She released the net of power. The erinys grumbled to themselves but regained their feet, obediently waiting to be discharged.
“That is but a taste of my power. Now begone and do my bidding. She who brings me the human queen shall have my favor.” She gave a sharp gesture for them to be off.
The erinys launched into the air in a flurry of feathered wingstrokes. The air swirled and rushed around Nesnys before they were soaring up into the sky, delighting in their freedom.
Sirath remained a moment longer, eyeing Nesnys defiantly before calmly spreading her wings. Nesnys’s eyes widened to discover her rival again had a pair of wings. She had grievously wounded Sirath during a past skirmish in the Abyss, severing one of her wings with Willbreaker, a wound that should not have regenerated. A closer look revealed the truth of the matter: her new wing was constructed of Abyssal iron, like Nesnys’s own. The wing was crudely forged, much as Nesnys’s father’s wings had been, for he cared little about the look of them, instead interested only in functionality.
“You look ill, daughter of Raelach—she who was once Seraph Arahne.” Sirath spoke quietly, a faint smile on her lips. “Yes, one greater than you rewarded me with this.” She flexed her iron wing.
Nesnys scowled at her adversary’s restored wing, wondering who had the power to do so. Her own talents hadn’t proven up to the task of restoring her own wing after her cursed sister Neratiri had cleaved it free, much as she had done to Sirath.
She thought of Shaol himself mending her wing, and a stab of jealousy flared a moment before she dismissed it. No, it couldn’t have been him. Father? No, that cannot be either. Neratiri—again that damned sister of mine. Her actions taunt me yet again. Often, she had wondered how her sister had escaped the Abyss after being grievously wounded, and she realized she must have forged a pact with Sirath.
She gritted her teeth but refused to let the depths of her ire show to the erinys, who could prove a dangerous foe. Nesnys had cause to be wary, for Sirath was more cunning and less feral than her sisters, now all the more so, it seemed.
“Those names mean nothing, harpy,” Nesnys said coldly. “You are weak for dwelling on your failures of the past. I suggest you carry out your commands in the hopes of having a future for yourself.”
Sirath nodded, but Nesnys disliked the guileful glint in her eyes. She flared her wings and soared into the air with the same grace as she had before Nesnys had cast her from the sky to lie broken upon the plains of Achronia.
That one bears watching.
She turned her thoughts back to her other problems, confident the erinys would at the very least solve her difficulty with the missing heir to the Ketanian throne. Yet she couldn’t help but think perhaps she had erred in summoning Sirath to do her bidding.
Chapter 24
Elyas was sweating so hard that he thought he might collapse into a puddle before long. He continued his circuit around the training yard, a large, heavy length of timber slung across his shoulders, hands gripping his burden through holes bored at either end. The block was stained with countless years of blood and sweat. His shoulders and upper back stung from splinters, and his skin was chafed raw from the rubbing of the rough wood.
As the healer Edara had promised, his wound had ceased troubling him within a day or two of the fight, and he knew she must either have some healing magic of her own or special ingredients at her disposal to mimic the effects of magic. The woman certainly knew her business, for men were routinely injured and back on their feet within days, depending on the severity of their wounds.
He had been at the villa for a week, training from sunup to sundown, with only short breaks for meals between. His day began with a run of several miles through the countryside, accompanied by mounted armed guards. The group returned for breakfast, then the next hour or two consisted of lugging the slabs of timber around the yard. An alternate exercise was rolling, lifting, and carrying chiseled spheres of granite of varying weights from one end of the training yard to the other, often in competition with other men to avoid Shoat’s lash. Sometimes, they simply lifted and placed the spheres atop pedestals of varying heights, often rearranging them multiple times for no apparent reason. In between, the men performed push-ups and pull-ups from a suspended iron bar set between two posts.
Once afternoon rolled around, Elyas and Harlan were allowed a bit of training with wooden swords and shields under the supervision of a gladiator. Other days, they practiced grappling and unarmed fighting techniques. Depending on the luck of the draw, their trainers ranged from fair to cruel to outright hostile.
Despite the fact the physical exertions brought him near his breaking point, Elyas much preferred them over being caged like an animal in the hold of the slaver galley. Anything was better than living like that. In his present position, he tried to take heart in the fact he would become stronger and more lethal from his training. He’d regained some of the weight lost during his ordeal at sea, and what little fat his large frame once had was being honed into chiseled muscle.
Someday soon, I will escape this place, and the gods help whoever stands in my way.
Yet no escape opportunity had presented itself thus far. True weapons that carried an edge were kept locked away from the gladiators, who were monitored all day by not only Dirich and Shoat, but several house guards. At night, Elyas and Harlan were locked back in their cage.
The true gladiators were allowed tiny rooms of their own, with actual wooden doors providing some privacy, although the guards locked all the doors at night. From sounds he heard in the dark, some of them must have had arrangements to be let out or keep their doors unlocked. He didn’t know if they sneaked out in search of wine or serving women, but they seemed to have been granted some modicum of trust, depending on their status.
So for the time being, Elyas bided his time and tried to embrace the exercise and pain and become stronger for it, hoping that if he played along and acted as a model slave, he might eventually earn the same privileges.
He had thought himself a capable warrior before, but he soon learned he wasn’t in the same league as the more advanced gladiators. They were masters of numerous weapons, from sword to axe to spear, capable of fighting with or without shields, as well as fighting unarmed and grappling. The most dextrous gladiators were even adept at wielding two weapons at once. Elyas had much to learn and went to bed each night bruised and bloodied.
Harlan had it much worse than he. His ankle had mended after four or five days from Edara’s treatments, strengthening Elyas’s suspicions of the magical nature of her salves and poultices and potions. But even at full health, the slender man lacked Elyas’s strength and endurance and tired much more quickly. He was, however, quick and agile and obviously knew how to use a sword, which had surprised Elyas at first. But his skills were more of a man used to fencing or dueling honorably rather than cutting down a foe in battle by any means at his disposal. As a result of his deficiencies, Harlan was at the mercy of the others and became a target for the crueler men’s bullying. On more than one occasion, Elyas had stepped in to spare the man serious injury during his frequent beatings even though he knew he wasn’t doing himself any favors by throwing his lot in with Harlan, which was apparent from the mutters and jeers and belligerent stares he endured.
Blinking stinging sweat from his eyes, Elyas nearly stumbled over a figure on the ground. He lurched to a halt and saw Harlan collapsed in the dirt before him, his slab of wood partially fallen off his back. Elyas was honestly surprised the smaller man had lasted as long as he had in the grueling heat and exercise.
“Come on, get up.” Elyas knelt and grasped Harlan’s arm.
The man’s skin was red and blistered from the sun, as was Elyas’s own, although not nearly so badly. He’d already had a suntan from a life of honest labor outdoors on his farm.
“Leave me here,” Harlan groaned. “You’ll be punished too.”
“Nay, you must get up.” Elyas glanced over his shoulder but saw it was
too late.
“On your feet, worms!” Shoat roared.
A moment later, the lash struck, a wicked crack splitting the air as the knotted leather opened a gash on Elyas’s back. He grunted and rose, dragging Harlan up with him. The smaller man sagged, his slab of wood falling to the dirt with a thud and puff of dust. But he persevered, managing to stand under his own power.
“This man needs water!” Elyas glared at Shoat, expecting another taste of the lash.
The brute stared at him a long moment then pointed at the fallen block. “Then you carry his block for him, and you two can get your water.”
Elyas looked down in dismay. He couldn’t lift the heavy piece of wood without dropping his own. He had already slipped one hand free to help Harlan to his feet and was in danger of losing his burden.
Shoat looked over at the other gladiators, a few of whom were sneering at the worms. “You there! Give this worm a second block.”
A newer gladiator, a haughty man who’d recently won his title, stomped over to the two men. He spat in the dirt at Elyas’s feet, a look of disgust on his face. He leaned over and hefted the block to his chest.
“I can stand on my own,” Harlan croaked.
He stepped away from Elyas just as the gladiator heaved the block up over his head with a loud grunt and let it drop atop the one on Elyas’s back with more force than was necessary.
He cried out as his fingers were crushed between the slabs. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to stabilize the load with his free hand enough to pull his smashed fingers free. His back protested the additional weight, and his knees threatened to buckle, but he finally got a secure grip and remained upright, though he wobbled like a drunk for a moment.
“Go on—finish your round and get your water, worms.” Shoat coiled the whip back up although he seemed pleased at Elyas’s perseverance.
He took a step forward, then another. Once he got moving, the doubled burden grew easier though it was heavy, probably nearly his own weight upon his shoulders with both blocks. He followed Harlan around the yard counterclockwise, his friend swaying as if still carrying his own slab. After what felt like a mile, with Elyas’s crushed fingers blazing with pain, they finally neared the barrel of water.
Harlan held up the ladle and poured water down his throat like a dying man, then over his face and head. After drinking another ladle’s worth, he leaned against the wall, nodding at Elyas as he staggered up.
With a groan, Elyas heaved the two blocks off his back and let them fall to the dirt, then he knuckled his sore back with his good hand while examining his injured one. The first two fingers on his right hand were swollen and turning purple below the second knuckle, throbbing with aching pulses of pain much sharper than all the muscle aches he was feeling. He cursed when the digits didn’t react when he tried to bend them.
Broken, I reckon.
Harlan winced when he saw his fingers but offered Elyas the ladle. He drank greedily then doused his face and head with the cool water as Harlan had, thankful for the opportunity to catch his breath even though the price was two broken fingers.
“I thank you, my friend,” Harlan said. “I fear this misery will never end. Would that they beat me to death or allowed us real steel, then perhaps I’d end myself.”
Elyas shook his head. “Don’t talk like that. One day, we’ll go over that wall and escape.”
He didn’t know when or how that day would finally come. Even had they not been locked in their cell at night, as best he could tell, at least a dozen armed guards were on the nearby premises at any one time, with likely many more throughout the entire villa grounds. He thought to perhaps overpower a guard and steal his sword, but first he’d have to find a way to get out of the locked cell.
The smart move was to wait long enough to earn his own small chamber and perhaps enough trust to slip out at night. He was sure if they made any attempt at escape during the day, the gladiators would be more than happy to help the guards subdue a pair of worms, not only to curry favor with Dirich and the lord, but also to inflict harm on disliked rivals.
One point of interest Elyas had learned through snatches of conversation was that Lord Pasikos was a distant relative of the emperor. Perhaps that explained why he had so many guards about at all times.
Elyas glanced around apprehensively, realizing he and Harlan had been loitering too long, and expected the lash. Fortunately, the lunch bell rang just then, and the gladiators ceased their sparring. Elyas noticed Dirich standing at the edge of the yard and wondered how much he had seen.
Lunch consisted of the usual porridgelike slop, a meal Elyas had come to relish, for it amply filled the belly. After a long morning of grueling exercise, he wolfed it down as if it were the finest steak. Even Harlan had come to eat the food without complaint.
After lunch, Elyas was eventually taken to the healer when Shoat took note his fingers were broken, for he couldn’t effectively grip a weapon in his sword hand with only his thumb and last two fingers. A pair of guards escorted him to a small freestanding building just beyond the gate on the villa side of the wall. One of the guards posted on the other side of the locked gate went to summon the healer while Elyas was shown inside what served as the gladiator school’s infirmary.
The infirmary was small, with two wooden tables taking up the majority of the space, the walls lined with shelves filled with an orderly collection of jars of herbs and stacks of bandages and other supplies. The wooden tables were both stained nearly black from years of blood seeping into the wood. He leaned against one of the tables and waited while the guards remained outside. His thoughts were turning to how he could possibly overpower them, steal a sword, and escape, but he knew that was foolishness. Unless under the cover of darkness, any attempt would be doomed to failure. Plus, he had become friends with Harlan and didn’t want to abandon his cellmate.
Edara bustled into the room with brisk efficiency. “Up on the table so I can get a good look.” Her dark curly hair, streaked with a bit of gray, was tucked into a thick bun at the back of her head. By her pale skin, light eyes, and accent, she clearly wasn’t Nebaran—Vallondean probably, for her voice had a slight lilt to it.
She gently took his swollen hand and peered at it closely, turning it over then asking him to wiggle his fingers and make a fist. The two swollen digits wouldn’t comply, and he saw his index finger was bent sideways at a slight angle he hadn’t noticed earlier.
“Aye, they’re broken all right. I won’t bother asking how that happened.” She went over and rummaged through the supplies on the shelves.
“Are you from Vallonde, Edara?” Elyas asked quietly.
Outside, the guards were talking, and the scent of pipe smoke drifted in.
Edara shot him a sharp look then glanced at the open doorway and back, as if considering whether to reply. “I am,” she finally admitted.
“May I ask how you came to be here? In Leciras, of all places.”
He thought she wouldn’t answer him, absorbed for long moments in mixing a foul-smelling potion in a bowl. But then she spoke. “I studied healing at the university in Finhalla. While there, I met my future husband, who was from Orialan—a student as well. Once our studies were completed, I moved to the capital with him, and we wedded. I was employed at the imperial court as an apprentice healer for many years. My husband fell into displeasure with the emperor and was imprisoned and later executed. I would’ve faced the same fate, but Lord Pasikos, whom I had tended when he fell ill, offered me a job here as his resident healer. I would’ve been a fool not to take it.”
She gripped Elyas’s index finger and gave it a sharp jerk.
He hissed in pain, but it almost immediately felt better, the bone realigned to its proper position. Edara splinted both fingers together, gently wrapping them in bandages. Then she held up a cup of some foul-smelling concoction for him to drink. He sniffed at it and wrinkled his nose.
“Drink it all down. I imagine it can’t taste any worse than some of the s
pirits and other dreck you young men consume at the taverns.” The corner of her lips curled in the hint of a smile.
“I don’t get out to the taverns much anymore, I’m afraid,” Elyas said sadly. He tilted the cup and slugged the contents down. He had to struggle a moment not to heave it back up, for it had the consistency of mud.
Edara’s cheeks colored slightly at his statement, and she looked abashed. She took the cup from him and met his gaze. “Rest the remainder of today, and no fighting for two more days. Return to see me at the end of each day so I can check on the healing progress.”
“Aye. Thank you, Edara.”
She nodded and repeated the instructions to Elyas’s guards then was gone.
He was returned to the barracks on Edara’s orders, and when he lay down in the cell he shared with Harlan, a deep sleep quickly overtook him.
***
No fighting didn’t mean no exercising, Elyas found out the next day. He spent his morning running out in the countryside, chained together in a line with the others as was the norm. A group of house guards paced them on horseback while Shoat followed on foot, his whip at the ready. They ran along dirt paths for several miles before looping back to the villa. During these runs, Elyas tried to gain some sense of the surrounding land, keying in on possible avenues of escape and places to hide. Leciras was visible to the east, an ugly wound on the coast of the Azure Sea, the sapphire waters barely visible in the distance from high ground. Rolling hills and dozens of stately villas and vineyards covered the landscape around. Large numbers of slaves labored in the vineyards, guards supervising their work and providing security to the noble estate owners.
An awful lot of unfriendly eyes around here and no obvious route to take to make a covert escape.
He had no idea how far he would have to travel to reach wilderness beyond Leciras. Returning to the city was a risk he would rather not take, and he knew any spies and pursuers would have little difficulty picking him out in town.
The Way of Pain Page 22
