the side of the hole to measure the depth. “It’ll be simple butchery. And how will the gamblers set the odds?”
“In our next letter we need to see what Master Horne thinks, and ask if there is anything we can do to help,” I moved over so he could shovel out the loose dirt. “I would hate to see the Ebon Blades have to reduce their standards.”
“Well, that’s a good fit,” Burk scrambled out of the hole. “Should we say something?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Like Master Horne would say when one of ours lost a match.”
“I don’t know their names, and they certainly had no records to recite,” I slapped my shirt to dislodge dirt.
“They’re regular people; what do regular people…get said over them?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“Well, we should say something. We are of the Red Guard, after all.”
“What does being in the Red Guard have to do with burying two escaped slaves?”
Burk rubbed his brow. “Because us doing it makes it official.”
“Official how? We’re not in the Empire.”
“Well, I’m going to say something,” Burk set his jaw. “You just stand there and look serious.”
“All right.”
He took his Guardsman’s Stance and stared at the wrapped forms at the bottom of the hole. “I don’t know these peoples’ names,” he announced, as if before a crowd. “They were enslaved by the Tulg. But they escaped, which is a brave thing.” He frowned. “The male Man picked up the woman when she was wounded, and carried her to safety.” He shifted slightly, clearly unsettled. “He was hit by four javelins and kept going, and that took guts. She never dropped the baby, even when she was wounded. They got the baby to safety. That was important, because babies can’t do anything for themselves, and the Tulg would probably have eaten it sooner or later.” He paused, sweating. “The end.”
“That was pretty good,” I admitted after what I hoped was a respectful pause. “I couldn’t have thought of anything to say.”
Burk shrugged, embarrassed. “Let’s finish the job.”
Back at camp I took off my war gear and boots, and took a nap. When I woke it was noon, and Provine Sael was sitting on Hatcher’s cot holding Rose. The baby’s hair was damp and standing up, and she looked freshly-scrubbed; she was wrapped in one of Hatcher’s shirts, and the Dellian was feeding her something white and wet, which looked awkward because Rose had a solid grip on Provine Sael’s left horn, forcing Provine Sael to hold her chin on her chest.
“Did we wake you?” Provine Sael scooped up a small amount of the white stuff and carefully put it in Rose’s mouth; the baby smacked it up and grinned toothlessly. “Isn’t that good?”
“No, mistress.” I started pulling on my boots.
“We were trying to be quiet.” Rose burped. “Ohhh, very good!” Provine Sael pulled her head free and kissed the baby’s cheek. Catching my look, she smiled. “That means she’s past the age where she has to be manually burped.”
“Babies have to be burped?”
“For the first few months, yes. Their digestive systems aren’t developed enough to do it themselves. It’s also why babies spit up so much.”
That seemed like very poor planning, but I just strapped on my armor and kept my opinions to myself.
“I take it you haven’t had much to do with infants?”
“No, mistress. No need.”
“I see,” she absently jiggled Rose, who now had a death-grip on Provine Sael’s left ear; I noticed that Provine Sael had removed the earring from that side. “Would you like to hold her?”
“No, ma’am.”
She smiled. “All right. When Hatcher finishes her bath I want you to take me to where you buried the two escapees.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
At the grave Provine Sael knelt and put her hand on the rocks we had piled over the turned earth; she stayed like that for quite a while. Finally she stood. “Did you say anything over them?”
“Burk did. He told how brave they were in getting Rose to us. It was pretty good.”
“Good. I expect the Tulg were keeping her alive for a fall solstice sacrifice; of all the races, the Tulg retain the mos
t of the First People’s ways, particularly the renegades.” She shook her head. “I know that you are nearly fearless, Grog; both you and Burk, in fact, but what these people did, well, that is a different sort of courage. One that humbles me.”
I had never seen her be anything but brave, but it didn’t seem to be right to say that.
“It takes very strong people to change their circumstances, Grog, to truly change. These two and the others who died last night were long-term slaves to the Tulg. People can adapt to even the worst situations, but these people dared to make a leap into the unknown. It is important to understand that.”
“I will try, mistress.”
“You walked into the pit sixty times, Grog?”
“Many more, mistress; sixty death matches, but a lot more to first blood, or facing beasts. You don’t start out killing people.”
“Sixty deaths.”
“More than that, mistress: I killed men and brutes on escort jobs.”
“Of course. How did you…what did you think of fighting in the pit, or fighting on an escort? To do battle for the entertainment of, or defense of, strangers?”
I thought about that. “In the pit, I fought to survive, mostly. Two go in, but only one walks off the sand, and sometimes neither do. On escorts, well, the Ebon Blades never lose an escort. You saw that the first day we met.”
“I did, and was impressed. But how did that make you feel?”
I scowled at the grave. “I don’t understand, mistress.”
“That first day, I just assumed you had been too brutalized by your life to care, but in the time since I have seen that you and Burk are…well, not simply killers, but thinking people who are curiously unmarked by what you were forced to do as slaves. So I wondered: how did killing in the pit make you feel?”
“I can’t explain it, Mistress.”
“Did it cost you sleep, or give you nightmares?”
“No, mistress.”
“Did it make you frustrated, or anxious?”
“No, mistress.”
“Can you tell me anything of how it made you feel?”
“The pit made me a High Rate of the Ebon Blades, a barracks of the old school. That is no small thing, slave or not.”
She nodded. “You know, I have seen warriors of every race who have been damaged, mentally, by what they had seen and done in battle.”
“I’ve seen that, too” I nodded. “It is from improper preparation.”
“Improper preparation?”
“Two enter the pit, and only one walks away, that is the rule,” I explained. “The only thing you bring away from the pit is lessons. But the important thing is to always remember your place; if you know that, you’re all right.”
“What was your place within the Ebon Blades?”
“To win in the pit, and not lose an escort. When you engage the Ebon Blades you get quality work, that is the rule.”
She nodded. “When you say ‘that is the rule’, you really mean that, don’t you? That is a law you live by.”
“Yes, mistress.”
“But now you’re not a slave.”
“The rules do not change just because I’m free; I still must uphold the honor of the Ebon Blades, and now the Red Guard, too.”
“You must?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Even if it means dying?”
“Yes, mistress.”
She frowned at the grave for a bit. “Why must you?”
“Because that is the rule.”
“Whose rule?”
I considered that. “Mine, I suppose, now that I am free. And because I am part of something bigger than just me.”
She sighed. “Why is that is so important, Grog? Why are so many of us slaves to that concept?” She shook her head. “Are you free, Grog? In your head, where it really matters?”
I shrugged. “Yes, mistress. I am Grog, a High Rate of the Ebon Blades, and lately a Red Guardsman, in the employ of Provine Sael, whose life I guard. That is who I am, my place in the world.”
She shook her head. “I envy you your conviction. But for the hundredth time, I am not your mistress: you are free. You don’t have to call me ‘mistress’ anymore.”
“Habit.” I was ready for that one.
She nodded. “Habits can make life easier.”
Chapter Six
I was sitting in the shade of the cart frowning at my finger tracing the line of words when Pieter walked past carrying a chest. “Good book?”
I looked up at his ruined face, and noticed I could see that his eyes were blue, peering at me through eroding holes in the scar tissue. “Not really. I’m still working out how to read.”
He nodded, balancing the chest on his shoulder so he could reach down and turn the book to see the letters embossed in the cover. “I’ll be right back.”
He returned with a folding stool and a book. “Here, this might help.”
“A Passage,” I read the title out loud. “What is it?”
“It is a novel.”
“What is a ‘novel’?”
He rubbed where his nose should be. “It is a story, something someone mhm made up.”
“What is the point of reading a lie?”
“It isn’t a lie, it is a story. A good novel is written by someone who knows something mhm about a subject, and makes up a story about people that live within that subject. For example, you mhm might write a novel about a pit fighter.”
“Me, write?”
“Why not?”
The idea was so absurd that I just had to shrug.
“Try the book. It should be easier to work with mhm than a history of the early Imperial Army.”
“I’m just trying to learn about the world.”
“That is a noble undertaking, but mhm a good novel will teach you important things, if the author knows his mhm business. Or at least take you away from your troubles for a while.”
“I don’t have any troubles, but I’ll give it a try.” I paused, and then since he was talking I ventured a question. “Do the scars hurt?”
“No, but it is akin to being encased in clay: I bake mhm in the summer and freeze in the winter.” He absently rubbed below his left eye, and powdered scar tissue dusted his cheek. “I expect that you want to know if getting mhm them hurt.”
“Well…yes.”
“Not really. It wasn’t real fire, or I would have died mhm instantly; you can’t survive if more than a certain mhm portion of your body is burned. No, it just…branded me.”
“That’s a shame.”
“I was lucky, after a fashion; scores were not so mhm fortunate.”
“The Sagrit are terrible.”
He nodded. “I thought that slavery was terrible, that the pits and mhm war and murder were terrible, but in a single instant the Sagrit taught me mhm that I knew nothing of what the word meant.” He snorted. “The scars were the least of it.”
“The end of slavery will be the crippling of the Sagrit.”
“We can but hope.” He looked directly at me. “You’ve killed members of the mhm Sagrit.”
“A few.” Akel’s face flashed before me, and for an instant I felt the back-shock of the axe splitting his skull.
“My predecessor, among others, I’m told. How mhm did it feel?”
I shrugged. “It is what I do.”
He nodded. “For a long time I wished it was what I did, or mhm could do. If you let your enemies change you, who you are, they mhm have won. Or at least so I believe. They say living well is the best revenge, but I think just living can count mhm as revenge in a way.” He stood and picked up the stool. “Let me know mhm what you think of the book.”
Burk showed up a little while later. “Where have you been?”
He pulled up a folding stool and sat down with a sigh. “Out taking a look around with Torl.”
“You should have woken me.”
“He only took me because Provine Sael made him.”
“See anything?”
“Good. When I was by myself I was in a place for a while that no had trees at all, and it was nice. Not as good as a town or city, but nice anyway. Provine Sael had me show her the grave; she was pleased that you spoke over it.”
“It seemed right. The Guardsman manual has regulations about burials, but I haven’t read that part yet.”
“Reading is hard. Peiter loaned me a ‘novel;’, which is a made-up story.”
He scowled. “What is the point of reading lies?”
“I don’t know, but he said it would make reading easier.”
“Hard to imagine how it could get harder. That was a good fight last night.”
“I like killing Tulg,” I nodded. “I would like to kill a Dusman.”
“That would be good.”
“Did you know that new babies can’t burp?”
He shot me a look. “What?”
“That’s what Provine Sael told me.”
“Can’t burp?”
“Rose can, and Provine Sael said that meant her insides are developing.”
Burk pondered that. “You know, every time I think I’m starting to get a handle on things, something comes up that…confuses everything. There seems to be very poor planning everywhere you go.”
“That is so true. Master Horne taught us sensible things.”
“It was a good life.”
We moved north the next day, and I walked unburdened because Hatcher rode in the cart holding Rose. She talked to Rose almost as much as she talked when she was on my shoulders.
By the time we made our final camp the trees were very thin, and Hatcher said that we were about to enter vast plains. I was looking forward to an absence of trees.
After we settled into our final, or sleeping, camp Provine Sael, Hunter, and Torl moved away to talk, and Hatcher sat on her cot rocking Rose and humming softly, so Burk and I sat in the lee of the cart with Pieter and brought out our books.
“What do you think mhm of the novel, Grog?”
