The Way of Pain

by Gregory Mattix

  The canvas sagged onto him, and he backed away. A man blundered out from beneath the canvas, and Creel ran him through. Kulnor was taking advantage of his shorter stature and felling men left and right, the taller humans entangled and blinded, struggling with the tent collapsing atop them.

  One of Creel’s men went down beside him with a belly wound, then more Nebarans were rushing into the tent from outside.

  Creel was fending off two attackers, giving Edwin time to slip around and grab Sianna, when something snared his calf, digging in painfully. He glanced down to see a strange rope of what looked to be interconnected teeth crackling with energy. The rope tightened, and he was yanked off his feet. He brought Final Strike around to hack himself free, but someone dropped on top of him, pinning his sword arm. The rope constricted painfully on his leg, digging deep into flesh. He grimaced, struggling to extricate himself so he could sever the rope, but it was no use. The teeth sliced deep enough to grind against bone. The pain became excruciating, causing his vision to darken a moment. When he could see again, his boot lay half a pace away, blood pooling around it. Ragged, bloody meat with a slick white piece of bone stuck out from his boot. Blood was spurting from the stump of his leg, soaking the carpets beneath him.

  A moment later, something hard struck his head, and blackness claimed him.

  ***

  Sianna stood stunned, watching her friends and men she didn’t even know fighting desperately around her in the confines of the tent. Sir Edwin was fighting valiantly against a pair of Nebarans to get to her; she could see the desperate energy in his eyes. Her heart raced at the sight of him.

  Sir Edwin has come to save me! And Rafe and Creel! I can’t just sit here and watch them cut down.

  She struggled against the guard holding her, stomping on the man’s foot. He grunted, and his grip loosened momentarily. She threw her head up and back, her skull crunching into the man’s nose. The impact hurt, but his nose broke, and sticky blood spurted down the back of her neck. She wrenched free of his grip and, spotting a dead Nebaran a couple feet away, dove for the fallen man’s sword. It was a heavy broadsword, but she swept it up anyway, fear and adrenaline lending her desperate strength. She rolled to her knees as her captor came at her, face drenched with blood from his shattered nose. She jabbed the sword out, and his own momentum carried him right onto the blade. The tip split the links of chain mail and sank deep into his belly. The soldier cried out, gripping the blade. Sianna wrenched the sword into a sideways cut, the links of mail forced aside, then pulled the blade free. Entrails spilled from the gash in the man’s belly, a sloppy, stinking mess. He staggered away, clutching at his rent gut futilely.

  Someone stepped on Sianna’s ankle, and then a Nebaran fell beside her, bleeding from a deep chest wound. She cried out as a spear of pain lanced up her leg. She tried to stand but could feel bones grind against each other and fell back to her knees, pain nearly causing her to black out.

  The tent was collapsing on the far side. Her rescuers were battling furiously just feet away.

  I must reach them for any chance to escape.

  She started to crawl across the tent when something drew her attention off to her right.

  A sword speared through the tent wall at head height then slashed down, rending it asunder. The walls shuddered as twin curtains of ebon metal thrust through, spreading the gap wide. Nesnys entered in all her dark majesty, wings flaring out and sword crackling with energy in hand.

  “I thought your rescue party would never arrive! I’d grown bored of waiting, little queen.” Nesnys reached down and yanked savagely on the chain securing Sianna to the tent pole, dragging her backward on hands and knees.

  Sianna swung the broadsword weakly, but Nesnys caught her wrist and twisted it painfully. She cried out, and the sword tumbled from her grasp. Nesnys kicked it away then put a boot to Sianna’s back and slammed her to the ground, pinning her, the boot heel digging painfully into her back.

  Nesnys’s sword seemed to detach into thousands of small teeth and lengthened into a whip. She snapped her wrist, and the lash cracked loudly. It snared the leg of one of the men struggling under the sagging tent. She yanked the man off his feet, and Sianna saw it was Creel. He was still fighting a couple men, one of whom dropped on top of him. All the while, the lash tightened around his calf, blood pouring from the wound. Moments later, the lash constricted all the way, tearing through Creel’s leg, severing it in a fountain of blood.

  Sianna cried out in shock.

  Nesnys laughed gleefully. She seized a fistful of Sianna’s hair, wrenching her head back roughly, and knelt beside her. Her whip was once again a sword, the edge held against her neck. She leaned in close, her lips brushing Sianna’s ear, breath hot on her skin. “I must say your men made a good effort of it, Your Majesty. I wasn’t expecting them to get this close to you. Most impressive.” The fiend turned her attention to the fighting men. “Surrender now, or your queen dies,” she barked.

  Sianna’s eyes met Edwin’s. He stood about halfway from her to the entrance, where he’d been fighting valiantly to reach her. His two foes lay at his feet, the path momentarily clear to Sianna, but he had balked at the sudden appearance of Nesnys. She stared into Edwin’s eyes, wishing for him to strike Nesnys down. The threat against her own life didn’t register.

  “Don’t listen to her! If you surrender, they’ll kill you,” Sianna pleaded.

  Edwin’s face filled with dismay. The sword wavered in his hand, eyes locked on Nesnys. Then, without meeting Sianna’s eyes, he turned and lunged through the opening Nesnys had cut in the tent wall, disappearing outside.

  Sianna sat there shocked, unable to comprehend what was happening.

  What is he doing? Perhaps he is bringing reinforcements! Directing them here—that’s it.

  But she couldn’t hear any sounds of fighting anymore. The combatants in the tent had ceased their struggles, the sounds of heavy breathing and groaning of the wounded filling the silence.

  But then Nesnys derisively spoke the words Sianna didn’t want to consider: “Your man holds you in such high regard, little queen. He’d rather flee and save his own wretched hide.” She laughed.

  Crushed by Edwin’s cowardice, Sianna could only watch as the others were beaten, unresisting, and forced to their knees. Creel, face spattered in blood, had either fallen unconscious or died, his stump still leaking blood onto the ground. A dwarf whom Sianna had never seen before took a vicious kick to the head and fell over, and a pair of soldiers relieved him of his weapons. A fair-haired warrior bleeding from a deep gash to the scalp was beaten by a pair of Nebarans until he lay still.

  Rafe was on his knees, a sword at his throat. His eyes were filled with resignation as they met Sianna’s. “I’m sorry we failed you, Your Majesty.”

  A man struck Rafe brutally in the temple with the pommel of his sword. Rafe’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he fell facedown, unmoving.

  A numbing sense of loss and crushing disappointment fell on her like an avalanche. That was tough enough to cope with, but then there was also the stinging betrayal of watching Sir Edwin flee to save himself and leave her to this awful fate. Hot tears slid down her cheeks.

  Nesnys’s callused thumb stroked her cheek gently, wiping a tear away. “Don’t weep, little one. I’ll be sure to take good care of you. Haven’t I done so thus far?”

  Her laughter echoed in Sianna’s head, and she turned and retched on the ground, distraught and miserable. Hot waves of pain pulsed steadily from her broken ankle.

  “Drag any that yet live out of here,” Nesnys ordered. “Chain them up outside as an example to any other would-be heroes. Burn the bodies and find the coward. He can join them. And search for any more accomplices lurking out there in the darkness.”

  I can’t bear being used as bait like this while good men give their lives for me, she thought in despair. She believed this was likely all the aid forthcoming, although she couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. It pr
obably is, she decided. This way, no more lives will be needlessly lost on my account.

  Two men grabbed Rafe by the arms and dragged him from the tent. They did the same with Creel and the others.

  “I see you were resourceful enough to kill one of my men. No great loss, yet a price must be paid for defying me.” Nesnys lifted Sianna with one strong arm around her waist and carried her against her hip like a toddler before setting her back down on her cot in the corner. She stood beside her and stroked Sianna’s hair, one arm draped companionably across her shoulders. “What shall the price be? Hmm… I do commend your spirit and respect a fighter. For that, I’ll spare your sword hand.”

  Sianna shuddered, feeling the strength in Nesnys’s muscular arm as it tightened. She’d been manhandled by the fiend with ease, feeling as powerless as a small child. Nesnys took Sianna’s left hand in her own, strong fingers intertwining with Sianna’s, her long sable talons scraping lightly across the back of her hand. But then, Nesnys abruptly grasped her last finger and wrenched on it forcefully. Bone snapped, and Sianna cried out. She tried to pull free, but her captor’s strength was much too great. At the sight of her smallest finger jutting out to the side, askew in a way no digit should move, her stomach flopped and, even though empty, threatened to heave once again. Waves of pain throbbed up her hand and arm. She hoped she’d swoon to make the horrifying scene go away. Perhaps this was all an awful dream and she’d awaken back in her bed in Castle Llantry.

  Nesnys grinned, displaying a mouth full of pointed sharklike teeth. “Stay with me. Just a few more moments.”

  With Sianna unable to resist, she could only watch, entranced and horrified, as the demoness raised her hand to her lips as though she’d kiss it. Instead, her jaws parted, and with agonizing slowness, she inserted the broken finger into her mouth. Nesnys bit down, and blood spurted, splashing across Sianna’s cheek. She screamed, watching a final strip of bloody flesh part as Nesnys ground her teeth together. Blood was everywhere, spurting from the stump where her finger had been, covering Nesnys’s lips and chin, soaking into her own breeches.

  The pain was extraordinary, and she willed herself to faint away but could only watch, transfixed and horrified. Her vision narrowed until she only saw the blood as if viewing it from down a tunnel. From somewhere came crunching and smacking of lips. The tent tilted like the deck of a ship tossed about in a storm.

  Her head rocked from a stinging smack on one cheek then another to her other cheek. She blinked, and her vision righted itself.

  Nesnys leered at her, chin glistening crimson. “Not so fast, Your Majesty. I must cauterize your wound—it wouldn’t do for you to bleed out, now would it?”

  Sianna’s gaze went to the awful, mangled flesh where her finger had been. She suddenly felt as if she was falling, agony throbbing through her and pounding behind her eyeballs, her vision swimming out of focus.

  She could only watch helplessly as the fiend with the awful silver eyes walked to a burning brazier. A hand reached in and plucked free a burning coal as if it were nothing but a cool stone. Nesnys reappeared above her. Then came a sizzling sound, the stink of burning flesh.

  What is happening?

  Her eyes regained focus long enough to see her skin blackening and sizzling as Nesnys held the burning coal to cauterize her wound.

  The steady, throbbing waves of pain from her broken ankle were crushed beneath a thunderclap of newfound agony. A strangled scream threatened to rip her vocal cords apart.

  Then, finally, blessed darkness folded her in its embrace.

  Chapter 53

  The day passed in a haze of pain and discomfort. Elyas swung training blades as best he could, ate and drank to keep his strength up, then rested in the hours before the fight was to take place.

  Even though the day’s training and exercise were light, he was hurting again by the time he returned to his room. His legs were weak, thighs filled with a constant dull ache, but at least they managed to keep him upright. An occasional sharp stab wracked his chest from the broken ribs. Yet all in all, he could move and fight thanks to Edara’s healing magic. Facing the champion of the fighting pits in battle was another matter altogether, though.

  I’ll give it my all and try my best not to disappoint, Da.

  For some reason, the thought of his father’s approval of how he acquitted himself meant more than anything else as the sky darkened and the gladiators made ready to board the wagon. He could imagine his parents, happy and reunited once more, watching him from the afterlife. That thought heartened him, and his dread became a simple acceptance of his fate—that of a man satisfied he had done the best he could with his lot and was now ready to face the gods’ judgment.

  Caul regarded him with a pleased smirk when Elyas clutched his ribs after a particularly acute stab of pain caused by climbing into the wagon. He ignored the others and stared into the night as the wagon team got underway, surrounded by a caravan of guards.

  Anhur, grant me a clean death. I’ll die a warrior this day, not a slave or a puppet for Nesnys or anyone. The thought brought him some additional peace of mind.

  The wagon brought them into Leciras proper, where a magnificent stone arena stood in the city center, much larger and more impressive than the one in the countryside. He assumed only such a grand venue was suitable to host any fights the royal family chose to participate in. Several thousand people filled the stands, more than he’d ever seen in one place in his life, save for on the battlefield. Their roar was audible from nearly a mile away.

  Once the men disembarked from the wagon, Dirich led them to the holding pens, positioned beneath the first row of the arena seating. The pens were situated partway belowground with barred windows providing a view of the arena so that the fights could be observed. The ceiling reverberated above from stomping feet.

  No expense was spared for the prefight entertainment. Handlers prodded great orange-and-black striped cats to run around and jump through flaming hoops, to the delight of the masses. Dancing women spun and twirled, garbed in silks that concealed very little. Jesters, jugglers, and flame-swallowers added to the entertainment, while minstrels set below the royal box kept up a steady stream of jaunty tunes. Elyas suspected their instruments might have been somehow magically enhanced, for the music was audible even over the din of the crowd. Ale flowed, and bettors stood ready to place wagers once the matches were announced.

  The golden lion flew on a pennant above the black-and-gold-curtained box where the royals sat. In addition to the royal House Isiratu, seven other noble houses were in attendance. House Pasikos was separated from the royals by one other house, obviously the more prominent family, judging by the placement of the boxes. The less-favored families were positioned farthest away from the royals.

  Elyas spotted Nesnys sitting in the royal box, lounging on a cushioned divan with a goblet of wine in hand. To her side was an elderly man and several young wives or consorts, along with several children and young adults ranging from less than five summers to perhaps Elyas’s age.

  The Pits of Leciras had always engendered a connotation of sordid brutality, at least in Elyas’s mind, and he’d never expected such grandeur as this magnificent spectacle encompassed. For a moment, he could almost forget he was a slave about to meet his death.

  Once the matches finally began, after what felt like an hour of preliminary activities, the lesser bouts went quickly, with House Pasikos performing well, perhaps in the top three finishes along with House Isiratu and one other house that Elyas wasn’t familiar with.

  After what seemed a short time, Caul and his four cronies were gearing up for the melee, choosing their weapons and armor amid a rapid volley of cocksure jibes and boasts. The remaining gladiators wished them well, but Elyas paid little attention and had no well-wishes to give.

  Once Caul’s ilk stepped out onto the arena floor, Shoat came to stand beside Elyas. “Anhur grant you a good death, Ironshanks.” He shoved a small vial into Elyas’s hand.

 
He met the trainer’s gaze and nodded his thanks, then Shoat moved away to watch the melee.

  Edara’s potion had a slightly sweet smell although it left its usual bitter aftertaste in his mouth. Fortunately, it provided swift relief for his pain, which had slowly been returning as the day wore on, and he even felt a renewed vigor in his muscles after several minutes. He knew the effect was only temporary but was glad for it. This way, he could at least hope to make a decent showing of himself. He stretched and warmed up his muscles and joints slowly, pleased that the pain of his cracked ribs had subsided.

  The melee was a brutal free-for-all, unusual in that so many top fighters were competing in a no-submission bout. Twenty-five gladiators squared off, five from each participating house, all of them surrounded by a circle of flame. Many fought as teams, house against house, although others chose to battle individually. The only way to achieve victory was by either casting their opponents outside the burning ring or slaying them in the circle. Whoever defeated all other foes would be declared victor.

  Elyas took some small pleasure in seeing two of the men who had beaten him the prior night slain. Caul, however, survived, as did Udarr. The two managed to defeat the lone Isiratu gladiator remaining although each took significant wounds in the process. Cheers thundered throughout the arena as House Pasikos’s gladiators claimed victory.

  Mayhap that will provide a soothing balm for what is sure to be chafed honor at my ignoble defeat.

  The moment for the prime match arrived sooner than Elyas had hoped. He chose a broadsword and shield and was dressed in the traditional piecemeal boiled-leather armor.

  “Ironshanks, you’re up.” Dirich beckoned Elyas to join him at the threshold of the arena floor. “Do not fight too wretchedly. Try to save some face for our lord.”

  Elyas grunted his acknowledgment but made no other reply. He truly didn’t care about Lord Pasikos and his house’s honor, for he didn’t expect to survive past the next few minutes. His gaze sought out Nesnys across the arena. He was unsurprised to see her watching him, and he gave her a small nod.