Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  He’d lost track of the number of kills he’d made, but the ghosts haunted his dreams and accompanied him on the sands. The pretty, exotic girl with the antlers was there. She’d been kind to him and look what it had got her—stabbed through her tender heart. Finhaam had met a similar end soon after he and Sherakai had landed on the same deck. He suspected Lord Chiro had discovered their cautious friendship and arranged to pit them against one another. Only Rinlag Kirath remained unaccounted for.

  On the morning of the third day, Bairith came to inspect Sherakai, as he always did. He bore an icy gleam in his eyes and a bright edge to his usually serene demeanor. Cool fingertips edged with a nimbus of light traced the lines of Sherakai’s neck, shoulders and arms, his back and ribs, his hips and legs.

  Unmoved, he watched Teth oil a bit of harness.

  “How do you feel?” Bairith inquired.

  “Well rested, thank you.” He did not gift the mage with the slightest inflection of his voice. That had ended the day he'd accepted that the only way out was through, and the jansu’s displeasure at his lack of conviviality no longer intimidated him.

  “What did you dream?”

  “Nothing.” The herbs given to him on the nights before his matches ensured deep, dreamless sleep. The jansu’s false ignorance gained him only contempt.

  “Good. You did not overindulge yourself for your morning meal, did you?”

  “No, sir.” Fine as his food was, before a match the portions were as carefully controlled as his sleep. Bairith himself had established the routine. That he questioned Sherakai about it only drew attention. A blind man could see the jansu’s anticipation. He did not press for information. It would not matter. He would still be required to perform and the link would make sure he did so to the utmost of his ability.

  “You are quite perfect,” Bairith declared, a thread of surprise embroidering his voice. He mused over the accomplishment for a moment or two, a little smile on his face as he caressed the bulging muscle of Sherakai’s upper arm, then stepped away. “Remember all you have learned, my dragon. You will be magnificent,” he instructed, as if by ordering it he could make it so. It was the closest the jansu had ever come to giving a motivational speech before battle.

  Wrapped in a cloak of disinterest, he held himself aloof.

  When he did not reply, the mage’s mouth crimped. A proper lackey would say “Yes, my lord.” Spinning on his heel and gliding out of the room, Bairith gestured to Fesh and Teth. “Dress him. Make no mistakes.”

  The two stared after the mage. Without a sound, they conveyed their sense of insult. How long had they been attending the master’s champion? And when had they ever erred? Their teeth clacking in minor outrage, they set to work. With a tender touch, they wrapped those areas prone to chafe by his gear. They clothed him and plaited his hair, then escorted him to the Twixt—which was hardly a thing to inspire joy or anticipation. In the chill, magic-lit rooms below the stadium, his caretakers helped him into his armor. As they did, they chittered quietly, patted his hands, smiled up at him with their awful, fanged smiles. Their confidence in him and their tangible hope for his success bolstered his energy.

  “Do you get the impression this match is more important than usual?” he asked.

  Fesh hissed a reply, eyes on the buckle he worked.

  “I’d like to see him fight his own battles. Actually, I would like to see him lose. Fatally.”

  Teth shook his head and glanced over his shoulder toward the shadowy door, his warning clear. Unknown ears might wait to hear in the most unexpected places and times.

  Sherakai’s mouth curled into a grimace. Bairith Mindar was danji-oshi, one without honor.

  While Fesh and Teth finished, Sherakai turned his mind to the moves of the Fatal Dance. Someone would die; that was what the dance demanded. The rhythm of death beat in his veins, colored his dreams, left its dull taste in his mouth.

  A tugging on his hand brought him back to the moment. Tesh’s arms encircled Sherakai’s waist to fasten the belt with its elegant, deadly sword and matching long knife. Fesh handed him his gloves, and he tucked them into his belt.

  “Gonna show me a way out of here this time?” Neither of them spoke. He always asked, they never replied. It had become a tradition.“Didn’t think so.” He rubbed their shaggy heads, then held both hands out palm down.

  The pair each clasped a hand to press against their gaunt cheeks. Then they scooted close to wrap their arms around his legs in their peculiar embrace. They chattered and whispered things beyond his small understanding, but there was the familiar, sweet swell of emotion. He could sense their pride and need, the way they encouraged him, the way they—in their own strange way—loved him. Even aloof Teth had softened, though he didn’t show it in public. When Sherakai returned after an easy win, they would cavort and shriek and bounce off the walls. If the fight was grueling, they would tend to his wounds, clucking and soothing like little mothers.

  “I will find a way to free you,” he announced. “You know that, don’t you?”

  The moment didn’t last. It never did.

  Fesh showed his teeth, then clicked them together noisily. Fight well, he signed. He darted away to gather the rest of Sherakai’s weapons. A set of small, needle-like blades fit into special places in his armor. Throwing stars attached to his armor. A long-handled but light-weight ax fastened to his back.

  Teth gave Sherakai his helm, then scampered to open the door. With the beasts at his heels, he made the journey down the corridor leading to the circular arena. He could have—might have—done it in his sleep, so often had he traversed it. He wouldn’t put it past Bairith to manipulate his dreams to get what he wanted.

  The muffled noise of the spectators drifted down the passageway, washing over him in a manner that had become soothing with the passing of time. It didn’t matter anymore who watched him, what they thought, what they said. It didn’t matter whether they cheered or jeered. He had transformed the noise into yet another insulating layer of protection for his heart. Another detail of the situation, dull and gray, sometimes loud and sometimes soft. He had only to be wary of spontaneous missiles, which could ruin his attention more than they could cause actual damage.

  It had never done any good to wonder about the peculiarity of spending more days in the arena than he owned in his lifetime. The edges of his reality were frayed. He worked always at maintaining his sense of Self, lest it be worn away and subsumed. The fulfillment of his promise to escape lay in mastering himself and his magic. He affected impassivity and waited for that single critical moment when Bairith let down his guard. He would not allow the passage of years to daunt him. One day, he would be free.

  Helm hanging from an elbow and bumping against his hip as he walked, he drew on his gloves. They reminded him of a reptile with the way their tiny plates overlapped all the way up his forearm. He did not know what they were made of or where they came from. Likely an unfortunate creature from the Twixt. Bairith had a fondness for the rare.

  At the gateway, the threesome paused. Sherakai looked out over what might be a crowd or not—it was always difficult to tell for certain what was real. The creatures did a final check of his gear. Without fail, the stands were an eye-bending tapestry of shadows, figures, illusions. Overhead, the perpetual clouds gleamed their dull, brassy shade of gray. Now and then stray energy flickered like bursts of yellowed sheet lightning. Not even a breath of wind stirred the sands, and the temperature was ever tepid and moist. The air tasted like lead. It never changed. Fesh and Teth touched his legs one last time, then melted into the gloom behind him. Alone, he stepped out into the unpleasant light.

  A noise went up—shouting, clapping, growling, barking, stamping, whining. The cacophony used to make him shiver. These days it meant nothing.

  Thanks to Bairith’s meddling, Sherakai stood a little under six feet. Hair as black as a raven’s wing was bound into a series of braids joined into one thick tail. Handsome according to Bairith. His appearanc
e did not concern Sherakai and gave him no advantage on the field. Blue-black armor protected his torso. Breast and shoulder plates were molded to emphasize his physique and bearing. Over his heart he wore Bairith’s sigil, worked in bright silver and purple lacquer. From beneath the armor hung a fabric of tiny metal scales. They shifted with every movement, shimmering with magic.

  On the far side of the arena, a pair of willowy women slipped out of one of doorways. They set their torches in brackets and stood beside them. Behind them came an armed figure, human shaped. Slight.

  The odds were in Sherakai’s favor. He’d last lost to a man—human, elf, or the like—on the sixteenth deck. The fight had been against a brutish fellow. Huge but quick-thinking, the fellow had kept Sherakai on the run for the entire match. At a serious disadvantage, he could sting but not bite. His opponent smashed him to smithereens.

  Bairith had allowed him to linger painfully on the border of death for many days as punishment for his loss. There had been no gentleness in the healing, no pain relief before, during, or after. This was his punishment for losing. For weeks after, the jansu had visited upon him nightmare after nightmare. He wore away at the pride and defiance he perceived in his champion. New lessons had ensued, relentlessly burning the dross from his ungrateful person.

  To add insult to injury, Fesh and Teth had each received a beating. Sherakai rarely lost at all after that, against man or beast. No doubt it earned the jansu an enviable pile of coin and a fine reputation.

  Sherakai walked across the sands. A mixed chorus of insults and praise from the stadium flowed past without touching him. He looked up at Bairith’s box because it was required. He did not salute. He did not bow. That, too, had ended six decks ago.

  The mage lounged in comfort, shaded by an awning, servants at hand to meet his every need. He did not converse with those nearby but watched his champion with rapt attention.

  Sherakai met the beautiful sea-blue eyes without a quiver. The muscles in his jaw jumped, then he ground his teeth as an unseen power pressed upon him. He struggled against it until it drove him to one knee. One hand on the hilt of his sword, his helm clasped tight in the crook of the opposite arm, Sherakai held the jansu’s gaze. The forced obeisance humiliated him, but it did not hurt. Bairith still did not understand that his willing genuflection would be a concession of defeat. Sherakai refused to accept his role as a slave.

  He did not move until Bairith freed him. Then it was to turn away, a silent dismissal that had the bizarre crowd hooting and shaking their fists. The murky stands surrendered random details. Here a face, there a shoulder, or over there an entire row. Not all the audience were human. Not all the boxes were visible. Shadows disguised many of them, protecting those within from view. He need not fear magic from those quarters during the bout. The governor’s strict code of noninterference protected him and his opponents from the audience. While the fighters could use the aro against each other, no one else was allowed except the Arena Guard. He had once seen a patron mage torn to pieces by the spectators, his magic insufficient to protect him.

  Bairith was one of the few who chose not to disguise his box. There was no veil of shadows, though the occasional crackle of energy warned of magical wards. The box itself was a miniature replica of his high tower rooms, right down to a miniaturized version of his telescopes. This one he held before his eyes, two cylinders side-by-side on an ornate handle. With such a tool he could view the expressions on the fighters as well as using the magic to feel their emotions.

  The helm Sherakai settled on his head was gold colored, but nothing so soft as that rich metal. Shaped to resemble a fantastic bird of prey, intricate feathered wings swept down to guard his cheeks. Fastening the strap, he made his way toward Bairith’s latest choice of opponent.

  Chapter 30

  The slender man across the way had come several steps toward the arena’s center. He carried a quiver of arrows and held a sturdy, graceful bow. His manner suggested an intimate familiarity with the weapon. A muted sparkle betrayed the common use of magic on his green enameled breastplate. Beneath that he wore lightweight mail. Sherakai made out throwing knives, a long dagger, no sword, no gauntlets. Likely he had knives in his boots as well as any number of other weapons secreted about his person.

  The whisk and shiver of spirits fluttered nearby. Now and then they brushed against Sherakai’s cheek. Even the arena’s dense enchantments could not prevent them. A few always managed to manifest. Considering the continuous loss of life here, the task to contain them must be formidable. He accepted their presence—and ignored them. To give attention to their pleas and cries would mean his death, and being brought back from the arms of death hurt. A lot.

  His steps slowed a fraction as the man donned his own helm. Enameled green like his breastplate, it boasted a black crest with matching nose and cheek guards. Easy to deduce wealth from the quality of weaponry and armor. The lack of ostentation might denote either modesty or stinginess. Barbaric or beautiful, fighting gear conveyed a message. It could provoke fear or overconfidence. Sherakai had seen too many varieties to find any of them impressive. His attention went to the way his opponent carried himself, how he moved.

  This one drew and set an arrow to the string of his bow with casual effort. He sighted along the length, taking his time. Was it audacity or confidence that made him target Sherakai’s head?

  His mouth crimped. Sword and knife slid out of their sheaths with a soft whisper. He’d faced archers before. Big, little, four-armed… He much preferred the two-armed variety. They couldn’t shoot as fast. An arrow could not punch through the spelled plate or scale he wore, but it could still be a nuisance. He must also consider the prospect that the archer had an excellent aim and would target the joints. Dangerous to attempt, but often lethal for the mark.

  He thought he sensed regret and shook his head. Don’t do this, he wished at the man. As if either of them had a choice. The draw of the bow did not stop his steady forward motion. He lifted his weapons, one blade crossing the other in front of his chest.

  The stands shook with howls and stomping. With blood frenzy. Sherakai pushed the noise away. Stepped into quiet and into the Dance. Breathed the energy surrounding him on every side.

  Between one heartbeat and the next, the arrow leaped at him.

  ~Maynu fiy…~

  He did not expect the words that winged toward him or the emotion they carried, but it changed nothing. Curiosity was an indulgence for another time. The instant the archer’s fingers moved to release, Sherakai stepped aside and dipped a knee. The edge of his sword angled outward, shattering the arrow’s slender shaft. Splinters exploded. Within the depths of his helm, two fragments wrote a ‘V’ across his cheek. In blood. The tip careened away, sparking a flicker of magic. He resumed his pace.

  The archer’s brows knit as the remains of the arrow scattered on the sands. Another fitted into the cradle and he fired, determination in every line.

  Sherakai shifted to the side again and leaped into a run. Energy shivered across his armor like a mirage as the shaft struck his cheek guard. It careened downward with a squeal.

  Saints! An equal chance to predict direction, and the archer nearly drove an arrow through his eye! Unexpected, and beautiful…

  The spectators yelled their eagerness for blood. Either opponent’s would do.

  With a quick move, the archer jammed his bow into the sand, pulled a pair of thin throwing blades from his sleeves, and hurled them in rapid succession. Then he grabbed the bow and fired again, arrow whistling toward the opening in Sherakai’s helm.

  One knife missed altogether. The other lodged high in a seam of his armor. He tucked and somersaulted below the level of the missiles. He did not stop moving. The whoosh of the arrow passed close as he regained his feet. Bent low, he charged toward the slighter man. Speeding forward, he could make out the shape of the archer’s eyes, then the blue-gray color beneath his helm. He dropped his shoulder to ram into him.

  The archer
took two quick steps back, tossing his bow to the sand to draw another knife. “Arnil!” he shouted. Hold.

  Sherakai immediately recognized the compulsion to slow himself. There was no time to nurse the spark of appreciation for the archer’s use of his Gift. No time to marvel at the unexpected sound of the elvish tongue. Inertia carried him forward, barreling him into the slim body with audible force. His foe’s helm strap snapped, abrading his jaw and leaving a crimson streak. The green helmet tumbled away.

  As they careened across the ground, the slighter man twisted like a cat. The slender, flexible blade streaked toward a vulnerable gap. Armor and steel seized together. A flurry of sand buried the scream and protest of metal.

  Sherakai punched the archer’s right shoulder. The weapon dropped from numb fingers.

  Move! Move!

  His need or the elf’s, Sherakai couldn’t tell. He aimed one knee at his opponent’s groin even as the archer grappled for purchase on his wrist. He bucked and fought like a wild thing, locking his legs around Sherakai’s knee and holding on.

  Dust swirled, curtaining them from the spectators. A hush fell, then the crowd thundered again. How many in the stands today? The weight of them was heavy on his senses.

  He had an instant to take in the archer’s countenance as he levered himself up. Elvish. Rare, but not entirely unknown. He drew his head back and abruptly forward again, delivering a blow meant to stun, not kill. Then he rolled sideways and up, shaking off his opponent’s clinging hands. A hitch in his armor made him rotate his shoulder. He knocked the throwing knife loose with a swipe of his sword.

  At his feet, the elf’s lips grew bloodless. After a moment, he gasped, coughed, and forced himself up to his knees, grabbing two arrows from the sand.

  The tip of Sherakai’s weapon came down, touching one pale cheek. Blood smeared across his forehead where the bird helm had cut him. More trickled down his blade. “Mima shiri duzo?” he asked in his native tongue. Do you want death?