Dirich wasn’t seen around much that week, but Shoat, surprisingly, seemed to have put the episode behind him and treated them fairly well, all things considered. He told them the remainder of their punishment would be doled out at the upcoming fights.
Elyas hadn’t expected their next fights so soon, but Dirich returned with word they would be fighting once more the following night.
“Since you two inseparable piss stains rub me worse than a boil on my arse, you’ll have the pleasure of fighting together.” Dirich smirked at Elyas and Harlan’s surprise but evidently wasn’t going to elaborate further.
Elyas hadn’t expected such a literal interpretation of “fighting together.” He and Harlan found themselves in the training yard practicing for the next evening’s bouts with their left arms secured to each other by a rope three paces in length. Even accustomed to each other’s fighting styles as they were, the hindrance of being bound together was a learning experience. To avoid having either man’s arm awkwardly pulled across his body or stretched out wide, they faced opposite directions, but any time they moved apart too far or tried to spin in place, the rope interfered with any attacking or defensive moves they made. As a result, their two training opponents, who fought unhindered, made quick work of them, training blades landing hits again and again.
“You’d best fight better, or your guts will be decorating the arena,” Shoat observed sagely at one point.
The key to fending off their foes while having any realistic chance of surviving was to not make any fancy moves, either offensive or defensive—anything involving turning too much—lest the rope impede them. Instead, short steps to either side or forward and back proved a necessity. The rope could also work to their advantage if used properly, as they proved on one occasion by using it to trip one of their opponents. But that took coordination, and Elyas doubted savvy opponents would fall for it. If they did, it would only work as a one-time surprise move.
Despite the numerous bruises sustained that day in training, Elyas was excited for the upcoming match. He knew they’d be sorely tested and would be fortunate to survive against any skilled opponents, but he barely dwelled on those thoughts. Instead, he looked forward to the hope that Nesnys would be in attendance, and he’d accept her offer if given the chance to speak with her. If he could convince her of his sincerity and she accepted his condition that Harlan accompany him, the two of them could possibly be freed very soon.
And then he would have to kill her or die trying.
He tossed and turned in their tiny cage that night, sleep eluding him. Shoat had thought it helpful to leave them bound together the entire time until they entered the arena to acclimate themselves, an idea that was practical yet annoying. One benefit of their shared cell was its tiny size, so the tight confines made the rope mostly a nonissue. Harlan didn’t seem to sleep any better than he, and come the next morning, both were tired and restless, eager to be on with the fight.
The gladiators went for their customary run that morning. The rope proved awkward but manageable. After that, they did more light workouts and sparring the rest of the day. Shoat’s idea to leave them bound together seemed to help, and they began to fight well enough to not totally embarrass themselves. Whether that would prove enough to survive against any skilled opponents remained to be seen.
***
Later that night while sitting in the holding pen, Elyas ignored the men’s conversations around him, along with the rising noise from the arena. His only immediate concern was of his and his partner’s surviving the bout. Convincing Nesnys that he was earnest about accepting her offer was a problem to face when it arrived.
Fortunately, Elyas and Harlan were first up to fight as the lowest-ranking gladiators. Elyas’s hope of severing the rope the moment the fight began was dashed when Dirich replaced their rope by clapping an iron manacle to each of their wrists, connected by a heavy chain. Not only was the chain impossible to cut, but its weight was substantial, and the longer the fight wore on, the more it would wear on their stamina. Harlan cast him a despairing glance, for they had been in agreement about cutting the rope.
Shoat pressed a broadsword into Elyas’s hand and picked a short sword for Harlan. He was rummaging in the equipment chest for shields, but Dirich stayed his hand.
“Nay, Shoat. These arseholes only get a dagger. And no shields. Should’ve thought better than to piss on our lord’s generosity,” he added at their incredulous looks.
“Armor, boss?” Shoat asked after he had switched out their weapons.
“Boiled leather as customary. I’m not a total bastard.”
Elyas wanted nothing more right then than to wipe Dirich’s smirk off his face by smashing his crooked teeth in, but that would probably only have them sent out to fight with their bare arses in the wind and no weapons at all. Instead, he swallowed his anger with some difficulty. Dirich looked momentarily disappointed when no angry challenge came. He shrugged and departed the holding pen.
Shoat gave them an apologetic look and aided them with strapping on their piecemeal armor. “This is good chain,” he said, holding up a few of the thick links and shaking them. “Can use for blocking and striking.”
“He’s got a good point since we get no shields either,” Harlan said. He wrapped his fist once with the chain and made an experimental punch.
Elyas nodded, having come to the same conclusion. The heavy iron was unwieldy but could certainly turn a blade and break bones if wielded properly. Its length was the same as the rope—roughly three paces. Yet it grew shorter very quickly the more that was drawn up. They both experimented with it briefly.
“Let’s go with one loop around, lest it be too short.”
Harlan nodded agreement. “May the gods favor us in this madness.”
“Aye. I’ll also need their favor when I speak to Nesnys afterward.”
Harlan agreed, and they clasped hands, united in purpose.
A few minutes later, Dirich called for them. Elyas gathered up much of the extra chain in his arms as they strode onto the sands. When he let it drop with a clank to the ground, the crowd grew even more excited at the prospect of a unique twist added to the first fight of the night.
Elyas glanced at the nobles’ box seats and was surprised and disappointed that Nesnys wasn’t in attendance. Lord Pasikos and his woman were there, along with other lords and ladies, but he saw no sign of the warlord.
“The bitch isn’t here,” he said urgently to Harlan.
His friend, who already looked pale and nervous at the impending match, glanced over and shrugged. “Well, then success for the night will be measured by our survival.”
“Aye. Best focus on the only thing we can control.” He was discouraged by Nesnys’s absence and the lost chance of bargaining for their freedom. Not only that, but that shameful part of him deep inside was disappointed for another reason entirely, one he tried his best to ignore.
The announcer, the same old man from the previous match, waited for the crowd to quiet before he spoke. “We have a special treat for you this night for the first bout. From House Pasikos, two new gladiators who recently earned their names by spilling blood in the arena. Ironshanks and the Adder! Not only are they promising, but their courage makes them spit on the thought of an ordinary fight, instead electing to up the challenge by fighting chained together, with only daggers in hand!”
What a load of shite. They must have kept our escape quiet to avoid dishonoring House Pasikos.
The crowd ate up the announcer’s words, however, roaring their approval.
“Their opponents are two seasoned gladiators hailing from House Nurneji, the famous Blade Brothers, Cutter and Edge!”
Two similar-looking men entered the arena floor opposite them. Both were lean and well-muscled, the size of their frames falling between Elyas and Harlan’s. Their bronzed skin was covered with numerous scars, they wore the customary armor, and each carried a curved scimitar. The Blade Brothers ignored both of them, instead faci
ng the crowd and showing off by twirling their blades around wildly, flipping the scimitars from hand to hand, around their backs, and up into the air to catch them cleanly again. The crowd went wild over their antics.
“Braggart bastards,” Elyas grumbled. He suddenly had severe doubts about their chances. These were no green gladiators but experienced veterans. And they weren’t encumbered in any way, nor were they penalized by having only daggers.
I guess they aren’t as afraid of Nesnys’s wrath if I’m slain as I thought. Either that, or someone has misplaced confidence in us.
The fight began with the Blade Brothers predictably taunting the two of them, flaunting their skills with showy lunges and slashes, designed to inflict superficial wounds while maintaining their distance and using their mobility and longer weapons to their advantage. Had they attempted such showmanship in an ordinary fight, they’d likely pay for it, but hindered as Elyas and Harlan were, they could do little to try to take advantage without exposing themselves too much.
Elyas was tempted to throw his dagger just to put an end to the flamboyant whoresons’ antics, but the risk was too great. The thick-bladed dagger was heavy and solid, made for piercing armor. It could be thrown but wasn’t very well balanced, and if Elyas missed his opponent, he’d be done for. He also knew their taunting was an attempt to get them to lose their discipline. Instead, he had to settle for frequent ducking and shuffling dodges while occasionally deflecting a probing scimitar with the dagger or the chain wrapped around his left fist. Not knowing which of his foes was which, he decided the man before him was Cutter. He had a long, ragged scar down one cheek that ended with a chunk missing from his jaw.
Cutter apparently was finally growing tired of the taunting. He’d managed to open a couple shallow cuts on Elyas’s arms and thighs thus far, but nothing crippling. Elyas hopped back to avoid a slash at his legs, bringing his chain-covered fist up for a quick jab, but his foe was too fast. Instead, Cutter flicked his scimitar up and nicked Elyas’s wrist with the sharp tip and withdrew. His hand flared with the newest source of pain, but it wasn’t crippling, just another shallow wound.
Elyas sensed Harlan wasn’t faring much better, although he probably had more of an advantage with his quicker reflexes. But Harlan was also tiring more quickly.
After Elyas and Harlan spent several minutes doing little more than defending themselves, the crowd began booing and grumbling for some bloodshed. Harlan, who had begun panting from the exertion, suddenly hissed, “Get ready.”
Elyas moved a step closer to his partner, preparing for a move they’d rehearsed earlier.
“Turn!” Harlan shouted.
Elyas instantly spun around, his left arm pulled awkwardly across his body, but he charged forward, the chain snapping taut as Harlan moved wider to the right to attack his foe, Edge, from the other side. Edge obviously didn’t expect the maneuver, for he had to scramble to retreat. His scimitar whipped out in a defensive slash but wasn’t near enough to either of them to pose much threat.
Harlan threw his dagger the moment Edge was committed to his slash, leaving his guard open. Edge evidently hadn’t expected that, either. He tried to duck at the last moment, and the dagger lodged in the muscle between his neck and shoulder. Elyas leaped at him and raised his left arm high so the taut chain caught Edge’s hurriedly raised scimitar. The tip caught in one of the iron links, and when Elyas pulled hard, the scimitar twisted out of his grasp. Edge dove sideways to avoid Elyas’s follow-up stab, colliding with Harlan’s intended tackle. The two went down together, the smaller man punching wildly with his chain-wrapped fist, bloodying Edge’s face. Teeth flew, and blood spurted.
Elyas whirled back around, searching for Cutter. Steel blurred inches from his face, the scimitar nearly opening his throat. He threw up his left fist, trying to disarm Cutter, but his foe avoided his clumsy swat. Instead, he saw an opening and took it.
He feinted at Elyas, but his real target was Harlan’s unprotected back. The scimitar hacked a deep wound across Harlan’s shoulder blades. He cried out, rolling away from Edge and yanking the chain, pulling Elyas a step to his left. He stabbed at Cutter with his dagger, but the man kept moving to his left, the curved blade sweeping down to hamstring Harlan just as he rolled to his feet, sending him sprawling to his hands and knees. Elyas bellowed in rage, throwing his dagger to protect his friend from the killing strike that would have beheaded him. Cutter instinctively brought his blade up, steel ringing as the dagger ricocheted off and flew wide. Harlan rose up to his knees, blood pouring from the deep wound in his back. Cutter darted forward and brutally opened his belly with a low slash.
Elyas charged. The scimitar sliced at him, cutting a deep gash as it pierced his leather breastplate and drew blood beneath, but he swatted the blade aside with the chain on his fist. He tried to grapple his foe, but Cutter evaded yet again, backing away until the chain drew taut, halting Elyas’s momentum, but dragging Harlan face-first in the dirt. The next strike cut deeply across Elyas’s ribs as he tried to spin away.
Edge’s fallen scimitar lay just to Elyas’s left. He circled back, not giving away his intent until the moment he dove, rolling in the dirt and snatching up the blade. Cutter’s scimitar swished past his head. Steel rang on the next strike as the blades connected. They exchanged a few quick strikes and parries, one of the strikes opening a gash in Elyas’s thigh. He had trained with scimitars, but his proficiency was basic at best, whereas his foe was an expert with the weapon. The blade had an odd balance and shorter range than an equivalent broadsword due to its curved shape, and it took some getting used to.
The crowd was grumbling no longer, instead thundering in excitement with two of the combatants down and the remaining pair engaged in a desperate duel.
The two men exchanged more blows, Elyas forced to move around in an arc due to Harlan being immobile. He backed away to avoid a furious combination of Cutter’s attacks but then tripped over something. He came down hard on his backside, stretched across Edge’s motionless body. He got the brief impression of the man’s head crushed to pulp and the sand forming a dark halo with his blood.
Cutter charged, thinking he had Elyas finished. But with his left hand, Elyas snatched Harlan’s dagger free of Edge’s corpse and he threw it with a quick underhand toss. The blade struck Cutter in the lower belly just below his short leather breastplate. He lurched to a halt, wide eyes going to the hilt protruding from his gut. His free hand grasped at the hilt tentatively, as if unsure whether to pull it free. Elyas took advantage of his foe’s distraction, opening up his thigh with a deep slash of his scimitar, nicking the femoral artery. Blood spurted, and the crowd roared. Cutter staggered a couple steps away like a reeling drunk.
Elyas rose to his feet. He easily blocked Cutter’s weak defensive slash with the chain. His next strike removed Cutter’s head.
The crowd went into a roaring frenzy, but Elyas could only think of his fallen friend. He tossed the scimitar aside and knelt beside Harlan, who lay on his belly, sand sticking to his sweaty skin where he’d been dragged on the ground. His back and leg were coated in blood from the deep wounds. Elyas gently rolled Harlan onto his side and winced at the ropes of entrails hanging from his rent belly, along with the wide stain of blood saturating the dirt.
“Oh, gods, I’m so sorry, Harlan.”
A sickly smile spread on Harlan’s ashen face. “I guess we knew both of us surviving was long odds. The gods have chosen you, Elyas… for a reason. Make these bastards pay. Kill Nesnys.” He reached out a trembling hand, and Elyas clasped it.
“I shall,” he vowed, throat thick with emotion.
“Tell my m-mother… and Sianna… I never gave up. I d-died a… f-f…” He shuddered, and the life went out of him.
“Fighter. Aye, all shall know Dorian Atreus was a brave and noble man who died a fighter.” Elyas felt tears stinging his eyes, and he wept for not only his lost friend, but for blood and ashes, all that remained of his ruin of a life.
H
e knelt there, apathetic, until Shoat unlocked his manacle and led him away to see Edara. He could only watch helplessly as Harlan was dragged off the sand with the fallen Blade Brothers, by the ankles, leaving streaks of blood in the dirt, for such was the way of the gladiator. The way of pain.
Chapter 41
Creel found that the city gates were as he had anticipated—they remained open, albeit with a guard presence doubled since the last time they’d passed through. Nearly a score of Calcote’s mercenaries were loitering around the gates, spending their time questioning and often harassing anyone who passed through, paying particular scrutiny to any people leaving. Half a dozen city watchmen patrolled nearby atop the barbican and walls. A fair number of pikes and loaded crossbows were close at hand for the gate guards.
A pair of civilians, who looked to be a farmer and his son, were currently being interrogated, likely wanting nothing more than to return to their nearby farmhouse with their empty cart and newly acquired coin after having sold their goods at market that day. One guard was in the back of their cart, rooting around in a few sacks of their belongings.
A “wanted” notice was tacked to one of the gates, and although Creel couldn’t make out the sketch from such a distance, he had no doubt the wanted criminal’s likeness was his own. It probably listed Brom and Rada as accomplices.
“How are we going to get past all those men?” Iris asked in a worried whisper.
Creel had met the two youths a couple blocks from the gates, at the edge of the farmer’s market. Brom was waiting with their horses and his old pony, Perri, down a nearby alleyway. Creel, Iris, and Rafe were currently studying the lay of the land. Other than the crowd of guards around the gate, the adjoining square was sparsely populated at such a late hour, the majority of the foot traffic a few late-arriving travelers and groups of revelers stumbling home from nearby taverns.
“Shouldn’t be too difficult—I’ve got a plan,” Creel replied. “How good of riders are you two?”
The Way of Pain Page 39
