The Makings of a Warrior

by Peter Wacht

  It was then that she decided she wasn’t going to cry anymore, so she had instead tried to think of some way to help Thomas. She was responsible for his capture. She should be the one to win his freedom. Yet, nothing came to mind. She had paced in front of her bed for the better part of an hour with nothing to show for it. She had finally come to the conclusion that if her father couldn’t succeed, how could she?

  Still, she had to do something. The thought of Thomas hating her made her sick to her stomach. She had to apologize, to explain what had happened. She would not ask for his forgiveness — she didn’t deserve that — but she would at least tell him the truth. Now if only these tears would cooperate so she could be about her business.

  Bolstering her courage, she wiped her eyes a final time, threw down the handkerchief, and stormed out of her room. She was glad to see that her father had left for the moment, probably to walk Sarelle back to her chambers. Just to be sure, though, she stepped across the rich carpet and out through the main door on silent feet. There she nodded a greeting to the two soldiers standing guard and then trotted down the hallway before they could ask where she was going.

  It didn’t take her long to reach her destination, as no one was about because of the dreadful weather. Yet when she entered the anteroom that led to the dungeon, she was surprised to see approximately twenty soldiers milling about. She stopped for a moment, thinking on what to do, before finally deciding to charge forward.

  “Princess. How are you this evening?”

  A tall soldier with long black hair blocked her path. He was almost handsome, except for the sharpness in his eyes. She guessed that he was the leader of this troop.

  “I’m fine, Captain.” She adopted her stately tone, one that demanded respect. “Now if you will excuse me, I am here to see the prisoner.”

  The captain laughed softly, as did several of his men. “I’m sorry, Princess. That won’t be possible. No one is allowed in the dungeon without the express permission of the High King.”

  “I am the Princess of Fal Carrach, Captain.” She drew herself into a regal pose. “No one, not even the High King, can tell me what I can and cannot do.”

  The captain looked uncomfortable for a brief moment, then regained his nerve. That may be true, but then again, the Princess of Fal Carrach was of little consequence compared to the High King when in Dunmoor. Or, to put it in sharper perspective, when compared to Chertney.

  “I’m sorry, but even you must obey his command, Princess. The High King was most specific. Besides, Lord Chertney is with the prisoner now. I don’t think he wants to be disturbed. And I, for one, would not want to be the one to do so.”

  Lord Chertney! Kaylie thought she might get sick right there. She had only seen Chertney once, and then from a distance, but his very presence had sent a shiver of fear through her. A feeling of dread settled within her. What had she done?

  “I see,” she said, struggling to retain her dignity. “You will hear more of this, Captain.”

  She quickly turned on her heel and strode out of the room, not wanting to hear the chuckles of laughter she expected would follow her.

  As she walked back through the Palace to her apartments, she promised herself that she would not cry again, though her tears threatened to become a waterfall. She barely remembered the conversation she had with Ragin the night before, having just returned from her time with Thomas.

  It was all hazy, and though she tried to recall what was said, she could grasp nothing substantial within her mind. How could she have believed ill of Thomas? How could she have done this to him? He had been a friend to her, had saved her life twice before, and the life of her father, and this was how she repaid him? She had never felt so utterly horrible.

  Caught up in her own thoughts, she collided with someone coming from a different direction. She almost fell, but a strong hand gripped her arm, steadying her. She was about to offer her thanks when she saw who it was. She immediately pulled her arm from his grasp.

  “No thank you?” asked Ragin in mock surprise. “I expect better of you, Kaylie. I’ve always been impressed by your excellent manners.”

  “Leave me alone, Ragin, or I’ll gut you like a fish.”

  Kaylie’s anger consumed her. She placed her hand on her dagger. Ragin took a few judicious steps backwards. He knew how good she was with a blade, and in her current state, her anger just might get the better of her.

  “You did an excellent job earlier today, Kaylie,” he said, not realizing the effect of his words. “Magnificent! You have done a great service for us all. Perhaps tomorrow, when the weather clears, we could go for a walk in the garden and I could thank you personally.”

  Kaylie stood there for a moment, her mouth open in shock. Had she heard him correctly? Was he really such a fool? Because of him Thomas was imprisoned. Yet the bastard was still trying to have his way with her? The world would freeze over before that happened. Her anger returned tenfold.

  “Why do want him so badly, Ragin? Because he bested you at the Festival? Are you really so petty?”

  Ragin’s face slowly changed, becoming more arrogant and calculating. His lips curled into a sneer.

  “I will be High King one day, Kaylie. I suggest you speak in a gentler tone.”

  “In name, perhaps,” cut in Kaylie. “But never in deed. You are too small a man for that. Why did you want him captured?”

  “My father considered him to be a threat,” he said, not offering any detail. “So I took care of it. My father gets what he wants, and so do I.”

  He stepped forward menacingly, forcing Kaylie back up against the wall. The look in his eyes frightened her.

  “Whether he’s a murderer or not doesn’t matter. His death has no meaning to me. He will die tomorrow, Kaylie. That will be the end of it, so I suggest you resign yourself to his fate.”

  Kaylie tried to get by Ragin, desperately wanting to be away from him. He reached for her arm and grabbed hold, then pulled her close.

  “I have used you once, Kaylie, and I will again if necessary. There will come a time when you won’t be able to say no.”

  “If that time comes, Ragin, I will choose death,” she said harshly.

  Remembering something Kael had taught her, she stomped down as hard as she could. Ragin danced back in pain with a curse, her heel having connected squarely with his shin. Not bothering to look back, she ran down the hallway. She didn’t stop until she made it back to her apartments. That night, as sleep escaped her, one question kept running through her mind: What have I done?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Parting Gift

  “Get up, you misfit. Get up I say!”

  The voice penetrated the darkness consuming Thomas, sealing him away from the world and the pain. The hard kick to his midsection forced him from his sleep and back to where his aches and injuries ruled.

  “Get up, scum. It’s time for the day’s entertainment, and you’re to be the main act.” The guard laughed harshly, his large belly shaking with mirth.

  “Bring him, Sergeant. We don’t have time to waste this morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant hastily. Captain Krayjak was a strict one and not to be crossed. “Put these on and be quick about it.”

  Thomas struggled to open his eyes. He quickly closed them again, as even the dim light of the cell sent shooting pains through his skull. He shifted his weight and pushed himself into a seated position, which set off a pounding in his temple.

  His mental skirmish with Chertney the night before was the hardest battle he had ever fought, though it left no visible wounds. Mustering what strength remained, he forced the pain that threatened to overwhelm him to the back of his mind. The constant hammering became a dull ache at the edge of his awareness. He sensed that he would need all his senses and skills to survive the day ahead. The aches and pains would have to wait for another time.

  “Quickly, scum. Quickly I said!” The sergeant towered over him, his huge paunch blocking out the little
light provided by the torch jammed into the wall by the cell door. The sergeant made a threatening gesture with his foot. “Let’s get a move on. Otherwise you’ll be eating my foot for breakfast.”

  Without thinking, Thomas grabbed the foot dangling in front of his face with two hands and shoved the fat man away from him. The sergeant tumbled backwards, his head slamming against the stone of the far wall, the dull thud echoing throughout the small chamber.

  It took a few moments for the sergeant to realize what had happened to him. Rubbing the back of his head, his face twisted into a mask of rage. He was on his feet quicker than any would expect for someone of his size.

  “Why you little beggar! Now you’re in for a beating that you’ll never—”

  “Enough, Sergeant.” Krayjak placed himself between his subordinate and Thomas, his eyes holding no emotion, though the other soldiers in the cell had clearly enjoyed the spectacle. “No more games.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the sergeant, bowing his head in submission, though his anger remained. The little scum would get his soon enough.

  The captain turned toward Thomas, who remained sitting calmly on the floor of the cell.

  “Put the training gear on. We leave in two minutes. You either wear the gear or nothing at all.”

  The captain pulled a key from his belt and unlocked the ankle chains holding Thomas in place. Then he walked to the door and waited, showing no concern whatsoever as to what Thomas chose to do.

  It was a simple decision really. Thomas examined what the sergeant had thrown at him — a pair of training shorts and a baggy shirt. The pieces of clothing resembled some of the attire worn by the gladiators of old. For hundreds of years they fought for sport, winning and losing the fortunes of those gambling on them. Eventually, such practices were outlawed, though it was rumored that in some isolated areas on the continent the Games, as they were called, continued.

  Thomas rose to his feet and quickly changed his clothes, having some problems pulling off his torn shirt and putting on the one provided by the captain because of the chains attached to his wrists. He was about to pull on his boots as well.

  “You won’t be needing those,” said Krayjak. “Leave them here.”

  Thomas shrugged, not really caring. He had no idea what was about to happen to him, though he was certain it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  “Come along,” said the captain, motioning him through the door.

  Thomas shuffled after him, his legs slow to respond to his commands. It took him several steps to finally get his feet under him again. When he stepped out into the hallway, he was met by twenty soldiers, ten on each side, who formed up around him. Krayjak moved to the front, the sergeant taking a place directly behind Thomas. The captain then barked a command and the troop began its trek to the main floors of the Palace.

  It was slow-going through the passageway leading to the steps, though Thomas didn’t mind. It gave him a chance to work the kinks out of his muscles. The manacles on his wrists remained, a soldier on each side holding onto a chain. Even with twenty men, the captain wasn’t taking any chances.

  The group began its journey up the steps with Thomas doing his best to keep up. His legs were still weak and it was taking awhile to get the blood flowing again. They were halfway up when he felt a boot connect with the small of his back, knocking him forward. His head slammed into the step just behind the captain, his chained hands preventing him from protecting against the blow.

  Thomas lay there in a daze, the pain he had locked away coming back tenfold, now accompanied by a distant ringing. Blood trickled down his forehead. The stone had opened a long gash above his right eye.

  Krayjak looked down at his prisoner, then turned harsh eyes on the sergeant. There was no feeling there, only purpose and duty. The sergeant gulped as his captain’s gaze bored into his very soul.

  “He tripped, Captain. I tried to catch him, but I wasn’t quick enough.”

  Sweat poured from the sergeant, and not just because of the arduous climb up the steps. Perhaps he had crossed the line this time. He had seen what his captain did to those men who disobeyed him. Swallowing nervously, he considered that possibility. Krayjak held the sergeant’s gaze for a moment longer before looking down at his prisoner.

  “Bring him,” he said, then he headed back up the steps.

  The two soldiers who held Thomas’ chains pulled him to his feet. He stumbled up the first few steps before regaining his balance. Blood poured down his head, trickling over his eye and the side of his face and then soaking into his shirt. Just a flesh wound, thankfully. But with his hands held at his sides, he could do nothing to stanch the flow.

  Thomas marched along with the soldiers, forgetting the cut on his forehead for a moment to do something about the pounding in his temple. This time it took even more effort to lock away the pain. Still, it was the best he could do in his current physical condition. He then tried to wipe his face on his shirt, but found that it wasn’t very effective. Resigned to his predicament, he trudged along, wondering what was to come next.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Labyrinth

  Once the troop reached the main level of the Palace, they marched down a long hallway that stretched into the horizon. As the minutes passed, Thomas barely glanced at the tapestries and frescoes dotting the walls. Instead, he focused on the large bronze doors that grew larger with each step. He could hear the murmur of many voices gradually increasing in intensity as they approached the massive doors.

  Thomas tried to clear his throat, but it was too dry, and he wished desperately for a drink of water. A premonition of danger filled him and his instincts automatically took over. He looked for a way to escape, his eyes darting from side to side. The captain sensed his anxiety, as did his men. They tightened up their formation, and the two soldiers strengthened their grips on his chains. There was nowhere for him to go. Nowhere at all, except through the doors now standing straight and tall in front of him.

  The captain stepped up to the bronze door on the right. Grabbing hold of a large knocker that resembled the grotesque head of a goblin, he slammed it against the bronze, the sound echoing back down the hallway. Three times the captain pounded on the door. The murmurs behind the doors died down to absolute silence.

  Satisfied with some result that Thomas could not discern, the captain motioned to two of his men, who ran forward and took hold of the door handles. Tensing their bodies, they pulled against the massive weight of the doors. At first, the doors wouldn’t move. Then slowly, ever so slowly, they were pulled apart and pushed back against the wall. The captain walked across the threshold, his soldiers following right behind him with Thomas in their midst.

  Thomas’ mouth opened in surprise as he walked into what resembled a small stadium. He had been right about his clothes. A gladiator’s pit appeared before him. The soldiers walked him halfway into the room until he stood in front of a square opening in the floor just large enough for a man to squeeze through. The soldiers then moved away from him and formed up into two even columns. The large bronze doors were pulled shut.

  The captain then approached, a key in hand. Releasing Thomas from his shackles, he stepped away as well. Thomas immediately checked the wound on his forehead. The flow of blood was now a trickle. He dabbed at it with the collar of his shirt before examining his new surroundings.

  The gladiator’s pit was just beyond the opening in the floor. Bright white sand covered the floor and the walls, made of smooth, white marble, were at least twenty feet high. Dark, almost black, splotches dotted its length, testifying to its harsh and deadly use. It didn’t take much to figure out how the spots had gotten there.

  Silently he thanked Rynlin and Rya for forcing him to focus on his lessons. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he tried to prepare for what was to come. Looking away from the pit in an effort to settle his nerves, he glanced up, then realized he had completely ignored the most obvious feature of the arena — the gallery, which teamed wi
th people.

  Lords and ladies filled the rows of seats, all of whom stared back at him. He ran his gaze from one side to the other, unsettled by their staring eyes. More people watched him now than during the archery competition. He became distinctly nervous. They were judging him, weighing him with their eyes. He considered making a break for it, but he didn’t think the soldiers standing behind him would appreciate the effort.

  “Do you wish to proclaim your guilt? If so, the sentence will be carried out quickly.”

  Thomas stared straight ahead, the voice instantly putting him on alert. Across the wide expanse of the pit Rodric sat on a plush throne, his large, gaudy crown of gold tilting awkwardly on his head. On his right-hand side sat Ragin, and on his other Loris of Dunmoor. Thomas forgot his pain, his thoughts immediately turning to revenge. His eyes burned brightly, his anger hot. Realizing there was nothing he could do at the moment to release his hate, he glanced at the others in the gallery.

  There was a pretty woman with long blonde hair sitting next to Ragin who returned his glance boldly. Gregory was there as well, sitting next to a very beautiful woman with auburn hair, but his mood was dark, almost murderous. Thomas’ eyes continued along the row. His breath caught in his throat for a moment. Kaylie sat next to her father. From her appearance, he could see that she had been crying. Concern never materialized within him, however. She was the reason he stood there. She had betrayed his trust. He ignored her pleading eyes and turned his attention back to Rodric.

  “Do you wish to proclaim your guilt?” Rodric had grown testy, patience not one of his virtues.

  Thomas stood there quietly, ignoring the many people watching him. He stared straight ahead, locking eyes with Rodric, defiance in his gaze.

  “With the evidence presented against you, you deserve the headsman’s block,” continued Rodric. “Yet our brother ruler from Fal Carrach asked for a different sentence. I was quite happy to agree to it.”