As I could not leave without a dismissal, I stood, waiting, my pain growing with every moment. My blood, concealed within Silas’s heart’s blood on my chest and belly, seeped down into my boots. Death crept ever closer. Get on with it, I almost muttered. Let me go before I shamefully bleed to death here in front of the stands. Injured enough times, one learns to shunt pain and weakness aside and deal with the matter of survival. I gritted my teeth and put my pain and weakness to the back, where they belonged.
I often took advantage of one of the few advantages of slavery, the ability to spy on my betters. Too often, a slave went seen and unseen, heard and not heard. I watched and listened. I learned and remembered. I waited. Blessed with exceptional eyesight, I saw details others might miss.
My head slightly bowed, I watched the royal party surreptitiously from beneath the oily hair over my eyes. Several of the Prince’s six brothers flanked His Majesty, feigning boredom, as they no doubt tried to listen to the intense argument.
Brutal made no secret of his plans to slaughter his brothers upon ascending his father’s throne. He wanted no challengers to his position and power. While they were unable to act openly against him, they doubtless hoped High King Lionel would kill the Crown Prince himself. An open secret, Lionel made no effort to hide his hatred of his eldest son.
Brutal, no fool he, knew his own sire hated him, and his own brothers conspired against him. While not even the High King was above the law, Brutal took many murderous steps to ensure his survival. Surrounded by bodyguards, he seldom spent time alone. His food tasters died by the score. As did his enemies.
As I watched, Theodoric, High Priest of Usa’a’mah, the Khalidian god of war and death, also stood close, also pretending he wasn’t trying to listen. I glanced covertly around at the others in the royal party. Several nobles and courtiers dressed in their robes of silk waved small fans to cool themselves of the oppressive late summer heat. They too listened and whispered behind their hands, gossiping, hatching small plots against one another. Behind these stood the court hangers-on, poorer folk who groveled at the feet of the royal family and the nobles, hoping for favors and coins.
In the section to His Majesty’s left sat Silas’s owner, a distant cousin, both a Duke and a purple-blooded Prince in his own right. His own court surrounded him, his sons and daughters, vassals and lords. A quick glance at his furious expression told me Lionel probably knew he tried to cheat. His loss at my hands would cost him dearly both politically and in blood. If he could, he no doubt would have me murdered.
Several foreigners sat two tiers below Lionel and his brood, so obviously not of the Federation I cursed myself at not noticing them earlier. Despite the sultry heat, they dressed in not silks and robes, but rather in sleek vests of leather or fur, wide belts with copper buckles and leather trousers. Boots strapped with fur rose to their knees, silver and gold spurs glinted at heels. Some of the women wore tiny vests and short leather skirts, leaving an interesting amount of female skin exposed. Others covered themselves with long cloaks of fine cloth, yet seemed unaffected by the heat. Slender thongs or delicate intricate chains bound many brows, keeping long flowing hair from their faces.
Not mode of dress for courtiers and noble and hangers-on, I suspected, even for foreigners. Warrior’s garb. I saw swords sheathed at hips, daggers thrust through belts. Recurve horsebows slung from shoulders, with quivers of arrows bristling on their backs. Stern warrior expressions displayed no horror at the show with which Silas and I just entertained them. Though I did see thinly veiled disgust concealed beneath calm facades on more than a few. Did I see warriors who disliked the spectacle of killing? This interested me, and I looked closer. I focused on them without raising my head.
A few spoke amongst themselves, but most sat silent, observing not only the scene before them but also the audience in the stands that still cheered lustily and stomped their feet. Many a hand stroked a sword hilt or fingered their daggers, as though ever ready to start or finish a fight. A fierce race of warriors, I thought, observing the cool deadliness each carried with them. Even the women, as lightly built as they were, carried with them the lean and lethal air of hunting panthers.
Unlike the court nobility, their jewelry looked stark in contrast: gold and silver earrings worn by both men and women, armbands of copper and bronze, slender gold chains gracing throats. Angular eyes slanted from high cheekbones, their skin a soft bronze, a peculiar shade, as though the gods dipped them in almond oil. Despite their evident familiarity with war and fighting, arena bloodshed was evidently not to their taste. I noticed many scowls, a few heads shaking in sorrow and regret, lips thinned in disgust. One big red-haired warrior wearing a gold torque of royalty looked from me to the corpse behind me, his face tight with anger. My eye roved to the one next to him.
Seated to the right and slightly below Prince Brutal, she watched me and saw me: the victorious gladiator and a slave. The Khalidians looked at me and saw a gladiator and a slave. Few looked and saw a man.
She saw me.
Me, the bloody Wolf. Her eyes traveled slowly from my booted feet to the top of my head, her eyes filled with an expression I could not read. It was not exactly horror or sympathy, but an odd mixture of both. Along with another emotion that escaped me.
By the gold torque gracing her throat, I recognized immediately who she must be. No doubt, she was the princess from Kel’Halla whom Broughton sought in marriage. I had heard rumors of the Kel’Hallans, the Horse Lords, knew they sought peace after years of war. Despite the hundreds of cohorts sent against the plains and hills of Kel’Halla, the Federation suffered defeat time and again. The swift Kel’Hallan cavalry repelled invasion, threw back into Lionel’s teeth the triumph he craved. Lionel, rumors said, had grown obsessed with conquering Kel’Halla. He lost sleep, lost weight and perhaps his clever royal mind. So why, I asked myself, would they want a peace treaty with the Federation? If they held on long enough, Lionel would be dead before he could conquer them. Obviously, the princess was the price of that peace.
I forgot my pain and impending death as I gazed at her, meeting her glance fully for a long moment. Beautifully emerald green, her large eyes angled slightly at the corners like those of her race. Her long hair, a soft red-gold, feathered at her brow tumbled about her shoulders and bosom. Lean and tough, she reminded me of a she-wolf: savage and beautiful. Girded with both bow and sword, knives protruding from each boot top, she moved with deadly grace and a warrior’s keen quick economy.
My breath caught on a sigh. For a brief moment, I broke my own rule of never wishing for the unattainable and wondered what it would be like to be a free man and possess the love of such a woman. Ly’Tana. Her name was as beautiful as she.
Reality closed with a rush as Lionel finally noticed me and gestured my dismissal. His argument with Brutal had ended with Brutal turning his back on his royal father and storming away. Some shocked looks and a few sly snickers followed his angry back. Saluting again, I turned to walk away. I cast the wild exotic princess from my mind, albeit with difficulty, and focused on the matter at hand. Like walking a straight path back to the barracks with head held high and a proud, confident step.
Despite my discipline, I still bled and my pain increased. I gave in to neither as I marched past the roaring stands. More ardent fans cast flowers and fragrant rose petals down over me, a custom reserved only for the very best gladiators. I learned long ago to never allow the public’s adoration of me to go to my head. Outside of suicide, it was the swiftest way to death.
Slave Master Cephas was not in his usual place to look me over for wounds and take charge of me, as was his duty. Nor did I see any other slave handlers about. I didn’t bother to ponder the lack; I only felt gratitude they weren’t there. Only a few fellow gladiators murmured their congratulations while refusing to meet my eyes. We had an unspoken rule among us slaves: never look a dead man in the face. We were all dead. We just did not know when.
Scattered nearby, more sports
fans and court hangers-on slapped me on the back, or reached out to touch me for luck, yelling their adoration. Among them, yet alone, one caught my glance: a slender blond man who eyed me sharply as I went by. A vague memory of having seen him somewhere around the High King’s court touched my mind. Then I promptly forgot him.
The corridors beneath the arena drummed with the incessant pounding from the stands above. Seeing they were strangely empty, I wondered if Cephas and the handlers were busy investigating the earlier debacle of Silas’s illegal dagger, for I suspected Cephas hadn’t missed it. His keen eyes missed little.
I breathed in the familiar odors of mildewed stone, damp wood and my own blood as I walked back to my tiny cell. As the High King’s personal gladiator and reigning champion, I was entitled to a small chamber of my own under the Grand Arena. The other slaves slept and spent their few free moments in the barracks just off the training arena, a block away.
Weakness washed through me and I paused a moment to lean on my sword. The sword no handler was available at the door to take from me. With my escape so close, I ignored the threat of punishment for having a weapon in my possession while not under supervision or in the arena. At once, dizziness and nausea swamped me.
My freedom was so close. So close. I leaned against the damp stone wall for a moment. Sweat poured down my face and neck. I felt it drip down my chest and itch my back.
Beneath the slowly dying thrumming from the fans above, I heard the howling of wolves. I brought my head up sharply, listening. Wolves. They could not be in Soudan, of course. No wolf would be stupid enough to enter the busy, teeming capital. I heard them clearly in my head. Howling wolves had haunted my sleep for years uncounted, wild packs racing under the light of the moon in my dream’s visions. Rarely did I hear them while awake and alert. Yet I surely heard them now. They sounded as though they sang a mere furlong away.
“You there. Gladiator.”
A voice shouted from behind me and the wolfish cacophony fell silent. I sighed. No doubt, here came a handler to take my blade. I turned obediently, head down, eyes on the ground as a slave should when confronted by a free man. Half expecting a scolding for having a sword in my possession, I heard his next words with surprise.
“You are injured. Let me help you.”
I studied him with quick flicking glances, never looking at him fully. Not a slave handler, I found. With a sharp jolt, I remembered him as the blond man who watched me pass outside. He stood a head shorter than I, and was slender with a muscular athlete’s build. I recognized a man who might be as at home on the battlefield as he would a dance floor. A small diamond chip studded his left earlobe. A thick wealth of wheat-colored hair tumbled over his head. Yellow eyes. I found it odd to see someone with eyes that exact shade of amber. Almost like a cat’s, if his pupils had been vertical.
His well-chiseled features were handsome, with an aquiline nose and thin aristocratic lips. He wore a torque of gold, not a slave’s collar. The only collar a prince would wear. A plain brown tunic and gold breeches covered his broad shoulders and well-muscled legs. Silk. A light cloak of gold trimmed in scarlet hung from his broad shoulders. A fine leather belt with a gold buckle embraced his hips. A fine sword with jeweled hilt hung in a tooled leather scabbard. A man of means, I surmised, likely a nobleman of a very high rank.
I also took in at a glance the slight raggedness of the edge of his cloak, a few stains on his shirt, the bristle of an unshaven chin. I also noticed the look of faint desperation deep in those amber eyes. Perhaps a nobleman somewhat down on his fortunes, I guessed. He still managed to look elegant, however. I guessed he would look elegant while dressed in tattered rags.
I did not want his help, yet I could not refuse or refute him. A slave had no rights. I smelled my freedom, felt it with every beat of my pulse. I could not allow him to interfere. Thoughts of how I might put him off ran through my mind and I dismissed each one as unworkable.
He appeared to be studying me in turn. I hoped my thick hair, oily with sweat, covered enough of my brow and eyes that he saw little of importance.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“No name, Highness.”
He snorted. “Oh, that’s right. Slaves have no names. I forgot.”
His words and tone gave me enough courage to raise my head and look at him closer. He was not looking at me, but to the side, his thin lips twisted into a bitter line. By his words and accent, he was not local.
He turned back to me. “Look, my name is Rygel of Khassart. What do they call you, even if you have no name?”
“Wolf, Highness,” I answered slowly. “The Wolf, sometimes.”
“Appropriate name,” he commented. “I watched you fight.”
His gold eyes dropped to my torso, his gaze knowing. I knew I must get away from him and to my cell. He knew too damn much by half.
“Highness.” I dropped my head and turned away.
Rygel caught my shoulder before I walked two strides.
“Wait. You need help.”
Emboldened by his manner, I brushed his hand from my shoulder. “I need naught.”
“I’ve seen wounds like that before. You’ll die without help.”
I half-turned to him, a smile twisting my own lips into something that I knew held no warmth or humor. My death. My freedom. Rygel drew back from my smile, his eyes widening.
“Gods,” he whispered. “You can’t.”
“Leave me be.”
He stepped toward me and I did the unthinkable. I raised the sword, still dripping with Silas the Savage’s blood. The deadly point, on a level with those oddly amber eyes, meant only one thing. Had anyone seen that gesture, that raised blade, meant my imminent execution by extreme and nasty torture. If Rygel knew that, his expression did not show it. Surprised, but strangely unafraid, Rygel lifted his hands in a surrender gesture and backed away.
“Don’t be stupid, man,” he said.
His treatment of me as an equal unsettled me enough that I turned and walked away as quickly as my weakness would allow. I did not look back.
In the privacy of my cell, I shut the door and staggered to the narrow cot. A small table, a chair, and the cot were all the furniture the tiny room held. A slave owned nothing. Not even his life. My fingers trembling, I unbuckled my battle harness, leaving me naked save the thin leather breeches and my knee-high boots.
Leaving the rest on, I sat on the cot and leaned thankfully against the dank wall. Colored lights, red, green and gold, shot behind my closed lids when I shut my eyes. I felt my death near. Briefly, I thought back to the Seven Gods of my homeland. Would they send their messenger to deliver my spirit to the stars? Or had they abandoned me when I crossed the border all those years ago? I believe they had. I paid lip-service to the Khalidian Blood God, Usa’a’mah, when required, but never worshiped him. Perhaps he would take me as his own, since I did his work so well.
Blood trickled from my wounds now the harness set the river free. Arianne, my Arianne, I thought, despair sneaking past my triumph. I wanted to free you, save you, but I failed. I am so very sorry. Can you ever forgive me?
The door opening snapped my eyes open. A slave could not bar his door either, I remembered sourly. Rygel watched me, half-hiding behind the door in case I still waved the sword. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned.
“You’re a proper nuisance,” I said.
He shrugged. “And your point is?”
He eyed the sword still in my hand and raised a half-salute, mocking. He opened the door wider and came in as though walking into the den of a dangerous animal was commonplace.
Taking the single chair, he turned it around and straddled it, leaning his arms across the back. “Why won’t you let me help you? I can save your life.”
I grinned slightly, making a small gesture to the blood pooling on the cot. “You’re too late anyway. No one can save me.”
He lifted his hands and waggled his fingers. “I’m a wizard. I can heal with magic.
Save one even nigh unto death itself.”
Bloody hell, I thought. “What are you doing here? In the Federation, I mean.”
Rygel grimaced. “It is a long story, my friend. One day I’ll tell it to you. Perhaps over a hanap of ale.”
“Thanks all the same, but I sincerely doubt I’ll be here.”
“Are you sure? It’s a good story.”
“I’m certain it is, but I already have plans.”
His treating me as an equal unsettled me to no end. Not even my fellow gladiators treated me on the same level.
He sighed. “As you are bent on refusing my most wonderful and charming company and an even better cup of ale, I’ll have to resort to other, less savory, methods of persuasion.”
My eyes narrowed of their own accord. “What are you talking about?”
“I truly do hate the rough stuff,” he said with a dramatic mournfulness in his tone. Yet, his amber cat’s eyes gleamed with mischief, a combination that spoke volumes and meant trouble for me. His aristocratic lips twitched. “All that suffering and whining and blood.” He shuddered delicately.
“Get to the point,” I growled.
He sniffed. “I can see you’re no fun at all. Why I should bother with you is beyond me.”
“Then go away and leave me alone.”
“Oh, I can’t do that. It’s against my religion.”
I flipped him an obscene gesture, one I learned long ago usually set the Khalidians into a frothing rage. Rygel grinned.
“Since we’ve been conversing so politely together,” he drawled, “I happened to notice the leak you’ve sprung leached out another pint or so of that oh so important red stuff.”
“So?”
“Well,” he said dryly, settling his chin on his arms, “I think I’m going to wait until you pass out from blood loss and then heal you. Oh, please, no worries, I have time. And patience. Patience is a virtue, or so I’ve heard.”
Pursing his aristocratic lips, he raised his eyes to the ceiling as if seeking answers there. “I’m guessing one or two more minutes before you’re out cold. What do you think?”
In a Wolf's Eyes Page 2
