Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  He gave a casual shrug, but his next words turned Sherakai’s blood to ice. “First day of killing’s always harrowing.”

  Chapter 18

  “Ye did well,” Hamrin informed Sherakai when he limped out of the arena. It was hard to hear him over the din of the crowd and the ringing in his ears.

  Of the thirty-eight combatants pitted against each other, four had died and only a dozen walked off the sand. The fighting was done without weapons. It wasn’t exactly hand-to-hand because some of his foes had used tails, wings, or even stranger limbs to assault him.

  “How was that ‘well’?” he asked.

  “Yair still breathing. E’en better, yair still walking. Doesn't hurt that yair brains aren't addled either. Let me see ye.” Steering the youth toward the grotesque light of a lamp, Hamrin turned Sherakai’s face this way and that, then pried his eyes open to examine each. Satisfied with that, he loosened armor to run his hands over ribs, arms, and legs. Businesslike prodding exposed bruises and scrapes. “Ye’ll do.” He gave his shoulder a wince-inducing thump and strode off down the corridor.

  Sherakai hesitated to ask if a healer would tend to him, or how soon the next match would occur. He stood in place, trembling from the shock of the violence that had swept him up, shying from shadows that might be blows. Fesh nudged him into motion, nuzzling his hand and chittering softly. He gave off an air of relief and satisfaction. Teth, too, stayed close, as taciturn as always. He herded his ward toward the wall and kept himself between Sherakai and any other passersby. Those who came too close received a glare and a warning growl.

  Hamrin led the way to another, smaller arena. Men and various other creatures scattered across the sands. The clatter of weapons filled the dull air. Sherakai glanced up at the clouds, hoping for rain to settle the dust and ease the metallic scent. Light flickered, but no clap of thunder followed.

  “Ye’ll practice here for the remains of the day.” Hamrin pointed to a broad opening in one wall where a cavern housed rows and rows of weapons, shields, and armor. The air inside the armory was redolent with the smell of leather, oil, and metal. More of the strange lamps lit the space, set on poles jammed into the ground. “Ye’ve seen a piece of how the fighting’s done here; fetch the weapon yair the worst at and we’ll go along.”

  “My knee could use a cold compress,” he said.

  “Sewer, and maybe ye’d like me to fish yair mam to hold yair hand an’ strock yair broe.” His accent worsened with irritation. It took a little work to make sense of it through the clanging in his head. Sure, and maybe you’d like me to fetch your mama to hold your hand and stroke your brow.

  “Can I sit for a minute?”

  “Do ye think yair enemies will let ye sit? Fine, fine! Hold, boys,” he mocked, “the great Sherakai needs to have a shuteye!” With a sneer, he plucked a pair of short spears from the rack to toss at the youth. He was well aware which weapons his student didn’t handle efficiently.

  Sherakai caught the first and fumbled the second. He heard laughter and turned to see a trio of fighters near the armory entrance, watching. One of them was a young man about his own age. He had pointed teeth in a sharp face like a rat, and dark hair worn in twists bound atop his head.

  Hamrin ignored them and strode past, a shield in one hand and a mace in the other. “The governors stick a fighter according to his—or her—talents. Ye’ll spar for the next three days, then ye’ll fight again. Three days only to get used to this,” he warned, waving his weapon to include the arena and the sky overhead. “Then ye win or ye die.”

  Sherakai’s chest tightened. He did not want to come anywhere close to death. Bairith wouldn’t let him go, and the pain of returning to life was more than he wanted to face. “What do I have to do to win?”

  “Kill yair foe.” Shield protecting his body, he advanced, swinging the mace in short, deadly strokes.

  Sherakai moved back, testing the balance of his weapons, dodging swipes that whistled past him. His avoidance tactic raised a chorus of derisive hoots and whistles from onlookers. “Can’t I just cripple them?”

  “Sure,” Hamrin nodded. “Then ye’ll be pitted straightaway ‘gainst one of the heroes for warm-up practice. Theirs,” he added with a grin. With a lunge, he jabbed his mace into Sherakai’s shoulder, forcing him backward. The shield followed, crashing into the youth’s arm hard enough to numb his hand.

  The spear fell. Sherakai spun with the impact and gained a fraction of space. Hamrin let him spiral around to pick up the fallen weapon, then came at him again. His instructor dictated the circle and Sherakai failed every effort to get past his guard. The mace tapped his head and he found himself on his back in the sand.

  “Ye have no time for games,” Hamrin growled. On one knee, he leaned over Sherakai to look at one eye and then the other.

  “What are the heroes?”

  “Are ye stupid? I didn’t hit ye that hard. Get up and let’s do this again.”

  They did it again, and again, for hours. Hamrin corrected his stance repeatedly, slapped him when he forgot what he was told, and forced him to stand every time he fell. Now and then, he allowed a short break and they walked around the field. Hamrin used the opportunity to point out the weak or strong actions of other skirmishes. He had a sharp eye and a determination to make his lessons stick, whatever it took.

  “Why are ye holding back?” his instructor demanded after yet another pathetic round.

  Sherakai leaned his hands on his knees, dizzy from the latest blow. “I’m not.” The two spears planted in the sand in front of him became four, wavered, then resolved themselves.

  Hamrin prodded him with the mace. “Ye forget we’ve been sparring for a long time. Ye didn’t kill Iniki dan Sorehi by fluttering yair lashes his way.”

  “No, I slapped him with bleakstone.”

  “Clever. And yair friend Deishi? I sparred with him, too, ye know. First rate, that one.”

  Sherakai gritted his teeth and straightened. “Why am I here?” He grabbed the spears. Spinning one, he held the other out horizontally. It should have broken when Hamrin hit it, but he angled the haft and the mace slid down and away.

  “To win.”

  “Win what?” He crouched into the rhythm of the fight.

  “Everything.”

  “Too vague.” The tip of his spear bit into Hamrin’s armor. It surprised him so much that he failed to completely block the swinging mace. It stung as it scraped across the top of his head. He imagined it taking a swath of his scalp with it. He had to double-step to catch his balance, but at least it didn’t flatten him.

  “Win every bout, every argument. Win fame and fortune. Skill. A title.” The clash of weapons punctuated each phrase.

  “To what purpose?”

  “Lord Bairith’s.”

  “Why?”

  “Victory, to be sure.”

  “You don’t know, do you?”

  Hamrin stepped back out of range. “Enough. What I do know is that ye’d better use that fancy magic of yairs when ye fight. Every time ye fight. Ye fight to win, no matter what. They all want ye dead.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s ye or them, pretty boy. Stash yair weapons and I’ll show ye where to bathe.”

  Murder and mutilate by day, bathe and rest by night. The sheer callousness astounded him, yet he could see no way to escape the situation. He studied the faces surrounding him. How many were here of their own accord? How many would die tomorrow, and whose blood would be on his hands? Gripping the spears, he let out a careful breath. Another layer formed around his heart. The figures on the sand receded a little further.

  Chapter 19

  Those who had survived their initial foray in the ring joined the novices of the second block—one of eighteen sections of the massive coliseum. Every novice had his or her own cage to sleep in, but they shared everything else: the practice arenas, the dining hall, the baths, and the latrines. Curiously, the last two had developed an unspoken system in which the men used one
side, the women the other, and the middle area seemed a sort of challenge ground. Crossing into that zone had a good chance of landing one in a physical encounter of one kind or the other.

  “This is barbaric!” he said to Hamrin, mortified.

  Hamrin grunted his agreement.

  “They’re behaving like animals. This is—” Words deserted him. Color burned in his cheeks. “Just because we’re treated like animals doesn’t mean that—that— Gods.”

  “Aye,” Hamrin nodded. “So don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t behave like an animal. Ye do the best ye can with what ye’ve got, aye?” He stabbed Sherakai’s chest with a forefinger. “Ye know what’s in here. Use it.”

  He opened his mouth, but it took several moments for words to form and fall out. “I can’t do this, Hamrin. I can’t go in there. With them. Like that.”

  “Aye, ye can, and ye will. What choice do ye have? What choice did they have, walking into this place, same as ye? They make their choices; ye make yairs.”

  He had never seen so much skin in all his life. Nor, for that matter, fur and feathers and scales and… other things. Being one more bare body among hundreds didn’t make him feel any less exposed or vulnerable.

  “Here,” Hamrin said as Sherakai was about to slink into the bath chamber. “This is a fight ye can win. Chin up. Shoulders easy.” He clamped a hand on each of Sherakai’s shoulders and gave him a little shake. “You’ve been to the Abyss. A bath is nothing.” He slapped his head and gave a shove, and that was that.

  For the next three days, Sherakai practiced—and lived— with his fellow novices. They were not allowed to kill each other during training though there were accidents. At the end of the day, they were all caged in the depths far beneath the smaller practice arena. His first night in this otherworld had been spent in a bed. To find himself behind bars in a cramped cage did not bode well for the future.

  “Can’t have the bettors robbed of their show or their goods by awkward deaths, now can they?” Hamrin had handed Sherakai a bundle then pushed him into the cell. The door clanged shut. Fesh and Teth sat in front of it, one facing up the corridor and the other facing down. “Keep yair gear in the middle so’s no one can thieve it. Don’t think these people are yair friends; they’ll steal from ye, scoff at ye, cow ye, and kill ye the minute they get the chance.” He held up a curiously worked key threaded on a leather cord. “May ye wake in the morning,” he said and left him there.

  “That was heart-warming,” came a voice from the cage next to his. The rat-faced fellow. He had a curious way of speaking as if all his words formed right behind his pointy teeth. An unfamiliar lilt suggested another language as his native tongue.

  “Yes, charming,” Sherakai muttered, watching Hamrin until he disappeared in the uncertain light. Untying the bundle, he found it held a thick pad and two fine blankets to go over the pile of questionable straw. In the corner stood a squat pot with a lid. By the smell emanating from it, he could guess its purpose.

  His neighbor whistled. “Well, look at you, all cosseted, cozy, and kept.”

  A glance showed that none of those around him had anything more than a thin woolen blanket to comfort them. They certainly didn’t have guard beasts. Rat-face had a clay jug on one corner of his bed—well out of anyone’s reach.

  “Funny how some men think costly gifts can buy forgiveness,” Sherakai said.

  Rat-face gestured with his chin. “I’d be willing to sell a grudge or five for those.”

  He considered trading or giving away his too-rich possessions, then dismissed the idea and sat down to take off his boots. He might have to barter his things later. In the meantime, if he was going to be in this rotten place he’d make use of Bairith’s gifts. It didn’t mean he owed the man anything. “I’m not.”

  “Stubborn, eh?” The pointed teeth showed, brief and fierce.

  “Wrongfully held and poorly used.”

  Rat-face sucked on his lower lip, then glanced over his shoulder. “Got a prince here, mates!” he called out.

  Catcalls and whistles greeted his announcement.

  The muscle in Sherakai’s jaw bunched. Ignoring the taunts, he began a series of slow stretches meant to ease stiff and bruised muscles.

  “Finhaam.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “My name. Finhaam.”

  Should he give his short name? A false one? He couldn’t work out a reason to do either. “I’m Sherakai.”

  Someone across the way hooted. “Prince Sherakai! Long live the prince!”

  “Until tomorrow, anyway,” another jeered.

  “How d’you want to die, oh noble and fair Prince Sherakai?”

  “Forget them,” Finhaam said. “They’re idiots.”

  “Says good King Fool.”

  Laughter followed. Finhaam grinned and shrugged. “You don’t plan to cut me down from my throne, do you?”

  “I plan only to escape.”

  His mouth twitched in humor. “Where to? Do you know where you are?”

  Sherakai shook his head.

  “This is Betwixt or the Twixt,” said Finhaam, holding both hands out palm up. “Or the Twist, Old Twisty, the Mid or the Midden—you know that word, don’t you?—and sometimes ‘hell,’ or whatever your kind calls it. Too religious for me. Unless you believe in gods. Do you?”

  With a shrug, Sherakai eased down to sit cross-legged on his pallet. The others talked quietly among themselves, their words a string of gibberish. A few of those nearby watched him with resentful eyes.

  Teth hooted softly to get his attention. Making a circling gesture with one finger, he drew it across his throat. The creature’s uneasiness coupled with an actual message was a warning he couldn’t ignore.

  “Nice pets,” Finhaam commented.

  “They’re not pets. They’re here to make sure I stay put.”

  Fesh showed Finhaam his teeth and the young man swore, drawing back even further from the bars. “Smart, too.” His expression became calculating. “If your master thinks he needs those, you must be something. When did you get here?”

  “Only today.”

  He whistled low and long. Conversation slowly died around them, punctuated by hushed questions in languages Sherakai had never heard. Silence spread up and down the length of cages.

  Sherakai shifted, tense and wary, no matter that he was safely locked up.

  “Who are you?”

  “I told you, my name is Sherakai.”

  “Mm. What makes you so special?”

  “Nothing.”

  A rustle went through the space as the others came to their feet. Hands or claws wrapped around the bars of their cages as they strained to hear. They whispered to each other, questioning and commenting. Their voices were dry leaf stalks rubbing together.

  “You talk like a noble. You have guards to keep you behind bars already bolted.” His eyes narrowed. “You are a sorcerer?”

  “A mage?” Sherakai echoed, uncertain of the word or the reception of his gifts.

  “Sure.”

  His silence must have spoken for itself, for Finhaam went on.

  “What path?”

  Sherakai stretched out on his bed in a casual manner that belied his inward alarm. “If I were such a thing, I’d probably keep that to myself.”

  Finhaam tipped his head back and made a yipping sound. Laughter, Sherakai imagined. “That secret won’t last long, Your Highness.”

  “They know I’m a mage,” Sherakai told Hamrin in a tight voice the following morning. Fesh and Teth accompanied them to the dining hall. The other fighters had escorts, too; teachers or patrons.

  “Why’d ye tell them such?” he demanded with a smack to the back of the youth’s head.

  “I didn’t!” He retreated a pace to avoid any further abuse. “They guessed, but they don’t know any details.”

  “Suppose ye’d better be wide awake today. They’ll test ye, mark my words.”

  The pai
r of them ate silently, the din of conversation bouncing off the low rock ceiling to pummel them. Afterward, the fighters were shepherded to the small arena again to tend to their armor and make repairs on weapons. A tall, spindly fellow in a robe of black and yellow strode from one side of the space to the other. He lectured them in a stentorian voice ill-matched to his bug-eyed resemblance to a wasp. To Sherakai’s fascination, the discourse was broken up into several languages.

  “He says exactly the same thing every day.” Finhaam sewed a buckle in place with nimble fingers. “My teachers pounded the same instructions into me from the time I picked up my first blade. I don’t need to hear it from him.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  A sideways look slid toward Sherakai. “Three moons, as near as I can make out.” When he glanced at the brazen clouds above, Finhaam shook his head. “That never changes. I haven’t seen the real moon since before I came here.”

  Nearby, Hamrin kept watch with feet straddled and arms crossed. By his neutral expression, he might not have heard them at all. Sherakai knew better. Fesh and Teth sat near the doorway, alert and poised as if ready to leap straight into action.

  “We fight the day after tomorrow. A few days after that we face the second deck,” Finhaam announced, casual as if he were talking about dinner. And then, “Those are the fighters that have survived the first games. There are eighteen decks. The heroes. I hear they have real rooms with real beds and real food. Maybe even real women.” He grinned and jostled Sherakai’s elbow. “You ever been with a woman?”

  He refused to rise to the bait. “The heroes are undefeated, then.”

  “If you’re defeated, you’re dead.”

  Hamrin cleared his throat. The lecturer bore down on them, the tails of his long black brows streaming to either side with his speed.

  “Do you wish to contribute to the lesson?” he bellowed.

  Sherakai got to his feet to bow deeply. “My apologies, sir. It was rude of me to speak while you were addressing us.”

  The lecturer peered down the length of his nose, then uttered a long harrumph before turning to Finhaam. “And you, creature?”