He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Broughton interrupted. Rudely, I thought, but Lionel seemed to accept his son’s forestalling him with an air of resignation. His attitude of patience told me his son’s rudeness came often.
“Lord Rygel won’t mind waiting a few minutes while we inform Wolf here of the good news. Will you, Rygel?”
Rygel bowed assent. After all, what could he say? Give me my dope now, you Federal toad? Not if he wanted to keep his skin, he would not.
My mouth dried at Brutal’s words. My slavery taught me nothing good could come from one’s master. Especially when one’s master sired a man nicknamed Brutal.
Rygel politely stepped back, out of my line of sight. Lionel fussed with the parchment in his hand, his eyes on me. Oddly enough, the look in them was one of sorrow and a deep anger. Yet without knowing how I knew, I knew the anger was not for me. Suddenly, insight struck, fizzled, in my head. I knew what was about to happen. I knew my death would follow on its heels.
Broughton plucked the document from his sire’s fingers and turned to me. Instead of sorrow, his eyes lit with a daemonic glee. No smile touched his lips. Only a fierce and savage happiness glowed in those normally dead pale brown eyes. Like a dash of icy water, a chill spread its numbing fingers through my body.
“These are your ownership papers,” he said calmly. “My father gave you to me, for my birthday.”
Gods, I thought. Usa’a’mah have mercy, nay.
A swift glance toward Lionel showed me the gift of me to his son did not sit well with him. His royal lips had thinned to a pale slash in his face. His pale blue eyes sparked, his fine brow arching down in the flash of a murderous scowl. An instant later, before his son could catch a glimpse of it, his expression smoothed out into bland neutrality. Yet, Rygel noticed. From the tail of my eye, I saw his brow quirk in silent yet slightly alarmed confusion. I remembered the heated argument in the stands I witnessed the day I killed Silas. Could they have been arguing over me?
“I’m taking you from the arena,” Brutal continued, restlessly walking around behind me. “Your abilities as a gladiator are legendary and I plan to breed you, create a new stable of fighting slaves. Your sons will be the best gladiators in the world.”
I flicked another glance at Lionel. He studied the carpet under his feet as though having never seen it before. Why have you done this awful thing, I wanted to scream, seizing him by the throat. You betrayed me. You sick bastard.
Broughton stopped at my back, but I was too numb to move, to turn and face him as protocol demanded. My tongue froze to the roof of my dry mouth. Despite the chill prickling my skin, I felt sweat trickle down my ribs.
“You will entertain my bride-to-be in bed,” he went on casually. “You will sire a son on her. That son will take his father’s place in my arena.”
I doubt that plan would have much of a following among the Kel’Hallans, I thought fleetingly. Another flicked glance at Lionel showed me a man who thought as little of the idea as I did. Before he could turn his head, I thought I saw the suggestion of an eye roll over the aristocratic nose.
Brutal’s voice dropped. “After she has delivered your son, you will kill her. You will throttle the life from her as you take her. And I will watch.”
I felt his hot breath on my back.
“Of course, beginning tonight, you will share my bed.”
His voice, low and husky with lust, made my skin crawl. Rape, yet again. This time there would be no fighting, no chance to prevent it, no escape. He used chains to keep his victims still. Chains, ropes, guards. He used them all. I fought the urge to run, to flee, to hide. The hot, coppery taste of panic squirted into my mouth. There would be no escape from this. Then a hand caressed my backside, squeezing, fondling.
“The Wolf must be tamed before sating that Kel’Hallan whore.”
Gods above and below, I thought, my head swimming. Not again. Not ever again.
It had happened before.
Young, the brand on my arm still smoking, I learned the hard way that even society’s victims victimized others. Despite my large size for my age and a talent for fighting, I could not fight off the slave gangs when they came for me. Like Brutal, their lust came not from a desire for something beautiful, but from a perverse need to conquer the wills and spirits of those beneath them.
Some days, I fought, and won. Other days, I fought, and failed.
Yet, because of those slave gangs, something else grew in my soul. Something I never felt before…a quiet, icy rage, a rage so deep and stony not even death could halt it. I birthed a daemon in my soul. As I lay in the dirt that first night, I vowed before the gods of my homeland I would spend my life bathing in the blood of rapists.
At ten years old, I killed my first man.
Less than a year into my slavery, I fought a man more than twice my size, who outweighed me by a hundred pounds or more. He came for me, intending rape, a few of his stout fellows at his back. Despite his superior size and weight, I was faster. A sharp kick to his knee brought him howling down, closer to my level. I crushed his throat with a lightning-fast blow of my fist, and stood impassively by as he slowly strangled to death on his own blood.
His mates backed off, afraid, their dirty fingers making the sign against evil spirits. My master watched the entire scene from the safety of the pen fence. He guffawed, slapped me on the back and gave me an apple. After that, I had the best training masters to teach me all I needed to know to survive.
I learned speed and cunning, developed an agility surpassed by few. I grew strong, grew big, and learned to judge an opponent to a hairsbreadth. I killed and killed, became a champion. Later, my master sold me to the High King for ten times what he paid for me and retired.
Few had not heard of what Brutal did to men and women in his private chambers. Slaves, enemies, children who caught his fancy, all chained to his bed to appease his savage lusts. I had seen the bloody bodies carried from his chambers and dumped in the refuse piles, faces still twisted in silent agony. I also witnessed those few who survived broken in spirit and mind, alive but lifeless. Their eyes empty, vacant of any spark, of any life.
The hand caressed my backside again.
Without thought, all but blind with terror and fury, I lashed out. I spun, my fist clenched. Brutal’s eyes widened in sudden panic, his lips slicked back from his teeth. At the instant before impact, he flinched. His reaction was not enough to cause me to miss, but enough that my fist connected with his hard head and not his face as I intended. Slammed into the wall, he rebounded back and I hit him again, this time with a roundhouse left, directly into the center of his face. Blood burst in every direction. His nose crunched under my knuckles, the back of his head struck the wall behind him with a flat cracking sound. I bent low, and with my right fist, I smashed his groin. As with any enemy, I stepped back first one step, then another, giving myself room to maneuver should he rise to attack me.
Sliding down the wall, Crown Prince Brutal collapsed into a boneless heap at my feet.
Silence fell in the room with a solid thump.
It happened so fast. Horrified at what I had done, I glanced wildly at first Rygel, then at the High King. Both stood gaping at the body on the floor as though unable to believe their eyes. I could scarcely blame them, for I too froze in shock at what I had just done.
His Majesty sagged back onto his daybed, his blue veined hands visibly trembling in his lap. He seemed unable to tear his gaze from his son’s body. Repeatedly, he murmured, “My son is dead. My son is dead.” He began to rock himself, back and forth, absorbing the shock of seeing his son and heir die right before his very eyes.
Gods above and below, I killed him. I didn’t intend to, but damn if I didn’t kill the son of a bitch. I drew a deep, ragged breath, wondering how in the bloody devil had I managed to kill the crown Prince and Lionel’s heir. Only I could get myself into such a fix as this. You stupid, stupid Wolf. Gods, what a mess.
Fascinated in spite
of myself, I watched Lionel come to terms with his son’s death. I needed to come to terms with my own, now rapidly approaching. Time stretched out, the mere moments ticking by in what felt like hours. My life ticked by with them, and I pondered how he would order my death. I strongly doubted he would grant me a swift execution. Torture, I mused. The Federates loved their torture chambers. The executioners would surely give Crown Prince Broughton’s murderer the best torturers Khalid could buy.
Lionel grew silent at last, his eyes still fixed on Broughton’s corpse. I waited, struggling to find some measure of peace within myself. Perhaps the gods would be kind, and look upon me with favor when I stood before them. They liked courage, or so the priests said. I sent a brief but heartfelt prayer upward that Arianne would find her freedom and that one day she would find it within her to forgive me.
An interminable time later, Lionel stirred and looked up into my face.
“You killed him,” Lionel spoke slowly, distantly. “You killed my heir.”
The angry, defeated expression changed. Slowly, the glow of triumph lightened his pale, thin features. Royal grief fell away like leaves before the storm. His thin lips smiled, pale eyes lit with a glow that made them almost pleasant to look at. Astonishment hit me with the shock like a striking halberd to my midsection. Could it be? The High King looked—happy.
Neither Rygel nor I moved a muscle as he looked from me to the body of his son and back again. Suddenly light on his feet, despite his great years, Lionel all but danced to the wall and took down an ornamental sword, its hilt encrusted with gems. Baring the burnished blade, he dropped the silver sheath to the carpet.
“I wish I could allow you to live in spite of the enormous favor you have done me today,” he said, his voice soft. “I have hated that sorry piece of filth since the day he was born. Always twisted, he was. A lunatic thorn in my side. Bah!” He snorted, his brow furrowed in disgust. “He always hated me, too. What son hates his father on sight? However, the law declares that as firstborn he is my heir. Unfortunately, not even I am above the law.”
Lifting the sword, the High King stepped closer, decreasing the distance between us.
“The political repercussions from this will no doubt last for years,” he went on quietly, gazing at me with real regret and kindness in his faded blue eyes. “Perhaps even after my death. My second son will rule with his brain, not his pecker. Under him, my people will prosper. Under him,” his contemptuous glance fell on the body at my feet, “the Kel’Hallans would never be brought to heel. His plan would set the fire of their rebellion for the next ten generations. My second son, my new heir, will marry the girl and I will finally have Kel’Halla.”
He shrugged, the sword catching the light as it rose and fell with his shoulders. “For this favor, I will slay you quickly. No torment. May Usa’a’mah guide your soul into rebirth. My executing you here will satisfy the law, and yet bring you a quick, merciful death. For I do like you, Wolf. I did not want to part with you, I want you to know that. He forced me to give you up, said he would tell the Council at the next meeting—”
His lightning glance flicked to Rygel. Then he shrugged, and broke off. “It no longer matters, I suppose. Are you ready?”
Oddly, I felt nothing save a sense of dumb gratitude. My torment was finally over. Rygel may have altered my fate by a day or two, but I would still escape. My thoughts flew to Arianne. Forgive me, my sweet. Perhaps Cephas would still honor his pledge and keep you safe. Under his protection, you may one day be free.
I dropped to my knees and bowed my head, waiting for the blow. I should close my eyes, I thought stupidly. Yet, I did not, and in a detached fashion, observed my approaching death in Lionel’s eyes from under my brows.
The blade rose higher, candlelight flickering brightly among the dazzling jewels. As last looks go, it wasn’t half bad.
With a choking cry, Rygel moved. I caught the flash of metal as Rygel drew a dagger from his belt. Unable to stop him, I turned my head enough to see him throw it—
—and saw it buried to the hilt in the High King’s forehead.
Lionel crashed to the floor. He writhed for a moment or two before his last breath escaped on a sigh. He discovered he was dead, and decently quieted, lying silently on his back. The strong scent of excrement and the acrid reek of urine filled my nostrils.
Harsh breathing filled my ears. Rygel panted as though having run ten leagues, his face as pale as new milk. Stunned into immobility, I stared in growing horror at the High King’s dead face, his pale blue eyes open, and now glazing in death. A tiny trickle of blood ran between his eyes and down his aristocratic nose.
“Glory,” Rygel muttered, his eyes fixed on the catastrophe lying on the impeccable royal carpet. “What a bother.”
I blinked. I stood up. I pounced on him, seized his tunic, and whirled him around in the same movement, slamming him into the wall. In one swift motion, I had Rygel choking in my hands, his face turning blue as I strangled the life from him. He squirmed, eyes bulging, his hands frantically clawing mine as he fought to free himself. His attempts to shift me were akin to shifting solid granite.
“You flaming idiot,” I grated through clenched teeth.
He gasped, trying to push me away and breathe at the same time, but to no avail. His struggles failed to budge me one bit. I did loosen my hold enough for him to breathe in a trickle of air.
When he could speak he wheezed, “What the devil has gotten into you?”
“Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“I saved your miserable life, you ass.”
“Nay,” I shouted. “You spared me a quick death now to save me for a death by torture. They’ll take weeks to kill me.”
“What do you think they’ll do to me?” he demanded, his hands on my throat in an insane attempt to fend me off. “Give me a medal?”
I let him go. Rygel slid nearly to the floor before he caught himself and staggered to his feet.
“Bloody lummox,” he muttered, straightening his tunic. “We better get out of here.”
I snorted. “How far do you think we’ll get? Maybe the corridor?”
“Out of this shithole Federation.”
Sudden compassion filled me, replacing the blind fury of a few moments earlier. Weariness sank into my soul. Rygel could have stayed out of it and let the High King slay me. Rather, he put his own life in jeopardy to save mine.
“Go,” I said. “I’ll cover your escape. Maybe the guards will kill me in the fight. Not a bad way to die.”
“What’s with you?” he demanded. “Were all you gladiators absent the day they passed out brains? You don’t have to die.”
“It’s inevitable.”
“Like hell it is. Grow a spine and take a chance on life for a change.”
I sighed. “Just go.”
“Nay. We go together or die together.”
I stared at him, unable to believe my ears. “Why? Why would you do that?”
He threw his hands up in evident frustration. “Saving your hide seems to be my life’s work. Despite your evident lack of gratitude. But my gut tells me we’ll need each other before the end.”
“What end?”
“No bloody clue.” He sighed. “I like you, Wolf, or whatever your name is,” he went on. “You’re as thick as an oak stump, but I like you.”
Abashed, I glanced away. No one had ever expressed a friendship for me before. Any friends I might have had were those I had faced in the arena. My throat thickened with unwilling emotion, feelings I thought long dead. I tried to speak but nothing made it past my tongue. I tried again.
“How?” I said simply.
“We’ll get those guards outside. We lure them in here and take their armor and weapons. We’ll pass as soldiers.”
“That’ll work until the first captain to see us dresses us down.”
“Very well, then,” he snapped, “You come up with a better plan.”
“I did, but you didn’t like it.”
I shrugged. As I had no other plan, I caved in and agreed. I followed his lead as he hurried back through the doors into the anteroom. He pointed toward the wall behind the door, and mimed me lying in wait. I rolled my eyes. I seriously doubted the guards outside would hear him had he merely spoken in a normal tone of voice. The walls were inches thick. Still, I obeyed, and flattened my back against the far wall as Rygel opened the door.
“Ho, guard! Come quickly, the High King is ill.”
I pictured the two Sins glancing at each other in consternation as Rygel’s voice rose impatiently. “Hurry up, I need you to help me lift him. His Highness the Prince has refused to dirty his hands.”
That must have convinced them of his authenticity, for Brutal’s abhorrence for anything remotely resembling work had long passed into legend. Rygel opened the door wider to allow them inside. They never even saw my shadow as I moved. They dropped like stones when my fists connected with their heads.
“Damn, you better not have dented those helmets,” Rygel muttered, grabbing one unconscious body while I dragged the other. “We’ll need them.”
Back inside Lionel’s chamber, we stripped the Synn’jhani of their clothing and armor. The larger of the two men was big, but not quite as big as I was. Rygel watched with wide eyes as I bent the heavy steel hauberk with my hands to fit me. Muttering under his breath, he rapidly dressed, buckling the greaves to his legs and the sword belt around his hips.
I felt rather silly in the gold and white tunic and sash. The big man’s boots, for all his size, did not fit my feet. I forced them on, hoping Rygel had magic to heal the blisters sure to follow. I wound the turban over the helmet, wondering if anyone would look past the uniform and recognize me. Fortunately, the gold tunic covered the brand on my arm.
“Pity you didn’t kill him,” Rygel commented, jerking his head toward Prince Broughton’s body.
I looked, seeing bubbles pop through the blood on Brutal’s face as he breathed raggedly. The nasty new High King was tougher than he looked. He should be dead. I should have been relieved I had not killed him. Instead, I felt apprehension.
In a Wolf's Eyes Page 10
