The Doctore raised a brow at the sarcasm, but stepped past him, careful not to slip as she took the stairs. After she did, Raz looked back. Arrun was busy getting his and his sister’s breakfast ready, but Lueski was standing there in the draft, blue eyes wide as she watched him go.
“I’ll be back with the best stories you’ve ever heard,” he promised her with a wink.
Then he shut the door and followed the Doctore carefully down the steps, through the high snow, and into the carriage.
“Lueski, apples in your porridge?”
Lueski didn’t answer. She didn’t even look up from her place seated by the door.
She didn’t feel much like talking.
“Lueski?”
Again she didn’t say anything. Instead she kept toying with Marta, fingering the doll’s hair unenthusiastically, more just to have something to do than for any real reason. She’d named the doll after her and Arrun’s mother. When she’d done so, Arrun had laughed and said it was a good idea, and that one day he’d name a sword after their father.
That had made Lueski smile.
Raz gets to keep his sister, she’d thought. And we get to keep Mama and Papa.
Right now, though, she felt she’d rather have Raz back than the doll or some stupid sword.
Arrun’s footsteps approached. When he reached her, she felt her brother pause, then crouch down at her side.
“Lueski? What’s wrong?”
Lueski didn’t look around at him. After a moment, though, she spoke up.
“I don’t like it when he goes.”
Arrun sighed. Lueski felt him shift, and a hand touched her head, stroking her black hair soothingly.
“I know, I know, but we’ve been through this. Raz has to leave so that we can stay. He’ll come back, though. You know that. At the end of the day he always comes back.”
“But what happens if he doesn’t?”
Lueski felt Arrun tense beside her at her question, and finally she looked around. Her blue eyes met the identical set in her brother’s face, and she was ashamed of the tears that hung upon them, bitterly fought.
“What happens on the day he doesn’t come back?” she asked shakily, squeezing her doll to her chest. “What happens when the bad men win, and Raz doesn’t come home? What happens if he… if he…?”
But she couldn’t bring herself to say it, and the tears ran in truth. She looked away from Arrun then, back down at the ground, and held Marta even tighter as he sighed. She knew what he was thinking. Not again, or maybe, When will this end? She knew that she asked these questions often, with more and more frequency as the weeks went by, but she couldn’t help it. She tried to be brave whenever Raz left. She’d even managed it at first, thinking the man untouchable, a titan among lowly mortals. As time had passed, though, she’d grown more and more afraid. As Raz came home with nicks and cuts and bruises, she’d grown to realize just how mortal he was, too. His injuries were always small, and healed in a matter of days if not overnight, but the blood was real. The blood was his.
And it had ripped the brave face from her and made Lueski realize that there might be a day when Raz wouldn’t come home.
“Come here,” Arrun said gently. She felt his arms slip behind her back and beneath her legs, and he lifted her up carefully, shifting himself to sit cross-legged against the wall. He held her there, cradling her in his lap, letting her rest her head against his chest as she cried.
“You have to believe in him, sis,” he murmured to her as he rocked her gently. “You have to trust him. He’ll come back. He’ll come back every day, because he knows he has to. Do you think he’d let you down? Let either of us down?”
Lueski hesitated, then gave her head a little shake.
“Good,” Arrun said, and Lueski thought she heard a smile in his voice. “Then that means you know he’ll be alright. Every day I want you to think of that. I want you to think about how Raz has to be all right, because he has you. He has to be alright, because he can’t let you down.”
At that, Lueski smiled a little. Still holding tight to Marta, she looked up at her brother.
“He’s gonna wallop the bad men, and he’s gonna come home,” she said, feeling more confident in the words.
Arrun nodded.
“He has to. He would never let us down.”
Then he looked up, because someone was knocking at the door.
CHAPTER 32
“Goading Raz is much like kicking a sleeping sandcat: never a good idea, unless you’re looking for a quick way out of this world.”
—Allihmad Jerr, master smith
“So are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
Alyssa Rhen looked around at Raz. He was watching her intently, trying to gauge what she was about. He could feel the spines of his ears brushing the carriage ceiling as they rode and the gentle sway of the seats beneath him with the natural shift of the horse that pulled them. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. Just as he had been when he’d stolen north out of Miropa in a smuggler’s cart, Raz was reminded of years long behind him, part of a life he sometimes wondered if he’d ever really lived.
“If I knew, I would have told you at the house,” the Doctore said. “Tern hasn’t said any more to me than what you’ve heard.”
Raz frowned, then looked away from the woman, out the carriage door window. The narrow glass panels were frosted over and half-covered in clinging snow, but what he could make out of the city passing by was almost enough to distract him from his curiosity at these unexpected summonings. While the roads appeared to have indeed been swept clean at regular intervals throughout the night, the rest of Azbar seemed vastly neglected such care. Everything was white. The buildings and roofs and chimneys, the alleys and side streets, the trees and vinework clinging to stone walls. What few people he was able to make out briefly were so swaddled in leathers and furs he could hardly distinguish man from woman, boy from girl. Barely anything moved out there in the winter world, the only shift in Raz’s viewing being the constant whirl of the blizzard around them as it continued to storm down, cold and unrelenting.
So this is the freeze.
Raz pondered how anyone could survive in a place like this. The wonders of the woods, the magnificence of the greenery and life that had so entranced him on first arrival, were now all but swallowed up in the storm’s onslaught. Suddenly Raz dreaded reaching the Arena.
Let’s hope they clear the pit, at least….
“I’m worried.”
Rhen’s words were abrupt and tense, and as Raz turned back to her he saw that any residual resentment at being dragged out of bed into the snow was gone. The stern, calculating face of Alyssa Rhen was back in truth now, and she looked pensive.
“What about?” he asked her as they bumped over some uneven stone in the road.
“Exactly what we’re discussing: the fact that I wasn’t told,” Rhen said slowly, a faraway look in her eyes as she thought. “Tern pulled me in so many times to advise while he and Azzeki were designing his ‘Chairman’s Tourney’ that I might as well have had my own room in the town hall. He wanted to know about numbers, times, strategies, what training our gladiators had, what I thought you were capable of and what I thought might be your weaknesses. I think I spoke more with the man in those weeks than I have his entire life put together, despite how close his father and I were.”
She frowned too, now, and looked out her own window.
“This time, though,” she continued, “I hear nothing. I’m not told anything, and I can tell you whatever is going on wasn’t part of any plan I’ve heard of…”
“You said you thought everything would be fine,” Raz said gruffly. “You told me you thought I didn’t have anything to worry about.”
“And I don’t think you do,” Rhen insisted. “Still, though… You don’t think it’s odd?”
“Honestly? Not really, when you consider it. I would have been more surprised if Tern didn’t throw us for a loop every now and again. He
likes the gold I make him well enough, but I don’t think he was ever happy with the fact that I made the terms of our arrangement. This is probably just his way of letting me know the ground I’m standing on isn’t as steady as I might think.”
“Maybe…” the Doctore said, sounding unconvinced. She let the subject drop, though, and the rest of the ride was spent in silence.
Ten minutes later the carriage turned the corner onto the wide road encircling the Arena, and Raz heard the driver shout “Whoa!” and the beat of the horse’s hooves start to slow. The doors to the underworks came into view, and the carriage finally rolled to a halt.
As soon as he knew they were truly stopped, Raz pushed the door open and ducked out into the storm, careful to watch his step. The road and walkways all around the Arena had been cleared, it seemed, but more than an inch of snow had already built back up since the last sweeping. Turning, Raz held out a hand, ready to help the Doctore ease herself down the narrow carriage step rails.
The woman, though, took one look at the steely claws and scoffed. Then, holding the doorjamb with one hand, she dropped to the road lightly, unperturbed by the snow.
“Leave it to a Southerner to be afraid of a little winter storm,” she laughed, striding past Raz as he let his hand fall.
Watching her make for the doors with narrowed eyes, Raz only paused to pull Ahna from where she’d been lying at his feet on the carriage floor before following.
Glancing back to make sure he was behind her, Rhen grabbed the iron rings that served as handles and pulled the doors open. At once warmth spilled out from within the underworks, washing over them both and causing Raz to shiver involuntarily at the agreeable settling of the heat on his skin. Other things came, too, though. The familiar scents of the Arena grabbed at Raz’s snout at once, not all of them pleasant. He could taste old blood and oil on the air, mixing with that bitter bite of death that only clung to a place that had seen too many corpses come and go.
What hit Raz hardest, though, was the noise.
On opening day, the underworks had been bustling with dozens of men and women. Some were the Arena gladiators, prepping themselves for their exhibition matches to keep the crowds entertained during intermissions. Most, though, had been the bounty hunters, those come far and wide, each and every one preparing their weapons and gear, or else eyeing Raz behind his wall of guards as they waited for their shot at his head. Since that day, Raz had done his best to put a dent in their numbers, killing many and chasing off more as they realized they didn’t have a prayer at taking him on.
The group that awaited them now, though, made Raz realize, with infinite finality, what little he’d managed to do.
There were hundreds of fighters packed in the underworks. Despite the early hour of the morning, it seemed that Tern had roused every remaining combatant left within the city walls. None of them was bleary-eyed, though. None of them seemed confused at what was going on. Instead they seemed agitated, the flood of voices buzzing with excitement and energy. As Raz and the Doctore stepped through the door, many turned to see who the latest arrivals were, and the barrage of voices reached new heights, shouting and hollering.
“What the…?” the Doctore hissed, stopped dead and looking around at the great group.
The response pretty much summed up Raz’s feelings succinctly.
“Doctore.”
Raz and Rhen both looked around. On either side of the doors, a dozen of the city guard stood at the ready. One was approaching them quickly.
“Officer Erute,” the Doctore said in greeting as Raz, too, saw the gold stripe on the man’s shoulder. “What’s the meaning of all this? What’s going on?”
“I’m only allowed to say so much, ma’am, and right now I’m to escort you to your quarters.” The man seemed agitated, and he glanced nervously at the line of bounty hunters that stood not ten paces from them. Holding an arm out, he indicated the way, straight through the group. “If you please.”
Rhen hesitated, looking at the guardsmen, then at the fighters, before finally turning to Raz. She didn’t say anything, but her concerns—and question—were obvious.
Raz shrugged. “Doesn’t seem like we have much of a choice,” he said casually. He rested one hand on the head of the war ax at his waist, though, and twisted Ahna’s handle pointedly.
Ready for a fight, he hoped to say.
Rhen seemed to get the message
“Lead the way,” she told Erute.
The officer nodded, then signaled his men to form up. At once the guard positioned themselves in parallel lines on either side of Raz and the Doctore and, at a second signal from their commander, marched forward. Erute himself, though, stayed close to the pair of them.
“I’ve been told to instruct you that you are to stay in your quarters until it’s time for the Monster to fight,” he said quietly, his eyes scanning the clusters of shouting combatants on either side of them. “You’re not to leave without express permission of the Chairman.”
“What?” Rhen demanded, infuriated. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I just know that Chairman Tern is holding some sort of special event to keep interest in the Arena high as the freeze begins.”
“What kind of special event?” Raz asked. He, too, was watching the men and women on either side of them, eyeing swords and spears and all manner of other weaponry held slack in open promise at the sides of their wielders as they stared him down.
Erute jumped at Raz’s voice.
“Don’t know,” he said. “Didn’t ask.”
“You have a guess, though,” Raz prodded. “For example: maybe you can at least tell me why every one of my hopeful killers is here, now, and why they suddenly all look much more optimistic in their chances of claiming their winnings today.”
The officer hesitated, coming to a halt as they reached the door to the Doctore’s quarters. In rehearsed motions the men of the guard shifted to create a wall two deep between the bounty hunters and their charges.
“Rumor is that Tern is changing the rules just for the day,” Erute told Raz and the Doctore quietly, dropping his voice as he reached out to pull open the door. “They”—he threw a thumb over his shoulder—“are all here because they think they’re going to be given an even playing field to fight on.”
Raz and the Doctore looked at each other.
“Well, there goes your theory on Tern’s valuing me,” Raz joked with as much of a chuckle as he could muster.
All Rhen responded with was a scowl, which Raz felt much like returning. The truth was that, for the first time in a long, long time, Raz felt a prick of fear touch along the back of his neck. Something was wrong. Something was off. Quin Tern was a bastard, but he was a clever bastard with a keen mind and wicked sense of self-fulfillment. Was there perhaps an angle to the games that Raz hadn’t considered? Was there an approach that would make his death worth it in the Chairman’s eyes? The tournaments had been carefully designed to always be in Raz’s favor, if only slightly. The advantages he was granted, the weapons he might be allowed—depending on how the tourney finalists chose to face him—were calculated to give the crowd as good a show as possible while never putting their “Monster” in any situation he couldn’t handle. Raz was the attraction, after all. Even the Doctore said so. Raz was the singular reason the Arena didn’t have enough seats to accommodate all who wished to see the games.
So what had happened that suddenly made Tern feel gambling Raz’s life was worth the risk?
“Arro.”
Raz blinked and looked down at Rhen. She had stepped into her quarters, and was watching him to see if he followed. After a moment he did so, ducking under the low overhang on the door. Erute watched him through.
“If you require the latrine, or need anything at all, just knock. Otherwise, you will be fetched when it’s time.”
Time for WHAT? Raz wanted to shout, but the man had already shut the door with a bang.
“Sun and Moon and all Her Stars,” he grumbled
in annoyance as he turned to face the room. It was exactly as it was every other time he’d visited. Someone had already lit a hearty fire in the hearth in the back wall, and the flames cast shadows across the dirt walls and ceiling from the desk, chairs, and accoutrements scattered about the quarters.
“What?” the Doctore asked, eyebrows pinching together.
“Nothing,” Raz said automatically. “Southern curses. Seemed appropriate.”
“I’ll say,” the woman mumbled, obviously no more pleased with the situation than Raz was. “What the hell is he thinking?”
Raz, though, didn’t respond. A realization had dawned on him abruptly. The names of his deities had brought up thoughts of other gods, and the leap hadn’t been hard to make from there.
The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1 Page 64
